TO SQUEEZE OR NOT TO SQUEEZE.

 

Yes I know, one should never read the side effect of medication, but this stuff was potent, even the list of very common effects was long. So perhaps today wasn’t the best day to make black currant jelly. It had to be done though as I had everything prepared the previous evening, and all I had to do was transfer the big bowl of juice into the pan and add sugar. I’d fired up the Rayburn, washed all the jam jars and everything looked good, even if my brain felt like I was swimming through porridge.

To squeeze or not to squeeze that is the question, whether it is acceptable to lay hands on the old bag or whether it be more acceptable to leave all to gravity when in search of perfection in the making of jelly. Personally I willingly sacrifice perfection for a couple more jars of blackcurrant jelly, and anyway who will notice the clarity when the jelly in the jar is such a deep shade of purple black. I use a mix of black and white currants, which gives the same strong colour, but when spread looks more like a rich redcurrant jelly.

Maybe on reflection I shouldn’t have turned my back on the stove and started the hard Sudoku, but at the first hiss I was off my chair and whisked the pan over towards the sink. The juice rose furiously over the brim, dribbling all the way to the sink, while more fizzed and bubbled furiously on the stove. As I mopped it up, steam rose and the kitchen filled with the smell of burnt jam. Jelly juice seemed to everywhere; floor and furniture, even my shoes. All cleaned up I set the pan back on the stove and kept a closer eye on the rolling boil. The setting point achieved, I lined up the now very hot jars on the table. My jam pan has a pouring spout, swing handle and a side handle so why not use them. The pan was over half full and I thought to start with the largest jar with the widest opening made sense. It went everywhere and like a fool I wiped the spout and had a second go. Disastrous, and so I turned to a ladle, but by now there was sticky hot liquid all over the table, on the floor, down my trousers and on my shoes. There was now a direct correlation with the steadiness of my hand and my impatience, which meant more spillage. There is no way back one just has to carry on even if the idea of keeping calm is no longer relevant. It took me a good quarter of an hour to mop everything down including myself, and

I see now that the hot spilt jelly has partially removed the polish from the end of the kitchen table. Well that’s easily solved but black currant juice is worse than blood or red wine, far stickier when mixed with added sugar. In the end I had eleven jars lined up to cool and the spillage would not have made it a round dozen. The mix was half and half black and white currants, and although that still gives a strong black colour in the jar, when spread it is more like red currant. I’ve had to net most of the bushes but have noticed in previous years that blackbirds tend to ignore the white currant, almost as if they don’t see them. It’s been a bumper harvest and there are still several later ripening bushes to pick. Sure I will never eat all that, but then it’s always useful to have a stock of produce in the ladder for exchange and gifts.    

A WEEK LIKE NO OTHER

 

This has been a week of high drama in New Tolsta. The first took place on Tuesday when out on my evening walk with Donald I was attacked by Harry. Harry being a one tone bottle fed bullock. He charged me at close quarters as we made our way past the group and if I hadn’t managed to roll to the left as I fell heavily onto the road then he would have trampled me and I’m convinced that would have been the end. However I was up on my feet as he turned for the second go, and got a foot to the side of his head before he then tumbled me into the ditch. It is amazing how fast one can move when your life is in danger, and I scrambled out onto higher and rougher ground like someone forty years my junior. The bullock then turned his attention on Donald who was further up the track and I screamed at him to get off the road. Thankfully for us a large van came up from Traigh Mhor car park and pushed the cattle along the road towards the cattle grid, which gave us time to get over the fence and make our way back across the croft. I was limping badly and could see through the hole in my trousers that my left knee was bleeding. Donald drove me into Stornoway Hospital for a check-up at A&E where they found nothing broken, but were shocked at my misadventure. It was the last thing I needed having undergone radio therapy on my back for prostate related bone cancer earlier in the year. I have been conscious all summer of taking things at a slower pace while still trying to remain reasonably active. Battered, bruised and traumatised by the event I slept badly, but by Saturday evening I felt I should get out on the road again for a short walk at least. I took my stick with me although I knew Harry was now confined to barracks for what remained of his life. When the owner came to apologise he also promised me a prime cut, and even though I am, for all practical purposes vegetarian, I accepted the offer. On the way down the hill I kept stopping and turning just to make sure nothing was following me and as I passed the spot I found my breathing getting laboured. I pressed on slowly to what we call windy corner; the headland between Garry and Traigh Mhor beach, and noticed a school of what I assumed were Minky whales about four hundred yards off the beach. It was difficult to say how many there were as they circled in what I though was a rather frenzied manner, and I assumed they were feeding on a big shoal of fish. It had been a blustery wet day and I was the only one venturing out that evening. The final steep slope beyond the cattle grid was a slog and I was thankful of being able to get home and avoid any downpours.

Sunday morning, and Donald called by to see how I was, and I told him I’d gone out for  short walk, but totally forgot to say anything about the Pilot Whale sighting. Even when he said there had been a lot of coastguard activity and police down at Traigh Mhor it still didn’t dawn on me that it could have anything to do with the previous evenings sighting. Another day of rain meant I was looking forward to lighting the fire in the studio and ignoring the inclement weather. However from my studio window I could see there was even more activity down the road as two fire engines arrived. They remained there all morning and after lunch I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer. I donned wet weather gear, heading down the croft and across the machair. As soon as I reached the high point where the entire length of the beach is visible I could see it. Just below the cemetery stream outlet there was a group of people in high visibility jackets, and something else. I got my binoculars out and was horrified to see the beach littered with black bodies. I made my way down onto the footpath that runs behind the dunes only coming out above the beach a hundred yards from the disaster. Just below me someone was struggling up with a large bag and heavy camera equipment. I recognised John from the local Gaelic TV station and he explained that over fifty Pilot whales had swum up onto the beach to die there. The entire group including young had breathed their last. It is intensely sad and beyond our understanding, and although they will perform autopsies I’m sure they will find nothing wrong. The urgent question now as we head into high tourist season is what to do with all the bodies. So many decaying cadavers will produce a stink, but my mind was already racing way ahead wondering just how many chess sets or pieces of artwork might be made from so much bone. In the past the islanders had so little that they became very adept at making use of everything. Unfortunately today, just like those on the mainland many have so much that they are constantly throwing stuff away. It is rarely a question of repairing and even the charity shops have difficulty coping with the shear mass of admittedly rather cheaply made stuff. We have for years been throwing our heritage into landfill, and replacing it with inferior quality goods that’s only redeeming feature is that it claims to be made from recyclable materials. Harry’s boisterous belligerence was easy to understand and the solution is obvious, but what do you do with fifty five dead whales?        

THE TOUCH OF WORKING HANDS.

 

Why do you spend so much time stitching? It’s a simple question and typical of one that more often comes from the innocently observant mind of a child. A close look at my hands would tell you that stitching is not the only thing I do.

My stitching is certainly not done for the money, but it’s also not for any form of notoriety or fame. Along with this is no urge to create something worthy of admiration or wonderment. The answer is more than simple, it is for my own amusement and enjoyment. Passing a needle from one side of the fabric to the other is a form of rhythmical relaxation. The past few months has seen me working on a ticking samplers, depicting a banana beaked creature as “The moth catcher”.

Once stitching is completed, to then share what I’ve done seems only natural in a world that encourages us to share everything about ourselves, so why should I be any different from others in that sense of self obsession. Not only do I chose to illustrate the finish item but to show that process of stitching in order to convey the time involved and maybe unravel the mystery of such intricate work. Anything that is made by hand has an inherent quality that draws the observer to want to touch, to obtain more than simply the visual. I’ve noticed during exhibitions of my textile work that the people will without thinking touch anything that isn’t behind glass, despite any do not touch signs. The drive to touch is primeval when it comes to fabric. During a stop off from Western Australia, at Doha airport the entire cabin crew watched me with admiration, as squatting on the ground, I stitched one of my more complex pieces. They were all very impressed and made no comment about me carrying a needle onto the plane, but one of them did ask me if he could touch the embroidery. I remember from my childhood the same sensation when observing my great aunts silk embroidery and wanting to touch those minute nobly french knots and the perfectly regimented smooth chain stitch.

If something is made by hand then it would seem only natural to want to touch it. I have always been fascinated by hands and the marvels they are capable of, and so I felt it a true and spontaneous compliment, when the male nurse who was taking my blood pressure and pulse noted that I had real working hands.      

COLLECTING AND CONNECTING.

 

The mushroom season has come early this year, perhaps as a result of the dry spell throughout May and June. I discovered when living in Brittany that hunting for mushrooms was a national autumnal pastime. It also meant that if someone discovered a productive location it remained a closely guarded secret. Here in the Outer Hebrides it is rare to see anyone collecting mushrooms, and when they see me with a large bag of field mushrooms they invariably say they don’t know enough about wild fungi to risk picking them. Ignorance is not an option when it comes to foraging, and they are righto leave them alone. The same crosses my mind when I see certain highly processed food products in supermarkets. There are many good books on foraging and useful natural history knowledge as well as all the information one could possibly want or not want on line. I still have more faith in the printed word. As our knowledge advances at an ever increasing rate we seem also to be increasingly distanced from nature. I often hear this planet earth referred to as our planet. Such arrogance could only come from a creature with an oversized brain. Sure we have adapted well to become the dominant life form, capable of great and terrible things, but we remain simply another life form on earth and equally vulnerable to climate change.

In Lews Castle grounds the Celtic music festival is about to kick off, but I’m wondering if all those feet might be squashing a greater variety of fungi. Has this early start to the season seen boletus, chanterelle, russula, parasol and prince mushrooms? Are oyster mushrooms sprouting from deadwood, or my favourite hedgehog fungi scattering their milky golden trail through the woodland leaf mould? The recent rain has triggered growth both on the moor and my garden and flowering has been prolific. I’m now on my second batch of elderflower champagne. While the gannet population took a pounding last year and there are no great clouds of them diving of Garry and Traigh Mhor beach, there are other species that have fared better. The cuckoo call has now been replaced by the plaintive cry of the curlew and the progeny of three goldfinch nest line up on the barn roof and washing line. 

While cutting back an escalonia bush I was surrounded by what I thought where blue bottle flies. When one of them bit me I realise they were a very small variety of wasps and I had been trimming right above their beautiful paper nest. In the past I’ve had solitary wasps nesting in the porch, so I was pleased to welcome this little colony to my garden. I would rather be connected to nature than the internet. 

NOW AND THEN.

 

GOURDS FROM THE GARDEN.

Can or should art be considered a good investment? To invest, apart from the literal meaning describing the act of clothing with a vest, it has also come to mean to produce interest or profit on capital, certainly not what goes through my mind when purchasing artwork. As with any non-essential commodity the value of art will inevitably be governed equally by rarity and fashion no matter how ancient or modern.

Like most reasonably successful artists I’ve had those lean years of stock piling that have contrasted with the occasional sell out exhibition. Just as the job is not a nine to five so the income is erratic. One of the many added benefits is to be able to fill the walls of my own home with my art. Looking back I note that the honeymoon period of high prices in the early 90’s was short lived, but there are several painting from that period I would gladly buy back. Following the move to Central Finistere in Brittany my prices had to adapt to the largely rural peasant population. This was the inevitable penalty I had to pay for leading such an idyllic life style. Sales were sporadic and my prices ranged from 100-400 euros, rarely topping the thousand euro mark. Today I still offer work from as little as £50. This still life, painted in 2003 was marked then at 350 euros, but today I would be asking £1350, is that keeping up with inflation? As I grow older and the due date of departure creeps closer I wonder if my artwork can now be considered to have matured like a fine wine ready for drinking, or does a bad photo and a crass comment on Instagram have more influence. While there seems to be money enough for all sorts of instant gratification, I wonder what sort of future we are investing in.  

THIS IS NOT NORMAL.

 

This has been my mantra, and what I’ve been repeatedly saying to visiting friends. We do seem to have short memories, so perhaps this weather is not totally unheard of or unique, however the combination of several weeks without rain and a drying breeze has now been follow by hot still days. The midges would not normally be a problem if this clear blue sky days were accompanied by some air movement. Work outside in the garden has been curtailed as any movement of soil with hoeing or weeding brings up clouds of then. Wearing a net is a misery and a last resort. I have been wandering down the croft most afternoons to Traigh Mhor beach for a cooling dip in the Minch, the only problem being the trudge home leaves me as hot as ever. The sustained heat has meant good early growth and prolific flowering, and from my kitchen window the stand of foxgloves are particularly cheering. Down in the vegetable garden the red admiral butterflies are busy on the chive flowers and cabbage whites seem to be everywhere.

 Thankfully my brassicas are undercover, although there are plenty of last year’s kale plants going to seed. The trees I’ve planted over the past ten years are really beginning to put on growth, while the shrubs have thickened out to provide good cover for nesting birds. There is a significant increase in song thrushes, and all birdlife seems more abundant since the removal of next doors killer cat. I’ve discovered two goldfinch nests and the wrens have found shelter within the old black house walls. The garden seems alive with them. 

The cuckoo has, I think finally stopped his incessant calling, but it has been a real pleasure to hear the evocative call of curlews, both down on the croft and inland on the moorland grazing. When out at Loch Diridean a couple of Bewick swans gave me vocal accompaniment, while I added a few more stones to the old sheep fank crossing. Their deep whistling call the only sound on that balmy hot day, a time when simply to be is enough. 

This morning the rain arrived with a light breeze, now that is normal.   

LEAVE ONLY FOOT PRINTS

 

During the mid-summer tourist season OSH. (Open Studios Hebrides), is for the third year organising a six day open studio event when the general public can follow the trail and meet the artists and makers at their place of work. Since my studio is already open at this time of year, it would be churlish of me not to take part in this public relations exercise. This is seen as high season for tourist, but unfortunately for me that means the low season for sales. Still I remain for ever hopeful. Thankfully the cruise ship passengers do not venture this far even though there are buses that will bring them right to my door. I’ve also avoided attracting any coach tours, although I gather from a friend that some of these can be quite lucrative. This year OSH have also organised an exhibition at An Lanntair, our local art centre in Stornoway, running from 8^th July to the 5^th August. Here will be found a full selection of artwork from the island alongside a themed section which has given its name to the exhibition. “Leave only footprints” is a very appropriate and timely title that opens a window on the relationship we have with planet earth. My friends will know I have a very jaundiced view of this and some may be able to imagine the sort of image I might produce. We have for ease of exhibiting been restricted to a wall hanging piece one foot square. I am assuming these will be hung as a block and it will be interested to see what impact that has.

There are many ways of looking at leaving only footprints, or maybe that could as easily be interpreted as do no harm. As an artist I hope to leave more than footprints, but the title I believe is aimed specifically at our human behaviour, and in particular when we travel to other places on holiday. In general visitors are so taken with the beauty of the islands that they do respect as well as enjoy our environment. There have been the odd case of camper van toilets being emptied onto the moor, but this sort of behaviour is rare and carries a heavy fine. Litter is still a problem but is often more of a local problem rather than one of visitors. So, as you walk barefoot along the mile and a half stretch of Traigh Mhor beach beyond the crofts and machair of New Tolsta, you can indeed leave only those footprints. I have interpreted this theme quite literally with a footprint, however it is not made of beautiful golden or white sand from the Hebrides, but black titanium sand from the other side of the world and collected during one of my trips to Western Australia. In WA there has historically been a problem with rabbits and even today you can still see remnants of that extra ordinary and infamous rabbit proof fence. The introduction of mixi eventually proved more effective. It is now illegal to spread this devastating disease, however that does not stop people introducing a diseased rabbit into an area. When the rabbits were causing trouble in local cemetery here in Tolsta that is what happened.

It spread fast and wiped out a vast population that provided fodder for many larger birds. In times past rabbits were kept in check by ferreting that also provided a free meal. Now nobody wants to eat rabbit. I had to dispatch this poor creature when returning from my Sunday walk, it didn't move on my approach and the end was swift. There are no rabbits, or buzzards, and the knock on effect is that there have been more problems with black back gulls and ravens attacking lambs. Everything on the face of this planet is connected, from the fungal growth below ground to the insects and birds that fly above it, and we are included in this. Over the past few years we have had the scare of a pandemic virus, but in my eyes and in that of natures, we are the virus. So, surrounding that black sand footprint I’ve placed a mass of bunny bones collected from the New Tolsta machair. Macabre, yes and yet beautiful. That is the thinking behind the work, or is it just coincidence that since being diagnosed with bone cancer my thoughts have often wandered to death and bones?