AS is often said up here, if our archaeological, historical or scenic treasures were located in a more densely populated area, they would be overwhelmed with admiring visitors.
Both the admiring and the visitors might be welcome, but the overwhelming would not be – either for those of us who live here or for the preservation of the particular treasure.
Since I am not much of a map reader and even less a navigator, my contribution to locating a petrifying well on a recent stroll with a couple of friends was mostly walking around and looking at the old steading and the heather around Torran House, near the foot of Ben Dorrery.
While looking for the well, I admired the patterns of the lichens on the rocks, surprising patches of red vegetation among the green grass and mosses, the particularly warm hue of the blue-grey of the old heather stalks, and the now familiar old stone dykes falling slowly earthward in a silent arpeggio.
A petrifying well (too many years in Latin class left me thinking that I might be turned into stone if I peered too closely into this well) is a collection of water with an excess of certain minerals. If an object is left in the well, it will be coated with these minerals and, if left to dry, the exterior of that object becomes stone like. At one time this petrifying was regarded as magic.
Apparently being born next to the petrifying well that now holds her name in Henry VII’s time is what allowed Mother Shipton to become a famous prophetess – the British version of the oracle at Delphi.
After our walk I discovered that Mother Shipton’s cave and preserving well is allegedly Britain’s number one tourist attraction, "having drawn millions of visitors".
What a contrast to the elusive petrifying well minding its own business tucked quietly into the vegetation and rocks of an old steading in the Far North of Scotland.
Because I can speak the language now, and, more importantly, can be trusted to understand and use the information judiciously, I’ll find friends of friends who can tell me stories of the well – somewhere between millions of visitors and a faint mark on a map. A Caithnessian compromise.
AT a coffee morning I met an old friend who told me that a neighbour had seen a hare. I was excited at the prospect of seeing a hare again because watching one run is a treat. It is also about the time to watch the hares at the behaviour that has given them a bad rap – "mad as a March hare", the name derived from the so-called boxing and chasing associated with their mating season.
I was also pleased to hear of a hare in "my neighbourhood" as if that gave me some proprietary rights and claim to fame.
That thought led me to recollecting a favourite science fiction book, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. The novel was made into a movie, Blade Runner, which as movies inevitably do, subordinated some of the ideas to action and fast moving plot.
The connection between the neighbourhood hare and the book and movie is that both are set in an era when actual, real, living animals have become extremely rare. To own a real animal – in the case of the main character, a sheep – is an enormous status symbol.
Deckar, the main character, is living a lie: his sheep is a fake while he makes a living exterminating or assassinating androids who try to pass as human beings.
If you are not a fan of science fiction, the only point you need to take from this apparent diversion is that when real things become rare they become valuable, although not necessarily for the right reasons.
Becoming overly fond of rare or endangered animals can lead us into proprietary fits of pique. Sometimes these well-intentioned protective gestures result in legislation or regulations that may or may not contribute to the hare’s wellbeing, but address primarily the proprietary feelings of the would-be owners.
I looked at the Hare Preservation Trust website, but I did not tell them about "my hare". If, like the petrifying well, I am lucky enough to find it, I will do my best to leave it alone and admire it from a safe and respectful distance.
