tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7624437352892041442024-03-15T18:11:43.538-07:00Hebridean DreamingHebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-66062390824486869602024-03-03T10:47:00.000-08:002024-03-03T10:47:25.763-08:00IN PRAISE OF THE CROFTER'S COTTAGE.<div class="separator"><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">I<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFoG30M6g6AMX8hKDXH_Q3VGTcJTtKt9FSwLQls24SOD8i-Ua0SuHYWtShfYUrNOiaHj9HijoW9HFMKL1sQ3OdY11OguW18ZhFSNS_ipWbVWzvL9ES0e6Dy9OHEmSwQguIu-qHRyR9FN9t93lvuVksKTODRIHqxJJpKR3FZGSbEqwjfv1maH_N0jJQXmI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="389" data-original-width="940" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFoG30M6g6AMX8hKDXH_Q3VGTcJTtKt9FSwLQls24SOD8i-Ua0SuHYWtShfYUrNOiaHj9HijoW9HFMKL1sQ3OdY11OguW18ZhFSNS_ipWbVWzvL9ES0e6Dy9OHEmSwQguIu-qHRyR9FN9t93lvuVksKTODRIHqxJJpKR3FZGSbEqwjfv1maH_N0jJQXmI=w640-h264" width="640" /></a></p></div><p><br /> <span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Even
before my first voyage through the Outer Hebrides I was fascinated by the
vernacular architecture of the black houses. My father made several trip over
in later life, and I was particularly interested in his photos of derelict and
decaying houses. Having wandered from Barra to the Butt of Lewis several time
over the past fifteen years I’ve seen a few changes. In this respect the
islands are no different to the mainland as new houses seem to sprout up like
mushrooms overnight. I can well understand why people in the 1920’s and 30’s
wanted to move out of the dark black houses and into the new Department of Agriculture
designed crofters cottages. Sash windows in every room meant for the first time
the interior could be light. However thinner walls, even when covered in V
lining also meant a serious amount of peat or coal was required to heat the
place. Today’s hermetically sealed, well insulated and triple glazed houses are
a world away from that, but my preference is still for the traditional crofter
cottage. My own cottage was stripped back to the bare bones before introducing
insulation and damp course, but all the interior timber was kept and put back
along with its charm. I have often heard it said that location is everything
and certainly many of these cottages can boast a magnificent location.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjr2iuIK-NfmfMnUuQXMMcCMAAtQtNkIqWWGiVpATOaI1KhjLSTdwoJOrbEr6UQtqynGZQB9iP9MTdq3kakV0hLDpgdnJ9qywVi7jBP1EQBP9nn__AjFeky1E6jWH8I-673JiTQLoCe-0WdvwMRBHPqrvKJrir5L0J4ltqaEdrA2t8wzxKpGXbVM6G9i2I" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="779" data-original-width="940" height="530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjr2iuIK-NfmfMnUuQXMMcCMAAtQtNkIqWWGiVpATOaI1KhjLSTdwoJOrbEr6UQtqynGZQB9iP9MTdq3kakV0hLDpgdnJ9qywVi7jBP1EQBP9nn__AjFeky1E6jWH8I-673JiTQLoCe-0WdvwMRBHPqrvKJrir5L0J4ltqaEdrA2t8wzxKpGXbVM6G9i2I=w640-h530" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMg10CGuSnd-pg6YnpeZ6Xv0voHc9_-OcnNiNWQ8uc9VWGcxAwMrrnsh52PxlBzsiBkc0e2tLa1wXA7FjIkYRo5dSJVGXkLTlaLeYB2QjgnsJKM56vI6r6FntRjar9BGtNcfrpm_uDfA-RYFiAs2OAWKdtMIJJtfTyHAb4Iyfkl2fjTj2WcLWt3_Gl6c4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="984" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMg10CGuSnd-pg6YnpeZ6Xv0voHc9_-OcnNiNWQ8uc9VWGcxAwMrrnsh52PxlBzsiBkc0e2tLa1wXA7FjIkYRo5dSJVGXkLTlaLeYB2QjgnsJKM56vI6r6FntRjar9BGtNcfrpm_uDfA-RYFiAs2OAWKdtMIJJtfTyHAb4Iyfkl2fjTj2WcLWt3_Gl6c4=w640-h392" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">Cottage on South Uist perched high with a view of Loch Boisdale.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Tin
roofs are still a common feature on all the islands and the irrational romantic
artist that I am will always be drawn to a colourful bit of rust. Many of the
earlier stone built cottages were originally thatched in heather or straw,
while some later houses were built entirely of corrugated iron with only the
chimney being built of brick or block. Today that chimney might be the only
thing remaining that indicates the site as being habited. Many of the black
houses no longer had a central chimney, and a cast concrete or brick chimney
was built at one end. Alternatively the interior was divided by a chimney wall
and the smoky peat filled rooms became a thing of the past.</span> </span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLN3fYDYOQpoa8azO7oY-o0hrrYfwLUprHDNyyWavlvLt36WTKV4OQsUpdx02LJxs6X85K7eZt3AAHKqgoA2gIpeqOfdd0jN3lUQFa5W4-5RsQ4rgZnIqy1etozgNh7HObUOz3K10GCasMp066apeCrJWSM4WHUaNeEVXYkKaYMgFW2iZdFFc5tcBzdNs" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="940" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLN3fYDYOQpoa8azO7oY-o0hrrYfwLUprHDNyyWavlvLt36WTKV4OQsUpdx02LJxs6X85K7eZt3AAHKqgoA2gIpeqOfdd0jN3lUQFa5W4-5RsQ4rgZnIqy1etozgNh7HObUOz3K10GCasMp066apeCrJWSM4WHUaNeEVXYkKaYMgFW2iZdFFc5tcBzdNs=w469-h640" width="469" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> For a time during the mid-20</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: 11pt;">
century the domed Nissan hut was popular but few remain now. When I first
stopped to sketch this Nissan hut on South Uist it was complete with windows
and doors, but two years later the half round black tarred tin had flown
leaving just the end gable and an outside toilet.</span></div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCEiVY9a6U4FYlGqzegtv-YiOyZWFwmqplfsFzLsWQNnKuFgeIH58SHaj3kETJP95WktowS6g5MxnRtIY2qjZkTL-1PXgSTfuR8i3j1tpX92g9rIpJqKYKytnsb0HzFxXBqo59V54ZewzBcs4l2HdWwWdXilYg301x-Vk2WwtjfRKynYZiiRoiJ2O9Qio" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="940" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCEiVY9a6U4FYlGqzegtv-YiOyZWFwmqplfsFzLsWQNnKuFgeIH58SHaj3kETJP95WktowS6g5MxnRtIY2qjZkTL-1PXgSTfuR8i3j1tpX92g9rIpJqKYKytnsb0HzFxXBqo59V54ZewzBcs4l2HdWwWdXilYg301x-Vk2WwtjfRKynYZiiRoiJ2O9Qio=w400-h295" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiP3zosIjtj_XzRfb_MAdtCCC8XAdOHNwprnYOA3kIVov1IGcisiHRQ_KLFY1jOURjdPJZUlIoaCUAYEsQf09yH47I0Jn8hjiur2NXvZM75D7rAwXqarS-vHpLBntkIjR9dDWTQl_vgU0wdvButpm7LxV_ffx8e9FEio0k5x1p2z6Tjrlkj1H2Uv6jhPBc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><img alt="" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="455" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiP3zosIjtj_XzRfb_MAdtCCC8XAdOHNwprnYOA3kIVov1IGcisiHRQ_KLFY1jOURjdPJZUlIoaCUAYEsQf09yH47I0Jn8hjiur2NXvZM75D7rAwXqarS-vHpLBntkIjR9dDWTQl_vgU0wdvButpm7LxV_ffx8e9FEio0k5x1p2z6Tjrlkj1H2Uv6jhPBc=w194-h320" width="194" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-align: right;">During the second half of the 20</span><sup style="text-align: right;">th</sup><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-align: right;">
century the crofter’s cottages were upgraded to include a bathroom but many
also suffered greatly when adapted and modernised. The most shocking of these
so called improvements was the removal of the dormer windows, replacing them
with a long box window or worse still raising the entire front creating a flat
roof. This is simply not a good look from any angle. Those with double sashes
on the ground floor often had the central division removed and metal framed
replacement windows installed. Despite the net curtains flapping at the back
window this lone cottage on the Isle of Eriskay was uninhabited. This fine
example had a well-proportioned porch, a scullery extension at the rear and a
useful shed on one gable end. Below were the roofless walls of black houses
from a bygone age. The artist’s sense of beauty for the rustic thatch, rusting
tin and lichen covered walls counts for little during the reality of harsh
winter months and my romanticized visions are fit only for a framed image of
times past. </span></div></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjR2sytq2jwzTKXVpKDD8WrxiooqOauHNaYK-G2qIpRl2eeHnkHiqfhbsnoMwve3tbU4XN-vdAg5H3lF8CmeSxb5Ftkf_RxCYaQ3ZD_hE5e-FHeYEbJiRyJMIS5stICymGy7qUGmkTKtjm7teLIQIBarastsGgA131q8dUBvmFIYEzt6dWY_S9TS9k-l4s" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1261" data-original-width="940" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjR2sytq2jwzTKXVpKDD8WrxiooqOauHNaYK-G2qIpRl2eeHnkHiqfhbsnoMwve3tbU4XN-vdAg5H3lF8CmeSxb5Ftkf_RxCYaQ3ZD_hE5e-FHeYEbJiRyJMIS5stICymGy7qUGmkTKtjm7teLIQIBarastsGgA131q8dUBvmFIYEzt6dWY_S9TS9k-l4s=w477-h640" width="477" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">While
visiting the old cemetery on Bernaray I continued my walk following a trail of
mushrooms. Over the ridge I came across another abandoned house. What was once
the front garden, was now full of stinging nettles beyond the pair of ball
topped gate posts. Although showing all
the outward signs of a typical crofter’s cottage this house had four dormer
windows. The porch had long since blown away which gave it a rather vacant look
with just two windows on the ground floor. Circling my way around the back I
discovered the kitchen window had blown in, and while the v-lining was
collapsing all the furniture remained. I clambered in and made my way through
into the dining room complete with gas light fittings and a large mahogany side
board filling the back wall. Through in the hall a coat stand leaned at a
precarious angle as the floor boards crumbled beneath it. In the parlour there
was more light, on the wall a text declared “I will trust and not be afraid,
God is my salvation”, and on the chair was a rather out of place grey
telephone. Upstairs one bedroom was complete with chaise longe, while asleep on
the bed in the second bedroom was the remains of the last occupant, a very dead
and desiccated furless cat. This at one time had been a fine home.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5UOw3fYszHpPOV_V-bLGsge-3-pejwN-071pI8dmhfdcmlako75yxvIKqv9Bq4X9cLFqmB3F1XcebkR2hjWBOts5sTIF6_lHL2Xkze8n1jDSCWjHvy0udnJHPDGZPEw6CXyrbFCCIQoC1o-E5By4naaqDTPY8shLexfVM1uwwEK1ZU93ujYPCCbF7UsY" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="425" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5UOw3fYszHpPOV_V-bLGsge-3-pejwN-071pI8dmhfdcmlako75yxvIKqv9Bq4X9cLFqmB3F1XcebkR2hjWBOts5sTIF6_lHL2Xkze8n1jDSCWjHvy0udnJHPDGZPEw6CXyrbFCCIQoC1o-E5By4naaqDTPY8shLexfVM1uwwEK1ZU93ujYPCCbF7UsY" width="320" /></a></div><br /> </span></div><br /><br /> </span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghrLA_NnHGgY9YifsVtX3XEhOkVtONG-MNRmsBGgTG4BZgGv9sBDItehC1cm36YNkyHcwcgOU_5HEkjRAYns8enF9zejq6ul6xnV6XuToxpzxXIj5k0Jzexa1yE3Vvcl3_vOepjoOLvFynObC-PfD-0-gLQV86tI0vaN_ZLZJNZecA8id-B0CnxeiCN3Y" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="456" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghrLA_NnHGgY9YifsVtX3XEhOkVtONG-MNRmsBGgTG4BZgGv9sBDItehC1cm36YNkyHcwcgOU_5HEkjRAYns8enF9zejq6ul6xnV6XuToxpzxXIj5k0Jzexa1yE3Vvcl3_vOepjoOLvFynObC-PfD-0-gLQV86tI0vaN_ZLZJNZecA8id-B0CnxeiCN3Y=w285-h200" width="285" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal">These cottages, whether stone built, cast concrete or tin were
constructed internally entirely of wood. The name Hepburn is written in chalk
on the underside of each tread of the staircase in my cottage, and I’ve seen
that same suppliers name in other houses on Lewis. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When in 2022 my crofter’s cottage was unanimously voted BBC
Scotland home of the year, I assumed that maybe now with the island council
also agreeing that these old houses should be renovated that the demolition
would stop. However, before the year was out one of the oldest cottages in my
own village was demolished and consigned in its entirety to the dump. Built in
1909 the interior was crammed with all the old furniture, but this also
suffered the same fate. Yes, without damp course or insulation, and having stood
unoccupied for years the interior was a mess. Later wall paper hung from the
ceilings and walls, and the v-lining bellied out from the internal walls. As
with my own house the interior would have needed to be carefully removed while
the ground floor was dug out and walls exposed for damp proofing and
insulation. I managed to save some of the v-lining from the roof of this
cottage before demolition, and was not surprised to discover that there was
absolutely no wood worm in the entire house. The timber is fabulous being slow
grown pine and far better than anything you could buy today. With a few of the
boards I have started work on making a dolls croft house. It pleases me to
think that there will at least be a little bit of life after death.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4x-t8qvbUULDBWIkrtFMIKS1mVcXxRYRR0TDSZ3JiRdWdi-QuoXxUgvQaXy6Pij5-d8G8SakrOwRW5Y0YM8ufb6ra3rEw7l3X4WsYcJ5cApptDku4gjAAnoQE0MxqSr8rGIAs8GC83uznDlxi22shsLOCYNHsfTy6WO9HGX5UPb-BT5yIHhHym9Mcm3Y" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="940" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4x-t8qvbUULDBWIkrtFMIKS1mVcXxRYRR0TDSZ3JiRdWdi-QuoXxUgvQaXy6Pij5-d8G8SakrOwRW5Y0YM8ufb6ra3rEw7l3X4WsYcJ5cApptDku4gjAAnoQE0MxqSr8rGIAs8GC83uznDlxi22shsLOCYNHsfTy6WO9HGX5UPb-BT5yIHhHym9Mcm3Y=w640-h248" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p></div><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><br /><br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOu2qOTZXCm54XVKwKorfz8fJJMh7hpj8J-EtONTsCPRtq7cWDsYToPx1JdALGAM0CpWIDDes2pxEDljEv8sDoB-RdQYZTqZMScl1PoBYHI45RAjUHNYwSYR2oiGKYi2kxHwQZ6dnaj9yAx0rXcqDG-Zse63Wi9019S4cAYyhHJKGO-Eou2Lt0g3hDT98/s3370/20240105_091431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2672" data-original-width="3370" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOu2qOTZXCm54XVKwKorfz8fJJMh7hpj8J-EtONTsCPRtq7cWDsYToPx1JdALGAM0CpWIDDes2pxEDljEv8sDoB-RdQYZTqZMScl1PoBYHI45RAjUHNYwSYR2oiGKYi2kxHwQZ6dnaj9yAx0rXcqDG-Zse63Wi9019S4cAYyhHJKGO-Eou2Lt0g3hDT98/w228-h181/20240105_091431.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">In recent years there has been a trend to paint the exterior
of houses white. This has happened over the length and breadth of the UK, but
particularly on the west coast. Down in Cornwall, charming little granite
cottages are still being painted white. It has become a selling point and even
I in my needlework images of sheep will include a white walled and red roofed
cottage. When I first started the renovation of my crofter’s cottage it was
suggested that if I painted it white it would be worth significantly more. It
is often the first thing a new owner will do and there are several that seem to
have run out of money being only half painted. A publicity photograph promoting
the islands will always try and include a white painted cottage, so it didn’t
surprise me when a photo of my own house as it is today, in its drab grey harling
appeared in the local paper, described as the winning house before renovation. I
will not be painting it, or the crofter's doll's house white.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-2471520102484534802024-03-02T11:41:00.000-08:002024-03-02T11:41:57.360-08:00GOODBYE TO LEZELE<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPxjDY_gKaeTztT6tlBAG9xbxxHrls138HEmZVsQ6aQdwL5MsKEe_0NVl2MaXUPRipofMZaV0yNgxByESsQOR25BM6fyIZq7Nq5nEhkt9B2vTOCx8Zy1p5OUytAAyaZXXv8IUD6ah-nvcu79Pkz-7lX5QpQVsgqc-gQpo4vEkcmo8SzZnpxlbQrMTduI/s3168/P1150673.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="3168" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPxjDY_gKaeTztT6tlBAG9xbxxHrls138HEmZVsQ6aQdwL5MsKEe_0NVl2MaXUPRipofMZaV0yNgxByESsQOR25BM6fyIZq7Nq5nEhkt9B2vTOCx8Zy1p5OUytAAyaZXXv8IUD6ah-nvcu79Pkz-7lX5QpQVsgqc-gQpo4vEkcmo8SzZnpxlbQrMTduI/w640-h480/P1150673.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It’s been over a year since I packed up the remaining
furniture. The house has stood practically empty apart from a few pieces of
Breton furniture, and during the summer months there had been a concerted
effort on behalf of Sarah the estate agent to sell the place. That side of the
story is way too long and boring to go into now, but suffice to say the entire
property proved impossible to sell, due to one of the neighbours of an abandoned
house refusing to sign and regularise the right of way to the entrance that I
have used for the past thirty years. I have given instructions for it to go
back on the market at a much reduced price.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Mk889keomJWBYQ5gEDlpo10sHALqbWyfm30bcuBR_jr8XrK_M6crQCG-TVXvbs8ydcMvL7OW4dfDYTqqEcnW3suXjJ5DhxFF31Z2poHsUvZgBIDTg7qfnVj1FglUp0PfhQMghvzpuLNFft3V2nywDdIOh3t4khc-SR_7RzWWLjqk2sVv7h_xEtdp1Mk/s1934/DSCN8206.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1712" data-original-width="1934" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Mk889keomJWBYQ5gEDlpo10sHALqbWyfm30bcuBR_jr8XrK_M6crQCG-TVXvbs8ydcMvL7OW4dfDYTqqEcnW3suXjJ5DhxFF31Z2poHsUvZgBIDTg7qfnVj1FglUp0PfhQMghvzpuLNFft3V2nywDdIOh3t4khc-SR_7RzWWLjqk2sVv7h_xEtdp1Mk/s320/DSCN8206.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I sit here in the dimly lit interior, the
house already no longer feels like mine. What made this my home has already
gone, but there is still enough left within the rooms I created to bring back
memories, and I’m glad to say they are all good one. Here in the gloom of the
great fireplace I have passed many an evening with friends. In earlier times
the fire was open and the smoke rose up through the massive chimney, where in
the spring the swallows would make there nests. Installing a wood burning stove
created a vast increase in efficiency, but there is nothing like an open fire.
One Christmas I spent five days without electricity and cooked here, just as
they would have done in time past. Now, people, conversation, and laughter
return to me. The granites that surround me have seen so much during the three
centuries and this fireplace has remained the hub of the house. Little has
changed apart from the subject under discussion. <o:p></o:p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu5cqZpcaZY2hLgNM4gKF3O4AcuWqgWBvmA6atPQhT9-8gXsrGhvYhTOGrxbChOqP2bFUYKOKdIIjbhR79SW2M6vJ48hyphenhyphenzKDDOHqwNpSC42rr5QWCU8r3NQM61fUOfkXzlNEhvS7M7M5jTXV488NDjgiVedgnNElUjxsod1-qfGO6FG-AEFdqJM5uNceU/s3015/P1150800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1462" data-original-width="3015" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu5cqZpcaZY2hLgNM4gKF3O4AcuWqgWBvmA6atPQhT9-8gXsrGhvYhTOGrxbChOqP2bFUYKOKdIIjbhR79SW2M6vJ48hyphenhyphenzKDDOHqwNpSC42rr5QWCU8r3NQM61fUOfkXzlNEhvS7M7M5jTXV488NDjgiVedgnNElUjxsod1-qfGO6FG-AEFdqJM5uNceU/w400-h194/P1150800.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">In those early years both animals and people entered by the
front door. The cattle turned to the left, and occupied approximately half of
the ground floor. If you’ve ever spent time in a cow shed you can imagine the
smell. Living under the same roof with large herbivores is not that bad and the
added warmth they gave was extremely important. That close relationship between
man and beast was very different to today, were a disconnection allows us to
accept the most unthinkable cruelty without question. The family would have
lived on the ground floor, sleeping in box beds and eating around one table placed
in front of the only window. The first floor has extremely low ceiling and
would have been reserved for storing the farm produce. There were at this point
in time very few farm buildings, and many of these would have been simple
wooden construction visible now only in old photographs. Thirty years ago, when
I first arrived here there was no electricity and no water. There have been
improvements, but for those who enjoy the supposed comforts of a modern house
this must seem like a museum.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs90v0_2_ReLSHnptY0JURUtkyncRlaT-wcMg9n2DJTpznvAFUAbiDhtR7FTVBd0poO7SuHYPc2UdkG8oYgL8h1IO3HLYVNUezHsdPQ02Cq8qZMKNrLxAsT8V3Hfd9PeWLUgb_RRXkw1JiKakk-wG5iOCSbMMmrKQY4RSCUrFH8lo-izbcBLZ0hSVM8rM/s3072/P1050869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="3072" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs90v0_2_ReLSHnptY0JURUtkyncRlaT-wcMg9n2DJTpznvAFUAbiDhtR7FTVBd0poO7SuHYPc2UdkG8oYgL8h1IO3HLYVNUezHsdPQ02Cq8qZMKNrLxAsT8V3Hfd9PeWLUgb_RRXkw1JiKakk-wG5iOCSbMMmrKQY4RSCUrFH8lo-izbcBLZ0hSVM8rM/w640-h360/P1050869.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is so much more than just a late 17th century farm house on offer. Adjoining is my studio and at the rear a large garden, which although now somewhat neglected had been very productive.. Running at right angles to the main house is a second house that I once ran as a gallery. The ensemble is for sale at 205,000 euros.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiboAuvNQSvdLt-OojNh6_ka58x7OsSvuezXns0Ak_QV-qafvWIzLZ2BVFE6-gNWXivRgHciLsg6Tt-HEr09iJRyzJs4guXylpeJtLf0Z_cFPygKAXlwLZa0V_N2pruhjgWgNKo7RPZiw3ZpBINd3A2_wzRc8tRlM3N1ZVvaBOVo4qNpGbrOE42AYHx5fY/s3072/P1290567.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="3072" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiboAuvNQSvdLt-OojNh6_ka58x7OsSvuezXns0Ak_QV-qafvWIzLZ2BVFE6-gNWXivRgHciLsg6Tt-HEr09iJRyzJs4guXylpeJtLf0Z_cFPygKAXlwLZa0V_N2pruhjgWgNKo7RPZiw3ZpBINd3A2_wzRc8tRlM3N1ZVvaBOVo4qNpGbrOE42AYHx5fY/w640-h360/P1290567.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebCNhjtwmm3PUTRWJY1mz9jYfpDsq5jX1_9AG1a4E6C-AfMax0I32W26jsZT-jveIMZpSIZ0o0oc4r3odHi-pw9mS93PH-Tr_tVA5XrISGn9zTWoME_EMQ9FlLOJ7mjMNZUzt7mYSPRifxz6qfDncVrm66kPiX9uoBqqN47gpXqYMM12RKbPfCkRp9Jk/s3072/P1210853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="3072" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebCNhjtwmm3PUTRWJY1mz9jYfpDsq5jX1_9AG1a4E6C-AfMax0I32W26jsZT-jveIMZpSIZ0o0oc4r3odHi-pw9mS93PH-Tr_tVA5XrISGn9zTWoME_EMQ9FlLOJ7mjMNZUzt7mYSPRifxz6qfDncVrm66kPiX9uoBqqN47gpXqYMM12RKbPfCkRp9Jk/w640-h360/P1210853.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /> I am not sad to be leaving. I’ve enjoyed my time here and know
I will be passing it on to other, who will no doubt have very different ideas
from my own as to how one lives within these walls. The house or rather houses still
hold tremendous potential, but my time here is over. I’m sure there will remain
traces of me here for decades to come, from walls that I’ve built to trees that
I’ve planted. I like to think I made a difference, and that my time here had
some value. Further afield there lies scattered my artworks and writing, some
of which will no doubt outlive those who have known me. Without daubing it in
paint, carving it into tree trunks or scratching it in stone I have left my
mark. I WAS HERE, GOODBYE LEZELE. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-87635417671421719392024-02-06T10:24:00.000-08:002024-02-06T10:24:18.949-08:00VERY SMALL BOOKS FROM NEW TOLSTA<p> </p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmjow5TwiPx3o14pffoxtk-AJQ_egPolRdNLKKraD6sOLt2d-ypUnw88jYQTZNLg9zdK8CoQ8vkneLuMIlI2HTXPx07-nsiRvtsDUp9sh6430FX_FHnf7s3hR3Wd9JUNE3Zf940Qq1SyyhtHhHNQWYhByf9zWFTk-WKN7eRkx0Q-ZScC1DUUM8cYQP-Y/s4080/20240204_143407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmjow5TwiPx3o14pffoxtk-AJQ_egPolRdNLKKraD6sOLt2d-ypUnw88jYQTZNLg9zdK8CoQ8vkneLuMIlI2HTXPx07-nsiRvtsDUp9sh6430FX_FHnf7s3hR3Wd9JUNE3Zf940Qq1SyyhtHhHNQWYhByf9zWFTk-WKN7eRkx0Q-ZScC1DUUM8cYQP-Y/w640-h480/20240204_143407.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Having made a bookcase for the crofter’s doll’s house I now
had to make some books. This is not a new thing for me as in the past I made
similar books for my own doll’s house. With age has come a loss of feeling in
my fingertips, but I still manage to thread needles and fiddle with the
fabrication of very small items. It’s the sort of occupation I reserve for the
winter months when I don’t want to venture far from a source of heat and the
kitchen table becomes cluttered with creativity. Firstly I need to clear a small space amongst the detritus at one end of the table and start cutting up any old paper to the size I want
for the pages. They are then folded and bound together with cotton just as a
full size book would be. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtok6ICaE8_geLoOno3p1q16BkFc5G-ba9lLefd6lH1E-JfUmITytjGwrtUsj5s6b6ee68X_orHLPzvt1MpUsGqRtZaJIP4MPTk6eD_YlKDHJFpcLEShZRjh9DfSCMVMwljt0-MyAC0TyHigzl7sPhAar6IYV7vUCeLc-MDe6aB9AdY7iXSVRBAubBuM/s4080/20240113_113041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtok6ICaE8_geLoOno3p1q16BkFc5G-ba9lLefd6lH1E-JfUmITytjGwrtUsj5s6b6ee68X_orHLPzvt1MpUsGqRtZaJIP4MPTk6eD_YlKDHJFpcLEShZRjh9DfSCMVMwljt0-MyAC0TyHigzl7sPhAar6IYV7vUCeLc-MDe6aB9AdY7iXSVRBAubBuM/s320/20240113_113041.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKqTvOOSu8gM49HLVEZ9VJCEty0ppEPRbmyIyblDJhHWy4Q30toQUoN6oU_jJYgvrmwzv8_l7DLc7YHA1xXLfiwEmtZBsc9hWliN6HprVUUwRebKEeZM3Lr9v1bSzlfrcIUOKJdRaaXgkF89b0UxQ-EO4tT4fhi2DAi6jMF7hnpVecmtCdPocwUeNwA6A/s3769/20240113_115951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2791" data-original-width="3769" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKqTvOOSu8gM49HLVEZ9VJCEty0ppEPRbmyIyblDJhHWy4Q30toQUoN6oU_jJYgvrmwzv8_l7DLc7YHA1xXLfiwEmtZBsc9hWliN6HprVUUwRebKEeZM3Lr9v1bSzlfrcIUOKJdRaaXgkF89b0UxQ-EO4tT4fhi2DAi6jMF7hnpVecmtCdPocwUeNwA6A/s320/20240113_115951.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJATzvtJ-5DQgUGflL7HhHP8IuxPKi1P1JUky7Wjv28dbl8mO-mdv6VVK7-vGa8C59ANd2qac_Rm34oWCip4o4Flw5iU5vaMM5zeJ0QJ0rPpA2qVm8tEM3eM2lMS7HxMzrQfPb2sIjA0DKmHB7L0filzIGCSCTFNTl4NCKDMPHyxbU_XLnbegRCWAecaE/s4080/20240205_094732.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3060" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJATzvtJ-5DQgUGflL7HhHP8IuxPKi1P1JUky7Wjv28dbl8mO-mdv6VVK7-vGa8C59ANd2qac_Rm34oWCip4o4Flw5iU5vaMM5zeJ0QJ0rPpA2qVm8tEM3eM2lMS7HxMzrQfPb2sIjA0DKmHB7L0filzIGCSCTFNTl4NCKDMPHyxbU_XLnbegRCWAecaE/s320/20240205_094732.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />The outer coverings are a variety of reclaimed scraps
from other books that have gone beyond the point of restoration, and are
totally unsaleable. In this respect my father’s boxes of old Agricultural
Society of Scotland annual publications have become a valuable resource with
their blue Rexene bindings, while other books have provided good marbleized
paper inner pages as well as leather spines. There is very little in this world
that cannot be creatively reused. I will be offering an extremely small shelf
of these books for sale this coming summer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p><br />Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-84675371233043348822024-02-06T10:07:00.000-08:002024-02-06T10:07:09.473-08:00NEOLITHIC PEAT FIRED POTS FROM NEW TOLSTA.<p> </p><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS3a5wKt1FFMgi4M2pilhPKWTDdKGQ38uPNUYD5bDhQYszUm5z-LqPSZ1eNkQGppivndl1QyyA-k2_zyzXD2d3FEf31sJjVmpGkkM-YLR0SMVZWTksTkZl-pRBcrJCwR8r6U7lP7S1FnswbMccBra46T5ssi5zmyLXGdbYT7ZXiuBWu_UIOZbGGzF8sAo/s4080/20231126_094745.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS3a5wKt1FFMgi4M2pilhPKWTDdKGQ38uPNUYD5bDhQYszUm5z-LqPSZ1eNkQGppivndl1QyyA-k2_zyzXD2d3FEf31sJjVmpGkkM-YLR0SMVZWTksTkZl-pRBcrJCwR8r6U7lP7S1FnswbMccBra46T5ssi5zmyLXGdbYT7ZXiuBWu_UIOZbGGzF8sAo/w640-h480/20231126_094745.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It was way back in 2016 when work first started on the
foundations for my studio that I discovered the Neolithic axe head. It had lain
not far from the surface for the past 6000 years and it felt extra ordinary to
have been the first person to have touch it all those years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwWt3gyVInlmOHlvNxnYTTDLFliB5C_7CBZAavvNRwnWl4S_26iYg1GMUlw5TVh1vOpawm0PqhkNZwTX0fquxoXMF9LdAXxHVIRsJk5Zq8ffPG9MCq2C7GxMPXHW35AHwiL_WPMZ0nCNYdVxK_PWlxB3PKRW2UpnovIB9bLvfOC7MGChOKq-vQQhz0Jgg/s3168/P1270798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="3168" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwWt3gyVInlmOHlvNxnYTTDLFliB5C_7CBZAavvNRwnWl4S_26iYg1GMUlw5TVh1vOpawm0PqhkNZwTX0fquxoXMF9LdAXxHVIRsJk5Zq8ffPG9MCq2C7GxMPXHW35AHwiL_WPMZ0nCNYdVxK_PWlxB3PKRW2UpnovIB9bLvfOC7MGChOKq-vQQhz0Jgg/s320/P1270798.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />A fine example of its type in gneiss granite,
which has disappeared into a drawer of our local museum, and one day may see
the light of day again. Last summer on seeing a small exhibition of rustic
pottery at An Lanntair in Stornoway I decided to find out where the source of
clay local to Tolsta could be found. Our soil is mainly a well-drained sandy
loam, and while good for carrots and root crops, in general it loses heart
quickly due to the lack of clay. In times past clay was needed to dress the
tops of the black house walls encouraging water to run off, so it seems
inevitable that there must be a local source. I didn’t have to look far. South
of the village I took the steep track leading down to the Camach beach. This
part of the coast is on the move and landslide are a regular occurrence. Part
way along the beach is a flat section of schist rock and at its base is a mound
of clay. I took a bucket and towel with me and managed to lug a couple of
buckets full. The clay had to be soaked into a gruel of liquid mud and then
passed through a sieve to remove any grit. I then let it dry outside on the
windowsill for a couple of weeks, turning the stodgy stuff until it became
useable. I needed it firm enough to roll out into long sausages in order to
construct the coiled pots. The building of a pot without a wheel will always
result in interesting wobbly items, and it is there that the charm of these
objects lie, along with the simple scratched decoration. They were then left to
thoroughly dry out. The pots would have originally been fired using peat and
this is where my old Rayburn comes into play. While I prepared my cake mix I
would also have a wobbly pot warming up in the oven. When the pot was good and
hot and the oven up to baking I replaced pot for cake and transferred the pot
into the fire box, making sure there was enough high quality peat to cover the
pot and take it to at least 600 degrees. The pot would glow bright red, almost
transparent and time would do the rest. Killing two birds with one stone as it
were, I was able to fire my pots and bake my cake, both turned out
successfully. Over the following few weeks I popped more pots into the firebox on
baking days. The following morning I fished out from the ash a still warm crogan
pot. The clay had turn a rich terracotta colour and bore incidental marking
depending on how it had reacted with the peat. I now have a small shelf of
Tolsta ceramics that I will be adding to the eclectic mix of items for sale
from my studio this coming summer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0Dr9dZ9BI8ABHMBk-9itSER1GUYt3TiyF1UW1T2FU3YtjzfaK-5oJ5m00xBYfC3aQUPg9KmZU48zi7Levpctp7e5EJ1brWNv_-eOMM_qWUwiX03VfcdxzoseB_n_Kz9HKtNCpGqc2G0zkxHFVfpfBPbvnRtMxADOwW8s-HRpsXgCOqWLbCsFbDQxUJw/s4080/20231122_163626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0Dr9dZ9BI8ABHMBk-9itSER1GUYt3TiyF1UW1T2FU3YtjzfaK-5oJ5m00xBYfC3aQUPg9KmZU48zi7Levpctp7e5EJ1brWNv_-eOMM_qWUwiX03VfcdxzoseB_n_Kz9HKtNCpGqc2G0zkxHFVfpfBPbvnRtMxADOwW8s-HRpsXgCOqWLbCsFbDQxUJw/s320/20231122_163626.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyEKw1kEEvHX24v09wyi3UHPHg8vDkIarVfmqNU1tkzXzDKMKCVh_N_isS1OewHELWk5FyqUX8YJPBc4GqD7u5tWSe1y4IQWGV01YFz5Kw2wQAhcWFAfpf_m3TbuY-vIi9uX9EkjLUYtSqCwFGVAXnB4qVz8pw8fIue9QVKVroH_gpJw4DNXd8bf5MS4/s4080/20231126_094607.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3060" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyEKw1kEEvHX24v09wyi3UHPHg8vDkIarVfmqNU1tkzXzDKMKCVh_N_isS1OewHELWk5FyqUX8YJPBc4GqD7u5tWSe1y4IQWGV01YFz5Kw2wQAhcWFAfpf_m3TbuY-vIi9uX9EkjLUYtSqCwFGVAXnB4qVz8pw8fIue9QVKVroH_gpJw4DNXd8bf5MS4/w480-h640/20231126_094607.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-55223669543838711642024-01-19T09:02:00.000-08:002024-01-28T04:43:36.059-08:00Winter sketching via the old roman road.<p> </p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">GRAMPOUND TO PROBUS</span></p><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmNRc-Led6bh56mqL_A7jBFGVIvGFatYihZzLF0_mPtzSnHB1QP0SA9c9gkRWCJEE9Ycd3jLOtPnfHCfeJsz_0gCtcPAnd1Cn7Cv-Efq-xA-74bn70FLTb1UdOdBtHJkKPxkmXV89e5mB7Okv7Ko0TLFFAA_oeEiA9txOi6lhPnGlEJIHGzeiZ0F-TTE/s2842/20240119_132823.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2842" data-original-width="2604" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmNRc-Led6bh56mqL_A7jBFGVIvGFatYihZzLF0_mPtzSnHB1QP0SA9c9gkRWCJEE9Ycd3jLOtPnfHCfeJsz_0gCtcPAnd1Cn7Cv-Efq-xA-74bn70FLTb1UdOdBtHJkKPxkmXV89e5mB7Okv7Ko0TLFFAA_oeEiA9txOi6lhPnGlEJIHGzeiZ0F-TTE/w586-h640/20240119_132823.jpg" width="586" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">If I’m out with my sketch book then it’s the norm for me to be walking alone. Few would want to hang around while I sat and scribbled, and on a frosty afternoon, even if the sun was out people prefer to keep on the move.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I took the No27 bus east from Probus square and got off at the next stop in Grampound. I used to live here, but my aim today was simply walk back to Probus, so the only bit of the village I saw was the hill rising steeply out of Old Grampound. The ancient road must have been here since Roman times as it leads to the old encampment of Carvosa, no following the valley as the busy modern road does. I would not be meeting any traffic here and the noise of the main road was suitably distant. It’s a tough beginning for old bones like mine, but I plod these days and get there in the end. The steep climb in tunnel like shrouded by ancient oaks until you reach the flat typically narrow Cornish lane that leads you to the Trewithen farm entrance and bridal path. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpEsHHpzeMl96CbfZI7D1RDFoZ0c8BZcpYEsLZh80-hqCAGq8twEkQ6Iol_kLLhIiUW9DEPE-HAMw-_6l-hChCE9YFvh45B4LAcSz-U4uZQoRS10a69fRZP8Z0i5kCx_XH69fy8MTP4J5XCaw3pLkMKDO9fw4V5IMeT1QDRiWjbnOwD5tchQvTi5xRP8E/s2654/20240119_132756.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2654" data-original-width="2572" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpEsHHpzeMl96CbfZI7D1RDFoZ0c8BZcpYEsLZh80-hqCAGq8twEkQ6Iol_kLLhIiUW9DEPE-HAMw-_6l-hChCE9YFvh45B4LAcSz-U4uZQoRS10a69fRZP8Z0i5kCx_XH69fy8MTP4J5XCaw3pLkMKDO9fw4V5IMeT1QDRiWjbnOwD5tchQvTi5xRP8E/w620-h640/20240119_132756.jpg" width="620" /></a><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">From here I took the woodland path as far as the main eastern gates of Trewithen stopping for another scribble while bathed in brilliant sunshine. Had to keep moving as my feet were frozen, on towards Golden Manor. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZs-cAv7YaMzSyADjeZQ3w_a2SLCpIR57VliE2ZNggjt2wh3jprtEH6xscH961Q6Y_a_7JsrZ6IHf-QJltDis1dIG2er4hP2-1MRYw6kYXqHI3v7N0uSbONpQs5E2c0_CDsTrJ4frKILicP-VfogWaVhgxYLmGLJLJw5VwSeRHTdTqxpe50Y4Z_Z5UeAo/s3791/20240119_132847.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2357" data-original-width="3791" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZs-cAv7YaMzSyADjeZQ3w_a2SLCpIR57VliE2ZNggjt2wh3jprtEH6xscH961Q6Y_a_7JsrZ6IHf-QJltDis1dIG2er4hP2-1MRYw6kYXqHI3v7N0uSbONpQs5E2c0_CDsTrJ4frKILicP-VfogWaVhgxYLmGLJLJw5VwSeRHTdTqxpe50Y4Z_Z5UeAo/w640-h398/20240119_132847.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Walking along this section of road is not advised unless you are determined and alert enough to throw yourself into the hedge to avoid oncoming cars. I’m too old for that sort of Russian roulette so plod through the fields, keeping close to the roadside hedges. There is no livestock this time of year and I make sure this is not a day when there’s a shoot on.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMQogr_9xpyecRr08QlNs27kjWmrb7ctJz4XnuwCIbcObUbfveXLXWzdTS6IKClyD7rSecytPuL14-RJEknwA5T242f4WYvdn-5Z7P08dnwvy_qDOhJkRG0ADkfJrhNm4qYau64McI3-zoD2-LYBICr6g2o4VCbc_CGWKOs15FzceoeDLq8fLDMATpTQ/s3728/20240119_132935.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3728" data-original-width="2136" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMQogr_9xpyecRr08QlNs27kjWmrb7ctJz4XnuwCIbcObUbfveXLXWzdTS6IKClyD7rSecytPuL14-RJEknwA5T242f4WYvdn-5Z7P08dnwvy_qDOhJkRG0ADkfJrhNm4qYau64McI3-zoD2-LYBICr6g2o4VCbc_CGWKOs15FzceoeDLq8fLDMATpTQ/s320/20240119_132935.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"> From Golden I take the lane leading back to Probus on the south side of Trewithen, where old top heavy pines overhang the road while others lie horizontal, taken by a gale that has snapped them like twigs splintering their great trunk with a force that is hard to imagine. Home in time for tea and a warm up of frozen fingers. <span style="text-align: left;">My ramblings are much shorter than those I took in my youth,
but I still don’t tell anyone where I’m heading. How can I, when I don’t even know
myself. Much like my creative output I have little in the way of an expected
outcome and am always delighted by the unexpected. When walking this most often
takes the form of close encounters with nature. Alone there is no one to talk
to and little sound to inform of my approach. There are times when I’ve been
prepared with camera to record that fleeting encounter, and others when I’ve
been able to take my time and record something special in my sketchbook. I too
marvel how David Attenborough and his camera crew manage to record such events.
To sit quiet and benign alongside another living creature and sketch their
likeness is very humbling. On the south coast of Western Australia beyond Cape
Le Grand National Park I came across a carpet python sunning itself and spent
fifteen minutes sketching the beauty of its coiled markings. Not all of nature
is as obliging as a still life drawing, and it maybe a process of repeated
observation of that movement before a complete image is formed. There are always exceptions, and
times when it is difficult to distinguish exactly who is the observer and who
the observed.</span></div></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsERXTXXQlD3lw3qHKhFH5QF3Xf81S8I_Ldh9cxOysJJTAnH1yGMXdnkV-gjJ2ATfa_cS7uyIZ-09Z4V_5_XgwYt5oYlN2zFEtksYzEtEgoEhJkQuzpZVWe1_tj_48zLKxLZXUT3tTYcL54Yq_bqUjkhUM9Plh4X3V6xgzzqCjgGStOcgLmSEPMOJ3Gg/s2254/P1180038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2234" data-original-width="2254" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsERXTXXQlD3lw3qHKhFH5QF3Xf81S8I_Ldh9cxOysJJTAnH1yGMXdnkV-gjJ2ATfa_cS7uyIZ-09Z4V_5_XgwYt5oYlN2zFEtksYzEtEgoEhJkQuzpZVWe1_tj_48zLKxLZXUT3tTYcL54Yq_bqUjkhUM9Plh4X3V6xgzzqCjgGStOcgLmSEPMOJ3Gg/w400-h396/P1180038.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />The Australian magpie perched on a post while I was drawing a
view of the pink salt lake outside Esperance seemed as intrigued by me and my
stillness. It wasn’t the first time I’d been closely observed by a bird. A
wedge tail eagle hung above me, his shadow crossing my sketchpad as he floated
in the thermal of Peak Charles. In Spain the first I knew of the vulture was
the flapping of wings as it realised at the last minute I wasn’t simply another
piece of inanimate rock or dead carrion. To be at one with nature can happen
anywhere, in your back garden or in some far flung wilderness. Iguanas like to
find a high point for observation, and will often remain immobile on a
convenient post. They are not fussy about their perching spot and one friend
found himself with an iguana perched on his head. Whether fleeting or sustained
these encounters remain with me, unlike the more forgettable meetings with my
fellow beings. The words of Lord Byron sum it up.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is pleasure in the pathless woods;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is a rapture on the lonely shore;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is society where none intrude,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By the deep sea and music in its roar,</p><p class="MsoNormal">I love not man the less but nature more. <span style="text-align: center;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p><div><br /></div></div><br />Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-68811789914222440362024-01-07T12:22:00.000-08:002024-01-07T12:22:28.652-08:00MA WEE HOOS<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3TvME4Gj40sxfCELcx7yxE6SSAh0buL1-kowSWtHTwTQL7CfMGRBJmBgRkFlRa4bWGMNUlduZPruRjAwe-ZsG8fyzmiZwlTPVKe5P9ZaW9SuJCa3VjTIGD95vAmUbTW7eOT1S34wwPbNoSBozk9WHqWE9J2tz4e0TcY6W-RM25aEbHPk7Hkq3bCoyR8/s3347/20231113_162135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2428" data-original-width="3347" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3TvME4Gj40sxfCELcx7yxE6SSAh0buL1-kowSWtHTwTQL7CfMGRBJmBgRkFlRa4bWGMNUlduZPruRjAwe-ZsG8fyzmiZwlTPVKe5P9ZaW9SuJCa3VjTIGD95vAmUbTW7eOT1S34wwPbNoSBozk9WHqWE9J2tz4e0TcY6W-RM25aEbHPk7Hkq3bCoyR8/w640-h464/20231113_162135.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Since childhood I’ve had a fascination with small things.
The first prize I ever won was for my garden on a plate at the Campbeltown
Show. Fine moss became a well-kept lawn surrounded by the tiniest of flowers or
part of florets both wild and from our garden became the well maintained flower
beds. The smallest of pebbles lined the stream and the bridge cross it was from
used matchsticks. I’ve always found it important within my artwork to retain
that element of play, and to find myself once again whittling miniature items
of furniture for a dolls house seemed quite natural. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZcoHKJ3Z-kwQ5BHTuw5qxGY4xE1DJdmj4DGUuZRPbPpakF03ZdbQshTCxQMDE46JE1bWYmi7WUnpZjNdLADqpcCIwglMKOCrdDxcT5U61ka1ks8OWZEKVNgHxy3uSL1aVDd3o25HBXK-ZOo6AL2eQwiFBoxUZ8dHQOJglytY6BRRAopHi1nxNvBYNnY/s3072/P1350527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="1728" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZcoHKJ3Z-kwQ5BHTuw5qxGY4xE1DJdmj4DGUuZRPbPpakF03ZdbQshTCxQMDE46JE1bWYmi7WUnpZjNdLADqpcCIwglMKOCrdDxcT5U61ka1ks8OWZEKVNgHxy3uSL1aVDd3o25HBXK-ZOo6AL2eQwiFBoxUZ8dHQOJglytY6BRRAopHi1nxNvBYNnY/s320/P1350527.JPG" width="180" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEa3LjQDLeR6-ISxjp1Q9NY2SISUPX1-_aRb9Mr_XWBMNhlF5FXR_BIP1lwcEwHL474uLR4EmaSwYZ2ysKBa8oYEOckFtd3dL6dc2sFZ-fsCB3nJCdbMRjIY8CjeiFvsrGYEgeglLY_LE8vYH3AQuZf1XbFByFZsK2lX1Ie0YspvEtthyphenhyphenAP_alTciAEok/s3568/P1350523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="3568" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEa3LjQDLeR6-ISxjp1Q9NY2SISUPX1-_aRb9Mr_XWBMNhlF5FXR_BIP1lwcEwHL474uLR4EmaSwYZ2ysKBa8oYEOckFtd3dL6dc2sFZ-fsCB3nJCdbMRjIY8CjeiFvsrGYEgeglLY_LE8vYH3AQuZf1XbFByFZsK2lX1Ie0YspvEtthyphenhyphenAP_alTciAEok/w400-h266/P1350523.JPG" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">This is not the first house I’ve made and furnished. I hope
this will one day join others to be part of an exhibition aimed at children. I
started building the croft house back in November and modelled it very roughly on
my own home. I felt it important to make as much as possible using reclaimed
wood and most of the house itself was made using V-lining timber salvaged from
a house recently demolished and consigned to the quarry tip here in Tolsta.
Although my dolls house bears only a passing resemblance to the old green tar
papered roof house I have chosen green for the diamond pattern tiles. Using
wood from the old house has also meant that in the smallest of ways that house
lives on. Most of the dormer windowed crofter’s cottages had just two windows
upstairs, but I liked the idea of a third the light the landing. This also
meant that access to the rooms would have to be from both sides. The downstairs
from the <br />front and the upstairs via the back roof. When completed the house
will sit on a stand made from the front legs of two old dining chairs.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbfX75fsXZEaANAXr1DHmVTmOnQWwJV0YdZ_Bz1rivxNbVjEoVztaJFTWdU1IMVYoqA4jku4vBRBK6huFvVgRVYpucrO38QY41dzKpIBOFXiSFfU9gfCO7lDTC8mUKyjAQ2LTGx6MdV1V0sDXlh4hK5mt0Mxfz2rKkinIbjNjynJoDjCWes4zZx9-mUo0/s4080/20240107_183653.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbfX75fsXZEaANAXr1DHmVTmOnQWwJV0YdZ_Bz1rivxNbVjEoVztaJFTWdU1IMVYoqA4jku4vBRBK6huFvVgRVYpucrO38QY41dzKpIBOFXiSFfU9gfCO7lDTC8mUKyjAQ2LTGx6MdV1V0sDXlh4hK5mt0Mxfz2rKkinIbjNjynJoDjCWes4zZx9-mUo0/w640-h480/20240107_183653.jpg" width="640" /> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzvAlsUImqeGdxBaoe2EQnEuY7wzn3tKenh7u3_9IsAIzF2nbbppNh978lcOLClkypGHn0S6_DnO1penW9OMSzEVupr3sYTEreh1nArCXlKAGndIQTS9RdzV9OQvdvtK2b9vYGvrCxPtN2VpyqO65Hydsu0n4hOmdaktE4yJqvtwwtVyNd8TCgDSIj84/s4080/20240107_183637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzvAlsUImqeGdxBaoe2EQnEuY7wzn3tKenh7u3_9IsAIzF2nbbppNh978lcOLClkypGHn0S6_DnO1penW9OMSzEVupr3sYTEreh1nArCXlKAGndIQTS9RdzV9OQvdvtK2b9vYGvrCxPtN2VpyqO65Hydsu0n4hOmdaktE4yJqvtwwtVyNd8TCgDSIj84/s320/20240107_183637.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Scale is something that I do not stick to religiously as the
odd sizes of objects serves to give the place charm and an Alice in Wonderland
feel. Once again for the furnishings everything was sourced from scrap
material. I’ve always found it difficult to throw away anything that might one
day be just what I’m looking for in the madness of my creativity. So a pull
drawer handle made a hood for the parlour fireplace and a scrap of shaped brass
from that same old Tolsta house became the fender. Old fragments of Victorian
upholstery were used for carpets as well as the easy chairs. Offcuts from my
brother’s new sitting room floor were whittled down to make spindles for the
kitchen chairs. A close striped French mattress ticking once again became a
mattress but in miniature and the links of old brass picture hanging chain once
slightly squashed round become curtain rings. Books will be made from old cloth
covered books that were damaged by damp, but like my own house there will be no
TV. So far it has cost only a few pence for some wood glue and fine nails. When
it comes to other objects such as pots and pans etcetera, there may be some
small expenditure, but all it really takes is time, like anything else that’s
worth doing in this life. The end result will be wonderful to see, but the
journey there is way more enjoyable.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTU6cbhvWL7cKkRkhTZgcjDfbKRl-axRqnWdX_7d4UebXiVyJqzrbCjc5z1zAGS0Apprczz6nUW2xmgIiT-yFhw3RBIH2upDrX1Li120uR6u8vjtfxOIw_a9qPBYhtMtSIlAHhRzUEnWiD72Fnl58yDXeIQqo86mca00nhhFGVeaZnz6uPb_LinplsNE/s3370/20240105_091431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2672" data-original-width="3370" height="508" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTU6cbhvWL7cKkRkhTZgcjDfbKRl-axRqnWdX_7d4UebXiVyJqzrbCjc5z1zAGS0Apprczz6nUW2xmgIiT-yFhw3RBIH2upDrX1Li120uR6u8vjtfxOIw_a9qPBYhtMtSIlAHhRzUEnWiD72Fnl58yDXeIQqo86mca00nhhFGVeaZnz6uPb_LinplsNE/w640-h508/20240105_091431.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-55808398285037440692023-12-18T02:43:00.000-08:002023-12-18T02:43:20.165-08:00CULTURE SHOCK<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWeO-zQvfMtDaDIG6ryce7TV2QARiLYZYZJB_-nR9LL6KasnyqVvHl9DtCRQbmHNfJLYt63HXnR4-SpHzTY-6pp1ukqIHEMfq3NBGlPf6uuAiRmwEikPi3dswwev1Lh3yyrC23j5ym6CHzAhPBXIhlCZL1Vu0KBF_AvT7w67xEzQfzlckrLnQx-QWLxJg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="940" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWeO-zQvfMtDaDIG6ryce7TV2QARiLYZYZJB_-nR9LL6KasnyqVvHl9DtCRQbmHNfJLYt63HXnR4-SpHzTY-6pp1ukqIHEMfq3NBGlPf6uuAiRmwEikPi3dswwev1Lh3yyrC23j5ym6CHzAhPBXIhlCZL1Vu0KBF_AvT7w67xEzQfzlckrLnQx-QWLxJg=w640-h182" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;">I hadn’t left Lewis since I arrived back
in early May, so the mere idea of crossing the Minch for the mainland left me
with butterflies in my stomach. Over the years my home and studio have come to
signify safety, and the coast wilderness at my doorstep is a constant joy.
While England complained about a terrible summer the islands remained outside
the wet weather front bathed in glorious sunshine. I swam several time and the
water felt warmer than it had ever felt, which could have been more to do with
the accumulation of fat around the gut area. I feel I’ve been as active as ever
so this maybe yet another side effect of the treatment I’m on. We may not have
all the sophisticated medical equipment they have on the mainland, but there is
a level of care that is found only in small communities. The level of public
exposure I’ve had over the past years has meant my status has changed and I was
informed by Dorothy in our village shop that I was their local celebrity. I
can’t say I’d noticed, which has to be a good thing. Calm water are always preferable.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiv0KwntJAkjln-2Wq8bsfzsV4pu1Go2bCIH4oChBDj89loAucIB8lleEDUUfsgIXa89O9qjb-6mLvkCpZ98hjxCMvdLDWe5Vq1A1ojGg_wy2_QAejoKvPtwXHNuoU4sNGSDk4Wiy4AIh3fsZZtxeFWZckrmfxuVZRK6i4QPz6m66C4N13YmnvUw0oQ1Ds" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="940" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiv0KwntJAkjln-2Wq8bsfzsV4pu1Go2bCIH4oChBDj89loAucIB8lleEDUUfsgIXa89O9qjb-6mLvkCpZ98hjxCMvdLDWe5Vq1A1ojGg_wy2_QAejoKvPtwXHNuoU4sNGSDk4Wiy4AIh3fsZZtxeFWZckrmfxuVZRK6i4QPz6m66C4N13YmnvUw0oQ1Ds=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br />I had friends visiting throughout the summer months, the first coming all the way from Western Australia. Then later from Canada and down south. Now it was my turn to visit friends on my slow
journey into England. A friend had recently told me the best thing about
England was the sign on the border saying welcome to Scotland. That journey
south went well apart from the false start. I’d failed to take note of the new
ferry time table and arrived in Stornoway at 6.00 to see the Seaforth sailing
away. I caught the afternoon crossing which meant a dismal drive down the A9 in
the dark, but I arrived safely at Cupar, my first port of call around 8.00. By
the time I got south of Edinburgh the following afternoon it was snowing and
during my stay in Peebles I had a great walk up through the woods in beautiful
clean snow. I walk with a stick these days and was glad of it during the steep
descent.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZer2ruk4cGjbZuoGX4onR7JVexP0ucRhmOg1eHUuZBpV3e_QBFGq6YR9RgbC4rRUBPJVmFocXHHaW9ghQyGWNEwOdZwyf1QHIp5jilZRiboRBqC3CZPWVhNtET5ndQX1Cot0by_ixRAtTWDfzdLq51pfSCGg0i68KHZHkFKD3tieM-cNpMEOgfL1FgpI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="940" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZer2ruk4cGjbZuoGX4onR7JVexP0ucRhmOg1eHUuZBpV3e_QBFGq6YR9RgbC4rRUBPJVmFocXHHaW9ghQyGWNEwOdZwyf1QHIp5jilZRiboRBqC3CZPWVhNtET5ndQX1Cot0by_ixRAtTWDfzdLq51pfSCGg0i68KHZHkFKD3tieM-cNpMEOgfL1FgpI=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /> It was minus five when I left the next morning
and although I scarped the ice from all windows the windscreen washers refused to
work. I wasn't the only with that problem having to stop at every service
station down the motorway to clean the white salt off the windscreen. It
eventually thawed out at Lancaster. I was heading to London for the opening of
my exhibition (One man and his needle at Robert Young Antiques) and took the
train into the big city. If arriving on the mainland was a big culture shock,
London is on another planet entirely. I braved my way down escalators to the
underground, followed instruction for the number 19 bus to Battersea Bridge
Road and marvelled at the way in which London transport was able to cope with
such large numbers of people. It’s so strange not talking to anyone, and most
seem totally isolated in their own little world of whatever it was on their
smart phones, or being received through their ear phones. The opening evening went
extremely well with good sales. It seemed odd to see my name emblazoned on the
gallery window but reassuring to see my work so well displayed. There were several
familiar faces which enabled me to relax and enjoy the show. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiy-8dflx2E_1q412Q481YNkBRnarDLOWS10wltD4BHWLo74eP7rA3r_FViMDQqCseRUtddBL9sz2Ez6IVgHdlJDVG-1NBIyntHf-upoPFHfPlpI6_Mn7IeFuRChRWq8qKGpSLt6MD37iAXaeZmFg4vgfKrcS0KORVYu-WabnooOpMZ7C4AD0-NqxIiElA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="940" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiy-8dflx2E_1q412Q481YNkBRnarDLOWS10wltD4BHWLo74eP7rA3r_FViMDQqCseRUtddBL9sz2Ez6IVgHdlJDVG-1NBIyntHf-upoPFHfPlpI6_Mn7IeFuRChRWq8qKGpSLt6MD37iAXaeZmFg4vgfKrcS0KORVYu-WabnooOpMZ7C4AD0-NqxIiElA=w640-h462" width="640" /></a></div><br />The
following evening, I went to see my cousin but lost my bearings coming out of
Notting Hill Gate station, so had to ask a passer buy. I said excuse me and the
answer was immediate "I've got no change" and he hurried on his way.
Presumably a tweed jacket, colourful scarf, and a shepherd's walking stick put
me in the homeless bracket. I found it surprisingly reassuring to be seen as
out of place, so shouted back “I don’t want your f…ing money” then burst out
laughing. A young woman was far more helpful and pointed me in the right
direction. On arriving at my cousins I recounted the story and as he roared
with laughter I realised I could dine out on this one for months to come. I've
been with my brother a week now and settled into the old routine, me stitching
in the kitchen while he watches Bangers and Cash in the next room. I spent a
few days sorting stuff for sale and took a van load of furniture and china down
to the Penzance auction rooms in the week, but I doubt it will make much. There
are plenty more boxes to sort out, oriental and glass are next.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;"> I
brought the crofter's dolls house I’d been making down with me and have moved
on to the interior decorating stage. I love the fun and fiddle of small scale
and hope next year to present my idea for a children’s exhibition at our local
art centre, where my own dolls house would take centre stage.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTa7pg4At_VWFwcuRodnqzD6uLQ1g90ckuJ-iN2bmnjOa8cEWOONsK-Ta7DX1ltXaVuY68yPdNwHsFeHdMX2ego4IEYHkv3AtxBr2k5jMRh4sedfntUiyKzGqEb4UbvrNR8rkNB7FHznuIGgojNt5cDmayqxTpq-LeXyAtnqTnXndIqN5zfYjeldpZ6dc" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="940" data-original-width="705" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTa7pg4At_VWFwcuRodnqzD6uLQ1g90ckuJ-iN2bmnjOa8cEWOONsK-Ta7DX1ltXaVuY68yPdNwHsFeHdMX2ego4IEYHkv3AtxBr2k5jMRh4sedfntUiyKzGqEb4UbvrNR8rkNB7FHznuIGgojNt5cDmayqxTpq-LeXyAtnqTnXndIqN5zfYjeldpZ6dc=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;">Since my arrival in Cornwall the weather
has been miserably damp and any time outside has been spent raking up leaves. I
must make more effort to go walking but the countryside is so different to Tolsta
and definitely way too many cars. We'll be doing absolutely nothing for
Christmas, and no cooked bird. I've suggested pigs in blankets with the roast
veg. I know, hardly vegetarian. If I find any road kill pheasants before then
the menu might change. I had an email from a friend the other day saying that
Banjo Beale’s launch of his Wild Isle Style book at An Lanntair was more of a
Tom Hickman slide show as he used my home to illustrate his talk. I'm glad I
wasn't there, embarrassing to have that local celebrity status endorsed, but
every day I miss my home.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitLhiUAbe0O-9FC7XOwdxRpp2XcthCYshX5eifJRJiS4T32vNlmi_QbqZqqFohseibI1Ihaxc0JDPCBE57wbQwiy_VcQ9L1e4qt51dMhKj0sUl4VpLc8ZEEtOlxugeXHC5xfLDkqfRju8gx2qwksJ0_t6vSpYxiX7N-0mRbV16K5aJ5-_2-Nk38BW0QXM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="940" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitLhiUAbe0O-9FC7XOwdxRpp2XcthCYshX5eifJRJiS4T32vNlmi_QbqZqqFohseibI1Ihaxc0JDPCBE57wbQwiy_VcQ9L1e4qt51dMhKj0sUl4VpLc8ZEEtOlxugeXHC5xfLDkqfRju8gx2qwksJ0_t6vSpYxiX7N-0mRbV16K5aJ5-_2-Nk38BW0QXM=w640-h356" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;">2023 has been a remarkable year and one I
didn’t expect after last winter’s cancer diagnosis. I am grateful for every
minute of it. My creativity has seen me through some hard times and ideas have
come at an ever increasing pace. I seem to have a renewed childlike fascination
with my surroundings, small details of colour and form being seen as if for the
first time. During those hot summer months I dragged buckets of clay up from
the beach the other side of the village and made some wobbly Neolithic style
coiled pots. When fully dried I popped them into the Rayburn burner each time I
had a cake baking in the oven. I finished another roll of one off weaving and
made two of what I like to call my £1000 tea cosies, so good you could wear
them, Napoleonic or Wellington style. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7yx01lJD6lxS_g482XFEd03A-I2vzH1Ujy8kB6E6By_h0lUzvrB10bL-pLNJaQirWyGtR-gZ6--mA0t2NTjFeg6vMlNPZomyHkBJL76Eds0byWLAzMNItU5xvtfTgx_DWSH1YQ6XGRcA41oI1DKISAmu3tzYmb4Ub_BJxBZX0v7J4ClPW3vXqRZ-Ozbk" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="449" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7yx01lJD6lxS_g482XFEd03A-I2vzH1Ujy8kB6E6By_h0lUzvrB10bL-pLNJaQirWyGtR-gZ6--mA0t2NTjFeg6vMlNPZomyHkBJL76Eds0byWLAzMNItU5xvtfTgx_DWSH1YQ6XGRcA41oI1DKISAmu3tzYmb4Ub_BJxBZX0v7J4ClPW3vXqRZ-Ozbk" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcipw8rITzlAc_rLSvlE9iPUBqG6jg8V47AZCRpTQqKnCsOva5DBQ6eizqHtCaBRVbJivrfpY4CQhdwYmH0GD4JU3aIDyTB4s8pvMgJFWgdR72ENx_dsYP4lVkBGxS7MzVFO2bQgFGTeUJNN7lHd1xyRfmoAqxWmVTgnyVdD_J0VK9op7sv3jlGYkbilc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="404" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcipw8rITzlAc_rLSvlE9iPUBqG6jg8V47AZCRpTQqKnCsOva5DBQ6eizqHtCaBRVbJivrfpY4CQhdwYmH0GD4JU3aIDyTB4s8pvMgJFWgdR72ENx_dsYP4lVkBGxS7MzVFO2bQgFGTeUJNN7lHd1xyRfmoAqxWmVTgnyVdD_J0VK9op7sv3jlGYkbilc" width="288" /></a></div><br /><br /> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;"> Although I was late in getting the veg garden
started the warmth meant a good year for soft fruit and jam making. The
perennial kale that had gone to seed and abundant foxgloves were full of bumble
bees. The bird life has increased significantly as a direct result of my
nearest neighbour’s cat no longer being around. I need only whistle and my mate
the robin appears.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;">In early July I dispensed with the radio
and became accustomed to silence. I now qualify as one of the least well
informed people on the planet, bliss. Earlier in the year, before returning home
I purchased a camera to replace my old one. This one has the added feature of
being able to make phone calls 07842270108. Whatever next! I was able to walk
out onto the moor on a find day and talk to friends down in London, Cornwall or
the Midlands, but still being able to make it on foot into my coastal
wilderness, beyond any phone signal, were many townspeople would be terrified
is a delight.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiqyUxtnLPUoP_nle9bdvP2nv4N1aApGNelMl-U03tqodm6Dpyb8swgb8lctNLWhexmgZth8nrzf5U9uCgiwzSWojVnulg9hV8nXZXCsxol-6YUFexzCybA7Apbjc60OfYJkPGdvxZCVbjR-xlQXoQ4xFyYxTQ2hO9s8BwpJhm_B_m1PeCphyB78Fh6w0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="940" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiqyUxtnLPUoP_nle9bdvP2nv4N1aApGNelMl-U03tqodm6Dpyb8swgb8lctNLWhexmgZth8nrzf5U9uCgiwzSWojVnulg9hV8nXZXCsxol-6YUFexzCybA7Apbjc60OfYJkPGdvxZCVbjR-xlQXoQ4xFyYxTQ2hO9s8BwpJhm_B_m1PeCphyB78Fh6w0=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;"> One person from WA having only now seen
Scotland’s Home of the Year, commented that I was living his best life, a term
I hate. Life is life, there is no best. Some of us may seem to be leading and
charmed one, I’m simply glad I made it this far. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-26864932339548083322023-11-13T03:29:00.000-08:002023-11-13T03:29:49.992-08:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">LET THE SUN SHINE IN.<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><!--[endif]--></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIg4Qy0FOKhmtWz5NfJYfS6itOabkMc3pALiLq-ACUqQ78pNl5AYx7UIbp7q8lcjpFQqhDyzLlxIICP24axERakqG-xoV0IF3bQ074Gt5ZZu0QULOJ0i3IeizKamJZdmsy23nsIaRcku1E9mlgfLlGW0AJ5nxNpdkKQIUyPUjFsuFeydP1MbCSUOV1iY/s2576/20231028_083339.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="815" data-original-width="2576" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIg4Qy0FOKhmtWz5NfJYfS6itOabkMc3pALiLq-ACUqQ78pNl5AYx7UIbp7q8lcjpFQqhDyzLlxIICP24axERakqG-xoV0IF3bQ074Gt5ZZu0QULOJ0i3IeizKamJZdmsy23nsIaRcku1E9mlgfLlGW0AJ5nxNpdkKQIUyPUjFsuFeydP1MbCSUOV1iY/w640-h202/20231028_083339.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now that the clocks have changed and there is already talk
of Christmas it would seem winter is truly upon us and yet today it certainly
didn’t feel like it. I’ve still been waking early, and maybe it’s something to
do with getting older but I no longer leap out of bed, preferring to spend an
extra half hour reading. However I like to catch the sunrise when it heralds a
good day. During a recent walk out onto the moor I was reminded that this is
truly the rainbow coast at this time of year.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF-GznEeqxpHxws2ktfrMQwU0sOZOJshfYNkFWtMpOA8t4CF3CWV5-71xDghcsxfSXqo_WDSXXJRMndClmeBHZXiIdtem98EN_g_cisqCLobi2ZFLkzCSMPFS9O1ex-6sGSHskCllBbmGI0jBGL-n3cjGqjtwcVRF00v6TvRCmBzEbF30qoobjFzNYaDw/s4080/20231107_144737.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF-GznEeqxpHxws2ktfrMQwU0sOZOJshfYNkFWtMpOA8t4CF3CWV5-71xDghcsxfSXqo_WDSXXJRMndClmeBHZXiIdtem98EN_g_cisqCLobi2ZFLkzCSMPFS9O1ex-6sGSHskCllBbmGI0jBGL-n3cjGqjtwcVRF00v6TvRCmBzEbF30qoobjFzNYaDw/w640-h480/20231107_144737.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">Those angel rays of autumn lift the spirits like nothing
else can. Getting over a heavy cold and having to be inside meant that the
light quality at this time of year has become very noticeable. The dawn is long
and slow with the sun being lower in the sky and it also penetrates further
into the rooms, highlighting, reflecting and lending a warming glow. My croft
house faces due south and the sash windows are generous for the size of the
rooms. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj71-E3KpUF54CNwHMUH2vbXmJytF9bAO7ecRC7l9ByPL75-62xABalA2QfkCBRiAn-sYOSHWCAxShOGdhcB-Sou9k4ZsfDiWhhG7CUXbvHJ1clwFuypIagFuGKqEl3JVhNEbFMRS3OEIH_C1ute5g4rnrC2nBZiBaec7isv3HIGalyaE9Q7CDsQhmG41Y/s4080/20231111_110012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3060" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj71-E3KpUF54CNwHMUH2vbXmJytF9bAO7ecRC7l9ByPL75-62xABalA2QfkCBRiAn-sYOSHWCAxShOGdhcB-Sou9k4ZsfDiWhhG7CUXbvHJ1clwFuypIagFuGKqEl3JVhNEbFMRS3OEIH_C1ute5g4rnrC2nBZiBaec7isv3HIGalyaE9Q7CDsQhmG41Y/s320/20231111_110012.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />I have never been one
who craves the massive glazed façade and have as an artist always worked with
the quality of light rather than the quantity. I’ve never been a fan of open
plan either, as I need wall space and a sense of discovery that internal walls
provide. I can’t imagine not having doors to close, not just for privacy, but
to keep warmth within a cosy space. I have in the past tended to live in large
houses, which I’ve had no trouble in filling, but often found myself
deliberately making a tour of the house simply checking everything was still there.
The two up two down is a perfect size for me, and filling it with things that
give me pleasure has been great fun. I did a count the other day of how many
objects within the house that I have made and it topped 130. Now that’s what I
call making a home. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPIfQeAxckvfBs9zyr5QCpABFzyRd6XcbMIqOvWrcG2Ai0_AkQ41JKiXsst6RqABOSlceg9Xlc2X1SErO8TlsB74tVL_u6A70U4AFNQwHuzW07vqpbHv9duJ7tWshNf-fEEmM1SoYKQnHxR5Gh-hnHCI3JZCAvWml9bVzGoK1b4eLgmrsgcDgAfNDlMBs/s4080/20231112_090407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPIfQeAxckvfBs9zyr5QCpABFzyRd6XcbMIqOvWrcG2Ai0_AkQ41JKiXsst6RqABOSlceg9Xlc2X1SErO8TlsB74tVL_u6A70U4AFNQwHuzW07vqpbHv9duJ7tWshNf-fEEmM1SoYKQnHxR5Gh-hnHCI3JZCAvWml9bVzGoK1b4eLgmrsgcDgAfNDlMBs/s320/20231112_090407.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I have three embroidery projects on the go and the studio is
a chaotic mess, but out of that chaos I know good things will come. In the barn
the workshop is equally chaotic as I near completion of another dolls house. A
croft house this time, and an opportunity to whittle away the hours over the
next couple of months making miniature furniture.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I received my free copy of Banjo Beale’s “Wild Isle Style” book
this week and it read as if I was talking to myself so much were the sentiments
and thoughts on design and not buying new akin to my own. I realise now having
got very little space to change things within my own croft house that to play
in miniature is a great alternative.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4O3nlexrVHx2ZHqAdB0ou5XsdL5G9ie9PMvDQo8ed74J6n32iDTYkbuPIC8CArp3v29beFpzvSourms2rD0oz-8E_43TqEqJG51WrpxYn_BoaqqBqFvcxAbaBPTQeL7XjlDsSg_1Ub5VPpbN8iTXaqr3jEBZ3HqEpb8m-gOPGqzYvknL6nqf_0ExjbJI/s4080/20231102_100157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3060" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4O3nlexrVHx2ZHqAdB0ou5XsdL5G9ie9PMvDQo8ed74J6n32iDTYkbuPIC8CArp3v29beFpzvSourms2rD0oz-8E_43TqEqJG51WrpxYn_BoaqqBqFvcxAbaBPTQeL7XjlDsSg_1Ub5VPpbN8iTXaqr3jEBZ3HqEpb8m-gOPGqzYvknL6nqf_0ExjbJI/w480-h640/20231102_100157.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Daylight hours diminish at a pace as dusk and dawn creep in
opposite directions. I hear friends talking of duvet days and worry when
they’ll ever get the washing dry, while I look at the remains of my peat stack
and wonder how long it will last. Keeping warm was easy when I was physically
fit and my body could handle energetic projects, but now I must choose which
fire to light and move whatever project I have to it. I flit from the kitchen
table to studio and back again, but today the sun had warmth and I only lit the
Rayburn late afternoon to bake a cake and take a bath in the Belfast sink. Yes,
it is possible.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-8014633594987836022023-10-22T05:59:00.000-07:002023-10-22T05:59:36.383-07:00STYLE<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhctKzcx9tySqA-9hxfhZUxBL_7A_xYpfCAt7EonLnoDVZt1fQ6l5r3dv9xHdM03ZnoLYFgTN8RloTOSI9y0udQpGPxrZkrLcMX-TjrbfysVRHz2rhjYevTfapBjNLGptK9AWNgYfXzeolLL9MNweM8Uj3bOuhE54gJjl1F1MHFYpKUKFVRODjLg9JHymI/s448/P1120204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="448" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhctKzcx9tySqA-9hxfhZUxBL_7A_xYpfCAt7EonLnoDVZt1fQ6l5r3dv9xHdM03ZnoLYFgTN8RloTOSI9y0udQpGPxrZkrLcMX-TjrbfysVRHz2rhjYevTfapBjNLGptK9AWNgYfXzeolLL9MNweM8Uj3bOuhE54gJjl1F1MHFYpKUKFVRODjLg9JHymI/w640-h360/P1120204.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I do love a good rant, so when Banjo Beale’s evening
presentation of his book “Wild Island Style” was cancelled due to bad weather
it left a gap of disappointment in my evening’s entertainment, a gap that
needed filling. I don’t like empty shelves. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What is style, and where does it come from? I hear it all
the time and there is even a colour supplement in one of the papers dedicated
to it. It burns as well as any other fire lighting material, but this time I
took time to browse through it. Full of fashion trends set by the super-rich
and famous, or rather the person employed to tell them. Shag pile carpeting was
back along with enormous lurid fluffy coats. Sultry looking android models put
even Barbie to shame with the length of their legs. Bodies so slim the plastic
clothes seemed more like crumpled plastic bin liners. They looked like they
needed that big fluffy coat to keep warm, but would it crush their spindly
fragile form. I scrunched it up and lit the fire, but was still left with my
questions unanswered. Let’s try a few ideas out, and bear with my ramblings.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As an artist I see myself as a leader and not a follower, so
I have never pressed the button at a traffic light controlled zebra crossing. I
cross the road where I want to and while I still have good eyesight and am able
to judge distances I will refrain from following the masses to the designated
crossing fifty yards up the road from where I want to go. As a leader I do what
I want to do as long as it harms no others, but what perhaps makes me different
is that I require no followers. While some count the number of followers they
have on social media, or how many likes they’ve had for the last inane comment,
I take no part in on line discussion. I am what I am, it is what it is, take it
or leave it, and perhaps that’s what style boils down to. The courage to make a
statement in whatever way you choose and not to care what others think. Many
people don’t have the courage and so end up being the dedicated followers of
fashion. Others simply don’t know what statement they can make, or even how
they can make it, once again they also join the herd of followers. We are
animals and it is hardly surprising that we choose to stick with the herd, much
safer and less chance of being picked out by a hungry predator.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My ears have always stuck out, and I learnt at an early age
how to handle being picked on. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3ha1_MeKErewTEOADH8V1SryT8wKosU3DF-bHmwqlArqO3nIRARdlVr-1sUoVkQl8zqW-gUPcC-J_beSiHuU9DbGzKX19yDX7MW-8q5tV4_dzqBm5LGWANNWPhWqjLqaUn7DESGewXrRg1XypaTcooNx92MuNVNyAbIyVh8eUzP0LYNb70kvqmI_ONQ/s2384/P1280300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2384" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3ha1_MeKErewTEOADH8V1SryT8wKosU3DF-bHmwqlArqO3nIRARdlVr-1sUoVkQl8zqW-gUPcC-J_beSiHuU9DbGzKX19yDX7MW-8q5tV4_dzqBm5LGWANNWPhWqjLqaUn7DESGewXrRg1XypaTcooNx92MuNVNyAbIyVh8eUzP0LYNb70kvqmI_ONQ/s320/P1280300.JPG" width="172" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">I love what makes me different, so when two men walked past
me in the street, and one said to the other “look at the jugs on that” I turned
around to see who the statement was aimed at. They were looking straight at me
and I burst into laughter. They didn’t know what to make of it and smiling
nervously they moved on. Then there’s the other side, when I was visiting
artist friends for lunch in their London flat I sat with my back to the window,
the mid-day sun streamed in warming my back. “I hope you don’t mind me saying
this” Brandon said looked at me intently, “but your ears look just like rose
buds”. “How sweet of you to notice” I replied “and the nicest thing anyone has
ever said about them”, but then Brandon’s an artist and notices these things. So
one man’s big jug handle ears is another man’s rose buds, so what. Precisely,
does it matter a jot what we look like as long as we are happy in our skin?
Does it matter in what way we choose the live, or decorate our houses as long
as we are happy with it. What then happens if what we find ourselves looking at
no longer ticks our boxes? Do we settle for a good dose of depression, or go
looking for inspiration? Hopefully the latter. Much of what I see that my eye
is attracted to I simply cannot afford, not because it’s encrusted with
diamonds (how vulgar), but simply because it’s overpriced. I go shopping for
ideas, and ideas thankfully are free. Out here on Lewis everything has become
increasingly geared towards the tourists and if it doesn’t move then sooner or
later someone will cover it in Harris Tweed. It’s a style but I’m not always
convinced that it’s stylish, or for that matter practical, but as long as it
has the Harris Tweed label you can sell anything, great marketing. During the
season a few make it as far as my studio, tucked away as it is, but thankfully
99% of passers-by don’t even see the sign as they head off across the cattle
grid to tick off Traigh Mhor beach and the Bridge to Nowhere from there list of
must see things. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnglDInSuzDN8SD081zZWquKo0OjklJVAyH9P8oGbq9AKQCqjxjqcsUy5NOMN97Mj8lj0a6V8KpPJBmhpy54Zu06CiIIdhN9yhSppncdGzelgDRyfJ7Rl93VDpoEA7EgSb7Xn3PR31zPI5CLjAGXW6cg2-GSUITK4JFv0AkOharhU6iN8EjwdMBVwlHw/s3769/20231021_141946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3769" data-original-width="2617" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnglDInSuzDN8SD081zZWquKo0OjklJVAyH9P8oGbq9AKQCqjxjqcsUy5NOMN97Mj8lj0a6V8KpPJBmhpy54Zu06CiIIdhN9yhSppncdGzelgDRyfJ7Rl93VDpoEA7EgSb7Xn3PR31zPI5CLjAGXW6cg2-GSUITK4JFv0AkOharhU6iN8EjwdMBVwlHw/s320/20231021_141946.jpg" width="222" /></a></div>When I was young antiques were highly valued, and I managed
to make a good living from buying and selling them. People would have the
contents of their house insured itemising certain specific pieces of valuable
furniture. Today these pieces are practically worthless, which means we can now
all have fine pieces of 18<sup>th </sup>century furniture in our homes and no
insurance needed. IKEA in their latest brochure may be tempting you to buy that
flat pack bureau that will prove a nightmare to assemble with a special offer
reduction of £800, but its 18<sup>th</sup> century equivalent in vastly
superior wood is only £200 at the local auction rooms. There has never been a
better time to furnish a period home. Today inheritance is a dirty word unless
it refers to money, anything older than living memory is simply too old. People
will buy with nostalgia for the past, but that only takes us back to the 50’s
and there is little attempt made to see the beauty in the ancient. Real
antiques are unfortunately too old. However one man’s misfortune is another’s
fortune and I love the idea of cheap treasures. Let those followers of fashion flit
through the latest catalogues and colour supplement magazines of style and
leave us the quality.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmcUsoG4MY3dedymEAZYPuZbwYdxt2WZmX3HFQoQiDsm9XzI0_3iPurYicOIHlFrZfF9vNHsI2ooaTTp3yTgKWeaAGyCPwG80KUKm8-njW0Zcw5DNUl_49Gbo6IF3y3egYU3_1aKZSyP73CesiIKHU2zMHigdPMhCTHmFLyImDMaiyz8yiC45d-RvNTY/s2304/P1330941.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="2304" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmcUsoG4MY3dedymEAZYPuZbwYdxt2WZmX3HFQoQiDsm9XzI0_3iPurYicOIHlFrZfF9vNHsI2ooaTTp3yTgKWeaAGyCPwG80KUKm8-njW0Zcw5DNUl_49Gbo6IF3y3egYU3_1aKZSyP73CesiIKHU2zMHigdPMhCTHmFLyImDMaiyz8yiC45d-RvNTY/s320/P1330941.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnP-5LYWZUp44kytdHSUzP6hxcAbrCt_EIhYvM7uCpuVJQjSTGjmkX-uwmejAPWiT_FKqlXFepvCdXC7Cq_Ho1YwDZwWRqrZqnS_Y3qGZxBBtskEiKwsPclFtDD1Y4p83xtdzKknh6bBCbazYnuJvvYNQEHnx5CVDO4lVedhIW5AFkWLB6hwOLFqm12iQ/s3097/P1370707.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2161" data-original-width="3097" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnP-5LYWZUp44kytdHSUzP6hxcAbrCt_EIhYvM7uCpuVJQjSTGjmkX-uwmejAPWiT_FKqlXFepvCdXC7Cq_Ho1YwDZwWRqrZqnS_Y3qGZxBBtskEiKwsPclFtDD1Y4p83xtdzKknh6bBCbazYnuJvvYNQEHnx5CVDO4lVedhIW5AFkWLB6hwOLFqm12iQ/s320/P1370707.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> Then there are the things I still can’t afford, like this
wonderful Dutch master botanical painting of flowering bulbs, and next to it my
own version. You can have it if you really want it, was that the title of a pop
song or something Margaret Thatcher said? So, take a good look and see how it’s made.
Not always that difficult to reproduce something along the same lines or to
readapt a wreck. This is another skill I learnt from my antique dealing days.
Scrappers didn’t mean you threw it away, no, far from it, you put it to one
side, maybe even took it apart for spares in the restoration of other items. Or,
you use your imagination and create something new. I bought two cupboard
pedestal ends of a sideboard. The central portion had gone, perhaps already
recycled by someone else, but the veneer and timber of the remaining parts were
superb and a bargain at £40 if you knew what you wanted to do with them. I took
them to a young restorer with scale drawing for two extremely large plate
stands. When I say large I mean massive, impressive and a must have. My instruction were to leave no cut surfaces
visible, to give them plenty of leaded weight inside the bases and to cover
those bases with the old moth eaten green felt I’d provided. They looked
magnificent and were obviously made for a seriously large pair of seriously
expensive plates. He had done a beautiful job, costing me £120. The next London
fair I went to I sold them immediately for £520. That was in the days before
recycling was even heard of. Last winter I rescued some old timber from the
entrance to a bungalow that had been sold. The owner had said help yourself and
so I did. Out of this scrap came a wonderful array of decorative objects now on
sale from my studio.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU6nJlHLwRNMpb_O4ZmLjFExAHOAXV0CDPJ2IOEfmHAZZ8QaV6_iSunDJy7ZsFci7J-KUB6yq4B6DBbNk-kYq5REeiWVr6tYCwKfxtxLeCYN4R0zFuZOpPcxudmqCz9Fs2aeebpP8WFXE00mgTqcfDq7Kq79noaUJHZpvd0oOxjDbqBYEVgLDpicBjmEY/s3849/20231021_093204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1953" data-original-width="3849" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU6nJlHLwRNMpb_O4ZmLjFExAHOAXV0CDPJ2IOEfmHAZZ8QaV6_iSunDJy7ZsFci7J-KUB6yq4B6DBbNk-kYq5REeiWVr6tYCwKfxtxLeCYN4R0zFuZOpPcxudmqCz9Fs2aeebpP8WFXE00mgTqcfDq7Kq79noaUJHZpvd0oOxjDbqBYEVgLDpicBjmEY/w640-h324/20231021_093204.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I digress. If in doubt consult a dictionary. OK my 1971
Collins New England Dictionary is somewhat dated, but nowhere near as old as I
am. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #2e74b5; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;">Style; The manner of expressing
thought in writing speaking acting etc. in music literature art architecture
music etc. a mode of expression or performance peculiar to an individual, group
or period. Mode of dress, fashion conduct or behaviour.</span></i><span style="color: #2e74b5; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;"> </span>So,
style just about covers the lot and there’s no getting away from it. When I
style of music I’m reminded these days that I prefer silence, and I’m not sure
what that says about me. Maybe the same that can be said about minimalism in
decorating term, blank white walls. I’m also reminded of that line in the Blues
Brothers film, when asked what sort of music they like played at the remote bar
the owner replies, “we have both sorts, country and western”, and I often think
the same applies to style in most remote areas, where survival has been
possible only by keeping a close eye on the rational. Something the designers
of our city skylines could perhaps pay more attention to rather than turning it
into a giant amusement park of shards, pineapples and Ferris wheels. Nice rant!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But getting back to
the subject in hand, how does one go about creating style? Well that side seems
remarkably easy. Just like art is art if I call it art, so style must be style.
And what, or who designates it as being any good? Now that I think is where
money rears its ugly head. I remember discussing with a friend many moons ago
about opening a shop called bad taste, and getting quite excited until we
realised that in order for it to work and stuff to sell it would immediately
been seen as good taste. End of day blown glass fish could be picked up at car
boot sales for a pound or less, but after seeing another friend had covered her
entire bathroom wall with them I knew it wouldn’t be long before they became
collectable and hence command far higher prices. So, a rather grotesque single
fish becomes, when displayed well an extra ordinary shoal of colourful fish. Mass
hanging, or display of a collection can be very stylish as was seen by the
reaction of the SHOTY judges when they entered my home. I learnt this from
Polly Devlin, an avid collector and expert at simply throwing it together in a
relaxed way that works visually. It’s not clutter when it’s done well. When
Princess Margret started to collect mid-19<sup>th</sup> century sailors shell
valentines, it wasn’t long before they reach four figure prices. I liked them
for their intricacy and textures, but I wasn’t about to pay those prices, so I set
about collecting tiny shells while on holiday in Western Australia and making
my own valentines. One thing always leads to another, and soon all manner of
objects took form, it’s the way influence works, and certainly nothing to do with
those who would call themselves influencers. Get a life!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: red;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOL7N_qRzJ4cL26mDk8_VFD0Rtkb17gu_p5REkovssca_UXYal5bWgIj7nwU1qdrMiyZwmfvby7Z47PPxOkUEZLkvQl3-ANaUbee_lCkYW0Ni7X6U2xRh-efi6Df-Uc6atYUItN2DbUiQL0IQZC7b1CbB7wVRjxt4hyphenhyphenyjlJGYYetSjv8qoPjXvpWYN2Yk/s2238/1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1272" data-original-width="2238" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOL7N_qRzJ4cL26mDk8_VFD0Rtkb17gu_p5REkovssca_UXYal5bWgIj7nwU1qdrMiyZwmfvby7Z47PPxOkUEZLkvQl3-ANaUbee_lCkYW0Ni7X6U2xRh-efi6Df-Uc6atYUItN2DbUiQL0IQZC7b1CbB7wVRjxt4hyphenhyphenyjlJGYYetSjv8qoPjXvpWYN2Yk/w640-h364/1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYX49MXA6BPxUSomemJIXTyp3oFq_k3T6quArANZUInVKeFo__PPrFf7C2H4fQtJcDqf1EPaDT4SxC-DDkD0ZukLT9ajZ3ykIiKQ6R6sPAu4vOEx9eHVNt6FJIoZl3kt9HnM6vw2O3smW1YXfzxRcf6iTzEbrqPpQNXY_QfG8ZoC3rkVLcCdiUJ6NkY30/s2212/P1250114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1340" data-original-width="2212" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYX49MXA6BPxUSomemJIXTyp3oFq_k3T6quArANZUInVKeFo__PPrFf7C2H4fQtJcDqf1EPaDT4SxC-DDkD0ZukLT9ajZ3ykIiKQ6R6sPAu4vOEx9eHVNt6FJIoZl3kt9HnM6vw2O3smW1YXfzxRcf6iTzEbrqPpQNXY_QfG8ZoC3rkVLcCdiUJ6NkY30/w640-h388/P1250114.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /> I
can hear them now, saying “Yes but we don’t all have your skills Tom”. Well
I’ve got news for you, if you wanted to do it you could, but you don’t want to
do it so you can’t. I adore seeing in friends’ homes things they have made
themselves. For sure there may be a few of the children’s drawing, which always
leave me filled with envy, but often they’ve simply had a go themselves and
come up with something totally unique. As an untrained artist I don’t know how
to create anything, but the fun part is finding out and that often involves
playing around a bit. Remember that, play, a thing you used to do before and
between lessons at school. I now refer to my studio as my playroom, but playing
spreads to practically every room in my home and certainly out in the adjoining
barn, or in the garden, across the croft, out on the moor or down on the beach.
Go on, build a sand castle next time you’re on the beach, see what happens, you
might just produce something unexpected and stylish.<span style="color: red;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: red;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9anM3ofPEc42EddXf_eeRM4zbVdm37cCuTSg_vcyntIvF1sh6R_bYbhRVU4ZPgGGMk98GObUAyyyFYAAJEsVOgaOfzk_4Hw5H7y0MSU07dvJZMMjcm7C4rIfxzeSUfTlY6WMVIPoKHkWP_LV5z2xzsvQLWe5fVa3-BwhCoCFp3KZ0kJpjHhDHKbyWnVw/s2288/DSCN0254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1712" data-original-width="2288" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9anM3ofPEc42EddXf_eeRM4zbVdm37cCuTSg_vcyntIvF1sh6R_bYbhRVU4ZPgGGMk98GObUAyyyFYAAJEsVOgaOfzk_4Hw5H7y0MSU07dvJZMMjcm7C4rIfxzeSUfTlY6WMVIPoKHkWP_LV5z2xzsvQLWe5fVa3-BwhCoCFp3KZ0kJpjHhDHKbyWnVw/s320/DSCN0254.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd1Q0W296AdlOJd8-Ki-mdVX_1If03XEvtOi-dRLRGjqQkYk6uXO0BTVSXURhcmTGFPSdki8Q39_LtlWD9C2IfJreUIGTTO1BhqDSN2OBZsiV7dwbxtcK29aadj-kkEl026f_kFWkHlq4qi8dh3Vrr716ZCvp5_JzC8-Ctd9hJKJuyBGSdRv2rqEVi5iI/s3776/L1090967.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2520" data-original-width="3776" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd1Q0W296AdlOJd8-Ki-mdVX_1If03XEvtOi-dRLRGjqQkYk6uXO0BTVSXURhcmTGFPSdki8Q39_LtlWD9C2IfJreUIGTTO1BhqDSN2OBZsiV7dwbxtcK29aadj-kkEl026f_kFWkHlq4qi8dh3Vrr716ZCvp5_JzC8-Ctd9hJKJuyBGSdRv2rqEVi5iI/s320/L1090967.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-13928151244597639962023-09-24T04:38:00.000-07:002023-09-24T04:38:19.271-07:00JUST DOING WHAT I LOVE.<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">I wonder what other people did on their 70<sup>th</sup>
birthday. Some I know will have chosen to celebrate in grand style while others
will have let the day quietly slip by, preferring to keep quiet, horrified at
what old age has brought upon them. I never been the sort to celebrate any
event including Christmas, New Year, anniversaries or birthdays since they all
seem to carry with them an element of sorrow. I had made absolutely no plans
for my 70<sup>th</sup>. In the depths of last winter I had wondered even if I’d
make it that far, so simply to wake up to an unexpectedly sunny September
morning was enough for me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRK-cH7tdlKFpHE_phpGHv9-v2qsbI0xNiSDJ-V70UwLGNqTi5fTX7_zfPBMYRcFQjoGvoKAblwjA5KhsaiVQA7Sx_18bLGnAePNQsVLSYiy9FM3r_N4Xt-O0NqPZb7SzU0vvr8NlZtUqKLJKrHxm9UQADo93KOhQenCCubVFOmG9wgHWtBB7wF_C6ME/s4080/20230923_140149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRK-cH7tdlKFpHE_phpGHv9-v2qsbI0xNiSDJ-V70UwLGNqTi5fTX7_zfPBMYRcFQjoGvoKAblwjA5KhsaiVQA7Sx_18bLGnAePNQsVLSYiy9FM3r_N4Xt-O0NqPZb7SzU0vvr8NlZtUqKLJKrHxm9UQADo93KOhQenCCubVFOmG9wgHWtBB7wF_C6ME/w640-h480/20230923_140149.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">First off was to light the Rayburn, for without that there
would be no birthday cake. Secondly was to get the washing on and profit from a
fine drying day. Then breakfast and my usual generous bowl of porridge. My
brother would be horrified, you’re never going to eat all of that. Over the
past week I’ve been making Neolithic inspired pots using local clay gather from
the beach south of Tolsta Head, and after I finished a larger pot with scratch
decoration now ready for drying. I will leave them over winter and hope to fire
them next spring, outside in a primitive dug out peat fired kiln.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-C1g4Cy5L0FWN3OfzzpeTi-xauyORhbMF4GOiP-SOKcwbI1qk6HgC05_tmGK1wc14zzE8KYzWyH6PEck_co2bajUAEhBELiXCVhkEBfDdTwlCyC_ih3W_phUdIahVQQEvCkTiGQLHKG6EL4UsBOsVaTN9rQ5yf-iJ2HiOjQN8uz-sruw8spNY9L-rM3c/s4080/20230923_151411.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-C1g4Cy5L0FWN3OfzzpeTi-xauyORhbMF4GOiP-SOKcwbI1qk6HgC05_tmGK1wc14zzE8KYzWyH6PEck_co2bajUAEhBELiXCVhkEBfDdTwlCyC_ih3W_phUdIahVQQEvCkTiGQLHKG6EL4UsBOsVaTN9rQ5yf-iJ2HiOjQN8uz-sruw8spNY9L-rM3c/s320/20230923_151411.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I then drove to the other end of the village to get mobile
phone coverage and phoned my brother There is no mobile phone reception at the
house, but strangely there is out on the moor. On my return I stopped at the
village shop for butter and milk plus a WhatsApp video call from Western
Australia. I dropped in at Donald’s to pick up some crackle varnish that he had
ordered for me on line and I hoped I would find time later to try it out on a
primitive pig painting on panel. The Rayburn was up to baking point on my
return so I got on with making my birthday cake, an inverted orange cake. It
turned out a total success and I sang happy birthday to myself as I tried the
first still warm delicious slice. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpi2630ocCZULAVfcnG2R9dMPXZXlyHnN0edk6-SCSwGCOB4-6zARpPCz0Nxd0Q2KUWuph-PgZ-_Zx7jHKEjNDAJeieVbeL2_V1NQgU5YlWkbRoMgPUcMHNBRBNtWIiW_DMOurbkN6g6XsTHwkvlkVRHO6znVXdpfxdtribamoextn6OmP182Nz0nhOrI/s4080/20230923_143406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpi2630ocCZULAVfcnG2R9dMPXZXlyHnN0edk6-SCSwGCOB4-6zARpPCz0Nxd0Q2KUWuph-PgZ-_Zx7jHKEjNDAJeieVbeL2_V1NQgU5YlWkbRoMgPUcMHNBRBNtWIiW_DMOurbkN6g6XsTHwkvlkVRHO6znVXdpfxdtribamoextn6OmP182Nz0nhOrI/s320/20230923_143406.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />After lunch, (90% home grown) I turned to a spot of
gardening, trimming and edging, then bagged up three more bags of peat from the
stack. I found half a dozen eggs on the hall table from a neighbour and the
post which brought only good news. Well the interruption of electricity was not
till next month. One birthday card with some photos of me with friends making
me look like the shrivelled little old man I have become. Another with a form
to fill in to claim my £300 voucher from the local community wind turbine.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I stitched a little more of the Old English Bantam tea cosy
before returning to the garden and sunshine. Bringing in the already dry washing I
noticed Alistair and Ewan sorting the sheep so took them round a slab of orange
cake. My evening constitutional walk was a solitary one, Donald being away on
the mainland and his dog Laddie refusing to come out from under the kitchen
table. I took the slightly longer loop around by my peat banks and back along
the beach. It was dust by the time I made the final plod uphill dazzled by the
useless street lamp.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhsmaU6qbtwcim8Z_ICVx9TpgNyYeBVsFU4MPWFHhSSevlf2Vq3pRouseHrAgizN5itHoTndqq81IIN7vAg2zQg5SGbVv0AfTQGOEi3oenchMwhBgI9hRTGrJw_aoAY4aXbCIamz8NdAQbOr_qevE-6VuOZfm3KUNMcZiI_GK3FdCiJjXYXkH2nX8Jnw/s4080/20230923_191035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhsmaU6qbtwcim8Z_ICVx9TpgNyYeBVsFU4MPWFHhSSevlf2Vq3pRouseHrAgizN5itHoTndqq81IIN7vAg2zQg5SGbVv0AfTQGOEi3oenchMwhBgI9hRTGrJw_aoAY4aXbCIamz8NdAQbOr_qevE-6VuOZfm3KUNMcZiI_GK3FdCiJjXYXkH2nX8Jnw/w640-h480/20230923_191035.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> It’s been a good day, no celebration, just doing what I
love, and I will remember it. Tomorrow is Sunday and I’m out for lunch, but I’ve
another pot to finish and some raw umber paint to rub into the cracks on that
primitive pig. I think it was Noel Coward who said “working is more fun than
fun”.<o:p></o:p><p></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-71642930089192563402023-09-01T03:51:00.000-07:002023-09-01T03:51:21.016-07:00FLOWER POWER<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15tVImbXbsv0y32LN069hwbAp2BL4yjsRqq5zlerAugPzO2aqG60uXpxxKfe6f8QHGtEdjtzGtVgGkGswSE21VXq5caalmzjjJfYqoKYqaEwC5POTsVV-SRBh7SEljAoPd5TVCVNMW9UQTZVDoV0Pf4gPBkSKrJaXn-y14CL3QPJAuhCToNcOw-gv4yQ/s4080/20230524_163109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15tVImbXbsv0y32LN069hwbAp2BL4yjsRqq5zlerAugPzO2aqG60uXpxxKfe6f8QHGtEdjtzGtVgGkGswSE21VXq5caalmzjjJfYqoKYqaEwC5POTsVV-SRBh7SEljAoPd5TVCVNMW9UQTZVDoV0Pf4gPBkSKrJaXn-y14CL3QPJAuhCToNcOw-gv4yQ/w640-h480/20230524_163109.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve heard certain people refer to gardening as outdoor
house work, only worse. That always saddens me as they know not what they are
missing, and I wonder just what turned them against such a pleasure. Perhaps it
is the boring maintenance of a useless monoculture lawn or the constant
clipping of a vigorous hedge that has led them to this point of view. My advice
would be to relax, let it all hang out, and revel in the tapestry of textural
kayos and abundance of minimal maintenance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This summer on the
Isle of Lewis we have been blessed with a particularly fine summer, not simply
for being able to swim in the Minch, but for the exceptional growth that trees
have made and for the equally fabulous flowering of shrubs, herbaceous plants
and wild flowers. It started with the brilliant yellow of gorse at a time when
I truly needed hope, and the delicate snow white pompoms of the perennial
aconite leaved buttercup joining the golden yellow of king cups in the old
drainage ditch.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggsqoqKCC5koPRWSXIQIP02hiubFcqzRscy9i9K4ATuvYxJOXsTpBVgNfyxhHLz9yzmD8X8Av9TvZm68jaQgj_cevtSBADcCGA7-29u_T4iU9yh9ToSUX0-4JEVbPpdawThl8Woa4NosGz4WF2ftZFv1yAfMnRrGhsXEzymEzDFvK5OgX-VZufJzmp5ZQ/s4080/20230526_175354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggsqoqKCC5koPRWSXIQIP02hiubFcqzRscy9i9K4ATuvYxJOXsTpBVgNfyxhHLz9yzmD8X8Av9TvZm68jaQgj_cevtSBADcCGA7-29u_T4iU9yh9ToSUX0-4JEVbPpdawThl8Woa4NosGz4WF2ftZFv1yAfMnRrGhsXEzymEzDFvK5OgX-VZufJzmp5ZQ/s320/20230526_175354.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> I left last year’s kale and cabbage to bolt, and along with the
foxgloves my garden became delightful and noisy place, as the buzzing of local
bumble bees filled the air from dawn to dusk. I like to think that the tufts of
grass surmounting the old stone walls have become home for many of these
delightful creatures. At the end of May the white broom filled the ruin of the
old black house, while the attention seeking pink of the azaleas stopped me in
my tracks. Even the Maritime pine tree put on a show before romping on with fresh
growth. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFHAtySBVFdjHJrdI_Umqk1K3P0xzOXLwqTby8jtaSGNYVKXW8JtO9aUWJkm9YZggxy8p7qUvSjgPK9h58rQNv9fQzUVn5nI4G7AXz5-xhYxDx1tzRE0jeBfWMy4fxgGM7z3zxxWaYW1JGjRgt2y5kVG_q8bkEuTN_2JsMZeklLZWKmqw44UnJzvlePE/s4080/20230818_155752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFHAtySBVFdjHJrdI_Umqk1K3P0xzOXLwqTby8jtaSGNYVKXW8JtO9aUWJkm9YZggxy8p7qUvSjgPK9h58rQNv9fQzUVn5nI4G7AXz5-xhYxDx1tzRE0jeBfWMy4fxgGM7z3zxxWaYW1JGjRgt2y5kVG_q8bkEuTN_2JsMZeklLZWKmqw44UnJzvlePE/s320/20230818_155752.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Now in early autumn the profusion of purple heather has brought a warm
glow to the hills, and the roadsides are trimmed with delightful blue of small
scabious. Down on the croft yellow flags drove me back to paint, while in the
garden the red fuchsia seem at times to have more flowers than leaves. The
agapanthus, grown from seed taken from a friend’s garden in Western Australia
have produced a record number of flowers. They may not look that special, but I
can assure you that here in New Tolsta they can be counted as an achievement.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibl0cDlsXEAY02hL5kSJ8PrjMfK3TyWAX1vxegShDqm2tGLKbBwSZxgog-hGmNJrziMdiMg9qrQTJS_Ky4hHUh4YTlhBBXWEeSfMcprD9hS9tRTn6KHwD2y90ppVLjDfKe_4A7dc9JumSY1IfLc_qAEREsjEy_cWOVL8aPqflqll65w43JtIb__z3NUkQ/s3156/20230817_081310.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2367" data-original-width="3156" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibl0cDlsXEAY02hL5kSJ8PrjMfK3TyWAX1vxegShDqm2tGLKbBwSZxgog-hGmNJrziMdiMg9qrQTJS_Ky4hHUh4YTlhBBXWEeSfMcprD9hS9tRTn6KHwD2y90ppVLjDfKe_4A7dc9JumSY1IfLc_qAEREsjEy_cWOVL8aPqflqll65w43JtIb__z3NUkQ/s320/20230817_081310.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> I
know some can’t abide pink in their garden, but to see the hollyhocks on the
gable end of the barn towering above me fills me with joy, as also did if the buzzing of bumble bees was anything to go by. Japanese anemones are slowly spreading
and a clump of late gladiolas tucked away behind the studio lift my spirits
every time they catch my eye. Beyond the limits of my garden I have planted
over the past four years a mix of pine, spruce, larch, beech and alders, which
are now romping away. My neighbours spruce trees have almost entirely hidden a street
lamp up on the road, and I hope my planting will perhaps do likewise for
another at the road junction. The islands of the Outer Hebrides are known for
their general lack of trees, but it was not always thus and some are enjoying
the challenge of tree planting, as well as the joys of flower power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-41147774704831734672023-07-25T08:26:00.000-07:002023-07-25T08:26:47.533-07:00NEW TOLSTA EMBROIDERED TWEED MAP.<p> </p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNjqKL432q0548Bb6drURuQexKLrjLqYeU1OwgdWxZsQDYMZHQHARt8ipx0WVrAjkQ3oT3IVpxZi5k8DiRv90B-OYgGo1keYRiQiBZSTPZuHh5skISe5moFV-GEFzrml6kv0AkheTkxtrBpgNMUKh34ynOpSCB1GEHWBoq35uGqfKGR-nUQrT_7k7p-X8/s3169/20230528_142957.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3169" data-original-width="3057" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNjqKL432q0548Bb6drURuQexKLrjLqYeU1OwgdWxZsQDYMZHQHARt8ipx0WVrAjkQ3oT3IVpxZi5k8DiRv90B-OYgGo1keYRiQiBZSTPZuHh5skISe5moFV-GEFzrml6kv0AkheTkxtrBpgNMUKh34ynOpSCB1GEHWBoq35uGqfKGR-nUQrT_7k7p-X8/w618-h640/20230528_142957.jpg" width="618" /></a></div><br />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.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-vczIPu3lfHoFzB2CPz-oW1lwAHEO3xvetijATnmrrxftFtKA7etxAa99JSf6Y7mhwZV1UTRf5awX4WhjKeli3JtIKjDRn8hWGQtFbCxhsISa9K3tjt8YFkBD8aQE8inB_mpxa4Lb266scew_ImXOKi3h2IqOPBGbNWg2Bt1ykk80edRBvYvGQK_U1tw/s3072/P1290863.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="1728" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-vczIPu3lfHoFzB2CPz-oW1lwAHEO3xvetijATnmrrxftFtKA7etxAa99JSf6Y7mhwZV1UTRf5awX4WhjKeli3JtIKjDRn8hWGQtFbCxhsISa9K3tjt8YFkBD8aQE8inB_mpxa4Lb266scew_ImXOKi3h2IqOPBGbNWg2Bt1ykk80edRBvYvGQK_U1tw/s320/P1290863.JPG" width="180" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8KQRi46TU4qCMBcXKQ22q4Cy3GTJAfZAL0lSFyFjVvFSF4i0hL0xh_9DGB0cwu12fcauNQ8Lw8zHSE4KN3lACSQbAofrBOBlm1pNU8OHODq-47ggoljjsrKeQzWUlxuCu3hYQ7lXDZZNXww_YMYn9iir65F0UiLew83OMJ8yEuE-s3QvPMLk2l_kH9fs/s2304/P1320033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="1728" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8KQRi46TU4qCMBcXKQ22q4Cy3GTJAfZAL0lSFyFjVvFSF4i0hL0xh_9DGB0cwu12fcauNQ8Lw8zHSE4KN3lACSQbAofrBOBlm1pNU8OHODq-47ggoljjsrKeQzWUlxuCu3hYQ7lXDZZNXww_YMYn9iir65F0UiLew83OMJ8yEuE-s3QvPMLk2l_kH9fs/s320/P1320033.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />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<sup>th</sup> century Tolsta Farm stone barn and 20<sup>th</sup>
century crofter cottage, plus my new studio completed in 2017 and where the assembly
and embroidery took place.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihtnGXU3JHRkD2NWYBMm8B5VTivTgmjHjmUIfO4IZU5lGTxptf3OZt1JVN0a38AYZH-tjRjwg2h9v3_xmmlavM1YeoZk8JLJy9iZnkD2C-bKGiVqhqBh0j1MeHOu-xrSMWU65vdcNhALmVBSDm3DqXOoXsdh4vCPIbM27RazjVLfxgeKPk480yz_7j09E/s1949/P1300014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1949" data-original-width="1949" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihtnGXU3JHRkD2NWYBMm8B5VTivTgmjHjmUIfO4IZU5lGTxptf3OZt1JVN0a38AYZH-tjRjwg2h9v3_xmmlavM1YeoZk8JLJy9iZnkD2C-bKGiVqhqBh0j1MeHOu-xrSMWU65vdcNhALmVBSDm3DqXOoXsdh4vCPIbM27RazjVLfxgeKPk480yz_7j09E/s320/P1300014.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> 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.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="2304" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTpLOW2Cj991hZZ_IeRvUrroXacOb6VmPZTjDUJ8yL4r4jsZ5PSHhrD9y0FQva_jxu7yNLWSPl5tZEgOBlTntfZkoPtMuMH1T1ey5Plpx3-372cDR4puERgE2N51GDdPTGwmjk0331KNL8dF13_eQsPtStD1j6ejREwL7c_xcTIprpQv6pP8xKkW2OoRc/s320/P1320037.JPG" width="320" /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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<sup>th</sup>
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. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTpLOW2Cj991hZZ_IeRvUrroXacOb6VmPZTjDUJ8yL4r4jsZ5PSHhrD9y0FQva_jxu7yNLWSPl5tZEgOBlTntfZkoPtMuMH1T1ey5Plpx3-372cDR4puERgE2N51GDdPTGwmjk0331KNL8dF13_eQsPtStD1j6ejREwL7c_xcTIprpQv6pP8xKkW2OoRc/s2304/P1320037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> <span style="text-align: left;"> </span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbJETwGVydzWTl_3eS4D_duK91DrEusW6vt1iwLlaxjJ9O-hSnh4fsCJRWVDbxG7FHcRxR38_Dt5_npMFxidxJyfLSLYmyuBFE3P9XJkJHH-tW5wdYki9tHesNNZLBavg30QNyU1wvB0BFzbiMmYoslXCR8tJOFZF8V7OCTBv4uO261w8gvQQQerk1xjY/s2304/P1320041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="1728" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbJETwGVydzWTl_3eS4D_duK91DrEusW6vt1iwLlaxjJ9O-hSnh4fsCJRWVDbxG7FHcRxR38_Dt5_npMFxidxJyfLSLYmyuBFE3P9XJkJHH-tW5wdYki9tHesNNZLBavg30QNyU1wvB0BFzbiMmYoslXCR8tJOFZF8V7OCTBv4uO261w8gvQQQerk1xjY/s320/P1320041.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /> During the
latter part of the 20<sup>th</sup> century Folk Art had become the endangered
of the British Art world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-30914437554371399592023-07-25T07:54:00.001-07:002023-07-25T07:54:18.644-07:00TO SQUEEZE OR NOT TO SQUEEZE.<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg3AgZqw7d8HRFdeEtsEbzYqJ58MpMV1WC3ysMUipjSvS5XDU62fUaVFvfbYt8mWLLdWI4PTswng-H3Q0YlcVdnZWbTu2FgzP5EJYsMCZUDmv6yMeHxt0bL3uOicUZ85RCxcUPuBHaDBwzsyFQtiyfksPXnKLwM8Lo5WsToAxs7j1oW1tnesU03ZUtAW8/s3097/20230720_165230.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2865" data-original-width="3097" height="592" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg3AgZqw7d8HRFdeEtsEbzYqJ58MpMV1WC3ysMUipjSvS5XDU62fUaVFvfbYt8mWLLdWI4PTswng-H3Q0YlcVdnZWbTu2FgzP5EJYsMCZUDmv6yMeHxt0bL3uOicUZ85RCxcUPuBHaDBwzsyFQtiyfksPXnKLwM8Lo5WsToAxs7j1oW1tnesU03ZUtAW8/w640-h592/20230720_165230.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />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.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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 </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2T0rWpY819WNm2WP02I_3yBBaztMkLDGSV5VI2t66qsK4TzARdRc3OptyUFFUWlaNl2GM-OZLBwgNUoEzITT79ICHgQjonb0Y6yere7cucK3bCpm3rjiV1NLbLGEXf7AtExNM72T016GYYiNITgqxEF71rD1dWIE87XBauDCnj8eO2QGOj0m5walR330/s4080/20230722_121345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3060" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2T0rWpY819WNm2WP02I_3yBBaztMkLDGSV5VI2t66qsK4TzARdRc3OptyUFFUWlaNl2GM-OZLBwgNUoEzITT79ICHgQjonb0Y6yere7cucK3bCpm3rjiV1NLbLGEXf7AtExNM72T016GYYiNITgqxEF71rD1dWIE87XBauDCnj8eO2QGOj0m5walR330/s320/20230722_121345.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-58891135365820542302023-07-19T01:31:00.001-07:002023-07-19T01:31:24.757-07:00A WEEK LIKE NO OTHER<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Tr201L6byis2IpeAGYNJAU-kBAKHcZKnfGiJJpICQYfaev8UGxvzXqsV0YhiR2eWlzNbtFkaWZ2yqQvK3dJnjWzUhBCInpPw0AKK-W1DotcWFJ6OtK579YGni1E2B0SuJIQCUFRmDSZZRrZ43CpLvaiblZkwS3g6s1FoqAo6XEewkaquZho21RKQ2gc/s4080/20230704_192627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Tr201L6byis2IpeAGYNJAU-kBAKHcZKnfGiJJpICQYfaev8UGxvzXqsV0YhiR2eWlzNbtFkaWZ2yqQvK3dJnjWzUhBCInpPw0AKK-W1DotcWFJ6OtK579YGni1E2B0SuJIQCUFRmDSZZRrZ43CpLvaiblZkwS3g6s1FoqAo6XEewkaquZho21RKQ2gc/w640-h480/20230704_192627.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sunday morning, and Donald called by to see how I was, and I
told him I’d gone out for<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-17779019451598148362023-07-10T03:48:00.000-07:002023-07-10T03:48:24.404-07:00THE TOUCH OF WORKING HANDS.<p> </p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBEi1-rh4aiHTjrNK5rc-kp1wErZMS5gz_WV3LjWNUpsj7hHUqz9EUQNIrecmFnSeLxk4hUG30xgxq-mHvVk2PQfXORjkf7F6mV8YKPOxfT4I11TsVtQGk-7DuMCCWGIxOdGu3JOAfD75bisVo1JK9vh2djsVrEfj0DNGeXVQDsZjDmEacBAqW1FoILo/s3121/20230710_083638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2897" data-original-width="3121" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBEi1-rh4aiHTjrNK5rc-kp1wErZMS5gz_WV3LjWNUpsj7hHUqz9EUQNIrecmFnSeLxk4hUG30xgxq-mHvVk2PQfXORjkf7F6mV8YKPOxfT4I11TsVtQGk-7DuMCCWGIxOdGu3JOAfD75bisVo1JK9vh2djsVrEfj0DNGeXVQDsZjDmEacBAqW1FoILo/s320/20230710_083638.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>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”. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><br />Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-80807693645142113982023-07-10T03:38:00.002-07:002023-07-10T03:38:33.857-07:00COLLECTING AND CONNECTING.<p> </p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbp9tOycu9A5Uv92pydHmYabAm5OHxVqih6Os5T9c8FZACGXmkZjAHgSC8xo7uzuB5AtjfqVyBmeJlGRKCBf3e6ApKmCx6YlJGvC-0ysuZJcSrDMuVgGcVKUUWOOr2zySri8vr34bbvnxSgCe7MkV8cuVgSEGDUcnI81I-3VkM14Lzb4nlh8QocNbwLk/s4080/20230709_123330.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3060" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbp9tOycu9A5Uv92pydHmYabAm5OHxVqih6Os5T9c8FZACGXmkZjAHgSC8xo7uzuB5AtjfqVyBmeJlGRKCBf3e6ApKmCx6YlJGvC-0ysuZJcSrDMuVgGcVKUUWOOr2zySri8vr34bbvnxSgCe7MkV8cuVgSEGDUcnI81I-3VkM14Lzb4nlh8QocNbwLk/s320/20230709_123330.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>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. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoc9pPSE9MEq5mkW491zWZ-eyc4rM6x5pMplMwv_y8r5xgXvPboC7gMpaOiRtIycWJlLKPUFl2Pcq8v0zHo5ZT9JTPIiZHk2Kf69Skl_K448CzMpzKiPBKzEomlY6G0PGuGBpQ_q_fBX3IBtrHvhzJX-y76jvtPtQy2SH5KoWYjCBEsBZstze7cu53U5c/s801/20230709_123627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="733" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoc9pPSE9MEq5mkW491zWZ-eyc4rM6x5pMplMwv_y8r5xgXvPboC7gMpaOiRtIycWJlLKPUFl2Pcq8v0zHo5ZT9JTPIiZHk2Kf69Skl_K448CzMpzKiPBKzEomlY6G0PGuGBpQ_q_fBX3IBtrHvhzJX-y76jvtPtQy2SH5KoWYjCBEsBZstze7cu53U5c/s320/20230709_123627.jpg" width="293" /></a></div><br />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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p><br />Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-34918521339887672742023-06-22T03:19:00.000-07:002023-06-22T03:19:31.014-07:00NOW AND THEN.<p> <br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFHBEVOqBN0W0epSEfxU9KZ-D3ZUpaNDIc5L9EfPsAVHj9_mmFCsKYH8x9FUF4Ye2codCGiSYaVtQR0wdKIvQwYuJiIDm_etGf4RPR92DpYi-rprEntQCYbUZfGSROeF2YNbVlybPcowDztEHQ1V2p-O6MzMXeQBykpgQYsb3v9UD7YKAql07lHdKPeg/s1917/DSCN1778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1494" data-original-width="1917" height="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFHBEVOqBN0W0epSEfxU9KZ-D3ZUpaNDIc5L9EfPsAVHj9_mmFCsKYH8x9FUF4Ye2codCGiSYaVtQR0wdKIvQwYuJiIDm_etGf4RPR92DpYi-rprEntQCYbUZfGSROeF2YNbVlybPcowDztEHQ1V2p-O6MzMXeQBykpgQYsb3v9UD7YKAql07lHdKPeg/w640-h498/DSCN1778.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">GOURDS FROM THE GARDEN.<br />
<p class="MsoNormal">Can or should art be considered a good investment? To
invest, apart from the literal meaning describing the act of clothing with a
vest, it has also come to mean to produce interest or profit on capital,
certainly not what goes through my mind when purchasing artwork. As with any
non-essential commodity the value of art will inevitably be governed equally by
rarity and fashion no matter how ancient or modern.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like most reasonably successful artists I’ve had those lean
years of stock piling that have contrasted with the occasional sell out
exhibition. Just as the job is not a nine to five so the income is erratic. One
of the many added benefits is to be able to fill the walls of my own home with
my art. Looking back I note that the honeymoon period of high prices in the
early 90’s was short lived, but there are several painting from that period I
would gladly buy back. Following the move to Central Finistere in Brittany my
prices had to adapt to the largely rural peasant population. This was the
inevitable penalty I had to pay for leading such an idyllic life style. Sales
were sporadic and my prices ranged from 100-400 euros, rarely topping the
thousand euro mark. Today I still offer work from as little as £50. This still
life, painted in 2003 was marked then at 350 euros, but today I would be asking
£1350, is that keeping up with inflation? As I grow older and the due date of
departure creeps closer I wonder if my artwork can now be considered to have
matured like a fine wine ready for drinking, or does a bad photo and a crass
comment on Instagram have more influence. While there seems to be money enough
for all sorts of instant gratification, I wonder what sort of future we are
investing in. <o:p></o:p></p></div><br />Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-591796167539247252023-06-19T02:18:00.000-07:002023-06-19T02:18:01.552-07:00THIS IS NOT NORMAL.<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">This has been my mantra, and what I’ve been repeatedly
saying to visiting friends. We do seem to have short memories, so perhaps this
weather is not totally unheard of or unique, however the combination of several
weeks without rain and a drying breeze has now been follow by hot still days.
The midges would not normally be a problem if this clear blue sky days were
accompanied by some air movement. Work outside in the garden has been curtailed
as any movement of soil with hoeing or weeding brings up clouds of then.
Wearing a net is a misery and a last resort. I have been wandering down the
croft most afternoons to Traigh Mhor beach for a cooling dip in the Minch, the
only problem being the trudge home leaves me as hot as ever. The sustained heat
has meant good early growth and prolific flowering, and from my kitchen window
the stand of foxgloves are particularly cheering. Down in the vegetable garden
the red admiral butterflies are busy on the chive flowers and cabbage whites
seem to be everywhere.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwBPpK6v9raXlTBlWsPNVcOGBGFVV_JRLINz0fDz3WxMAah4D1BQqh46HeAcsBoggKrMno7nGVRoz3c6JZNKvlTU-3wBbh1Ul6YAiaDVStapkFzYpS4x0S-5CW5RoD5QRRwbnji9Uev3pdZSeNwLLU60CwUDT9ZQlaEFmhareeDqggik8iJ3dalKjJAcY/s4080/20230617_080401.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwBPpK6v9raXlTBlWsPNVcOGBGFVV_JRLINz0fDz3WxMAah4D1BQqh46HeAcsBoggKrMno7nGVRoz3c6JZNKvlTU-3wBbh1Ul6YAiaDVStapkFzYpS4x0S-5CW5RoD5QRRwbnji9Uev3pdZSeNwLLU60CwUDT9ZQlaEFmhareeDqggik8iJ3dalKjJAcY/s320/20230617_080401.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Thankfully my brassicas are undercover, although there
are plenty of last year’s kale plants going to seed. The trees I’ve planted
over the past ten years are really beginning to put on growth, while the shrubs
have thickened out to provide good cover for nesting birds. There is a
significant increase in song thrushes, and all birdlife seems more abundant
since the removal of next doors killer cat. I’ve discovered two goldfinch nests
and the wrens have found shelter within the old black house walls. The garden
seems alive with them. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIC7uGfaUDwznBiXd93kfhA3Y6HV844pHFwFPtWZ_x8b_ZfVCK1b_G5f25N0Xv9IELaxujC8_uqqgNZnfEt5yj76BSGN17vONc4ybrksKqpHfkyZwqWGumrWZlHdOK9-qiZwxR2hJfrJ9-b2G5cgqSNhzbDk0YssJg7VCOy4aZbTjVbI0Q4u-fxF45Vr0/s4080/20230615_093111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIC7uGfaUDwznBiXd93kfhA3Y6HV844pHFwFPtWZ_x8b_ZfVCK1b_G5f25N0Xv9IELaxujC8_uqqgNZnfEt5yj76BSGN17vONc4ybrksKqpHfkyZwqWGumrWZlHdOK9-qiZwxR2hJfrJ9-b2G5cgqSNhzbDk0YssJg7VCOy4aZbTjVbI0Q4u-fxF45Vr0/s320/20230615_093111.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The cuckoo has, I think finally stopped his incessant
calling, but it has been a real pleasure to hear the evocative call of curlews,
both down on the croft and inland on the moorland grazing. When out at Loch
Diridean a couple of Bewick swans gave me vocal accompaniment, while I added a
few more stones to the old sheep fank crossing. Their deep whistling call the
only sound on that balmy hot day, a time when simply to be is enough. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">This morning the rain arrived with a light breeze, now that is normal. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-10248353387850420402023-06-07T02:41:00.002-07:002023-06-07T02:41:44.585-07:00LEAVE ONLY FOOT PRINTS<p> </p><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqjJaNdrqGg3sFUwM36qHehZv5uWUdVDstslBIwePfKRevKRF2gAaqTOzD5CsmsjtoygO1W6jgM3gds0gJ5T_jj5Fyq90bFNR2n9FTh7-YUtAQ-qkLbAcbkVDSenvKh8hlluLkR7pVKFufKk_18SZbA1qeT1_x7XW-F37DD7_IBImzN14p97qekZU/s2529/20230604_172350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2521" data-original-width="2529" height="638" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqjJaNdrqGg3sFUwM36qHehZv5uWUdVDstslBIwePfKRevKRF2gAaqTOzD5CsmsjtoygO1W6jgM3gds0gJ5T_jj5Fyq90bFNR2n9FTh7-YUtAQ-qkLbAcbkVDSenvKh8hlluLkR7pVKFufKk_18SZbA1qeT1_x7XW-F37DD7_IBImzN14p97qekZU/w640-h638/20230604_172350.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">During the mid-summer tourist season OSH. (Open Studios Hebrides), is for the third year organising a six day open studio event when the general public can follow the trail and meet the artists and makers at their place of work. Since my studio is already open at this time of year, it would be churlish of me not to take part in this public relations exercise. This is seen as high season for tourist, but unfortunately for me that means the low season for sales. Still I remain for ever hopeful. Thankfully the cruise ship passengers do not venture this far even though there are buses that will bring them right to my door. I’ve also avoided attracting any coach tours, although I gather from a friend that some of these can be quite lucrative. This year OSH have also organised an exhibition at An Lanntair, our local art centre in Stornoway, running from 8<sup>th</sup> July to the 5<sup>th</sup> August. Here will be found a full selection of artwork from the island alongside a themed section which has given its name to the exhibition. “Leave only footprints” is a very appropriate and timely title that opens a window on the relationship we have with planet earth. My friends will know I have a very jaundiced view of this and some may be able to imagine the sort of image I might produce. We have for ease of exhibiting been restricted to a wall hanging piece one foot square. I am assuming these will be hung as a block and it will be interested to see what impact that has.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">There are many ways of looking at leaving only footprints, or maybe that could as easily be interpreted as do no harm. As an artist I hope to leave more than footprints, but the title I believe is aimed specifically at our human behaviour, and in particular when we travel to other places on holiday. In general visitors are so taken with the beauty of the islands that they do respect as well as enjoy our environment. There have been the odd case of camper van toilets being emptied onto the moor, but this sort of behaviour is rare and carries a heavy fine. Litter is still a problem but is often more of a local problem rather than one of visitors. So, as you walk barefoot along the mile and a half stretch of Traigh Mhor beach beyond the crofts and machair of New Tolsta, you can indeed leave only those footprints. I have interpreted this theme quite literally with a footprint, however it is not made of beautiful golden or white sand from the Hebrides, but black titanium sand from the other side of the world and collected during one of my trips to Western Australia. In WA there has historically been a problem with rabbits and even today you can still see remnants of that extra ordinary and infamous rabbit proof fence. The introduction of mixi eventually proved more effective. It is now illegal to spread this devastating disease, however that does not stop people introducing a diseased rabbit into an area. When the rabbits were causing trouble in local cemetery here in Tolsta that is what happened.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwsGfBQQ3YsbU8Dboz3JUmJgA8JBS66yJF22jnQ2y2VSGv0ceE-vlzr_KbOdVj6Kft1Pl6KUnIIsfDFtGRa5c1VU-yJ2SrH5RUyPMxL1kMNLxp17X7H8LtMgJmeNd0ztMxKDAkqeSCkH5Vm5LyqYQvFv0e7zwglBzf05SB4ZikPlc_9PyWgZugEb9/s1797/P1310369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1373" data-original-width="1797" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwsGfBQQ3YsbU8Dboz3JUmJgA8JBS66yJF22jnQ2y2VSGv0ceE-vlzr_KbOdVj6Kft1Pl6KUnIIsfDFtGRa5c1VU-yJ2SrH5RUyPMxL1kMNLxp17X7H8LtMgJmeNd0ztMxKDAkqeSCkH5Vm5LyqYQvFv0e7zwglBzf05SB4ZikPlc_9PyWgZugEb9/s320/P1310369.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It spread fast and wiped out a vast population that provided fodder for many larger birds. In times past rabbits were kept in check by ferreting that also provided a free meal. Now nobody wants to eat rabbit. I had to dispatch this poor creature when returning from my Sunday walk, it didn't move on my approach and the end was swift. There are no rabbits, or buzzards, and the knock on effect is that there have been more problems with black back gulls and ravens attacking lambs. Everything on the face of this planet is connected, from the fungal growth below ground to the insects and birds that fly above it, and we are included in this. Over the past few years we have had the scare of a pandemic virus, but in my eyes and in that of natures, we are the virus. So, surrounding that black sand footprint I’ve placed a mass of bunny bones collected from the New Tolsta machair. Macabre, yes and yet beautiful. That is the thinking behind the work, or is it just coincidence that since being diagnosed with bone cancer my thoughts have often wandered to death and bones?<p></p></div><br />Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-34522392700925395802023-05-31T03:13:00.000-07:002023-05-31T03:13:55.867-07:00RESUMING THE RHYTHM OF LIFE.<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">There are days, when I wonder if it hasn’t all been some
sick joke. As if everyone has conspired to convince me that I have prostate and
bone cancer. How can that be when so many others say I look well? What am I
supposed to look like after a big blast of radiotherapy to my back and chemical
neutering with female hormones? “I have no thermostat” I told a friend, “women
go through this but it looks like I’m permanently stuck with it”. The hot
flushes break out day and night, but thankfully don’t last long. I’ve grown
used to them; opening my clothing at the neck, turning my head to one side and
flapping my shirt to dispel the heat rising from my chest. Some jest that I’ll
be needing a bra, but thankfully, as a man who was never really turned on by
big tits, I remain firmly flat chested. I have once again returned to putting
most of my aches and pains down to old age and either, trying to do too much,
or simply doing something I haven’t done on a regular basis. I even manage to
convince myself that the pain, or as I prefer to put it, “discomfort” in my
back is most likely just indigestion and will pass. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicCVZvwpmJKwEgPSGpO7wYbO-QdnxbHq1fEsz3l0_DCMkYaR3KHahZYPHOziWvsTDmc59Ubv99Gmnqg9YY-ifY0rgyIAfaA4Hi3voadTBQdYGxFnhDm_eQLBG5Txq48wo4px60TDZczpRuorgUkgJzf-SIqm2IfHU1yYVYuq6Ahum1mPcTH-P4QciU/s4128/20230531_093418%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4128" data-original-width="3096" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicCVZvwpmJKwEgPSGpO7wYbO-QdnxbHq1fEsz3l0_DCMkYaR3KHahZYPHOziWvsTDmc59Ubv99Gmnqg9YY-ifY0rgyIAfaA4Hi3voadTBQdYGxFnhDm_eQLBG5Txq48wo4px60TDZczpRuorgUkgJzf-SIqm2IfHU1yYVYuq6Ahum1mPcTH-P4QciU/s320/20230531_093418%5B1%5D.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />So why, all things being considered do I look and feel so
well? It has a lot to do with being back in my own home at 17 New Tolsta. I
returned on the 3rd of May, and was thankful that the intense emotions I had
been feeling for my home did not result in anything more than that pleasant
feeling of being welcomed into a space that is me. Outside the splash of
brilliant colour from the tulips and the gorse I had planted across the way said
it all. I have since then been busy in the garden as well as framing the
needlework pictures I stitched over the winter months. I resumed my familiar
rhythm of life, and was grateful that the weeds were still at a stage where I
could manage their control. Thankful also that it remained dry and possible to
be seated on the ground while clearing the vegetable patch for planting.
Digging was kept to a minimum and I already have potatoes, broad bean,
beetroot, brassicas and mange tout peas up and growing. The strawberries are in
full flower under plastic as are two courgette plants and three cherry tomato
plants. The rhubarb has been excellent and a good exchange for neighbours eggs,
while the currents look like they will be producing a bumper crop. It has
always baffled me why people are so willing to be wedded to supermarkets and
yet with plenty of good growing ground they complain about rising prices. Although
I’d missed the first abundance of spring daffodils, there was, and will be plenty
to follow. While working in the garden I’ve also noticed an increase in nesting
birds now that next doors cat has gone. Young thrushes having left the nest too
soon call out from the undergrowth to be fed, while the cuckoo has been as
vocal as ever, perching on the corner post of the garden fence, from where he
commands a view over the crofts and out across the valley to the high ridge and
moorland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The one big difference to previous years is that I am no
longer cutting peat. One of my first jobs on arrival was to rebuild both ends
of my peat stack, which had collapsed over winter. For now, and for a few more
weeks I’ll burning the remainder of the previous year’s peat stack. I’ve given
little thought to how the house will function without peat, and perhaps I am
like that ostrich with its head in the sand, or should that be peat. Just as
I’ve crossed the Garry Bridge to cut peat for the past fifteen years, I will
cross that particular fuel or Energy Bridge when I come to it. For now while
the peat lasts life is good and I count only on today. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-50938766688450354042023-04-23T00:10:00.000-07:002023-04-23T00:10:18.093-07:00Returning home to New Tolsta after an absence of five months.<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5MEoUeArgT4v6W5Cy58bKIa2l-rBiAQ6-6Gyxjgo7yphdDbDVFp0ez0ro5te2uKIWGtiSbNVKRAyxpV6XGm3N3_pYoRctSwcG70Gozwrk0IxTyuVxMyEtDPplL5P3Buouic7gsD3dXsXhX-bhw-As0ohSIR87h2qP3ddkKC9dIfFhiCqwKHB51FWa/s3072/P1350850.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="3072" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5MEoUeArgT4v6W5Cy58bKIa2l-rBiAQ6-6Gyxjgo7yphdDbDVFp0ez0ro5te2uKIWGtiSbNVKRAyxpV6XGm3N3_pYoRctSwcG70Gozwrk0IxTyuVxMyEtDPplL5P3Buouic7gsD3dXsXhX-bhw-As0ohSIR87h2qP3ddkKC9dIfFhiCqwKHB51FWa/w640-h360/P1350850.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />There have been times over the past few months when I
wondered if I’d ever see my home again. Being diagnosed with prostate and bone
cancer was no fun and the treatment, a process of chemical neutering has been
little better, however I am at last at a stage when I can begin to wend my way
north from Cornwall back up to New Tolsta. During those dark winter months I
tried to keep walking, but it wasn’t always possible. There were good days and
bad, but I kept telling myself you only have today so make the most of it. I
walked alone with only my sketch pad for company. Many a time I thought of those
evening walks from my island home, and during full moons I’ve imagined myself
walking with Donald and Laddie around to Garry Beach. Most of my walks in
Cornwall have been in daylight, since any road walking at dusk or in the dark
would be seriously dangerous in the lanes around Probus. When out in the
surrounding countryside I’ve maintained that Scottish right to roam, climbing
over gates and fences to find my own path and avoid the masses of dog walkers.
I’ve noticed in the village people often introduce their dog before offering
their own name. A few times I driven down to the coast on fine days and
rediscovered the beauty of the Cornwall of my youth. Winter is the only time to
do this, as summer bring tourists and impossible traffic. The frustration of
knowing the sea is only a few miles away but that the route is barred must be
awful, better to be in walking distance.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxSp1Trnl-PdXakmINUI03kX4dHesuZWSS-eSdZ0ZS4AYpBFM_MkytYUGfLSgLDvLuBt05I8P67bVqCpVAn0o0kxV_DGlH3mWn1IEySBvuV6EtRvMHUQEA2aP0DyQeRYylDvsT_fJo2pNKrX8JIEYDEZdzJPg-B0ZX6TOu0NrYY3duUZaox5_ye9s/s4017/20230421_174439.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2089" data-original-width="4017" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxSp1Trnl-PdXakmINUI03kX4dHesuZWSS-eSdZ0ZS4AYpBFM_MkytYUGfLSgLDvLuBt05I8P67bVqCpVAn0o0kxV_DGlH3mWn1IEySBvuV6EtRvMHUQEA2aP0DyQeRYylDvsT_fJo2pNKrX8JIEYDEZdzJPg-B0ZX6TOu0NrYY3duUZaox5_ye9s/w640-h332/20230421_174439.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The stitching that has become such an integral part of my
life has continued and another flock of sheep on tweed have been worked and
ready for framing. There have also been a couple of longer term projects with a
jolly hunting scene and a stumpwork ticking sampler entitled “The tulip
fancier”. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJb2xrEcFuSWViRnpNT_NtyfzwdbISS4U7u-2Z2SXeszofWaiTmZUSxIUEBR0vwwPUVPR-fdKbRunleiQZUGpwLutk0phPr1gDOSzl0wrI0Hm9pnHDllo6VUQiDXZhkLIySZsTKeZkS0Z1gbxTcEeUZY_rW_l8kQWiOqhzA7bY3vdKeDUQnBUeSxgk/s3785/20230421_170337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3785" data-original-width="2329" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJb2xrEcFuSWViRnpNT_NtyfzwdbISS4U7u-2Z2SXeszofWaiTmZUSxIUEBR0vwwPUVPR-fdKbRunleiQZUGpwLutk0phPr1gDOSzl0wrI0Hm9pnHDllo6VUQiDXZhkLIySZsTKeZkS0Z1gbxTcEeUZY_rW_l8kQWiOqhzA7bY3vdKeDUQnBUeSxgk/w246-h400/20230421_170337.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><br />Stitching is not always the tidiest of occupations, and while staying
with my brother it has been important for me to organise a working space in the
barn that once housed my father’s collection of blue and white china. The
conversion of the barn into a studio/workshop space for me grew into something
quite different when I had to house the remainder of my furniture from
Brittany. I have simply banished thoughts of my old Breton farm house as it now remains abandoned and unsaleable. Much of what I brought back has been sold or is in the process of
being sold, but those smaller items that still give me pleasure form an important
part of my practical work space. I like the comfort of clutter around me, and
ancient items that still do the job they were intended for give me tremendous
pleasure. Working with the builder Andy has given a focus to my days, and now
that the work is complete I’m seeing those old familiar item take on a new
lease of life as they are placed in new surroundings. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzNufaM91EPqIy4ruZzuFZZREKi7gKkdoBy-70PousAtgceqsHo-3z6E6joOlkTt_Lwk2l744J1ZND8jXrhtg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />The space has been
totally transformed and although not large I will enjoy spending time here next
winter if my health allows. For now though my mind is focused on the journey
home, no mad dash this time but a calm progression northwards visiting friends
on route. I fully expect it to be an emotional return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-80264579481830806942023-01-12T12:03:00.001-08:002023-01-12T12:03:21.635-08:00JESUS AND REBECCA AT THE WELL.<p> <span style="background-color: white;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_so1HabUjGBA-EUx043qsWKEyrcdgvycD3BHMJ5chDjMP0aBxNAAL17ODHOAgHB3fGfMH3V_op3zXAgkG5qgPOU0Raavkn3-ZNul6ZQfiG7vz8qnjW3H_krzRKmajevmGLXD04gUb0Qwfpd4KY_pSBNAGslsUVTt5itCG0daaJHvv26OqzA89zBcm/s2304/P1380140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="2304" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_so1HabUjGBA-EUx043qsWKEyrcdgvycD3BHMJ5chDjMP0aBxNAAL17ODHOAgHB3fGfMH3V_op3zXAgkG5qgPOU0Raavkn3-ZNul6ZQfiG7vz8qnjW3H_krzRKmajevmGLXD04gUb0Qwfpd4KY_pSBNAGslsUVTt5itCG0daaJHvv26OqzA89zBcm/w640-h480/P1380140.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="background: white;">For the first time Elizabeth felt real
concern for her husband’s sanity as Darcy was insistent that during the balloon
flight over Pemberley Park with Dr Mc Fee, they had indeed seen Jesus and
Rebecca at the old well on the south side of the lake.</span></i><span style="background: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;">What had led to this strange sighting and
how had it come to be recorded in an early 19<sup>th</sup> century wool work
picture?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;">When my brother bought a fire screen at a
second hand shop down in Porthleven, it wasn’t for the needlework picture that
it contained. The fire screen simply happened to be the perfect size for his
sitting room fireplace. While it did the job of screening, the 19<sup>th</sup>
century wool picture depicting Jesus at the well with Rebecca had little to do
with the later oak frame. Typical of so many embroideries of this period it was
done on a background of silk over cotton, and the detailed parts such as face,
hands and feet were simply painted onto the silk. With time the silk had split
and the face of Jesus had curled away from the body. There is no satisfactory
way of repairing this sort of damage.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJJEMzBziJU1PXb7ZklvIUg6fe4g5kkbvSAOQ-6MFkoxNmCzYJ-AK7T0ik-yL3jnaVwqJmp9bKbJ1JgoCqW513ftvXI29TztHJazjU_OpZbQusmTxDuwW7pX6qeHudhmryzRaxRqQ7-jFnWUGxEiOrt1J5yPlaLN5m-6T58_XPt8HMUuV2dmakMIW/s2304/P1380143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="1728" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJJEMzBziJU1PXb7ZklvIUg6fe4g5kkbvSAOQ-6MFkoxNmCzYJ-AK7T0ik-yL3jnaVwqJmp9bKbJ1JgoCqW513ftvXI29TztHJazjU_OpZbQusmTxDuwW7pX6qeHudhmryzRaxRqQ7-jFnWUGxEiOrt1J5yPlaLN5m-6T58_XPt8HMUuV2dmakMIW/s320/P1380143.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;">My brother is a great admirer of the Arts
and Crafts movement, and it seemed obvious to me that the screen should contain
something more appropriate to it actual age as well as being more appealing to
him. So, I took the measurements and inspired by a design by William Morris
drew out what I thought would work. The original design was stitched by Morris’s
daughter Mary and consisted of a central ribbed baluster vase filled with stylised
roses and another flower with more spiky petals. I decided to introduce colour
into the leaves and flowers with some painted decoration, while the rest was
stitched using Harris Tweed yarns. The screen now holds pride of place in front
of the fire place, but I was still left with the question of what to do with
Jesus and Rebecca. The damaged wool work picture had no value as such and yet
how could I consign the remaining competent embroidery to the bin. The remaining
silk would have to be removed and the cotton backing reinforced if I was to add
any further embroidery. I started with the now missing heads arms and feet.
Never very easy to get a pleasing effect using wool as with silks, but there is
a certain charm in the naivety of it. The question then remained of what to do
with the large open space above. Since there already was a classical circular
temple to the right I decided to incorporate a large mansion house with formal
grounds and a lake. For the house itself I left the old cotton backing visible,
stitching only the detail of the architecture. I included a tree to the right
to help balance out the composition but this still left a large amount of sky.
Why not include a hot air balloon, which must have been an adventure equal to
the grand tour for those who could afford it. And so the strange image was
completed, since I had also been reading P.D. James’s book “Death comes to
Pemberley”, the equally odd explanatory text came to mind. </span><o:p></o:p></p>Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-85283776900743985332022-12-15T10:15:00.000-08:002022-12-15T10:15:14.925-08:00DECOUPAGE AND UP CYCLING.<p> </p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzD5nCftjwDg7bwvXJK94sD2gashCAB2MHck3jVcZGjfdf3ngzvSndZP0rzdmA0oE71kI-66-gD5LwXzCqKa6rqSfPl9ykP2b2SZEClEEiM_fLsoHiruqhc_Mrd3AAktFMTsh-3OVhj50znKdyiMyx5tYu1TAFQyyVu_hH_eLSfMNS3VP_goT_zu0n/s3168/P1380043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="3168" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzD5nCftjwDg7bwvXJK94sD2gashCAB2MHck3jVcZGjfdf3ngzvSndZP0rzdmA0oE71kI-66-gD5LwXzCqKa6rqSfPl9ykP2b2SZEClEEiM_fLsoHiruqhc_Mrd3AAktFMTsh-3OVhj50znKdyiMyx5tYu1TAFQyyVu_hH_eLSfMNS3VP_goT_zu0n/s320/P1380043.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I’ve always hated the term up cycling, as more often than
not is down cycling in my eyes. The obsession we have in giving, natural stone,
brick and all manner of fine wooden furniture a coat of white paint is
depressing. Maybe it is yet another sign of our disconnection with nature, or
are we now that depressed that we have to have everything light and bright. My
own home is a drab grey rough harling, while inside there is no white paint
apart from bedroom ceilings. My idea of up cycling is to turn the ordinary into
the extra ordinary, and that certainly does not include slapping a coat of
white paint over good honey coloured or richly figured hardwoods. One of the
most successful ways of adding interest to what may well be a dull piece of
furniture is in the art or craft of decorating with paper cut outs, or
decoupage. This is a useful method of covering damage as well as enhancing the
dull with a little decorative quality. Twenty years ago I bought a box full of
old book and amongst them was one very tatty volume containing masses of
engravings. This worthless book has been cannibalised time and again for
decoupage. I covered the rather uninteresting back face of a fourfold draught
screen in the parlour, while out in the hall a small brown painted table purchased
from the local charity shop was transformed.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0N_dMmS2MpVc858n0hAT6BND-qCJaja8nBCYhBJJccy_UkAnWrL5HNdlEbUCKeLfNW6xpI1JgdLv4xRoFgYevc_4MyTAFTrwcF73sMYxIHIH2eM6qpJ_vMHH1_RwKIUlwKKkMF5bOyVI5MknUlB5V3ewewGffPIBlqINXkhJlmTpln1IXutmkrbj/s3168/P1380042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="3168" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0N_dMmS2MpVc858n0hAT6BND-qCJaja8nBCYhBJJccy_UkAnWrL5HNdlEbUCKeLfNW6xpI1JgdLv4xRoFgYevc_4MyTAFTrwcF73sMYxIHIH2eM6qpJ_vMHH1_RwKIUlwKKkMF5bOyVI5MknUlB5V3ewewGffPIBlqINXkhJlmTpln1IXutmkrbj/w640-h480/P1380042.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />An old trunk found in the barn
took on a new lease of life, while the damaged surface of an 18</span><sup style="text-align: left;">th</sup><span style="text-align: left;">
century mahogany tray was covered with a period map of the world including discoveries
by Captain Cook and encircled with soldiers. </span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDKVb5DaBmFk-nwF2LU3WrYVNuujG5-HonLlMluPw1zkYQZxlYaWAg5JLBDlN4iGAPUnqVAlsz7Qgh1WvXHo89lR1hJoXycTHQzfTDAWhR0Y__Dkp6sjxGbUbj71qNG6Y7UbI6-twEGEgchnvTTOFS8S_JMt2joFH6vT0BEFZNUEvckGzZj59GobrK/s3168/P1380040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="3168" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDKVb5DaBmFk-nwF2LU3WrYVNuujG5-HonLlMluPw1zkYQZxlYaWAg5JLBDlN4iGAPUnqVAlsz7Qgh1WvXHo89lR1hJoXycTHQzfTDAWhR0Y__Dkp6sjxGbUbj71qNG6Y7UbI6-twEGEgchnvTTOFS8S_JMt2joFH6vT0BEFZNUEvckGzZj59GobrK/w640-h480/P1380040.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I was given an old wash stand
minus its top that also received the treatment on the new top and paneled
sides. Most recently I rescued an old pine box from a Tolsta croft house built
in 1909. The box was the only piece of furniture that didn’t end up in the
skip.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6nj0GobRTGKBarSUS4-QNqSsqmezSxGGQXJfTvmIqMYoJQVZrQ_HBGLyUB_jAo7PCXjPWmNWsKPKYQFCeYrBQwnHhcpNW9Dwp-aPyKNH_k9WCq02jJU1qlvSuZOb5l6X7fv5rE9KvgeEM-LKiegMc7sF2AEGTK1UMuhfKzJDPaOM_fdeollCzpzr/s4224/P1380034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="4224" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6nj0GobRTGKBarSUS4-QNqSsqmezSxGGQXJfTvmIqMYoJQVZrQ_HBGLyUB_jAo7PCXjPWmNWsKPKYQFCeYrBQwnHhcpNW9Dwp-aPyKNH_k9WCq02jJU1qlvSuZOb5l6X7fv5rE9KvgeEM-LKiegMc7sF2AEGTK1UMuhfKzJDPaOM_fdeollCzpzr/s320/P1380034.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> The house was demolished back in October and apart from some sound
salvaged v lining timber, the entire stone built house ended up in the local
quarry dump. A tragedy in this day and age. I felt particularly disheartened
after my own croft house had be nominated BBC Scotland’s home of the year, and
I had assumed this sort of vandalism was over. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisDrusdp5t4KenczDZC88xzu_pIgVPZlT1wiw8DyHlOoLfSuNvfHGoADlzLCogtVXlJDpeWoD66mL5m2k35v6msTH8dYzL5kyqC_joUEFZ6MqZjerJcHoPuB_DZwhzO00pWuHQKeZMxzRvszyQtuVyKEkepFcBlBvl7IQTVkelODyGXTkxf18Ia3zS/s4224/P1380046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="4224" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisDrusdp5t4KenczDZC88xzu_pIgVPZlT1wiw8DyHlOoLfSuNvfHGoADlzLCogtVXlJDpeWoD66mL5m2k35v6msTH8dYzL5kyqC_joUEFZ6MqZjerJcHoPuB_DZwhzO00pWuHQKeZMxzRvszyQtuVyKEkepFcBlBvl7IQTVkelODyGXTkxf18Ia3zS/w640-h360/P1380046.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><br /><br />Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-46635884344955341112022-09-06T04:22:00.000-07:002022-09-06T04:22:21.840-07:00A VIEW FROM THE ROOF TOP<p> </p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglAnDs73VzCMAT5_C0up_vZp9PvSaaQwUD91XnAgFY_YJBg99opFcQG_mLeQU7sYwkEQrl8I5WJqmJ3BnxabUZgMs4Y-3fKojlW-vpsVMeIO1RJ4bE034DNOWFJ-Q4YM80HXIW4aPy3sDqImmiCah4uLqffzbQTPCTI193SPHIWf6lDpKPJJEwfLqM/s4224/P1370943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="4224" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglAnDs73VzCMAT5_C0up_vZp9PvSaaQwUD91XnAgFY_YJBg99opFcQG_mLeQU7sYwkEQrl8I5WJqmJ3BnxabUZgMs4Y-3fKojlW-vpsVMeIO1RJ4bE034DNOWFJ-Q4YM80HXIW4aPy3sDqImmiCah4uLqffzbQTPCTI193SPHIWf6lDpKPJJEwfLqM/w640-h360/P1370943.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>As an artist, looking, to a large extent is what I do. I
discovered when rock climbing that this is equally import, not simply to search
out the next hold or move, but in taking time to recognise exactly where I was,
be that half way up a cliff face or sitting at the top. To view and discover my
world from a different aspect is the same for all of those who would look. And
so it was, during what felt like the first spell of fine weather this summer I
had the ladders out and was repainting the front of the roof. After last
winter’s hail storms had acted like sand blasting, I was pleased to have got
the back done earlier in the year. Now at the half way point I remembered to
look, if sitting on the ridge was to be the summit of my day then I must take
time out to absorb just how good it feels. I have been higher when sweeping the
chimneys and taken time to sit atop the pots and survey the full 360 degrees from
on high. No vertigo for me, or God.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVC8ugRTSZbHk19PCQmCGH5yGER-N_ZUto3SjsfkgN0bmoLCe6PX9x-eqOUTY2bADyMF1XDxIjZK4IGHa64sghoa9mR_Co7GDMRxjvT1fsPovPEITKfSuf-pcLKsbQMIKZ7Nnm1CPYasuk-FAOOCZ5xUfAUMIEjICahvVd3OkeCaiA3TP6yJTm1oaz/s4224/P1370941.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="4224" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVC8ugRTSZbHk19PCQmCGH5yGER-N_ZUto3SjsfkgN0bmoLCe6PX9x-eqOUTY2bADyMF1XDxIjZK4IGHa64sghoa9mR_Co7GDMRxjvT1fsPovPEITKfSuf-pcLKsbQMIKZ7Nnm1CPYasuk-FAOOCZ5xUfAUMIEjICahvVd3OkeCaiA3TP6yJTm1oaz/s320/P1370941.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />From up here I could see the allotment like scratching’s of
my back garden, clear areas from potatoes dug and onions lifted, fresh rows of
strawberries replanted and the healthy glaucous green of swedes. The fresh
fronds of carrot tops spill out from within the box I’d made to combat root
fly. It has worked this year and I have the most wonderful clean sweet tasting
carrots. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxfCXkRYv5VcTJ2ITU_w1_n_HKKQCtvq0J_tsxccuQGPoDzpHxzvHx7ER2N7d3vxBWWPieYrE4IUQnSfP5_Ff0zWHJT2I0EMaYI5BamVy8QdP0O6yhV8rH-TK55-WELNAYpcb3y5iKgHe-c7xiTZxK7hwflVVJi-WA8jGOUSjSLUYq8pBVV5ozEJt/s3168/P1370949.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3168" data-original-width="2376" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxfCXkRYv5VcTJ2ITU_w1_n_HKKQCtvq0J_tsxccuQGPoDzpHxzvHx7ER2N7d3vxBWWPieYrE4IUQnSfP5_Ff0zWHJT2I0EMaYI5BamVy8QdP0O6yhV8rH-TK55-WELNAYpcb3y5iKgHe-c7xiTZxK7hwflVVJi-WA8jGOUSjSLUYq8pBVV5ozEJt/s320/P1370949.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />August sees the start of harvest beyond that of the daily
picking to eat. The all-important storage for winter months starts with getting
in the peat and the stacking there of. This year, after a damp summer I was
pleasantly surprise to see just how well they had dried. The old blackhouse
shed is full with sacks of caorains (smaller pieces), and the new stack sits
tall and proud before the crumbling remains of last years. Although further
south they may have had a record breaking heat wave and drought we’ve had it
damp, which meant ideal conditions for potato blight. This has resulted in a
good deal of small potatoes as well as a smaller harvest as they had to be
lifted early. The onions have been placed outside in boxes each dry day and the
fun part of string up has begun.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvIiJDHHMZTRK_yEWHf-s0Q2oQPxxyv9uMa9-eSYBXP7NGQlaCBPIazTzCBmzI-ASNUrL-NQms8Xq58nFXSo1y1sTawJbcGUhi660j9KlLf2AfNSqHzbCUTjFEfHNBz1Hcyxb6aTWXq3zIbXpuT1FIrTtZmuDDTlkFfcnxbudtO0mv9U9YMz7zGu4O/s4224/P1370945.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4224" data-original-width="2376" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvIiJDHHMZTRK_yEWHf-s0Q2oQPxxyv9uMa9-eSYBXP7NGQlaCBPIazTzCBmzI-ASNUrL-NQms8Xq58nFXSo1y1sTawJbcGUhi660j9KlLf2AfNSqHzbCUTjFEfHNBz1Hcyxb6aTWXq3zIbXpuT1FIrTtZmuDDTlkFfcnxbudtO0mv9U9YMz7zGu4O/s320/P1370945.JPG" width="180" /></a></div><br />As always gardening has its ups and downs, but it has
overall been a good year for growing, and this has been particularly apparent
when it comes to trees I’ve planted. For the past three years they’ve been
barely visible within the rushes and long grass, but now they are up and away
putting on growth that you must surely be able to see if you stood and looked
for long enough. I remarked to Donald during our evening walk that I couldn’t
imagine a life that didn’t include the growing and planting of trees. The
pleasure it gives me to know that something will continue long after I’m gone,
that will grow taller, stronger, and more beautiful than me. So, as I sit up on
the pulpit ridge of my roof, paint brush in hand looking east across the Minch,
I glory in a day that I can say has been summer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p><br />Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-762443735289204144.post-13294656704531398222022-08-17T03:24:00.000-07:002022-08-17T03:24:40.257-07:00STITCHING MY WAY THROUGH THE COVID YEARS AND CREATING A BOOK.<p> </p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguahtXvYmWkw19bbUrwtudIg9TIja1I-Mx26ttG6Ciz-5_ph-sYBKQiUbEx9K2tecVGMwDow8DyXLblFOlTAlotVHTIzpMTapdG9TjxstiI8QAzPNkje6IRXeeWlyO6Az2czlCkDH55PMNXHbeINdUqBitM7ex4MOxJ5mrxS1OPaugo8gJnhQxFR8r/s3072/P1340473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="3072" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguahtXvYmWkw19bbUrwtudIg9TIja1I-Mx26ttG6Ciz-5_ph-sYBKQiUbEx9K2tecVGMwDow8DyXLblFOlTAlotVHTIzpMTapdG9TjxstiI8QAzPNkje6IRXeeWlyO6Az2czlCkDH55PMNXHbeINdUqBitM7ex4MOxJ5mrxS1OPaugo8gJnhQxFR8r/w640-h360/P1340473.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />They were advising people to take up embroidery as a good
therapeutic pastime during the lockdown period, but then I already knew that
have been stitching for years. I had a bigger project in mind.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In many ways it was business as usual, spending days in my
own company, hearing the neighbours going about their daily routine of feeding
and milking the goats. Lockdown had struck as I returned to Brittany, and there
was no immediate way I could head back to Scotland. It was evident right from
the start that there wasn’t going to be any quick fix route back to normality. So,
I started clearing the garden and digging in a load of well-rotted goat manure
deliver from next door. I scrabbled through the seed drawer to discover what
seeds I still had that were within date. It turned out to be a bumper year,
trips to the supermarket became less frequent and I was freezing as well as
giving away masses of vegetable. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For over a year now I had been contemplating how I could
construct a needlework book and had settle on a concertina form as the only
logical solution. All I had to do now was to decide on the size and start
stitching, and from that very point the subject for the first page arrived. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">THE ABILITY TO OVERCOME THE FEAR TO BEGIN SEPERATES THE
DREAMER FROM THE ACHIEVER.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wg7oY6BJgziI1lrEwqf-Pc6Fw0NuFtaua4TTZ24zKAKEYSDEtCTr7Oe7GXcT2SC0Tqi9r_s8WSNU-8V5poRF5tucXS0gYlY9eb7J75-mrRGzTQOVuuAxoQuio6GoQAI5LpxAKox843uCh2pC1mkwb0SUeF1kEY7Hfcu61nate4iTOYKv15jxfqbz/s2577/P1370863.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2577" data-original-width="1929" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wg7oY6BJgziI1lrEwqf-Pc6Fw0NuFtaua4TTZ24zKAKEYSDEtCTr7Oe7GXcT2SC0Tqi9r_s8WSNU-8V5poRF5tucXS0gYlY9eb7J75-mrRGzTQOVuuAxoQuio6GoQAI5LpxAKox843uCh2pC1mkwb0SUeF1kEY7Hfcu61nate4iTOYKv15jxfqbz/s320/P1370863.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Within a classical stylised floral boarder I placed the
letter of the alphabet and below a small thatched Arts and Crafts cottage with
the text “Home sweet home better in being humble”. A white rabbit and brown
hound leaping forth from left and right while behind the garden fence a
profusion of gigantic roses tower higher than the house. I used some left over
ivory coloured curtain lining as the support which gave the image a good clean
crisp look. I used mainly cotton embroidery thread for the finer work only
turning to wool for the cottage and foreground. For the second page I try my
hand at corded appliqué work. I decided on a background of simple black striped
ticking and the subject was a stylised floral arrangement in a shallow dish
place on a table. The table cloth was made from a more ornate piece of 19<sup>th</sup>
century mattress ticking and the flowers were cut from some old curtain material
sample books. The corded applique was done entirely with tweed wool thread as
were the dark red bobbled stems. It was at this point that a friend’s daughter
Luana arrived from Spain to do her confinement in my cottage next door. We kept
socially distance for a few days, but we were soon sharing morning coffee out
in the garden. As we chatted I would stitch and it wasn’t long before Luana
asked if I had a spare hoop and some wools. During a particularly fine spell of
weather we would sit and stitch or work in the garden. To have the luxury of
such good company was an added bonus that I had not expected.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">SAMPLE STICHES, PAGE THREE.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqZioqF-OmRyo9KAjJX-pf7cg_xMK-DU3mxiOtMyEqXvKRUCi6zpUp6tQEq60ochxkFogGDd-SfDfYkwa9TJ0AgIL3SaVLFvUXiKA2tIRBoMuAb_2eX1Dcf9qSLLNqdYsqT6OX-mVK2X0fu7PiYpW_3kpH7tf7w8GmQncYpfZVE6ErAv8eePYfqLFK/s2401/P1370865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2401" data-original-width="1841" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqZioqF-OmRyo9KAjJX-pf7cg_xMK-DU3mxiOtMyEqXvKRUCi6zpUp6tQEq60ochxkFogGDd-SfDfYkwa9TJ0AgIL3SaVLFvUXiKA2tIRBoMuAb_2eX1Dcf9qSLLNqdYsqT6OX-mVK2X0fu7PiYpW_3kpH7tf7w8GmQncYpfZVE6ErAv8eePYfqLFK/s320/P1370865.JPG" width="245" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I went through a variety of ideas for this page but in the
end decided that the simplest solution to display sample stitching was to use a
background of ticking. The piece I used has rather fine red and beige stripes,
purchased year ago from a depot vent in Morlaix. Mattress ticking in France
during the late 19<sup>th</sup> century and up to the middle of the 20<sup>th</sup>
century remained very traditional and often came in very vibrant colours. I
used a mix of tweed wools and heavy white cotton throughout for both the
stitches and names. I included everything from basic blanket stitch to fishbone
cross stitch and Bokhara couching. In the broad central red panel I embroidered
entwined flowers and a sample of couched basket weave, while a few insects and
a moth appeared stitched in wool.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">300 YEAR OLD OAK</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmTxqB9V2p0jTBraOwS6WbYgEaoA3DWGBkLjbnIzt_8-hMnnjnmn3znrJ6gFa9lb-yQcF0WcxZDjZcLmlHv4pRYJfAdlE_H9snXWLJZ7bmyt0uedCd0Mbn1xYrRI4LsjwguvQ75R1rGAaM4IsLKh1EmBHCSalR6unkntxTuVLGu8yw4SA1T03xLj2H/s2505/P1370876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2505" data-original-width="1849" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmTxqB9V2p0jTBraOwS6WbYgEaoA3DWGBkLjbnIzt_8-hMnnjnmn3znrJ6gFa9lb-yQcF0WcxZDjZcLmlHv4pRYJfAdlE_H9snXWLJZ7bmyt0uedCd0Mbn1xYrRI4LsjwguvQ75R1rGAaM4IsLKh1EmBHCSalR6unkntxTuVLGu8yw4SA1T03xLj2H/s320/P1370876.JPG" width="236" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">During a stroll through the fields across the road form my
house, one particular oak tree stood out in the hedgerow as having serious
history. Oaks had already suffered their own form of pandemic with die back and
I wondered, during its evident centuries of life what the old oak might have
seen and endured. I took a photo and from that made a sketch to the required
page size. Transferring the image to the background material was as usual a
process of cutting up the original sketch and drawing around each segment.
There has to be an easier way but when needs must you’ve got no internet
connection to access that u-tube video showing you how, simply get on and find
your own solution. The entire tree was stitched using wool tweed yarn apart
from the very smallest of twigs. There is I’m sure a magnificent selection of
colours available in embroidery silks and cotton, but I preferred the
limitation of using what I had to hand. I used long stitch, blanket stitch and
French knots throughout. The result could not have been too far from reality as
Luana recognised immediately the old oak from across the valley. Writing the
imagined history of the tree came relatively easily to me as I stitched, but
fitting those words into the required page size was a process of trial and
error. It took several hand written copies of the text before I found a
suitable font size.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">300 years ago a tender
shoot broke loose from an acorn forcing its way down into a rich clay loam.
Days later a vertical shoot ventured forth into a crisp spring morning. During
the winter of 1784 the oak suffered by the hand of man a massive shock when its
head and five major limbs were removed. This first harvest of burning timber
only served to make it stronger. Despite being unable to heal the wounds and
rot setting in to the point where it became partially hollow the aging tetard
persisted. Many such harvest were made over the following years as the
surrounding land continued to be cultivated by man, and while wars raged
wildlife sheltered beneath its limbs and within the folds of its bark. The old
oak hollow state provided it with added cylindrical strength that also
protected it during the age of the chainsaw, when men felled younger clean
trunked trees to burn. During the 20<sup>th</sup> century thousands of
kilometres of Brittany’s talus were destroyed, but tucked away deep within the
protective folds of the Ellez valley the old tetrad still stands, silently
marking the passage of time. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tetard, translating as tadpole in French and is the name
given to oaks that have had their leading head removed. This often results in a
much shorter tree that over centuries of pollarding for fire wood can produce a
massive head with relatively narrow trunk that does indeed resemble a tadpole.
Such oaks growing on talus similar to the Cornish hedges are specific to a
small area within Central Finistere.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">GEORGINA AND BILL-LINDA. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBD39hpEzGAuBtDphUPFViK7g78UFFN3ZmF0kNrK8o1aRMJe0Ip8JBzixoBFH5454oZTNVvR1C5GroN3r275_DI4G8NsOAyh-mFhV5ZPMgYAX14kd5u0pS_8ofU3gxS56oXc2mFhpsU0gqi0qlGC9zynMX4emgGcMmaHGV1bmsPYyzhRw7dMsl8l67/s2497/P1370866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2497" data-original-width="1881" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBD39hpEzGAuBtDphUPFViK7g78UFFN3ZmF0kNrK8o1aRMJe0Ip8JBzixoBFH5454oZTNVvR1C5GroN3r275_DI4G8NsOAyh-mFhV5ZPMgYAX14kd5u0pS_8ofU3gxS56oXc2mFhpsU0gqi0qlGC9zynMX4emgGcMmaHGV1bmsPYyzhRw7dMsl8l67/s320/P1370866.JPG" width="241" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Rummaging through some old sketch pads from my trips to
Western Australia I came across some drawings done by Georgina and Nicky when
they came over with their parents Charley and Lara on a trip around Europe. I
remember well the two girls struggling to imagine just how old my house was.
1692 was way older than anything they’d seen in WA, and they thought the dark
interior must be full of ghosts. Having no television meant that pencil and
paper came in very useful and aged four and seven they both produced some
interesting images that now I felt would translate well in fabric. The first
drawing, done entirely by Georgina, required little in the way of changes other
than to redraw and scale up to my chosen page size. I kept all of the background
detail but enlarged the foreground to include two bunches of tulips either side
of the path and to balance that I put two white dogs stitched using French
knots. The text, as so often does came after. It seemed obvious that this was
indeed Georgina and her lips could only be cherry red to match the cherry tree
growing alongside her. The wonderfully hairy sun also has full smiling lips.
Opposite the cherry tree is another tree which seems to have come from a warmer
climate of palms or maybe ferns. Beyond on the far hills is a small house but
also a tepee, which I believe was inspired when visiting Luana’s parents and
seeing their tepee. When stitching the two fluffy white dogs I included a small
blue glass bead for the eyes, which I had coincidentally bought while out in
WA. I had no idea at this point just how significant these blue glass eyes
would turn out to be when I started stitching the accompanying image. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8aKDMK4r9nJXSLxE3kB5anAHt4VgeBaZbrQSinTrCTsVNo9mdKu1UF89NNOrB1vLQomwnmpjLbjLRwqwyqeP6IOrbRvJzwueRNRAJyLkHA5iX70vtwzq3vL4Oc8sOFBD2iLkqSN2BRIzs51yiVCP69pODnIt8Nbeh3B0NbNeUbi6j6ehjOAP2HU2n/s2465/P1370867.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2465" data-original-width="1873" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8aKDMK4r9nJXSLxE3kB5anAHt4VgeBaZbrQSinTrCTsVNo9mdKu1UF89NNOrB1vLQomwnmpjLbjLRwqwyqeP6IOrbRvJzwueRNRAJyLkHA5iX70vtwzq3vL4Oc8sOFBD2iLkqSN2BRIzs51yiVCP69pODnIt8Nbeh3B0NbNeUbi6j6ehjOAP2HU2n/s320/P1370867.JPG" width="243" /></a></div><br />Once
again the drawing of the little girl was provided by Georgina but the irate fat
man was from Nicky’s hand. In placing the finer pink silk material used for the
face over the green background it gave the poor child a five o’clock shadow. I
reminded myself that I do not make mistakes when it comes to stitching so
decided to go along with it and add a Dan Dare cleft chin and stubble. What
sort of monstrous child was about to be revealed. Very trendy for these
confusing time I realised this would be Bill-Linda, cheekily apart from the
stubble, resembling my neighbour Belinda. Only when I had added the earing and
blue glass beaded necklace did the full sordid story become obvious. Those eyes
were indeed the same as appears on Georgina’s fluffy white dogs. Bill-Linda has
a necklace and ear rings made from the eyes of fluffy white dogs. The wonky roofed
house was provided by Nicky, but the tree made with a fragment of Arts and
Crafts movement upholstery material was taken from one of my own drawings when
aged four. Bill-Linda comes fully equipped for the butchery of fluffy white
dogs, as poking out from her handbag can be seen an axe head and a knife
handle. The bag itself, as if one didn’t already know is an I-bag, which seemed
so appropriate in this era of I-phones and I-pads. All the detailed work is
once again executed with tweed yarn apart from the delightful sprinkling of
silver tinsel threaded hearts across the blood red dress. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">THE PRIVATE VIEW.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEkaM_2LYRSEa3KyD3sd-Le5272GLH_kAdzLXIJv0jLqEbGm6FsoxNADVZUCuDX7AiEpOP2vdsnIDAtUHSACAjuSaiQyx2LNghivnOIa_hlc0_lmPz6QvISO66FU4OCIqH5FFeti_RuBhVpSSQWGjdXAeswkt6Rtc-sjidT86SShJEYc4xz8jjJht7/s2337/P1370868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2337" data-original-width="1769" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEkaM_2LYRSEa3KyD3sd-Le5272GLH_kAdzLXIJv0jLqEbGm6FsoxNADVZUCuDX7AiEpOP2vdsnIDAtUHSACAjuSaiQyx2LNghivnOIa_hlc0_lmPz6QvISO66FU4OCIqH5FFeti_RuBhVpSSQWGjdXAeswkt6Rtc-sjidT86SShJEYc4xz8jjJht7/s320/P1370868.JPG" width="242" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Using the childhood game of head body and legs, I produced
some strange images, and with a little bit of mix and match I devised three
very different characters. The central character was inspired by a ceramic
piece that I had seen thirty years earlier during an exhibition at the Black
Swan Gallery in Frome. It depicted a rather pompous looking camel standing on
two legs with one hand behind its back and the other holding a glass of wine. I
had been making ceramic animals myself and knowing my interest I was shown it
by the then director Anne O’Dwyer. She explained it was called the private view,
but unfortunately it had been damaged in transit so would not be going on show.
I regret to this day not having made an effort to buy it. My stitched rendition
of the private view sees three critics; one so short that he cannot possibly
see the beautiful rose painting, another snakes up his own walking cane of
importance to give them a close inspection through his half-moon glasses, while
the central character is all too occupied in drinking the wine and showing off
his own stunning tulip tail. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">DAYS OF THE WEEK.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigI7-RwiLpxWlljJC7Fanhi4H1G7fMOk3ylqd0a1U-Bd2SaxmYMkvc5aL5G4F7DE0K0uOCGWlbGabWMBgAKWjZTjeOdCMFEgkGwjMfVlrYg2R2DF8kFu1Z8YCYrgBbBqgK1AbKdBQPoMzEYoSsjmgAyPHHCe5DxoWdY8SU2KFiM8ZSm15riMb8xvVW/s2449/P1370875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2449" data-original-width="1865" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigI7-RwiLpxWlljJC7Fanhi4H1G7fMOk3ylqd0a1U-Bd2SaxmYMkvc5aL5G4F7DE0K0uOCGWlbGabWMBgAKWjZTjeOdCMFEgkGwjMfVlrYg2R2DF8kFu1Z8YCYrgBbBqgK1AbKdBQPoMzEYoSsjmgAyPHHCe5DxoWdY8SU2KFiM8ZSm15riMb8xvVW/s320/P1370875.JPG" width="244" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As the weeks of lockdown passed me by, I realised that I had
totally lost track of time and had very little idea of what day of the week it
was. One doesn’t have to look far for ideas, and so I settled on a candelabra
style tree. Out in the garden the fattest of exceedingly vocal pigeons, apply
named “clatter birds” would smash their way out of the trees as I wandered down
to pick the first courgettes, and so it seemed totally logical that these pigeons
would represent each day, and crowning them all the dove of peace to represent
Sunday. The rather dejected looking pigeons are inspired by naïve images I’d
seen in the downstairs cloakroom of my friend Polly Devlin’s house in London. A
couple of very oversized butterflies give spandrel balance to the image, while
a snail and willow puss moth give interest at ground level along with tulips
and the ever present eye of nature at the base of the tree.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">FFP ERVE GOUCALOU 1692</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBsgVPpq1YEOcYly9vAw8j_yzG3pYwb2rPgKh8gg1vmkJ0HZEPR24gvbxuSeHkOXigQENxDMGAbQRkCdhItedIMZ2vP8CQXMxk6yvJFcwbEa0h_BXAykXetXkmWJkWO_lDaI1MItNydp5coTxx4ixjhTSsZpPd-gUhBHiEHQRf1oQJG5Spj33trPND/s2513/P1370872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2513" data-original-width="1921" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBsgVPpq1YEOcYly9vAw8j_yzG3pYwb2rPgKh8gg1vmkJ0HZEPR24gvbxuSeHkOXigQENxDMGAbQRkCdhItedIMZ2vP8CQXMxk6yvJFcwbEa0h_BXAykXetXkmWJkWO_lDaI1MItNydp5coTxx4ixjhTSsZpPd-gUhBHiEHQRf1oQJG5Spj33trPND/w245-h320/P1370872.JPG" width="245" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I bought my Breton farm house back in 1989 for the princely
sum of £15,000. Shortly after I bought the adjoining derelict cottage for £900.
In the ensuing years I transformed them into what must be one of the finest
houses in the commune. The history is relatively easy to follow as the most
important original granite window lintel is inscribed with the then owner along
with the date of construction. I did a day of research several years ago in the
records office in Brest and discovered it had been inherited by the daughter Katherine
who married a Francois Core from Brennilis. Since then it had been owned by
every family in the village and most recently by the family L’hours, such was
the norm of intermarriage in rural communities. During the inheritance division
between the nine L’hours children, the house had been left with the bare
minimum of ground, but in English terms that was ample for a good half dozen
building plots. The letters FFP stand for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fais
faire par</i>, made to be made by, and so I decided to make it a marriage
sampler between Katherine and Francois. The image of the house depicts it in
its present form, but back in the 18<sup>th</sup> century it would not have had
so many windows. In fact the front of the old farm house probably only had one
window upstairs similar to the only other house in the village of that date.
The roof then would have been a steeper pitch and the first floor only used for
storage. During that period there were few actual farm buildings and the
animals lived inside with the people sharing the ground floor separated by a
rough wooden partition. The adjoining cottage, which served as my studio did
indeed have an outside staircase to the first floor entrance door but it was a
simply descent with no roof covering. The chein asseyez, or sitting dog dormer
windows also added during the period of extensive renovation. Kathrine and
Francois are depicted in typical 18<sup>th</sup> century dress, still seen
today on the ever popular Quimper ware pottery. The other decorative symbols
are those classically used in Breton furniture making.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">TEDS DEMISE.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3WK2fVPp4BAuGkvkMRTPNqo7xXMNzeu_uycrmP_EaCzSf3rSV33Y4YsPw94UaFNUyZFB9rPt59D9r3xjHABRdvqKJJRgz-VZbYw6J3M_ELcLk_8PsY29Gn_dLlzRtxYn9ryKh7yBeSNFlX7RLUtIpU2JYZNiSsMWcIZ51i6yrrmCjpE4C4vGHW5Y2/s2425/P1370878.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2425" data-original-width="1817" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3WK2fVPp4BAuGkvkMRTPNqo7xXMNzeu_uycrmP_EaCzSf3rSV33Y4YsPw94UaFNUyZFB9rPt59D9r3xjHABRdvqKJJRgz-VZbYw6J3M_ELcLk_8PsY29Gn_dLlzRtxYn9ryKh7yBeSNFlX7RLUtIpU2JYZNiSsMWcIZ51i6yrrmCjpE4C4vGHW5Y2/s320/P1370878.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By now I had ceased to listen to any more depressing radio
news, preferring to remain with my rather jaded view of the human race and its
demise. On waking one morning, my eye caught that of the large teddy bear
sitting in the chair opposite. An idea started to form. Ted would represent
man, and in two illustrations I could depict his down fall and the reason for
it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ted thought to make a
trap the best idea he’d ever had. Later on reflection he wished he hadn’t. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1Ll1s4nqwAYRGI0fStj1x0L8I-AUht_X4_KtK_7zKDXqZXcAZCvpAhYNuMqbafTMdur_2WwfAPV6mu7RGEVSz90CWEgJr7zJmbarJU83lNOp6XcTxlN_bfF6CTWeFVoYO8W9VMcHnX9bIdbF1gmPS-8fdJs7zjsiABT_6mNX5q2501zlwq2mNM18/s2545/P1370879.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2545" data-original-width="1977" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1Ll1s4nqwAYRGI0fStj1x0L8I-AUht_X4_KtK_7zKDXqZXcAZCvpAhYNuMqbafTMdur_2WwfAPV6mu7RGEVSz90CWEgJr7zJmbarJU83lNOp6XcTxlN_bfF6CTWeFVoYO8W9VMcHnX9bIdbF1gmPS-8fdJs7zjsiABT_6mNX5q2501zlwq2mNM18/s320/P1370879.JPG" width="249" /></a></div>The two images arrived fully formed and for Ted I had the
sun bleached portion of some velvet curtains I no longer used. By day Ted is
seen digging his whole surrounded by nature both above and below ground. The
mole I was particularly pleased with as at last I had found a use for the mole
skin I had cured a decade earlier. The two wooden spikes lie waiting to be
placed when the trap has been dug sufficiently deep. In the second image Ted is
shown later that night having fallen into his own trap. It would seem however
hard we try, we succeed only in making traps for ourselves. Too clever for our
own good, and a natural result of a too bigger brain. Dinosaurs became
oversized but they did not cause their own demise. We are too many, too
arrogant and selfish, which will inevitably be the cause our own destruction. Does
this worry me, not at all, and this led perfectly on to the next page.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">WORDS FROM LORD BYRON.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ueMw1MSpSbaRS44V6-0QEfUDgYL5KAkyEk94lca94CFyv1LNlmHm8xdLikd3XBWKw020kQno0BhAQ9JOI9LYEdZqmvfRRaOtKefnuuAW1qGnAxxzzFi5MKN8PlJmagH7zO7_Fj5WksRNZKiwWMGXHFR-hcbFfVRDS29hdaOHZiP-o7k644STgq99/s2457/P1370874.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2457" data-original-width="1865" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ueMw1MSpSbaRS44V6-0QEfUDgYL5KAkyEk94lca94CFyv1LNlmHm8xdLikd3XBWKw020kQno0BhAQ9JOI9LYEdZqmvfRRaOtKefnuuAW1qGnAxxzzFi5MKN8PlJmagH7zO7_Fj5WksRNZKiwWMGXHFR-hcbFfVRDS29hdaOHZiP-o7k644STgq99/s320/P1370874.JPG" width="243" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There is a pleasure in
the pathless woods,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There is a rapture on
the lonely shore,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There is society where
none intrude, by the deep sea and music in its roar. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I love not man the
less, but nature more. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These words were stitched on a coarse linen and placed
simply within a classical sampler setting. Like so many child samplers of the
18<sup>th</sup> century the words are not immediately obvious as they are
intermingled with the various stitching technics and patterns.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">THE BACK COVER.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8TUicmGB6DmIO91IKn59rTIC4XaQXQohs7pakoecUbclOkdxh6xQRPFghnXGTF2enPKexSOVLJcO21raMksK1yjWWFIEjZclJf8Dh4tdA_U_5rJgcAiobC5HsrXXtVA02nwH38hVLEHGlCmrs7PFbBmQFRtQ4daXXWNC9iWb0W086BuR-v6UQ5lDu/s2497/P1370871.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2497" data-original-width="1945" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8TUicmGB6DmIO91IKn59rTIC4XaQXQohs7pakoecUbclOkdxh6xQRPFghnXGTF2enPKexSOVLJcO21raMksK1yjWWFIEjZclJf8Dh4tdA_U_5rJgcAiobC5HsrXXtVA02nwH38hVLEHGlCmrs7PFbBmQFRtQ4daXXWNC9iWb0W086BuR-v6UQ5lDu/w498-h640/P1370871.JPG" width="498" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I since childhood always had a fascination with insect, and
having found two small remnants of floral fabric I decided to use them as a
background for stumpwork insects. Due to the raised nature of the work this
could only be used as the back cover. Executed in a mixture of cottons and
tweed wool yarn these stumpwork insects as amongst the finest detailed work I
have produced and although somewhat stylized and exaggerated they do truly seem
to be crawling across the page. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">ATTESTATION DE DEPLACEMENT DEROGATOIRE.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4EYKhxW3hBkqp_ly7ui23JLQanOXEE9abQQP31CRGgkkLgIh1T0eSx5qggtoe61HNwv8lWgblOLTb3VNmteGt89JFMqhz2qeffrzk_HD3Dm-xnvgTRo0-iW2DUXRZA_M7n4ZGJvuIHIZDMkUpvAHd_vw8hIhahS75zUkF7MMDe08-QboLk_Tvtbo/s2441/P1370880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2441" data-original-width="1849" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4EYKhxW3hBkqp_ly7ui23JLQanOXEE9abQQP31CRGgkkLgIh1T0eSx5qggtoe61HNwv8lWgblOLTb3VNmteGt89JFMqhz2qeffrzk_HD3Dm-xnvgTRo0-iW2DUXRZA_M7n4ZGJvuIHIZDMkUpvAHd_vw8hIhahS75zUkF7MMDe08-QboLk_Tvtbo/s320/P1370880.JPG" width="242" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Throughout the confinement period everyone in France had to
fill out whenever they left their home an attestation de deplacement. This gave
you the right for one hour to take exercise, to get provisions, to assist a
family member or person in difficulty, to attend a meeting with administrators
or justice. Failure to fill out such a form correctly with your date and place
of birth resulted in an immediate fine of 130 euros. I felt this form now
merited its own page in my stitched book and as such should include a few
magnified images of viruses other than that of covid. During that summer I took
long walks along the valley calling in on friends, but also spending solitary
time with nature, revisiting as well as discovering corners of overgrown
woodland I hadn’t tramped through in over a decade. Wading in the shallows of
the Ellez River, swimming naked in the cool deeper sections, stretching out on
its mossy bank to dry in the sun, listening to a world that was sumptuously
silent.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">PATCHWORK HOMES.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-s3xtbnYSSFtnfYEK2LODEHuAalxmpgO30-KElnG-iOMutjfx2jmFZL7Eh9DBbAhlwnE_TO_Tx2q671GJdas7zYUWO-Z7Euui4TcN_S2b3tQFVKa6nBDZGiRVWEz6sPbraa9CK_LGsha-cOKgUFptLS7YDtdAJwp6oN7RZhlN9R7EyP4tMTt-CxC5/s2329/P1370873.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2329" data-original-width="1777" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-s3xtbnYSSFtnfYEK2LODEHuAalxmpgO30-KElnG-iOMutjfx2jmFZL7Eh9DBbAhlwnE_TO_Tx2q671GJdas7zYUWO-Z7Euui4TcN_S2b3tQFVKa6nBDZGiRVWEz6sPbraa9CK_LGsha-cOKgUFptLS7YDtdAJwp6oN7RZhlN9R7EyP4tMTt-CxC5/s320/P1370873.JPG" width="244" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By now there seemed like there might be a window of
opportunity that would permit me to get back to Scotland. Although Norman had
sent me a mixed box of tweed yarns my mind was increasingly wandering and
wondering how my friends and home on Lewis were fairing. It felt like it was
now or never and so I booked my ticket, got the necessary checks and headed for
the ferry. Such was the level of disorder that I received three different
notices to inform me that the ferry the time and place of departure had changed
as well as the ferry itself. I eventually made the crossing from Ouistreham to
Portsmouth, arriving that evening. Parking and sleeping in the van just north
of Portsmouth I was able to make an early start and managed to do the entire
trip north in time to catch the ferry across the Minch and home to New Tolsta.
Maybe it was the lack of traffic, but even I was impressive with the endurance
one has when it comes to seeking the safe haven of home. It seemed only natural
that I should now be looking at island homes, as BBC Scotland’s Home of the
Year program had contacted me and was keen to see photographs. The idea of patchwork
came from an Esher like quilt that Kaffe Fassett made for an exhibition at the
American Museum at Claverton, outside Bath. The Fassett quilt depicted a
variety of oval hat boxes within a boxed design, and so decided to use this
idea but replace those boxes with a variety of dwellings found on the islands.
This included various rusty tin roofed dwellings, Nissan hut, Black house and
inevitably a variation of my own croft house. I had returned to my island and
home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">MAKE DO AND MEND.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2DDrz360NKcVXziiRgJw0VwUDV1mgn3rUmpcuk90q3ZujNbh_56ezDElQ67vVE3lFX29jBrQPVogzsyfuw7XvUh3sVpwOHoiRw1pOpGXuUpdHfxvoJ0hsxgtBXqDOO4GIvbReHyAyXAkXrgmjSBYiH7Z95gQgcAzqcgpU5rWvY0CFnniyFDhTNUqZ/s2265/P1370870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2265" data-original-width="1761" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2DDrz360NKcVXziiRgJw0VwUDV1mgn3rUmpcuk90q3ZujNbh_56ezDElQ67vVE3lFX29jBrQPVogzsyfuw7XvUh3sVpwOHoiRw1pOpGXuUpdHfxvoJ0hsxgtBXqDOO4GIvbReHyAyXAkXrgmjSBYiH7Z95gQgcAzqcgpU5rWvY0CFnniyFDhTNUqZ/s320/P1370870.JPG" width="249" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For this classic sampler subject I chose once again a coarse
linen and stitched a variety of decorative ways of darning. The work involved
in darning is to my mind one of the most exacting, and to then add a decorative
weave into the repair goes above and beyond the call of duty. I felt at times that
I really did require a magnifying glass and could only think that such work
would have had to have been done by younger women with perfect eyesight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rather random placement of these darning
patterns enabled me to choose an equally random selection of early sampler
motifs mostly from the early 18<sup>th</sup> century. The strange stag came
from a Nordic weaving pattern.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">LADY PETHERSTON’S REMARKABLE BOSOM.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWvU0Ky-kOAakr0tt8tENNqxUv9ggq04Zho3E2-YWndYztJLY38Y69I0jCcoqQrt6UE8YY7BzuKFzP6p6tIZjLJkNXRE8sI5U2m34O6c7CjRK87UIdDrLd0STVtuXrArEbn514iH5RenfqMpcbanaIIRJDTKQvpyamnqqGD6J2TwbiAclT3SoeH5g/s2361/P1370869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2361" data-original-width="1809" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWvU0Ky-kOAakr0tt8tENNqxUv9ggq04Zho3E2-YWndYztJLY38Y69I0jCcoqQrt6UE8YY7BzuKFzP6p6tIZjLJkNXRE8sI5U2m34O6c7CjRK87UIdDrLd0STVtuXrArEbn514iH5RenfqMpcbanaIIRJDTKQvpyamnqqGD6J2TwbiAclT3SoeH5g/s320/P1370869.JPG" width="245" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was perhaps as a direct result of getting involved with
BBC Scotland and their Home of the Year program that my mind became occupied
with interiors. After their preliminary visit they had told me to change
nothing, but I felt a little light dusting and a run through with the vacuum
cleaner wouldn’t go a miss. The image that came to mind, while in my own parlour
was that of a Jane Austin novel, depicting a trio of fashionable ladies from
the early 19<sup>th</sup> century taking tea. It is only now looking back at
that completed image that I see it also has a certain doll’s house charm in
that everything is slightly out of scale. The fire place and over-mantel mirror
are enormous in comparison to the ladies seated around the table, and were a
fire to be lit in the grate they would surely roast. The height of the table is
no higher than that of the brass fender, but despite this the room has depth
with its view into the garden framed by a pair of lavishly draped curtains. These
curtains were made using mattress ticking as was the Regency striped wallpaper,
and the two black and white prints came from a remnant of toile material. The
inclusion of a Dalmatian dog and the none too content cat adds to the drama
while the geometric design carpet once again lend depth. The text as so often
happens came to me later as I was stitching. During the slow process of
stitching my mind wanders to all manner of things, but in this instant there
seemed to be a story behind the image. It was only having completed the three
figures that I noticed that two of the women seemed to be looking at the lady
on the left and more specifically looking at her bust. The resulting text
stemmed from this. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">During the partaking
of tea in the front parlour Sid’s hissing went unnoticed as both Emily and
Maude Western admired the way in which a combination of powder blue stripes and
Honiton lace enhanced Lady Petherston’s remarkable bosom.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">FRONT COVER.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPAL8I4QFCxViY7Zy0nCCMOrfB9dOQY8ZKm-r4_gKsnsaQUfTV3B613Rq4GyWxVM6B4kmzTqfmNnF938Oo22mlycYUfG36oOSIZ04MprbhmBUgTbINxdpYCRQoehAd3qsW5uyyOpND7TKQU2dtw9dXaEKbgodXN3HJm9AAJJIVlz2_y_jDLEVzThj/s2353/P1370862.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2353" data-original-width="1793" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPAL8I4QFCxViY7Zy0nCCMOrfB9dOQY8ZKm-r4_gKsnsaQUfTV3B613Rq4GyWxVM6B4kmzTqfmNnF938Oo22mlycYUfG36oOSIZ04MprbhmBUgTbINxdpYCRQoehAd3qsW5uyyOpND7TKQU2dtw9dXaEKbgodXN3HJm9AAJJIVlz2_y_jDLEVzThj/s320/P1370862.JPG" width="244" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had gone through many different titles, but in the end
came back to simply “Stitched by Tom Hickman” I wanted to impart from the
outset a feeling of the dedication to detail and so incorporated that first
monastic like “S” to the word stitched. One of the earliest uses of stumpwork
was on 17<sup>th</sup> century book covers and so once again, being that outer
front cover I wanted to incorporate some form of raised work. The still life
image of a tray of fruit on a table gave me ample opportunity. The tray,
watermelon, pear, cherries, strawberries, lemon, orange and grapes were made
using a variety of coloured felt and highlight stitches, while the leaves, tray
boarder, candlestick and table cloth were done using tweed wool yarn, all of
this was stitched onto a heavy cream twill. The design of the book and how it
would fold using wooden hinges took a little time to perfect but with the
assistance of a cabinet maker friend Simon we managed to find the correct
profile to allow opening in both directions, and turn the all-important boxwood
finials and feet that act as decoration but also hold everything together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">THE FINAL PAGE.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPlRdTkRLGOAE_8MM33hbgfAegtnw_kFd_DtYMNZq4zIJVrkEfOIJIZ7x6gEkRuz_yCOKJeycuIxjiwT3ZPgI1VDpU2xIP_FpYI8ys0CGlL07L9a-5i6FyxQfxgSPnkHHtWDexnj7iMFM4fuQdTkZlXtNrgipRdLtdH6hovP04qQi-DI_bzLZPkaR/s2393/P1370881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2393" data-original-width="1865" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPlRdTkRLGOAE_8MM33hbgfAegtnw_kFd_DtYMNZq4zIJVrkEfOIJIZ7x6gEkRuz_yCOKJeycuIxjiwT3ZPgI1VDpU2xIP_FpYI8ys0CGlL07L9a-5i6FyxQfxgSPnkHHtWDexnj7iMFM4fuQdTkZlXtNrgipRdLtdH6hovP04qQi-DI_bzLZPkaR/s320/P1370881.JPG" width="249" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At the beginning of October, and when consulting my Face
Book page I realised I’d missed my birthday. Nothing unusual there, but it did
remind me of my only ever birthday party when I was 50 years old. It took place
in France since at that time most of my closes friends were in Brittany. I held
it over an afternoon around the village bread oven. We had done some running
repairs to the old granite oven and over several weeks had got it running
efficiently. People brought things to cook, which included pizza and bread, but
also cakes and rice pudding. I was surprised just how many people turned up.
The weather was kind and it drifted on into the evening with music and singing
around a fire, and I was pleased that at the very end the half a dozen or so
who remained were all French. For this occasion I wrote a text which I attached
to the invitation, and it was this that I now felt was the perfect way to
finish the stitched book. Having embroidered an engraving like portrait of the
author as he was at the age of fifty I then stitched the all-important words.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When as a small boy
wondering what life might hold for me, it seemed vast. How could I have
possibly imagined: The intensity of love for another human and the devastation
of loss. The passion for beauty that would nourish my creative energy and that
which I was able to build by employing my anger and hatred of injustice. The
constant wonder in nature, the hope renewed with every sunrise and contentment
at its setting. The joy of those friendships around the world which confirmed
to me that reinforced my belief that there is good in all of us, also the difficulty
I would have at times in hanging on to that belief. The determination required
each day to combat that cliff face of irrational fears, and the courage to
simply say what I think. The fun I would have in playing the fool, laughing to
the point of crying. The enjoyment I get from living alone and yet not lonely
and the clarity that would bring to a life lived differently at my own pace.
The emotions that at times would overwhelm me and the relief in such feeling
could not kill me. The satisfaction in the choices I would make and the choices
I would take, even those that led nowhere. The pleasure I would derive from
cultivating a garden. The changes I would see in my world and the difficulties
I would have in accepting them. The knowledge after all those years I would
remain remarkably ignorant. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Re-reading this text I can still be reduced to tears, not
only for the depth of sentiment behind it but also the fact that I didn’t spot
the missing L in overwhelm when proof reading.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Started in March 2019, the entire project took me fifteen
months to complete. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><br />Hebridean dreaminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04041884204097812029noreply@blogger.com0