NEW TOLSTA EMBROIDERED TWEED MAP.

 

The idea of a patchwork map of New Tolsta crofts had been simmering for well over a year before I started stitching strips of Harris Tweed together in the summer of 2017. From the outset I wanted to follow my principals of using as much recycled materials as possible, and in the end the hanging turned out to be made entirely from recycled fabric and thread. Over the previous ten years I’d been collecting end of bobbin yarn and offcut scrap tweed from local weavers. For a base support I got an old woollen blanket from the local hospice charity shop.

I really don’t know what I’m doing when I first start any stitched piece, but I trust that if I stick with it something will start to make sense. Working from various printed maps along with a lot of on the ground observation I managed to draw up a design that would fit the blanket. The map originally had a panel freeze across the top with sheep, but in order to include the top end of the village this had to go. False starts are quite common and don’t faze me as they serve to give a clearer picture of what I want to achieve, and in this case it was principally about the map. The offset angle of the crofts allowed space for the village name to be appliqued at the top. The map was never going to be exact as far as scale and by compressing the machair and dunes area I able to incorporate some of the beach and segment of sea. There are 18 crofts in New Tolsta and No 18 has been divided lengthways. Each croft has dividing fences, which create two or more fields for grazing and a gated access onto the machair. Common grazing on the moor is rarely used these days, but the best lambs are said to be those born and raised on the moor. I wanted to keep the portion of the moor that shows the northerly limit of the old Tolsta farm with the single track road continuing on beyond the cattle grid and down to Traigh Mhor beach. This enable me to include a very important part of the history of man’s occupation of these islands, in the days before potatoes arrived and when grain needed to be ground. There are vestiges of two Nordic mills on the burn running out of Loch na Muilne, along with other ancient structure situated on this lower part.

The predominant stitched used in the construction phase was blanket stitch. The burns and drainage ditches were mostly back stitch, which along with constructed features such as houses and barns gave added stability to the structure. I wanted the map to have a sense of history so included any ancient ruined structures stitched using white tweed yarn. These included the remains of black houses and barns still visible on the crofts as well old walls. The older croft houses were stitched in yellow while the more modern structures were in orange. On my little fewed off quarter acre patch all three colours are shown with the remains of ancient walls, black house and barn, along with the original early 19^th century Tolsta Farm stone barn and 20^th century crofter cottage, plus my new studio completed in 2017 and where the assembly and embroidery took place.

The first phase of embroidery was the livestock and that was principally sheep. For the fleeces I used an old crocheted white woollen scarf that a friend gave when visiting in Western Australia. She thought I could perhaps unravel the wool for reuse, but I found simply cutting a section out and couching it directly on gave a good impression of the Black face fleece.

I had already used this same technique for the smaller pictures of sheep on tweed that had proved very popular with the general public, and which had become somewhat of a signature for my embroidery work. In 2019 the map hanging went on show for the first time at An Lanntair in Stornoway during my exhibition “All that I do”, as work in progress, but already it drew a lot of interest as artwork that was very relevant to the islands crofting community, as well as crossing that flexible boundary between arts and craft. While I had already embroidered around forty different flora and fauna I knew this was just the start of something that could be added to over the years. Since then it has been exhibited in a pre-Christmas show in London where on Battersea Bridge Road it proved an arresting sight. New Tolsta was now truly on the map, but there was a lot more to follow. The embroidery work continued, more wild flowers were stitched as well as butterflies. The diversity of nature on the west coast of Scotland is wonderful and it seems at times that I am only just scratching the surface of what can be added.

In May 2023 I was invited to submit some work for the Open Hebrides Studio show in An Lanntair, which carried a theme of “Leave only footprints”. I added a few footprints in the sand and the map was once again shown on the island. Many had not yet seen it and it being the tourist season meant a completely new audience. There was however nobody who could have predicted the event that was to put Tolsta in the public eye and headline news, when on Sunday 16^th of July a group of 55 Pilot whale came ashore on Traigh Mhor beach. There was shock and sadness as well as incomprehension at what could have provoked such behaviour, and I knew immediately that this must be recorded on the map. Having also been attacked by a bullock a few nights before during my evening walk with Donald on the road down to Traigh Mhor I felt that more personal event would also find its embroidered place. This is a piece of folk art in the real sense in that it illustrates the heritage of ordinary people, and in particular the islands crofting community. 

   

 During the latter part of the 20^th century Folk Art had become the endangered of the British Art world.  It remained something rarely seen in academic art, and while Europe can be seen as having a heavy classical art inheritance it was left to more recent democratic cultures such as in America where they cherished their Folk Art tradition. Over the past decade Folk Art has seen a revival and I can only hope that it remains as an avenue into art that crafts people will be increasingly drawn towards.                  

TO SQUEEZE OR NOT TO SQUEEZE.

 

Yes I know, one should never read the side effect of medication, but this stuff was potent, even the list of very common effects was long. So perhaps today wasn’t the best day to make black currant jelly. It had to be done though as I had everything prepared the previous evening, and all I had to do was transfer the big bowl of juice into the pan and add sugar. I’d fired up the Rayburn, washed all the jam jars and everything looked good, even if my brain felt like I was swimming through porridge.

To squeeze or not to squeeze that is the question, whether it is acceptable to lay hands on the old bag or whether it be more acceptable to leave all to gravity when in search of perfection in the making of jelly. Personally I willingly sacrifice perfection for a couple more jars of blackcurrant jelly, and anyway who will notice the clarity when the jelly in the jar is such a deep shade of purple black. I use a mix of black and white currants, which gives the same strong colour, but when spread looks more like a rich redcurrant jelly.

Maybe on reflection I shouldn’t have turned my back on the stove and started the hard Sudoku, but at the first hiss I was off my chair and whisked the pan over towards the sink. The juice rose furiously over the brim, dribbling all the way to the sink, while more fizzed and bubbled furiously on the stove. As I mopped it up, steam rose and the kitchen filled with the smell of burnt jam. Jelly juice seemed to everywhere; floor and furniture, even my shoes. All cleaned up I set the pan back on the stove and kept a closer eye on the rolling boil. The setting point achieved, I lined up the now very hot jars on the table. My jam pan has a pouring spout, swing handle and a side handle so why not use them. The pan was over half full and I thought to start with the largest jar with the widest opening made sense. It went everywhere and like a fool I wiped the spout and had a second go. Disastrous, and so I turned to a ladle, but by now there was sticky hot liquid all over the table, on the floor, down my trousers and on my shoes. There was now a direct correlation with the steadiness of my hand and my impatience, which meant more spillage. There is no way back one just has to carry on even if the idea of keeping calm is no longer relevant. It took me a good quarter of an hour to mop everything down including myself, and

I see now that the hot spilt jelly has partially removed the polish from the end of the kitchen table. Well that’s easily solved but black currant juice is worse than blood or red wine, far stickier when mixed with added sugar. In the end I had eleven jars lined up to cool and the spillage would not have made it a round dozen. The mix was half and half black and white currants, and although that still gives a strong black colour in the jar, when spread it is more like red currant. I’ve had to net most of the bushes but have noticed in previous years that blackbirds tend to ignore the white currant, almost as if they don’t see them. It’s been a bumper harvest and there are still several later ripening bushes to pick. Sure I will never eat all that, but then it’s always useful to have a stock of produce in the ladder for exchange and gifts.    

A WEEK LIKE NO OTHER

 

This has been a week of high drama in New Tolsta. The first took place on Tuesday when out on my evening walk with Donald I was attacked by Harry. Harry being a one tone bottle fed bullock. He charged me at close quarters as we made our way past the group and if I hadn’t managed to roll to the left as I fell heavily onto the road then he would have trampled me and I’m convinced that would have been the end. However I was up on my feet as he turned for the second go, and got a foot to the side of his head before he then tumbled me into the ditch. It is amazing how fast one can move when your life is in danger, and I scrambled out onto higher and rougher ground like someone forty years my junior. The bullock then turned his attention on Donald who was further up the track and I screamed at him to get off the road. Thankfully for us a large van came up from Traigh Mhor car park and pushed the cattle along the road towards the cattle grid, which gave us time to get over the fence and make our way back across the croft. I was limping badly and could see through the hole in my trousers that my left knee was bleeding. Donald drove me into Stornoway Hospital for a check-up at A&E where they found nothing broken, but were shocked at my misadventure. It was the last thing I needed having undergone radio therapy on my back for prostate related bone cancer earlier in the year. I have been conscious all summer of taking things at a slower pace while still trying to remain reasonably active. Battered, bruised and traumatised by the event I slept badly, but by Saturday evening I felt I should get out on the road again for a short walk at least. I took my stick with me although I knew Harry was now confined to barracks for what remained of his life. When the owner came to apologise he also promised me a prime cut, and even though I am, for all practical purposes vegetarian, I accepted the offer. On the way down the hill I kept stopping and turning just to make sure nothing was following me and as I passed the spot I found my breathing getting laboured. I pressed on slowly to what we call windy corner; the headland between Garry and Traigh Mhor beach, and noticed a school of what I assumed were Minky whales about four hundred yards off the beach. It was difficult to say how many there were as they circled in what I though was a rather frenzied manner, and I assumed they were feeding on a big shoal of fish. It had been a blustery wet day and I was the only one venturing out that evening. The final steep slope beyond the cattle grid was a slog and I was thankful of being able to get home and avoid any downpours.

Sunday morning, and Donald called by to see how I was, and I told him I’d gone out for  short walk, but totally forgot to say anything about the Pilot Whale sighting. Even when he said there had been a lot of coastguard activity and police down at Traigh Mhor it still didn’t dawn on me that it could have anything to do with the previous evenings sighting. Another day of rain meant I was looking forward to lighting the fire in the studio and ignoring the inclement weather. However from my studio window I could see there was even more activity down the road as two fire engines arrived. They remained there all morning and after lunch I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer. I donned wet weather gear, heading down the croft and across the machair. As soon as I reached the high point where the entire length of the beach is visible I could see it. Just below the cemetery stream outlet there was a group of people in high visibility jackets, and something else. I got my binoculars out and was horrified to see the beach littered with black bodies. I made my way down onto the footpath that runs behind the dunes only coming out above the beach a hundred yards from the disaster. Just below me someone was struggling up with a large bag and heavy camera equipment. I recognised John from the local Gaelic TV station and he explained that over fifty Pilot whales had swum up onto the beach to die there. The entire group including young had breathed their last. It is intensely sad and beyond our understanding, and although they will perform autopsies I’m sure they will find nothing wrong. The urgent question now as we head into high tourist season is what to do with all the bodies. So many decaying cadavers will produce a stink, but my mind was already racing way ahead wondering just how many chess sets or pieces of artwork might be made from so much bone. In the past the islanders had so little that they became very adept at making use of everything. Unfortunately today, just like those on the mainland many have so much that they are constantly throwing stuff away. It is rarely a question of repairing and even the charity shops have difficulty coping with the shear mass of admittedly rather cheaply made stuff. We have for years been throwing our heritage into landfill, and replacing it with inferior quality goods that’s only redeeming feature is that it claims to be made from recyclable materials. Harry’s boisterous belligerence was easy to understand and the solution is obvious, but what do you do with fifty five dead whales?        

THE TOUCH OF WORKING HANDS.

 

Why do you spend so much time stitching? It’s a simple question and typical of one that more often comes from the innocently observant mind of a child. A close look at my hands would tell you that stitching is not the only thing I do.

My stitching is certainly not done for the money, but it’s also not for any form of notoriety or fame. Along with this is no urge to create something worthy of admiration or wonderment. The answer is more than simple, it is for my own amusement and enjoyment. Passing a needle from one side of the fabric to the other is a form of rhythmical relaxation. The past few months has seen me working on a ticking samplers, depicting a banana beaked creature as “The moth catcher”.

Once stitching is completed, to then share what I’ve done seems only natural in a world that encourages us to share everything about ourselves, so why should I be any different from others in that sense of self obsession. Not only do I chose to illustrate the finish item but to show that process of stitching in order to convey the time involved and maybe unravel the mystery of such intricate work. Anything that is made by hand has an inherent quality that draws the observer to want to touch, to obtain more than simply the visual. I’ve noticed during exhibitions of my textile work that the people will without thinking touch anything that isn’t behind glass, despite any do not touch signs. The drive to touch is primeval when it comes to fabric. During a stop off from Western Australia, at Doha airport the entire cabin crew watched me with admiration, as squatting on the ground, I stitched one of my more complex pieces. They were all very impressed and made no comment about me carrying a needle onto the plane, but one of them did ask me if he could touch the embroidery. I remember from my childhood the same sensation when observing my great aunts silk embroidery and wanting to touch those minute nobly french knots and the perfectly regimented smooth chain stitch.

If something is made by hand then it would seem only natural to want to touch it. I have always been fascinated by hands and the marvels they are capable of, and so I felt it a true and spontaneous compliment, when the male nurse who was taking my blood pressure and pulse noted that I had real working hands.      

COLLECTING AND CONNECTING.

 

The mushroom season has come early this year, perhaps as a result of the dry spell throughout May and June. I discovered when living in Brittany that hunting for mushrooms was a national autumnal pastime. It also meant that if someone discovered a productive location it remained a closely guarded secret. Here in the Outer Hebrides it is rare to see anyone collecting mushrooms, and when they see me with a large bag of field mushrooms they invariably say they don’t know enough about wild fungi to risk picking them. Ignorance is not an option when it comes to foraging, and they are righto leave them alone. The same crosses my mind when I see certain highly processed food products in supermarkets. There are many good books on foraging and useful natural history knowledge as well as all the information one could possibly want or not want on line. I still have more faith in the printed word. As our knowledge advances at an ever increasing rate we seem also to be increasingly distanced from nature. I often hear this planet earth referred to as our planet. Such arrogance could only come from a creature with an oversized brain. Sure we have adapted well to become the dominant life form, capable of great and terrible things, but we remain simply another life form on earth and equally vulnerable to climate change.

In Lews Castle grounds the Celtic music festival is about to kick off, but I’m wondering if all those feet might be squashing a greater variety of fungi. Has this early start to the season seen boletus, chanterelle, russula, parasol and prince mushrooms? Are oyster mushrooms sprouting from deadwood, or my favourite hedgehog fungi scattering their milky golden trail through the woodland leaf mould? The recent rain has triggered growth both on the moor and my garden and flowering has been prolific. I’m now on my second batch of elderflower champagne. While the gannet population took a pounding last year and there are no great clouds of them diving of Garry and Traigh Mhor beach, there are other species that have fared better. The cuckoo call has now been replaced by the plaintive cry of the curlew and the progeny of three goldfinch nest line up on the barn roof and washing line. 

While cutting back an escalonia bush I was surrounded by what I thought where blue bottle flies. When one of them bit me I realise they were a very small variety of wasps and I had been trimming right above their beautiful paper nest. In the past I’ve had solitary wasps nesting in the porch, so I was pleased to welcome this little colony to my garden. I would rather be connected to nature than the internet.