FREESTYLE WEAVING ON A HARRIS TABLE LOOM.

 

As we approach mid-winter conditions remain unusually mild and the colours of autumn persist. Walking along the ridge behind my house and studio the last of the low sun enriches the colours at my feet. Heather shows the fresh green of unseasonable new growth, and while the withered sedges tremble in a stiff breeze the turgid lichens and mosses thrive knee deep on the waterlogged heath.

 

No matter what time of year one choses to walk over this coastal moorland the colours of the yarn used in the manufacture of Harris Tweed are always present. This year has unsurprisingly seen a slowing down in the cottage industry manufacture. There have been exceptions to this where enterprising weavers have adapted to online sales with stunning new tweeds. The range of colours now produced by the Harris Tweed Company is extra ordinary and it is the remnants from those bobbins that allows me to play on my own Harris Table Loom. The loom being small only allows me to weave about eight meter of cloth at any one time, but within those meters there are endless possibilities. Working a hand loom is very different to the foot peddled loom in that it is a much slower process. The lack of speed is fully compensated by the possibilities to change colours and style of weave at will. A friend informed me recently that she had timed herself on her old narrow loom at a meter of cloth in seven minutes. I would be lucky to produce one inch in the same time. One must also never forget the time it takes for warping out, transferring it onto the loom and then threading the headless before winding onto the beam. The colours chosen within the warp will also dictate what the overall look of the cloth will be. I this case I chose a repeated banding of lichen green with a contrasting deep blue green, which was enlivened with white and red. If woven with a weft of the same width this would produce a checker pattern or tartan. I try to choose colours as randomly as possible, however there is always a tendency to select contrasting colours in order to achieve a dramatic result. The cloth is made throughout with doubled yarn which again adds more scope for colour mixing and I have up to three different shuttles operating at any one time. So this give me six different colours and seven combination even before deciding on the weave. The resulting freestyle of colours and weave gives a totally unique constantly changing. The next stage will be deciding how to use the cloth, but that is for another time. For now I’m simply enjoying to result.

 There are times in the midst of winter when the day seems to revolve around the kitchen table and the warmth of the Rayburn. It might be baking, cleaning copper and brass, continuing the latest needlework project or gluing tiny shells to some dolls house furniture. Last week it was repairing the upholstery of my father’s old rosewood gothic prayer chair. I could never imagine my father using it for such a purpose and myself even less likely. It is however an ideal height for sitting to put on my shoes each morning without having to bend.

While re-sewing the roping around the seat I had time to fully appreciate the fine needlework in the back panel and the subject it depicted. If on a clear day I look out across the Minch from the bottom of the croft and the mainland is visible then the most striking part of that horizon is the fantastic Torridonian sandstone hill of Suilven. At 732m its extraordinary shape seen from the west or east is due to its extreme thinness. From north or south it also has a distinctive shape of steep west frontal cliff and rounded top called Casteal Liath (the grey castle), then a dip and a lesser knob before a gentler slope to the east. Suilven means pillar. 

I realised the needlework depicted Suilven seen from the east since the shadowed north side is on the right. The view on the seat needlework would therefore most logically represent Loch na Gainimh. 

In Victorian times views of the remote Scottish wilderness were very popular and although my father bought the chair way down south in Cornwall it seems appropriate that it now resides within sight of Suilven, due west across the Minch.

NIGHT WALKING

 

It would seem strange at this time of year, already late November, to start walking in the dark. Surely it would be better to take a walk during daylight hours, and preferably during those precious all too brief moments when the sun is out. Well yes, that also. I had already taken a stroll over the hill to the village shop for parcel tape and more ibuprofen. Dorothy advised me behind her mask not to get them muddled.  Dusk shortly after four and dark by five, the moon two thirds full, the wind has dropped an intermittent showers hopefully passed. Wrapped up warm and weather proof I step outside, heading up to the road junction and the two brilliantly blinding orange street lamps. I turn right and head downhill, pausing just beyond Roddy’s bungalow and the orange glow I shut my eyes and count to thirty. The full night walking team would normally be Kate and her border terrier Rusty, and Donald with his young collie sheep dog Laddie. Tonight it’s just me, no torch, no chat, no barking. Opening my eyes I can now make out the horizon, the high ridge and buzzards eyrie, and all importantly the road. The cattle grid is another thirty yards on and I search the ground before me. It’s only half seven but my eyes are quickly becoming accustomed to the dark. The edge of the road is indicated by the puddled water and soon the damp bitumen shows lighter. The moon is behind me, my own massive head torch. The evening mild, only a slight breeze and I lower my hood so as to hear the water running in the ditches, which give way to the rowdy burn running under the road.  Winding and descending I make my way past the Traigh Mhor turning. The noise level increases as I pass over the crashing cascades of a larger burn then stride out along the straight stretch above the inlet. The moon has cleared no longer veiled by low wispy cloud and the below me the crashing of the luminous waves indicate the tide is well out. Rounding the corner there is a light up ahead. At first I think it might be Donald’s head torch but quickly realise it’s far too bright for that. Beyond the dazzle I see more lights and the form becomes clear. A parked up camper van, and once again I hold my hand up to the inquisitive glare of the light aimed at me. I plod on and offer a polite good evening in passing, wondering what they must things of the mysterious night walker. Reaching the high ground above Garry beach I would normally swing my legs over the fence and head down along the cliff tops, perhaps on a clear full moon evening but definitely not now as a large raven’s head of a cloud slips briskly across the face of the moon creating beyond a precipitous dark gulf. I lean against the fence and search the sky. Mars, tinged pink and un-twinkling is due south but the night sky is confusingly overcast the constellations buried in scud-clouds. Time to head back as more clouds approach. Silvered insulating privacy on the camper vans windscreen and time for bed. The road home is clear as the moon slips once more from the gathering clouds. My pace doesn’t alter on the uphill section, the night removing all sense of its steepness. The final stretch is more like entering the outskirts of a street lit town as my night vision is blinded by artificial light. Beneath the lamps all is a warm glow but beyond my house is invisible and once again I wonder what purpose there is in street lighting when people already have their own outside lights if they really feel it’s needed. So who decided it was necessary for a hand full of houses way out here in New Tolsta, and what was their reasoning? Do we need to think it through again and if it is indeed not needed how can we get it removed? Only having passed the glare can I once again see the familiar chimney outline of croft 17. As I open the door the last bus passes, lit up like a fairground stall, and empty.         

TODAY WILL BE A GOOD DAY

 

Today’s protracted autumn sunrise starts noticeably further south. Just as in the summer the sun’s journey begins and ends further north so now with the approach of winter it slips south, the original snow flake.

I sense the night releasing its grip and by six there is light squeezing it way past the bedroom curtains. This is the waking hour. It has taken me years to appreciate this part of the recovery process, wandering aimlessly through the tail end of dreams into consciousness. Gone are the days when in my thirties I would leap from bed the instant my eyes opened, impatient to get started, the early bird determined to catch the worm. Contentment has dowsed the eager flames of haste and I now have time to savor the moment and choose what I would like to achieve in the approaching daylight hours.

By seven and without switching on a light I can see my way down stairs. Outside no a breath of wind, silent apart from the rhythmical roar of waves drifting up across machair and crofts. The narrow band of dawn glows orange sandwiched between the silhouetted land and sober sky, Sunrise will be a brief affair.

Taking out warm riddled ashes, embers glowing, revived in the cool fresh air. Beneath the muscular underbelly of clouds the colour has drained from the horizon. Returning outside to refill the coal scuttle and heave in a sack of peat the sky has split ragged with hope that the sun will indeed make an early appearance. The friendly robin chirps its greeting, impatient that I start my day in the garden, disturbing ground and insect life.

Just before eight the school bus passes and shortly after the light begins to soften the cloud cover. Today will be a good day.

   

GETTING OUT

 

It’s important to get out, I told myself, even on days like this. Important for both physical and mental health. I’d missed the brief fifteen minutes of sun around two o’clock and the approaching storm was surely not far off, so it was now or never. Donning full wet weather gear and a woolly bonnet of my father’s I ventured forth. I’d adapted the hat specifically for this sort of blustery conditions by knitting extra ear flaps and securing straps and with the water proof hood strings tied tightly under my chin I was ready for whatever the remainder of the day had to throw at me.

Walks are not planned, they just happen and my trajectory today would be dictated by the south-south-westerly wind. So shutting and locking the door behind me I stepped out. I would not normally lock the door but with the wind face on to the front of the house I felt uneasy relying solely on the latch. There is a knack to closing it and if someone came calling in my absence I didn’t want to risk the door not being securely closed. Head down I made my way up to the T junction and turned right, downhill towards the beach. The ditches were full to brimming with peat stained water and at the culvert it gurgled and thrashed impatient to reach its destiny. Like a reluctant child I was being nudged forward by the wind’s parental guidance. Two cars passed as I stood to one side and decided it would be safer to cross burn and fence for the softer ground. I watched as both dog-less cars carried on along the dead end coast road to Garry and wondered if they would quit the comfort of their vehicles for the beach. I followed the mill stream transformed into an angry torrent, churning and cleaving the land, spilling voluptuous over the granite boulders, forming newly found falls. Staying to the sheep tracks high above the car park I discovered a moment’s calm and ewes grazing contentedly on whatever tasty growth the machair had to offer in late autumn. Down on the dunes it was a different matter as the coarse grass bent seaward and wet sand drifted low across Traigh Mhor beach. Three people and a leash straining dog made their way back to the car as I turned and headed into the wind. Here it had the uninterrupted mile and a half of beach to show its full force, whipping arches of celebratory spray from foaming white crests. Hungrily the towering waves devoured brown peaty moorland waters. The riot of noise from my flapping hood deafening. The painful sting of fine rain on my face, plodding on, head down seaweed at my feet interred beneath the shifting sands. Leaning into the wind I staggered forward at times halting as the wind held me in its grip. Barely quarter of the way along I gave up the struggle and made for the relative calm of the dunes. There along with the sheep, beneath the steep slopes of the machair I found a moment rest bite. But this is a walk and must be continued if the circuit is to be completed, and a cup of hot tea and cake the reward. It’s uphill and thankfully more sheltered but I zigzag none the less along sheep trod terracing. At the brow I take the final step up, headlong into the gale-force wind.  If I am to make the gate and track home there is no alternative. I totter drunkenly on, deafened by the din of the flapping waterproof hood. A brief look up for direction, I locate the gate and press on leaning forward, crazily determined. I find myself singing or more accurately shouting defiant nothingness, roaring in the face of this wonderful force of nature. I’m here, part of it, alive.

Making the gate I clamber through the gap at the hinged end and turn sideways now up the track. This is a different sort of stagger, a different sort of intoxication, an old persons teetering wobbly advancement but what am I at 67 if not advancing in years. Passing George’s house I raise a hand as I catch sight of him at the kitchen window. He at least won’t think I’m mad. He’d understand that need to be out in it, feeling everything, all cobwebs removed. On the road again the wind is at my back pushing and shoving me relentlessly homeward. Walking is not the usual left right rhythm as I lurch irregularly forward trying not to trip over my own feet or to end up sprawled on the tarmac. A brief interlude of calm as I pass the treed hollow before croft thirteen to fifteen and ahead my own front door awaits, within the centrally heated warmth of my new peat fired Rayburn. The old £60 faithful of the past twelve years, finally rusting and leaking, confined only two days ago to the back yard. The new bright and shiny but decidedly more efficient arrived, equally efficiently a day early from Gloucestershire and with help from neighbours was installed and running by mid-afternoon.              

A CLOSER LOOK.

 

I’ve been right up close to the painting this past fortnight with reading glasses on and small brushes for detailed work. The subject is inspired by those wonderful 17^th century botanical Dutch masterpieces that became popular around the time of tulip mania. No flower has carried more political, social, economic, religious, intellectual and cultural influence. The tulip reigned supreme throughout Europe during the extra ordinary events of the 17^th century.

I once hoped to buy a pair of these botanical painting at a house sale down in Cornwall. I was encouraged by the auctioneer’s estimate of £500-£1000, but could see there would be competition. I looked at my bank account and decided I could go to £9000. On the day of the auction, the price rose quickly to £3000, and then stopped, so I prepared to raise my hand. Someone else joined in and off it went again, faltering at £7500. Still I could not raise my hand as yet another continued the bidding. It passed my limit but I wasn’t taking any notice of that and at £12000 was prepared to take a chance. Thankfully it took off once more and didn’t stop till they were finally sold for £23000, a bargain for the person who had the funds and satisfying well beyond my resources. So, having an aversion to anything other than the original, I must now paint my own in homage to what I could never have afforded. I’ve incorporated all manner of bulbs that includes corms such as cyclamen and anemones and will add some insect life before completion.

Although I admire such detailed work this is not at the exclusion of more abstract and loose brush work. A point in question is a large oil that I have known since childhood by Thomas Hunt.

It always took pride of place in my parent’s house and now it graces mu parlour wall. A suitably romantic vision of a highland glen with cattle it also displays a wonderful technic in foreground work which I like to call clean off the brush, and here close in you find the painterly abstract quality of the piece. Just as much a joy as the fine controlled illustrative brushwork of the 17^th century.

LIGHTING THE WAY.

 

I left the studio late the other night. On moon-lit evenings there is no problem in negotiating the fifteen meters walk along the back of the barn to the back door. However this night it was pitch black so I was relying on familiarity to guide my passage. It led me to turn one step to soon and collide with the granite corner. No harm done but thought it about time I add a torch to my shopping list. Just as I did this the following morning I immediately crossed it off. Why was I contemplating buying a battery operated plastic light when I already had a perfectly good lantern.

I came across the lantern some thirty years ago on the west coast of Ireland, when as an antique dealer I was buying furniture. When I asked Simon Quilligan how much he wanted for it he looked perplexed. I’d already spent several thousand pounds with him and a broken box lantern had no real value. “Sure you can take that as a present” he said and for the next twenty five years it hung from a wooden peg in the stairwell of my house in Brittany, complete with candle but never lit. I had repaired the tin funnel and made a door for the back but this summer I decided it needed a further going over, so replaced the broken glass and added a reflecting mirror on the inside of the door. It was packed into the van for my return to Lewis and now, at last it could be put into service. My perfect pre-electric torch, that has the added benefit of warming your hands as you carry it.    

WHAT DID YOU DO DURING THE MONTHS OF LOCK-DOWN?

 

For the first time in over a decade I have spent the summer months in Brittany remaking acquaintance with my sorely neglected garden. Years of abandon had seen a serious reserve of weed seed build up plus some sort of pernicious creeping sow thistle that would regrow from the smallest section of root. During the lockdown period I devoted at least part of each day to clearing, digging and manuring and was pleasantly surprise just what can be achieved by methodical persistence. Perhaps that should really come as any great revelation since my work with embroidery entails a similar mind set. Unable to travel back north to the Hebrides it seemed logical to start growing as much food as I could and by late June the freezer was three quarters full and trips to the supermarkets were considerably reduced.

Then restrictions reduced and the holiday period was in full swing. Never have we seen so many people in Finistere, presumably they decided to come to Brittany because we were clean and to all practical purposes free from covid. Not for long though and so I returned to my garden and studio. It wasn’t until early August that I realised that in living alone I had made no physical contact with another human since mid-March. My home and studio in New Tolsta was calling; with that panoramic view down the croft to the Minch and the north east coast of Lewis, so I booked my ticket for the day after a dental appointment on the 8^th September in the hopes that I would be able before then to have harvested the bulk of the fruit and vegetables. The seasons are definitely changing and everything seems almost a month in advance which has meant that the apples are picked and stored, the slow gin is made and the hazel nuts are drying. Unfortunately the walnuts will not be ready before I leave so I’ve asked a friend to collect them in a few weeks’ time. Similarly the bumper crop of quince and meddlers will not be ready, but those will be harder to find anyone to gather as the former requires work to prepare jelly, and the later rotting fruit few people, apart from myself and Henry VIII seem to like or know what to do with.

My embroidery project over the summer months has been a stitched book and to that end I have completed over half. The wooden framed pages are hinged together using a boxwood mechanism which to my delight has worked out perfectly despite not first making a trial prototype. There was no fixed theme for the pages and I have stitched very much according to what came to mind.

There is a wide range of stitching and technics used to create each page, and while some derive influence from 18^th century samplers others are very contemporary using the attestation we required here whenever we left the house during the covid lock-down period. Other pages use a mixture of technics with appliqué and embroidery as in the two pages of the bear trap (a view of man’s extra ordinary ability to constantly create traps for himself). I estimate that by the end of the year the project should be nearing completion.

Meanwhile I prepare for the journey north and the knowledge that I have a further two weeks quarantine to complete on arrival and a second and very different garden that requires my attention.    

Stitched by Tom Hickman

 

A book can take many forms, not simply a printed text and illustrations but something that in itself is a work of art. Throughout the seventeenth and early eighteenth century embroidered stitchery was often employed on book covers. I took this as my point of inspiration and during last winter while still in Western Australia I started my stitched book. Since then I have concentrated my creative needlework entirely to the pages of this book and estimate it will take the rest of 2020 to complete. Each panel or page measure 30cm x 40cm, while the book itself has a concertina form, standing on bun feet and when open is self-supporting. I had given little thought to how these needlework panels could be bound. It was only after several months of stitching that the idea of framing each one in wood and incorporating a wooden hinged mechanism evolved. To execute this I called on my furniture making friend Simon Tyler. Over the years I have worked with him on various projects and he has made not only furniture for me but all the oak windows of my Breton farm house. Like myself Simon did not stop work on reaching retirement age but now tends to concentrate on what gives him pleasure. At the moment that as playing his banjo as well as making himself a new banjo. It sounded as if my concertina book was going to be equally complicated to construct as that banjo.

There is something very special in a friendship that allows you to work in someone else’s studio or workshop and Simon’s is a space that has seen an exceptional creative output over the past twenty years.

Most people would have made a scale model in order to see if worked but I moved straight on to the finished item confident that it would work. I have as yet only assembles three of the double sided pages but already I can see the finished book will look impressive. It was back in April during the period of covid confinement when we were required to carry an attestation with us every time we left the house, which stated by way of box ticking one of the valid reasons for being out. If when inspected by the Gendarmes it was discovered to be incorrectly filled out on inspection an on the spot 130 euro fine could be imposed. Walks of up to one kilometre from the house and for one hour were permitted but I found myself on more than one occasion crouching behind a talus (stone and earth field hedge similar to those found in Cornwall), just in case the sound of that rare approaching car turned out to be the Gendarmes. Those printed attestations became the inspiration for another page.

Brittany was almost clear of covid during that period but now that the government has decided that everyone requires a period of regeneration (would that because people’s work or the stress of being confined was degenerating, or was it referring to those businesses relying on tourism). Tourists flocked here bringing the virus with them and a corresponding “R” rate of 2.5 around the coast. I have twice seen couples thumbing a lift on the outskirts of local towns and although the main music festival in Carhaix was cancelled this summer there are plenty of smaller uncontrolled events. During that blessedly peaceful period of confinement one of my walks took me past a remarkable oak tree that has little changed during the thirty years I have known it, and so before it came into leaf I captured its form in tweed wools.

Including both front and back cover there will be in total 24 pages to the book which will require in order to be opened out and read a good size farmhouse kitchen table.         

EATING FROM THE GARDEN

Trips to the supermarket are less frequent these days with the vegetable plot starting to feed me well. The first row of potatoes dug with both surprise and disappointment, firstly to find them so monstrously large and secondly that the chitted potatoes I discovered in a sack under the sink were obviously main-crop and no good as early new potatoes, lesson learnt. Mange tout peas now in full swing as is Swiss chard, Rocket, beetroot, carrots, courgettes and salad. In the fruit garden that had been abandoned for years the crop of black currents was remarkable and what the French call groseille was even better. Gooseberries or maquereau-groseille were limited having suffered in their neglect as well as being swamped by moss and lichen. The raspberries went wild but are producing a small bowel full each evening while the rhubarb is thriving with the dressing of manure, (15lbs picked today). A borrowed chest freezer is filling fast and the preserves cupboard has already a healthy store of strawberry jam. The pollination was disappointing on the pears but a couple of the apple trees are seriously laden.  

If as I suspected the bees were late to work this spring, now I certainly see them hard at work and none more so than in the lime tree. The scent of the blossom is heady in the garden and as I pluck bags-full of flowers for tilleul I’m accompanied by the buzzing din of bees. Somewhere there is some beautiful lime scented honey being made.

I am reminded that nobody need go hungry around here, but even though in other years during my absence I’ve told friends to help themselves it would seem that few made the effort. The supermarket is so convenient and everything is beautifully presented ready wrapped in plastic so why would anyone choose to spend hours picking it from the bushes or even worse getting grubby when digging it from the ground. Similarly I remember hearing a woman having been promised a braise of pheasants from the local farmer’s shoot being shocked to be presented with them still with feathers and not oven ready.

STRAWBERRIES AND CHAMPAGNE.

I know of few better ways to start the day than with a bowl of muesli and yogurt topped off with wild strawberries. Strawberries collected fresh from the garden, still with that chill of morning dew rather than the fridge. Money can’t buy this and such fruit do not come packed in little plastic containers. In years pasted I have cursed the invasiveness of the wild strawberries but being unable to be up on Lewis and having to spend the summer in Brittany has meant the garden has once again received my attention. Due to an exceptionally dry period the task of getting back some sort of control has been easier than expected with fewer weeds growing back in the powder dry soil. Watering has been essential and now I’m beginning to taste the benefits and am already eating Swiss chard and mange tout peas.
The dry conditions has also meant no problems with slugs or snails as they hide away in whatever cool damp spot they can find. Having left the garden fallow for the past decade it was pleasing to see a healthy population of slow worms plus a mass of millipedes and a few very large old toads. Creeping sow thistle has been the only real problem with hours spent breaking up the soil and trying to remove every last trace, then digging several more times as the inevitable tiny remaining rhizomes start to regrow. The potatoes went in first in late March and look strong and healthy with hopefully plenty going on below ground. I’ve planted loads of cherry tomatoes outside and hoping that blight will not be a problem, certainly if it continues to remain dry. I had to restart the strawberry patch with fresh plants from a neighbour so there are not many this year but he has them by the bucket full and jam making is in full swing.

When trees are under stress then flowering is the first option of survival and back in April the valley was full of cherry blossom. When the wind came great clouds of white filled the sky and the roads in places received a powdering of snowy petals. Unfortunately the fruit setting has been minimal with many apple trees have no fruit at all for the second year. The Elder trees however have been glorious and my first batch of Elderflower champagne is ready to drink. This is the taste of summer and while my morning tipple might be an infusion of freshly gathered mixed herbs the rest of the day my thirst is quenched with champagne.   

 

Two very different little girls.

On my three month over winter trip to Western Australia I carried with me one small back pack that passed as hand luggage. Within I had enough tweed and wool to keep me occupied and an absolute minimum of clothing. Fortunately in the shocking heat of Australia little in the way of clothing is required. WA was fortunate in not suffering the massive fires that raged for months in the east but the support and aid sent was impressive. Now the world has changed and the human race has other things to occupy its mind. Corona virus meant little to me when I first heard of it in mid-January, then I assumed it would be just another one of those Asian flu things that would probably be over before my due date of return on the 4^th March. However by then it had already become pandemic and during my flight back via Singapore we were all masked up. I was a couple of days in London and little seemed to have changed although I made sure I touched nothing while on public transport. Each day brought more foreboding news of Italy being closed down and the epicenter now having moved to Europe. Two days after arriving back in Brittany I had a small local exhibition of my work opening on the Saturday afternoon and a workshop to follow on the Monday morning. It never happened since lock-down was imposed and we passed into a period isolation, which just happens to be my norm so little inconvenience. After only a couple of days I realised my only form of outside entertainment had been seriously polluted by the virus and so contented myself with creative exploits and the resurrection of my sadly neglected garden. It was also obvious that there would be no way of returning to the Isle of Lewis and that I must resume a life in Lezele for this summer. 

On the creative front I have launched into another long project, this time to stitch a book. I’m on the eighth page, each measuring 30x40cm and in no particular order, they will cover a miscellaneous variety of images and subject matter. Things that I find interesting amusing or simply transfers well into a stitched form. An example of this was the two images inspired by a friend’s six year old daughter. I find it fascinating that when children visit my studio and see me at work they are never intimidated but rather inspired to create something. Then they do what no adult would do and give me as a present the picture they have produced, assuming that because I create so many I will be delighted to accept theirs. I this case Georgian had depicted two images of herself in a fantasy world and with a little manipulation they transformed well to applique embroidery. The first shows Georgina with cherry red lips and two fluffy white dogs. Those dogs have blue glass bead eyes which proved all important when it came to the second image of Bill-Linda. The angry man seems more upset by the fact she didn't shut the gate than that all his fluffy white dogs have been savaged. On close inspection you wil note that Bill-Linda is carrying an I-bag.