THE FIRST STIFF BREEZE OF AUTUMN.

When my “Gallery Open” sign flew past the kitchen window heading for the Minch I took it to mean that the season was over and time to close my studio. We’ve been having our first real autumn breeze and while the last three cabbages are still firmly in the ground the wind has the effect of transforming walking into staggering, whereby both drinkers and non-drinkers look like they might have been at the whiskey. October heralds the drama of darkening skies with spectacular sunrises and brooding sunsets, days filled with fast moving rain soaked clouds splashed across with vivid rainbows and sudden shaft of sunlight, nights where the massive almost full moon plays hide and seek low in the southern sky.

People become talkative drawn closer by the prospect of shorter days while visitors dwindle and the camper vans return south to their period of hibernation. Many of the Greylag geese no longer bother to migrate preferring to sit it out overwintering on the crofts. There are complaints that they ruin the grazing but just as with the rabbits nobody thinks to eat them. Up at the sheep fank there’s dipping in progress and the best of the lambs have already gone to market. Birds take shelter from the high winds and larger birds are often hurled across the sky at alarming speeds. Buzzards no longer mew from on high but fly low across the fenced croft strips.

I am hustled from the back door with teapot in hand by the funnelled wind that passes down the back of the house and am thankful that I put no door on the entrance lobby to the studio so can leap in without fuss. Since the studio is rated as non-domestic it has come to the attention of business water rates and I have elected to forgo their services and extra ordinary expense for a rarely used cold water tap and toilet. These things are sent to try us and often the perceived convenience is when closely examined no real hardship to live without.

Last night the roof groaned with strong gusts from the North West and when twice some loose concrete fragment rattled its way down the roof I began to wonder if this wasn’t a little more than a stiff breeze. This morning’s inspection revealed nothing from the ground and the wind is still too strong for me to risk a ladder, whatever it was its evidently not structural. 

This summer I’ve made good progress on the interior with the second bedroom insulated and painted. The landing and stair-well ceiling is plaster boarded and sports a small classic ceiling rose. I love the delusions of grandeur that are so easily reproduced in a simple crofter’s cottage from the faux marble parlour mantle-piece and its painted Dutch delft tiled surround to the half-landing window where I’ve hung a pair of shabby though splendidly opulent curtains by W. Turner Lord & Co of 20 Mount St, Grosvenor Square, dating from around 1890 and according to the stitched on label were for the library window of Rylu House wherever that might have been. In the other bedroom I’m in the process of renovating a large mahogany half tester bed and reusing the red velvet curtains that sixty years ago hung in the bay window of our home on the Mull of Kintyre. I feel it is important in this era of the throwaway society that the old island traditions of reuse, or make do and mend are respected, if only by me alone. 

On the ground floor I’ve installed shutters that I enjoy closing each evening, imagining that like throwing an extra tweed blanket on the bed they will provide a further layer of comfort against the lashing elements outside.

Digging for treasure

No longer New Tolsta rather Old Tolsta

Treasure hunting played a significant role during my childhood and from the moment I first started gardening. My father would allocate my brother and me a small area of the garden where we could dig and grow whatever we liked. This more often than not totally abandoned area was a challenge to clear and cultivate but it in no way put us off the idea of gardening, rather it instilled in us the sense of achievement in bringing a small patch back into production. Scratching away at the surface and removing overgrowth followed by digging and with the digging came treasure hunting.

For the most part this treasure took the form of broken china; shards that turned out to be 19^th century blue and white transfer ware, the ever present DNA that runs through all British gardens. Sixty years on from my first garden and I’m still digging for treasure. Out on the moor when digging peat I still hope that one day I will find proof of human habitation, some discarded relic, a hollowed out wooden dish, a pottery fragment. Likewise in the garden around the house every turn of the spade is checked. The midden material at No 17 New Tolsta seems to have been scattered in gay abandon and the site also seems to have been inhabited for a considerable length of time. When digging below the old blackhouse to create my vegetable garden I discover an area of stones very evidently laid flat and wondered if this was a place for threshing or the floor of an even earlier settlement. At the back of the 19^th century farm barn there was a hollow on slightly higher ground and some very large stones which seemed to have nothing to do with the remains of the nearby stone shed. During the excavation of this area for my new studio it proved to be mainly a rich black soil and after it had rained the ground was littered with slipware pottery fragments. There were other low fired shards which although ancient looking proved also to be 19^th century.

This weekend while digging on the bank above the studio I discovered a small clay pipe impressed A COGHILL, Glasgow (Alexander Coghill 1826- 1904) which fitted well into the 19^th century time frame. As I dug up several lumps of rock I realised that these seemed to have been placed there in line, remains of an old wall perhaps….. and then I saw it. Brought to the surface by our excavations and my subsequent clearing lay a perfect Neolithic axe head. We are talking 5000 years plus old and the strangest thing was that as I picked it up I was sure I’d not only seen it before but had handled it.

During Neolithic times the islands would have been a very different place unencumbered by today’s thick layer of peat bog. The shoreline was further out to sea and behind the dunes was a deep sandy soil with extensive scrub woodland and reedy pools. Further inland was an area of rolling boggy ground with bare outcrops and heavy damp soil, supporting more scrub interspersed with grassland. Between the lochs and low hills the small deep valleys were wooded and in the rivers salmon and trout swam. It was a rich land which Celtic mythology describes as Tir nan Og, the Land of the Ever-Young.

The Mesolithic period of seasonal hunter gather gave way to the very earliest form of farming around 3600 BC. But apart from burial cairns and standing stones, few sites dating from before the Iron Age give any clear insight into the domestic life. The sandy western coastal areas were favoured settlement locations but here in Tolsta we also have dunes and a large area of sandy soil sloping down to a smaller area of machair. It seems likely that there is a great deal of buried evidence of former inhabits of these isles and when not under deep peat is surprisingly close to the surface. Today I took the axe head into Stornoway Museum and amid excitement for the find it was to be declared treasure trove. Forms were signed and with luck this fine axe head will remain in our local museum.

It would now seem as though my studio is built on top of a Neolithic site, unfortunately in doing so any archaeological worth of the site has been removed but at least I can safely say that New Tolsta should strictly be renamed as Old Tolsta.             

Tourists go home

Having spent the day moving furniture back into the newly decorated bedroom it was late afternoon before I finally set off on my Sunday walk to Garry beach. Normally I would head up onto the ridge and stick to the high-ground, swinging inland before descending via the bridge to nowhere and the beach. However given the hour I decided to stick to the road and easier walking. In delaying my walk I had certainly profited from the best part of the day and when the cloudbank rolled back westward across the moor the sky remained cloudless. My eye caught the flash of a brilliantly coloured caterpillar; the Broom, another species in decline although I had several adults found their way into my kitchen last month. This is the brown variety as it also occurs in green with yellow stripes and enjoys clover and peas. Here it is seen on Goat’s beard the root of which is edible much like carrot.

The car park at Traigh Mhor looked busy with ten cars parked and as I wandered on I noticed cars that had passed me were now returning having been the end of the road, ticked the box in the “I spy book of beautiful beaches” and without even getting out of the car they head on to the next. Why do able bodied people do that? It’s not just a local thing they do it all over the world, they’ll travel for an hour or more to reach a stunningly beautiful spot and when they get there they simply turn round, perhaps taking a snap shot as proof and leave. 

As I round the bend passing Donald’s freshly clipped sheep another car passes and I give them a suitably blank look of disgust. By now I have decided I will have to return via the road in order to pick up the discarded litter. I walk on up the track beyond Garry beach to the “Bridge to nowhere” stopping to talk to an elderly couple from Germany who had so enjoyed their walk. I was explaining how many never get out of their cars as a car passed us and headed on up to the bridge where they promptly hopped out of the car took their photo and turned round. Even the elderly walkers looked shocked, and I realised that this stunning natural beauty is wasted on the Pokémon mentality. I wanted to shout “Tourist go home” but realised I might offend the charming elderly walkers so wrote it large in a cursed thought across the back windscreen of the departing car. I hate being irritated by such things but calm had returned as I crossed the bridge to take a closer look at a mountain ash cloaked in brilliant red berries.

After a quick inspection of my peaty bank and the now very dry cut peat that needs bringing in I ambled down across the purple heather to the beach. The tide was full in and everyone had gone, cars in the car park and I wondered had those tourists heard my curse. My studio has been open for close on two months and during that time I have had six people come in, and of those four have purchased a picture. The Studio 17 sign on the roadside is large and very visible but from the many hundreds that head to the beaches there would seem to be few that have carry with them the “I spy book of Galleries” and for that perhaps I should be thankful.

On the walk back I start picking up the litter and realise the bitter irony is that every last bit of it is recyclable. Climbing back up the hill with home in sight my eye catches something at the edge of the burn; a council road sign warning of loose chippings and a 20 mile an hour maximum speed. I pull it from the burn knowing that I have the ideal spot for that next to my freshly laid gravel path at the back of the house.       

Pig production.

I was born on a small pig farm in the Cotswolds but left for the Mull of Kintyre at barely two years of age. When just a toddler my brother and myself managed to open all the doors to the pig stys, not satisfied with allowing all the Wessex saddle back sows and their piglets to mingle in the outer yard we then let out the boar. When we were discovered my father dragged us back to the house and in the kitchen declared to my mother that “Your children have let all the pigs out”. Given that the pigs were seriously large beasts our safety might have been called into question but with my father the farm animals took priority.

Forty years on I painted his prize winning Wessex saddleback pig that took first in 1955 Smithfield show. Shortly afterwards a series of pigs followed during the preparation for a primitive farm animal exhibition.

Now my attention has once again been drawn back to pigs with a commission to stitch a pig. Commissions are something that in the past I have fought shy of since the requests are seldom of interest but a pig that’s different. I decided on a large white boar and to treat the subject very much as a naïve 19^th century animal portrait.

 

The Large White originates from Yorkshire and played an important part as a crossing pig in today’s bacon production having characteristics of long and deep sides of good quality as well as deep wide hams. It has a slightly dished face with broad snout; the long ears are thin, slightly inclined forward and fringed with fine hair.   

Having completed the Large White Boar I wanted to see what effect a stump work pig on tweed would make and so started stitching a Gloucester Old Spot sow. I then read that this breed did not just come in black spots on a white ground. 

The Gloucester Old Spots throughout its long history has been bred on utility lines with the sole idea of producing the finest quality bacon in the most profitable manner. The pig proved a particular favourite with bacon curers, mainly owing to the large amount of lean meat in comparison to fat; the bacon is streaky and of first rate quality. By the beginning of the twentieth century its fame had spread throughout the world and in 1919 at the Royal Agricultural Show in Cardiff a boar was sold for 600 guineas. The characteristics of a champion is to have a medium length head; wide between the ears, a wide but medium sized nose with rather long and drooping ears; the neck fairly long and muscular with the sides very deep and presenting a rather drooping bottom line; the belly and flank, full and thick with the tail set high of moderate size and carrying a strong brush. The skin colour should be white spots on black ground, or black spots on white ground with hair long and silky with an absence of mane bristles.

“Good art should be disturbing”.

I heard this said recently by an award winning author and found myself pondering the statement. In the past my art has at times been described as disturbing in that it left people feeling uncomfortable or at least my intention was that it should be so, but as to whether it was fit to be described as good I prefer to leave to others. I see very little in my artwork now that could be described as disturbing and yet I see it not as bad art but rather comfortable art. In fact there is much today that I would describe as being bad art and that at times disturbs me intensely if only for the fact that it is taking up valuable exhibition space and hard to come by funding. So can good art be something other than disturbing and what relevance does art therapy figure in all of this? Obviously art can impart the full breakfast of reactions from sheer joy, through rage to total depression but then perhaps I am reading the idea of disturbing wrongly, for disturbing read reaction, any reaction. Does my reaction to bad art as being disturbing now make it good art? To clarify my own idea of bad art maybe I should categorise anything that doesn’t draw my attention in any way and that I don’t even notice as bad art. Since my eye picks up on most things this would mean that there isn’t much out there in our world that is “bad”. Then how can that be true when I am so eager at times to criticise what I see as unsightly, an abomination, disgusting, horrific, a tragic waste of good materials. Ah! That must be my own personal taste kicking in and that along with all forms of criticism has no place in art, for even if only one person reacts in any way shape or form to that art then it must be good art. No? And if they find my art comfortable is that sufficient reaction to then say even if only in their eyes that it could be considered good? 

Build it and they will come, maybe!

The building of Studio 17. 

It was nearly ten years ago that I realised my need for a studio but my life at that period was in a state of flux and some would say it still is. However after many years of considering that wherever I happened to be was my studio I began to feel with age that not only merited but required the comfort of a purpose built space. Since my art work had become very diverse this space would require four significantly different work areas. The main studio space would still be my painting and for this I required both height for the easel and room to manoeuvre large canvases as well as be able to step back a good distance from them. This had always been the problem with my studio in Brittany in that I had to physically step out of it and look back in from the adjoining room to obtain the require separation. 

The second space was for my needlework and although I hadn’t been doing it that long I recognised that stitching would always be a significant part of my creativity. For this more sedentary work I would require a heat source as well as good light. The third section would be more multipurpose but would cover my feather and shell work as well as storage area, while the fourth and final area would be a woodworking space where framing, furniture making and upholstery was possible. This I decided could be housed in the existing barn and would not be require in the new build.  

To simplify planning as well as construction I decided to go for a separate studio building which meant that as long as I stayed under four meters in overall height no planning was needed. Building regulations would still apply but I had no interest in constructing anything that wouldn’t withstand the harsh Hebridean winters. The project would not have taken place without the dedication from conception to completion of Steve Adams a friend and local builder living in the village. We worked well together but beyond this I recognised Steve was someone I could have completed confidence in.

In the autumn of 2015 I had Alex Mackay in to dig out and prepare the site at the back of the old barn. My one fear was that we would hit rock but luck was on our side and the bulk of what we had to remove turned out to be rich black soil. The flattened area would now have a good nine months to settle before foundations were dug. In July 2016 with the insulated and reinforced concrete pad poured we were ready to come out of the ground with the timber construction. All the wall panels, roof trusses and A frames we made and assembled in the nearby large tin crofters shed which was a great help in speeding the process up as well as staying out of the weather. Each section was mounted on two small axels and wheeled around the back of the house and into place and my long awaited studio suddenly took shape. There always seemed to be extra pair of helping hands when we needed them and what often seemed daunting to me turned out to be remarkably simple in Steve’s capable hands. As the roof took shape my ability to clamber around in awkward spaced saw me doing all the plating of the roof truss joints with nearly 25kl of nails. The timber cladding firmed everything up and was quickly followed by the waterproof breathable membrane, battening and corrugated tin. By mid-October we were water proof with just one section of ridge left to seal everything off. During the long winter months while stitched away for my stump work exhibition in Bath, Steve carried on with the interior and by the time I returned in late May the studio was insulated, electrified, plaster boarded, plumbed and painted. All that remained for me to do was move in.

I had arrived at the end of May with my van packed exceedingly tight with a good quantity of my creativity kit plus extra house furnishings. Believe it or not I’m in a process of scaling down but thinning or throwing out has never been one of my strong points so perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I’m spreading things about in the hopes that thirty years of accumulation doesn’t look quite so daunting. When a George III red walnut circular pad foot drop leaf table turned up in a local down-cycling shop for £90 I couldn’t resist it reasoning that it would be ideal for display as well as working on.

Today Steve was back to put in the wood (or in my case peat) burning stove and it turned out to be one of the worst midge day this year with light rain and no breeze. Keep calm and carry on seems to be Steve’s way of dealing with them while I burka up, pulling down my woolly hat and zipping my top up to nose leaving only eyes exposed to the midge savagery. Completed by late afternoon I light the first fire and now as the sun dips over the ridge I sit, T-shirt toasty warm in my studio while outside the window two goldfinches forage in the swaying seed heads of sorrel and bumble bees still busy attending the foxgloves. It looks like the heating will be very economical with three small peats enough to heat the entire studio. I have exactly the same stove to install in the parlour which will mean comfortable winter evenings with a whiskey and a good read. I noticed in the mirror another facial wrinkle today running out and down from the corner of my eyes, smile lines of contentment.

So with the naive notion that, if you build it they will come I set the official opening day for last Saturday; in hindsight possibly the worst day of the week to open being change-over day for tourists while shopping, sheep shearing and TV sport takes precedence for most locals. Let’s face it, there are very few people make it up this far and even fewer who have any interest in purchasing art. Several people have suggested I should be serving teas, coffee and cakes to which I reply “you know where the kettle is and the cake tin, I take it black no sugar”.  Studio 17 is a dream of a place for me to paint and create in but it is yet to be seen if it will also work as a place to display and sell free from gallery commission.   

Character forming teeth.

Ever since I arrived back in New Tolsta I find myself with an almost constant fixed grin, there is much that brings a smile to my face. There is only one small problem with all this grinning and that is the state of my teeth. There are fast becoming what I would term as character forming teeth.

 I’m old enough to remember character teeth from the days when both chewing and pipe tobacco were readily available along with gob stoppers and sherbet dabs. As a child in the late 50’s I found myself fascinated by adult’s mouths and in general the older they were the greater the intrigue. Mouths full or not so full of discoloured, misshapen and rotting teeth. Sure there were dentures, very obvious false teeth but these were still seen as a luxury amongst the poor of rural Scotland. I well remember one elderly neighbour whose top set of teeth would constantly be dropping down but it didn’t seem to impede the art of conversation as she nimbly pushed them back into place with her lower lip. On the neighbouring farm Cathy Helm had all her teeth out as a wedding present from her father, she was only eighteen. Neil our 80 year old shepherd made do with a handful of discoloured stumps to chew his tobacco and was still able to hit the spittoon with remarkable accuracy. Then there were those who seemed to have more than their fair share of teeth their mouths crammed to overflowing while others had fangs that sprang out to meet you like a blown over picket fence. People seemed defined by what was in their mouth as much as the utterances that came out of it. My own front milk teeth left me a gap through which I could fit a sixpence and my grandmother was delighted to point out that I would never worry about money. This did not signify that I was destined to become rich, simple that I would not be troubled by money. On my first visit to the dentist when asked to open my mouth wide I screamed so loud that my mother came rushing in from the waiting room to discover just what sort of torture I was being subjected to. The dentist looked alarmed and meekly protested that he hadn’t even touched me yet. When asked why I had screamed I replied that I’d been told at school that a trip to the dentist was always painful so I thought it best to scream in preparation, before it really started to hurt.  When my two front milk teeth dropped out and new teeth came through I retained and even larger gap through which half a crown would easily pass. The dentist identified that I had a small jaw which required extraction of one tooth top and bottom on each side. I remember every suck, twist and crunch as the dentist took a firm grip of the pliers and pulled.  This procedure was repeated for my second teeth but that time I was given gas and felt nothing having been well drugged beforehand to the point were getting from the car to the dentist surgery was a giddy affair. In time my three wisdom teeth were removed and in my mid-twenties I lost a lower molar which gave a grand total of twelve teeth pulled and those that remained were well filled. In those days it was common when discovering a small cavity to drill a massive hole leaving only a thin outer casing of dentine, so it is not surprising that years later when eating my healthy muesli breakfast it suddenly seems to contain lumps of walnut shell. I no longer eat any cereal with dried bananas in it having lost the outer portion of two teeth.

The first time I saved the surprisingly large lump of tooth and tried sticking it back with super glue; it only lasted until the following morning so I headed into Stornoway to register and make an appointment with the dentist. Registering was fine but there was a waiting list, a two year waiting list! Well I figured the damaged tooth didn’t look too bad and there was no pain so I’d wait. Eighteen months on the letter arrived the week I’m due to head back to Brittany so I call in to the surgery and explain I won’t be able to make an appointment till next spring. That’s fine but just as well I called in otherwise I would not have been confirmed as being registered with them. On returning this year one of my first port of calls was the dentists only to be told that they have my name on their files but I will have to be re-entered on the waiting list……, another two years. This would perhaps explain why here in the Outer Hebrides even with a large new dental training centre having been built alongside the hospital that character teeth remain such a common sight and that I will soon be mistaken for a local.Character forming teeth.

Hebridean Dreaming: Back home.

Hebridean Dreaming: Back home.: Mid May and all I felt was total frustration at travelling south back across the channel to Brittany rather than north to Tolsta. I had a...

Back home.

Mid May and all I felt was total frustration at travelling south back across the channel to Brittany rather than north to Tolsta. I had already found myself close to tears on several occasions during the latter half April when I allowed my thoughts to drift to the Outer Hebrides.

 The exhibition at the Victoria Gallery in Bath had been running since the end of February, ending on May 10^th and according to all involved had been a great success. More people got a chance to see my work than during the past 25 years of holding shows so that can only be seen as positive. I continued working on the needlework casket at the gallery, completing all four sides and ready to attach the braid however I longed to be stitching in the peace of my studio and not under the watchful eye of the general public.

Over the winter months Steve had continued the interior work on my new studio on Lewis and I was eager to see it in the flesh rather than a downloaded mobile phone snap shot. All that remained was to glue and pin hardboard flooring before I could start to install my studio furniture.

 The weekend spent back in Brittany was taken up almost exclusively with packing my newly acquired VW Transporter van, and when I say packing I mean every square inch. The vehicle took on a lower profile even before I started loading up a stack of large canvases onto the roof, wrapping them in a double layer of plastic, plenty of parcel tape and a cat’s cradle of rope that would ensure safe passage during the long drive to Ullapool. While overnighting with my brother in Cornwall I managed to squeeze just one more thing (a small gothic embroidered prayer chair) into the front seat of the van in the hopes that I myself could also if needs be sleep there with head tucked in-between rosewood legs.

 I was impatient to be heading north and determined to make an early start so I said my goodbyes the night before and pulled out of the driveway at ten to five with the curtains still firmly close at my brother’s bedroom window. The sun rose over the Tamar Valley then sunk again beyond Launceston through thick fog to be reborn as I climbed towards Oakhampton. Progress was good at this hour of the morning as I sped through the West Country leaving both Devon and Somerset behind by eight o’clock but coffee would be required before long. Although there were speed limits due to road works the traffic thankfully kept moving and with detour into Lancaster to fill up with fuel I found myself south of Glasgow by two o’clock. It was now totally possible to make it to Ullapool but could I even make it for the evening ferry. Speed restrictions on the A9 made that unlikely and as I approached Ullapool the ferry could be seen pulling away from the dock; I would be spending the night crammed in across the front seat of the van.

I found a perfect van camping spot high up on the track leading to the towns recycling and waste disposal depot with a view far out over the sea and while I have certainly spent more uncomfortable nights it was wonderful to be woken at half five by the reflected sun in the wing mirror that heralded a glorious day to be crossing the Minch. An early boarding meant I could get my favoured seat in the quiet area opposite the large fish eye lens photo of my beloved Garry beach where soon I hoped to be cutting my peat.

Friday 26^th May. Another beautiful day; having completed the hardboard floor I returned to the peat bank in the early afternoon cutting 300 peats and then a stroll down to the sea. The water was bitter cold only accentuated by the heat of the day but I managed a brief refreshing dip. The days are wonderfully long and having been here only a little over a week I amaze even myself with just how much I’ve managed to do with the vegetable garden back in production and potatoes, peas and cabbages planted.

Wednesday 7^th June. A glorious day with plenty of high cloud and a light breeze that kept the midges away. I’m really encouraged by how much things have grown apparently this winter was quite mild and there were no bitter east winds to burn back the spring shoots so the planting I’ve done over the past ten years is at last beginning to make a show and I can even boast of having trees……small trees. The ground dug out to build the studio has created two large banks which in themselves provide added shelter and perfect planting space; just now they topped with a forest of foxgloves.

 I don’t buy shrubs preferring to take cuttings from anything that looks to be doing well in the local municipal planting and Co-op car park. Although the plants are small they acclimatise well and I can overplant to help with getting them established. I despair of Tesco plants selection, they are obviously fans of global warming if they think that fig trees are going to produce beautiful dusky purple fruit as illustrated on the label and their aubergines simply haven’t sold.

Friday 16^th June. Already mid-June and I feel like I’ve only just arrived although I do recognise that I haven’t been idle. The studio is more or less ready to roll and I need only chose at date for next month’s opening. Tomorrow sees the grand opening of Grinneas nan eilean, the islands open exhibition at Stornoway’s art centre in which I submitted three oil paintings and a chance to meet up with other arts and craft people.    

Thank you.

Thank you or thanks…….., such an English thing, and often used or overused much like sorry. If we give our thanks at every possible opportunity this might be taken as good manners or it might just be seen as dulling down the sense of being truly grateful. I would say thank you to someone who had saved my life but perhaps not to my brother for having cooked us a meal. In that case the thanks would be taken as read and need not be heard. My brother cooks a meal while I cut the beech hedge, all part of the working day each has his job and when all is working well within a close team there is no need for thanks.

So with that in mind I would now like to thank all those who have taken time out over the past two months to visit my exhibition at the Victoria Gallery in Bath. There have been many who have travelled a considerable distance to spend time to stand in awe of the intricate stitching and marvel at my dogged persistence over the past three years to have produced such extra ordinary pieces of work. In recognition of this two magazines have chosen to run articles which appear in this month’s issues of Selvedge and the Embroiderer’s Guild magazine.

The sale of work has been good considering that there is a 42% in commission for the gallery. We must accept that in any form of retailing there will be such mark ups.  During time spent in the gallery the staff have been charming and helpful at every possible opportunity. I have been faced with an almost constant round of questions and comments from visitors. “You must have tremendous patients” is amongst the most common but in truth I have very little, what I do have is a tremendous curiosity to discover just what I am capable of creating. The excitement is continually present as I stitch to see just what change a few minutes with thread and needle will produce.

On show as work in progress has been a stump work casket which has been perhaps the star attraction. My line of research for this took me almost immediately to the Victoria and Albert Museum and the most exquisitely fine work done by Martha Edlin at the age of 11 years old in 1668. The casket which I had no intention of trying to reproduce is in perfect order and seems to have miraculously retained its original colours. I decided to stay clear of the human form but to concentrate on birds and butterflies in order to incorporate the widest range of colours from my stock of yarn. The box itself had been made over in Brittany by my friend Simon who in his retirement enjoys the challenge of something small scale rather than oak framed windows and doors. The bank of seven small interior draws I veneered in choice woods and turned up minute boxwood handles as well as lining the interiors with some old floral material discovered when recovering a Victorian easy chair. I had just enough old linen left to act as the support material and started by trawling through my Audubon’s bird book for ideas. On the lower half I kept to marshland and wading birds, and on the sloped section I turned to birds perched in the trees while the lid was reserved for birds in flight. Having drawn out my rough sketches I then turned to stitching on white cotton all the birds that would appear as raised work.

Starting with the two small doors then front slope and sides I spent the next three months over winter in Brittany and Cornwall stitching in the backgrounds. The result when fixed to the box was a riot of sumptuous colour, packed full of intense detail, a real feast for the eyes. However that was not the end of it as there remained the top and the entire back panel which owing to my attention being taken up with the exhibition in Bath looked like another three month project. The top came together reasonably quickly as the birds had already been stitched into place. I finished this off during the first week in Bath but then discovered it to be slightly too small length-ways so when fixing the embroidery I was obliged to cut each piece separately and even add a little more stitching at either end.       

I've been working on this 17 ^th century style casket for close on six months and the final back panel is nearing completion. Thanks to the best part of a day spent at the V&A Museum I have now settled on how I will construct the braid to finish all the outer edges. I am not a great fan of touchy feely museum experiences but the chance to have a go at making a short length of braid as used in the 17^th century enabled me to log and retain the technic just to the point where I could have a go using some tweed wool yarn. 

The alternating mix of colours should be a perfect way to frame the work.

There is a certain degree of selfishness involved in launching into such creative works in that I always consider the finished item will be for myself which more or less counts out any idea of taking on commissions. I had hoped to organise the continued exhibition of the six biblical works but this has proved to be too difficult for a man with my limited experience of modern day communication. So I will be taking them back to the Isle of Lewis where the idea of stitching using Harris Tweed yarn first bore fruit and either display them at home in New Tolsta or look for a suitable Hebridean exhibition venue. I am very conscious that I should have already been cutting peat by now and that it will be later on in May before I can attempt that if my back will stand it. There is so much to return to since this year I move my studio from the depths of Central Finistere to the splendid isolation of New Tolsta. To at last have a real studio with space to wield a brush and stand back from a larger canvas will be such a treat. I have plans to paint that have been brewing on the side for almost three years during my period of stitching. I can’t imagine throwing in the needle just yet but my creative output will I’m sure diversify once more.          

The Islands are calling.

Mid-March and the islands are calling, I’ve been away for over four months and still I must stay down south for another two months. If I didn’t have an exhibition in progress that requires my attention I’d be heading north right now. If April turns out to be dry then the call will be even greater as I have peat to cut this year, but I must wait until mid-May before the van is packed with my art materials to set my new studio.

 2016 saw the building of my very first purpose built studio and during my absence Steve has carried on through the dark winter months to get the interior insulated, electrics and plumbing fitted and the walls dry lined with larch boarding for the workroom.

There will be little signs of life in the garden as yet with buds firmly closed for at least another month before the risk of bitter winds subside. Two years ago I sowed masses of foxglove seed which gave a wonderful display during the summer months and into autumn. This year the show should be even more spectacular with the new planting area around the studio liberally scattered and good deal of daffodils planted. Unfortunately the bulbs will be over by the time I arrive. 

I planted about sixty beech trees, around forty as a hedge down the north side of the vegetable garden and the rest scatter in places that I hoped would afford some shelter. Gardening this far north and with harsh winter coastal gales is not without certain restrictions but all is dependent on shelter. One row of shrubs will not suffice as a wind break so a band of planting three to five meters in depth is required before it begins to act as protection for more tender plants. 

The orientation of the house and barn at No 17 New Tolsta is south facing which does little to interrupt strong winds from the North West however the land slopes down to the east and the croft which means I have selected that lowest area to create my vegetable garden. Even so it requires some protective netting and one year I recall a late summer breeze so strong it blew the cabbages out of the ground, since then I’ve learnt to heel them in well and bank them up. Fruit bushes seem to do quite well and I have high hopes for the gooseberries that put on good growth. The best production however seems always to come from the rhubarb although they do need checking that no rabbits have tunnelled under and made their nest. Rabbits are a continual problem for gardeners and crofters when even in the village cemetery the long buried are at times no longer at rest. Last year I waged war and managed to trap and dispatch a dozen or more. Two made a delicious hot pot and the rest went to feeding the local hoody crows and buzzards. This year I’ll be late to arrive so while the man’s away the rabbits will hopefully not do too much damage.

I try each year to let out the house and during the summer months hope to welcome those tourists who venture this far north, however while five years ago they came now there are no takers. I realise times are harder and people will often elect for guaranteed sun, but judging by the amount of television interest I would have thought someone would have wanted to discover that true croft house experience. Escape to a world were coastal wilderness is paramount and television, telephones and internet connection simply don’t exist. Or are we all wired up?