RETURNING TO GLASGOW

My first impressions of Glasgow during the taxi ride from the airport into the city centre, was where did it go, that black beauty from my childhood memories. It had been over sixty years since I’d last been here. A bus full of children on a five day trip to Glasgow, picked up along the way from Campbeltown to Lochgilphead to have their tonsils removed. Back in the late 50’s this was seen as quite normal, a simple operation to eliminate any chance of tonsillitis in future years. In my case it wasn’t simple. I’d had a haemorrhages and grew progressively weaker. On my arrival back in Campbeltown I collapsed and mother took me immediately to the cottage hospital. There they stuck a pin in my thumb and tried to get blood. I could hear from along the corridor Dr MacPhail shouting down the phone, “How dare you send a child home in such a condition, he’s got no blood in him!” There followed a month’s recuperation, much of it spent in a cot out in the back court yard of our fine Arts and Craft home of Kildalloig. The estate ran to 1000 acres plus the island of Davaar, and it seemed punishment indeed to be pending so much of that summer in bed. Now, I could only hope that my visit would be one with a happier outcome.

As we pulled up at the IWC Offices I was already in a state of shock reeling at the Disney World tragedy that modern architecture had become. This first stop was for a covid test. Whisked upstairs and before I knew it a charming clinician was probing the inner passages of my sinuses in an attempt at a

 frontal lobotomy. I felt totally lop sided for the rest of the day and wished she’d reamed out the other side while she was at it. No amount of nose blowing seemed to have the desired effect.

The early morning flight times from Stornoway meant I now had 5 hours to kill before I could gain access to my hotel room. I left my back pack at the check in desk and headed off in search of Glasgow, I was sure I could see it somewhere around Limington Park. A stroll across the footbridge to the north side of the Clyde revealed the brutal architecture that was BBC Scotland, and it seemed a concerted effort had been made during the redevelopment to design buildings that would echo the harshness of the old dockyard area. The planting of trees had gone a long way to making the dockside walk a reasonably pleasant experience and popular with more cyclists than pedestrians. 

Weaving my way north I encountered some impressive street art between freeway and railway, art to rival any Banksi. It wasn’t long before the first glimpses of what Glasgow had been started to emerge. 

 

A fine red brick buildings on the corner of Stoke Hill Street, and another domed proclaiming the Messiah has come to Baitur Rahman Mosque at the corner of Haugh road. 

The facade of this Glasgow was a lot cleaner than the Glasgow of my childhood. That black Glasgow had no traffic light crossings and policemen directed traffic and busy junctions. My father would panic and desperately ask my mother “What’s he want me to do?” When we stopped at one such junction I remember seeing a heavily whiskered gentleman of the road digging deep into a waste bin. He came up with a big grin on his brown face and a cream bun in his hand. He took a big mouthful and cream spilled out into his whiskered jowls. I was pleased for him and wished mother would buy such delicious looking buns as a change from drop scones. I discovered later what these synthetic cream filled delights taste like, and a better appreciation of my mother’s cooking.I soon discovered that this brighter Glasgow was still dirty, not from the burning of coal but from discarded tin cans and plastic trash, and although easily removed the inability of humans to dispose of their rubbish responsibly is baffling to me.

 I eventually made it to Kelvingrove and the park, climbing over the iron fencing through the woods and understory of giant hog weed to the Kelvin River. Although water levels were obviously down it made a pleasant change to hear rushing water when back on Lewis most of the loch fed burns had dries up. What a delight, and a discovery I could have almost believed was mine alone if it wasn’t for the profusion of drinks cans. I was once again reminded of Lord Byron’s words.

 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods

There is a rapture on the lonely shore

There is society where none intrude

By the deep sea, and beauty in its roar:

I love not man the less but beauty more.

 Making my way back up to the towpath I passed over a bridge bedecked with fine bronze sculptures depicting bygone arts and crafts. The air was heady with the smell of lime blossom and I realised my arrival in Glasgow was perfectly timed for harvesting. I managed to acquire a paper bag from a young woman and started plucking, wondering why nobody else was partaking of such a bounteous harvest. It would seem city dwellers of today have no knowledge of lime blossom infusions, but would quite likely purchase the tea bag equivalent.

On retracing my way back to the hotel I was shocked to see an entire wall of spray paint art had now disappeared under a fresh coat of black paint. I could only hope that it was the artist him, or herself who had organised this in preparation for another masterpiece. Perhaps a sign of our times and the thirst for change, while in Leonardo’s days, payment meant appreciation and preservation of The Last Supper. 

                    

By the following morning as I looked out from my bedroom window across the docks to a crisp clear sunrise I felt I had arrived even if I was still undecided as to what could be going on inside such peculiar forms as the Armadillo building directly opposite the Premier Inn.

 I hadn’t managed to find the Glasgow of my childhood, the coal black grime of yesteryears has gone, but beyond the fabulously ornate veneer of past wealth and modern opulence lies the problematic Scotch glue of shame. I had discovered a changed and changing 21^st century Glasgow that had managed to retain in the face of brutal progress its former glory. During my return trip to the airport the taxi driver made sure to take me via the vast red brick mecca of Ibrox stadium. I was lost for words. Many words did spring to mind, but for once I managed to keep my trap shut. I might yet want to return.                           

STUDIOS OPEN TO VISITORS.

 

From Thursday 22^nd July to Saturday 24^th and again the following 29^th to 31^st my studio along with others from Tong to Tolsta will be open to the public. For me this will be the first time in approaching two years that Studio 17 has been open to all. Close observers will have noticed that the open sign has already been up for the past six weeks but beneath this is written “by appointment”. I figured if the world had changed then I might as well change along with it. So while people take it as read that one must make an appointment before seeing the doctor, dentist, solicitor, and many other professionals, I saw little harm in adding myself to that list. The only difference being that there is no obvious way of making an appointment since I have no phone line, mobile phone or internet connection. 

This is where a creative mind is required. For those in no rush there is the good old written request by Royal Mail, and for those who do not have the luxury of time and are simply passing through, then I do have a front door. On this door is a box containing brochures indicating what can be seen within the studio, and if this is indeed seen as interesting then there is a door bell to ring, which can lead to an on the spot viewing. 

The B895 road from Stornoway continues another mile and a half beyond the cattle grid at New Tolsta turning to a rough track beyond Garry Bridge for a further mile along the coast and the beginning of the heritage moorland walk to Ness. The beaches of Traigh Mhor and Traigh Ghearadha are great attractions and see their car parks full to overflowing on sunny days throughout the summer. Visitors start arriving from first light, often there to exercise both themselves and their dogs, and even late into the evening cars and camper van make the pilgrimage. The vans to park up overnight and recently with the finer weather many have been braving the midges and camping. However there are those who simply go to the end of the road and turn round; no getting out for a stroll along the beach, no stopping to take in the view, simply turn around in the car park and head back. It seems the idea of going for a spin in the car (something my parents’ generation did on Sundays when fuel was cheap and motoring on the open road could be regarded as a pleasure), is still something that even the younger generation contemplate. Whether young or old most have been to the end of the B895 before, and now take such beauty in their stride. Like a familiar picture on the wall that has ceased to register as it once did. They would notice immediately if it had gone, but not if someone had added an extra signature. 

 These recognised beauty spots we locals often take for granted, while many visitors can only look on in envy at how lucky anyone could be to live in such a place. I have noticed on my evening walk there are fewer energy and alcohol drinks cans discarded during the summer months, which tells me that those who chuck litter from their cars are in fact local people. I imagine these people assume that nature deals with this sort of recyclable rubbish since it seems to disappear. Over the past nine months it’s been me who has religiously cleared the verges and ditches of this trash, and in doing so have noticed a definite reduction in litter. There are other visitors however who are on the “I spy a beach” trip. For those younger reader this is harping back to the sixties and seventies when children were encouraged to tick off various things seen and illustrated in small “I spy books”, which would hopefully keep them from asking, are we there yet, on long car journeys. This “I spy with my little eye” type of entertainment was at least encouraging children to look at their surrounding and not into a tiny smart phone game. The bean their seen that attitude still persists and I often see visitors who must be on a very tight schedule, who do the box-ticking turn around, not even bothering with a selfy photo.

These people I would never expect to be interested in looking at art or anything else not on the ittinery. However there are those who travel at a pace so slow that they are looking for things to fill their time. Galleries and tearooms are certainly on their list of things to do, and what better way to while away the hours, if it’s turned out to be a dull day and the midges are out. These are the people my by appointment is aimed at, just sufficient to prevent them from wasting my time. The sign has been most effective and in during the past weeks I have only had one customer out of the many thousands that have passed, which has enabled me to be productive both in the studio and garden.