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.

    

SUMMER SOLSTICE AT THE CONES

 

SUMMER SOLSTICE AT THE CONES.

There has been reason to celebrate this week as my digging of peat finally came to an end. That’s not to say the peat season is over, since they are still out there on the moor drying nicely and awaiting the home coming sometime in August. During a week of perfect drying weather the last few peat to be cut crisped up enough to be lifted and benefit from the westerly breeze. Most of the first cut are now dry and standing on the top side, a little regiment of cones silhouetted against the evening summer solstice sun.

Back in the garden the burst of summer colour has arrived, the vegetable garden looking productive and from under the plastic cover, a picking of four small strawberries to go with my breakfast muesli. It’s at times like this that I’m thankful I don’t have to share those hard won fruits of my labours.

THE PERSISTANCE OF THE PERENIAL PEAT DIGGER

 

On my first visit to Tolsta in 2005 one of the first things to hit me was the smell of peat fires. Since then many people have ceased to cut peat, having opted for the simplicity of oil-fired heating in old age. They used to say one needed to cut a volume of peat equivalent to the room you wanted to heat for the year. Today with better insulation and heating system I manage with a fraction of that. It is however my only source of heat and serves for hot water and cooking. My electricity bill is a shocking £10/month, but for it to remain so low requires some seriously hard work that today few would be willing to do. The older local population hold nostalgic childhood memories of the peat cutting tradition, while the younger generation have other priorities. Children seem to be otherwise occupied, contented and connected within their hermetically sealed homes.

 Every spring for the past twelve years I’ve been cutting peat above Garry beach on the Isle of Lewis. I had heard that it was hard work and although people would say its free fuel, the labour involved made it anything but free. The position of the peat banks I was allocated was idyllic, across the Garry bridge and down off the track at the first left hand bend it commanded a view out across the Minch. On clear days the mainland coast was visible from north of Ullapool to Cape Wrath, but I wasn’t here to stand staring at the view.

The old peat iron for my croft house was so worn out that it could only be considered a museum piece so that first year I had a go with a spade. The result was some peats but they did not come up to scratch as far as the locals were concerned, and so I was taken in hand and shown, where and how to cut with a tarasgeir. Calum Stealag Macleod, the celebrated Stornoway blacksmith made me an iron and told me how his father had made my old tarasgeir as well as the branding irons that had burnt in the 17NT and JML on the handle.

The following year I set to christening my new tarasgeir and cut a full length of the bank. Restarting to cut a bank that has been left for years is never simple since the face will have dried out and the heather will have grown on top making the de-turfing an arduous task. I was pleased to have some help that year from Mats, a friend from Sweden who continued to visit each summer on his cycling tours of Scotland. Leaving his bike overwinter at No 15 he made New Tolsta his base until his sudden and untimely death last November. This upliftingly active spring period has been tinged this year with the sadness of not having his companionship.

There are machines that will cut peat, removing the top turf and raising the subsequent layer of peat in convenient blocks, but this requires level ground. My banks are on a south facing slope. I was unable to cut last year having been stuck in Brittany during the period of covid restrictions and was worried just how my old back would cope with the effort. A few fine days at the end of March saw me make a start. I de-turfed a five meter section and gave up. However, if I was to continue heating with peat it was simply going to have to be a question of persistence.

Back on the banks during mid-April there were days of good progress followed by days of pain and anti-inflammatory pills, but by limiting myself to a maximum of 200 peats cut I found the rhythm of my old work pattern. Luckily I have a habit of counting as I cut and the total soon approached a thousand being by then half way down the bank. Working alone it is a process of cutting twenty or thirty, then throwing them. Throwing is an art in itself, and in the past, when I’ve had local help, I’ve marveled at the accuracy achieved when hurling a weighty peat several meter to land perfectly alongside the previous one. Today, alone I carry this process out in stages, finding an often inelegant method to get them well away from the bank, then having to sort out those that have overlapped so that crisping up of the topside can commence. The top layer is not the best, being rather spongy and fibrous. They take longer to dry and so it is as well that they come out first. The drying process relies not only on the wind and lack of heavy rain, but also on the condition of the moor. If the ground is wet then crisping up takes longer. I avoid at all cost throwing onto sodden mossy ground. Despite getting the peat thrown out several meters from the bank, both on the top and lower side, there is often an issue with space, especially if cutting more than three deep and seven wide. Thankfully this year in mid-April we had ideal conditions and so the setting up could start and doing so space created for the final and best layer of peat. If space becomes a problem I continue to cut, but create a wall of peat on the top side. Here it will continue to dry although if left too long will tend to stick. There are also areas that produce crumbly peat and can’t be cut with the tarasgeir. In these circumstances its back to the spade to cut smaller chunks which dry fast and tend to crack up and require bagging. Once dry nothing is wasted and by the end of summer the banks should be left clear from even the smallest pieces of dry peat.

Getting the dry peat back to the house is another operation that is good to do as a team, but there have been years when I’ve bagged it all up, wheeled it up to the track and loaded it into my car. Now if all has gone according to plan and Murray has the tractor and trailer available in late August then it’s time to ask neighbours if they can lend a hand. It’s a good humoured time and a reminder of what communal working was like in bygone days. For now though with the last layer cut and thrown everything is either crisping up or set up. There’s a feeling of relief that the hardest of jobs is over for another year.