BOXING BRIC-A-BRAC.

 

Tottie here again.

I couldn’t remember how the conversation started, or should that be argument. In any event voices were raised. I’d been up since half three trying to get some writing done (these summer nights are glorious, the sun just rolling along below the horizon), when Tom ambled into the studio to make coffee, and then came out with the same old line about nobody being interested in art. Well I’d heard it all before and usually just ignored him, but this time I’d had enough of being used as a sounding board that wasn’t supposed to respond. “Have you put the sign up?” I said knowing full well what the reply would be. His arms flew up in exasperation, “It doesn’t make any difference when I do, and anyway all they want is to park their arses on a pony.”

I decided it was time Tom should hear how ridiculous he sounded, and so discreetly pressed record.

“I just don’t get it.” Don’t get what? “Why anyone wants to sit on a horse.” Have you ever tried it? “Twice, and I came off both times. The first time was by choice, and the second, well I wasn’t the one holding the reins.” We both know this isn’t about horse riding. You seem to take a morbid delight in having so few visitors. “It’s not morbid, it’s a fact.” Well stop wallowing in it. “What do you mean by that?” Well, you make know effort, no publicity, and no public contact or on line presence, how can you expect anyone to even know you exist. And, if they did come, what would they see, the studio looks a mess, a tip with all this junk and retro garbage. Nobody going to look at old milk bottles and rusty chocolate tins. “OK, keep your hair on.”  You could start by smartening yourself up as well. Just because you’ve moved your bed into the studio doesn’t mean you have to wander about in your pajamas all day. “That’s rich coming from you, you’re always in your lounge pants as you call them, and only the other day you were saying they were trendy.” Alright, forget the pajamas, but get rid of the junk. I can hardly move in here. “But, I like the crowded look.” It’s not crowded, it’s crammed, you can hardly move. It’s supposed to be a gallery but there are more pictures on the floor than on the wall. “So what does madam recommend, that I get my mate Banjo in for a makeover?” Definitely not, the last thing you want is more junk cluttering the place, you need a total clear out of everything that isn’t related to your art.

Well that told him, and he stomped off in a huff saying he was going to do some weeding in the garden. I suggested he might try the same thing in here. “I might just do that Tottie, starting with your bloody computer.”  I knew he didn’t mean that, but all the same decided to keep a low profile for the rest of the morning, and keep well away from the topic of junk and disorderly. Now there’s a good name for a tat shop.

The following morning Tom appeared with boxes and started packing. I said nothing. One step at a time I told myself.

Tom.

Totties been on at me again about my retro stuff, and I suppose begrudgingly I have to admit she’s right. There is little point in it cluttering up the place if nobodies coming to even look at it. So today I started packing. I’m not throwing it out, who knows one day it might be worth something, but in the meantime it’s confined to the loft and I have to say the studio looks a lot better for it. I won’t be telling her she was right since it doesn’t change anything. I’ve still only had four people through this year, but at least there’s less under foot, although the way I work I’m not sure how long that will last, the workshop is a real mess and I suppose that should be next on my list to do, however that’s more a case of burning offcuts rather than boxing bric-a-brac.

 

INSPIRE OR EXPIRE?

 

 

Where do I get my inspiration from, is a question I’m often asked. Unlike the writers of Holy Scriptures there is no divine influence at work for me. It comes from so many different sources, and when combined with my own lifetime library of experience and knowledge, pinpointing where exactly that inspiration derives from is seldom obvious. I was asked this very question by a friend who was the first to see my pier and jetty embroideries. I had to think, where had they materialised from, and why now. It was back at the beginning of 2024 when attending a picture sale down in Penzance that I came across an image by Alfred Wallis. A simple but charming depiction of a fishing boat in high seas climbing an enormous wave. I had never really taken much notice of his naïve work, but the hammer price of £60,000, plus 26% commission certainly made me look again. Over the next few months I came across more of Wallis’s works and slowly it dawned on me how well this style of image would transfer into needlework. Other influences came from Bryan Pearce, (also a St Ives artist) as well as the industrial factory scenes of Lowry. When a neighbour asked me if I could use the old blankets he was throwing out I saw immediately an opportunity. Using them as the support gave me a perfect cream background to stitch onto as well as a border strip to place the title. I started first with an early simple woven blanket and then moved on to a twill weave. In both cases it was essential that the blanket was not one of the later fluffy varieties. This also fitted into my method of work using as much reclaimed and natural materials. I have also discovered during wanderings and research places I had never thought to visit.

 Survival on any island is bound to have some relationship with the sea, and so it seemed obvious that the images I would be working with would be that of the fishing industry and harbours. Stornoway became my point of departure on a journey around the long island. I had already visited many of the well-known piers and jetties, but a quick look at the ordinance survey map showed many more. When working on the embroideries of Stornoway harbour I was tempted to step back in time and look for images that dated from before the more recent developments. Car parks are not that interesting, and I wanted to concentrate more on the fishing industry, which meant looking back to the 19^th century when the herring fishing was in full swing. When looking further afield I decided to work from mobile phone snapshots. I took photos from all angles and then back in the studio I started to draw from memory, adding more precision and details from the photos. In every case I started with a bird’s eye view, imagining myself levitating so that Ii could map out the all-important harbour area. Beyond this the townscape of Stornoway provided a structural boarder, and in one image I found myself moving Lews Castle several hundred yards south in order to provide compositional interest. This idea of folding the landscape or coastline was also employed out at Point where this time the lighthouse was moved northwards into view. The images, although distorted retain the essential character of each harbour, whether somewhat abandoned in the case of the tiny jetty at Calannish, or the still busy commercial harbour at Carloway. The ridged geometric forms of the piers and jetties contrast with the rugged coastline beyond and within each image snippets of island life are incorporated. The embroidery is carried out on old blankets, another reuse of materials that fits well into my recycling way of working. It seems to me that everything can have a second life, or rebirth before finally expiring.

I see its been some time since my last post, and they say no news is good news, but I’m not sure how that’s supposed to work. In my case no news means I’m way too busy to communicate, and so over the past month I’ve been nose to the grind stone, finishing off my latest needle works. I have ten going on show this summer down in London and have been thinking it might be a good opportunity to try out the cheaper flights to Inverness and then onward down to London. I tried discussing the idea with Tottie, but she’s way too busy with her book. She let me read the first chapter, which was a big mistake on both sides. I admit my comment about it being a bit slow was somewhat tacked less, but I do think she’d be better sticking to short stories. I suggested I could illustrate them for her, but the look she gave me was enough, no words needed. So, a little time away would seem like a good idea. I have at last got all the peats up on the top side of the bank and despite us have quite a bit of rain they should be drying well and ready to come in by the end of the month.

 The December exhibition at An Lanntair is progressing well and the miniature library has worked well. I’m now in the process of creating a miniature tree house, which might be a bit of a challenge getting it out of the work shop. Chaos is my usual way of working, but I really could do with a larger space for this particular project.

On the studio opening side it looks like last year’s least visited attraction award was well founded. I had my third visitor of the year this week.   

        

 

MARRIAGE OR MURDER.

 

17^th April. Peat cutting with Tottie.

Tom.

Considering it was such a beautiful afternoon I thought I’d ask Tottie to join me out on the moor for a spot of peat cutting. I fully expected her to say she was far too busy with her novel, but no she jumped at the chance to get out of the studio. Maybe inspiration wasn’t flowing, or being inside on such a perfect day had dried up the creative juices.

The top section of the bank had already been cleared of turf so we got straight into cutting. That was me up top cutting and Tottie down at the peat face throwing. Turned out she was natural, you would have thought she’d been throwing since childhood. I would never have thought it, but she was like a duck to water, and no gloves. I didn’t like to say anything, but she’ll be needing some hand cream tonight. She was hurling them out as quick as I could cut them, and although I deliberately kept them a bit on the slim side I was soon cutting normal sized peat with a few stonkers to see what would happen. She seemed to rise to the challenge, and away they went a good three meters or more landing perfectly alongside the previous ones. We cut and threw 260, my usual being 200, but during that time I only heard once that familiar flop of one peat landing on another, her accuracy was that of an expert. I may yet have to marry her, you wouldn’t want to let a peat thrower of that quality slip through your hands. As usual she had her phone with her and took one of me looking suitably knackered, but when I suggested I should take one of her she refused point blank. “Not without my face on”. I’ll never understand women who need to put their war paint on every day. At least with Tottie it’s not an everyday occurrence, and I prefer the honesty of the natural look.

Tottie.

Tom invited me to join him in a spot of peat cutting this afternoon. He certainly knows the way to a woman heart, such a romantic, how could I resist. There was no instructions from him, but the lack of criticism seem to suggest I was doing a reasonable job. I rarely hear any compliments from Tom, so after half an hour, when he said “that’s a brilliant job” I nearly lost my footing in the slimy base of the trench. I must say I rather took to it and I soon found that if I kept my eye on the place I wanted the peat to land it more often than not hit the spot. I could have kept going a lot longer, but Tom tires easily these days. Maybe next time he’ll let me have a go at cutting, although I hear that’s a job usually done by the men. Well I suppose that figures, it does look a lot easier than throwing. I’ve always thought we were the stronger of the sexes, but just how we allowed ourselves to become the work horses of men evades me.

 

April 20^th

Tom. That bloody woman, she’ll be the death of me. Invades my body, literally takes it over at times. She’s changed the shape of it entirely. There’s definitely a lot more of me, and practically all of it is fat. How do women exist in such a form? We all know about the bingo wings, but what’s the stuff on the inside of your legs for. Just as well it’s soft and smooth, for if it was sand paper I’d be sparking at every step. Allowing her out on the moor was a big mistake, although at the time it felt so good to see those peats flying through the air. It didn’t dawn on me that it would be me who had to pay. It’s been four days now and I still feel like there’s a knife about to cut me in two, and then just when I least expect it, it does just that, felling me as my legs crumple. So, now any notion of marriage is out the window, and murder would seem more likely. My days have been spent either in bed or sitting stitching, and even that has proved tricky. So, I’m glad I decided to move a bed into the studio, it seemed the only solution and what better final resting place. Getting in fuel for the little stove is still a nightmare. I will have to fabricate something on wheels, but for now small quantities in a bag for life is working. Stitching has slowed down, however I am making progress with the latest of Rodel. I wanted to include the church, and in doing so have produced something that looks more akin to a walled Buddhist monastery in Himalayas than a church on Harris.

 The harbour walls are of stone and that has meant a more random stitching and varying colours from the seaweed fringe to the sun-bleached silver granite. There’s a long way to go yet but having already framed up ten works I feel there is enough for an exhibition this summer. I would have liked them to have been seen on the island, but I fear that won’t be possible as they are due to go south at the end of May. The December exhibition at An Lanntair is ever present in my mind and to that end the second Victorian dolls house is reaching completion. There are days when I exist only in miniature, and night when dreams seem to have slipped sideways into a bazar Alice in wonderland kind of reality that is further enhanced by the return of a heavy head cold.  

 

               

 

 

 

 

         

 

      

 

           

 

 

 

LIVING WITH TOTTIE.

 Tom

Tom.

I suppose it’s only to be expected, that every time I have a booster implant of female hormones she seems to push her way to the forefront of my consciousness. I hadn’t heard from her for a couple of months and it seemed that perhaps I had left her back on a beach in Western Australia. I could well see how that climate would suit her, and while I remained cool and calm drinking in all the emotions of the familiar revisited, she was constantly telling me to look at this plant or that bird. I understood her excitement of hearing a kookaburra for the first time and her delight at the chorus of magpies that came to the back door each morning and sang for their porridge oats. She must have taken thousands of photos, while I found solitude in my sketchbook.  Leaving was way beyond difficult and I don’t think I was much of company as I retreated into a protective shell of silence. I’m sure I’m not the only one who is crap at goodbyes. Arriving back in the UK at the end of January was like being hit in the belly with a wet fish, but once again it was the constancy of my work that saved me. I had in my little bag three needle works that required stretching and framing and a fourth well on the way to completion. They are all destined along with others for another London show this summer. The latest series of piers and ports of Lewis are I think some of my best work to summer. The latest series of piers and ports of Lewis are I think some of my best work to date, and there are days when I think I could even be considered to be an artist.

.

Late February was kind and for once the magnolias flowers in my brother’s garden remained unblemished, the purest of white against clear heavenly blue skies.

In early March the drive north started crisp and dry, the van already half full with stuff and another doll’s house project collected en-route. As if I didn’t have enough projects this year. When finally I opened my front door it felt cold and damp, and it took a good week of the Rayburn being lit before things started to feel normal.  

   No sooner had I arrive back than the gallery in London were asking if I could construct a bespoke box for the £2000 tea cosy they had sold. I’m not sure if this is some sort of record for a tea cosy, but it must certainly be a record for a cosy made from recycled Harris Tweed yarn. It just goes to show that if you put in the hours, and push the limits of accepted expectations, then anything is possible. The weather has been glorious and by rights I should have finished peat cutting, but it is clear I will once again need to call on friends for a helping hand. Tottie refused point blank when I suggested she might enjoy a few hours out on the moor, couldn’t risk ruining those beautifully manicured nails. Shame, since I think like most women she would have been really good at throwing peats. She seems to expend her creative energy in writing, although how she can do that while listening to Celine Dion I can’t imagine. The diva it transpired has to be played at full volume. Fortunately my stitching doesn’t require total silence. Gardening has been a delight and the recent fine spell has meant contented days of pottering around, while Celine is well and truly muffled by the double glazing of the studio. Living with Tottie has been somewhat of a challenge. You see that’s the thing with Tottie there are no half measures. When she left for Australia she gave up renting her flat and now thinks it’s just fine to shack up with muggins, in the same bed for God’s sake! Talk about hot flushes. She really isn’t much good around the house either, although she has made a great effort in the bathroom and religiously removes all her stuff after she’s been in there titivating. I suppose it’s so small there really is no place for all those lotions and potions. Tottie is not what you’d call a practical person and the best she can do is stay out of my way.

 

Tottie.

 I can’t believe this weather. Here was me ready to be plunged into dull wet days on my return, and for the past couple of weeks it’s been clear blue skies. I thought that might have put Tom in a better mood, but he’s so touchy and argumentative. I suppose I should be grateful for roof over my head, but then he can hardly chuck me out. We did however agreed that at bedtime a truce of any hostilities would be declared, but now he’s installed a single bed out in the studio. Says it’s in case he feels tired during the day, but he’s sleeping out there! And just what sort of a truce is that? I’ve started a series of short stories, and I have an idea for a novel with a certain element of magic realism. For now though I thought you might enjoy this non PC shorty, which incidentally has nothing to do with Tom’s recent increase in girth.

                 THE FAT MAN.

All eyes were on the fat man. His rotund form had long ago ballooned both above and below the waste, totally enveloping the hand crafted leather belt, and leaving the mountainous gut marooned above the lower foot-hills of rolling thighs. This was serious obesity on a scale that fully merited the "fat bastard" label that was passing through the minds of the passengers waiting for the Jetstar flight number JQ803 for Sydney. The Fraser Coast and Hervey Bay in particular had a lower than average obesity problem, which only served in highlighting this particular wobble bottom lard arse. The massive bulk lumbered across the waiting area struggling with his seemingly disproportionate hand luggage case on wheels that swung out of control like a deflated spinnaker alongside the full wind-blown sails. His stumpy arms rode out at an angle of forty five degrees over the burgeoning rolls of fat, dangerously over inflated and just waiting for that mischievous child with a pin.

  The second thought that crossed the passenger’s minds was, "Jesus I hope he's not sitting next to me". The great bulk had now dropped onto the end of a row of upholstered bench seats. The fat arse spilling out in all directions confined only slightly by the single arm rest that now disappeared into the folds of fat. Several of the passengers had realised they now shared a common point of focus and they exchanged looks of understanding comrades. There was no sympathy here for the oversized, no understanding of a possible glandular problem, and no pity for a fat man. Nobody wanted to be wedged in their seat by an overspill of blubber, clamped by a rubber rissole or squashed in any way by this elephantine form. Other passengers fumbled with their boarding passes, checking their seat numbers, as if there they might find some sort of comfort or reassurance. That, just maybe they would find some special stamp indicating that they were indeed seated well out of the way of any supersized barely human forms. The fat man's colossal blue cotton shirt was stretched way beyond the call of the manufactures specifications as buttons and stitching alike strained under the immense force of constricted fatty tissue.

   Then out of the mouth of babes, the spider limbed blue eyed princess of a child turned to her mother saying, "Mummy look at that fat man". All eyes including that of the mother now transferred their attention to this girl who dared to utter such a politically incorrect statement. There were looks of hypocritical disapproval as well as smirks of mutual unvoiced self-recognition. Now nobody dared to stare at the fat man. Their eyes became fixed with exaggerated intent on reading their magazine, their papers or the list of today’s specials on the chalk-board above the buffet shop counter. They desperately hoped that the flight would not be fully booked and tried in vain to estimate their numbers in relation to the size of the seemingly too smaller craft that sat waiting for them on the tarmac. Perhaps with luck this hippo of a man would be allocated a full three seats between window and isle for surely two economy seats would not be sufficient.

   The plane was now refuelled and ready for boarding. No need to repeat the announcement as all the passengers on hearing their flight number rose as one leaving the fat man still glued to his seat. All seemed intent on boarding before the great bulk as if this in itself would be enough to ensure a safe non wedged seat. The fat man gave a sigh and looked to the floor in defeat. He would await his rightful place, last to board thought the other passengers.

   Not so. The fat man placed one pudgy hand on each knee and pushed himself into a more or less vertical stance. Then taking grip of his hand luggage he ambled towards the check in desk ignoring all the fellow passengers standing in line. Faces turned hostile and disapproving. Who did he think he was, this lard arse trying to queue jump? What does he think he’s doing ignoring us all as if he owns the place? The stewardess would sort him out soon enough, put him in his place, and make him wait at the back while she catered for the seating arrangements of the slimmer customers.

   The fat man was now at the desk and in one easy movement swung his hand luggage onto the counter.

"Good morning Carol", his surprisingly cheery voice boomed from way down in his cider barrel of a chest.

"Full quotas for the Sydney run this morning".

"Yes Sir", replied the pinch faced and over powdered stewardess.

The fat man was unzipping his luggage and the queue was getting more hostile as they shuffled forwards as if to prevent any possible chance of the fat man pushing in before them. He could wait his turn. His rightful place was at the back.

    He pulled out a jacket from his small black zippered bag and at first the gold braid was not apparent, but as he slipped one arm in and Carol proceeded to help him with the other the epaulets became visible to all. Then from his bag he produced his cap a disproportionately small topping to this vast hayloft of a man. He turned to the queue of staring faces and with a large grin and the slightest of bows forward that remained muffed within his bulk, he introduced himself. "Good morning ladies and gentlemen, Captain Willkie, your pilot for this morning’s flight". 

               

 

 

 

 

         

 

      

 

           

 

 

 UP-CYCLING OR DOWN-CYCLING?

That is the question, whether it is sufficient simply to paint it off white, and pretend that you’ve transformed your grandmother’s old sewing table into a sheik bedside lamp table, or whether one would do better to lavish a little TLC on it and continue to use it for what it was intended. Banjo Beale in his book Wild Isle Style quoted me as cheekily reversing the sense of up to down cycling, but I was serious, deadly serious. I have seen some horrors in my time, and sometimes the sad looking items of furniture are pleading with me to rescue them. We used to term these pieces hospital jobs in the antique trade, since the time taken to bring them back to their former glory far outweighed any monetary recompense. One such piece was a rare late 17^th century oak chest of drawers, which had been painted pink, covering the original English chinoiserie lacquer. It took many hours of patient scraping to restore it to its former glory, and for many years it stood in my studio on a high stand and appeared in many of my early paintings. Today it sits lower on bun feet, gracing the back wall of my parlour.

A couple of weeks ago I found this child chair in Bethesda charity shop in Stornoway. It had the look, but, oh dear, what indignities had been lavished on it in the name of up cycling. The ubiquitous coat of pink paint along with over stuffed seat and back, with a totally inappropriate chequered gingham cotton had transformed it into a sad sack that would now, even with a price tag of £2 be very unlikely to find a buyer. But then it caught site of me and knew that all was not lost. Here was a man who could see its potential and would be prepared to give it a new lease of life.

I can only imagine that it was the person’s first encounter with a staple gun, since they had gone totally berserk with the new toy. There were literally hundreds of staples and it took way longer than I had envisaged to remove them.

 The end result was a cane back child’s chair from around 1900. The caning had long since gone, but I had another idea for that. I reupholstered the seat with a piece of my own tweed, making sure to leave the original show wood, and on the back using the original cane holes I wove in four ply wool. This I consider to be up cycling in the true sense.

 Another example was a couple of bedroom chairs I rescued from a local house. One had been chucked out into the garden because it had a major infestation of wood worm in the back. Unlike the supermarket bargains of buy one and get one free, I was about to get two and make one.

 The front legs of both chairs were in good condition and so I decided to transform them into an upholstered stool. Once again I used my own tweed, adding a cluster of five buttons to ensure the stuffing stayed in place.         

A STONE'S THROW AWAY. (WHILE VISITING IN CORNWALL)

 

I find myself increasingly hampered these days by a dodgy right hip that needs replacing, but it may have to go on grinding for the foreseeable future. My long cross country ramblings have been curtailed, reduced to short walks around the village, and even then it’s best if I stay on level ground. I’ve noticed that old age leaves me with a dual aspect; increasingly looking back through memories of halcyon days, when the world was my oyster and everything seemed possible, or forward to a future that still offer great excitement, but maintaining the balance between the two is not always obvious. In the center of this panorama is the all-important here and now, and of living in the moment.

  

February is not famed for its beautiful sunny days, but when they do occur I like to make the most of them. The churchyard being only just a stone’s throw away is a favourite place for me to sit quietly with my sketch pad, and if it’s too chilly, out will come that marvel of modern technology, my mobile phone. It’s been almost two years since I ventured into Tesco’s and enquired about their flat cameras. The young man looked baffled until I added that I believe they also have the ability to make phone calls and all manner of internet things.

There have been a lot of changes in the churchyard over the past two years, and with major clearing of the boundary hedges and overgrown graves it’s now possible to see just how extensive it is. We are perhaps fortunate that those boundaries became unkempt, and thus avoided the trend that began in the 70’s of uprooting headstones and placing them around edges of the graveyard for easy maintenance. We didn’t however avoid the felling of the fine beach trees within the graveyard, and one by one they were felled. The last massive trunk remains as an ugly reminder of what has been lost. The excuse given was that they had a fungal infection, but as my brother said at the time “I get athletes foot, but nobody suggests I should be cut of at the shins. Removing the tree canopy only served to allow more light in and hence more growth of wild garlic and brambles. The yew trees escaped unscathed perhaps due to some bad luck superstition of old, but there is no time like the present for planting trees that one day our grandchildren will be able to climb or sit in the shade of.

Today’s trendy environmental byword of re-wilding is more often than not used as a convenient excuse to do nothing. Land that had been traditionally managed for centuries can be treated in a less manicured way in order to increase the chances of wildlife, but to do nothing is not always the correct alternative for the harmonious existence of man and nature. The timing of grass cutting to encourage ground nesting birds is an obvious bonus, and the replanting of hedgerows may bring privacy for some along with the delight of having small birds returning to the garden. However the latter can also be dependent on the local cat population. The program of re-wilding Probus churchyard has been a process of working with nature, while maintaining the upkeep of what has always been a managed area. Clearing away brambles and ivy has led to some fascinating discoveries, while leaving other areas uncut with the reintroduction of more wild flowers has brought colour and joy. My particular interest lately has been searching for the names of those talented monumental masons who created such intricate design and often left their signature at the top edge of the gravestone. Most of these are on the slate stones dating from 1800 onwards, with on occasions some interesting spelling, like Dabb from St Austele, with an “e”. I found; W. Coad from St Enoder, Edgecombe Truro, F. Loyd or is that Floyd from Truro 1807, Isblle Truro, and Spargo of Truro dated 1871. Unfortunately I’m not here during the spring, but for me the low light during winter months is a time of contrast and ideal for sketching. The long shadows cast by gravestones and trees provide depth, and at times those shadows can even tell me what lies outside my field of vision.

Restricted to these shorter walks gives me time to look again at the familiar and more often than not to observe things that had until now remained hidden or taken for granted. The carved stones in the east wall of the church have always fascinated me as they would date from the 14^th century having almost certainly been incorporated from the earlier St George’s Chapel founded in 1384. While most of these carved stones are purely decorative others have more meaning, like that of a Catherine wheel to celebrate St Catherine. However the Arma Christi stone depicting the weapons of the Passion is perhaps one of the rarest object within the fabric of the church building. Immediately to the right of this stone is a cruciform carving which may represent the thirty pieces of silver. The impressive Hawkins tomb supported by four cavaliers provides a good vantage point to see a tiny, relatively insignificant caryatide head high on the east gable, another reuse of stone from an earlier period.

I’ve often wondered what the statues that were originally placed in the hooded alcoves of the tower must have looked like. Given the quality of the tower carving they must have been very impressive. The era of Oliver Cromwell probably put pay to them, but the tower itself remains the tallest and most ornate in Cornwall. Over the decades I’ve watched the roof of the sextants hut gradually fall into disrepair, but I am delighted that efforts are being made for its restoration. There is always something new to discover within the curtilage of the churchyard, as well as something of interest for the artists eye. I also find peace at the heart of the village, and if I can no longer roam into the surrounding countryside I’m more than happy to just sit an observe.

GONE WALK-ABOUT (Excerpts from a journeyman artist's diary).

Having recently returned from Western Australia on a trip that I fully intended would be my goodbye to WA, I thought it interesting to first look back at something I wrote back in 2017. That trip took me to places I could no longer reach, but there were other, that with the aid of friends I was able to revisit. It was an emotional rollercoaster at times, but I was delighted to take this at my own pace and fill yet another sketch pad. 

It is in mans nature to always reach for the limits search out to that furthest point whether it was the very edge of his flat world or off to the moon and beyond. I recognise that within myself as I don my backpack with the day’s requirements and walk for hours out to some distant headland or along some remote rocky coastline, territory the 4x4’s have as yet left virgin and I eventually arrive at the beach that for now is all mine. At least that’s how it used to be but now it is increasingly difficult to guarantee that one has anywhere no matter how remote to oneself. Today roads seem to lead to every corner of the globe and the worst you might encounter at least in South West Australia are a few corrugations on the dusty dirt road but any discomfort is appeased on arrival with the view from the parking and a dry toilet.

 So it was at Wharton where most people stop at the great sweep of a beach where the surf was good, but the more adventurous fishermen forged on that extra kilometre to Little Wharton just over the rise to Hammer Head and Lorraine Island. The view is truly magical but it takes the more observant amongst us to understand what we are looking at. There are in fact three more beaches with a forth to the eastward side. The entire complex is an illusion of islands in the making with a fragile system of dunes holding them tenuously to the mainland. Hammer Head rises like a vast whale from the southern ocean with its calf alongside still not released from the ensnaring nets of the mainland. To the east of Wharton lies High Island and Table Island which illustrate perfectly the next stage of this coastal erosion. Here the dunes have been washed away and even at low tide one is obliged to wade across the shallow waters.

Walking around High Island requires a certain level of climbing skills and even I don’t risk the steep south west corner. Gaining the summit required a little bush bashing but the view is spectacular not only seaward but also back inland to the dirt red approach road as the distant dust tells of more on their way. Here on top of my little world there are wind-worn granites and one in particular draws my attention not only for its rectangular shape but for the fact that it is completely hollow throughout its length of almost three feet. I find a dry stick nearby and give the rock a tap and there I have the extra ordinary sound of granite.

I’ve left my cloths at the waters edge to wade across to the flat Table Island, there's something wonderful about taking absolutely nothing with me to investigate this small outcrop of windswept rock. I’m accompanied by a lone black back gull that seems curious to find a naked man wandering around his territory and on my return a fisherman greets me not batting an eyelid at my lack of clothing offering me a cold coca cola from his eski as he talked of the joy of walking to fish from such wonderful places and how lucky he was that the wife walked out on him. I talked in the same open manner of my work and how bad weather lifts my eyes to the drama of the skies lowering the horizon of my sketching, while sun and blue skies like today brings me back to the contours of rocks and the crashing of waves.We sat clothed and unclothed sipping cool canned coca cola, two men happy just being there between High and Table Island.

I camp overnight at Little Wharton with a strong westerly wind picking up and thank the local authorities for having installed a smart new toilet just for me it would seem.The following morning I make an early start it being high summer and light at five. I make my way snaking around the first two beaches and then across the dunes hoping to gain shelter but receiving little more than the stinging of white sand on my face and legs. Reaching the shelter at the far end below the brooding bulk of Hammer Head I take my first dip in the crystal clear turquoise waters, waves perfect for body surfing. No surfers here and no doubt they are still asleep or surveying the likelihood of large waves curling round into Wharton beach. Refreshed I head west into the wind clambering across the rocks to a point below the cave. Few make it this far but there is evidence of an indistinct track upward proving that I’m not the only person to venture this far. One could be forgiven for simply admiring the view from this enormous cavern before returning but for the more adventurous amongst us must turn our back on all that and scramble up to the very back of the cave past the resident swallows where another source of light becomes apparent, indicating the way up and out through a cascade of crumbling and rotten granite rocks, following the light and squeezing my way to the exit which brings me out near the summit. When I first discovered this on my last visit popping my head out from between the rocks I had a moment of shear childish delight of having clambered through the very bowls of the earth.

Walking over to the seaward side the full force of salt spay laden wind stings my face. Here bare rock plunges down to do battle with a relentless southern ocean and there nestling within a protected cleft lies an impossible enchanted wood of aromatic leave, scented flowers, spiny limbs and flaking bark. It is as if nobody has ever set foot there and that within lie unnamed mysterious creatures who have survived from a forgotten time.

Further around fault lines within this ancient weathered granite have allowed trapped boulders to act like the pestle within a mortar grinding out deep warm plunge pools. The rock is patterned and striated ochre through to deep rust red from sea salt and water that leaches out from the mineral soil growth that clings to the upper reaches of this inhospitable outcrop of rock. Once at the eastward end the wind abates and I come within the shelter of the headland. This is the favoured spot of fishermen oyster catchers and shags and certainly a fine place for abalone hunting. I return to my surfing spot and delight once more in body surfing allowing the perfectly proportioned waves to hurl me back to the white sands. I amble back stopping to collect small shells thrown up beyond the rocks on the west side and eventually make it back to the Landrover to brew a mid afternoon tea.  Throughout the late afternoon cars continue to arrive driving past the car park and following the track as far as the beach. I amuse myself by watching and timing each visit to an average of two minutes irrespective of whether they managed to turn on the beach with four wheel drive or reversed back up. I’ve been here two days and never tire of the constant change of light and rhythmical thrashing of the sea. What is this new and abhorrent species of man, this holiday maker who travels in sealed air-conditioned discomfort ticking off been there and done it places on a map? The very same who complain about the rising cost of fuel but who rarely leave the safe confines of that vehicle to make contact with this wonderful world. It would seem they come simply to confirm with their own eyes that which they saw on the travel brochure or on the TV documentary. There is little that remains of our former nomadic nature and thus we commence the sedentary period of man where the only thing to increase is the girth of his gut.

Am I so very different from other people, is being different something I cultivate in order to be apart?  Increasingly I feel I have less and less in common with other people and that I am in danger of becoming an eccentric but perhaps this is only natural when out here in the back and beyond roughing it in the wild.When I do encounter other people they seem very different to me in their actions and thinking or perhaps I’m simply becoming an antisocial old fart.

Moving along the coast to Cape Le Grand National Park is somewhat of a culture shock as one is expected to use the campsites at either end of the park. This may have been done for simplicity of collecting the fees since perfectly adequate facilities can be found elsewhere in the park.  

I reluctantly moved into one of the allotted bays at Lucky Bay and soon found myself making polite conversation with fellow campers.Time to cook but before I’ve had time to cut up the veg someone else has bagged their place covering the remaining gas ring with an enormous empty frying pan. It would seem this is rush hour in the kitchen so I give up returning to the Landrover and my habitual method of cooking with the Trangia stove. After rustling up a gut full I take off with the didgeridoo down to the beach and out of earshot of others not that I mind an audience but I preferred the time to digest alone. Finally I retired up onto the roof for the night, but alongside the radio is turned on to a channel with hip-hop or house music just a little too loud to ignore. Before I have time to get annoyed I move out down to a spot by the beach where the only sound is that of lapping waves. Sleeping up on the roof-rack has the advantage of being able to up stick and move with relative ease. There followed a sound nights sleep but my hopes that prior to six o’clock the rest of the happy campers would still be in the sack were dashed. As I approached the toilet block with 25 yards to go I spotted someone coming from the opposite direction, I took the path leading off down to the beach rather than getting close enough even to nod my head in recognition of another human beings presence. I prefer my own company during this period of awakening, a preference that is fast becoming a 24 hour thing but what the hell it’s not for long so enjoy it while you can.

After almost a week of accumulated grime and sweat baked on with liberal doses of sun screen it seemed a shame to remove what had started to resemble a truly natural barrier to not only the elements but to other humans. Living outside allows such luxuries as not washing but today’s society requires no natural odours preferring to replace these with a synthetic stink that assault the nasal passage on every street corner. It is therefore a luxury for me to not only acquire and rediscover my own distinctive mustiness but also to feel the accompanying salty stickiness attained from continual skinny dips into the southern ocean. There is no point in changing cloths so the same old sleeveless blue T shirt (now grey with the sun) takes on a seriously lived in look. Under ware is out or rather off from day one and baggy shorts although somewhat crusty provide that sense of freedom in letting it all hang loose. The coastal terrain that I ramble over must be considered as rough and at times requires a reasonable level of climbing skill and for this reason five to eight kilometre per day is sufficient leaving me time to sketch bathe and simply admire this spectacular scenery. I make an early start off by seven to be back by mid afternoon. Often before eight I’ve had my first dip in the sea but by far the best is on retuning to plunge into the waves but for this I have made it a rule to strip completely in order to fully enjoy body surfing through the turbulence of the only true bubble bath. After only a week of hiking, swimming and low fat and sugar camp food I can feel my body changing, toning up with an early to bed and early to rise routine that I love. Being up for the sunrise and that special light that so many miss but also having that time to be very aware of myself those first reawakening stretches to discover the day. Above all I think it’s the drive I still have to get out there and explore on my own in remote places and not to fear that my body will let me down but that I will understand my own limits with knees that can take only so much steep downward slopes and my ascents might be slower than in my youth but that on difficult ground a slow plodding gate will always get you to the top and down. Another thing I noticed yesterday on reaching the summit of another granite outcrop was that I was not out of breath at all and at this slower pace I am free to take in more of these wonderful surroundings whether it be the patterns and colour of the granite or the weathered shapes of sun-bleached and wind battered remains of the sparse plant life. It becomes second nature to keep a good fifty percent of ones concentration downward, not wanting to fall but also for the possible presence of snakes. Since I don’t often follow the indicated paths I must also work out my own route ahead and try to avoid at all costs prolonged spells of bush bashing as on the lower reaches of the hills at this time of year there is far more risk of encountering snakes and to upset a tiger snake is to say the least unwise. Looked at from mans point of view Australia would seem a very brutal and harsh place unrelenting in its hardships, however this would be unfair to look at it solely from mans standpoint as it is in fact a very fragile land for the most part which has suffered greatly at the hands of man. So is the brutish and macho attitude displayed by many Australians today in some way a natural reaction to being raised within such a harsh landscape? There still exist many outback areas where survival is anything but simple and here you encounter the true salts of the earth. However modern town or city life has every luxury to hand and to a standard rarely seen in Europe. The café street culture has boomed along with the massive increase in viticulture and for many areas there has been a conscious effort to copy everything French.

The tough nut alpha males are conspicuously visible with their mates culture and god given right to drive everywhere in a four-wheel drive vehicle, but like so many hard boiled sweets they often prove to have a soft centre, it’s the Sheila’s that have to be handled with care.The overriding impression is one of a still young country that has arrived on the world scene with massive potential but that has no concept of its continuing racist attitudes. Most of the population appear to be racist and that is born out by the number of times you hear the denial, “I’m not, we’re not or Aussie’s aren’t racist”. There are things that pass unquestioned in this country which the world frowned upon when it looked at similar conditions in South Africa and as with any other country little will change unless they can first learn to admit their racism.
The long journey back west and I stop to stretch my legs taking a stroll along the dried up river bed outside Jerramungigup. This fragile land is made even more so here where water no longer flows but what little is left stands static and stagnant, awaiting in hopes of an end of summer flushing. The surrounding parched gently sloping land is dotted with what little remains of woodland bush and we too easily forget that the biggest forest in the world once covered this land. When the rain does come it accumulates inland over a vast area slowly over days working its way into river courses strengthening to form a massive torrent of water that gathers up and carries the dry season’s detritus ever closer to the sea. The landscape turns green in a flurry of growth, and while nature and the elements have had the role of forming this land it is man who world wide has transformed it into what we see today. One gets an idea of just what this impenetrable landscape must have looked like throughout Western Australia on entering the Fitzgerald National Park.

Between East and West Mount Barren there is fabulous untouched bush with a most incredible diversity of plant and yet to the casual passer by it all looks the same bush. The term bush is somewhat of a throw away giving the impression that it’s something uninteresting boring and valueless when in fact it is the monoculture landscape that man has replaced it with which is of little true value and often very monotonous.

 

 I’m now in the tourist country of Bremer Bay but thankfully I’ve arrived before the masses, the campsite is practically empty and I have the place to myself, wonderful. On my last trip to Bremer it was a very different story with the mid summer rush, with ten minutes of arriving I had stepped on a bull ant and spent the next quarter of an hour with a large paintbrush in my mouth biting down hard against the agony. It eased quite quickly after that and although I’d been told how painful they could be I had not expected it to be that bad. Outback Australians are an extra ordinary resourceful bunch and seem to bring with then the kitchen sink and more. Encampments are just, that none of the simply put up a tent when you can string old tarpaulins from the nearest trees to create the maximum shade. Everything seems to have a second use and I was puzzled by the spare car bonnet that arrived with one family. The curved blue lump of metal wasn’t the same colour or shape as their rather ancient vehicle and is wasn’t until later that day that all was revealed when they turned it upside down onto a support and proceeded to light up a barbeque fire within. I am for ever conscious that my passage through this land is swift so I often find myself sketching in pencil and allowing the digital camera to record the rest gathering the maximum amount of information in the shortest possible time this still means that I remain in front of the subject considerably longer than most people.

Half a days drive and I’m in the familiar coastal scenery of Albany and after a short stop off to collect provisions it was out to Good Beach. As usual the walk out to Bald Head was wonderful and as always it had another face to show me. Since I last slogged along the isthmus track there had been a fire apparently it burnt for days with no way of controlling it. Since then the re-growth has been vigorous and what was immediately noticeable as elsewhere are the wild flowers. The scale of this land is so vast and yet the flowers within it are so small and delicate as if economising on growth just as with the leaves. Flowering is also sporadic not only on the plant itself but that the plant life is so diverse that only a few of each species occur in a particular location. The burning out of the centre portion of the walk out to Bald Head meant better visibility but not for much longer if the present rate of growth continues. The day started perfectly with any light cloud clearing quickly to give a fine reflective light over the water as well as colour to the bush.

The temperature soon rose and the scents from the vegetation meant it quickly took on the feel of walking through a herb garden which made me wonder if you could in fact cook with any of these, had those first explorer tried them out thinking they resembled herbs back in Europe. So much within this land is toxic that I wouldn’t want to risk any experimental culinary delights. It became obvious that I was with my early start the first on the trail since Christmas spider’s webs spread from every possible support.  I ducked under most of those that lay full in my path with the spiny black and yellow spiders sitting patiently in waiting, but inevitably not all remained undamaged with my passing. Only when I had descended onto the final part of my walk and looked back up onto the Banksia ridge did I see the couple following me out. They were far enough behind however to allow me my quiet time of contemplation with only the waves crashing against the horseshoe rock below. It was great to have made it out here once again and each time I wonder if my legs or rather knees with manage it. The young Swiss couple arrived and together we fed the very tame lizard which had grown accustomed to eating all offerings including chocolate. Then the Scottish couple I’d met the previous evening at the campsite arrived and so we chatted and ate our lunch each person taking it in turn to write something in the visitor’s book hidden within a plastic box in the stone carne. I had told them last night that I normally go back via the sand slide but I’d been told it was well worn by heavy rain. After the Swiss couple moved on I asked the Scots if they’d like to join me, they were game and it turned out to be quite an adventure which I realise is quite often the case on my walks. A serious amount of sand had gone leaving a steep ravine and a cliff face of sand. I was not about to risk walking under that so we headed to the east which in itself was not easy with sand still loose. Luckily they had both had climbing experience in Scotland but I doubted if they’d ever seen anything quite like this. The long sand slide terminated in a good three metre drop at its base where the sea had cut into it. We had hoped to swim but the weather had changed with it clouding over and a stiff breeze. The goat track around the next head was as exhilarating as ever and with a brisk pace along the limestone shore we made it back to the car park by three. They went off to investigate the surf at Salmon Holes while I returned to Good Beach and to freshen up with a shower. They joined me later for tea and we swapped addresses as travelers often do but with no real intension of seeing each other again.

I moved on west stopping off at Mutton Bird Island a brilliant day with clear skies and a south westerly breeze. The waves were perfect for body surfing but would not have attracted any serious surfer. It was just me and four girls on the massive sweep of beach, they trying their best to stand up on their boards while I contented myself being hurled in at speed towards the shore, I felt obliged to ware shorts!

As I drove slowly up Gully Road towards some of the largest of the tingle trees two trucks and two cars joined me on the gentle climb. However it became obvious that none of them were enjoying the sedate pace through the woods and wanted to get to the giant trees as quickly as possible. Wondering what the rush could possibly be I pulled over and let them pass. As I arrived at the car park my heart sank as it was almost full and the din of children screaming and adults shouting at them was not what I required for my time amongst the by now very familiar trees. So I decided to head in the reverse direction around the visitor’s pathway and within fifteen minutes there was complete silence. I sat for a few minutes sketching and realised I’d forgotten the fixative spray so returned to the Landrover. The car park was empty, they had all moved on having seen the few nearest trees taken a quick snap shot. They had missed some of the finest trees in their unwillingness to do the full circuit and had moved on perhaps to the tree top walk where they would have to pay but at least there was a shop and they could buy some trashy gift. Once again I pondered how the beauty of this world is wasted on the human race. Here in the valley of the giants that beauty is free and there is minimal intervention by man. I had forgotten just how beautiful the mosquitoes were here, large with delicate white spots down their legs but they still bite.

Time amongst the giant tingle trees slips by like being in the company of old friends. Once I got here at first light around five o’clock not a breath of wind and I immediately noted the low rumbling sound most likely caused by liquid being drawn up through the massive trunks but I preferred to think they were perhaps talking to each other. On my return to the Landrover five hours had passed by. 

After a quick sandwich I headed north for Circular Pool where the Frankland river gushes like freshly brewed tea over smooth sculpted rocks, reminding me of the Scottish burns that flow from the peat bog moors. I took a dip in the almost look-warm waters surrounded by frothy scum. Coming back down the river I met a couple from Donybrook who sat in quiet contemplation of the surroundings, at last someone who is not in a rush to snatch a photo and move on. I discovered he was a journalist photographer who had become disillusioned with his work. It was a real pleasure to talk with someone so calm and at peace with his surroundings. A large man who in his youth had driven everywhere in a 4 wheel drive then at the point where he renounced all that discovered that his legs could not do all that they once could and that he was now obliged to seek out reasonably accessible places. The moral being he said was to walk while you can and the wheels will come later.

Back to tourist watching at the Diamond Tree, leaving aside those who drive into the car park look left and drive on, most people come to climb the first few runs of the ladder and pose for photos. There is nothing wrong in that and there is plenty of room on the ladder for all the family but it’s still the Japanese who take first prize. One could be forgiven for thinking that the digital camera was invented just for them to take ever more snap shots so that every member of the family has their moment of glory in front of the lens and that every possible group combination of poses can be obtained. Most have totally inappropriate foot ware and attempt only the first ten or so runs in flip-flops or loose fitting sandals. Then it’s the turn of the English, they waited patiently polite and then it’s the chance for the bare footed young son to show these Japanese just how it’s done. A little too confident he strides up and by the tenth run almost looses his hand hold, that scares him and he proceeds with added caution. His two younger sisters follow him up the youngest at full stretch between the runs and I wonder if they can be English. Later when the girls return to the car my doubts are confirmed as they speak to each other in German. Once again it is the turn of the Japanese who stayed to watch the others effort and now their competitive spirit aroused they can’t resist in trying to better that. Four of the family head up but fare no better than before defeated by vertigo. So the Germans return better equipped now with shoes mother is the first to test it out for safety followed by the three children in order of age. Father stays at ground level in charge of the camera.  Mother and son press on to the half way cage as Father fans flies and takes photos as the older daughter renewed with confidence also reaches the safety of the half way point, father takes more photos. The youngest daughter I can’t see, no more than five years old and on the far side of the tree and I can’t stand the suspense. The mother and her two older children start their descent and I see the youngest at the base full of tears of failure as her father comforts her. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw them at last nearing the base and wonder if such foolhardiness had been spurred on by the fact that they had seen DOC 1 in large letter across the top of my Landrover roof-rack. High in the canopy of the Karri trees I sit and sketch and am lost in its complexity wishing I had thought to bring my sleeping bag up with me and be rocked in to gentle slumber. It is perhaps not surprising how few English people make it up here. They advise against it if one has a heart condition and to think twice before attempting the second steeper flight but I think the determining factor is more likely to be that they are not only unfit but often too obese to even fit inside the protective stairway cage.

I made an earl start on the Chesapeak Road one of my favourite drives along an undulating more or less straight road through majestic tree towering overhead like the interior roof structure of some fine medieval cathedral. Half way along I was met with a road closed sign but didn’t take any notice thinking it was probably for one of the tributary roads but no, at the Gardner Road turn off a yellow road sign barred the way. I noticed tracks running round one side and evidently people had pushed on passed ignoring the sign so I did likewise only to find a kilometre on an iron locked fitted bar. Other than going all the way back this was the only way heading west. I once again squeezed the Landrover around the iron barrier and continued on the Chesapeak Road towards the Gardner River Bridge. At the bridge I met the real obstacle, here they had mounded up sand and grit from the road in an attempt to stop people crossing what they now considered to be a dangerous bridge. This was going to take a little more thought. I had noticed a kilometre or so back there was a new road into the bush so decided to investigate finding it led to a crossing point but the floodway was nearly a meter deep and an indeterminate depth of mud. I didn’t like the look of that so went back to inspect the bridge. Having walked across around and under I reckoned it was fit to hold the weight of the Landrover and much more for many years to come however the first mound was too steep to drive over and I noted that other people had reversed into the bush in order to then drive up onto the bridge without slipping sideways into the ravine and the river some five or six meters below. The mound at the west end would be easy just a simple up and over the barricade so I slipped into low ratio and gentle eased my way first up onto the bridge then across home and dry. The other end of the Chesapeak road had been similarly barred with a locked barrier but a track had already been created high to one side by other adventurers and as I skirted the last barrier a truck and trailer arrived obviously workers from CALM about to unlock and push up more soil to deter people like me passing. I waved an acknowledgement and drove on imagining that I was perhaps the last person to have crossed the old wooden Gardner River Bridge before some modern metallic alternative is built or that road is consigned to history.

Back in February 2008 I was heading east walking along the fly infested coast at Cape Riche in sweltering heat I stripped founding my shorts more useful as a fly switch and effective extension to the Australian wave. The walk proved useful on the shell front as I found several little sandy inlets between rocks. Since my first trip back in the late 90’s I’ve collected shells from Western Australia and the west coast of Scotland that have inspired a variety of objects. I took several plunges to cool off but regretted not having the face mask and snorkel. On my way back to estuary beach I swam again this time with shorts and was surprise that nobody else ventured in. In fact where ever I go I’ve noticed that I am often the only person in the water which has nothing to do with sharks but everything to do with the temperature of the water which they consider cold and I the hardened Hebridrean the only one brave enough to enter the water without a wet suit. Back in 2012 while in the Fitzgerald national park I made a detour to Quoin Head since a friend had said it was easily accessed and beautiful. The drive in was a long and slow 18 k due to some serious water erosion and at the end a very steep descent to the camp site. If there hadn’t been others down there I wouldn’t have attempted it but in low ratio I crept down but would have a good look before attempting the climb back up. A large mug of coffee had guaranteed that I woke in the night and unzipping my canvas roof bender I pushed my head through into a perfect star lit night. Only in remote places like this can the term star lit night be truly understood since it is the stars themselves that light up the night and even though there was no moon my surroundings were as clear as at a full moon. The entire milky way there to get lost in with Orion clear and high in the sky and the seemingly infinite expanse of space leads one to contemplate just how insignificantly small we are. It often seems like an implosion is about to take place and at that point I will disappear, perhaps like a little solitary electron hoping to attach onto an atom. Will life in the end amount to no more than tears in the rain, or will that rain then join an ocean of consciousness.

 

 

Gone walk-about. (Excerpts from a journeyman artist’s diary.)

It is in mans nature to always reach for the limits search out to that furthest point whether it was the very edge of his flat world or off to the moon and beyond. I recognise that within myself as I don my backpack with the day’s requirements and walk for hours out to some distant headland or along some remote rocky coastline, territory the 4x4’s have as yet left virgin and I eventually arrive at the beach that for now is all mine. At least that’s how it used to be but now it is increasingly difficult to guarantee that one has anywhere no matter how remote to oneself. Today roads seem to lead to every corner of the globe and the worst you might encounter at least in South West Australia are a few corrugations on the dusty dirt road but any discomfort is appeased on arrival with the view from the parking and a dry toilet.

 So it was at Wharton where most people stop at the great sweep of a beach where the surf was good, but the more adventurous fishermen forged on that extra kilometre to Little Wharton just over the rise to Hammer Head and Lorraine Island. The view is truly magical but it takes the more observant amongst us to understand what we are looking at. There are in fact three more beaches with a forth to the eastward side. The entire complex is an illusion of islands in the making with a fragile system of dunes holding them tenuously to the mainland. Hammer Head rises like a vast whale from the southern ocean with its calf alongside still not released from the ensnaring nets of the mainland. To the east of Wharton lies High Island and Table Island which illustrate perfectly the next stage of this coastal erosion. Here the dunes have been washed away and even at low tide one is obliged to wade across the shallow waters.

Walking around High Island requires a certain level of climbing skills and even I don’t risk the steep south west corner. Gaining the summit required a little bush bashing but the view is spectacular not only seaward but also back inland to the dirt red approach road as the distant dust tells of more on their way. Here on top of my little world there are wind-worn granites and one in particular draws my attention not only for its rectangular shape but for the fact that it is completely hollow throughout its length of almost three feet. I find a dry stick nearby and give the rock a tap and there I have the extra ordinary sound of granite.

I’ve left my cloths at the waters edge to wade across to the flat Table Island, there's something wonderful about taking absolutely nothing with me to investigate this small outcrop of windswept rock. I’m accompanied by a lone black back gull that seems curious to find a naked man wandering around his territory and on my return a fisherman greets me not batting an eyelid at my lack of clothing offering me a cold coca cola from his eski as he talked of the joy of walking to fish from such wonderful places and how lucky he was that the wife walked out on him. I talked in the same open manner of my work and how bad weather lifts my eyes to the drama of the skies lowering the horizon of my sketching, while sun and blue skies like today brings me back to the contours of rocks and the crashing of waves.We sat clothed and unclothed sipping cool canned coca cola, two men happy just being there between High and Table Island.

I camp overnight at Little Wharton with a strong westerly wind picking up and thank the local authorities for having installed a smart new toilet just for me it would seem.The following morning I make an early start it being high summer and light at five. I make my way snaking around the first two beaches and then across the dunes hoping to gain shelter but receiving little more than the stinging of white sand on my face and legs. Reaching the shelter at the far end below the brooding bulk of Hammer Head I take my first dip in the crystal clear turquoise waters, waves perfect for body surfing. No surfers here and no doubt they are still asleep or surveying the likelihood of large waves curling round into Wharton beach. Refreshed I head west into the wind clambering across the rocks to a point below the cave. Few make it this far but there is evidence of an indistinct track upward proving that I’m not the only person to venture this far. One could be forgiven for simply admiring the view from this enormous cavern before returning but for the more adventurous amongst us must turn our back on all that and scramble up to the very back of the cave past the resident swallows where another source of light becomes apparent, indicating the way up and out through a cascade of crumbling and rotten granite rocks, following the light and squeezing my way to the exit which brings me out near the summit. When I first discovered this on my last visit popping my head out from between the rocks I had a moment of shear childish delight of having clambered through the very bowls of the earth.

Walking over to the seaward side the full force of salt spay laden wind stings my face. Here bare rock plunges down to do battle with a relentless southern ocean and there nestling within a protected cleft lies an impossible enchanted wood of aromatic leave, scented flowers, spiny limbs and flaking bark. It is as if nobody has ever set foot there and that within lie unnamed mysterious creatures who have survived from a forgotten time.

Further around fault lines within this ancient weathered granite have allowed trapped boulders to act like the pestle within a mortar grinding out deep warm plunge pools. The rock is patterned and striated ochre through to deep rust red from sea salt and water that leaches out from the mineral soil growth that clings to the upper reaches of this inhospitable outcrop of rock. Once at the eastward end the wind abates and I come within the shelter of the headland. This is the favoured spot of fishermen oyster catchers and shags and certainly a fine place for abalone hunting. I return to my surfing spot and delight once more in body surfing allowing the perfectly proportioned waves to hurl me back to the white sands. I amble back stopping to collect small shells thrown up beyond the rocks on the west side and eventually make it back to the Landrover to brew a mid afternoon tea.  Throughout the late afternoon cars continue to arrive driving past the car park and following the track as far as the beach. I amuse myself by watching and timing each visit to an average of two minutes irrespective of whether they managed to turn on the beach with four wheel drive or reversed back up. I’ve been here two days and never tire of the constant change of light and rhythmical thrashing of the sea. What is this new and abhorrent species of man, this holiday maker who travels in sealed air-conditioned discomfort ticking off been there and done it places on a map? The very same who complain about the rising cost of fuel but who rarely leave the safe confines of that vehicle to make contact with this wonderful world. It would seem they come simply to confirm with their own eyes that which they saw on the travel brochure or on the TV documentary. There is little that remains of our former nomadic nature and thus we commence the sedentary period of man where the only thing to increase is the girth of his gut.

Am I so very different from other people, is being different something I cultivate in order to be apart?  Increasingly I feel I have less and less in common with other people and that I am in danger of becoming an eccentric but perhaps this is only natural when out here in the back and beyond roughing it in the wild.When I do encounter other people they seem very different to me in their actions and thinking or perhaps I’m simply becoming an antisocial old fart.

Moving along the coast to Cape Le Grand National Park is somewhat of a culture shock as one is expected to use the campsites at either end of the park. This may have been done for simplicity of collecting the fees since perfectly adequate facilities can be found elsewhere in the park.

   

I reluctantly moved into one of the allotted bays at Lucky Bay and soon found myself making polite conversation with fellow campers.Time to cook but before I’ve had time to cut up the veg someone else has bagged their place covering the remaining gas ring with an enormous empty frying pan. It would seem this is rush hour in the kitchen so I give up returning to the Landrover and my habitual method of cooking with the Trangia stove. After rustling up a gut full I take off with the didgeridoo down to the beach and out of earshot of others not that I mind an audience but I preferred the time to digest alone. Finally I retired up onto the roof for the night, but alongside the radio is turned on to a channel with hip-hop or house music just a little too loud to ignore. Before I have time to get annoyed I move out down to a spot by the beach where the only sound is that of lapping waves. Sleeping up on the roof-rack has the advantage of being able to up stick and move with relative ease. There followed a sound nights sleep but my hopes that prior to six o’clock the rest of the happy campers would still be in the sack were dashed. As I approached the toilet block with 25 yards to go I spotted someone coming from the opposite direction, I took the path leading off down to the beach rather than getting close enough even to nod my head in recognition of another human beings presence. I prefer my own company during this period of awakening, a preference that is fast becoming a 24 hour thing but what the hell it’s not for long so enjoy it while you can.

After almost a week of accumulated grime and sweat baked on with liberal doses of sun screen it seemed a shame to remove what had started to resemble a truly natural barrier to not only the elements but to other humans. Living outside allows such luxuries as not washing but today’s society requires no natural odours preferring to replace these with a synthetic stink that assault the nasal passage on every street corner. It is therefore a luxury for me to not only acquire and rediscover my own distinctive mustiness but also to feel the accompanying salty stickiness attained from continual skinny dips into the southern ocean. There is no point in changing cloths so the same old sleeveless blue T shirt (now grey with the sun) takes on a seriously lived in look. Under ware is out or rather off from day one and baggy shorts although somewhat crusty provide that sense of freedom in letting it all hang loose. The coastal terrain that I ramble over must be considered as rough and at times requires a reasonable level of climbing skill and for this reason five to eight kilometre per day is sufficient leaving me time to sketch bathe and simply admire this spectacular scenery. I make an early start off by seven to be back by mid afternoon. Often before eight I’ve had my first dip in the sea but by far the best is on retuning to plunge into the waves but for this I have made it a rule to strip completely in order to fully enjoy body surfing through the turbulence of the only true bubble bath. After only a week of hiking, swimming and low fat and sugar camp food I can feel my body changing, toning up with an early to bed and early to rise routine that I love. Being up for the sunrise and that special light that so many miss but also having that time to be very aware of myself those first reawakening stretches to discover the day. Above all I think it’s the drive I still have to get out there and explore on my own in remote places and not to fear that my body will let me down but that I will understand my own limits with knees that can take only so much steep downward slopes and my ascents might be slower than in my youth but that on difficult ground a slow plodding gate will always get you to the top and down. Another thing I noticed yesterday on reaching the summit of another granite outcrop was that I was not out of breath at all and at this slower pace I am free to take in more of these wonderful surroundings whether it be the patterns and colour of the granite or the weathered shapes of sun-bleached and wind battered remains of the sparse plant life. It becomes second nature to keep a good fifty percent of ones concentration downward, not wanting to fall but also for the possible presence of snakes. Since I don’t often follow the indicated paths I must also work out my own route ahead and try to avoid at all costs prolonged spells of bush bashing as on the lower reaches of the hills at this time of year there is far more risk of encountering snakes and to upset a tiger snake is to say the least unwise. Looked at from mans point of view Australia would seem a very brutal and harsh place unrelenting in its hardships, however this would be unfair to look at it solely from mans standpoint as it is in fact a very fragile land for the most part which has suffered greatly at the hands of man. So is the brutish and macho attitude displayed by many Australians today in some way a natural reaction to being raised within such a harsh landscape? There still exist many outback areas where survival is anything but simple and here you encounter the true salts of the earth. However modern town or city life has every luxury to hand and to a standard rarely seen in Europe. The café street culture has boomed along with the massive increase in viticulture and for many areas there has been a conscious effort to copy everything French.

The tough nut alpha males are conspicuously visible with their mates culture and god given right to drive everywhere in a four-wheel drive vehicle, but like so many hard boiled sweets they often prove to have a soft centre, it’s the Sheila’s that have to be handled with care.The overriding impression is one of a still young country that has arrived on the world scene with massive potential but that has no concept of its continuing racist attitudes. Most of the population appear to be racist and that is born out by the number of times you hear the denial, “I’m not, we’re not or Aussie’s aren’t racist”. There are things that pass unquestioned in this country which the world frowned upon when it looked at similar conditions in South Africa and as with any other country little will change unless they can first learn to admit their racism.

The long journey back west and I stop to stretch my legs taking a stroll along the dried up river bed outside Jerramungigup. This fragile land is made even more so here where water no longer flows but what little is left stands static and stagnant, awaiting in hopes of an end of summer flushing. The surrounding parched gently sloping land is dotted with what little remains of woodland bush and we too easily forget that the biggest forest in the world once covered this land. When the rain does come it accumulates inland over a vast area slowly over days working its way into river courses strengthening to form a massive torrent of water that gathers up and carries the dry season’s detritus ever closer to the sea. The landscape turns green in a flurry of growth, and while nature and the elements have had the role of forming this land it is man who world wide has transformed it into what we see today. One gets an idea of just what this impenetrable landscape must have looked like throughout Western Australia on entering the Fitzgerald National Park.

Between East and West Mount Barren there is fabulous untouched bush with a most incredible diversity of plant and yet to the casual passer by it all looks the same bush. The term bush is somewhat of a throw away giving the impression that it’s something uninteresting boring and valueless when in fact it is the monoculture landscape that man has replaced it with which is of little true value and often very monotonous.

   I’m now in the tourist country of Bremmer Bay but thankfully I’ve arrived before the masses, the campsite is practically empty and I have the place to myself, wonderful. On my last trip to Bremmer it was a very different story with the mid summer rush, with ten minutes of arriving I had stepped on a bull ant and spent the next quarter of an hour with a large paintbrush in my mouth biting down hard against the agony. It eased quite quickly after that and although I’d been told how painful they could be I had not expected it to be that bad. Outback Australians are an extra ordinary resourceful bunch and seem to bring with then the kitchen sink and more. Encampments are just, that none of the simply put up a tent when you can string old tarpaulins from the nearest trees to create the maximum shade. Everything seems to have a second use and I was puzzled by the spare car bonnet that arrived with one family. The curved blue lump of metal wasn’t the same colour or shape as their rather ancient vehicle and is wasn’t until later that day that all was revealed when they turned it upside down onto a support and proceeded to light up a barbeque fire within. I am for ever conscious that my passage through this land is swift so I often find myself sketching in pencil and allowing the digital camera to record the rest gathering the maximum amount of information in the shortest possible time this still means that I remain in front of the subject considerably longer than most people.

Half a days drive and I’m in the familiar coastal scenery of Albany and after a short stop off to collect provisions it was out to Good Beach. As usual the walk out to Bald Head was wonderful and as always it had another face to show me. Since I last slogged along the isthmus track there had been a fire apparently it burnt for days with no way of controlling it. Since then the re-growth has been vigorous and what was immediately noticeable as elsewhere are the wild flowers. The scale of this land is so vast and yet the flowers within it are so small and delicate as if economising on growth just as with the leaves. Flowering is also sporadic not only on the plant itself but that the plant life is so diverse that only a few of each species occur in a particular location. The burning out of the centre portion of the walk out to Bald Head meant better visibility but not for much longer if the present rate of growth continues. The day started perfectly with any light cloud clearing quickly to give a fine reflective light over the water as well as colour to the bush.

The temperature soon rose and the scents from the vegetation meant it quickly took on the feel of walking through a herb garden which made me wonder if you could in fact cook with any of these, had those first explorer tried them out thinking they resembled herbs back in Europe. So much within this land is toxic that I wouldn’t want to risk any experimental culinary delights. It became obvious that I was with my early start the first on the trail since Christmas spider’s webs spread from every possible support.  I ducked under most of those that lay full in my path with the spiny black and yellow spiders sitting patiently in waiting, but inevitably not all remained undamaged with my passing. Only when I had descended onto the final part of my walk and looked back up onto the Banksia ridge did I see the couple following me out.They were far enough behind however to allow me my quiet time of contemplation with only the waves crashing against the horseshoe rock below. It was great to have made it out here once again and each time I wonder if my legs or rather knees with manage it. The young Swiss couple arrived and together we fed the very tame lizard which had grown accustomed to eating all offerings including chocolate. Then the Scottish couple I’d met the previous evening at the campsite arrived and so we chatted and ate our lunch each person taking it in turn to write something in the visitor’s book hidden within a plastic box in the stone carne. I had told them last night that I normally go back via the sand slide but I’d been told it was well worn by heavy rain. After the Swiss couple moved on I asked the Scots if they’d like to join me, they were game and it turned out to be quite an adventure which I realise is quite often the case on my walks. A serious amount of sand had gone leaving a steep ravine and a cliff face of sand. I was not about to risk walking under that so we headed to the east which in itself was not easy with sand still loose. Luckily they had both had climbing experience in Scotland but I doubted if they’d ever seen anything quite like this. The long sand slide terminated in a good three metre drop at its base where the sea had cut into it. We had hoped to swim but the weather had changed with it clouding over and a stiff breeze. The goat track around the next head was as exhilarating as ever and with a brisk pace along the limestone shore we made it back to the car park by three. They went off to investigate the surf at Salmon Holes while I returned to Good Beach and to freshen up with a shower. They joined me later for tea and we swapped addresses as traveller often do but with no real intension of seeing each other again.

I moved on west stopping off at Mutton Bird Island a brilliant day with clear skies and a south westerly breeze. The waves were perfect for body surfing but would not have attracted any serious surfer. It was just me and four girls on the massive sweep of beach, they trying their best to stand up on their boards while I contented myself being hurled in at speed towards the shore, I felt obliged to ware shorts!

As I drove slowly up Gully Road towards some of the largest of the tingle trees two trucks and two cars joined me on the gentle climb. However it became obvious that none of them were enjoying the sedate pace through the woods and wanted to get to the giant trees as quickly as possible. Wondering what the rush could possibly be I pulled over and let them pass. As I arrived at the car park my heart sank as it was almost full and the din of children screaming and adults shouting at them was not what I required for my time amongst the by now very familiar trees. So I decided to head in the reverse direction around the visitor’s pathway and within fifteen minutes there was complete silence. I sat for a few minutes sketching and realised I’d forgotten the fixative spray so returned to the Landrover. The car park was empty, they had all moved on having seen the few nearest trees taken a quick snap shot. They had missed some of the finest trees in their unwillingness to do the full circuit and had moved on perhaps to the tree top walk where they would have to pay but at least there was a shop and they could buy some trashy gift. Once again I pondered how the beauty of this world is wasted on the human race. Here in the valley of the giants that beauty is free and there is minimal intervention by man. I had forgotten just how beautiful the mosquitoes were here, large with delicate white spots down their legs but they still bite.

Time amongst the giant tingle trees slips by like being in the company of old friends. Once I got here at first light around five o’clock not a breath of wind and I immediately noted the low rumbling sound most likely caused by liquid being drawn up through the massive trunks but I preferred to think they were perhaps talking to each other. On my return to the Landrover five hours had passed by.

After a quick sandwich I headed north for Circular Pool where the Frankland river gushes like freshly brewed tea over smooth sculpted rocks, reminding me of the Scottish burns that flow from the peat bog moors. I took a dip in the almost look-warm waters surrounded by frothy scum. Coming back down the river I met a couple from Donybrook who sat in quiet contemplation of the surroundings, at last someone who is not in a rush to snatch a photo and move on. I discovered he was a journalist photographer who had become disillusioned with his work. It was a real pleasure to talk with someone so calm and at peace with his surroundings. A large man who in his youth had driven everywhere in a 4 wheel drive then at the point where he renounced all that discovered that his legs could not do all that they once could and that he was now obliged to seek out reasonably accessible places. The moral being he said was to walk while you can and the wheels will come later.

Back to tourist watching at the Diamond Tree, leaving aside those who drive into the car park look left and drive on, most people come to climb the first few runs of the ladder and pose for photos. There is nothing wrong in that and there is plenty of room on the ladder for all the family but it’s still the Japanese who take first prize. One could be forgiven for thinking that the digital camera was invented just for them to take ever more snap shots so that every member of the family has their moment of glory in front of the lens and that every possible group combination of poses can be obtained. Most have totally inappropriate foot ware and attempt only the first ten or so runs in flip-flops or loose fitting sandals. Then it’s the turn of the English, they waited patiently polite and then it’s the chance for the bare footed young son to show these Japanese just how it’s done. A little too confident he strides up and by the tenth run almost looses his hand hold, that scares him and he proceeds with added caution. His two younger sisters follow him up the youngest at full stretch between the runs and I wonder if they can be English. Later when the girls return to the car my doubts are confirmed as they speak to each other in German. Once again it is the turn of the Japanese who stayed to watch the others effort and now their competitive spirit aroused they can’t resist in trying to better that. Four of the family head up but fare no better than before defeated by vertigo. So the Germans return better equipped now with shoes mother is the first to test it out for safety followed by the three children in order of age. Father stays at ground level in charge of the camera.  Mother and son press on to the half way cage as Father fans flies and takes photos as the older daughter renewed with confidence also reaches the safety of the half way point, father takes more photos. The youngest daughter I can’t see, no more than five years old and on the far side of the tree and I can’t stand the suspense. The mother and her two older children start their descent and I see the youngest at the base full of tears of failure as her father comforts her. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw them at last nearing the base and wonder if such foolhardiness had been spurred on by the fact that they had seen DOC 1 in large letter across the top of my Landrover roof-rack. High in the canopy of the Karri trees I sit and sketch and am lost in its complexity wishing I had thought to bring my sleeping bag up with me and be rocked in to gentle slumber. It is perhaps not surprising how few English people make it up here. They advise against it if one has a heart condition and to think twice before attempting the second steeper flight but I think the determining factor is more likely to be that they are not only unfit but often too obese to even fit inside the protective stairway cage.

I made an earl start on the Chesapeak Road one of my favourite drives along an undulating more or less straight road through majestic tree towering overhead like the interior roof structure of some fine medieval cathedral. Half way along I was met with a road closed sign but didn’t take any notice thinking it was probably for one of the tributary roads but no, at the Gardner Road turn off a yellow road sign barred the way. I noticed tracks running round one side and evidently people had pushed on passed ignoring the sign so I did likewise only to find a kilometre on an iron locked fitted bar. Other than going all the way back this was the only way heading west. I once again squeezed the Landrover around the iron barrier and continued on the Chesapeak Road towards the Gardner River Bridge. At the bridge I met the real obstacle, here they had mounded up sand and grit from the road in an attempt to stop people crossing what they now considered to be a dangerous bridge. This was going to take a little more thought. I had noticed a kilometre or so back there was a new road into the bush so decided to investigate finding it led to a crossing point but the floodway was nearly a meter deep and an indeterminate depth of mud. I didn’t like the look of that so went back to inspect the bridge. Having walked across around and under I reckoned it was fit to hold the weight of the Landrover and much more for many years to come however the first mound was too steep to drive over and I noted that other people had reversed into the bush in order to then drive up onto the bridge without slipping sideways into the ravine and the river some five or six meters below. The mound at the west end would be easy just a simple up and over the barricade so I slipped into low ratio and gentle eased my way first up onto the bridge then across home and dry. The other end of the Chesapeak road had been similarly barred with a locked barrier but a track had already been created high to one side by other adventurers and as I skirted the last barrier a truck and trailer arrived obviously workers from CALM about to unlock and push up more soil to deter people like me passing. I waved an acknowledgement and drove on imagining that I was perhaps the last person to have crossed the old wooden Gardner River Bridge before some modern metallic alternative is built or that road is consigned to history.

Back in February 2008 I was heading east walking along the fly infested coast at Cape Riche in sweltering heat I stripped founding my shorts more useful as a fly switch and effective extension to the Australian wave. The walk proved useful on the shell front as I found several little sandy inlets between rocks. Since my first trip back in the late 90’s I’ve collected shells from Western Australia and the west coast of Scotland that have inspired a variety of objects. I took several plunges to cool off but regretted not having the face mask and snorkel. On my way back to estuary beach I swam again this time with shorts and was surprise that nobody else ventured in. In fact where ever I go I’ve noticed that I am often the only person in the water which has nothing to do with sharks but everything to do with the temperature of the water which they consider cold and I the hardened Hebridrean the only one brave enough to enter the water without a wet suit. Back in 2012 while in the Fitzgerald national park I made a detour to Quoin Head since a friend had said it was easily accessed and beautiful. The drive in was a long and slow 18 k due to some serious water erosion and at the end a very steep descent to the camp site. If there hadn’t been others down there I wouldn’t have attempted it but in low ratio I crept down but would have a good look before attempting the climb back up. A large mug of coffee had guaranteed that I woke in the night and unzipping my canvas roof bender I pushed my head through into a perfect star lit night. Only in remote places like this can the term star lit night be truly understood since it is the stars themselves that light up the night and even though there was no moon my surroundings were as clear as at a full moon. The entire milky way there to get lost in with Orion clear and high in the sky and the seemingly infinite expanse of space leads one to contemplate just how insignificantly small we are. It often seems like an implosion is about to take place and at that point I will disappear, perhaps like a little solitary electron hoping to attach onto an atom. Will life in the end amount to no more than tears in the rain, or will that rain then join an ocean of consciousness.