ILL EQUIPPED. (pictures not required)

 

It had come highly recommended by Polly. “There’s a Constable exhibition at the Royal Academy you must see”. Entitled “Late Constable” it covered a time line from 1825 to his death in 1837. It was a short stroll to the nearest tube station and ten stops on another short walk along Piccadilly from Green Park Station, and a perfect distraction from thoughts of my own exhibition starting that evening.

The pavements were bustling with eager shoppers and the well-dressed seem to carry an air of entitlement and ownership, while the homeless sat cross legged on cardboard, backed up to what would now seem useless telephone boxes, muffled and blanketed against the first real nip of winter. As I approached Dover Street a black woman stood doubled over in obvious distress, tears streaming down her face as she pleaded blindly for help to the passing pedestrians. I drew closer watching people skirting around her, turning their gaze elsewhere and walking on. After all that people have been through over the past two years there must now be a greater awareness of people less fortunate, and surely someone would take notice of such distress.

In the Outer Hebrides I expect to say hello to everyone I come across during my walk, but obviously on the streets of London that is impossible. There is a level of self-imposed isolation that comes with the use of smartphones, a reduction in observation and a cutting off from reality. Headphones in place, they walk and talk, but exist elsewhere. I looked ahead and passed, disgusted with myself for joining the throng.

I paid my £17 entry and spent the following hour transported to another world, enthralled by the magic of Constable. Being able to get so close and study the confident confusion of paint application, no longer aware of my mask. To see his full size preparatory sketches alongside the finished studio work was a delight, flitting to and fro, seeing decisions taken almost two centuries ago.

Pleasantly exhausted I left by the Burlington back doors, my back beginning to feel the strain of concentration. Unmasked I walked on down Old Bond Street and slowed as a woman standing in front of a handbag shop posed, while her husband took a photo. A purchase had been made and she proudly clutched the smart paper carrier bag sporting the shop’s name. I stopped and stared, the tears welling up, a brutal transportation to the reality of today, the contrast too great. I could not survive long on these streets.      

A DIFFERENT SORT OF WALKING.

 

Making comparisons have always seemed somewhat pointless to me, and yet I’m still drawn to do just that. Walking in the Sassenach South is so different to that on the Isle of Lewis that I am constantly comparing and contrasting. There are plenty of what you could call single track roads down in Cornwall, but when bordered by high stone hedges that sense of open space found in the remote coastal wilderness of the Hebrides is lost. Walking down a winding Cornish country lane at any time of day is dangerous. Not simply because they are narrow, but because the traffic volume is considerable and the speed at which people drive is terrifying. So whenever possible I choose to scramble through the hedges and walk in the fields. There is no right to roam in England, but I would rather take my chances with livestock or local farmers than head on with a delivery van.

Delivery vans are perhaps the one thing that remain unchanged wherever you are. The company might not be the same but next day delivery to the door has certainly become the norm, even if on the islands the next day is more likely to be the next week. While the latest trend is to de-clutter, and chuck stuff out, many more are on line ordering stuff that they don’t need. So what’s new?

I digress. My walking has by necessity been in daylight since pushing your way through a thorny hedge is the dark can leave some nasty scars. From my brother’s house in the center of Probus I will more often than not head through the churchyard.

The classic West Country square granite tower is the finest and tallest in Cornwall. When walking out to the west of the village it stands as a noble landmark, prettier and debatably more useful than our own Tolsta wind turbine. Here the valley meanders down to the Tresillian River through mainly permanent pasture and scrub woodland. There is a bridal pathway but the proximity of the bypass road makes this a rather noisy trudge. My preference is to keep to the footpath that runs up to Trelowthas farm, or to wander down Wag lane and onto Trevorva Farm. However beyond these points I must cross that bypass road and to do so requires a good sense of speed judgement and timing. Simply walking across is not an option, one has to move fast during week days. One of the more pleasant circular loop walks is to the north and west of the village to Lemmellyn, following the footpath down to the railway and back up a little used lane to the village. Another longer loop is east towards Grampound and through the parkland of Trewithen Estate.

 Here my eye is always drawn to the magnificent centuries old oak trees with their neatly cattle trimmed skirts. At the east entrance I cross the road, hop over the wall and into the fields, for the lane heading south to Tregony is too dangerous at any time of day. There are pasture fields and four hedges to negotiate before I reach Golden Manor.

 The large double row of mid-17^th century mullion windows hide behind tall beach trees and the troubled history of the Tregain family. Across the road is what appear at first sight to be a farm building but which in fact one of the few remaining examples of a medieval first floor hall. Much transformed over the centuries and now incorporated into a modern day dairy farmyard the building stands unused and unloved.

 From here I take the dogleg lane south of Trewithen, crossing the bypass road, through the new Tregony View housing estate and home. Yes, it’s different, very different to my coastal evening strolls from New Tolsta, but there is interest if of a different nature.                  

HOSPITAL JOB

 

I’m not sure where the term originated from, but I do know what it refers to. Back in the dark ages when I was finding my way in the world of antiques, I would visit a fellow dealer and restorer on Saturday afternoons in his workshop. From David I learnt just what extra ordinary feats could be achieved under the headings of restoration, renovation, reconstitution and total fakery. The secret to all of these was time, and making sure that the time spent was worthwhile. Ever a sucker for a ruin or tragic wreck I was often tempted to rescue a piece of furniture that would entail days of work that could not possibly equate to its eventual value. One such piece was a fine early 17^th century inlaid wainscot chair. It had been converted into a cupboard. You may well asked how on earth one converts a chair into a cupboard. By removing the arms and using the back inlaid panel as a door, then constructing your cupboard using the turned arm supports and the cut of back as your points of attachment. Then re-applying the cresting rail and carved lugs as a final gesture of ridiculous ornamentation. I don’t suppose you’re any the wiser even now, but the result had to be seen to be believed. The only things missing were the arms and the lower section of the back supports, and although the purchase price of £180 would when restored see me a reasonable profit, the time involved in getting it back to its original form was too long. David took one look at it and declared it a hospital job. I spent all afternoon sawing by hand a 17^th century oak beam lengthways and the following two Saturdays shaping and cutting mortis and tenon joints. Once reassembled and faked in the result was stunning and I wondered if I’d charged enough, when I sold it immediately to a BADA dealer.

Today I’m still tempted by the occasional hospital job, and last week that came in the form of a Regency rosewood pedestal workbox. Strangely enough with all the sewing work I do, I still don’t have a sewing box; at least that’s how I justified the purchase to myself. The asking price was already tempting as I realised that forty years ago I would have probably paid at least that, but times change and so do prices. There was no real haggling but the eventual price of £55 seemed very reasonable. Although one of the tripod legs had been repaired I knew I could improve on that, but the undercarriage had been recovered so many times that the entire structure would require replacing. This is where a good stock of old scrap wood comes in useful. It took two days to consolidate the upper section and remake the lower bag structure. Then the decision of whether to reuse the pleated covering material. I looked through my scraps and found four small sections of bell-pull ribbon. These would be ideal on the canted corners, and by reversing the fabric any stains from where the braid had been glued on would be hidden. After a day of hand sewing and finally refitting the pleated fabric in place I was pleased with the result.

I hear workboxes are becoming more sort after since many people have taken up needle craft. Today if I didn’t include the time spent in restoration, my fine Regency piece would probably show me a theoretical profit. However, it would struggle to make half of what I could have sold it for all those years ago, and therefore its restoration must still be classed as a hospital job.          

MIST ROLLING IN FROM.

 

I was irritated at just how quickly that irritating little McCartney tune sprang to mind. Having grown up on the Mull of Kintyre made I am totally familiar with the rolling of mist, but here on the east coast of Lewis I more used to mist being associated with the moor. As I left for my evening walk I caught sight of the Minch mist and darted back for my camera.

 As I reached the Traigh Mhor turn off, dank billowing clouds sped up the valley, but as I approached the coast it cleared to reveal the low fog banks making their way inland. Further north was a similar picture as the remnants of fog clung to every break in the cliffs. It felt autumnal and the following morning this was emphasized by the red sunrise, and later the heather bejewelled with a myriad of tiny spider webs. 

   

PLAYING WITH WATER AND STONE AT LOCH DIRIDEAN.

 

We had noted during last Sunday’s walk to Loch Diridean that the levels were way down and I was able to walk with relative ease across the old stone crossing to where once in the distant past there was a sheep fank. There is little trace now other than a few stones that resemble the foundations of a hut.

Today’s concrete walled sheep fank is located to the south east, closer to Tolsta at the divide of the track leading out to Alit na Muilne. Prior to this there was a wooden sheep fank further out along the track and the remnants of this can still be seen, like some weather beaten wood-henge.

As the bride of the Hebrides descended once more I decided to take a stroll out onto the moor and see if there was perhaps more breeze out at the end of the track. As I reached Loch Diridean I could feel the sun pushing through and the fog began to clear. Having made my way down to the sheep fank crossing I found myself wading in the warm waters and decided to lift a few stones.

Once started it’s not easy to stop, and over the next hour or more I amused myself in consolidating and raising the crossing. It may now even be possible to cross beyond the summer and drought conditions. I wonder if anyone will notice.                                                    

RETURNING TO GLASGOW

My first impressions of Glasgow during the taxi ride from the airport into the city centre, was where did it go, that black beauty from my childhood memories. It had been over sixty years since I’d last been here. A bus full of children on a five day trip to Glasgow, picked up along the way from Campbeltown to Lochgilphead to have their tonsils removed. Back in the late 50’s this was seen as quite normal, a simple operation to eliminate any chance of tonsillitis in future years. In my case it wasn’t simple. I’d had a haemorrhages and grew progressively weaker. On my arrival back in Campbeltown I collapsed and mother took me immediately to the cottage hospital. There they stuck a pin in my thumb and tried to get blood. I could hear from along the corridor Dr MacPhail shouting down the phone, “How dare you send a child home in such a condition, he’s got no blood in him!” There followed a month’s recuperation, much of it spent in a cot out in the back court yard of our fine Arts and Craft home of Kildalloig. The estate ran to 1000 acres plus the island of Davaar, and it seemed punishment indeed to be pending so much of that summer in bed. Now, I could only hope that my visit would be one with a happier outcome.

As we pulled up at the IWC Offices I was already in a state of shock reeling at the Disney World tragedy that modern architecture had become. This first stop was for a covid test. Whisked upstairs and before I knew it a charming clinician was probing the inner passages of my sinuses in an attempt at a

 frontal lobotomy. I felt totally lop sided for the rest of the day and wished she’d reamed out the other side while she was at it. No amount of nose blowing seemed to have the desired effect.

The early morning flight times from Stornoway meant I now had 5 hours to kill before I could gain access to my hotel room. I left my back pack at the check in desk and headed off in search of Glasgow, I was sure I could see it somewhere around Limington Park. A stroll across the footbridge to the north side of the Clyde revealed the brutal architecture that was BBC Scotland, and it seemed a concerted effort had been made during the redevelopment to design buildings that would echo the harshness of the old dockyard area. The planting of trees had gone a long way to making the dockside walk a reasonably pleasant experience and popular with more cyclists than pedestrians. 

Weaving my way north I encountered some impressive street art between freeway and railway, art to rival any Banksi. It wasn’t long before the first glimpses of what Glasgow had been started to emerge. 

 

A fine red brick buildings on the corner of Stoke Hill Street, and another domed proclaiming the Messiah has come to Baitur Rahman Mosque at the corner of Haugh road. 

The facade of this Glasgow was a lot cleaner than the Glasgow of my childhood. That black Glasgow had no traffic light crossings and policemen directed traffic and busy junctions. My father would panic and desperately ask my mother “What’s he want me to do?” When we stopped at one such junction I remember seeing a heavily whiskered gentleman of the road digging deep into a waste bin. He came up with a big grin on his brown face and a cream bun in his hand. He took a big mouthful and cream spilled out into his whiskered jowls. I was pleased for him and wished mother would buy such delicious looking buns as a change from drop scones. I discovered later what these synthetic cream filled delights taste like, and a better appreciation of my mother’s cooking.I soon discovered that this brighter Glasgow was still dirty, not from the burning of coal but from discarded tin cans and plastic trash, and although easily removed the inability of humans to dispose of their rubbish responsibly is baffling to me.

 I eventually made it to Kelvingrove and the park, climbing over the iron fencing through the woods and understory of giant hog weed to the Kelvin River. Although water levels were obviously down it made a pleasant change to hear rushing water when back on Lewis most of the loch fed burns had dries up. What a delight, and a discovery I could have almost believed was mine alone if it wasn’t for the profusion of drinks cans. I was once again reminded of Lord Byron’s words.

 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods

There is a rapture on the lonely shore

There is society where none intrude

By the deep sea, and beauty in its roar:

I love not man the less but beauty more.

 Making my way back up to the towpath I passed over a bridge bedecked with fine bronze sculptures depicting bygone arts and crafts. The air was heady with the smell of lime blossom and I realised my arrival in Glasgow was perfectly timed for harvesting. I managed to acquire a paper bag from a young woman and started plucking, wondering why nobody else was partaking of such a bounteous harvest. It would seem city dwellers of today have no knowledge of lime blossom infusions, but would quite likely purchase the tea bag equivalent.

On retracing my way back to the hotel I was shocked to see an entire wall of spray paint art had now disappeared under a fresh coat of black paint. I could only hope that it was the artist him, or herself who had organised this in preparation for another masterpiece. Perhaps a sign of our times and the thirst for change, while in Leonardo’s days, payment meant appreciation and preservation of The Last Supper. 

                    

By the following morning as I looked out from my bedroom window across the docks to a crisp clear sunrise I felt I had arrived even if I was still undecided as to what could be going on inside such peculiar forms as the Armadillo building directly opposite the Premier Inn.

 I hadn’t managed to find the Glasgow of my childhood, the coal black grime of yesteryears has gone, but beyond the fabulously ornate veneer of past wealth and modern opulence lies the problematic Scotch glue of shame. I had discovered a changed and changing 21^st century Glasgow that had managed to retain in the face of brutal progress its former glory. During my return trip to the airport the taxi driver made sure to take me via the vast red brick mecca of Ibrox stadium. I was lost for words. Many words did spring to mind, but for once I managed to keep my trap shut. I might yet want to return.                           

STUDIOS OPEN TO VISITORS.

 

From Thursday 22^nd July to Saturday 24^th and again the following 29^th to 31^st my studio along with others from Tong to Tolsta will be open to the public. For me this will be the first time in approaching two years that Studio 17 has been open to all. Close observers will have noticed that the open sign has already been up for the past six weeks but beneath this is written “by appointment”. I figured if the world had changed then I might as well change along with it. So while people take it as read that one must make an appointment before seeing the doctor, dentist, solicitor, and many other professionals, I saw little harm in adding myself to that list. The only difference being that there is no obvious way of making an appointment since I have no phone line, mobile phone or internet connection. 

This is where a creative mind is required. For those in no rush there is the good old written request by Royal Mail, and for those who do not have the luxury of time and are simply passing through, then I do have a front door. On this door is a box containing brochures indicating what can be seen within the studio, and if this is indeed seen as interesting then there is a door bell to ring, which can lead to an on the spot viewing. 

The B895 road from Stornoway continues another mile and a half beyond the cattle grid at New Tolsta turning to a rough track beyond Garry Bridge for a further mile along the coast and the beginning of the heritage moorland walk to Ness. The beaches of Traigh Mhor and Traigh Ghearadha are great attractions and see their car parks full to overflowing on sunny days throughout the summer. Visitors start arriving from first light, often there to exercise both themselves and their dogs, and even late into the evening cars and camper van make the pilgrimage. The vans to park up overnight and recently with the finer weather many have been braving the midges and camping. However there are those who simply go to the end of the road and turn round; no getting out for a stroll along the beach, no stopping to take in the view, simply turn around in the car park and head back. It seems the idea of going for a spin in the car (something my parents’ generation did on Sundays when fuel was cheap and motoring on the open road could be regarded as a pleasure), is still something that even the younger generation contemplate. Whether young or old most have been to the end of the B895 before, and now take such beauty in their stride. Like a familiar picture on the wall that has ceased to register as it once did. They would notice immediately if it had gone, but not if someone had added an extra signature. 

 These recognised beauty spots we locals often take for granted, while many visitors can only look on in envy at how lucky anyone could be to live in such a place. I have noticed on my evening walk there are fewer energy and alcohol drinks cans discarded during the summer months, which tells me that those who chuck litter from their cars are in fact local people. I imagine these people assume that nature deals with this sort of recyclable rubbish since it seems to disappear. Over the past nine months it’s been me who has religiously cleared the verges and ditches of this trash, and in doing so have noticed a definite reduction in litter. There are other visitors however who are on the “I spy a beach” trip. For those younger reader this is harping back to the sixties and seventies when children were encouraged to tick off various things seen and illustrated in small “I spy books”, which would hopefully keep them from asking, are we there yet, on long car journeys. This “I spy with my little eye” type of entertainment was at least encouraging children to look at their surrounding and not into a tiny smart phone game. The bean their seen that attitude still persists and I often see visitors who must be on a very tight schedule, who do the box-ticking turn around, not even bothering with a selfy photo.

These people I would never expect to be interested in looking at art or anything else not on the ittinery. However there are those who travel at a pace so slow that they are looking for things to fill their time. Galleries and tearooms are certainly on their list of things to do, and what better way to while away the hours, if it’s turned out to be a dull day and the midges are out. These are the people my by appointment is aimed at, just sufficient to prevent them from wasting my time. The sign has been most effective and in during the past weeks I have only had one customer out of the many thousands that have passed, which has enabled me to be productive both in the studio and garden.