Giants and Nethy

In an attempt to put my ravings in context, I have stolen some science from this site here. Bold is theft, italics is commentary.

The landscape around Nethy Bridge convinces me that I am in the far north of Scotland. Of course, this is sentimental nonsense: compared to True North, this is a mild glacial valley. But walking through the woods with my host, even I can spot the path of the glacier that carved out the plateau.

The focus of the settlement lies where the river Nethy empties onto the haughlands beside the Spey but clusters of houses are widely scattered along the valleys of the Allt Mhór, Dorback and Nethy and in the forest between.

What surprises me are the fragments of information that deny my assumption that I am standing in an ancient forest. If I was alert to the width of the trees, I would probably have noticed this already. In the river, a single rotting plank marks the former location of a mill. The straight lines of the trees is another clue. Less than a century ago, this area was more like a factory, a production line, than the shining example of wilderness my urban mind believed it to be. 

The impact of glacial erosion is less obvious here than further up Strathspey but large volumes of

meltwater debris cover the ground and were the river Nethy cuts through this the terraces are enormous. The lowest of these is wisely avoided by habitations in recognition of folk memories of inundation by the Muckle Spate that damaged the Thomas Telford’s bridge in 1829 and drowned The Dell.

The past shapes the present inhabitation of the area. The advantages of watered soil are balanced against the problems of flooding. They used the river to send the cut wood down to the central belt. The river would be flooded, after a fashion, on purpose.

The Dell forms a natural corridor through the settlement. A path meanders along the river bank amongst alder, willow and hazel. The river is used by dippers and is a very attractive natural feature in the core of the settlement. Higher up the slopes of the river, there are pine, birch and juniper, with some fine veteran trees growing amongst the houses that line either side of the Nethy. These large garden trees provide habitat for tawny owls, tits and finches, and bats. Woodcock are a common sight over the houses here at dusk in spring and summer, as they fly out and back to the woods on ‘roding’ display flights.


I am unable to identify any of the varieties of wood... I peek into back gardens to look for the veteran trees. I heard an owl last night. I was pleased with myself for not mistaking it for a ghost. Far enough in, and I am slightly lost...

Densely wooded slopes and small areas of pasture back the settlement, merging into the extensive pine woodlands that cover the slopes and lower hills of the braes of Abernethy. The vicinity to the forest means that pinewood wildlife are often seen within the village; red squirrel, crested tit, great spotted woodpecker and crossbills.

Chapter 7.2: Nethy Bridge and The Real

In Nethy Bridge, and my mind is glowing. It's all downhill from here - the trip back to the train station at  Aviemore, the circuit out to the Western Isles. I chase about the tress, seeing the pieces that have been left behind by the community groups who are responding to the Giants in the Forest, and I know. This isn't the primordial woodland that traces its appearance back to a neolithic past. This is what the aftermath will look like: fragments of human activity, evocative and exciting, overpowered by the relentless growth of nature.

I like to pose and say: this is the desert of the real. I stole that from The Matrix. Intoned in the beautiful tones of Morpheus, portentous and serious, and stolen from Baudrillard. I have no idea what it means. Now I remember why I got lost in Falkland Estate. Now I know why I wanted to cycle across the northern passages of Scotland.

I have some vague idea that nature is more 'real' than the city. The desert of the real is the city, all symbols and no depth: too much spice and not enough substance, like those Glasgow curries that are like soup with chunks of meat, no vegetables. I wanted to feel the threat, the terror. I want to be hard up against the danger, the precarious nature of survival.

It's more sentimental nonsense. I posit a duality: between the inauthenticity of my urban experience and the truth of nature. The Giants are offering another standard, another perspective. Here, the clear lines of the plantation mark out how, once upon a time, wood from this forest was grown for export, to be included in the building of ships (fine masts). And the Giant, man-made but from local materials, is a symbol of a more gentle symbiosis, an art that doesn't need to force resolution or tension to make a simple point. As always, I look for the wrong qualities...

Chapter 7.1 Giants in the Forest: Lies and ignorance

There are many reasons why Nethy Bridge has become the climax of my tour to chase the Giants in the Forest. It is the furthest north that I am going to cycle - although that is not literally true. It has got a train line that still has steam engines - although there isn't actually a working station in the village. It is a tourist destination (the hotel remains the most impressive building) - although the golden years might have passed.

The small matter of this being the furthest north that I cycled: I am thinking of a metaphorical north. You know, mountains, desolate plains, barren fields, the mythical Scotland that turns up on the posters in America. It's the furthest north in so far as I know that a puncture here is going to be a problem: Forres might have the geographical edge (let's face it, a quick look at the map proves this is more vile nonsense), but Nethy has the atmosphere, the romance...

Besides that, Forres' Heads were in a patch of forest in the middle of a housing estate. It was beautiful, and saying that makes it sound as if I were in a bit of shrub, just off the main road. But even though I did manage to get lost in this patch, I came out fairly quickly into 'civilisation.' I ended up on the other side of the estate, but I wasn't likely to die of exposure.

And this is where the romantic notion of nature comes into my writing. Nature is at its most beautiful when it looks as if it might kill me. I spend an evening wandering around the various paths in the Nethy Bridge forest (quite a few are closed off, as they reset the soil to bear the imprint of other visitors, tramping the wilderness). There are houses in the woods. I feel like I am at the edge of civilisation. Humans are retreating, the trees are reclaiming the land and the grand designs of the twentieth century are slinking back into the woodland.

The grand green set out for the Highland Games, reputedly one of the oldest in Scotland, is like a last gasp of human resistance to the inevitable return of the Green Man. Even I can spot how the valley has been ground out by a glacier, thousands of years ago, providing a flat, wet expanse for the trees to grow. I hunch down, pretending I am a neolithic man. I bet this landscape hasn't changed for thousands of years...

"Here, in the water, you can spot the remains of the water mill. You know, a century ago, this was like a factory, a tree factory. Haven't you noticed the regularity of the trees? And this was all grazing land, too. None of the trees are thick enough to be that old..."

The Bowhill Giants - Video Footage

This is three minutes of calm, from Bowhill....

The Forest at Forres (Chapter 6.6, Visual Journey)

Giants in the Forres (Chapter 6.5, Visual Journey)

A Visual Journey Through the Forest At Nethy Bridge (Chapter 7.2)

Giants in the Forest Chapter 7.1 At Nethy Bridge

I arrive at Nethy Bridge in the late afternoon. I am staying in a bed and breakfast - although it turns out that I am the only occupant in the building and end up with a house all to myself. I resist the temptation to spend the entire evening in the bath, and stroll through the forest to the main part of the village.

It is small, but has a large public green, a hotel that doubles as the bar and a newsagent that doubles as the supermarket. Since the cash machine is out of order, I decide against a mad spending spree, and have a modest supper.

I sit outside the pub. It is a beautiful evening and a group of motorbike tourists are across the table from me. I try not to listen to their conversations, but find that I don't have an internet connection. I am forced to be sociable.

During this trip, I have not spoken to many people, apart from those whom I have met in connection with the Giants. I've been enjoying the solitude, the combination of sleep and reading on the trains. Human conversation, I assume, is something that I miss in the city because I am too busy on the internet. However, since arriving at Aberdeen (when I managed to snatch a few minutes on the computer in a cafe), I have not had an internet connection. I keep using my phone for emergencies (that is, a desperate look at Google Maps). This time out of the virtual world has not led to more live interaction.

It is one of the ironies that Nethy Bridge - pretty much the furthest point north on this mission - was the worst place for getting an internet connection. I think I just about managed to see the map back to the train station before I lost connection forever. It is ironic, because the village has completely linked up to the net. It has a website that is trying to write the history of every single building in the area.

(Tomorrow, I think I work out why this website is so complete. I am about to discover a great deal more about Nethy and environs than I expect).

The single main road is bounded on one side by a small forest - I'd photograph it, but there are houses dotted out between the trees, and I decide to respect their privacy. As the night comes in, and I stroll back to the bed and breakfast, I do a traditional 'getting lost in about half an acre of woodland' routine. I spend quite a bit of time looking at the large open grassland, which was laid out for the Highland Games.

Abernethy Highland Games is rumoured to be one of the oldest continuous Games in Scotland. I find out that these were instituted in the aftermath of World War II - at least in their modern format - and seem to have arrived at the same time as the Edinburgh Festival. These days, they are fairly structured, a mixture of music and events, with professional contestants arriving for 'The Heavies' (those games most associated with the Highlands).

Of course, the Games are a pull for tourists, but their timing makes me wonder whether the campaign to introduce them was more about a reiteration of local community. The participants for the Heavy games travel about between Games, and there are clear circuits through the summer. Abernethy's Games also host a clan gathering, and the need for a large open space has effectively defined the shape of the village. Nethy Bridge itself might have held onto its existence because of the Games - the space is a grand area for children to use, and it gives definition to the area.

Giants in the Forest, Chapter 7: Carrbridge to Nethy Bridge

Sitting in the late September sunshine (itself a mere memory of the blazing glory of July), tending to my damaged

leg, I ponder whether my cycle to Nethy Bridge might be the last great bike journey of the VileArts. Ironically, the trip between Carrbridge and Nethy was one of the most inspiring routes on my search for The Giants in the Forest. It might have been all main roads (and roads that I was warned to keep away from), but it passed through some of the sort of scenery that is used whenever Visit Scotland is trying to persuade Americans to come out to the Highlands.

There is one pleasure in using Google Maps - the suggested time for a trip is always generous and when I came over the hill into the small village of Nethy Bridge, I felt as if I had beaten the clock. Against this, there are the problems of having no signal and not being able to check my location, and the inevitable 'which way is north?' debate. At Carrbridge, I spent half an hour trying to work out which direction to point the bike.

Carrbridge itself is a small village, ideal for a quick dip in the river, beneath the titular bridge. Large numbers of school children eyed me suspiciously as I rode up and down the main road, trying to find a road-sign. Eventually, I work out west, and scoot alongside the river Dulnain, downhill and the road drives through the middle of forest. It's warm, another cyclist powers past me, the woods give me cover from the sun and I feel dynamic. Reaching the big road at the bottom of the hill - and the distance to Nethy Bridge seems to increase with every signpost, I make a turn to the left, and whizz back east. I can now look back at my path downhill - and the apparent forest is now reduced to a few lines of trees on the hillside.


View Larger Map

My sense of perspective is very skewed. But this is the Cairngorms National Park area, a place of extreme natural beauty. Doing the usual, and dutiful, scan of the internet, I realise that the bridge that I have left behind is the oldest stone bridge in Scotland but, apart from a spat with the BBC over inaccurate reporting of the weather, this area is not marked by the battles that I kept finding in the Borders.

I imagine, rather sentimentally, than the breath-taking vistas have a habit of distracting invading armies. I worry that the preponderance of road-side attraction involving ospreys might lead to a sudden attack of diving bombing birds of prey. But this is the most peaceful stretch of road - I don't see a car until I get to Boat of Garten. At one point, I see a cow having a sleep in a shed. I am really out in the countryside.

I am sure I can hear a steam train. It must be my imagination. I think grand thoughts about how things probably haven't changed here in thousands of years. Then I think that someone built a bridge, someone built a road... maybe things haven't changed in fifty years, then. I keep pushing myself up the hills, resisting the temptation to get off and stare into the distance, or poke around at the power station that appears, suddenly, on the crest of a small hillock. I turn, and find trees all around me. The forests look well-mannered, tended. I cycle onwards.

Forres (an interlude before Giants Chapter 7)

It wasn't that hard to find out something about Forres. My lack of ambition in previous locations is now set in sharp contrast against the ease of looking stuff up on Wikipedia. 

Forres has a rich history. It turns up in Macbeth (Duncan had a castle there, before he kipped on the couch of the wrong laird). In 1200 it was made a Royal Burgh, and King James IV gave it a special charter in 1496. It also has Sueno's Stone, which was possibly carved by Picts to celebrate a victory against the Vikings. Bringing things bang up to date, it also had the first crystal meth lab in Scotland. That might be the first lab that got busted.

I bet the local council are delighted that the last fact is on the Wikipedia page.

Sueno's Stone is more interesting, anyway. It is still outside- it's been put in a big case, so it probably counts as the world's most concise museum. It's quite hard to pick out the detail on it, but there's plenty of old school fighting on it. It begs comparisons with the Giants: while the exact purpose of Sueno's Stone is contested, it's all about the ruckus. It's unlikely that it became the focus of community art, or spontaneous aesthetic responses by disturbed cyclists.

The relics of the railway are what caught my attention. Knowing that it was once a busy location - possibly due to the old distillery - opens up questions about how Scotland was impacted by the cuts of the 1960s. I have always been unhappy about the way that the state treats its railway services (getting a train is a pleasure, not just a journey), and start to wonder whether the cutting of services on this line has had an impact on the way that the countryside and city connect. 

I have always seen the concentration of population in the central belt as natural. But was it enforced by the destruction of the railways? Was there a time when being outside of the big cities wasn't necessarily a disconnection from urban life?

Forres has a fine history - and certainly deserves more study than I have given it.

Giants in the Forest: Trains and Forres Chapter 6.5

After the drama of getting lost in Forres, finding my inner artist in the woods, the cycle back to the station is uneventful. Forres is a town that I find difficult to assess - that juxtaposition of the New Age Healing culture and a gentle village intrigues me. It is as if there are two Forres...

I am also forced to reconsider various prejudices. Being an urban type, I assume that there are less masseurs in the Highlands.

The train station (from Forres along to Nethy Bridge) gives me both a train journey (as far as Carrbridge) and a good cycle. I arrive in plenty of time - booking a bike on a train means getting onto the right train - and fiddle with the google map. There will be a spot of drama when I get off the train, if I don't work out which way is south.

After my realisation that I am more like my father than I had imagined, time on a train station can be more fulfilling. I have more than the accepted level of excitement as I stare off along the tracks, noting the old fashioned signal and the growth of plants across on the disused platform. I become an industrial detective, realising that Forres was once much busier. It must have had two lines once, and enough travellers to need two platforms.

My sentimentality about the railways is more common than I thought. In the ticket office, there are old photographs of the trains. I treat the waiting room like a model, snapping images from different angles, trying to capture enough of the trains to be able to send them back to my father. He's be able to identify their stock, their date.

My original assumptions about Forres might be wrong: I assumed that its growth was based on the influx caused by the growth of Findhorn.

Giants in the Forest Chapter 6.4

A close  up of the knot (made from grass) that holds together the two sticks at the centre of the sculpture.

''Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.''

William Blake 

After building my tribute to the Giants, I spent longer taking photographs of it than I had making it. So much for my desire to create an impermanent structure - although I do hope it gets knocked over, since it adds little to the general ambience, I have a mania for documentation.

From behind, the fronds of the plants act as a sort of head  - it looks as if the sculpture has already fallen over. Perhaps it is a representation of the exhaustion I felt after getting lost in Forres. Maybe it is lying in supplication to the Giants.

There's something a little bit Blair Witch about it from this angle. I'd rather not stumble across this in the middle of the night. 

''"O life of this our Spring! why fades the lotus of the water?
Why fade these children of the Spring,born but to smile and fall?''

I tried to get a few snaps from different positions to show the scale of the piece, and to impress the detail. It hasn't come out like that. It looks as if a few bits were added to random tree falls. 

Giants in the Forest: Forres Chapter 6.3

This is what the view from the Giants looks like in Sanquahar Woods. So far, I have been interested in the relationship between the Giants and their immediate environment. However - perhaps due to the mysterious associations of the nearby Findhorn community - I have become concerned with a more mythical interpretation of these Giants.

A couple who had come across me on the site suggested that there were symbolic readings of the Giants. These alluded to the pagan traditions, and stories of beings who once inhabited these forests. I determined to attempt an alternative reading.

My first step was to think about creating some kind of on the spot response to the forest. I put down my camera, and began to haul pieces of wood, stones and fir cones about. I discovered a mound which would serve as a sort of shrine.

The mound was directly beneath the gaze of all three Giants. I wanted to leave something behind that clearly alluded to their presence, but wasn't necessarily a crude commentary on the Giants. It was intended to be an abstract art review of their presence. Each branch, each leaf, had a meaning - at least to me. How far this sculpture would be comprehensible to others was moot.

No trees were harmed in the creation: the branches had already fallen from the trees. I hope that the piece would not be permanent. In fact, I originally intended not to mention it on the blog. I thought I could pretend someone else had done it.

After I had spent ten minutes carrying the wood about, adjusting the line, closing in on the detail, I wanted to sign it in huge letters. Having struggling with writing about the Giants, and making sense of them through words, I decided that I had found an alternative process.

Here's a close up of the arrangement in the middle. The repetition of the number three throughout the design reflects both the number of Giants but also the use of trinities in many world religions. The lines of the branches are there to emphasise the pathway that has led me across the country towards the Giants.

I felt absurd making the piece, and feel absurd talking about it. I was having fun as I made it though.

Giants in the Forest Chapter 6.2 (Forres)

Not for the last time, I thank my common sense that I don't talk too loudly to the Giants. After twenty minutes of leaping about in the glade, I spot a couple walking across the hill towards me. I ask them whether they knew that the Giants were here. They reply that they have come across from Findhorn to check them out.

This is the first time that I have been in a position to show off about the Giants. I explain to them that I am tracing the trail of the Giants across the country, and do a quick compare and contrast with other locations.

It turns out that one of the couple will be doing a story-telling workshop at another location, and they are more than familiar with the construction of the Giants. They are pretty nice about my grand-standing, and ask me which Giants I liked the best.

I reply that I have found it is no so much about the Giants themselves as their placement. I discuss how the Giants act as a sort of neutral balance, and take on the quality of the area. So, I begin, The Edinburgh Giants are like business giants, waiting for tourist footfall. The Bowhill ones, in retrospect, had a quiet, polite dignity. Forres' Giants are, perhaps due to their proximity to Findhorn, about to get a mystical analysis.

The three of us stand in silence for a while. I have tried to avoid getting too mystical about the Giants - although I have a blog post tucked away that bangs on about the nature of Trinities and the pagan symbolism of weaving. The couple bring it up first. They are pondering where the Giants are, guessing at another dimension somewhere. One beyond the one that I am wandering about in.

I shift uneasily. I don't like to admit that I have pondered something similar. I cough and reply that they are very obviously man-made, and that is what gives them their presence. The couple look at me and ask me what I think they represent.

I leap into a quick lecture on the ancient Roman idea that each place has its own spirits. I am flailing about in
this half-remembered idea (the Lares? the Penates? I know that Aeneas carried these out of Troy when he set off to find Italy, but...) when the couple rescue me. 'It might just be about encouraging people to visit the wilds.'

It's a horrible moment - I realise that from the moment we met, I have been treating this couple as new age flakes, assuming that they were about to burst into song or abstract philosophy at any moment. I haven't really been listening to them at all. They are kind and interesting and as they walk away, I am pretty sure I would have really enjoyed listening to what they had to say.

Had I not been hung up on being so rational, so scientific.

I flick back over my notes. I've been crossing out anything that might sound like a hippy - or allude to anything other than the literal description of the Giants. I mock myself whenever I play around with ideas, talk to the Giants. I am probably missing something.

There have been a few too many personal revelations on this trip for my liking...

Giants in the Forest: Chapter 6.1 Forres

Apart from my cheeky night-time adventure in Falkland - which I am pretty sure that I did on purpose to give myself something terrifying to write - my trip to the Giants in Forres becomes the first time that I get lost. I managed to get confused by the route, because it went through a housing estate. Quite obviously, urban cycling no longer suits me.

Forres is also the first place that I meet other people who have explicitly come out to the woods to see the Giants. A charming
couple arrive from  nearby Findhorn and talk about the Giants in a way that is mystical and intriguing.

Forres, the town, is also mystical and intriguing. Thanks to the simple straight line of the High Street, and the complicated network of the housing estate, it feels like a more modern settlement than those I have encountered recently. The shopping selection is also unique: there are the usual suspects (the sweet shop, a bar or two, a couple of supermarkets and the charity shop). Yet there are more alternative therapy centres than I would have imagined. The influence of Findhorn, which is a haven for spiritual seekers, is clear in the main area of town.

I am slightly disorientated by this, and that same dualism is played out when I head out towards the heads. They are in a patch of woodland that is within the housing estate. They are tucked away, up a hill and at the end of a muddy trail, but I am never that far from a road.

The three Giants are on the crest of a hill: it's still early enough in the day, despite my detours, to catch the sun as it floods onto the plateau. Each set of Giants has taken on their own identity, but I am struggling with these guys. I am running about, photographing them, trying to chat to them, asking what they have seen. They are, unsurprisingly, less talkative than I am.

The photographs never manage to represent the experience of seeing the Giants (no angle holds all three together, to give the sense of their relationship to each other, and while the films do show their stillness, the depth of the forest background is lost). But I like the way that the photograph flattens them against the tree-line, and emphasises how they respond to the colours around them...

Giants in the Forest Recap 2, Phase 1

The last time I wrote about the first week of my quest to find Giants in the Forest, I left myself lost in the small forest around the Falkland Estate. It was about two in the morning, I had a borrowed touch, was sheltering beneath a tree and hoping that the skittering shadows were not beasts or monsters. I was caught between the social disgrace of being lost in a patch of land some five minutes away from an entire campsite and the genuine terror that some werewolf was going to jump out at me.

I did find something that looked as if the Giants might be nearby: ashes marked the place of a recent campfire and three chairs were lined up, surrounded by old lager cans. I decided the best thing was to sit here and take stock.

I am three days out from Glasgow: I have visited locations that I did not, previous to this trip, know existed. The Bowhill Estate reminded me of the stately homes that I had unwillingly been dragged around by my mother during school holidays, except it had a cool play area that I would have loved, back then. The Peebles Heads were hosted by an outdoor adventure centre. Yellowcraigs gave me a stunning view of the east coast, warm, open and enticing.

None of these, however, provided me with the experience I had expected. I wanted to be swept up by the scale of nature, bang on about its bleakness, majesty and feel a sublime terror.

Instead, I had seen nature adapted for humans, humans living comfortable in a pleasant environment and towns that retained the flavour of an earlier, more restful time. Fortunately, getting lost in the middle of the night was giving me the drama I wanted. I am genuinely scared.

Throughout my journey, I consciously held onto the idea that any magic I might feel when seeing the heads was going to be my imagination. Admittedly, I'd already got into the habit of having a chat with the heads, presuming there was only me on the site. But I played both sides of the conversation. I didn't really think that they had consciousness.

In the dark, I had decided that the entire forest was alive, and not just in the scientifically approved ecological way. That tree over there was giving me the evils. The sway of the plants was malignant. I wish I knew their names. I am experiencing panic.

Even better, I knew I had done this on purpose. I wanted the fear. I wanted to get past my silly rationality and get into some silly horror. I can hear the campsite, and I am worried at looking stupid when I get back. At the same time, I am pondering what sleeping in the forest is going to be like...

Against this, the gentle stroll to Bowhill, the lovely Chinese meal eaten on the riverbank in Peebles, the great hitch north with the former architect...

Giants Recap... (PART 1)

I desperately need to get back to this. So here's a recap of the story so far.

My trip around Scotland to visit the Giants in the Forest has four phases. The Giants have been placed (in trios) around Scotland, in locations of particular natural beauty. In each location, they have become the focus for community activity, culminating in the Dark Wood events. These events are all happening in the next few weeks, and I encourage anyone who can to attend.

My first phase took in Giants towards the borders and along the east coast, as far as The Falkland Estate in Fife. I travelled by public transport -- with a few spots of hitching and walking -- and concluded it by spending a weekend camping at the NFYT/

Phase two was a combination of train and bicycle, including a lovely distance ride between Aberdeen and Drum Castle. It was predominantly along the east coast, but further north. It ended at Inverness, and I am currently concerned that the state of my ligaments might prevent me from ever doing any distance cycling again. That said, it was a beautiful way to sign off, especially riding off road from Nethy Bridge alongside the steam train line.

The third phase took me along the west coast -- an early detour to the south, then shooting up to Mull. I left the bike at home -- the walks were easy enough and I got to hang about in Balamory. 

The final phase is this: trying to write up the process. It involves all the misery that the travelling expunged from my life: anxiety, doubt and feeling stuck -- worst of all, I have been barely able to walk for three weeks. I see this as integral to the process, an elegant urban balance of inactivity that sets the revelations of the open road into context.

(I have to give it some meaning. Otherwise, it is too painful.)