TOTTIE AND ME.

 

I thought I might have heard from Tottie by now since I’d given her my address before leaving. She must have worked out her notice, and she had mentioned something about researching for a book. Most likely she’s gone into hibernation for the winter and I can’t blame her for that. I suppose I was a bit grumpy during the summer months with her constant dropping in, but now I find I quite miss her showing interest in what I’m up to. I had hoped in my absence she might head down to London and do a little article on my latest show, but not a word. Then I tell myself, why would she be interested beyond her work? I think I was reading too much into this friendship and yet she was full of questions about Charley and his family.

My visit to WA is already half way through, the time has been well spent with this my second family. The sketch pad is filling up, the stitching is my constant companion, and I even managed to sell a few of my old paintings that remained from previous exhibitions I’ve had in WA. A trip down to Walpole and the giant Tingle trees meant I could once again say hello to these most impressive of trees.

 

I have in the past spent hours sitting quietly sketching them, and during one very still early morning I could swear I heard them talking in a low mumble. This time I felt sure they knew I had returned, and yet I hear you ask could know that. Well if I felt it that’s good enough for me. I knew from the outset this trip would be a great mixture of emotional reunions and equally difficult goodbyes, but I am so glad I took that opportunity when it presented itself as doable. I feared that the heat of summer would increase my hot flushes, but they seem to have been within bounds, and there has always been the pool or ocean to cool off in. Hopefully in the New Year I will have plenty of opportunities to swim again in the cooler Southern Ocean when we head off to Bremmer Bay for a week. It must be fifteen years since I’ve been there, the first time I stayed on the campsite and received my first experience of a bull ant bight, not one to be repeated. Later trips gave rise to several oils, all of which  sold.

Christmas is likely to be a much larger gathering than I’m used to, and a big contrast to a quiet day without presents, spent with my brother in Cornwall. Hear the decorations are up; lights on the tree and presents under, wreaths at the windows and homemade Christmas pudding hanging in the larder. The organisation has been ordered and a drive to keep things simple is our goal. Thankfully the temperature that are now in the mid 30’s are due to abate and drop back to a pleasant 24 on the day.

Meanwhile I continue stitching and am nearing the completion of another rather complex stump work ticking sampler. I am constantly trying to push the boundaries and this example is the first that has taken on a totally symmetrical form. The initial idea was to have two birds perched on the entrance post of a house, but since the stitching of these samplers is a slow process the chances are that it will always become complex as all good samplers should. 

      

SUN, SLEEP, SPIDERS AND STITCHING.

 

 

I’d fallen asleep out under the veranda, into the nonsense dreams of magic realism, and as the sun moved round one side of my face roasted. I’d done that earlier in the year when stitching in my studio during one of those rare days when the sun shone from a cloudless blue sky. Here in the far south west corner of Western Australia sun is the norm, so when I went in for my blood test the one thing that stood out as being different was my very low level of vitamin D. Half of what it should have been coming out of an Australian winter, but then I had just come out of a Hebridean summer. So, sun and vitamins is on the menu and I imagine the same could be said for all who survived the non-existent summer of 2024. I’ve put my feet in the Indian Ocean, and hope soon to undergo a total immersion. The pool at Charley and Lara’s is a great place to cool off and take the weight of my aching hip.

 After one refreshing dip my eye was drawn to the yellow center of a succulent plant and realised it was a superb yellow spider, probably a species of the orb weave spiders. Other more plentiful orb weave spider are to be found down in the chicken run, where they create their extravagant webs complete with extensive larders.  

The one constant in my life is my stitching and to that end I’m well on the way to completing another in the series of piers and jetties from Lewis and Harris. The latest is Gob Shilldims at Holm and I’ve managed to cram in both the large pier and small jetty. As usual with this series of embroideries I’ve taken a lot of liberty with the drawing so as to maximise the coastal features. Unlike the previous embroidery of Bable, where the crofting strips form a focal ark, here the land and single track road forms a central focus that leads to the pier. The vertical form would normal signify a statement of sorts, but here the road provides a story line that takes you through the restricted fenced in pier, past the concrete walled boat storage area and peat cutting, sweeping around the bay and up the hill towards Holm. Knowing when to stop has been an important part of these embroideries, as much as the restriction of colour. The structure is complete and there remains only few more hours of stitching the coastline and adding some colour to the boats.

 I’ve bought a landscape format sketchbook and pencils last week, and am looking forward to spending some time sitting, sketching places that have become very familiar to me over the past two decades. I started with a twenty minute drawing of North Point, just off Cave Road west of Margaret River. The rocks here are a rich orange ochre, set against an intense deep blue sea and featureless sky, hence the high horizon. I’ve often been asked by friends why I choose to visit Australia since my interests seem to be bound up in history. The western world still regards Australia as a recently discovered place with little history. How wrong can one be, when evidence dates Aboriginal occupation of these lands to 50,000 years? The three centuries of western occupation have proved disastrous for the environment and the mineral wealth of Western Australia continues to fuel prosperity with equally devastating consequences. It’s a vast land and there remain many wonderful sites. During the Christmas week this part of the coast will be flooded with tourists and so I hope to see as much as I can before the crowds arrive.          

HOME FROM HOME.

 

Tottie. Just received Tom's latest embroidery on my phone today and it lifted my spirits after difficult day. I’ve handed in my notice, had enough of Bill’s sarcastic jibes. He was off work for ten days with a chest cold, but I’m sure it was that new strain of covid, and I like to think it was me who gave it to him. It was bliss not having him prowling about the office, and since everything is covered for the Christmas issue I’ve had plenty of time to follow up on the family tree research. Found some interesting stuff, but most interesting of all has been the connection to Charley Nadin, in that we share the same Great Aunt Emily, and that is also where the family name of Cranston comes in. I emailed Charley and he seemed more intrigued that I knew his old mate Tom than the family connection to Aunt Emily. Filled me in on how they met squashing pennies on the railway line in Cambourne, while doing A levels at Technical College. They lodged together and studied Maths, Physics and Chemistry. He also mentioned that Tom’s mother was an excellent cake maker, and they would stop off for tea on a Friday afternoon on the drive back to Liskeard. I found myself wondering about my own lack of friends from school and college days. Too busy following a career, and look where that got me, stuck in an office with wobble bottom Bill. I now have a months’ notice to work out before I can escape this place, and Bill seems determined to make that as difficult as possible. It started the day Tom left for WA. Something about me missing my snowflake.

Tom. A home from home, familiar and safe, but in saying that my eyes picked up on all the little changes during my four years absence. The most obvious was the growth that trees and shrubs had made, as well as those that hadn’t made it through summer droughts. There’s a new bypass being built around Bunbury and the scaring of the landscape is horrific. It has caused damage way beyond the movement of earth. The work is far from complete and we can expect massive traffic problems come the Christmas break, but once Bunbury is bypassed it may well be the making of the place. While others sit in queues during the Christmas break I’ll be ambling between pool and beach.

 The weather has been mild and no great heat waves this far south. I’ve had time to acclimatise but have also been found lacking in vitamin D. Well, that’s hardly surprising after last summer. I have just completed the Toucan ticking sampler. The background sample stitching is the final stage which does mean working the design around the foreground. Not very logical, but then logic has seldom had any relevance in the way I approach the creative process. This particular ticking sampler has been made using a Sainsbury’s tea towel as the support.      

 

      

 

           

 

 

 

IN FOR THE LONG-HAUL

 

Tottie: I thought I better call in on Tom once more before he heads off for WA.  After this year’s non-summer I can’t blame anyone for wanting to top up on the vitamin D. I found him packing what seemed to be an impossibly small bag, but then he explained that he already has clothing over there. I couldn’t even imagine getting what I need just for an overnight stay in such a small bag. Two pairs of shoes would have filled it, and instead he’d got it stuffed full of drugs and wool. I sort of admire him for making the effort, and I suppose only he can vouch for the sanity of it all. There’s more than a little bit of me that is jealous. I looked his friend Charley up on line, and I think there must be a connection. Charley’s second name is Cranston, which also happens to be my brother David’s second name. The world is a very small place, never more than six people removed from anyone on the planet, but I think there might be a blood line link.   

Tom: I’m sure at some point in our lives we’ve all done the packing of bags, whether just for a few days holiday, or a total and definitive change of scenery, and if you’re like me it’ll take several attempts, trying to figure out what is rational. There’s always the, what if the weather, or if I get invited out. Do I really need that other pair of shoes, or even a pair of wellies? Thankfully the South Western corner of Australia at this time of year means my wardrobe can be cut down to hand luggage only. A change of underwear, a pair of shorts and a sun hat, the rest is medication, fabric and wool for my stitching. The medication takes up half the space and in order to avert suspicion I included a print out of my diagnosis along with my visa. The fabric and wools will allow me to continue my embroidery and to pacify the creative urge within me. It is hard to explain just how intense this need to create has become. I feel there remains things that I must do, work I must complete while I still have the strength and the willpower. It is this more than anything else that keeps me alive.

 The ferry to Ullapool was running half an hour late and the long drive ahead of me seemed to suddenly get a lot longer. Being one of the first vehicles on I was directed to the side where I could be sure of being one of the last off. It happens every time. The drive east to Inverness is basically a case of joining the queue and follow the leader. The A9 is notorious for bad accidents and it seemed to take ages to get down to Perth. At what time of night was I going to arrive, still a long way from the border and then the entire length of the M6 to negotiate? I sipped on the thermos of coffee, eating up the miles while munching my way through the tin of homemade flap jacks. I arrived at my destination, Atherstone at 7.30 and slept like a clubbed horse. Wednesday was a day of rest before pressing on towards Milton Keynes on Thursday. I’d made the decision to do the delivery to London on the Friday and with the aid of a satnav all went smoothly. Saturday another day of rest before heading back into London on Sunday morning by train. This was the first big test having to lug my little trundle bag up and down stairs from Euston Station. Feeling like a fish out of water I struggled and politely declined help from two young women. It is only when help is offered that I realise just how decrepit I must look. When showering that morning I was horrified by the monster I saw in the mirror. That can’t be me, and yet who else can it be. Blubber hanging from my gut, chest and legs, even my face looks puffed up, unrecognisable. Aging is not an attractive process and when accompanied with medication and increasing infirmity the changes are shocking.  I met up with Charley, Lara and the girls that evening and the following morning was picked up on the dot at 5.35 for the drive to Heathrow.

 We all arrived within minutes of each other and from that moment on I simply followed my vastly more experienced host through the maze of airport check-in. Business class is so very different and in the quiet calm of the lounge we had breakfast. Long haul flights are punishing on the body, but having that extra room and being able to lie down made a huge difference. I also had my stitching to distract me, and it was much admired by the air hostesses with no mention of my lethal sized embroidery needle.  

 There was a six hour stopover in Dubai before the final longer leg, and I was again reminded of the vast horror of such places so very different to our little Stornoway airport. I dosed between film and let my mind wander back across the decades to when the girls were little and life was about playing on the beach.

I was also reminded that I was now Tottie free. She wanted to know Charley’s address so presumably I’ll get a Christmas card.   

  

      

 

           

 

 

 

DISCUSSION OR ARGUMENT

 Tottie reporting for the Western Isles Wanderer, but for how much longer, is the question uppermost on the rest of the office staff’s minds. I’ve had a real week of it, not all bad. The boss had me off doing a tour around several producers of gin on the islands. A dream job you would think, and yes my tipple of preference is a G & T, but by the end of a four day tour I was convinced you could make gin out of anything, and it wouldn’t surprise me to hear someone was now producing Ye Olde Bootlace Gin in a stunningly beautiful designer bottle. I tried to keep an open mind, but I’m from the juniper generation, when gin was gin and yogurt was natural or nothing.

I never realised how fascinating a family tree could be, and I’ve already discovered an entire branch of the family I had no knowledge of. Unfortunately the boss caught me trawling through the 1905 census and today a written warning landed on my desk. I can’t see the problem as long as I do the work, but then he’s a bully and likes throwing his weight about, of which he has plenty to spare. They don’t call him Wobble bottom Bill for nothing. Last night I dreamt I’d discovered someone drowning on Garry beach. There was frantic splashing going on but it was only a few yards out. When I took a closer look it was old Wobble Bottom himself sinking slowly into the sand, and I just watched as he disappeared beneath the waves. I’m thinking it might be time to move on from WIW, do a bit of free lancing, or maybe try my hand at writing a novel. I’m sure I’ve got a cold coming and should probably take a day off, but I can imagine what Bill would make of that so perhaps I’ll just show up and breath a few of my germs over him.

 

Tom; I’m not sure what the difference is between a heated discussion and an argument is, but I certainly had one of them with Tottie. She’s become one of my very few sources of news from the outside world and this week she was full of excitement at the possibility of Tesco opening on Sundays. “At last we’re moving into the 21^st century”.

I freely admit I probably lost my cool. I understood when the Sunday ferry crossings started particularly for members of families working on the mainland wanting to return home at the weekend, but are we that wedded to supermarkets that we can’t survive a single day without them. They’re open from six in the morning to ten at night, six day a week for God’s sake! I was on a roll and there was no stopping me. I’ve never seen the attraction in shopping although I still prefer my own choice when it comes to fresh fruit and veg. Who am I kidding? Apart from bananas and garlic most of that is pre-packed, so I might as well get it delivered.

Meeting up with Tottie mid-week for a coffee has made a welcome interlude, a wee brush with the outside world, but after today that might require a cooling off period.

She said it was time people were released from the tyranny of Presbyterianism. I knew what she mean, but that’s not what Tesco are talking about, and how long before the Coop follow suit. Not content with losing our village shops; there were at least three in Tolsta before supermarkets arrived, and now we are being made to get rid of everything that makes our island different in the name of progress. It’s not progress, its money. Must we be bowing down to worship at the altar of Tesco.

Typical of Tottie, she had the last word trotting out that well-worn phrase that I’ve come used to hearing from other friend, “We can’t all be like you Tom”, adding “If you had your way they’d be closing the churches on Sundays as well”. Snookered, my only escape was to complain about the price of the coffee that would be costing more than a month’s supply of medium strong, freshly ground, Italian inspired coffee. She came back as quick as a fly to a rotting corpse, “Yes Tom, and you bought that at Tesco”. We sat in an awkward silence looking out across south beach as the ferry came in to dock.

“Anyway this coffee’s rubbish” I resumed trying to move on.

“A bit like this conversation then” she fired back with a large grin.

I held up my hands in mock surrender “OK, you win, Tesco wins, truce. At least out at New Tolsta I will be able to remain oblivious to the delights of progress and the 21^st century. I paid and she returned to the office. The following day I got a text from Tottie, “Off work, got a stinking cold”. “SNAP!” I texted back. The reply was almost instant, sharp as a razor, “Yeah, and I could only have caught it from you, or Tesco, or both”. 😄 For once I was pleased to see that emoji. Having spent the past two days tucked up warm in my studio, the latest needlework of Pabail Pier on the Point peninsula is nearing completion. As usual the pier has taken centre stage and the bay framed by the crofts sweeping down from the village, and out to sea the distinctive shape of Eileen Mor Phabail that ensures we can be nowhere else.   

 

 

 

      

 

           

 

 

 

BIRTHDAY CAKE AND CARLOWAY

 

What goes through that woman’s head, not a lot, or way too much of the wrong thing. Having missed making it out to New Tolsta on the day she then four days later sends a cake out on the bus of all things complaining of a heavy work schedule. That sort of thing could only happen on the islands, a birthday cake delivered to the door, but when I saw the cake I realised why nobody had devoured it on the way.

A shop bought caterpillar chocolate cake, looking like it should carry a government warning, as all foodstuff intended for children warrants these days. And now having looked at the box it actually does carry a warring of sorts for high sugar and saturated fats. The list of ingredients looks like it could compete with the list of casualties on the Titanic. What’s beeswax and carnauba wax doing in cake, and radish concentrate, for God’s sake! Despite that it tasted quite good, but in order to fit into the cake tin I had to have a second slice, not a good move, felt seriously sick for the rest of the evening. Does Tottie want to add diabetes to the rest of my ailments? This morning I put a slice out on the bird table, but the blackbird that keeps an eagle eye on everything I put out took one look at it and flew off.

I had my monthly bloods taken yesterday and a frank conversation about my weight, not that it seem to be going up much now. I referred to my legs and stomach as being fat covered and wondered if this was what women of a certain age had to contend with. I was told they preferred to call it a soft covering, which does sound a much nicer way of putting it, but it’s still fat to me. In the afternoon I had jag in the rear to top up the female hormones for another six months. The old gender issue is getting increasingly confusing for me, and I’m not the only as I was told that in the Stornoway Nicholson Institute there two students who identify as rabbits. Well that’s fine as long as they don’t go breading like rabbits, and don’t come round here because I’ve set snares in my garden but as yet caught nothing.

I must not forget the creative side of my life, for it is that which keeps me sane, or at least that is my perception of things. Last evening I completed a blanket embroidery of Carloway pier. Still a busy place and providing an interesting dual aspect composition. I’ve got another three lined up as subject matter during my time in WA, but there are another dozen or more that require investigation on my return.   

REAL MEN DON'T USE EMOJI.

 

 

TOM. It’s 3.00 pm and I’ve just realised it’s my birthday 71 years old and don’t feel a day over eighty. I dare not look at my emails or Facebook page for fear of what I might find. Why am I suddenly receiving a deluge of messages adorned with those ridiculous yellow sun faced emoji? I don’t know what half of them mean, and on my mobile phone they are way too small to make out anything, other than most of them are yellow and round. The red heart I suppose is obvious, but there’s another thing that looks like a pair of garden shears. It’s used most frequently by a friend who like me is a keen gardener, so maybe she means happy gardening.  I’m getting most of them from women friends, sometimes without a single word of explanation, and Tottie is one of the worst offenders. You would have thought that her being a journalist would mean she would be able to find the correct words to explain herself rather than resorting to a symbolic cartoon language that means nothing to me. Have our lives become so hectic that we no longer have time to put down in words what we mean? Will our ability to express ourselves in the written form become like the hand written letter, a thing of the past? I’ve seen children marvel at the speed with which I write, stopping only to dip the pen back in the ink. The hand eye coordination is extra ordinary, but now I marvel at the dexterity of young people’s thumbs on their smartphone keypad, my own being way to big and arthritic to achieve such accuracy. It gives me great pleasure to see a page full of my handwriting and know that a computer could not understand a word of it. Our daily lives seem full of passwords and security codes. Whatever happen to our beautiful unique signature?

I can at least count my blessing in that Tottie also seems to have forgotten my birthday, but then again why should she remember. We have at last seen the sun with clear skies for the past few days. So good to be able to put the washing out and forget it. Apart from Tottie I’ve had two visitors this week to the garden. The first was a heron that I surprised down in the vegetable garden. I can’t think what it was doing there other than enjoying a bit of shelter behind the beech hedge. As it struggled to make a vertical take-off I was reminded just how large herons are when seen at close quarters. The second visitor was a rabbit that hopped across the gravel in the front of the house and disappeared into the bushes. I’ve seen it again, but it is the first I’ve seen in five years since the dreaded miximatosis was released. I have mixed feelings about their return. A rabbit-free period has meant tree planting has been simple with no guards needed, but today I discovered an ornamental rowan tree I’d grown from seed had been neatly nipped off at ground level. If they are back then I would prefer that they stay down on the machair and do not become regular visitors to my garden. It’s looking like meat might be back on the menu. As for visitors to the studio I don’t expect any more as I’ve put the sign back in the shed, and my mind is taken up with preparing to leave in mid-October. I’ve purchased a small bag with wheels and extending handle that will be my walk on cabin luggage. There will be no other, and in it I hope to pack as much making materials as possible, a change of clothes, slippers, toothbrush and all important medication. I’ve learnt from previous trips to Australia that clothing is not a high priority. I see people struggling with massive suitcases and feel sure that half the stuff they’ve packed will return unused. I somehow can’t see Tottie as a minimalist when it comes to clothes. I don’t think I’ve seen her in the same outfit twice this summer. Having enough variety of embroidery wool is all important to me, and this time I’ve put in a few scraps of blankets to continue my harbour views. I also put a couple of bits of mattress ticking to serve as the background for some wacky birds.

 The drawing of these was achieved with the aid of five years old Eppie, who had the simple task of drawing a squiggle that would start and end in the same place. I then had to turn it into a bird. It surprised me as I rotated the page as to just how little additions were required to achieve this. Both the Toucan and peacock were fine examples and will now go on to become ticking samplers.. 

 TOTTIE. Tom has had a bad week and although he didn’t want to talk about it, it didn’t take long before the full story came out. He’d received details by email to pay back his friend in Australia for his flight to WA. The email was hacked, the details changed and the money subsequently and innocently transferred to a third party. It took the best part of a morning in the bank to sort it out and they admitted it was a very sophisticated scam, but Bank of Scotland came up trumps and the money was refunded. I couldn’t therefore make out why he was still so upset, surely getting the money back was something to be celebrated. He explained that it wasn’t about the money, and that it was the fact that someone had intercepted his emails. He said through tears that it felt like a physical violation far worse than any robbery. I think emails will now be a thing of the past for Tom. Sadly this sort of hazard will continue into the foreseeable future and is only set to get worse with the intervention of AI. I have however discovered that the friend he will be staying with is also a Nadin like me. I wonder why Tom didn’t tell me that earlier when I was delving into my family tree. I must do some more digging, but work keeps getting in the way. The boss caught me researching the family name on line, and followed it up with a little lecture entitled “in your own time Tottie”. I almost forgot it’s his birthday, but I’m not even sure if I should send him a cheery message acknowledging the day, since I know he doesn’t do birthdays. Oh, I can’t just ignore it now I’ve remembered. A few big smiley face should do it.😄😊😀👄

NOT SECRETS AND HOT FLUSHES

 

Tom. I really don’t get it, here’s me being stuffed full of female hormones that gives me hot flushes, and now Tottie tells me she’s been on hormone replacement therapy to combat the hot flushes of menopause. And like most women she always refers to it as going through the menopause, well there’s certainly no going through anything for me, I’m stuck with it for what remains of my life. There really was no point in thinking I could keep my trip down under a secret from Tottie. What makes this Island life so special is that everyone knows everyone. And they also know what you’ve done, are doing or about to do. As soon as she heard I would be going to Australia there was talk of a gathering for dinner to send me off. She has become my most regular visitor throughout the summer, to the point that I can now tell simply by the scrunching of the gravel along the back of the house that it’s her. She has this sort of provocative mincing walk as if she’s never out of high heels and I’m wondering if that’s why they call her Tottie, as she totters along. I can expect a little triple knock and a coo-coo at the studio door, not dissimilar to one of those Black Forrest Cuckoo clocks hitting the hour.

There have been others who have ventured as far as the studio door, and I usually sit tight, continue stitching and listen to the voices as they discuss the £5 entry fee. Thankfully very few decide to risk it. Today was a good example, and the first time I’d bothered with the sign for over a week. Two lots called by, and neither made it inside the door. To be honest if I saw a sign asking for an entry fee I’m not sure I’d bother either, but it has meant that I’ve achieved a lot over the past few months. The running total of visitors now stands at 14, but it has been good recently seeing customers coming back annually as well as one couple from Cornwall who hadn’t been here for nine years, well before the studio was even built. For those who decide that to pay £5 is too steeper a price to view my artwork, even if it is refundable with any purchase, they leave the poorer having no idea what I do. For those who pay up and leave empty handed they have at least had an experience and leave the richer for it, but for those who make a purchase and reclaim their entry fee, I hope they will never regret it. I sometimes wonder how I’ve got by over the past thirty five years as an artist, but somehow I’ve managed with a combination of a frugal lifestyle and luck. There is rarely a day goes by that I don’t create something and the production has been immense. I know some artists who struggle to keep up with demand. Thankfully any demand for my work has remained very much within my bounds of creative production, which has allowed me to keep a considerable amount to adorn the walls of my own house.

Tottie. At last a few days of summer just to remind us what we should have had, but even then it didn’t last. I could hear Tom somewhere in the undergrowth sawing down a New Zealand holly bush, cussing a swearing. Tom doesn’t do politically correct, which is hardly surprising as I think the last TV comedy he saw must have been “Till death us do part”, and his language really is quite colourful at times even when stitching and he’s stabbed himself with a needle or the yarn has managed to knot itself. I coughed loudly but it did nothing to arrest the train of expletives as clouds of dead seed head fluff rose from the trembling bushes. He eventually came out dragging a large bunch of severed branches and gave his customary greeting, “Oh it’s you, I thought I heard a car”. I feel sure one day he’s going to follow that up with a blunt “What do you want?”

He does however always seem pleased to take a break from any strenuous work, ripping his support corset off, saying let’s have a cuppa. This time I got a look in his workshop, and I have to say I’ve never seen such chaos.

It seemed impossible that my beautiful Hebridean chair was created in such a messy space and how he ever manages to produce anything is a miracle, but the new frames he’d made for the harbour needle works are extremely effective with a clever bit of simulated cross grain veneering. He made it sound terribly easy with a red oxide undercoat and a black top coat that he’d simply scratched and smudges with his fingers.

 He seems to have several pieces of stitching on the go, but then he explained that most of those will be completed while in Australia. I don’t think he was going to say a word about OZ, but I’d already hear the rumour. He showed me the tiny bag he’s taking with him. Just cabin luggage, nothing else and that will probably be stuffed with needle work bits. I suppose you don’t need much in the way of clothing and with his hot flushes even less. He gets a bit touchy about those and when I said I was getting hormone replace therapy he said “you want to be careful you don’t end up like Mrs Thatcher and loose the plot.”

 

 

 

      

 

           

A VERY STRANGE SUMMER.

 

 

 

I’ve just had my twelfth visitor of the year and now feel I do merit that rather strange accolade of the least visited attraction in the Western Isles. I’m sure most places have noticed what a wet summer can do for trade, and I have to admit I’ve stopped bothering to put the open sign up even if the sun does show its face, telling myself I’m far too busy to be having interruptions. 

The garden is already looking somewhat autumnal but with some late colour and there is still time for a second spurt of growth, and many of the trees are already showing signs of that. I’m taking the odd day off for a jolly to look at a few more piers and harbours dotted around the island. I drove over to Point which everyone told me was not worth the trip and found it fascinating. I suppose that’s the artist’s eye. Both harbour and light house will provide valuable material as will the pier at Bayble. I’ve also had a Tottie free week, but that doesn’t mean to say she hasn’t been sniffing around when I was out. She said she was doing some delving into her family tree. I’m being careful not to let her know about my trip to Western Australia, and I’m certainly not about to tell her I’ll be staying with my friends Charley and Lara Nadin. I’m sure she’d also be volunteering to house sit while I’m away, thankfully I’ve already got that one covered. 

Tottie. I’ve hardly moved from my computer this week as besides work I’ve been researching my Nadin family tree. Turning up some interesting stuff world wide.

Since Tom told me of his cancer I’ve made it a point of calling in on my way to or from the beach. He’s not always in, but when he is he seems relaxed to the point that rather than stopping to make me a cup of tea he asked me to make him one and bring it out to the studio, while he continues on with his new project. I find it hard to believe Tom has only had thirteen visitors (not counting my own) but then this summer has been exceptional and continues to be so. The accolade of the least visited attraction on the Western Isles has been well earned, and the point was driven home on my most recent visit when I walked straight into a cobweb across the door and a second brushed my face as I wandered around. I know Tom is not one for dusting, but when spiders start to take over one must begin to ask questions. He no longer bothers to put his open sign up and I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t a little depressed. However he seems remarkably cheerful and becomes quite animated when talking about his latest embroideries depicting local harbour scenes. I’m not sure that these explain totally his upbeat mood. Maybe his upcoming London show is giving him a wee boost, I don’t know. 

Anyway that show is certain to be a head turner  as it was back in 2019 when he exhibited them at An Lanntair in Stornoway, but this time these biblical images are being offered for sale. They represent two and a half years of his life, and as he put it the most intense period of embroidery work he has ever done. Even he admits difficulty in imagining just how he produced the body of work. They are remarkable and will be exhibited under the title “The Master Works”. I couldn’t get a price out of him, but it is obvious that one would require deep pockets. It is indeed refreshing to see someone prepared to raise the bar and demand to be correctly paid for such extra ordinary work. For too long has the skill of needle work been unappreciated and undervalued. Looked on as women’s work it is easy to see how this has come about.

        

 

 

 

      

 

           

 

 

 

TOTTIE AND TOM

 

 

Tottie.

I couldn’t resist it, when I saw Tom’s open sign up and a car pull into his drive. I thought it a perfect opportunity to earwig on his sales technique, or rather lack of it. In my opinion it is rarely a good idea for an artist to try and sell their own work, which is better left to the professionals. Having said that if you can’t get a gallery to take your work then there’s not a lot of choice. You could stick some on the walls of a local coffee shop who will rush you a cool 30% commission and have in the main even less idea of how to sell art than the artists themselves. Tourist offices may like the work but will baulk at the price an artist wants, and often ask them to produce something cheaper, like between £10 and £20. The result is more often than not a debasement of their skill down the slippery slope into key rings and fridge magnets. Having said that I quite like fridge magnets and my own is covered with an extra ordinary array, but heaven knows what I’m supposed to do with all the key rings. I’ve been given so many over the years by friends returning from exotic holiday locations, that what was the tea towel draw is now practically full of key rings.

I parked fifty yards up the road and made my way around the back of the house. I must say despite the awful weather Tom’s garden is looking wonderful. No sign of the visitors so they must have gone in, as I approached the studio I could hear voices and the door had been left open, perfect. I remained in the entrance and earwigged. I noticed Tom had covered up the £5 entry sign with an Open Studio brochure so presumed he was waving the fee as a sort of special concession. There were as far as I could tell four people and they sounded genuinely impressed and interested in what they saw, but it didn’t take Tom long to start burbling on about something totally irrelevant to do with flat-pack furniture, wastage of materials and what people chuck out. I don’t think he gave a moment’s thought to the fact that those he was preaching to were quite likely the very people who had a home furnished entirely from IKEA. He then started to explain his method of working in wool which even I found difficult to follow. I felt sorry for him and as I headed back to the car I wonder if I dare suggest perhaps a short course in sales techniques. Not sure how he would take that, can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

Tom. Fortunately I’ve had few interruptions this week, and even though it was the final week of open studios the two lots who called in had done so purely by chance. I should have left the five pound entry sign visible, but I thought maybe this week I’d get some people genuinely interested in buying something. It wasn’t to be. Interested and appreciative they certainly seemed to be, but even after I’d reinstated the entry fee and a third lot came in they were happy enough to pay for the experience and go away empty handed. I found it extra ordinary that they could not find a single thing that they would want, but then it dawned on me that perhaps people no longer want things, they just want experiences and preferably ones that they can take photographs of. They whip out their mobile phones to snap pictures of my paint pallet or a bunch of wool and only rarely ask before doing so. I made the mistake of going into town this Thursday and discovered another boatload of tourists had landed. The streets were lousy with them pointing their phone and cameras at everything that did or didn’t move, including myself being in tweed jacket and walking with my shepherd’s crook I must have appeared to be that rare form of native islander. Others with zoom lenses snapped at the castle through a gap in the trees, but even photo-shop would have trouble cheering up the grey morning. 

 

I’ve got a new line on the go. It all started when I was looking for some rag to rub off some of the dirty varnish that I used on Tottie’s Hebridean chair. I discovered an old blanket that I’d obviously thought worth saving for something, but with a large rip down the middle it was certainly well beyond use as bedding. It was the weave that took my eye and the fact that it was the least fluffy of blankets. I saw immediately that it would be ideal as a background for stitching. Made in two halves on a narrow loom it had a black band at either end. I’d been reading an article about Alfred Wallis the naïve artist from St Ives, whose work now makes tens of thousands of pound. The poor man would have ended up in a proper’s grave if it hadn’t been for a fellow artist Adrian Stokes, and his work, which at the time was looked on as trash by many was saved from being binned. I’d also been reading the recently published book “A Considerable Town”, all about Stornoway, and I was fascinated by the old pictures of the harbours area and how that had grown over the years. When I looked at the blanket it seemed a perfect support for some black and white, or rather black and cream images. I started playing around with some sketches of south beach, and although I would have liked to include the remains of the old castle, I also wanted to include the old fish market, but by the time that had been built the pier had already been extended over the remains. So, I opted to use Lews Castle by moving it a few hundred yards to the south. With a chunk of blanket stretched I started the embroidery. From the start it felt good and the composition soon came together. It’s not always obvious where and when to stop stitching, how much detail to put in and to what extent I should use other colours. All the wools were Harris Tweed yarn, and I found two tones of grey plus a stony colour for the castle and green for the trees gave the image some depth without overcomplicating it.

 As so often happens with new projects I was keen to press on to a second the moment the first was off the support. For this I turned to an east facing aspect of North Beach harbour and Lassy Corner, which allowed me to include part of Bay Head and the sail lofts. Again the image became crammed with boats, but nothing like the amount that appeared in early photos. During the slow process of stitching I have already formed an entire series of images in my head. It won’t stop at just one blankets worth since I’ve already been given more old blankets with the same flat weave. Nearing completion is a third image of South Beach, which this time does include the last corner of the original castle. Wealth from the herring industry brought many changes and with the castle gone the unique octagonal fish market succeeded as a worthy focal point. That too has gone, but its replacement has little architectural or artistic merit, although I’m sure that won’t stop them being recorded by boat loads of visitors. I can imagine before long, just as happened with Stonehenge the Calanish stone will get worn down by all the added traffic. Security fencing will be erected, payment to be made at the new visitors centre, and we will no longer be able to wander amongst or touch them. Much like my own studio really. Now Tottie would call that going off on one, but I do love a good rant and affectionately call them The Venerable Tom Hickman’s pulpit moments.

 

FREE DELIVERY.

 

 I’ve delivered the chair, thank goodness there was only one flight of stairs up to her flat and I made sure she took the bottom and got most of the weight, while I just did a bit of balancing. In the past I’ve always preferred to carry things myself as often unexperienced help proves more awkward, but these days I’m happy for any help I can get, even Totties. Nice enough flat, quite roomy, but definitely not my sort of décor. She’s not the tidiest of people either, but then who am I to talk. No sooner had we put it down in the place she’d cleared than out with the mobile phone and I had to have my photograph taken, felt a total lemon and can only hope she doesn’t go putting that on line. She’d made scones, or at least she said she had, maybe she’d bought them because they were good, very good. Maybe those terrible sugary things she brought with her last time were just an off day. Maybe she can cook after all.

She wanted to show me what she’d found on line about Tom Hickman the bare knuckle fighter. Well, I’d seen that years ago and often wondered if there was any connection. For a bare knuckle fighter he was surprisingly quite small, which fits along with the cleft chin I could imagine some sort of very distant relative. I’ve always had a thing about hitting anyone in the face, just could not do it. We had boxing at school and I made sure I didn’t get picked to fight, but you can’t hide for ever and the PA teacher had noticed pairing me up one day with my best friend Garry. We danced around tapping each other as the rest of the class jeered, but in the second round Garry got annoyed that I wasn’t really fighting and so he started to hit me, hard. I protected myself the best I could and backed off, but that only made things worse. At the end of the class the teacher asked me why I hadn’t fought. I told him I simply could not hit anyone in the face, it seemed too fragile. That was also the day that I lost Garry’s friendship, he felt I’d made him look foolish.

When, years later I read the obituary of Tom Hickman the bare knuckle fighter it seemed to explain a lot. He’d been out drinking with a friend and on their way back his horse drawn gig had overtaken a farm cart. The wheels had caught and they were overturned killing both him and his friend. It said the cart wheel went over his face, not a feature remained, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Did that go any way towards explaining? It certainly felt very strange.

 

Tottie. The scones were a success, but I think I was a bit quick off the mark getting him to pose for a photograph in his chair. Still it makes and interesting comparison with the early 19^th century Tom Hickman. I’m afraid I didn’t follow his school day memories of boxing as I was still worrying if the scones would pass muster, and that chair is just perfect, and the cushion. He just pulled out a couple of bits of offcut tweed and made the piping as well. That man seems to turn his hand to anything and whatever he touches turns to gold. I think I might need a wee stool if I’m going to take up my harp playing again. Should I ask him or should I buy one. I’ll maybe leave it for now, don’t want to seem too pushy.

ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS.

 

Words can convey so much and in themselves are, when trouble is taken a sort of action. For some, and I include myself, words are often the only option as age and increasing decrepitude limit physical action. However when a complete stranger turned up one even with two bags of coal, and the following day five bags of peat were delivered from Lewis and Harris Trail it meant a whole lot more. Above and beyond simply writing the words and straight to the supportive practical action. Thank you.

I’d spoken with Murry and we’d settled on this Saturday to bring in the peats. This is the time I go knocking on doors to rustle up a team of helpers. There’s no point in having too many, and so with Kate, Ewan and Steve we were the famous five. Murry was already at the peat face with tractor and trailer when I arrived with the others. The moor was not as dry as I would have liked, but despite two seriously heavy loads Murry made it look easy with the new wider trailer and double wheels. The third and final load was the bags of currans which when the tops were rolled and stacked flat slid neatly out when tipped. It is always wonderfully satisfying feeling to have the peats off the moor after all the hard labour of cutting, settling up and bagging up. Most of us are still wondering if summer will ever appear this year or if the dry spell back in May is all we’re going to get, but miraculously the peats have dried, proof that it’s the wind above all that does the drying. Now with the back half of yard filled with a large pile of peat my next enjoyable task is to get building a stack. My days of dry stone walling are over, but I can take my time. There is pride locally in this final stage of peat cutting and a critical eye will be cast over my efforts. A good peat stack is not just a pile of fuel. It is the visual result of an annual tradition stretching back for centuries and when well executed is a thing of beauty.    

TOTTIE AND TOM

 

Tottie reporting.

The in depth interview went down well with the boss, he thought I’d done a great job, but then he gave me a hard time about not getting a photo. “We need an image”, he literally screamed at me. I’d totally forgotten, and I couldn’t say I’d left the camera behind because my mobile phone would have done just as well. So, I told him Tom had refused, saying there were plenty of images of himself on line. I tapped his name in and hit images. I noticed one engraving from 1821, the obituary of Tom Hickman, a top bare knuckle fighter by all accounts who came to a sticky end. I wonder if he’s any relation.

 I can’t see Tom raising a finger let alone a fist to anyone. Maybe there’s another story there, particularly as I hear he’s had some peats stolen from out on the moor. The boss also got wind of that and now wants me to do a follow up, just the sort of thing he likes a bit of sensationalism and not past a bit of exaggeration and downright fabrication, well hardly surprising for someone who used to work on the News of the World. Anyway, I found this one of Tom in action, painting an enormous canvas, not quite the drama of Mc Taggart in high winds on Macrihanish beach, but he does seem to be almost jigging along with those Breton dancers, and perfect for the in depth article.

The cakes were a big mistake, you should have seen Tom’s face at that point it would have made a pretty grim picture. Still, once out in the studio Tom forget about the baking. He seemed to enjoy talking about himself, but then don’t we all.

Before starting the interview he showed me the chair he’d just finished out in the workshop, and I just could not believe it. I knew right away I had to have it, what the French call le coup de foudre. It seemed like it had been made especially for me, the colour, that wee folding shelf and the scratched childlike images. I felt I’d known it for ages and it was already a treasured heirloom. I freely admit I might have gone over the top a bit, but anyway he’s agreed to let me have it (on lone for now) before it goes on exhibition. He said he’ll make a tweed cushion for it and delivering it next week. I think I’ll stick to scones next time.

Tom. Tottie’s been texting me about doing an article about the stolen peats and that they could do a crowd funding or donations. I don’t think so, I’ve already said enough on the subject, and I’m more concerned about bagging up the rest and getting them in. She also said something about needing a photo for the article and had found something interesting about Tom Hickman on line. No doubt I will find out when I deliver the chair.

I’ve had just the one visitor this week (I don’t count Tottie). This woman after the briefest of glances around admitted she’d only come in from the ridding school looking for the toilets. They’d told her they were up the hill and to the right, and so she’d turned right onto the road and seen my open sign. I suspect she didn’t fancy using their eco toilets, and I was sadly lacking in any generosity of spirit after the peat incident. She wasn’t exactly hoping from foot to foot so I directed her back the way she came. She said on parting that maybe they’ll come back when the riding was finished, but I knew what maybe meant. I wonder what she’d have done if I said the £5 entry fee includes free use of the toilet.

I’ve at last finished a recycling embroidery project that seems to have been hanging around for months I finished the huntsman earlier in the year, but the two ladies was quite a bit bigger. They were both originally part of a pole screen that had been overstitched in Victorian times. When I removed the later stitching there really wasn’t much left apart from the 17^th century figures and various strange birds. Although now in two separate images I have managed to retain elements of the original design as well as the best of the early embroidery. I felt quite guilty initially about being unable to restore the original embroidered panel, but now I see the two completed works it seems worthwhile, and to live on in a different form is way better than being consigned to the bin. It always helps to have an old frame to put them in, even if they are not the same period. I’ve just cut down an old pillow, so must now look out a couple of bits of tweed for that chair cushion.