A HOST OF GOLDEN DAFFODILS

 

Spring has been threatening for several weeks now, and for me it’s always the bugling bulbs that herald the lifting of spirits. That and the arrival of the cuckoo this Thursday. As regular as the German black forest clock that carries its name, the cuckoo arrives all the way from Africa. Our Scottish cuckoos are not the same as those from England. They are better fed and migrate via Italy, not Spain. The distance flown by birds was in days gone by hard to imagine, when Whooper Swans headed north to their breeding grounds in Iceland each spring it was thought they carried with them the souls of the dead. It is hardly surprising that those of us capable of flying can only manage that in our dreams.

Like squirrels hiding their stash of nuts in autumn we plant those bulbs, and if you’re anything like me you promptly forget where. I’ve often heard friends say, where did they come from, I sure I never planted anything there, and so an added magic is achieved. I do remember planting my host of golden daffodils. About fifteen years ago the wooden tubs that were dotted around New Tolsta had rotted out, and were disposed of in the quarry along with their contents. When dumping some of my own garden waste I noticed some bulbs poking out form the old compost and retrieved as many as I could find. Since then the few clumps have multiplied and miraculously have spread fifty yards up the road as far as the junction. It must be that forgetful squirrel at work.   

HANDS

 

When looking at the massive working hands of someone who has spent a lifetime on the land it seems hardly surprising that people profess to be able to read ones palms. These are not hands to be hidden between folded arms or stuffed away into pockets, they are hands to be shaken, and discovered within that grip, an age when tools had handles and machines were only for those who could afford them. A pre-plastic age when there was still pride in doing and creating all manner of things by hand. When the washing was taken out in a hand-woven basket, vegetables were wrapped in paper bags and milk came in glass bottles.

There amongst the modern supermarket shelves I saw him, a lumbering fossil of a man. Something has been prized from between the pages of my youth, and I await the smell of oily sheep’s wool to waft by. He examines a plastic bag of mixed chopped veg and I wonder does he know about stir fry, wasn’t it just tatties and swede in his time? His Harris Tweed jacket is almost shiny at collar and cuffs as he slumps forward on the bars of the trolley for support. His glasses are half way down his nose, a nose that sprout hair externally as well as internally. The white stubble sunken leathery cheeks speak of ages past, of evening sipping whiskey in smoke filled rooms, and those gnarled oversized hands that attained such grandeur with professional skill of shearing sheep from dawn to dusk. Now they grip the bar of the trolley like two great claws of a perching raptor long since extinct. This is a man of my childhood, from Tarbert market, that lent heavily on the iron gated pens as he tipped his head to the auctioneer and twitched his mouth in a silent bid. The man that held at arm’s length an ash crook with carved rams horn handle to catch a young lamb by the neck. The man who for endless summer afternoons walked with even pace behind the clanking binder, standing oat sheaves into stooks. The man that took my tiny smooth white hand in his and shook it with a grip both firm and tender, leaving me confident that in his presence I would always be safe.

The old man passed and I pulled myself back from another age and century with the strangeness and abruptness of a moon landing, as I stared at the short shopping list in my own hands.     

A NEW FLOCK FOR 2022

 

I have often heard it said that the winter months are long this far north, but perhaps that applies to those less occupied than myself. During the summer months the garden, digging peat and general maintenance demand more of my attention, and so when winter does creep in I have a full list of projects. After a highly successful exhibition down in London, one of those projects was to stitch a new flock of sheep on tweed. Over the years they have grown in complexity as I love nothing more than to push myself. There are several different techniques in representing a sheep fleece. For lambs the most common method is the laborious but effective stitching of French knots, while adult sheep are either created with raw wool or couched hand spun wool. When last in Western Australia I collected a bag full of Dorper wool from a friend’s paddock. Dorper sheep are a cross between Dorset and Persian. They have the peculiarity of shedding their wool and therefore do not requiring shearing. The wool is a mass of tight curls and comes off with a felted backing, which is ideal for my needs. There are no rules in my stitching of sheep and in the past I successfully used a crocheted white scarf a friend was throwing out. She thought I could unwind the wool, but I preferred to stitch the scrunched up crochet directly onto the tweed.

The tweed backgrounds are assembled into a patchwork landscape. These can be very simply sky and land, or more complex scenes can include a mountainous backdrop or coastal seascape. Once the sheep are stitched into place more embroidered detail will follow, such as croft houses or shielings, or fencing and flowers. Castles and wind turbines have been known to make an appearance but are less common.

During the run up to Christmas 2021 my work went on show for the first time in London. Possible covid restrictions meant an online presence was vital and the Robert Young Gallery in Battersea produced a wonderful catalogue. The opening night was perfect for mew at least in that it was select, warm and cheery in the perfect intimate setting of fine folk art. The on line catalogue had proved its worth as half the items were sold before the show opened.

Now back on the Isle of Lewis I am preparing for this year’s season and pleased to announce there will be no requirement to make an appointment. However for anyone wishing to view my work it is advisable to send me an email a few days before so as to be sure I’ll be in the studio.     

THE OCELOT

At the start of winter I always like to have a project started no matter where I happen to be. Embroidery work always seems to come into this category due to the time it takes, and this time I’d settle on another big cat. Although not that big, the South American Ocelot or Pardalis as it is referred to in my circa 1800 edition of General Zoology by George Shaw is considered to be one of the most beautiful. The ground colour of the male is reddish tawny above to nearly white on the lower parts of the side, breast and limbs. The richer tinged stripes on the upper part of the body are edged with black and these contrasting colours make it an ideal subject for embroidery. Like the other large cats I’ve embroidered I wanted it to be in raised stump work, but this time the inspiration for a seated pose came from Mr Heath’s fine engraving in said volume. The head however showed a rather vicious grimace, but I preferred a more passive mouth closed. Knowing from the start that it would be a jungle setting and packed full of detail meant I would have to create depth by adding raised detail. The South American jungle provides a wealth of fauna to choose from, but a river through the middle ground allowed me to split foreground and increase that depth of vision. 

I started stitching shortly after my return from Brittany and by the 27^th of November I had the Ocelot and raised flower detail completed. Then came the exciting part of positioning those onto the background linen canvas. After a brief trip to London at the beginning of December, for the very successful opening of my exhibition at Robert Young’s Gallery in Battersea Bridge Road, the stitching continued. The week leading up to Christmas saw a significant progress as I concentrated on stitching and not the upcoming mid-winter celebrations. On Christmas day I took some cold left over food and headed out to the coast for a very enjoyable long damp walk. There had been a brief moment of panic before Christmas, when I couldn't find the tail of the Ocelot. During clearing the table I chucked all the scraps into the bin, and along with them was the tail. I noticed my brother had already emptied the bin ready for collection that morning. I frantically untied the plastic bag and to my delight found said tail without too much trouble. A lesson learnt, to be careful when tiding up, something I normally don't do that often.

 By the New Year I was entering the final stages with the foreground detail. At this stage a friend reminded me that the reverse side of embroidery can also be fascinating. So, as I approach the point of completion, I offer you a few images of my winter project.  

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.