14 OCTOBER 1995, Page 51

Bentonite

But after the first shiver of disgust, we became aware of birds trafficking in the air, we saw the toothmarks of beaver: something was suddenly clean we had lost our dead skin.

Our feet and hands were smooth and new — these clay crystals picked off our broken cells like nothing else on earth old apes groomed by the very stuff we may be made of. At the Little Missouri River the warden was eloquent, to slough our shoes and socks off.

He wanted to show us more than water on that hot day: the miracle of bentonite on the middle-aged sole.

This igneous clay collects as mud in the shallows: it squudged between toes like melting chocolates, like pure dirt, like whatever one called the fruit of bowels as a child.

Alistair Elliot