Remote living in winter by Linda Mellor

Remote living through the winter months

By Linda Mellor

When winter first starts to creep in, the signs are small, the pace is slow and steady. In late November, my attention is drawn to the lack of colour in the landscape as autumn’s vibrant ochres and deep reds are replaced with dark browns, greens and shades of grey and the dry weather is swapped for rainy days. Early morning journeys are dark, and woodcock are seen, albeit briefly, disappearing into the undergrowth. They are all confirmation we are on our way into the winter months.

“you are regularly reminded of your fragility in the wilderness”

Successful and enjoyable remote living in Scotland requires advance preparation: log shed restocked, oil tanks filled, and vehicles checked and fitted with winter tyres and a snow shovel in the boot. Through spring, summer, and autumn, the journeys to and fro are easy, however, in winter, each journey becomes an adventure into the unknown, and your respect for mother nature deepens as you are regularly reminded of your fragility in the wilderness. My senses come alive because winter is a rich season with lots to see, hear, smell, touch, and taste, especially if you include tasty homemade winter food classics of casseroles, stovies, and bowls of scotch broth. On still days the wind in the top of the glens can be heard from the lower ground, a soft, constant sound moves around and is hard to pinpoint. It has an eerie quality, it reminds me of the gentle rumble of distant thunder or soothing sound of the sea.

“the undergrowth disappears from view, edges and angles are rounded, and polished.”

When the snow falls, the remote landscape goes to sleep, and the once familiar surroundings shift to unfamiliar as recognition points are blanketed, often until spring. Snow poles become a lifeline, guiding us safely along a road buried deep under the snow. Throughout the year your eyes are accustomed to the animal paths crisscrossing the landscape but in winter, the snow reveals a much busier rural story with deer hooves, rabbit, and mountain hare pawprints, slender fox tracks and the large-winged angel shape of the strike from of a bird of prey as it pounced on its quarry. Animals travel on the roads, but most will not cross a bridge. Red deer leave the road and cross a burn, then re-join the road on the other side of the bridge but the ever-adaptable fox makes the most of the convenient, man-made crossing. The snowy prints are our countryside news.

The thick snow reshapes the terrain and creates a scene akin to the surface of an alien planet as the undergrowth disappears from view, edges and angles are rounded, and polished. Large, exposed areas, swathed in snow, are redesigned by the wind with artistically blown snowdrifts and shaped lines appear mirroring waves on the seashore. Boulders in the rivers develop a covering of ice as delicate and intricate as Victorian lace. The vista is magically transformed, and I am reminded of Scottish folklore’s Queen of Winter, Cailleach Bheur (also known as Beira), a one-eyed giantess with white hair, dark blue skin, and rust-coloured teeth. She built the mountains using a magic hammer, and Ben Nevis was her mountain throne. When her reign as the Queen of Winter ended on the longest night of the year, she visited the Well of Youth (a wellspring on green island in an unknown location of the west coast), and after drinking its magic water grew younger day by day.

“Winter weather is powerful, the basic need for shelter, warmth and food overtakes everything else, even in modern life.”

Remote Scottish landscapes are hidden away, silent, and undisturbed and cloaked in winter’s icy veil. The snow becalms the mind and induces a peaceful stillness. Winter has an age-old feel, there is a strong sensation of going back centuries to a time when our ancestors lived much simpler lives. It’s not such a bizarre thought because our remote landscapes by definition are secluded and unchanged by much of modern life. With no big geological events changing our landscape, the shape of the mountains, hills, and glens we see today must be similar to how the land looked 200 or 300 years ago. Large rocks near paths used as a natural shelter against the elements or a place of rest for travellers over the centuries. You sense the magnetism of the ancient land, and glimpse at how people lived as they battled to survive through the winter months. Winter weather is powerful, the basic need for shelter, warmth and food overtakes everything else, even in modern life.

Life is workable in a remote location with a few 21st century tools: broadband, a phone signal and computer technology. Scotland in Four Seasons was created and designed in a remote location, high up in the hills on the banks of a loch, miles from a local community. We have to adapt to the wintry conditions and accept when the wind is howling, and the snow is deep, we may not have access to modern day communications. The electricity supply is stable, but a generator is close to hand should the power go off. ‘Popping’ out to the local shop for milk, and a newspaper is at least 2-hour round trip, and if anything is forgotten, you go without. There are never any journeys undertaken without a shopping list, water, hats, gloves, and sturdy boots. A post-box resides on the main road, as the post and parcels are never delivered to the front door. Assurances of timely deliveries fall into a void and are often much later than promised. In winter, we pass through the Winter Equinox, also known as Yule, Midwinter and the longest night. We are on our way to the brighter days of spring, however, the weather in remote Scotland doesn’t mark the occasion.

Often, from January through to April the weather is at its harshest, as temperatures often remain below zero during daylight hours, and snow showers are frequent. The highest part of the single-track road sits around 2,400ft and is the most challenging with deep snow drifts, and variable and sudden changes in the weather. The only way to travel down to lower ground and out to civilisation is by using an Argocat fitted with snow tracks. The all-terrain, eight-wheeled chariot traverses the snowdrifts, and snow-covered routes impassable in a 4x4 road vehicle. During the deer stalking season the Argo transports deer down from the hill to the larder but in winter, with a shovel strapped on, it carries the bags of shopping home. Although essential for travel over the snow, the Argo also provides an unseen view of nature. Coveys of grouse sit tight in the snow, rabbits huddle outside their burrows and mountain hares stare back from their icy nooks. Herds of stags seek out shelter on the lower ground and often settle down to rest, and awaken with a covering of snow. Golden eagles stand out as they fly low over their snowy kingdom, hunting for their next meal. In February’s deep snow, we watched mountain hares as they boxed, chased one another, and then boxed some more in silence. Every outing is an adventure and a wildlife masterclass.

Modern life and all the luxuries bare no comparison to the lifestyle our ancestors had but the human need to return home and seek out warmth in the winter months is still present in our DNA. After a day outdoors, a home-cooked meal, and an evening sitting by the fire and cooring in with a *good book beats most things.

*At the time of publication, I was reading The Anthology of Scottish Folk Tales by Donald Smith.