Bog Trotting

What sets this area of bog land that blankets the major part of the island of Lewis apart from others is the sheer extent of unbroken and actively growing peatland and the pervading influence of the sea on it unique plant life. While others rush to the two magnificent beaches at Garry and Traigh Mhor I head inland for a spot of solitary bog trotting. Taking the track across the road from the newly opened bunkhouse passing the quarry where only two weeks ago the pair of young buzzards huddled together scruffy with chick white fluff between virgin feathers and yesterday I watched the last one make its maiden flight acoss the valley to make a rather ungainly landing. I pas over the tiny bridge that crosses the aptly named Allt na muilne where further down stream you can still make out the remains of at least two ancient mills. The river in full spate is an impressive sight capturing water over five square kilometres and half a dozen lochs it crashes down peat-brown from the moorland little over a kilometre long to do battle against the incoming tide on the white sands of Traigh Mhor beach. The old peat gathering track, one of many that fan out onto the moor from the back of North Tolsta rises slowly up to about 100 metres where it stops at Loch Diridean. Along the left bank of the loch there are still the neat striped contours of peat extraction and at this its north easterly end there is an ancient stepping stone crossing to a spit of ground that once served as the old sheep fank for working on sheep brought in off the moor. I like to cross at this point but the stones at the near side are beneath the water so its shoes and socks off and on all fours as the slippery flat rocks are now anything but steady. Clambering to the high ground beyond I can see my hoped for destination the 248 metre hill of Muirneag which dominates the skyline from Stornoway to the north-west and east coasts. This extra ordinary landscape was formed during a period of climate cooling which saw trees recede and peat build up beneath sphagnum mosses. The winter has been surprisingly dry and follows an exceptionally dry summer of 2012 where the multicoloured blanket of acid green, rich red and pale yellows of the moss has been dried and bleached in the sun. Further in I make my way through a maze of small pools of flowering bog bean their root system clearing tracing the depths. This land of blanket bog is scarce in world terms and is one of subtle contrasts where drier heath ridges give way to wet hollows and streams cut deep into the peat that connect the open water tapestry of lochs. The soft walking provides a rich array of wetland plant life with bog mosses, butterworts, sundew, spotted orchids and bog asphodel. The lochs are set low in the landscape and as such often remain unseen until close to. Both red-throated and black-throated divers can be seen in the lochs and are easily disturbed so a wide berth by humans in spring and summer is recommended. I well remember at the age of six struggling home with a dead black-throated diver dangling from the handlebars of my bike as its beak strummed the wheel spokes so keen was I to show it to my parents the beauty of this bird. The Red Indians have a story of how the loon got its spots as a gift for having restored the sight of the Indian chief but this eye-catching summer plumage arrangement of dark lines with bars of white spots may have more to do with camouflaging the bird as it hunts for small fish.

I plod on towards my goal that now seems even further away and almost tread on a red grouse, it flies low chattering in anger and I assume it is a male since females will often do a tumbling defensive dance as if injured in order to lure one away from her young. High above the cascading song of the skylark marks for me childhood’s classic summer’s day and beyond on a raised dry mound an alert golden plover calls out with a soft whistle warning to its mate. I arrive at last at Loch Nic Dhomhnaill at the foot of Miurneag and decide to head back, leave the climb for another day and head to the north east to Loch Scarasdail where a shieling is marked on the map. As I reach the ridge the rusty tin roof is immediately visible at the far end of the loch and as I approach I marvel at just how perfectly the old stone structure blends into the landscape so different from our modern homes that must be perched on the highest spot to obtain the finest view and a clean wind that negates any form of gardening. Within the walls of this low hut a wren has made its nest and trills loudly in anger as I enter, the old iron stove has be lugged way out here on the moor but with strong winter winds full of sea salt it has corroded beyond use. Further over I discover two more ruins before continuing north-east to the river leading down to Garry beach. Earlier on this year we had a massive fire on the moor which lit up the night sky for several days and seems to have started on the north side of this valley, now with the heather burnt the grass has grown lush and the grazing will be good. The fire was not without consequence to nature as it spread over some seven square miles as far as the coast however visually it is already becoming difficult to see where exactly the burn took place and apart from a lack of heather and a greener aspect I am amazed at how quickly it has regenerated. The river Ghearadha winds its way eastward cutting deeper into the landscape where eventually it cuts through an escarpment passing under the bridge to nowhere and joins the Minch. On the way there are several ruined remains indicating that in the past this valley was used during the summer months as common grazing when the women, children and young adults would live in the shielings tending the township cattle and sheep while the men laboured on the more fertile ground close to the coast. The traditional Lewis shielings became in later years a low stone-built base with turf sods for its upper walls which explains why today many remains are little more than knee high mounds of grass covered stones. Inside these windowless smoke filled structures was a raised platform where dried heather and moor grass made a fairly comfortable nights sleep.

On the high ground above Garry beach I along with other locals continue the tradition of peat cutting, leaving them to dry flat for three weeks then setting them up for the wind to continue the drying process. Arriving back at the house its time for tea and an evening close to a good open peat fire and outside in front of the house is displayed the peat stack today a symbol of pride and I smile as another visitor to the bunkhouse takes a photo of my labours.                 

Hedgehogs and flying rabbits.

Zebra crossings are not very popular in Brittany and almost unheard of in small villages in Central Finistere however in the neighbouring commune of Collorec Madame le Maire made sure she had one of everything on offer from the street furniture catalogue when European grants were abundant. I’ve never actually seen anyone use the pink and white zebra crossing over the past ten years but when driving through last week my eye was drawn to the squashed hedgehog smack in the middle and it struck me as particularly sad. One can only admire the hedgehog for having been so observant in spotting a human being actually crossing at this point on that rare occasion when a car was obliged to stop. To have then recognised that this was indeed a safe place to cross it then seemed a total tragedy that he or she had such a misfortune of bad timing. From the hedgehog’s point of view it must seem somewhat unjust in that having gone to the trouble to use the designated crossing place that somebody should in the middle of the village choose not to stop. It just goes to illustrate that one should never blindly trust human beings or zebra crossings. Personally I never use them unless they happen to be placed just where I planned to cross and I’ve never pressed that button on a traffic light controlled crossing, more often than not by the time the lights change and the little green man starts flashing whoever pressed it has long since gone, while the infuriated driver sits cursing and revving his motor.  I believe there is in France a law that requires drivers to remove wildlife killed to the side of the road so as not to cause a traffic hazard but perhaps hedgehogs don’t come under traffic hazard category. The poor old hedgehog had been flattened in full view of everyone for days and nobody had thought to do the descent thing. I suppose it would have required some sort of flat object to slip between spines and tarmac but there are several houses within yards that must have a spatula in the kitchen drawer.

In the Outer Hebrides Miss Tiggy Winkle has been seen as a likely cause of ground nesting birds loosing their eggs along with mink. A few years back we had an extra ordinarily heavy rain storm that brought torrents of water down off the moor overflowing the ditches within minutes, the road became a river and flooded the valley below my house. The following day I took a stroll along the beach and lost count of the number of drowned hedgehogs like little abandoned spiny hats entwined within the seaweed flotsam. Last year I found one struggling to keep afloat having fallen into the sump below the cattle grid and managing to fish it out using a plastic bag, I said not a word to a sole but none the less felt better than if I left it to die. Similarly I found myself unable to dispatch the tiny fluffy bunnies I dug from the vegetable garden but on seeing one return a few weeks later nearly fully grow I vowed never to make that mistake again. During mid summer when stacking the dried peats on a wooden pallet behind the house I spotted the same rabbit duck in underneath. Now was my opportunity and so grabbing the washing line pole I rammed it under the stack giving it a good waggle about. Nothing, so I proceeded to ram the stick in and out and the rabbit sprung forth a look of absolute terror on its face and ears pinned flat to its head as it flew past my own right ear. I must have put the fear of God into that flying rabbit as it never returned.

As I grab the chance to sow a few seeds during a rare rest bite from the April showers that seem to have decided to join forces and become constant rain I’m reminded that in my far flung gardens I often plant one for the mice, another for the slugs and what’s left after the neighbours help themselves will probably leave me with enough fresh seed for next year. This is known as the good life and similarly with my painting I do little more than keep framers in business and burn up the rest on diesel. I can see that there will soon come a time when I must make that choice as to where I dig my garden. Last year I left a little plot on Lewis packed with potatoes, onions, turnips and beetroot only to find that in France most had failed with potatoes the size of small marbles from lack of sun. This evening I turned to a different sort of sowing as I darned the holes in my hand knitted Harris wool socks and wondered if anyone out there still bothers to darn. Next will be two small worn areas on a pair of Harris tweed blankets but its the cleaning of my old Trangia camping stove that is guaranteed to turned my thoughts northward to the Highlands and Islands. Having completed the conversion work on the barn at New Tolsta I plan to open it as a seven bed bunkhouse this summer and with brochures being printed to distribute on my journey north I should hopefully receive a few visitors over the summer months.       

                      IT’S ALL DOWN TO TIMING.

Imagine the scene, a bitterly cold Good Friday morning and Carhaix is looking even bleaker than ever with the trees around the main square having received a rather severe pollarding the remaining straggly tirer-sèvre twigs remind me that I should perhaps trim the last few grey hairs from my own crâne chauve. With bonnet (one leg from a pair of army surplus long-johns) pulled down over my ears I made my way passed closed shops as the freezing rain tried to pretend it was really snow. I pressed the green button to gained entry into the Banque de Bretagne. Since last autumn it has been amalgamated into BNP PARISBAS, a far bigger bank and presumably more secure. My business was simple, to show then a piece of paper that proved that last year I was not eligible for tax and also to check if I needed to transfer money into my current account. I was greeted with a very pleasant smile from the young female cashier and then from around the corner appeared the lady manager. Kissing is the norm when greeting people here in Brittany but a peck on the bank managers cheek is perhaps taking familiarity a little too far so a more business like hand shake was proffered. As usual she wanted to know how long I’d been back from Australia and when would I be heading off again.

My life seems to have developed into somewhat of a triangular circuit from Australia to Scotland with touch downs between back home in Brittany. I told them I’d be heading north at the end of April having only come back to clear the vegetable garden, do my tax returns and sign for the sale of the house at Elphen. “Ah vous avez vendu”, yes sold, but between three the pickings were so little that we didn’t even fall into the tax category for capital gains. The subject then turned to the sad state of house prices in Central Finistere and why it is no longer worth even exhibiting my work here. Twenty years ago when people were moving into the area there was interest and I could sell my paintings locally but now many have returned home to England and those once well maintained houses stand empty the discoloured estate agents sign swinging in the wind from the garden gate attached by a single piece of rusting wire. Life has turned full circle and yet there seems a certain sadness in the knowledge that so many dreams of living in France did not work out.  

My bank was a very small one and thankfully even though it is now part of a much larger bank they still find that to count amongst their clients the celebrated artist Tom Hickman is of some interest. I was then asked if I would like a coffee which given the conditions outside was just what I needed. I joined the rest of the staff in a huddle around the machine and we discussed the comparative wealth of Western Australia. Then came a little something to go with the coffee, pain au chocolate or pain au raisin? I settled for the latter and the conversation continued. I suggested with the state of financial affairs was so bad in Central Finistere they should perhaps think of opening a café Bank, why not we have internet cafés and library cafés, over the past two years I had even hung my pictures in their bank. Timing is everything and particularly so during a time of recession. I’ve found myself having to give serious thought to what to paint rather than simply doing whatever pleases me.

The idea came to me last summer while discussing with Moy Mackay what sells in her gallery in Peebles. I’d shown her a few of my coastal seascapes from up on Lewis and I was struck how wonderfully empty they were but also how the general public might just require more in the way of life. There was no way I was going to paint human beings on the beach since in order to belong in that landscape they would need to be working, such was the beauty of Newlyn School paintings at the end of the 19^th and early 20^th century down in Cornwall. I recognise that I come from a generation and background whose work ethic is perhaps today not all that mainstream. Few people can be seen collecting seaweed on the beach and there are even fewer who use hand tools so if I painted people simply strolling along the beach they could only look like tourists in such remote spots and I didn’t want to paint surfers since there are artist covering that subject.

It felt almost too simple at first to combine the two subjects that I love to paint and yet on the Outer Hebrides as elsewhere in Scotland it is not uncommon to see livestock grazing perilously close to cliff edges as well as roaming the foreshore. I trawled through my sketchbooks and photographs for images and started the process of composing pictures. Just like a musician creating a choral work these conjured up images had to speak of the wild-west coast of Scotland while grabbing and keeping hold of the observer’s attention. So I return once again in my head to those informative years on our coastal farm on the Mull of Kintyre where animals and the sea were ever present. In early May I will head north with canvas and paint to continue my Hebridean dreaming along with paintings for the Morven Gallery on Lewis, Moy Mackay’s gallery in Peebles, Coastal Designs in Campbeltown and Henri’s delightful little gallery on the Isle of Gigha.  

Coffee and business over I made to leave but not before a small box of chocolates was offered. I said my goodbyes indicating I’d be back this afternoon for more of the same which brought laughter as I exited back into the gloomy street but now with a smile on my face. I had obviously timed my trip to Carhaix well but could this I wondered ever happen in the British Isles where bank managers are rarely even seen on the shop floor for fear of perhaps being a target of abuse?  

Flying south with the birds

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FLYING SOUTH WITH THE BIRDS

If the swallows can do it then so can I, they had vacated their black chimney nest back in early September and during a dull Breton summer there had been two casualties which I discovered on returning from the Outer Hebrides.  My 17^th century farm-house in Central Finistere has always been open to wildlife, bats lodge between the rafter, mice make their way through the meter thick walls, hornets have discovered the perfect void above the toilet dormer window, sparrows nest in the scaffold holes in gable end while toads find the damp mossy cool spots at the base, and each year swallows fight over who will take over the chimney nest. With all this wildlife there is inevitably death, I returned at the end of one summer to find a swallow spread eagled under the cooker and another half eaten in the parlor with a dead sparrow hawk alongside.  Before there would have been a quick spade burial in the garden but now I waste no time in plucking, wing, tail and any other useful feathers to be incorporated at some point into my bird pictures. Little goes to waste in the way of feathers, a sparrow managed to short itself out on the horse’s electric fence wire and the 9-year-old cockerel finally fell of his perch after being abducted several times by the neighbors golden retriever.

Having dug over the garden, this year moving all the fruit bushes and planting replacements the remaining area I covered in black plastic sheeting in the hopes that it would remain clean and not too water logged as it was now my turn to fly south. I packed a roll of wallpaper circa 1900 from the Arthur Silver Studio plus forty-four of my feather bird pictures. The birds were discretely slipped between the pages of my sketchpad in the hopes that on my arrival in Perth Western Australia I would be directed down the customs nothing to declare sniffer dog line. No such luck but I needn’t have worried for even though WA do not allow import of feather the golden Labrador was perhaps more concerned with the sniffing out of drugs.

The Christmas period rushed in shortly after my arrival and is very much the same in the southern hemisphere having very little to do with the birth of Christ and more about spending and eating. I managed to avoid the former (a lesson learnt from my father) but by New Year just the idea of another barbeque and food left me groaning, for a reformed vegetarian this had been a real meat feast which left me longing for anything green. Water plays a big part during the hot festive season with the sea little over a kilometer away and a pool in the back yard, a week of temperatures in the high 30’s and no air conditioning meant both were in full use.  It would seem a God given right for all Australians who own a 4x4 to drive along any beach they can get to and Christmas is peak season for this pleasure. Everything but the kitchen sink is packed for a mornings trip to the beach, all manner of plastic toys; floating, flying and digging stuff, fishing gear, food and drinks, towels and bathers plus tables, chairs and loungers. I felt positively naked when turning up on pushbike with little more than sun screen and a hat but I had that simple unencumbered pleasure of walking along the beach and flopping into the Indian Ocean where the water temperature is what we would consider more like a warm bath in the Outer Hebrides. The granite rock, white sands and turquoise blue sea of the world renowned West Australian coast are remarkably similar to those found on Harris, only the temperature of the water is crucially different. Just prior to Christmas the arts and craft wallpaper finally found its first home after more than a hundred years in the roll and looked stunning, while my feather bird pictures returned from the local Bunbury framers looking suitably simple and impressive. The exhibition, which has almost a year in the making, is due to open with a massive display of fireworks at the East Victoria Park Art Centre in Perth on 26^th Jan (Australia Day).   

Mid summer in May.

The peat cutting is complete and there is no question of not deserving these balmy hot days where sky and sea seem to have merged into one continuous palette of blue through Prussian, cobalt to ultra marine, or that we will have to pay for it later when August comes raging in like a bad tempered bull. There is rather an understandable need for sun a topping up on vitamin D after a long dark winter. The cuckoo heralds another sun soaked Sunday, bumble bees atop dandelions the air still and blessedly free from midges. In Tolsta church at eleven o'clock the 25 faithful chant the psalms in Gaelic while the rest search through drawers for shorts and bathing costumes and where did the plastric cups go for the picnic set? This is a day for total immersion, drenching the uncreamed lilly white skin in full sun, why else would they call it sunday? Down at Traigh Mhor beach those making a day of it have already filled the limited car parking and by mid day they are parked along the road side and passing places. Already after nearly a week of this weather there is talk of how long will it last, perhaps to mid week and that adds a certain urgency to enjoying the day. By two the massive sands of Traigh Mhor are lightly sprinkled with people some strolling in the shallows trousers rolled up, other playing football on a full sized pitch while toddlers toddle towards the calm waters edge. I strip off down to my underwear and head for the gentle lapping of the millpond Minch. Having little insulation my swim is short sweet and exhilerating. More arrive through the afternoon while other roast a lobster pink and they at least will pay for it tomorrow.

Peat digging on Lewis

Having spent the first ten weeks of this year down under in Western Australia coping remarkably well with temperatures in the mid to high thirties I was now prepared for a taste of winter before headfing into another summer. The most pressing job at this time of year is to cut peat and while expected to be quite likely doing this in the rain I did not expect hail and near freezing conditionsin mid May. A bitter North Westerly made life uncomfortable but then again anything is possible with five layer of clothing plus thermal underware apart from sex.
Last Sunday gale force winds were at least to unexpected as I spent most of the day close tio the Rayburn working on the next batch of feather bird pictures. Radio 4 had given no real warning but as I ventured upstairs I was unprepared for the racket from the roof. The timber interior of the house was creeking a it physically changed shape being squeezed like a pair of bellows before the relentless winds that hit the back of the house and sucked at the front in a rippling Mexican wave of clattering tiles. I opened the curtains and peered into the darkness, rain lashed at the windows but no water showed within so I assumed the tiles were still in place. I climbed into bed pulled the covers over my head, forced my finger into my ears and drept a fitful sleep of flying houses and a dog called Toto.

Lifting peat is a seriously strenuous job gurenteed to keep you young or kill you. Normally this is done by two people, one cutting while the other throw the peat out onto the heath to dry flat. I find a rhythm of work and it becomes like a massive art installation of fresh smooth peat that hasn't seen the light of day in thousands of years. In this far flug place my body has become acclimatised to the cold and I find myself grinning with the pleasure of simply being here, an island suits me well feeling insulated against the wider world even though I know that is only a feeling.

The story so far...

17 New Tolsta.
The road north east out of Stornoway ends at New Tolsta and a coastal wilderness.
In 1961at the age of eight I left the Mull of Kintyre with an accent thicker than porridge and suffering from pneumonia but never once had I thought to cut the Caledonian umbilical cord. It was forty five years before I returned for more than a brief climbing holiday.
In 2005 I heard that a traditional croft house and barn, in remarkably original condition and at the top end of Lewis had come on the market. When I say remarkably good that would be perhaps to my eyes only in that it was in remarkable original order but most people would have considered it to be in a terrible state and more than once I heard it said “what’s he messing about with that hovel for?” That only served to shows me how we have become seduced by what we perceive as modern comforts and that I see as irrational and unsightly. The purest form of architecture is that which requires no architect and which comes from a peasant culture which over time has developed a way of living in harmony with their environment, from the places where they chose to build their home to the materials they found at hand to build them with. On the Outer Hebrides it was the black house that over centuries provided shelter from often harsh conditions and which later developed into the lighter white houses. When shell shocked soldiers were given land and packed off to the islands it was with no knowledge of the condition or skills required and so they built poured concrete houses that resembled those on the mainland. The interior was entirely of imported wood, V lining which gave a softer appearance even if it did little in the way of insulation with drafts whistling around between it and the cold concrete.

My remarkable house at New Tolsta was to all intense and purpose rather unremarkable from the outside giving the impression of simply another poured concrete house but it was in fact built in stone. Number seventeen New Tolsta, was the last remaining house on the road leading north east of Stornoway since eighteen lost its roof to the gales and had been demolished. No 17 was also at a price that fitted my inheritance. There followed three glorious summers of physically hard renovation work replacing that which had rotted and introducing a few rational comforts. The house was ready to live in and awaiting furniture. There is little choice when shopping for period items from the island other than the Bethesda Hospice charity shop, there being only one second hand shop and certainly nothing that resembles an antique shop. Treasures however are abound and to be found in the most unlikely of places, like the early 18th century mahogany butler’s tray, sun bleached and smelly from its former use as a fish box discarded along with other scrap wood. So the interior has been furnished almost entirely from charity shops and renovated in true thrifty Hebridean style with some of my own hand made items plus a few recycled and restored skip finds as well as friendly donations.
The house is one of the very few that still retains its original windows from the early part of the last century, renovated by Malcolm Macdonald from Out End Coll in September 1954 and half a century on they were still worthy of repair even though the house had stood abandoned for over thirty five years, they said the sheets were still dry in the linen press after all those years. In 2003 the house had been the backdrop for a twelve part children series made by Scottish television called the Ice Cream Machine and there was something magical in its position perched high above the massive beach of Traigh Mhor acting like a visual magnet where everyone who took the bus north east out from Stornoway to the last stop before the beach would remember that last house. It required significant urgent work and so having wondered if perhaps I wasn’t getting too old for this sort of serious single handed restoration I simply knuckled down and got on with it. Having a plumber DJ living two doors away made a significant difference and the local Joiners Bench in Stornoway made doors exact to my artist sketch specifications. The original V lining interior and staircase were in remarkable condition considering that sheep had often been seen at the upstairs windows.
The barn at No 17 was originally part of New Tolsta farm and later it was used as a shepherd’s cottage or bothy and farm steading before New Tolsta was lotted. John Macleod later acquired the property and converted it into his home. The eighteen crofts of New Tolsta were created during the period of land rights following the First World War when the original old farmhouse across the road was demolished. The barn below the house remains as the only building from the original farm although there are vestiges of earlier black house settlements at its lower end. During its time as a shepherd’s cottage the barn acquired many carved and dated signatures on the roof sarking and beams as well as on an old internal door that now has pride of place in the hall of the house as the door to the under stairs cupboard. The roofless wash house between the barn and house has now been used to bring the convenience of modern life in from the midden.
A seashore theme is almost inevitable given the location with driftwood shells and sea worn frosted glass. The artist within has surfaced in the bathroom where the Ullapool pebbled shower comes alive beneath ones feet. This is however very much a wooden house, slipped neatly like a warm sock into the stout protective boot of the outer stone walls. The windswept landscape means any attempts to establish a garden are fraught with difficulties and once hedges are grown they only succeed in harbouring midges so I have left nature very much to its own resources planting just one single shelter screening to the west, introducing more heather and ferns and leaving the buttercups to form a golden mantel above fescues timothy and couch. In the summer of 2007 a massive Mackay digger arrived; removed the peat bog at the west end of the house, made a new entrance and connected house to drains. However the more delicate but none the less physically exhausting work of removing the turf and accumulated detritus from in front of the barn to reveal the old cobbles had to be done by hand. Digging out the old drainage ditches produced far more than mud as I heaved at the remains of a brass and iron bed, leather shoes, cutlery and the inevitable shards of blue and white pottery. Little was wasted on these islands but if it was thrown out it got little further than the midden. At the back of the house what I thought was the natural contour of the land proved to be another tip of ashes from the fire and more broken crockery. In 2008 I added a traditional open porch to protect the front door and visitors alike from both east and west winds. I now can’t imagine being in the house without somewhere to take off wellies and leave a walking stick.
Furnishing the house has been fun slowly accumulating the eclectic mix of a house lived in over generations seeing the arrival of internal plumbing and electricity in the 50’s, of plywood and Formica in the 60’s and thankfully only the bare minimum of plastic since then. My aim was to create continuity and the feel of a house that had been in constant occupation since its conception, which included those vestiges of the roots from an earlier family history in short a house that told a story.

During a visit to Stornoway Museum my eye was drawn to a simple Hebridean chair and the following winter while staying with my mother down in Cornwall I constructed two examples from old doors and reclaimed timber much as they would have done during the days of Black house living on the islands. A distressed paint effect gave a convincing authentic look and they have turned out to be remarkably comfortable. The remaining light fitting from a chapel my father once owned down in Cornwall now graces the stair well. I have been the benefactor of other people unwanted and outdated furniture from the 70’s sappily mahogany coffee table and collapsed and rotting Scottish sideboard to the almost new stainless steel saucepans. A Belfast sink once used as a drinking trough out on the croft was plumbed in the kitchen and a discarded stainless steel draining board cut up and framed with beaten lead surround. I discovered the original larder cupboard door out in the barn so rebuilt the larder back under the stairs and that transformed immediately the symmetry and function of the kitchen. I resisted the temptation to lighten the hall and stair well by painting when a visiting shepherd waxed lyrical over the original stained pine and all it needed was livening up with a re-varnishing, he was right. I have always found it important to go along with the original concept of a house since it is often based on a life style more rational than that of the 21st century.

The parlour fireplace had benefitted from a more up to date Victorian cast iron coal fire insert presumably salvaged from one of the more prosperous houses in Stornoway but I decided to return to the traditional more open form which proved practical on occasions to cook on. The bedroom fire places although no longer in use still remain and help retain that traditional look as well as serving to keep aired the gable walls. Last year I asked DJ where my peat banks where and started the physically exhausting work of reopening them. Set high above the delightful and historic Ghearadha beach there is no better place to work although the horse flies did seem over abundant for late June. May would have been a better month to cut and by the end of July I had only got a third dry and under cover, the rest having to remain stacked out on the moor awaiting my return.
The adjoining stone barn is now set for conversion to a bunkhouse and will on occasions double as an artist studio. Two new windows and a back door discreetly placed have changed little its outward appearance and the original slate roof stands as testimony to the quality of the original work. Some of the original cobbles have been relayed from front to back door while tiles for the kitchen and bathroom were donated by a local hardware shop changing its display. The dormitory room will now sleep eight.