WHITTLING MY WAY THROUGH THE MONTHS OF HIBERNATION

 

What do you do through those dark months when we are told that depression is at its highest? When we are also told to stay at home because the bogie man pandemic is on the loose, that having friends round is simply not allowed, and your only choices seem to be between Netflix and Facebook. Thankfully I don’t have that particular choice having neither Television nor an Internet connection. There are times when the latter would be practical and negate having to log-on via the village shop Wi-Fi to read emails or upload this blog. It is a personal choice, which is easier to make when one lives alone. So what do I do during those dark months? It’s simple, I create. If it’s good enough for God then it’s good enough for me. When he found himself going through a dark patch the first thing he did was to create a bit of light. Well barring power cuts, and I do have plenty of candles, light is easier to come by these days. Warmth in which to work is a little more time consuming than the flick of a switch. The elements must be braved and peat brought in from the stack, as well as kindling chopped. If I’ve put a shovel full of smokeless coal on the previous evening then wood may not be needed. The studio soon became yet another fire to light and space to heat, so the kitchen being the warmest place seemed the logical choice. Choosing what to do in this restricted space was evidently going to have to be small, and what better than something miniature. Luckily I’ve already been through this thinking process in previous winters, so have two doll’s houses to play with. If grown men can play with model trains then I can play with my houses. The original house I bought from a friend when I was in my late twenties and had already added a considerable amount of furnishings. The second house is one of my own making which required a total internal makeover. Here I added a moulded ceiling upstairs and beamed below, and altered fire places as well as widening a chimneybreast. All materials are reused or reclaimed so small offcuts of wood that would have normally gone as fire lighting are now whittled, sanded, painted and polished. My croft house kitchen is not a large one and the table measures 78x144cm so the cabinet equivalent of window box gardening. I also manage to find a little space to chop vegetables, roll out pastry and eat.

A list of furniture produced over the past six weeks would include; mahogany dining table and bookcase, two mahogany pot cupboards, a wall hanging food cupboard, a bed, two side tables, cloths horse and ironing board, three upholstered easy chairs, a tripod wine table, a cricket table plus the framing of several miniature water colours. Having made a bookcase I realised that the only tiny books I had where both religious so set about making some miniature bound books. My fingers are getting less sensitive these days and so handling such small objects can be tricky at times. I often looked on with envy at young people texting on their phones with such extra ordinary finger coordination, but more importantly, can they whittle. If I keep my hands occupied I am less likely to get into trouble, and although some would not agree, it does, at least in my eyes, help to keep me sane. This work for the most part is done in silence since my only form of entertainment, the radio seems to have become contaminated with a virus, and uninfected programs are increasingly difficult to find. Whoever said ignorance is bliss must have first acquired considerable knowledge.    

LITTLE THINGS

 

Small is beautiful they say, so can that apply to any and everything. Large can also be beautiful, but perhaps not in the same way or for the same reasons. Large manages to grab the lime light in being generous, extravagant, and influential. Only when the tiny virus became pandemic did the world see it as important. Small rarely hits you between the eyes, and has more often than not a negative context which leads it to be seen as unimportant and of little value. Despite this the attraction of small can be clearly seen in our fascination with bonsai trees or the demand for breeding miniature lap dogs. Back in the 16^th century Little Masters referred to a group of engravers renowned for their small scale prints. In the late 18^th century minuscule scripted versions of the Lord’s Prayer and psalms were written in the space of a halfpenny and penny. Some have taken it to extremes with what can be put on the head of a pin or miniature landscapes painted on the wings of bees.

My own fascination for little things has for many years taken the form of dolls houses. While the playing with pre-action man dolls was still regarded as girl’s territory, the doll’s house was tolerated. As a child I was always fascinated by my only girl cousin Ann’s timber framed dolls house that even had the sophistication of electric lights. Later during an outing from weekly boarding school to Burford Museum I encountered a magnificent 18^th century example of the Mansion House. The intrigue was immediate. A few years later at the age of fifteen I bid on a very large dolls house at W.H. Lanes saleroom down in Penzance. The most I could afford was £100, but as usual I raised my hand a couple more time, taking the bidding to £130, then had to let it go. During my time as an antique dealer I bought several unusual doll’s houses and almost all went to museums.

The one I chose to keep was made in the first quarter of the 19^th century and still retained its original brick painted exterior. There was no contents, but having managed to collect many period pieces I added to these with my own miniature furniture making. I’ve also made several dolls houses and am still adding a few sticks of furniture to the latest one. The most recent addition has been a bed, table and two stick back chairs. These are fashion from odd bits of kindling wood using a fretsaw, drill and Stanley knife. Something to amuse during those long winter evenings without television.

Small requires and deserves a closer look and it is in that disbelieving intrigue that little can become large, as this past year has all too clearly demonstrated. There is something fascinating about

the miniature and it’s intricately fiddly fabrication. Last year I was commissioned to make some shell furniture for a doll’s house requiring the tiniest of shells from the beach. They are there, but you have to stop, take time to sit in the sand at the high tide mark and look closer.    

    

FREESTYLE WEAVING ON A HARRIS TABLE LOOM.

 

As we approach mid-winter conditions remain unusually mild and the colours of autumn persist. Walking along the ridge behind my house and studio the last of the low sun enriches the colours at my feet. Heather shows the fresh green of unseasonable new growth, and while the withered sedges tremble in a stiff breeze the turgid lichens and mosses thrive knee deep on the waterlogged heath.

 

No matter what time of year one choses to walk over this coastal moorland the colours of the yarn used in the manufacture of Harris Tweed are always present. This year has unsurprisingly seen a slowing down in the cottage industry manufacture. There have been exceptions to this where enterprising weavers have adapted to online sales with stunning new tweeds. The range of colours now produced by the Harris Tweed Company is extra ordinary and it is the remnants from those bobbins that allows me to play on my own Harris Table Loom. The loom being small only allows me to weave about eight meter of cloth at any one time, but within those meters there are endless possibilities. Working a hand loom is very different to the foot peddled loom in that it is a much slower process. The lack of speed is fully compensated by the possibilities to change colours and style of weave at will. A friend informed me recently that she had timed herself on her old narrow loom at a meter of cloth in seven minutes. I would be lucky to produce one inch in the same time. One must also never forget the time it takes for warping out, transferring it onto the loom and then threading the headless before winding onto the beam. The colours chosen within the warp will also dictate what the overall look of the cloth will be. I this case I chose a repeated banding of lichen green with a contrasting deep blue green, which was enlivened with white and red. If woven with a weft of the same width this would produce a checker pattern or tartan. I try to choose colours as randomly as possible, however there is always a tendency to select contrasting colours in order to achieve a dramatic result. The cloth is made throughout with doubled yarn which again adds more scope for colour mixing and I have up to three different shuttles operating at any one time. So this give me six different colours and seven combination even before deciding on the weave. The resulting freestyle of colours and weave gives a totally unique constantly changing. The next stage will be deciding how to use the cloth, but that is for another time. For now I’m simply enjoying to result.

 There are times in the midst of winter when the day seems to revolve around the kitchen table and the warmth of the Rayburn. It might be baking, cleaning copper and brass, continuing the latest needlework project or gluing tiny shells to some dolls house furniture. Last week it was repairing the upholstery of my father’s old rosewood gothic prayer chair. I could never imagine my father using it for such a purpose and myself even less likely. It is however an ideal height for sitting to put on my shoes each morning without having to bend.

While re-sewing the roping around the seat I had time to fully appreciate the fine needlework in the back panel and the subject it depicted. If on a clear day I look out across the Minch from the bottom of the croft and the mainland is visible then the most striking part of that horizon is the fantastic Torridonian sandstone hill of Suilven. At 732m its extraordinary shape seen from the west or east is due to its extreme thinness. From north or south it also has a distinctive shape of steep west frontal cliff and rounded top called Casteal Liath (the grey castle), then a dip and a lesser knob before a gentler slope to the east. Suilven means pillar. 

I realised the needlework depicted Suilven seen from the east since the shadowed north side is on the right. The view on the seat needlework would therefore most logically represent Loch na Gainimh. 

In Victorian times views of the remote Scottish wilderness were very popular and although my father bought the chair way down south in Cornwall it seems appropriate that it now resides within sight of Suilven, due west across the Minch.

NIGHT WALKING

 

It would seem strange at this time of year, already late November, to start walking in the dark. Surely it would be better to take a walk during daylight hours, and preferably during those precious all too brief moments when the sun is out. Well yes, that also. I had already taken a stroll over the hill to the village shop for parcel tape and more ibuprofen. Dorothy advised me behind her mask not to get them muddled.  Dusk shortly after four and dark by five, the moon two thirds full, the wind has dropped an intermittent showers hopefully passed. Wrapped up warm and weather proof I step outside, heading up to the road junction and the two brilliantly blinding orange street lamps. I turn right and head downhill, pausing just beyond Roddy’s bungalow and the orange glow I shut my eyes and count to thirty. The full night walking team would normally be Kate and her border terrier Rusty, and Donald with his young collie sheep dog Laddie. Tonight it’s just me, no torch, no chat, no barking. Opening my eyes I can now make out the horizon, the high ridge and buzzards eyrie, and all importantly the road. The cattle grid is another thirty yards on and I search the ground before me. It’s only half seven but my eyes are quickly becoming accustomed to the dark. The edge of the road is indicated by the puddled water and soon the damp bitumen shows lighter. The moon is behind me, my own massive head torch. The evening mild, only a slight breeze and I lower my hood so as to hear the water running in the ditches, which give way to the rowdy burn running under the road.  Winding and descending I make my way past the Traigh Mhor turning. The noise level increases as I pass over the crashing cascades of a larger burn then stride out along the straight stretch above the inlet. The moon has cleared no longer veiled by low wispy cloud and the below me the crashing of the luminous waves indicate the tide is well out. Rounding the corner there is a light up ahead. At first I think it might be Donald’s head torch but quickly realise it’s far too bright for that. Beyond the dazzle I see more lights and the form becomes clear. A parked up camper van, and once again I hold my hand up to the inquisitive glare of the light aimed at me. I plod on and offer a polite good evening in passing, wondering what they must things of the mysterious night walker. Reaching the high ground above Garry beach I would normally swing my legs over the fence and head down along the cliff tops, perhaps on a clear full moon evening but definitely not now as a large raven’s head of a cloud slips briskly across the face of the moon creating beyond a precipitous dark gulf. I lean against the fence and search the sky. Mars, tinged pink and un-twinkling is due south but the night sky is confusingly overcast the constellations buried in scud-clouds. Time to head back as more clouds approach. Silvered insulating privacy on the camper vans windscreen and time for bed. The road home is clear as the moon slips once more from the gathering clouds. My pace doesn’t alter on the uphill section, the night removing all sense of its steepness. The final stretch is more like entering the outskirts of a street lit town as my night vision is blinded by artificial light. Beneath the lamps all is a warm glow but beyond my house is invisible and once again I wonder what purpose there is in street lighting when people already have their own outside lights if they really feel it’s needed. So who decided it was necessary for a hand full of houses way out here in New Tolsta, and what was their reasoning? Do we need to think it through again and if it is indeed not needed how can we get it removed? Only having passed the glare can I once again see the familiar chimney outline of croft 17. As I open the door the last bus passes, lit up like a fairground stall, and empty.         

TODAY WILL BE A GOOD DAY

 

Today’s protracted autumn sunrise starts noticeably further south. Just as in the summer the sun’s journey begins and ends further north so now with the approach of winter it slips south, the original snow flake.

I sense the night releasing its grip and by six there is light squeezing it way past the bedroom curtains. This is the waking hour. It has taken me years to appreciate this part of the recovery process, wandering aimlessly through the tail end of dreams into consciousness. Gone are the days when in my thirties I would leap from bed the instant my eyes opened, impatient to get started, the early bird determined to catch the worm. Contentment has dowsed the eager flames of haste and I now have time to savor the moment and choose what I would like to achieve in the approaching daylight hours.

By seven and without switching on a light I can see my way down stairs. Outside no a breath of wind, silent apart from the rhythmical roar of waves drifting up across machair and crofts. The narrow band of dawn glows orange sandwiched between the silhouetted land and sober sky, Sunrise will be a brief affair.

Taking out warm riddled ashes, embers glowing, revived in the cool fresh air. Beneath the muscular underbelly of clouds the colour has drained from the horizon. Returning outside to refill the coal scuttle and heave in a sack of peat the sky has split ragged with hope that the sun will indeed make an early appearance. The friendly robin chirps its greeting, impatient that I start my day in the garden, disturbing ground and insect life.

Just before eight the school bus passes and shortly after the light begins to soften the cloud cover. Today will be a good day.

   

GETTING OUT

 

It’s important to get out, I told myself, even on days like this. Important for both physical and mental health. I’d missed the brief fifteen minutes of sun around two o’clock and the approaching storm was surely not far off, so it was now or never. Donning full wet weather gear and a woolly bonnet of my father’s I ventured forth. I’d adapted the hat specifically for this sort of blustery conditions by knitting extra ear flaps and securing straps and with the water proof hood strings tied tightly under my chin I was ready for whatever the remainder of the day had to throw at me.

Walks are not planned, they just happen and my trajectory today would be dictated by the south-south-westerly wind. So shutting and locking the door behind me I stepped out. I would not normally lock the door but with the wind face on to the front of the house I felt uneasy relying solely on the latch. There is a knack to closing it and if someone came calling in my absence I didn’t want to risk the door not being securely closed. Head down I made my way up to the T junction and turned right, downhill towards the beach. The ditches were full to brimming with peat stained water and at the culvert it gurgled and thrashed impatient to reach its destiny. Like a reluctant child I was being nudged forward by the wind’s parental guidance. Two cars passed as I stood to one side and decided it would be safer to cross burn and fence for the softer ground. I watched as both dog-less cars carried on along the dead end coast road to Garry and wondered if they would quit the comfort of their vehicles for the beach. I followed the mill stream transformed into an angry torrent, churning and cleaving the land, spilling voluptuous over the granite boulders, forming newly found falls. Staying to the sheep tracks high above the car park I discovered a moment’s calm and ewes grazing contentedly on whatever tasty growth the machair had to offer in late autumn. Down on the dunes it was a different matter as the coarse grass bent seaward and wet sand drifted low across Traigh Mhor beach. Three people and a leash straining dog made their way back to the car as I turned and headed into the wind. Here it had the uninterrupted mile and a half of beach to show its full force, whipping arches of celebratory spray from foaming white crests. Hungrily the towering waves devoured brown peaty moorland waters. The riot of noise from my flapping hood deafening. The painful sting of fine rain on my face, plodding on, head down seaweed at my feet interred beneath the shifting sands. Leaning into the wind I staggered forward at times halting as the wind held me in its grip. Barely quarter of the way along I gave up the struggle and made for the relative calm of the dunes. There along with the sheep, beneath the steep slopes of the machair I found a moment rest bite. But this is a walk and must be continued if the circuit is to be completed, and a cup of hot tea and cake the reward. It’s uphill and thankfully more sheltered but I zigzag none the less along sheep trod terracing. At the brow I take the final step up, headlong into the gale-force wind.  If I am to make the gate and track home there is no alternative. I totter drunkenly on, deafened by the din of the flapping waterproof hood. A brief look up for direction, I locate the gate and press on leaning forward, crazily determined. I find myself singing or more accurately shouting defiant nothingness, roaring in the face of this wonderful force of nature. I’m here, part of it, alive.

Making the gate I clamber through the gap at the hinged end and turn sideways now up the track. This is a different sort of stagger, a different sort of intoxication, an old persons teetering wobbly advancement but what am I at 67 if not advancing in years. Passing George’s house I raise a hand as I catch sight of him at the kitchen window. He at least won’t think I’m mad. He’d understand that need to be out in it, feeling everything, all cobwebs removed. On the road again the wind is at my back pushing and shoving me relentlessly homeward. Walking is not the usual left right rhythm as I lurch irregularly forward trying not to trip over my own feet or to end up sprawled on the tarmac. A brief interlude of calm as I pass the treed hollow before croft thirteen to fifteen and ahead my own front door awaits, within the centrally heated warmth of my new peat fired Rayburn. The old £60 faithful of the past twelve years, finally rusting and leaking, confined only two days ago to the back yard. The new bright and shiny but decidedly more efficient arrived, equally efficiently a day early from Gloucestershire and with help from neighbours was installed and running by mid-afternoon.