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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
