By Jen Stout
I conjured up so many reasons not to go to the Hinterland retreat. I didn’t have time. I hate camping. I needed, badly, a holiday – not a challenge. Biting insects bring me out in huge sores, and I’ve a skin condition that makes even a few days without a bath quite painful. Good reasons not to go, but the biggest was that I’m very wary of all things spiritual – at least in the organised sense.
Something kept me coming back to the little advert for the Out of the Ashes retreat. Something chimed deeply – the emphasis on nature, the lack of spiritual jargon. But when I set off from Shetland mid-August, I really had no idea what to expect. I’d always had an inkling to go to Findhorn – it’d been a great desire of my mother’s, to see and most likely to live there, but she never made it. It felt a little like I was doing this with her in mind.
And she would have loved it. Every second, just as I did. One evening towards the end of the week, sitting round the fire and about to start a discussion, we had a quick ‘check-in’ to see how everyone was doing. I pondered how to answer – mind racing with the ideas, feelings of the day – and suddenly thought: would I want to do this day all over again? The answer came, an unequivocal yes. But then – harder, sadder – how many days in my life could I say that about? Hard questions like this were what this week threw up for me, over and over again – not just during the meditation and solo time we spent in the beautiful landscapes of the Hinterland, but in our fire talks and sharings too. It was a time to give voice to pain and fear, as well as hope – and it could have been overwhelming, but the space was so expertly held by Kajedo Wanderer, who somehow managed all the various aspects of the retreat himself, along with two assistants, and made it feel so smooth-running, so easy to flow along with.

My dislike of camping – a combination of claustrophobia and insect fear – quickly evaporated, no doubt helped by just how lovely the pitches are in the Hinterland. Coming from a treeless part of the world, I marvelled at how sheltered my tent was, almost nestled down in the big arms of an old tree which had sunk down at an angle – but at the same time, the dunes were visible through its branches, the sky clear above. It felt like the perfect place. At night I could hear the sea, the gentle roar as it met that vast stretch of sand. A hugely comforting sound for an islander.
I learnt so much during this week. Kajedo has an ability to share his knowledge with grace as well as enthusiasm – a skill not everyone shares! – and even let us loose on the forest he manages, showing us how to pull up brambles and protect new oaks. Trees had been a bit of a mystery to me – even something to be feared, those dark dead sitka plantations found all over the Highlands, the lack of a horizon, the feeling of being closed-in. I need the big sky. So this week was a revelation. It was a joy to be able to help with the work, in our small way, during that Love in Action afternoon. Coming from a crofting community, I like to work, like to put my body to use after so much time in the mind, and hugely enjoyed the digging, and shovelling a great pile of wood chips to spread around the shelter.

Being so curious about Findhorn, it was interesting to learn about the place from its edge, as it were. We got a good grounding in the ethos and history on our first day, which prompted many questions. I was struck, of course, by the fire sites. We had our own fire, on my native island of Fair Isle, in 2019: a huge research centre and guest house which burnt in a terrifying, ferocious fire no one could control. Some similarities between Fair Isle and Findhorn were striking; especially the questions about what, and how, to rebuild – and for whom. Crisis and opportunity – the title of the retreat felt very apt.
Big questions, and I appreciated the chance to discuss it all, not only with (the ever- patient!) Kajedo but also with the speakers he arranged – Sy and Ash, Jonathan Caddy, and John Talbot, all bringing different perspectives and experiences. That John came to spend hours with us having just arrived back in the country after 18 years away was very deeply appreciated.

I hadn’t expected to have long discussions about land reform, crofting and the future of the Highlands and Islands, but this is what happened. From my perspective, we are at crisis point here too: crofting is dying a slow death without land reform and new crofts, communities struggling to survive under a relentless ‘airbnb’ colonisation, a numbing logic of ever-increasing tourism. Thinking about ‘hope’ during our last fire sharing, I found my deepest, hardest hope was that we could all flourish, our places flourish, our communities. For that to happen, we’ll have to fight for them and for ourselves. I felt more hopeful about this coming out of the retreat than I ever have before, and will carry it with me.
But it wasn’t just the politics of land, power, and community that had me thinking of home and place. Among all the discussions and learning from ancient cultures in far- flung places, I was thinking of that wisdom much closer to us, geographically. Where I come from, people have been living on, with, that land for a very long time, and doing so sustainably (until the oil came). The older, rooted, ‘eco village’, perhaps. And with all that history comes a huge amount of wisdom – about the land and each other, how to live. Much of Shetland’s culture was eradicated with the arrival of Scots lairds, ministers and teachers in the 1600s – our language, our religion, our values. This is a story of course that echoes elsewhere, and now we’re at a crossroads. Can we gather up the threads again, remember how to connect to nature? Better, how to stop seeing ourselves as separate from nature? Can we ‘become indigenous’ once more?

These ideas were rolling around my head but the week with Kajedo and our group – and our excellent speakers – crystallised them, for which I’m hugely grateful. Grateful, too, for the peace I was able to find in myself that week, which I hadn’t thought was there. For the chance to be in that extraordinary landscape, in among its trees and gorse and heather and dunes, to just be there for a week with no pressures, no stress. And of course, grateful for the beautiful last night, Benromach drams and old songs round the fire, which I’ll never forget. To think I nearly didn’t come – nearly missed out on what was one of the best weeks of my life! Always take the plunge…
Jen Stout

A bee’s view of life at the Findhorn Apiary – November 2021
In the previous report you read about the life of one of my great aunts inside the hive and how she progressed to be a forager, collecting nectar to produce honey. Well, since then our colony has been very busy foraging and building up our food supplies for winter. We need to have about 20kg of honey stored away to see us through the winter.
When we go foraging, we collect nectar from the flowers, sucking it through our mouth tube into our honey stomach. Once this is full, it holds about 40mg, we return home and pass the nectar to our sisters in the hive. It has been calculated that to bring back enough nectar to fill our winter stores we need to fly over 1 million foraging trips. But that is just for the winter. To keep the colony fed during the busy summer months we need a further 40kg of honey, another 2 million foraging trips. You can understand why we have such a short foraging life, just three weeks, after which we are totally exhausted.
As we visit these millions of flowers, it is wonderful to know that we are pollinating them, resulting in fruits and seeds. Just think of all the creatures that benefit from this food source. Some seeds will produce next year’s flowers, we are a vital part of the cycle of nature.
It is not just nectar we collect; we also need about 20kg of pollen to feed all the young larvae. The pollen provides the protein we need. We also need water to dilute the honey before we consume it. There are some of us who specialise in collecting water and distributing it in the hive to where it is needed.
When we return to the hive with the nectar, we pass it to our sisters waiting near the hive entrance. They transport it to where it is to be stored in the cells of the comb and in the process add an enzyme that converts the sucrose in the nectar into fructose and glucose. The cells all slant upwards at 15 degrees which stops the nectar running out. Nectar is composed of about 40% sugar but to convert this to honey, the sugar concentration needs to be raised to 80%, otherwise it will ferment and not be good to use.
The warmth of the hive and the ventilation provided by fanning with the wings reduces the water content of the nectar until it is thick enough to store long term. The cell is then sealed with a wax cap, ready for when it is needed.
We are not the only ones who enjoy our honey. Sometimes our hives are raided by wasps, and we must fight them off. Mice, woodpeckers and badgers are also fond of honey; they are potential robbers. Beekeepers help protect our hives from them.
However, our biggest loss of honey is that taken by our beekeepers! To be fair, they always ensure that we have enough left for our own use. We fill up the space in the brood boxes with honey and that is enough for our needs. Our beekeepers put more empty frames in boxes, ‘supers’, above the brood boxes and so long as there is nectar available and space to store it, we keep on foraging, much to the delight of our beekeepers. In the autumn they remove the supers and spin the honey out of the combs. The honey is then bottled and sold to the Community residents. The proceeds help pay for the equipment and supplies that is needed to maintain the apiary and hives.
I hope that you have been fortunate enough to taste some of our honey, it is delicious. We harvest quite a lot of nectar from the heather growing on the dunes and that gives the honey a very special taste. It is estimated that to produce one pound of honey we have, collectively, to fly the equivalent of twice around the world and one teaspoon of honey represents the life work of 12 bees. So next time you have some honey, savour and value every drop.