Tired and chilled to the bone, with the usual dirty and oil-encrusted hands, he arrived home. He had tales of his bike journey and intrepid camping adventures to share with his family; those he could remember. Scott wanted to tell his wife and two little girls all about the time he was away, but only after listening to their exciting and action-packed stories first. While patiently listening to dramatic tales of swimming in a river and sitting on the backs of mountain-high horses, he found his mind was otherwise distracted, preoccupied with another story of sorts. He had this far-fetched idea of writing a novel based on his drive to and from the Isle of Skye, adding some kind of exaggerated adventure to capture the imagination of anyone who might be tempted to read it. He didn’t quite know what the plot would include or where it would lead to, but felt sure something would leap from his mind and astound him and everyone else with its hatching theme. There were all kinds of interesting thoughts appearing within his head, combined with colourful pictures to match. They were concentrated around a science-fiction based adventure, the sort you might only come across in the movies or novels. He did make some kind of progressive sense in what he imagined, however, and slowly began to construct a great adventure across space and perhaps even time itself.
He had also discovered a small tin of dark grit and dust in one of the motorcycle's panniers. He placed it on a high out of the way shelf within his garage, feeling there was something particularly special about it but couldn't figure why. He did, however, have a great desire to return to the island, to search for fossils once again, believing he would be luckier next time. It was the confession to his wife about losing a day while on the Isle that brought about a scathing accusation about being drunk on booze while away. He found the event of missing out an entire day bewildering at best. He just couldn't work that out at all.
A year had almost passed since his visit to Skye and the planned return visit was verging on being cancelled. As an Aircraft Technician in the British Royal Air Force, he was informed he was being posted to the Falkland Islands, a distant island group many thousands of miles away and not so far from Antartica. His overwhelming desire to visit his beloved Isle hadn’t diminished through time. He had become more and more determined to get there, somehow, even if it meant waiting an additional amount of time. He basically had no choice in the matter.
His official military posting came through and off he went on a supposed war footing with Argentina in late April. This unstable and sometimes turbulent South American country was still laying claim to the windswept sheep-populated and treeless islands, although the Argies’ referred to them as the Malvinas. His previous squadron of Boeing Tri-Star aircraft provided his transportation, with, “Good to see you again mate”, handshakes from the crew who had been his friends. After a very long and arduous flight, cramped into as small a space as was humanly possible to travel in, he arrived to the great delight of the chap he was replacing. Scott's presence in the Falkland Islands was to last for several long months and he would miss his family. He was currently studying for a science degree, which he found extremely difficult to do while in the military, especially in the Falkland's, where he had to share a room with three other RAF chaps. The situation proved difficult and extremely tasking when considering his monumental studies and the dedication required while operating in sub-zero temperatures and long working hours.
The cold and lonely months dragged by and his eventual departure was forthcoming, with his return to the United Kingdom not expected until late August. Possibly a little too late to visit Skye, he calculated. Knowing he was due a certain amount of disembarkation leave when he returned home, he wondered if he could use this period to drive to the rocky and windswept island at the first opportunity.
After the usual sentiments and hugs on getting home, and a few more than welcome glasses of draught Guinness at his local public bar, he felt his body clock resetting back into Greenwich Mean Time. What he couldn’t quite grasp was the necessity to get out of his bed in the middle of the night and stare at the flickering stars through his lounge picture-window in pitch darkness. He seemed unusually distracted with the idea of all the distant heavenly suns with the possibility of orbiting planets and life. The idea of a book had been nurturing itself while in the South Atlantic and had already begun writing it. As time had passed, a story of love, sex and exciting adventures consisting of alien characters from distant galaxies became reality on paper. The thoughts were increasingly getting stronger and clearer with each passing day. The writing had served as a timely diversion from his long working hours, studies and the infernal freezing weather. He hadn’t told a soul about the story that steadily manifested itself within his active mind and imagination. He discovered that drinking alcoholic beverages made his story seem much clearer, but couldn’t work out why. While drinking with his military mates and buddies, he often left their friendly company earlier than anyone else so he could return to his room with the idea of writing all the thoughts and ideas that had been entering his mind. This, he found, was slightly disconcerting, as he had never had the inclination to do anything of the sort before. His new pals began to make jokes about his regular early evenings, suggesting he had something secret to attend to in the privacy of his room. They knew he was studying and put his disappearances down to this reason, but still hoped they could wind him up by making lewd grinning suggestions. Scott laughed at the jokes with the rest of them as he could see the funny side, but still not feeling intimidated in the slightest. His good sense of humour stood him well with the others.
The fantasised story, so far, had concentrated on being a love story. It was between two very different individuals, a man like himself and a six-foot tall worth-killing-for gorgeous blonde woman. He thought it was a great idea, as his pen seemed to glide itself across the pages, leaving words and mental pictures of their sexual activity in his smile as he worked. This was turning into a science fiction novel, where the male character met an alien female in the strangest of circumstances. They fell in love and shared moments of passion where their union would result in the birth of a child. The original plot seemed to lengthen with each passing day and every alcoholic drink. He felt exhausted by the efforts of writing and working out the plot, and yet the story just seemed to create itself as the words were written in an off-hand and unplanned manner. He wondered if all authors wrote in this slovenly fashion, or perhaps they had a good idea where the plot was heading and how it would end before they started the first page. It also occurred to him that he might simply be trying to live out a fantasy by putting it down on paper. His vivid imagination raised a valid point too, one where he began to wonder if this story was rising from his subconscious memory because it felt real enough within his mind, almost as if he were writing from personal experience. He began to feel a preference for blonde women instead of those with dark-hair, which included his own wife. He once asked himself quietly if he thought he might be going mad, hoping no one had heard him asking the question as an afterthought. His mind was confused and the additional thought entered his head that perhaps he should consult a shrink; then quickly rejected the idea as extremely bad when he realised his mind was his property and not anyone else’s to play around with. He astounded himself when the storyline included a flying saucer picking him up from the Isle of Skye, involuntary of course. This was where the blonde woman introduced herself to him and their passionate affair had begun. He scoffed at the idea, shaking his head with a smile as he did so, but secretly he hoped it might be true as the idea appealed to him enormously. He thought it would be romantic to the extreme to have a secret life beyond the stars with a goddess of a woman. In time he might even find out the truth.
The opportunity to drive to Skye finally arrived; he still had his disembarkation time to use before he returned to his fast-jet Tornado aircraft squadron. Only this time, he would be driving to the island on a different motorcycle than the previous year. His old and trusty 650cc BSA Thunderbolt, had been replaced with a brand new Triumph L
egend TT. The old 1967 bike languished at the rear of his garage gathering dust and the inevitable cobwebs, covered by a threadbare duvet cover to prevent condensation forming on its metalwork that could lead to rust. The new Legend motorcycle was a feat of modern technology and engineering with its three-cylinder, 900 CC’s of up-to-date power-plant to provide an instant response to his throttle-twisting grip. This meant his travelling-time was immensely reduced and his comfort greatly increased. With infinitely less vibration from the engine and suspension to rattle and shake his muscles and bones he could now drive to the Isle in style, not needing to periodically pullover to make necessary adjustments to the engine’s constantly changing settings. His hands had previously been abused with blackened-oil and grease, layered with muck as he periodically removed alloy-casings for access to the engine’s heated and smelly guts, always losing valuable travelling time in the process. Those in the know regularly changed the manufacturer’s abbreviation, BSA to suit their feelings after a long drive. They would alter it from Birmingham-Small-Arms, to, Bloody-Sore-Arse. His personal experience agreed with this interpretation and knew those uncomfortable days were gone for good, especially as the Triumph’s seat was well padded and cleverly designed for ease of travel. There would be no more numb-bums for Scott this trip, or any other!
The day of departure arrived and his new bike was laden with the gear he would need. All the camping and ancillary equipment was held-down securely with elastic straps onto the rear of the bike, with the multitude of bulky items well thought out in advance. At the bottom of one pannier was his geology hammer and folded ordnance survey maps; whereupon, in the opposite pannier was a flask of hot coffee, milk and mug to counter-balance the weight. Being aware of the shortage of snack vans at various places on the route, he was carrying his own eats and treats to prevent him from going without, just like he had to on his previous trip.
The run didn’t take nearly as long as it had on the 1960’s bike, and Scott’s hands didn’t have the usual grubby appearance they had before. The new machine handled like a dream and didn’t need to be serviced or adjusted at the side of the road. There wouldn’t be any need for the caring motorist to pull over beside him, asking if there was anything they could do to help, always assuming his old BSA had broken down, while usually correct. Following the kind and thoughtful actions of these drivers, Scott’s belief in other motorists was reassured. He was aware there was an unofficial kind of driver’s club, where willing members would try to assist another, if and when they could. This pleased him, especially as he always went out of his way to help others too. He would turn down any kind of reward for his help and assistance with a smile, suggesting they could perhaps help others in distress as payment instead.
He understood he needed to find his old bike a new owner; he knew it was for the best, he persuaded himself. His struggles to keep the beast running well had tired him over the years and his devotion had sometimes waned. He had at times called it every expletive name under the sun when it would refuse to start for no apparent reason, but beneath it all, he loved it. The modern fuel specification had a lower octane, which was not exactly right for the engine and there would be an occasional knocking sound from the cylinders called pinking while thumping up a steep hill under load. The elderly bike’s overall performance had declined, which served only to persuade Scott it really was time for his old buddy to move on. There would be a great deal of sadness and Scott might easily shed a tear as his pride and joy would eventually disappear around the corner of his cul-de-sac, driven by its latest and very proud owner, whoever it may be. It had served him well but he now needed something more reliable and a bit more advanced. He would advertise it soon.
With his impending arrival on the island, as he drove across the new bridge, it began to rain. “Welcome back to soggy Skye,” he sarcastically muttered under his breath to himself. He headed north, overtaking the slow tourists with their badly packed and snaking caravans. He recalled seeing a particularly badly packed van manoeuvre itself onto one of its two wheels, eventually tumbling over into splinters of matchwood and metallic debris and scattering clothing as it careered down the road on one side then upside down behind its pirouetting 4x4 Land Rover. He learned from that horrible sight to avoid this kind of swerving and swaying van, paying attention to the frequency and angle of its wobble. The quicker it oscillated the greater the chance it was going to flip-over, he recognised.
Streaking up the road leaving a cloud of spray behind him, with hardly a murmur from the exhausts, the rain soon gave way to sunshine again. He had a good idea where he was heading, an area close to the sea and not far from a working quarry. If he could locate a suitable pitch for his tent and a safe haven for the bike he would be more than happy.
Turning off the main highway, where a slightly leaning signpost indicated the village called, Moll, was only 3 miles away, and another village called, Sconser was 6. The bike’s tyres skidded on loose stones and gravel with his sudden change in direction. Scott’s quick reflexes had to react accordingly to maintain his balance and road-holding, sticking out a leg to help maintain stability like an experienced speedway rider until his machine attained a straight line. The elderly road was the final stretch of the drive for that day and Scott found it was taking longer to travel these last few miles than it had for the past fifty. There were questionable areas where light found it hard to penetrate and shadows were very dark. A long tunnel of thick and overgrown branches encroached his way along the narrow single carriageway, with green fingers of curling foliage hanging downwards like some monster’s stinging tendrils, poised and waiting for an unsuspecting stray motorcyclist or pedestrian to chance by. This most ancient of roads had been superseded by a much more modern hill-climbing route, which cut and wound its way through and around high walls of solid rock. Several very steep inclines and sharp bends had to be negotiated by everyone who used the alternative route, all taking pleasure from the exhilarating views afforded by the highest of passes. The modern vehicle could manage these hills and curves without any trouble, while the original meandering road was all but forgotten about; except by the intrepid or romantic traveller who desired to follow a more scenic and adventurous track. Some stretches had acquired some painfully deep holes, deep enough to break the suspension of some vehicles and scrape the plating from the exhaust pipe. A few had been crudely filled-in with loose rubble as a stopgap measure, but plenty more work had yet to be done. A temporary repair like this would suffice for only a short time on this type of road, with torrents of precipitation soon washing the infill away. Bordering the road were tree-high thickets of whin bushes, their unusually long curved branches bending like archers bows under their own weight. They met and supported members of the same family across the middle of the road, holding onto their opposites with acrobat-like hands, forming a swaying arch in the breeze.
On more than just a few occasions, Scott had to duck his head to miss the dark overhead forest from time to time, enjoying the playful challenge while wondering with trepidation if there might possibly be another vehicle driving towards him while he momentary turned his gaze downwards to avoid the suspended hedge-like barrier. He hoped his bike’s paintwork wouldn’t suffer from scratches as he forced his way through this wild and unkempt greenery.
Once finally past the burden of heavy bushes and trees, the countryside gave way to glorious open scenery. With the dark-green sea and coast on his right, and a steep purple-coloured heathery climb on his left, he began to enjoy the view. He followed the curvature of the headland, always bearing to his left, when the ferry to the Isle of Raasay on one of its frequent sailings came into view. Enjoying the sight of the sea-going vessel leaving its frothing white wake, with the mountains all around and beyond, he pulled over to the road’s edge and stopped. With his gloves and helmet removed, he was completely taken aback by the peacefulness of his surroundings, save for the genteel melodic birdsong and slight rustle of wind through the short and thorny wild-rose bushes growing
alongside the road’s course verge. The peace and quiet was music to his ears and he loved every lengthy and hanging orchestral note. Stepping away from the bike to get a better view of the ferry as it pushed its way through the cold and forbidding looking water he chanced upon what appeared to be the perfect place to camp. It was just a few metres from the road’s edge, down a steep incline, and if he hadn’t stopped at this exact spot he would have completely missed it. He quickly carried out a reconnaissance of the immediate area, acting in a concerted military fashion. He was trying to find a way down for his Triumph, picking his way through the undergrowth and bushes. He was ever so pleased when he discovered the overgrown remains of what had once been a track. It was almost completely hidden, a road where no wheels had left their mark or tread for many a year or perhaps a century or two. After carefully pacing-out his route, snapping a few twigs and branches that might impede his route, he figured his bike could get safely down. He would worry about the return drive back up to the road when he eventually had to do it. He was quietly confident he was experienced enough and his bike more than capable of the effort required.
With the tent successfully erected and the bike parked neatly beside it, he set off to explore his new surroundings. There was a small cove between his campsite where the water softly lapped the rocky and pebble strewn edge, making the entire scene perfectly idyllic. There was a mixture of large boulders and smaller stones, all frequently washed by the regular tides. He spotted and gathered the few bits of washed-up timber that lay lodged and stranded between the rocks, sometimes straining to break them loose. Some were a bit too large to carry with the others, so they were left in situ until later. It was during his search for wood when he happened to come across an outcrop of mussels, all clinging to immovable rocks where waves frequently splashed against their barnacle-encrusted shells.
An Alien Rescue Page 4