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.