I never got to see the Camberwell Werewolf, despite travelling in that vicinity regularly for a few years, mostly after dark. It was a vague preposterous tale, a throwback of a bygone age that appeared in a national newspaper’s weird news section. I’m not saying I believe it, but I like the possibility. I’ve always read books on mythology and for a year or so mounted my own expeditions to swim in lakes where monsters were said to haunt. It was a worthwhile pursuit which led to some unexpected encounters. Stories for another day certainly. I eventually realised that every exotic location is someone’s backyard. Understanding that gave more appreciation to my own locality.
Are urban legends and folklore more or less prolific now with the internet? There is more opportunity, but less wonder. A book can sit on a shelf brooding moodily for many years. Typed accounts on electronic screens have less gravity, whilst the influencers video monologue is no substitute for romance told on a road trip or a fireside tale under the stars.
Whatever thoughts that concerned me whilst sawing up deadfall in the woods this week were interrupted and quickly forgotten by a large stag that crashed about and bellowed its territorial claim about thirty meters away. It had a voice like no other and it did the rounds for a while. I’d never seen such a magnificent beast in the flesh before, but familiarity from books, magazines and films meant that whilst novel, it was not fantastic or incredible. It was no less impressive. Had it been twice the size, blue with fire coming out of its nostrils – maybe that would have alarmed me. Or maybe not. I hunted the Loch Ness monster afterall, and like the woodsmen of the fairy tales, big bad wolves, witches and dragons do not stop the work progressing for long.
Just as the exotic to one person is familiar to another, normal behaviour varies considerably. I have for many decades enjoyed exercise wherever I happened to be – and I care little for how ridiculous it might appear, though I suspect my pursuit of physical culture has made others incredulous about seeing me in my natural habitat.
I have swam to the opposite side of a lake early on a winters morning to deliberately make barefoot tracks on virgin snow for the dog walkers to find. At the same location on a misty night I was mistaken for a ghost by an inebriated friend who watched me exit and walked nervously to me and put his hand on my shoulder to prove to himself that he was not hallucinating. I also swam underwater some distance to appear in front of a man practicing bagpipes by the lakeside and broke ice with my head from underneath on other occasions.
My recent habit these past few years, especially on winter nights is to perform slow mobility drills around the local graveyard in insulated coveralls. The bell ringers practice whilst I duck walk and bear crawl around the war memorial. Are those statues moving? Does the crow call out “Dan?” A disturbed wood pigeon might flutter unexpectedly, bats fly about looking for moths. An owl hoots and passes overhead as my hot breath permeates the cold night air. If the watchers are watching they are having a time of it. Most of the dog walkers and late night drinkers ignore me. Maybe they are all reading Max Styrka on their phone screens or more likely are pretending not to notice.
See you down the road.
