THIS IS NOT NORMAL.

 

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.

 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. 

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. 

This morning the rain arrived with a light breeze, now that is normal.   

LEAVE ONLY FOOT PRINTS

 

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^th July to the 5^th 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.

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.

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?

RESUMING THE RHYTHM OF LIFE.

 

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.

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.  

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.     

Returning home to New Tolsta after an absence of five months.

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.

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”.

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.

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.   

JESUS AND REBECCA AT THE WELL.

  

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.

What had led to this strange sighting and how had it come to be recorded in an early 19^th century wool work picture?

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^th 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.

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.          

DECOUPAGE AND UP CYCLING.

 

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.

An old trunk found in the barn took on a new lease of life, while the damaged surface of an 18^th century mahogany tray was covered with a period map of the world including discoveries by Captain Cook and encircled with soldiers. 

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.

 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. 

  

A VIEW FROM THE ROOF TOP

 

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.

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.

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.

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.