Friday, 7 August 2015
Broken, Wounded, Healing: A Trilogy for our Time - Part Two
Second Part: On the Cross in Glen Moriston
'The greatest enemy of knowledge is not ignorance, it is the illusion of knowledge.' Possibly a misquote from Daniel J. Boorstin, but the words say it perfectly anyhow.
Five hours after packing up my dew-drenched wild camp, I emerge onto a road a fair distance from my starting point. By now it is midday, and soon I am speeding through the countryside, transported homeward by bus. Turbines of the Millenium Windfarm - one of the villains in Part One - can be intermittently seen raking the skyline ahead. This is a vulgar industrial factory indeed, set upon a hilltop. To call it 'millenial' is misleading and mocking, a real insult to what Don Juan in 'Journey to Ixtlan' refers to as this stupendous, awesome, mysterious, and unfathomable world.
Leaving behind the higher mountains, we head down Glen Moriston. Once this was a picturesque and unspoilt gateway, linking Loch Ness with the high land to the west. No longer, alas. It has Millenium, of course. Further industrial debris is littered on either side of the road, and soon we pass beneath the recently-constructed giant 'Beauly - Denny power line'. Miles of enormous pylons marching along swathes cut through the trees and over the skyline. An unusual number of 'For Sale' signs are evident, displayed outside properties along the glen and all the way downhill to the little village of Invermoriston. It must surely be coincidence that people are wanting to move out in droves just as the pylons come marching in and the windfarms hit town. 'No Moriston Windfarm' banners are on show outside many of the properties hereabouts: the feelings of at least a section of the local population are clear.
This is an area under saturation bombing from the dark triffids of wind. Millenium is only a beginning, with a number of others either under consideration or already given the go-ahead. The people who live around are having their lives detroyed shamelessly. To the grey people in Holyrood as much as those in Westminster, they are bottom of the woodpile. Would the Archbishop of Canterbury get a 24/7 disco built on his doorstep? Probably not. It's just the same.
I have no patience, time, sympathy, or energy for anybody in favour of this kind of windfarm any more. Should they start bleating about climate change, energy security, and the rest, they must be either psychopathic, wilfully stupid, or pathologically lazy. People who spend half the day staring at a computer screen can surely take a few minutes to undertake a brief internet search on 'windfarm fraud', 'windfarm scam' or similar to pick up the paper trail. And if they fail to recognise the visceral necessity of the power of the land and the soul of the Earth, there's not much I can do about that.
'He died so that others may live'. The principle nowadays is the same, except that rural people sacrifice their lives that others may get rich, or may perpetuate their blind, bloody stupid ideologies.
I have never spoken to an inhabitant of Invermoriston, and may never do so. But their 'No Moriston Windfarm' website is well worth a visit. These are people really taking a stand for their individuality and authenticity against the ravages and plunderings of Empire. They have certainly done their homework, with their stance impeccable and uncompromising. No negotiations with E.ON, the plundering beast, they say. We don't want your windfarm; there is nothing to negotiate. Also, no 'community benefit'. For those who don't know, 'community benefit' is the euphemism applied to things like funding of village halls, reduced energy bills, offered up by energy companies as bribes in return for the right to desecrate. It used to happen to African and South American tribes with cans of coca-cola. It works precisely the same as prostitution: we pay for the right to defile. 'But the rural villages could really do with the money' come bleating the windfarm apologists. So does the single mum who sells her body on a street corner at night.
The gravy train may be nearing its end. While there is precious little good to say about Cameron and his cronies, we can at least be thankful that they are stopping this one. The political alternative would still be dishing out the cash until well after the pot had run dry, and there was a useless turbine on every hill and in every field in Britain.
In the face of adversity and the predation of Control come forth courage, strength; dare we say it, a reflection of the divine. The glens may weep, the hills are sad; yet their sorrows are short-lived. The travesties of Imperial humanity will be here and gone in the blink of an eye.