A couple of weeks ago I stumbled on a reflection on the Caorach air crash site that I wrote the day after running the Assynt Traverse nine years ago.

I do at times go back and re-read some of the things I have written in the past; I find a value in that for my own self understating. At times I think the younger self somewhat naive, sometimes my views have shifted radically in the years gone by, sometimes not an inch.

Re-reading this particular piece of writing, a question popped out into my mind almost immediately: where is the story of the shepherds? For while the Avro Anson crew now has a memorial at the site of the crash (which, I think, is quite appropriate), the story of the shepherds is a mere anecdote of history, a footnote in the tale of the fallen heroes.

The fact is, we do not perceive all human tragedies as equally tragic: some cut through to the bone, some we just shrug off. Sometimes it is because some suffering is more relatable than other, but that’s not the case here; I don’t have any military background that would make me think of the airmen as relatable comrades. And yet that tragedy is, nevertheless, more relatable for me than that of the shepherds.

It’s to do, I think, with the bigger narratives we tell ourselves. Our place in the world, or rather our understanding of our place in the world, is almost entirely defined by stories: where we came from, who our friends are, who are the enemies.

These stories are not always factual, and at times outright fictional, but that is beside the point. Human communities are defined and held together by stories and these shared narratives profoundly shape how we see ourselves, to the extent that we are prepared to hold onto them at times at all costs, for without them we stop belonging.

But not all stories are created equal. Mundane, boring tales are harder to get excited about, and hence easier to subvert, than tales of adventure and adversity, of evil plots and heroic deeds.

Stories matter, for changing the narrative can, literally, change the world; but the telling of a good story is an art that is in short supply.

(Long runs are good for the soul, and the telling of tales; the run that spurred the original reflection is described in The Assynt Traverse: Blow by blow .)