A climate of fear

"If the government wants a strong Climate Change Bill, then we are just helping them enforce it," says camp spokesman and seasoned activist Dan Glass. "We're the law enforcers, doing it on the ground. If they say they want a strong Climate Change Bill, great, we'll help them do it."

Glass is holding court by a large makeshift gate, constructed from doors and wood pallets. Dreadlocks peep over the top, all that can be seen of those guarding the entrance to the camp, which this weekend played host to hundreds of climate-change protesters learning about the local issues involved, sharing knowledge and taking direct action.

Climate camps began four years ago in England, targeting areas where "emission-heavy" industries were located - hence the choice of Douglas for the first camp north of the border.

Glass points to the horizon. "Look here, this is so Scottish. You have a wind farm on one hill and a coal mine on the other. I mean, make your mind up. The Scottish Climate Change Bill is the strongest in the world, and we are very thankful of that, but how are you going to achieve that if you expand coal mines and airports?"

The climate camp, here for a week, appeared in Mainshill Wood on Monday, joining forces with an existing protest, the Mainshill solidarity camp. It is due to finish today, but the solidarity camp intends to stay indefinitely to stop mining in the area.

Earlier this year, Scottish Coal was given permission to mine 1.7 million tonnes of coal on land belonging to Lord Home, where the camp is situated. The opencast mine would come within 1000m of the local hospital.

Some 650 objections to the proposals were received, but the project was still given the go-ahead. Locals have long blamed the three existing opencast mines, including Glentaggart, for the area's above-average rates of cancer and asthma.

One local councillor says that, while he supported the camp, he had "no time to sit in a field for a week. I've had three funerals to go to." All three people had died of a disease he claims was related to the coal mine.

Protesters from a variety of backgrounds and from across the UK and the world have trickled into Douglas this week, including scientists, teachers, engineers, artists and students. One is Kirstie Stramler, a climate scientist who used to work for the US government. She was visiting a friend in London when she heard about the camp; she joined it last Tuesday.

"These people have found a location that has a legitimate beef," she says. "They are disobeying the law and I respect that because there is a real issue here. People could come and get their PhD in statistics studying Douglas."

She draws a graph on a notepad showing the local rate of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease - when small particles enter the lungs but can't be coughed them out, forming scar tissue and causing shortness of breath. "It is one of the things that is pretty much an indicator of opencast mining," she says.

She plots the Douglas area and shows that, in four years, incidence of the disease has gone up 60%. "Living here is something I would not like to do," she adds.

All the protesters are impressively well drilled on the issues. And when asked why they are there, they all direct their answers in one direction: the magnetic north of this camp is the impact of mining on the local community.

"There is a community that has been badly hurt by mining projects around here," says Ross Jones, 26, from Edinburgh. "Their wishes aren't listened to. Every week they are going to funerals because of the dust and crap that is spewed into the air by the coal mines. And if there are more mines, that will impact the area's health even more."

Kirsten Williamson, 24, from Glasgow says: "I'm here mostly to show support for the local Douglas community. This is one of the areas most affected by coal specifically. So coming here is to support them. Having the first climate camp in Scotland here makes a statement. It shows that there are people who want to have a voice."

There is a genuine sense that the camp is giving a voice to a community that has been ignored by what another camper grandly dubbed "the unholy trinity": South Lanarkshire Council, Scottish Coal and Lord Home.

ONCE you are through the gate, the camp itself is visually underwhelming. This is no eco-warrior Glastonbury. Instead, a handful of large tents are pegged to clumpy, untamed ground. The welcome tent, kitchen, media centre and meeting tent have to compete for space with thistles and rogue shoots of barley. Other smaller, personal tents are scattered up the gentle slope towards the forest.

If this impromptu village of a few hundred citizens is not aesthetically thrilling - though there is a mobile cinema, and a makeshift bar, dubbed The Lord's Heid - the infrastructure is much more impressive: the whole site uses solar and pedal power. There are compost toilets, one of which is wheelchair accessible, and a shower booth. An agreement has been made with the local hospital regarding medical aid and there is even a daycare facility for protesters with children.

Everyone is expected to lend a hand, with chores equally shared. The welcome tent has a rota for the week for cooking, site maintenance and security, among other things. A job board lists the tasks needing volunteers: fix wheelbarrow, change hessian on greywater system.

The protesters also share responsibility for educating one another with an impressive range of seminars set up through the day. Glass explains: "We have an older generation here who were involved in the roads protest when Thatcher was in power. So they are here giving younger activists advice on how to occupy a site and take action. They are very inspirational. We take heart from the fact they stopped a third of Thatcher's road schemes."

Seminars range from the derring-do (how to climb trees, build tripods, dig tunnels and stop large machinery, otherwise known as "digger diving") to the dry (facilitating consensus in large groups) via the practical (legal and media training) and educational (who are the heaviest polluters in Scotland). "This is not just a bunch of hippies sitting in a field talking about abstract ideas," says Juliana Napier, one of the other main spokespeople. "It is about actually trying to implement change."

Decisions are made by consensus: proposals are brought forward at camp meetings and then amended until all agree. There is no voting.

"Everyone has a say," adds Napier. "Sure, it makes the process a little bit longer, but it means that everyone is happy with the outcome."

A small wall runs along the back of the campsite, up the hill from the main facilities. Tree houses and a Palestinian flag are visible in the forest beyond. Ropes hang down from them like jungle vines. A dull, repetitive clumping sound comes from nearby, but the source is nowhere in sight.

Once you are over the wall, however, the origin of the noise becomes apparent. A shirtless young man with dreadlocks and a spade is digging at the bottom of a large hole. He throws soil and clay behind him. This hole, perhaps 10 feet deep, has taken him three days.

To the right is a covering hiding the entrance to another hole. There is another further along. They are all part of a network of tunnels that form the site's series of defences. "We have architects and engineers on site, so they are in no danger of collapsing," Glass says.

The defences also include tripods - large tree trunks resting against one another, which are primed to be moved on to the main road with a protester 20ft in the air on top of them, should the police try bringing large vehicles in. Even if they get past, the access roads into the site are booby-trapped with nails to puncture tyres.

The plan would be for the protesters to retreat into the tunnels and the tree-tops, making forced eviction an incredibly expensive and time- consuming operation. However, interaction with the police so far has been civilised - Glass claims this is because most local police officers are against the mine, too.

A police van drives up and down the road, loaded with six uniformed officers. They stop occasionally to say hello to protesters sitting in chairs reading the cricket scores and doing sudoku puzzles. It is eerily cordial. At one point a police chief arrives and waits patiently for someone to come to the gate, before swapping mobile numbers.

"The police have only been on site once since we set up," says Glass. "And that was mainly to talk about suncream and midge repellent."

However, locals say the police presence in the past week has been more than in the entire previous year. Vehicles leaving the camp site are routinely stopped and their occupants asked for their personal details. A helicopter roams overhead. All police leave for the weekend has been cancelled. They are nervy after the sabotage of Glentaggart.

On Friday, under pressure from an increased police presence in the area, protesters took their programme of direct action in a gentler, unexpected direction: they ran onto Lord Home's front lawn, played frisbee and had a wheelbarrow race. Some discovered a trampoline. Lord Home was not at home - only the cleaner was there to witness this impromptu sports day.

"Let's just say the police were taken by surprise with that one," a protester says afterwards.

Glentaggart, where the conveyor belt was sabotaged, lies three miles south of Douglas. The gaping hole is relatively hidden compared with the two other mines in the area, but once you come over a bend in a narrow road heading to Crawfordjohn, it reveals itself spectacularly. There are plateaus, ridges, slopes and craters; the soil and rock mutates from green to yellow, then deep grey to pitch black. The scale of the surroundings overwhelms the massive trucks and machinery, making them look like Tonka toys. It is as impressive and terrifying a sign of human industry and ingenuity as a mushroom cloud.

Ernie Ferguson is propped against a fence, looking into the grey, gaping hole in front of him. Below, a giant digger scratches out coal, as if relieving the land of some timeless itch. Ferguson was born on a farm nearby; his father was a shepherd on Lord Home's land, including over the area where the mine currently operates. Ferguson took over the flock from his father for several years, before leaving to drive a lorry. "I was earning £10 a week as a shepherd, but £12 as a driver," he says between puffs of his cigarette. "It made sense."

Now in his 60s, Ferguson was made redundant last year. Since then, he just drives around the land he used to live on and care for. "It does bring back memories," he says.

His attitude towards the mines and the climate camp are indicative of local opinion. "I think this is ugly," he says, pointing into the mine. "And I'm glad the protesters are in the woods. I'm not much of a protester myself, but I'm glad they are there. The village likes them."

Like many other locals, when Lindsay Addison brings in his washing, it is frequently covered in coal dust or smells of diesel. He lives in a former estate gatehouse, several hundred metres from where the new mine is set to be sited.

He always carries his inhaler with him. His asthma, he says sarcastically, has "not improved" with the mining.

Addison is the vice-chairman of Douglas Community Council. He says the area has been hugely supportive of the camp, bringing tents, caravans, food, water, medical supplies and information about police movements to the protesters. The local fruit and veg man would bring his leftovers to the camp at the end of the day. Others have offered baths and showers.

"The community is really behind it," he says, "simply because there is no other thing. It is there because this is the last straw. We are all extremely pissed off. No-one wants this new mine."