A SECOND VISIT By Tottie Nadin.

 

 

It was one of those beautiful Hebridean days, somewhat rare so far this year, but a day never the less to be out enjoying a stroll along the beach. The easiest for me is to hop on the W5 bus to Tolsta and ride it right to the end where I can amble around to Garry Beach or trudge the full length of Traigh Mhor beach. I was sorely tempted to stop off at other beaches along the way but there is something about being out there at end of the road that made me sit patiently for the extra ten minutes ride. Alighting along with two other beach lovers at the last junction before the bus made its return around the New Tolsta loop I noticed that not only was the Studio 17 sign displayed on the fence, but clearly visible outside the house was an open sign. As all three of us set of down the hill I got chatting with the couple from the bus. They’d both read the Peter May trilogy and had spent the previous day up at Ness. They’d identified the shed where the body had been discovered and visited the Harbour Gallery where they’d bought a pack of brightly coloured cards. They were now keen to discover this Bridge to Nowhere. Purely out of curiosity I asked them if they had seen the sign for Studio 17 back at the junction. They said they had, but couldn’t imagine why anyone would come all this way out just for a haircut. I explained it was an award winning art gallery, but we had reached that point in the road where Traigh Mhor beach displays its vastness and their attention had been drawn to their phones and taking snap shots. On rounding the bend to Garry they strode off down the hill, while I cocked a leg over the broken fence and took the cliff edge walk down to the beach. The tide was well out as people made their way around to the castle stack and the cave, but my mind kept drifting back to Studio 17 and Tom sitting in his gallery busy on his latest creation. Had he started painting again as he said he wanted to do, or was he still embroidering his tweed remnants. I would have to pay a visit before I caught the bus home.

There was nobody in the studio on my arrival so I rang the house doorbell, still no reply. Had he just wandered off and forgot the open sign? I ventured down to his barn workshop and beyond to the fruit and vegetable plot, still no trace of him until I came to a low homemade plastic tunnel, and here protruding from the open end were two feet. He was on his hands and knees weeding the strawberries. There is no easy way to interrupt someone who is deep in concentration and believes themselves to be totally alone, so I went for a cheery hello. A head jerked up against the plastic and then he shuffled his way out. “Oh it’s you again, did you forget something?” I explained I was simply curious to see how things were going and if my article had made any difference to his foot fall. “No, not a jot”, he replied with a grin, “Haven’t seen a sole”. I suggest that his award for the least visited attraction on the western isles was well place and he could only agree.

“Do you fancy a cuppa and a piece of cake, I was baking this morning, and I need a break from this?”

I was intrigued, the man also baked. Before I left I also discover he was a jam maker as he sent me off with a pot of last year’s blackcurrant jelly. I asked him how the creative side was going and he guided me back out to the gallery. He had indeed started painting again and on the easel was his latest unfinished work. I was somewhat taken aback to see the jumble of stones and what I would have considered to be the least saleable subject matter. “My favourite graveyard on the island of Bernaray”, said Tom, sits up on the hillside with an outer wall covered in brilliant orange lichen.

“Is there any calling for pictures of graveyards?”

Tom looked at me sideways “I’d never given it a thought, but aren’t they beautiful”. There is something very appealing about the naivety of this man, living in a world of his own, and as I stared at the unfinished picture I caught a glimpse of the beauty he spoke of. There was not the slightest trace of painting for anyone else other than himself, which I found refreshing. It was only during the bus ride home cradling my pot of jam that I realised I had once again not paid that £5 entry fee, which made me think I will simply have to call in again and see if I remain his only visitor.