Sea — Scottish Seascapes

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.

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.