A Random Encounter On the Speyside Way

I met a stranger while wandering in the Scottish Highlands...

Recently, I arrived in the heart of whisky country — Speyside in the Scottish Highlands (I am a full-time house-sitter right now, wandering from place to place across the UK while I try to figure out what’s next).

And when I say I’m in the heart of whisky country, I mean it, in that I’m living in a distillery. No, I don’t mean I’m camping down beside rows of oak barrels in a musty warehouse (interesting as that would be!), but am staying in a house on the distillery grounds, on the edge of the River Spey and surrounded by forest.

It is a spacious old house overlooking a warehouse where whisky is matured in sherry casks, infusing it with dried fruit and spice. The air here is filled with the smell of fermenting Scotch — an earthy, biting, mesmerising scent. You hear nothing but birds tweeting, the breeze through trees and the rush of the river.

The house is owned by the distillery manager and I’m taking care of his little dog, Tinkerbell (who’s so tiny that her nose is the size of a button on a tin soldier’s coat). I will be here for a few weeks while he and his wife travel.

This distillery is as remote as can be; there are no shops close by and the nearest main village is a two-hour walk away. The only hangout is a cafe in a historic wool mill, so I go there for a cup of Earl Grey and a scone when I need to be around people, then sit at one of the outdoor picnic tables to gaze at the surroundings.

I am peacefully adrift in the deep, soft green of rural Scotland.

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I do have a way to get around though. Because before he leaves, the distillery manager lends me his electric bike and points to a path behind a disused railway station on the distillery grounds (a pretty white wooden building that has been so carefully preserved, it looks like a steam train will be pistoning towards it any minute).

‘You see that path?’ he says. ‘It used to be a railway track. Now it’s a walking route that goes all the way from the coast to the Cairngorms. Cycle down it for half an hour and you’ll reach the village. You’ll be able to pick up shopping there’.

And so, on a warm Sunday afternoon, I set off. But after rolling the bike up the hill towards the distillery gates and trying to climb onto it, I find that the seat is too high and can’t be lowered. While I’m wobbling back and forth on the saddle, regretting my decision to wear a dress, a sheepdog runs over to greet me.

‘His name is Jack, he’s friendly!’ a voice calls.

I look over to see two men watching me: a 60-something man with a silver beard and ruddy cheeks, sitting on a mountain bike. And a 30-something guy with long hair in a ponytail — Jack’s owner, it turns out. They come over to see if I need help with my bike.

It turns out that the younger guy works in the distillery while the older one on the bike is a visiting friend. I tell them I’m cycling to the village. ‘That’s where I’m going too’ the latter tells me.

And so, once I get my balance on the saddle, we set off cycling together down the long, tree-lined route to the village. I grip the handlebars tightly, uneasy at this large bike, but before long I breathe out and glide. The path is narrow so my companion stays a little ahead, glancing back to check that I’m all right.

His name is Jimmy, he works in another distillery on the Fraserburgh coast and is just passing through Speyside. He is married with two grown-up daughters and a grandson. He asks why I’m in the area and I tell him about my pet-sitting.

‘And where are you based when you’re not pet-sitting?’ he asks, as we cycle past patches of bright yellow gorse. This is the part I hate about these conversations, for fear I might sound immature and feckless. When I answer, people sometimes look at me in surprise and say ‘Oh really?’

‘I’m not based anywhere’ I confess. ‘I’ve been pet-sitting full-time these past few months, just travelling around Scotland. Before that, I was in Mexico’.

‘That’s amazing! A nomad. It sounds like you live a really good life’. And it seems like he means it, that he isn’t just being polite. I smile — it’s nice to be told by a stranger that you live a ‘good life’. Especially if you are routinely filled with self-doubt about your decisions. Was I really wandering free, or was I just lost?

‘Have you always worked in the whisky industry?’ I ask.

‘Oh no, just for the past 15 years. Before that, I was a fisherman. But the fishing industry went through a rough time. We over-fished, you see, so there was less work. When I was a young man my grandfather told me that “the sea meets need, not greed”. And he was right. We over-fished. We got greedy’.

‘That’s how things seem to be now’, I say. ‘We don’t seem to be in relationship with nature anymore, we just exploit it’. I cringe at my words. Am I coming across as preachy and patchouli-soaked? But Jimmy is nodding.

‘Yes, that’s exactly it. We seem to have lost something, the way we’ve been living. I’m not sure exactly what it is we’ve lost’. He goes silent for a moment, pedalling slowly. ‘I think it’s a part of our souls’.

Our conversation has moved into deep territory pretty quickly. I can either steer it onto safer ground or see where it leads. I decided on the latter.

‘Yes, we have lost part of our souls’ I agree. ‘But I think things are changing. I think people are realising that we can’t go on this way and that we need more’.

‘You think there’s a shift coming?’ he sounds stirred by the idea, yet I am a little startled. The phrase ‘a shift is coming’ had been in my head these past few days. Lately, I’ve been feeling that the world is stirring, although whether this will be towards a reckoning, a revolution, or a recovery of sanity, I cannot say (perhaps they are all the same thing). And now, a stranger is echoing this back to me.

‘Yes, I do. I feel it’.

‘Well, I hope you’re right’.

Saying it out loud to someone makes me feel lighter. Together, we glide through the almost obscenely abundant greenery of the Northeastern Highlands, past clusters of wild garlic flowers, their pungent, comforting scent filling the air in bursts.

To our left, the route opens up to a sheep-filled meadow and beyond that, rolling hills. I didn’t expect to be talking about these topics — ones that I’m usually quite hesitant to voice — with a random person while cycling up a country lane.

I like it though. There is something easy about Jimmy, his conversation moves quite naturally from the thorny terrain of the soul to small talk (‘What do you do for work? Oh really, a freelance writer?’) to observations on the landscape (‘Do you smell those yellow flowers? We call them whin up here’).

All the while, Jimmy greets every dog walker and rambler we pass with a hearty ‘good afternoon'!’ I follow suit. You don’t treat strangers as strangers in the Highlands, I am realising.

As we chat, we find out that Jimmy’s wife might be a distant relation of mine, as we both had grandparents with the same surname who come from the Isle of Skye. ‘Well, it’s a small world, isn’t it!’ he exclaims.

Eventually, we pass a graveyard leading to a stone bridge. Beyond the bridge, I see a church spire and cluster of grey stone houses. Jimmy points to a path veering off to the right.

‘We’re at the village now. That’s the way to the high street where you can get yourself a cup of tea. I’m going on straight ahead — I like to avoid crowds’.

‘Well, it was nice to meet you’. ‘

‘It was nice to meet you too. I will look out for your name when you’re a famous writer’.

‘Thank you!’ Most likely he’s just being kind but it’s comforting when people seem to have faith in you.

‘You have a nice life, Deborah!’ he calls.

‘You too!’

And off he rides.

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For a brief time, I had a companion on my wanders, one who was open, accepting and encouraging. It was simple and it was real.

And although I might never see Jimmy again, he had strangely echoed the thoughts I’d been having for the previous few days: that we’d been living too long with a part of our souls missing. That it is time to reclaim our missing selves and our relationship with nature. That a shift might be on the horizon.

And it’s only by having conversations like these that we realise we’re not alone and that others feel the same way. We need these conversations, and often. We need to open ourselves up to unexpected encounters, to allow ruptures to form in the safe little bubble of self.

Because if the ‘more than this’ is in reach, then we won’t get there alone. If there is a change coming, then it doesn’t begin with some big uprising (and would we even want that?).

No, it begins with encounters like I had with Jimmy: where two strangers can meet on the road, share a conversation, and talk about what really matters in an easy, open way.

If there’s a shift coming, it starts with a series of meaningful connections, one after the other after the other. A string of golden dots joining together into a shimmering arrow, pointing our way forward.

The Beckoning is written by a wandering Scottish writer who is currently travelling across the UK as a full-time house-sitter. I hope that you’ll join me on the journey.

And if you’d consider upgrading to a paid subscription, buying me a coffee, or sharing this post then that would really help to support my writing — and also help me to return to a more secure and rooted life eventually.

Recently I’ve been reading and enjoying:

And Did Those Feet? by

Paul Kingsnorth

.
Full Strength Christianity: Joy by

Brother Alexander

.
The World Out Of Kilter: Reclaim Our Lives! by

Paul Cudenec

.
Is Substack Birthing A Counterculture Movement? by

Stray Reflections

.
In The Midst Of The Blissful Silence by

Hadden Turner

.