Pyro-Maniacs on the high altar

We were a little bit mad on that day.

We were intoxicated by the great outdoors, humbled and phased by the big sky above our heads and the soft sandy soils beneath our bare soled feet.

The odour of wood smoke had permeated deep into our nostrils causing some befuddling of the mind which only added to that feeling of euphoria and immortality.

The dampness of our clothes, or what was left of them, served to cool our overheated bodies causing a haze of steam to take on the effect of our own individual halo's.

We had completed the construction of our altar only an hour before.

It had taken most of the day to source the raw materials from the forest that surrounded us.

It is surprising that, even in a dense woodland with the natural processes of decay , it was difficult foraging for the long regular boughs that were essential for the framework and structural form of the raised platform. Our exposed lower limbs were ragged and scratched from the coarse undergrowth of briars and brambles, hands red raw and blistered from handling the sticky sap bark in extracting dead wood from the dense matted forest floor.

The excitement of finding a perfectly straight end of wood was quickly deflated as it was followed out of its resting place by a mulch of rotten and insect infested debris.

There were half a dozen of us out in the rides and plantation with the task of securing enough timber for the job. I could gauge the success or not of our endeavours by cries of joy or moans of frustration. Between the noisy overtures I could make out a dragging and raking sound as the victors in our party returned to the camp pulling behind them their spoils.

Eventually a reasonable stack began to grow in the clearing.

The altar was built up side by side with the rustic poles , criss-crossing on an alternate basis on the footprint and gradually reaching to waist height. The top layer was completely filled in with whatever we had left over from our earlier expedition and  formed a plateau for the next stage of the build.

A folding shovel, donated by someone's Desert Rat grandfather, cut effortlessly into the light turf surface of the sandy clearing. A series of regular squares were then teased out and levered up so that eager hands could reach underneath to tug away any fibrous roots. The soil was moist and cooling. A few of the cut sods broke apart when lifted and had to be carefully re-planted so that in the weeks after our departure there would be no physical signs of our stay.

The firmer turf squares made it the few yards across to the altar without mishap and were arranged lengthwise and three deep on the outer edge leaving a slit trench opening through the middle.

Convention and wisdom handed down to us in the good book by which we led our woodland lives dictated that the trench was orientated east to west. This would align it perfectly for the prevailing winds, or any that managed to penetrate into the sheltered glade.

Everything so far in our fabrication had been raw and organic but the final touch could only be man made. One of our party was guardian of the metal grate and had brought it along wrapped up in an old badge covered blanket. Its unveiling led to whoops of anticipation and in great ceremony it was carried aloft and placed on the altar.

We were ready to begin.

A pile of dry grass and small twigs was formed into a small cone under the grate. A match flared into activity but was quickly extinguished by a sudden upsurge in the breeze. Three matches later, shielded in the palms of many hands, the kindling puffed out white smoke and caught alight.

Progressively larger bits of wood were added to the fledgling pyre until a right roaring conflagration was in progress. Sparks and glowing embers erupted into the by now darkening sky rivalling an Icelandic volcano. The larger incendiaries were closely watched for their landing place and stamped on to prevent any wildfires developing.

It was whilst waiting for the flames to settle down that some of our group began the crazy dance around the altar. Snake belts were tightened around foreheads, neckerchiefs were fashioned into headgear and grubby ash covered fingers in wiping away the sweat of effort made streaky war paint markings on cheeks and noses. Those without such items just wore their piped seamed hats back to front.

All in all it was quite a typical Scout Camp and after our burgers, almost incinerated to carbon, had been devoured along with soot blackened beans and two loaves of bread between us, we all remarked that this particular altar fire was perhaps the best ever for our Patrol.

Rubbish this one.