That reminds me of Colonsay

September 20, 2021

Years ago I facilitated an art group for people with dementia. It was such a privilege and taught me a lot. Working with one lady, I found myself feeling at a bit of a loss. Six weeks went by of me asking then answering my own questions, desperate to have some engagement with her. Then one day, whilst looking through some images she dropped her hand on one and said “that reminds me of Colonsay.” Trying to hide my shock that she could in fact speak, I casually asked when she was on Colonsay. What unfolded over the next few weeks was truly remarkable. This image had tapped into memories that had been untold for years and yet were as crisp as yesterday. Since this day, I have wanted to visit Colonsay.

As the ferry approached the pier, a mysterious sea mist lightly moved over the white houses that welcomed weary travellers. I had in that moment, a knowing that I would like Colonsay.

Heading straight to Kiloran bay that evening, I found that the fog had thickened to something akin to pea soup. It enveloped and disoriented me as I waded ankle deep into the water. The elements are not to be messed with, so I ventured back to the hostel where warm chat was shared and hospitality of existing guests ran into the night.

Over the next four days, I crammed in as much as possible. I tried out paddle boarding, turns out I’m pretty hopeless. My desire to be in the water conflicts with the aim of staying out of the water. I visited some lovely local galleries and of course found the local cake and coffee hang out.

My highlights included a walk across the Strand to Oronsay. Although I didn’t make the walk to the priory, I did find myself a stunning beach. The sun was splitting the sky and I was warm. I’m not good at travelling light and felt like I had been walking for days. I was grateful for the swim to cool me down. The sand was white and blue and lilac swirls of water stretched across the sand between Colonsay and Oronsay. Being a tidal island, I kept an eye on the time but managed a few quick sketches.

Other stand out moments included a wander round the gardens of Colonsay house. I couldn’t help but be totally dazzled at the collection of trees and plants. This one was my favourite- the pink tree!! Pink flaky bark and leaves that looked like every twig was waving hello. I also enjoyed a long walk to Balnahard beach. It probably is not too long in terms of distance however as always, my nemesis – cows, slowed me down, blocking my route. The beach was quite foggy and the light was flat by the time I got there but the journey out and back was lovely in itself. It just gives me another excuse to go back.

I spent a morning fishing with a lovely local who helped me catch that evening’s tea. I must say that I met some cracking people on Colonsay. It made the trip feel particularly special and their kindness and chat warmed my heart. Some trips are all about the quiet moments and some are about the stories. I’m glad of the stories shared, much like the one that instigated my desire to visit Colonsay in the first place.

What's meant for you...

October 28, 2020

What’s meant for you won’t go by you. That’s okay if you weren’t fussed for what’s gone by you. However, if what has gone by is the 9am ferry from Skye to North Uist and you are sitting on a road side vomiting into a ditch, I think we can agree this is a disappointing reality. For those of a sensitive disposition, I apologise. But like all half decent stories, there are peaks and troughs. Months of confinement is no good thing for a seascapist. Planning a trip to a remote cottage on North Uist was the light in my lockdown blues. I had underestimated how much I was looking forward to the ferry journey, that fresh blustery breeze that tells you adventure awaits as you cling to the bannister of the Cal Mac ferry. There is something very special about travelling over the sea. However, it was not to be. Leaving home at stupid o’clock in the morning for the long drive to Skye played havoc with my stomach. The winding roads seemed relentless and it became very apparent that I would not catch the ferry. My heart sank. However, I was in no state to argue with it. I sought sanctuary in Fort Augustus where my faith in humanity was restored. I refuse to use the “C” word as I am quite fed up with it, needless to say no one is keen to take in a poorly guest. However, one wonderful person gave me a room to allow my head and stomach to catch up with each other from the wiggly roads of the Scottish Highlands. I will be forever grateful to him and all people with a measure of common sense and kindness.

Once recovered, new plans were hatched. Ardnamurchan has been on the go-to list for a while now and for a number of reasons has never quite worked out. This was its moment. It turns out I am better with wiggly roads when there’s daylight. Heading straight for Sanna Bay to steal the last of this daylight, I poured myself into my wet suit and waded into the water. Swimming out to little islets and rocks, views of cliffs and lighthouses framed a sunset. Peachy skies and turquoise green waters dazzled the senses after a dark and wobbly 24 hours. This is what I needed. This was where I was meant to be. As much as I missed the ferry journey to the Outer Hebrides, Ardnamurchan was a decent consolation prize.

I am frequently wound up about my inability to go anywhere without a map. Going off the grid is something that leaves me feeling out of control and I have a fear of missing something wonderful. On a map I can see spots that make me curious but without one, I could be driving past amazing sites. Loosening up and treating this trip as a very different kind of trip meant that my art work was created under new conditions too. I have a sketchbook of work that does not have place names, other than Ardnamurchan lighthouse. On one of the days, a local recommended a jaunt up a hill. With every moment feeling precious, I’m not always keen to spend much time looking at my feet trudging through mud.

However, I was so glad I did. Views of Rum and Eigg opened up on the horizon, a strong purple against the blues of sky and sea. I could see Skye and all the way over to the other side where Coll and Tiree floated in faded lilac on the water. Sketching in the last warmth before autumn, I was kept company by some local sheep. They were not obliging enough to stay still, but it felt special to share the moment with them.

Painting at Ardnamurchan lighthouse, I was filled with awe and excitement as my fascination with lighthouses grows. This one is of course by one of the Stevenson family and notes flavours of Egyptian design. It also homes a tea room close by and 2 collies. I am a fan of all of those things. As my time on the peninsula drew to a close, I could not help but feel filled with gratitude. Gratitude for the kindness and patience of others. Gratitude for my wetsuit, a birthday gift earlier this year. Thankfulness for weather that showed this coast in its full splendour. And dare I say it, but thankfulness that finally I made it to Ardnamurchan, even at the cost of missing a ferry trip.

Sometimes life does not go the way we plan. Sometimes we don’t get what we want. And sometimes, that is no bad thing.

Artistic Mojo- It's a thing.

August 9, 2020

I don’t have vast experience of global pandemics. However, I must say that I was utterly stumped for the first six weeks of this particular one. Why oh why couldn’t I paint? Why did I have no desire to pick up a brush? I had just returned from a gorgeous island armed with photos and sketchbooks full of inspiration and yet I couldn’t shake the “meh” feeling inside. Only as the lockdown situation began to lift, did I discover I was not the only one to lose my artistic mojo. It is a thing you see. It is as magical and illusive as a kelpie and if you have it, then every part of you feels alive. Without it, you feel a bit joyless and strange. Or at least I did.

Years ago I struggled with the notion of painting en plein air. Bracing myself against the elements seemed like no fun at all. However, I have come to realise that painting in the studio comes in partnership with this time outdoors. Painting with a fresh memory of the coast, the sound of whooshing water still whispering in my ears, seems to breathe life into my work.

With lockdown lifting, I decided to get some use out of the tent I bought many years ago. Heading for the north west coast of Scotland, I camped and explored the lochs and beaches all the way up to Durness. Taking in well recommended spots such as Achmelvich and Scourie, the colours started to brighten from the atmospheric greys of the mountains and lochs. Pay off for the midgie bites I accrued.

In the short moments of painting, I am rarely delighted with the studies I create. It is only much later when I look back at them, that I feel a fondness for them. They help me to remember the sounds and the smells, the colours and the utter joyous feeling of freedom. I’m not one for buzz words, but mindful might be the right one. It’s an immersive thing, art. Or at least it can be. Maybe that is the reason I value the art of others so much. It’s the equivalent of listening to music or watching a show. It transports you. It lifts you.

Only jellyfish for company- the perfect spot to isolate.

At a time when health is reported on the news daily, I can’t help but think about our mental health. If we have a disease then there is a care plan for it. If our minds feel droopy and our mojo has abandoned us, what can we do? How can we treat this? The first thing that comes to my mind is compassion. Be kind to yourself. We have become a people of criticism and judgement. It serves many of us well in various aspects of our lives. However it means we rarely give ourselves a break. If you feel crummy, know that it won’t last forever. Really, it won’t. The little things that make you smile, they are enough to tide you over until something more exciting happens.

Isle of Coll - New Year Adventures

April 9, 2020

It was a pretty quiet ferry out to the Isle of Coll, however at crazy o’clock on a fresh March morning, that was to be expected. Sailing through sunshine, hailstones and horizontal rain, I considered the conditions of the days ahead. I rarely check the forecast when island hopping. The weather tends to be changeable on the islands anyway. I scribbled a smeary sketch of the Dutchman’s Cap during the hail storm whilst cooried into the side of Calmac’s “Isle of Mull”.

Heading to the north of the island, I was keen to make it to Sorisdale. With thatched cottages and stunning beaches, it embodied idyllic island life. Sheep wandered freely across the bay and other islands sat out on the horizon, a faded purple. Of course, to access almost any beach on Coll required a stomp through boggy land. My hiking boots were put to good use! I imagine in the summer months it would be less squishy under foot.

The isle of Coll has distinctive rock formations across the island. Some parts have huge, smoothed boulders scattered across the sand and other bays were fringed by brown jagged shards. After a hike up Ben Hogh, I earmarked various beaches to visit from a bird’s eye view. Clabhach was one of the first on the list. It was a relatively short distance from the road side (a rare thing on Coll). Passing through a gate, I nodded at a few curious sheep and trundled across the field to the sea. I could have stayed in this spot a long time. Blue water turned green and back to blue as the light shifted through it. It’s something I often find tricky to capture. My sketches outside are more about the movement of light rather than a snapshot. I get greedy to include all of the colours.

I had to drag myself away from this beach, it was so peaceful and the weather was a gift. However on heading back across the field, the sheep must have turned into cows….who decided to lie or stand in front of the gate. Not brilliant. Whoever looked out of the farm house must have had a great laugh. I paced about at a distance. These cows were enormous. They were not for moving. I piled up some rocks and climbed over the fence, catching another pair of thermal leggings on the barbed wire. However, it was a small price for safety. Also, I had half a flask of tea and some flapjack in the car to get back to.

Cliad beach was less adventurous to get to. Although you should not be fooled by maps or books. They tell you the distance from the road but leave out the fun highs and lows of the sand dunes which double the distance. Absolutely worth it though as the views open out before you to an expanse of golden sand and purple blue water. This beach stretched on for some distance and although there was not another single person on it, I found company in the seals that bobbed their heads as I moved along. Getting a bit of height, I scrambled up onto the dunes. My watercolours were given a new grainy texture with sand sticking to the surface. Geese flew overhead, casting shadows on my page. This was a moment worthy of a mental note. Just lovely.

I was in seascape heaven visiting Coll. The long winter months are made bearable only by planning trips like this. With the entire country now in social isolation, I admit to being jealous of those with a beach to themselves on the Isle of Coll.