THROUGH THE TREES

 

My first attempts to draw trees were like so many other children, a green lollypop on a thick brown stick, however I did recognise that there were branches and drew them sprouting from the green ball. By the age of eleven these branches fascinated me, particularly when leafless they reached out into a winter sky, the seemingly endless complexity of patterns they made in their progression from the trunk to twisting limbs and branches to tiny twigs. It was my art master Mr Palmer at Tregony School who suggested I look again, and this time note how the branches cross over each other, some coming towards me, others growing away. It was at that point that I really started to see the structure of trees for the first time.

I had spent my entire childhood climbing them, and while during my clambering I knew full well the trees dimensional form, I had not understood how to transfer that to a two dimensional sketch. Since then I’ve sketched trees from across the world. Spending hours with giant Tingle, Jarra and Karri trees in Western Australia, the complex tangling of virgin forests of New Zealand, twisting contortions of cork bark oaks in southern Spain, and brooding dark masses of Scots pines in Western Scotland.

 

I will never tire of the challenge, for at times it is truly a challenge as to where to start. Once the first mark is on the page my mind clears, I relax and focus. It is a process of mark making, some might even say scribbling, and not a question of making an exact reproduction. There is always a sense of being with a particular tree or trees. I’m not exactly a tree hugger, but there have been times when I could feel them reacting to my presence and concentration. While others might give those trees only a cursory glance, I sit and stare. Can they tell what I’m doing, I think not, but the fact that I remain with them for often hours on end means I also am being observed.

 

 

 

Trees have had a strong presence in my landscape paintings, helping to frame a view, give depth and even tell the observer what lies outside the picture. Shadows of trees falling out across the grass or the walls of a house immediately indicates that there are tree behind me, not visible but there all the same. 

 

I started my walk to Lamellyn a little too late one sunny afternoon, having spent some time sketching the old yew near the north entrance to Probus Church. It soon clouded over as I made my way down through the village, but my attention, as always was drawn to how the structure of trees frame my view as I passed by Lelissick Farm. The ground was drier and the muddy track across the field easier to negotiate, but still that trusty third leg of a stick came in useful. Crossing the stream I stopped to investigate the deep ditch running down from Lamellyn, fascinated by the oaks that have grown alongside as well as fallen across it. A child’s bicycle had been added to its contents since last I passed.

 The trudge up toward Lamellyn was slow, very slow, but it gave me time to stop and enjoy the view down the valley. One should always leave time to turn and observe what lies behind you. This proved essential when walking deep into dense forest in New Zealand and the bush of Western Australia, where I would need to retrace my steps. Walk only a few hundred yards into this dense growth and you will soon lose all sense of direction. 

At the entrance to Lamellyn I stopped once more to admire the view across to the church and the distance of easier road walking that lay ahead. Probus Church tower is the tallest and most decorative in Cornwall, and also serves as a useful visual reference for miles around.

The sun made a lassie late appearance as I wandered home stopping to admire the Cornish walling along the delightfully narrow winding entrance lane. Today many of these lanes have been mutilated by the ever increasing size of modern farm tractors. The chevron pattern of Jack and Jill construction using schist stone is unique to Cornwall and to this day new roads are more likely than not to be bordered by stone walling that still uses this tradition method of construction.

Growing trees and shrubs on the Isle of Lewis is not easy, but those that I have planted over the past twenty years are now big enough to support bird life. I derive a tremendous pleasure in the knowledge that this simple act of planting a tree can also provide support for nesting birds. This spring we will be planting 1200 tree on the croft, and in years to come this small plantation will be alive with birdlife.

Only a few days after writing these words the most destructive storm for many years struck Cornwall and the south west. On the evening of Thursday 8^th of January the lights flicker on and off several times as we scrambled for candles. A green flash travelled up the length of Tregony road beyond Swallow Cottage culmination in a firework display from the post outside our kitchen window. Half of a large leylandii conifer, bizarrely one of only three trees in the village with a tree preservation order on it had come down, taking with it the power lines. The following morning I checked the roof first before seeing the devastation wrought on the large sycamore that stood above Well Lane. Just as if some wild beast had chewed it off the three main limbs were now prostrate across the pond at the bottom of the garden, a lone pigeon sat in the remaining limb in a state of shock. It wasn’t the only one. At the weekend I took another walk around Lamellyn and was pleased to see that the trees I had drawn were amongst those that had survived. Often those trees that would seem the most vulnerable, standing alone and exposed on a Cornish hedge are the survivors. In the Outer Hebrides it is the clean wind that does the least harm. Once the path of the wind is disturbed then turbulence can prove extremely destructive. On Monday a large team of engineers arrived from the Bath area, and after a full day’s work managed to get the road cleared, the remaining unstable half of the offending Leylandii felled and new cables in place. After four nights without power the romance of candle lit evenings had well and truly passed and suddenly electric light seemed far brighter than it had before the storm.   

 

 

 

THREE YEARS AGO.

 

Tom.

Three years ago while I sat in the hospital waiting room for a bone that eventually revealed the extent of the cancer, I had with me this needlework of a huntsman. A gentleman arrived on crutches, resembling a cartoon image of the Michelin Man, totally bald and blown up as if by sort of seriously powerful pump. As he entered the waiting room the other occupant could not ignore his presence, and as if to acknowledge this he said hello to everyone. His eyes fell on me in particular for who could ignore a man engrossed in stitching a very colourful stumpwork embroidery. We chatted about my work as well as the cancer and why he had returned for his third bone scan. He was remarkably cheerful and although at that moment I had no idea what my own scan would reveal he radiated calm and a very matter of fact and yet positive outlook. I realised even then that this must also be my goal.

The intervening years an medication have produced profound changes in my body and have always been honest about the difficulties I have had in coming to terms with those changes.

There comes a time in one’s life when cleaning the shower is actually more pleasurable than taking a shower. I have reached that time. The mopping down of the tiles and glass as well as shower tray holds far more satisfaction than what now must pass as my body. By the time I’ve finished hopefully my bloated body will be almost dry, and I have only to give it a cursory towelling before covering it up. I try to keep my eyes shut when showering, but I still have to wash, running my sponge over a body that feels totally alien to me. A strange halfway house of a body, neither man or woman, and certainly not me. I think now I can begin to understand some of the torment transvestite people go through. I haven’t changed sex, but I am increasingly the remnants of the man I remember, trapped in what now seems increasingly feminine. Call it what you will, fat, cellulite, or the soft layer, there is no getting round the thick covering of wobbly dimpled stuff that has invaded my chest, stomach and thighs. I put off taking a shower for as long as possible since it depresses me so. A girlfriend many decades ago once asked me why I didn’t smell. My glib response was “Class dear”. For that I got a clout as she was from a strong working class background. I can now reveal that given time to mature we all have our own distinctive odour. I used to enjoy during my time wandering in Western Australia, the natural smell of my body mixed with the sticky salt laden Southern Ocean. I was travelling alone, often in very remote areas without another human for thirty miles in any direction, so nobody to complain. However there comes a time when you can no longer ignore that unwashed odour. I try to switch my mind off completely, but more often than not the showering process reduces me to tears. We all have to face the loss of the youthful body we once had, and I realise I was privileged to have hung onto mine for so long, but with the accumulation of flesh comes the physical loss. No longer able to roam and ramble for days on end, now restricted to plodding short distances with the aid of a stick. I think of those younger generations who are either too scared to set off on their own, maybe have never had the opportunity, or have been brainwashed into the sedentary existence of computer gaming. Perhaps they will never have to face that physical loss, for what you never had you must surely never miss.

So, what gets me through the day now, or perhaps that should be gets me up of a morning. Well I still have to take the medication, but beyond that it’s the thought of being creative in any way I can. If my hands are occupied then I automatically feel calmer, almost like a self-embracing hug. Added to this is the visual satisfaction of seeing the object develop and progress towards a finished piece. As so often these days this creative work has been needlework, and while I have completed another large image of Scalpaigh harbour that is destined to join the Piers, Ports and Jetties series, I’ve also been doing some smaller naïve images with a nautical theme.

Tottie.

I’ve said nothing to Tom, but I think I’ve got what they call writers block. Well it not exactly a block, its more how do I stop, reach a conclusion, find an ending. I certainly don’t want to end up with a massive Tolkien tome. I’d heard through the grapevine that my old boss, Wobble Bottom Bill had taken early retirement from The Western Isles Wanderer to write his evidently fascinating memoirs, and yesterday I got a call to see if I’d like my old job back. I took the opportunity to negotiate a little rise in salary. The new editor looks impossibly young or is that just me getting to the point where local policemen look like they should still be in short trousers. One of my first reports will be dealing with the ever increasing size of modern houses on the island, and the wind farm debate is a constant issue. At least I’ll be out of Tom’s hair, well that is if he had any. What he’s let grow recently is like baby fluff, sticking out at all angles. He’ll need that trimming, looks ridiculous. I think he’s neglecting himself, throwing himself into his work, but never looking in the mirror. There are mornings when that is all too evident as he slumps down at the kitchen table, shirt collar still stuck under his pullover and half tucked into those ridiculous chequered pyjama bottoms. OK, yes I should be a little more compassionate, and he does know that I’m one of his all-time fans when it comes to his creative output. I adore his little seascapes, but dare not even ask how much since they do seem very labour intensive. Maybe it’s time for another in-depth interview to try and find out just what makes him tick. I should perhaps convince him to take out an advert, but then he seem quite happy to retain his title as The least visited attraction on the Western Isles.