THE LEAST VISITED ATTRACTION IN THE OUTER HEBRIDES 2024

 

The Western Isles wanderer.

THE LEAST VISITED ATTRACTION IN THE OUTER HEBRIDES 2024

Reporter Tottie Nadin.

In the past this award has rightly gone to rather dull remote locations, which have subsequently been endowed with a strange magnet force that has transformed them into major attractions. This somewhat dubious award has gone to the New Tolsta STUDIO 17 run by artist Tom Hickman. Tom is no stranger to awards; in 2017 he received the accolade of New Tolsta’s architectural merit award for the best shed, and I expect you all remember in 2022 his home winning the BBC Scotland’s Home of the Year. This year, it would seem has got off to a good start with no visitor at all during the Easter break despite a steady stream of tourists heading to Traigh Mhor and Garry beach as well as the not to be missed Bridge to Nowhere. Studio 17 is sign posted at the junction, but it would seem those heading out to the end of the road are solely intent on ticking the “I’ve been there” box.

Tom seemed totally oblivious as to the irony of this latest award as he told me he now charged an entry fee of £5, which was refunded with any purchase. When I asked him how that was going he replied “hard to judge, early days, I haven’t seen anyone as yet”. He professed to being somewhat distracted by the need to get his peats cut, and since it was a fine afternoon I could sense he was keen that our interview should be as brief as possible. The opening hours are somewhat erratic and he freely admitted that if it’s a nice day he may well go for a dip or a wander out to the nearest loch. 

If you are lucky enough to find him open you’ll discover a studio crammed full with of all manner of objects, the entire space like some insane cabinet of curiosities, and an extra ordinary collection of diverse artwork all made by Tom. As I did a quick unpaid for flit around the gallery I noticed there were very few things with prices, apparently he has bought labels but hasn’t got round to writing them out, always finding something more creative to do. Being a newcomer to a mobile phone he confessed that most of its functions still remained a total mystery to him. Since he has no land line, and there is no reception at No 17 it’s hard to see how having a phone could change anything. He also assured me that madness did not run in his family as he pressed on enthusiastically to outline his latest attraction to offer personal in depth private tours around his house, garden and studio. Only a select few with £100 to blow will be lucky enough to enjoy this exclusive offer. He estimates this behind the scenes tour with countless amusing tales will take a minimum of 2 hours and obviously coffee and homemade cake are included in the price. When asked to give an evening talk during his one man show at An Lanntair in 2019 he created another first by talking for two and a half hours, so given that he now intended to include his home and garden I imagine 2 hours could be a serious underestimate. One has to admire his optimism if nothing else, and he admitted that with no interruption he does get loads done in a day.

 

When I suggested he put up an open sign he said he usually did, but today he didn’t want to run the risk of our chat being interrupted. Well that was hardly likely to happen. He added that the open sign had thus far only attracted one person on foot who’d got fifteen minutes to kill before the bus arrived. At this juncture I felt I’d taken up enough of his valuable time and would in any case need to watch out for my own bus back to Stornoway. I was left with so many conflicting feelings around the wealth of creativity, and why anyone would want to produce so much, and yet make so little effort to sell. Then I caught sight of the catalogue for his last London show and everything slipped into place. These highly successful folk art exhibitions see his work snapped up by worldwide cognoscenti, and New Tolsta is a world away from London or New York.

WHAT'S IN A PEBBLE?

 

We’ve all done it, teetered over great banks of pebbles throw up by pounded sea and millennia of winter storms. Great stripy granite boulder on parts of the west coast, to the flats skimming pebbles north of Ullapool, they come in every imaginable shape and size. The temptation to stack the flatter pebbles one atop another is evident from the number of precarious towers that sprout up during the summer months. Other might search out that solitary favourite pebble for its colour, marking or form, how it has worn down over time to produce something that fit perfectly into the palm of the hand. There is comfort in caressing in its smooth form and wonder at just how long it had been lying there amongst millions of other just waiting to your eye and for you to pick it up. Finding that perfect pebble can be a long process of chop and change, and then having found it some will take it home, a treasured memento, while others are contented to have turned it over in the palm of their hand then place it back with the others, or hurl it out to sea. I collected a large bag full while waiting for the ferry at Ullapool and pebbled the floor of my shower.

Obviously pebble are not just on the foreshore, and one I found recently when cutting peat. About 60cm down below the surface I wondered just how it could have arrived there. So perfectly did it fit into my hand and one side smooth as silk, had it been used as some sort of polishing tool, had someone discarded it centuries ago? It seemed hard to imagine how it had come to buried that far beneath the surface. Last year a close friend gave me a special pebble he had discovered when digging a grave for his faithful old dog. He had carried the pebble in his pocket for well over a year and felt it had some sort of protective quality. He wanted me to have it as protection against my cancer. I was truly overcome as I had known his dog since a pup and knew just how much she meant to him. I’ve made a little tweed pouch for the pebble and sleep with it tucked under my pillow. Maybe it is in the giving of such object that endows them with a special properties, like the finding of a four leaf clover; it won’t bring good luck to the finder, but it might to ever you give it to. A few years ago I found a flat pebble resting on parapet walls Garry Bridge. The brilliant yellow paint caught my eye with the silhouette of a Scottish piper. On the reverse was written Worlaby Rocks Facebook, keep me or re hide. J.R. Like a message in a bottle it can provoke a response or simple be set afloat again to drift. I had every intention of hiding this pebble but somehow it’s remained with me in a bowl in the kitchen. Perhaps this year it will continue it adventure. This summer I’m offering a large quantity of rock minerals and fossils from my cabinet of curiosities. They are from two different collections made during the latter part of the 19^th century. Some have been cut and polished to reveal an internal beauty, while others are housed in small decoupage treasure boxes and range from a couple of pounds to twenty pounds.

 My favourite pebble sits on a shelf above the Rayburn.  A small cream coloured circular pebble, it depicts a little grey hill with a perfect toadstool atop. It’s been forty years since I found it on St Mawes harbour foreshore in Cornwall, measuring only a couple of centimeters across it popped larger than life into my line of vision.        

THE CALL TO THE MOOR

 

The walk out to my peat banks above Garry beach would have normally taken me about half an hour, twenty minutes if I’d cut across the beach instead of following the road around via Garry bridge. However these days I drive, I’m not saying I couldn’t walk that far, simply that I need to reserve my energy for the work rather than the walk. Since mid-April the weather has been kind for those of us who still carrying out the old traditional of cutting peat as fuel. I’m not concerning myself here with what form of energy is better or more environmentally friendly, simply illustrating the vestiges of a centuries old way of life. I’m a hopeless romantic and an artist to boot, so when I feel the call of the moor, it is with purpose, sharpen and soak the tarasgeir, repair the spade handle and make sure that also is sharp. I didn’t cut any peat last year, one needs to be in reasonable health and I was still recovering from radio treatment to my back. A peat bank left uncut soon deteriorates and last year’s fine summer dried the face out to reveal large cracks. This means the outer cut on the face is harder to remove, coming away in great amorphous lumps, but a couple of cuts in all returns to normal.

 My peat stack is looking very meagre and I’m trying to economise in the hopes that I can make it last until the end of July when this year’s cut with a drying wind will be ready to bring home. I had wondered if I would ever cut peat again, and maybe totally beholding on help from friends. Asking for help doesn’t come easily for me, and given that the work is so physically demanding significantly reduces who I can ask. So I did the rounds and found a few who were willing and fit enough to give a hand. Half a century ago we were being told that automation and robots would mean people would have increased spare time on their hands. Evidently others saw that as an opportunity to knuckle in on all that free time and find ways of occupying the masses with pointless games and irrelevant information. I’ve always preferred to invent my own games, never dancing to the tune of others. Back then children spent most of their free time outside and had a very different outlook on that freedom we took for granted. Let me make it clear, I wasn’t looking for free child labour, but traditionally it was a given that everyone took part in the cutting of peat including children. That may explain why many older folk abhor the idea going anywhere near a peat bank. It was expected growing up on a farm that when there was work that needed doing we would help out, no question of payment and never any pocket money. I well remember at the age of twelve demanding hourly wages from my father for laying an extremely large cement floor in the grain store. He asked me how much I wanted to be paid, and I said a shilling and hour. He agreed, but after twenty hours of hard graft I realised I’d only earned a pound. There was no question of renegotiation, but a valuable lesson had been learned. It is hard to put an hourly rate on traditional labour that some now seem to have turned on its head and charge the unsuspecting tourist for a “peat cutting experience”. I wanted experienced workers and not someone out for a holiday photo opportunity.

Before even starting to cut the peat there is the removal of the turf that everyone will agree is the hardest part, but with a team of four it certainly isn’t as bad as when I would labour away on my own. Working as part of a team is great, but I still enjoy of a clear summers evening heading out on my own to the moor and my peat banks. As the sun dips and a gentle easterly prevents any chance of overheating I see my silhouette cast across the drying peats. There is also purpose to my counting with each slice of the iron, I don’t want to overdo it, cutting thirty and then stepping off the bank to throw them. I could hardly call it throwing, but I get there in stages. I have increased my quota to 200, and with the throwing that is quite enough. I think I’m at the half way stage, but at the weekend weather permitting I will have more help and we may even complete the job. Then I’ll be out to set them up, or maybe just sit back with my flask of coffee and admire the view out across the Minch; listen to the thrum of the waves at high tide, the call of the curlews bringing back childhood memories, and let the world slip by, counting my lucky stars that I can still enjoy that call to the moor.