This has been a week of high drama in New Tolsta. The first took
place on Tuesday when out on my evening walk with Donald I was attacked by
Harry. Harry being a one tone bottle fed bullock. He charged me at close
quarters as we made our way past the group and if I hadn’t managed to roll to
the left as I fell heavily onto the road then he would have trampled me and I’m
convinced that would have been the end. However I was up on my feet as he turned
for the second go, and got a foot to the side of his head before he then
tumbled me into the ditch. It is amazing how fast one can move when your life
is in danger, and I scrambled out onto higher and rougher ground like someone
forty years my junior. The bullock then turned his attention on Donald who was
further up the track and I screamed at him to get off the road. Thankfully for
us a large van came up from Traigh Mhor car park and pushed the cattle along
the road towards the cattle grid, which gave us time to get over the fence and
make our way back across the croft. I was limping badly and could see through
the hole in my trousers that my left knee was bleeding. Donald drove me into
Stornoway Hospital for a check-up at A&E where they found nothing broken,
but were shocked at my misadventure. It was the last thing I needed having
undergone radio therapy on my back for prostate related bone cancer earlier in
the year. I have been conscious all summer of taking things at a slower pace
while still trying to remain reasonably active. Battered, bruised and
traumatised by the event I slept badly, but by Saturday evening I felt I should
get out on the road again for a short walk at least. I took my stick with me
although I knew Harry was now confined to barracks for what remained of his
life. When the owner came to apologise he also promised me a prime cut, and
even though I am, for all practical purposes vegetarian, I accepted the offer.
On the way down the hill I kept stopping and turning just to make sure nothing
was following me and as I passed the spot I found my breathing getting
laboured. I pressed on slowly to what we call windy corner; the headland
between Garry and Traigh Mhor beach, and noticed a school of what I assumed
were Minky whales about four hundred yards off the beach. It was difficult to
say how many there were as they circled in what I though was a rather frenzied
manner, and I assumed they were feeding on a big shoal of fish. It had been a
blustery wet day and I was the only one venturing out that evening. The final
steep slope beyond the cattle grid was a slog and I was thankful of being able
to get home and avoid any downpours.
Sunday morning, and Donald called by to see how I was, and I
told him I’d gone out for short walk,
but totally forgot to say anything about the Pilot Whale sighting. Even when he
said there had been a lot of coastguard activity and police down at Traigh Mhor
it still didn’t dawn on me that it could have anything to do with the previous
evenings sighting. Another day of rain meant I was looking forward to lighting
the fire in the studio and ignoring the inclement weather. However from my
studio window I could see there was even more activity down the road as two
fire engines arrived. They remained there all morning and after lunch I
couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer. I donned wet weather gear, heading
down the croft and across the machair. As soon as I reached the high point
where the entire length of the beach is visible I could see it. Just below the
cemetery stream outlet there was a group of people in high visibility jackets,
and something else. I got my binoculars out and was horrified to see the beach
littered with black bodies. I made my way down onto the footpath that runs
behind the dunes only coming out above the beach a hundred yards from the
disaster. Just below me someone was struggling up with a large bag and heavy
camera equipment. I recognised John from the local Gaelic TV station and he
explained that over fifty Pilot whales had swum up onto the beach to die there.
The entire group including young had breathed their last. It is intensely sad
and beyond our understanding, and although they will perform autopsies I’m sure
they will find nothing wrong. The urgent question now as we head into high
tourist season is what to do with all the bodies. So many decaying cadavers
will produce a stink, but my mind was already racing way ahead wondering just
how many chess sets or pieces of artwork might be made from so much bone. In
the past the islanders had so little that they became very adept at making use
of everything. Unfortunately today, just like those on the mainland many have
so much that they are constantly throwing stuff away. It is rarely a question
of repairing and even the charity shops have difficulty coping with the shear
mass of admittedly rather cheaply made stuff. We have for years been throwing
our heritage into landfill, and replacing it with inferior quality goods that’s
only redeeming feature is that it claims to be made from recyclable materials. Harry’s
boisterous belligerence was easy to understand and the solution is obvious, but
what do you do with fifty five dead whales?
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