Shegra

Chris Newton

It's cold. It's wet. It's March.

I am woken, not for the first time tonight, by the crack of the fly-sheet as it tries to tear itself free from the powerpegs that are steadfastly binding it to the 1980's tent and the weather-battered beach. In fact, I'm not sure if I have actually been to sleep tonight, I may have closed my eyes but sleep seems to have eluded me. Unlike my good friend Gavin who is tucked up in his wafer-thin sleeping bag with a thermal vest and his beanie hat on, seemingly oblivious to the ferocious Force 7 gale that is blowing in from the Arctic and wrestling with the tent. I am layered-up: two thick sleeping bags, thermal underwear, trousers, woollen socks, t-shirt, fleece jumper, padded lumberjack shirt, beanie and gloves yet I am cold to the core. I can feel the damp seeping through the groundsheet, through my sleeping bags and clothes and into my skin. The tent is drenched and the inner walls are considering changing vocation and becoming a showerhead. I edge slightly towards the drier centre of the tent but as it's a two-man tent and there are two of us in there I don't move far. I am longing for the warmth and comfort of last night's hotel.

Reading usually helps me drift off to sleep so I pick up my book and begin to read. Not tonight. Not this morning. The words are taunting me; vivid descriptions of arid heat, breathless winds and sun-scorched skin do nothing to ease the discomfort of being stuck in a now sodden tent on a cold March night. Perhaps another game of scrabble will pass the time? Only scrabble is at least a two player affair and I don't think Gavin would want to be woken from his slumber for another game of scrabble - even with his current winning streak. Cards? No that needs dexterity and I am not removing my gloves. Drinking? If I'm drunk ill pass out, whisky will warm me inside out. Nope, bad idea - the whisky is out front and I'll need to go outside again if I drink too much. Just going to have to stick this one out.

Feeling pretty glum my mind begins to wander. I start thinking about the sheep that we are sharing the field with; how do they cope in such weather, where have they gone, do they intend to shelter in or near our tent? Suddenly, every gust of wind or rattle of tent poles sounds like a sheep squelching its way towards our tent and I do not want to share my pillow with a sheep so I am even further from sleep. Best think of something else.

My thoughts turn to what brought us to, what was this afternoon, the tranquil and idyllic Shegra beach and the road-trip that we have been on in the past week. An amazing journey beginning with surfing in Macranhanish (near Cambelltown), attempting to scale a snowy Ben Nevis in a pair of grip-less boots, the looks on tourists faces as we emerged from the car in our long-johns to take photographs, riding fibre-glass seals by the side of the road, the look of sheer terror on Gav's face as he let me slide his beloved car around the A832, finding the prettiest beach in Scotland (that's our secret), being asked if I was a fisherman and most importantly spending time with a friend that I don't see as much of as I'd like.

The tent rattles once again and I am reminded of the storm blowing outside, now though I am happy or perhaps delirious as I begin to smile and realise that this storm is part of the adventure and the next part of the adventure is waiting for us on the other side of the tent door. Quietly I slide out of the sleeping bags, slip into my waterproofs, pull on my waldies and step out into the rain. The wind and rain have died down slightly, so I go for a walk along the beach and out to the headland. Its breathtaking, I am happy and there is no sign of the sheep.

Back at the tent, Gav is up and we quickly pack the wet tent into the boot and get ready to leave Shegra. Only, the car is old and has been acting as a storm defence barrier all night and chooses not to start. We try to push it along the field but she weighs a ton and we don't muster any speed. We try a couple of near by houses, nae luck. A car is passing so we flag it down, she says she can't help but she is heading into Kinlochbervie (KLB) so she will ask the Iceman at the harbour to bring out his jump leads. The Iceman arrives less than an hour later but the jump leads don't work, next trick he will tow us to KLB and we can try doing bump starts on the single-track twisty road. Once or twice our hopes are raised only for the engine to fail at the last minute. Dejected, we sit outside the Fisherman's Mission waiting for the local mechanic/lorry driver to come and help us. One final trick, Gav takes off the distributor cap, dries it with his shirt, blows on it then puts it back. We try the engine one last time before we go for a mug of tea and she roars into action, Gav and I swap glances in disbelief, smiles reappear on our faces and its high-fives all round. The car sits outside purring like an orchestra as we warm our hands on mugs of tea and laugh about what might have been.

We set off looking for surf or a warm bed, which ever comes first.