Three cans later, Malcolm announced he was bored. ‘Bears, bears, bears. I’m here for the music. Are you coming?’
‘It’s dewy here,’ I said. ‘Loud enough for me. Come back and tell us how it looks.’
He shrugged, opened a new can, and loped off back down to the melee. Tanka put another log on to the fire. We lounged, listening to the music beyond the trees, watching the fire, sometimes laughing together with a kind of understanding that belied the short time we had known each other.
Malcolm did not reappear. Hours later, as a chilly dawn broke, I made my way back to the tent, and found him there, asleep.
I was shivering, coming down. I slipped into the sleeping bag beside the snoring body, hungry for his warmth. I stretched my front into contact with his back and felt him stir.
‘Grrr,’ I said, pretending bear. He shrugged away, and I let go of him, as if he had stung me.
I rolled on to my back and lay like a corpse trying to focus on my breath, then abandoned myself to a flow of images. I was lying among soft, damp sphagnum moss. A shaggy bear lumbered between tall trees in a dense forest, stopping to smell and nuzzle at a fallen trunk. It was getting closer, nearing, nearing. Now its nose was nudging my foot. Now it was standing over me, snuffling my face. It was breathing me in. With each exhalation, I felt myself dissolve into the bear. As I breathed in it would lift its head, then lower its snout back to my mouth for my outbreath. As each lungful of air released, I became lighter. My flesh vaporised, melting into breath. The bear gazed at me, nostrils twitching, as I disintegrated. It licked its lips, and took a final swig of breath, and I was gone, sucked up into the big hairy animal. Its flesh was mine, mine was the bear’s. I looked up into the trees, where light glittered down between a lattice of branches into a world full of pungent scents and tasty delicacies – frogs, slugs, mushrooms, roots – and a symphony of birdsong.
I didn’t really come round for the rest of the day, though I got up around noon and enjoyed the rest of the festival in a benign daze. I slept like the dead that night and woke, bleary, to Malcolm complaining about the cold, starting to strike the tent before I was dressed, setting a pace for our departure ‘before the crowd gets going’, as he put it. There was a calm centre to me now that let me ignore his pointed comments about my slowness. I was bear. I packed my bag and smiled at him until he hugged me.
I managed to squeeze a weekend off work in late September and Malcolm met me in Shetland. In October he went to a farmers’ meeting in Oslo and visited me for a few days afterwards. I found myself developing an appetite for him. The prospect of a job in Scotland was starting to appeal.
By November the Norwegian bear release sites were fixed. They would begin in Jotunheimen, one of the biggest national parks. It was a brave decision, because the park was such a popular recreation area, and it needed ratification by the Environment Committee.
I was sitting next to Anja in the big comfy chairs, my phone on the table in front of me, with all the data to hand if it was needed. Minister Thorsinn tapped her coffee cup and the various chats came to an abrupt end, heads swivelling to attention. Everyone knew how important this meeting was.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming. As you know, the Ecological Restoration Bill, which everyone seems to be calling the Bear Bill so I’ll use that shorthand for convenience, has its second reading next week, and there are some amendments tabled that we need to consider carefully. Some are, I believe, extremely helpful in clarifying the intention and scope of activities that are already being planned, and enabling others in future. However, some of the amendments could, if passed together, be mutually contradictory, and our lawyers are anxious that such legal tangles are avoided. Mrs Schwarz is here to advise us on these points.’
She gestured to a big woman in a red suit and loud glass jewellery, a chandelier in human form.
The meeting got underway, soon reaching the ‘helpful’ amendments, one of which would specify the process of the ‘accelerated population expansion’.
‘So the preferred release site is Jotunheimen?’ the minister asked Anja.
She nodded. ‘After much deliberation, yes.’
‘Minister, can we please discuss alternatives to this?’ I recognised Brigid Aikio, the Sámi representative I had met up in Finnmark.
‘I don’t want to open a can of worms,’ the minister said.
Brigid pressed on. ‘There are sites up north in Sámi territory that meet the ecological requirements better than Jotunheimen, with far fewer tourists, on the border with Sweden, sites that could pose at least as much opportunity for a successful release. Surely it would be a good idea to spread the risk and include one of these sites, perhaps in addition to Jotunheimen. I can see why you want to use the heartland of the country and restore the bears to the central highlands, that this is a gesture of confidence…’
The head of the Parks Service interrupted. ‘It is also practical, we have a strong network of wardens and conservation bodies there. We can’t staff a project so effectively up north.’ Everyone knew the recent history of Sámi and park authority conflicts.
‘I think we must go with where our advisors have decided,’ the minister said.
‘There’s nothing to stop future reintroductions in Sámi lands,’ said Anja. I agreed with Brigid that the northerly sites were ecologically preferable. I had been through this with Anja on more than one occasion.
‘But why not now?’ Brigid lifted a document from in front of her and held it upright so everyone could see its title: Living with Reindeer Predators. ‘We have done a lot of work on how to manage carnivores, how to live in harmony with them, we want to work with you.’
‘Thank you, Ms Aikio, that is admirable, but the advice seems to be that we should start first in Jotunheimen.’
‘…And continue to exclude the Sámi.’ She put the document back on the table, raising her eyes in exasperation.
‘This is not about excluding anything, the Bill will enable future work and we encourage you to bring your proposals forward. We commend the work you have been doing. No, there is no desire to exclude anyone at all. Now, does anyone else have anything on the Jotunheimen release site?’
The Agrarian Association representative stood up, the chairman from Røros with the big moustache. ‘How exactly are the bears going to be contained inside the park?’ He sat again immediately and the minister turned to Anja.
‘Professor, would you like to speak about that?’
Anja put both of her hands flat on the table, one on each side of her papers, and looked directly at the farming representative. ‘Each bear will be tagged and we will know their exact whereabouts at all times,’ she began. She then explained, step by step, our proposed methods for trying to avoid conflict between the bears and neighbouring communities. Then she handed over to the head of the Parks Service to spell out their security procedures.
The farming representative nodded along. He knew all of this and we knew he knew. We had been through it in a heated meeting just two days previously. But everyone accepted, as the stenographer typed away in the corner, that it had to go on the official record, just as, I realised, Brigid had intended with her earlier questions. The point was not, at this stage, to win the argument, it was to be recorded as a voice of dissent, or a voice suggesting a better solution, only to be rejected. I now saw there was a method in the Sámi opposition, which up to now had seemed pointless. Brigid was doggedly pursuing a process that seemed, to me at least, more principled than the performance now playing out between the Parks Service and the Agrarian Association.
‘And do we actually have any bears to release?’ the minister asked.
Anja nodded. ‘We’ll bring in some bears from Sweden and, to introduce some genetic diversity, after intensive discussions with Professor Scazia of the Carpathian Large Mammal Project, we have sourced a male bear from Romania, and two females from Slovakia.’
I found myself irritated that Anja should have been havi
ng any intensive interactions with Petr without my knowledge. It didn’t seem fair after he had rejected the invitation to take part in the feasibility study. Then I chided myself for my pettiness. This was different, I had to admit. It certainly wasn’t desk work.
It was agreed that we would do staged releases, beginning with six animals – three male, three female – in the southern uplands in May of the next year. The committee discussed whether there should be an effort to keep the exact location secret but as the Agrarian Association would inform all of its members in that area, it was going to be common knowledge, at least locally.
The difficult work, for me, was over. Now I would just have to sit on my hands and wait for spring, hoping that public opinion did not worsen. I took the chance for an extended trip to Scotland. Professor Bergen was happy to give me leave of absence from the Institute, and I was glad to see the back of the place for a while.
I met Stig at the Broken Hart. I had spent the morning in a meeting with Professor Sudbury and Richard Thin from the Scottish Government’s Environment Department. Stig was sitting in a booth nursing a pint.
‘So,’ he said, as I joined him with an orange and lemonade. ‘Not having a celebratory drink, I take it?’
I shook my head. ‘Later. There’s work to do first.’
‘How did it go?’
‘Richard Thin was good, asked really constructive questions, was very interested in the Norwegian experience. He was much more positive and helpful than his curt, abbreviated little messages led me to expect. He’d read the papers, unlike your Prof, needless to say. He’s hopeless.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I told them both you should have been there. Richard totally agreed. Professor Sudbury didn’t have a leg to stand on. If Harsel can’t be bothered to even send an apology, he’s not going to help the project any. I made that clear. And Richard agreed you’d handled the lynx project with utter panache and visionary strategic leadership.’
‘Get lost.’
‘“A steady hand”, was how he put it, I think. Oh yes, and “sound”.’
‘“Sound”, eh? Praise indeed from His Thinness.’
‘So you’ll be project leader for Scotland.’
Stig raised his fist and punched a small invisible creature on his right. ‘Yes! Starting when?’
‘What are you doing this afternoon?’
‘Let me guess. Brainstorming possible sites to evaluate as bear habitat?’
‘Spot on. Richard wants to join in. OK with you?’
‘Spying already.’ Stig took a swig of his pint.
‘No, I think he might be genuinely interested. He has that look in his eye. Shall we get some food?’ I reached for the laminated menu.
‘I’ve ordered,’ said Stig.
I got up and placed an order at the bar for wild mushroom risotto and salad. When I sat down again Stig said, ‘So you think Thin is genuinely on side?’
‘Yeah. People love bears, you know, loads of people do.’
‘Ah. Bless. Come to think of it, I could picture His Thinness cuddling a teddy bear at night. Unlike Arsehole.’
‘Is that what you call Harsel?’ I laughed.
‘Aye, what else? So when do we really start, in terms of money?’
‘The project application had 1st November on the form so I’m assuming we can run right away. I’ve not seen the documentation, but I got a message on the ferry over to say that we’d got the green light. If they’d said “no” or “later”, I’d still have wanted to meet to discuss plan B. My plans don’t depend on EU support, that’s for sure. Anyway, it’s good news we’ve got the dosh, it makes it easier for everyone to come on board. We should start making some other contacts, too, broaden it out. How would you be about that? I was thinking some kind of reference panel, to give us feedback, be a sounding board, a bunch of sympathetic folk who we could use to get the idea gently percolating out there, help head off the screams and howls of protest from people about not being consulted.’
‘Yeah, definitely. Some of the lynx advisory panel might well be interested.’
‘I’ve got a tame crofter on the NFUS board I could pull in.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Malcolm.’
‘Crofter? Since when?’
‘Oh, you didn’t hear? He got one of the new crofts in Sutherland, those woodland crofts in Ben Mor forest.’
‘Nice one.’
‘Yeah. Another big reason to come over. I’m going there with him at the weekend to put a shed up – we got a bargain out of ScotAds. You’ll need to come up sometime.’
‘I can see why you weren’t waiting for the EU answer. You and Malcolm getting serious?’
‘Let’s just say the North Sea’s awful wide these days.’
‘What’s my sister got to say about that?’
‘Fran’s not speaking to me.’
‘Do you want me to talk to her?’
‘What’s the point, Stig? I’ve broken the code.’
My first view of the croft was enough to put me off. It was a cold blue day when Malcolm picked me up from Dad’s house, but it became steadily greyer as we drove north and west. Malcolm had borrowed a trailer to tow the shed and we had intended making a start putting it up when we arrived, but the wind was punishing and ruined any prospect of holding walls steady. I looked around with horror at the Sitka spruce plantation, a wall of identical, alien trees, crowding in on all sides of the clearing.
We unloaded the panels and lashed them to the foundations Malcolm had built on his last visit – huge beams roughly cut from some of the trees that had been felled to make the clearing. When the rain started in earnest, we opted for lunch in a pub. The Altnacaelgach Inn was shut, so we carried on down the road to the hotel at Inchnadamph. While we waited for the soup, I got up to look more closely at a display board about the Bone Caves, learning with delight that bears had once roamed this land, and that the most recent bear bones in the whole of the UK had been found there, which meant that it was likely that the last bear in Scotland had lived here, in Assynt, probably about a thousand years ago.
This changed everything. I found myself looking out of the window not just at hills and moors, but at potential bear habitat! Plus, there was no doubt the weather was clearing up.
As we drank our coffees, a couple of the other new crofters called in for a pint, and we got chatting. Before long we had four more hands willing to help with shed erection, and after lunch, we headed back to the croft. By dusk, the roof was on and an unfamiliar sense of neighbourliness seemed to have been built along with the shed. We drove back to Moray in the dark, the Blazing Fiddles on full volume. Half-dozing in the passenger seat, my hand on Malcolm’s thigh, I smiled at the thought that Diana and Frances were missing out on the best things in life.
Working from Dad’s house, or Stig’s spare room, seeing Malcolm whenever possible, I set about the background research for the feasibility study. At least Yuri’s attacks were doing me the favour of giving me time to spend with Malcolm.
With Stig’s help, I gathered Scottish data, testing the same criteria as we were using in Norway. Over the course of a couple of weeks, I built up the layers in the GIS to produce a map of Scotland showing red for zones unsuitable for bears, through to green where the biophysical opportunities seemed best. There were four green areas: the pinewoods in the Cairngorms, the wooded straths to the north of the Great Glen and two areas in the west of the country, one up north centred on the Coigeach and Assynt mountains, the other down in the oakwoods of Argyll.
The next step was to field opinion on these areas. Stig and I decided a meeting of the reference group would be a helpful first step, followed by some visits to sympathetic landowners, before opening up the study to wider consultation.
The reference group met in the boardroom at the Scottish Land Institute. Stig had dressed formally for the occasion and looked starched and uncomfortable in a grey jacket, pale blue shirt and mauve tie. I was in the cream linen
skirt and jacket I thought of as my ‘Storting suit’, which I had had dry-cleaned specially for the occasion.
The turnout was even worse than we had feared, a total of eight people, including Stig and myself. I recognised the names of only two of them: Luke Restil, the landowner of Glenmathan, and Robert MacFadyan, the son of a big Aberdeenshire farmer with a bad reputation for harassment of raptors and an outspoken opponent of predator conservation. He was representing the farmers’ union, along with a young woman called Carole Smith. There were only two people from within the Institute plus a painfully shy young man from the Scottish Wildlife Trust. Stig read out a list of apologies from the great and good of Scottish conservation and the question begged itself why everyone who mattered had failed to appear.
‘I’m afraid we’re clashing with a free lunch at the zoo,’ said Stig. The Royal Zoological Society of Scotland was renowned for its buffet lunches, mostly due to the lavish provision of free booze. The farmers’ union pair looked stony-faced, not getting the joke. I gave a wan smile.
The meeting got under way and it soon became clear that we were trying to push a boulder uphill. The friction from the NFUS staff was enormous. The Land Institute people were both junior and new to the Institute and seemed nervous about contributing; Harsel and Sudbury were both at the zoo. The SWT project officer made an early blurt about his work in one of the areas that appeared feasible – the northwest – and then sat, trembling like a snared rabbit.
Luke Restil was the only person in the room who appeared to be enjoying himself. He sprawled in his chair, as if it was primary school furniture, eyeing the rest of us with the glee of a national jockey at a village gymkhana. As soon as he had arrived that morning, I had recognised him as the tall man who had leaned into the 4x4 on our photo safari during the teddy bear weekend. He showed no sign of knowing me at first but, after accepting a cup of coffee from Stig, he turned to me and said, ‘You’ve been to Glenmathan. I never forget a face.’
Bear Witness Page 19
