It’s the year 1999 – last century, to be exact. It seems so far away today, the time when we actually wrote years not starting with the number 2. The Internet was finally thiving as high-speed connections gave the first steps, after six years of very-slow-to-moderate growth. The Blair Witch Project’s media-savvy, show-making producers had the whole of the western world drooling in anticipation for their soon-to-be-biggest-story-flop-of-the-year, despite their clever manipulation of this new communication medium.
Scotland is on the edge. One night, at the fall of darkness, there is a boat party in Loch Linnhe. I attend, as do a score of Swedes, a score of French, a small wedding party of eight and a few more Scots. The barge sets off to the middle of a foggy and somewhat creepy loch. There is fiddle playing, highland dancing, drunken singing. I wear a kilt as tradition orders, and feel my lowlands freezing in the cold lake temperature. It should be close to midnight when we feel a strong bump on the rowdy boat. Sure, some of us are innebriated, but we all feel the bump. With a few yelps, everyone climbs up on deck within seconds and looks out into the quiet night. Someone drops a bottle of beer into the depths of the loch. The surface ripples mildly, the moon shines in one spot of the black water. Nobody understands what has happened. And then, the reflection of the moon blackens with what appears to be the shape of an animal. We are in Fort William, front door to the Western Highlands and gateway between the North Sea via Firth of Lorn and the Loch Ness via Loch Lochy.
Time ellapses: 2005. The Blair Witch Project isn’t but a sad memory in the history of thriller movies. The world without Internet is now unimaginable. I am sitting in my living room – zapping away – and land in IFC (where all the cool movies go). A close up of director Werner Herzog fills the screen, as he speaks straight to the camera. His wrinkles are trustworthy, his strong accent gives him that small edge that makes him eccentric rather than mad. I remember watching documentaries about him, remember watching his movies – serious, heavy works of cinematic art, for the most (The Wild Blue Yonder, Woyzeck, Fitzcarraldo, Cobra Verde, Aguirre: The Wrath of God, Nosferatu The Vampyre, My Best Friend), many of them made masterpieces by the genious acting and vicious off-camera stories of Klaus Kinski.
It takes me the better of twenty minutes to quite gather what Werner Herzog is doing on my screen. He had apparently accepted a proposition to follow the story of the comings and goings of mythical Nessie. For most, a silly legend, Nessie is a true obsession for many, and a perfectly feasible story for those who allow themselves to be lost in Scottish folk culture. How much of it is true and how much is a product of imagination, is a difficult question. But if you ever were bumped upon on a barge in Loch Linnhe, you certainly will want to see the movie. Yet, why would a man like Herzog risk his reputation for a story such as this? On the other hand, he actually had a reputation for risky stories, wherever in the world there was story to be told. The movie, a making-of documentary on the Enigma at Loch Ness, suggested a methodic approach by the director, and explored the decision making process for the production. My television set’s information sheet informed me the movie was actually called Incident at Loch Ness (IMDb). And this was when things started to grow stranger: the events on Werner’s barge were uncommon, it was not clear how did he expect to track Nessie in a loch that spans 80 km in width, and the tone of the whole production kept me aback. I was glued to my seat as the last minutes of the movie evolve. And then I ran to surf the web, something we can all easily do in these days of the twenty-first century. I cannot really say more without being a spoiler. Werner Herzog did something the Blair-Witch-junkies only dreamt of: he created fear, awe and confusion – at least in my limited mind. And the public loved him for that (yet again).
Scotland, back in those dark days of 1999. From the window of my Fort William flat, looking straight into Loch Linnhe, I can see the shores on most days, and with any luck, the fog will actually clear for a few minutes every day and allow me to look on to Camosnagaul, across the waters. It is in one such day that I take off to Glasgow on a very old fashioned train. The ride crosses Glencoe, leaves the mighty Ben Nevis behind and crosses sceneries of lush beauty, serious imponence and scattered highland cows. On the way back, the weather has predictably changed. I take the bus this time, and as it leaves Glasgow and ventures into the winding roads around Loch Lomond, it starts raining. Or actually pouring – the window acts as a waterfall. But as far as Scotland goes, the weather is ever elusive. As fast as it started, the rain stops, the fog lifts and reveals the calm gray waters. Simultaneously, a dash of sunlight pierces a low, heavy cloud, and shines near the bank, shedding a gorgeous golden light on the mossy munros across the lake. The bus halts, as if to allow a better view. A small, soaked Japanese lad boards, and addresses the butch driver in a flimsy English – ‘I would like a ticket to Loch Ness, please’, I made out of his broken sentence. The man laughs out loudly and places a friendly, tattooed arm on the lad’s shoulder: ‘Which part of it, mate…!?’
Everyone, all over the world, wants to meet Nessie. Not me.
The expected tune plays on the radio.
Oh, ye'll tak the high road, and I'll tak the low road,
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye;
But me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond
[You can read more on Scotland’s Western Highlands in Dirk Salowsky’s article here]
<< Home