A Series of Dreams

 

Perhaps by way of a short introduction – rather than simply launching straight into my dreams:

I’m currently on Day 11 of quarantine in the Malvina Hotel, Falkland Islands. I’m here enroute to another summer season down at Rothera Research Station, Antarctica. It’s a 14-day minimum quarantine before heading south onto the continent; the reality (for one reason or another) is going to be more like 23 days. Last year I was here for 18/19 days. It is for that reason perhaps that there has been an 11-day delay in updating this blog – something which I had every good intention of doing from the outset. There seemed to be little new about quarantine life which I felt sufficiently inspired to write about. Or at least, that was what I kept telling myself. In truth, it was likely a combination of two things. The first being that I really struggled with the initial few days here, and all my words and all my thoughts were focused on trying to get my head around this. An internal battle of sorts which leaves no space for the observation of anything else. It’s interesting to me how these kinds of struggles can often surprise us, and how we also usually try everything possible to avoid them. Life is of course a continual process of figuring things out, of getting things wrong, learning how to do better, and how to be better. And while it can hurt like hell, it’s through the tough times, the challenging times, that we learn the most, and grow the most. I would not exchange the first few days (and moments since and yet to come) of this quarantine period for 23 days of untroubled bliss.

The second reason as to why I’m only now getting around to doing some writing is without a doubt the most fundamental reason of the lot – in fact, it’s the only reason every time. In order to write something, you actually have to start writing! I didn’t start; it’s as simple as that. It can be a daunting thing of course – what if you sit down and there are no words to write? But there are always words, and where there are words, the thoughts will follow sometime after. It is perhaps not the way round that we think it should be, but it seems to be the case more often than not. In fact, I don’t think it can happen in any other way. Words precede thought, and we probably need to give ourselves a little time between the two – or at least give ourselves time to consider and get used to something new.

So here are the words that I started to write; an account of the dreams that I have had the last three nights.

 

Dream 1

 

I was at my mum’s house; I woke in the night needing a wee. When I sat down on the toilet, I realised that my mum and stepdad were also in the bathroom, and they were trying to have a conversation. They said it was a good place to have difficult conversations, because conversations generally seem less scary compared to having a wee in front of someone. But if didn’t make me feel brave - I just sat there saying nothing, unable to wee.

 

Then the scene suddenly jumped, and I was up in Scotland somewhere for a running race/event which my friend Dani had convinced me to join her in taking part in. It was very informal, there didn’t seem to be a set start time, and people were just turning up in dribs and drabs and setting off when they pleased. I followed a group of three, and it soon transpired that it was an out and back course along an undulating approach trail. The path was strewn with big rocks, tufts of heather, and there were plenty of lochs dotted about. It was as I was running out that I saw Dani for the first time - she was smiling, and flying, dressed up in the latest top of the range Salomon gear. When I got back to the carpark, a couple had just arrived - they asked me what my time was. I looked at my watch and said, “10.26, but I don’t really understand how this race works?” They told me that I had to do 12 laps of the course, and that each lap was a marathon in length. They asked if I’d really run it in 10 and a half minutes, I replied “don’t be silly, that’s just the time in Peru.”

 

As I headed out for the second lap, I started to notice more and more things. I noticed how happy everyone was, and that there was music coming from somewhere and most people were singing along. I also noticed that a woman, who was clearly not part of the race, had set up camp just off the path. I thought to myself ‘how funny - on any other day of the year this would be a perfectly quiet place to spend a day or two. But as fate would have it, she chose the day of the 12-marathon race.’ She had hung a pair of trousers and a jumper over the low branch of a tree, and I realised that she must have just returned from the nearest loch for a swim or a wash. I took a diversion down to the shore and got my camera out to take a photograph. It was beautiful. A moment later something big appeared above the surface of the water - about 10 metres out from where I was. I couldn’t work out if it was a small whale or a big dolphin. I started yelling to attract the attention of the other runners, and soon a small crowd was gathered. Shouts rang out, 

“It’s a whale!” 

“It’s a dolphin!”

“Welcome to Scotland!” 

And then from a little further away - “It’s a haddock!” 

They were being serious, and everyone else started laughing. But as I was taking photos, the silhouettes of more whales and dolphins started appearing out of the water at the far end of the loch. At one point I was convinced that I saw the long silhouette of a giraffe’s head and neck. This made me wonder if perhaps there was also a haddock in there somewhere, too. 

 

And then I got woken up by a knock on the door, and there was a small pot of cold porridge waiting outside. 

 

 

Dream 2

I was walking to Booths supermarket; it was early evening but already starting to get dark. When I got there, I searched every aisle but all they had in stock were discounted multipacks of Milkybar chocolate, and Ritz cheese biscuits. I didn’t fancy eating either of those, so I rang my mum to tell her that they had nothing suitable in. But when I rang her, it connected me to a phone call that she was already in the middle of, and all I could do was listen to the conversation between her and someone from an energy company about the cost of this month’s electricity meter bill. So, I just hung up and started walking home.

 

 

Dream 3

 

I returned home to the hostel after six months of being away. I was greeted by Mick and the dog, Moss. Moss seemed to have retained all his usual characteristics and mannerisms, but it was inescapably obvious that he had, in fact, turned into a cat.

I had changed rooms, electing this year for the pokey room that was situated on the left just as you go inside the front door. The door to the room didn’t close properly, let alone lock, and it was so small that there was not enough space for a bed except if you assembled it last thing at night. But even then, I knew it would be a struggle, such is my ability to turn even a small number of possessions into an insurmountable mountain of junk within seconds.

The biggest problem with this room though was that everyone thought it was Reception. This meant I had a whole string of people popping by to ask me questions. I explained to one woman that this wasn’t reception and besides I’m not even working. This did not deter her. “Oh, it’s not a question about work, I just wanted to ask you a few questions about the Beijing Wall?” I looked at her for a couple of seconds before replying, “What? What do you even mean by that?”

It was a busy evening; I suspect it might have been the busiest evening on record. There was a seemingly constant flow of people, and I wondered briefly how there could possibly be room for everybody. There were no less than four people staying at the hostel that night who had previously climbed Everest. Not one of them was Kenton Cool, but Kenton Cool was all any of them seemed to talk about, and they were looking for him everywhere, convinced that he must be here, too.

At some point, it must have been the following day, I managed to escape the madness and went out for a bike ride with my friend, Ali.  She punctured on the road between Drigg and Seascale – in my absence they had turned this section of the road into a long strip of cobbled stones. Ali explained to me that this was Cumbria County Council’s idea of re-wilding. They thought it was an innovative way to get on board with the latest trend. Then Ali changed the punctured inner tube quicker than I’ve ever seen – she said the trick was having a little sandstone pebble with a hole drilled through it tucked inside the wheel rim. You’d tie a thin bit of string through it, and that way you could just pull the damaged inner tube out while leaving the outer tyre in place. When she showed me how she had done it, it all made perfect sense.

I knew straightway that I needed to implement a similar system, and I just happened to have a friend who was a world leading expert in drilling holes in tiny sandstone pebbles. I went to him almost immediately to ask for his help. John was very busy with work though and said it would have to wait. He apologised and showed me what he was currently working on – and it looked very complicated indeed. He was having to design these 3D certificates which involved superimposing people’s heads onto the body of Santa Claus. The latest inner tube replacement kit would have to wait for another day.