It was the usual private view shindig with wine, whiskey, canapes and a herd of people who would have looked at home at an event in Dalston, complete with slightly too short trousers and big boots, though with an added splash of wool ( in particular a splendid gentleman with a gorgeous orange guernsey style jersey that I am still thinking about the next morning.) You got the feeling that everyone knew everyone and they probably did, and I sort of wished I had been in their gang ( by chance I was wearing orange woolly socks but nobody noticed).
I wonder how far everyone had travelled to get there, as one of the things I have been very aware of is how much driving I am doing to get to places. It’s similar to my time on Vancouver Island where it was a good twenty minute drive to the nearest store (or thirty to a monstrous shopping mall) and here even going into Stornaway is a good forty five minute drive each way (albeit a glorious one on the off chance I have picked the tiny window when it isn’t raining). Driving home in the dark was a little challenging the first time I did it, mostly because there was a gale force wind and Wolf’s windscreen wipers aren’t quite up to the job of coping with torrential rain. One of the ( many) interesting facts about the Isle of Lewis is that the sheep prefer to sleep in the middle of the road. A fact that was quite startling the first time as I assumed somebody had run them over. But now I simply slow down, toot the horn and one by one they stagger up onto their feet and waddle out of the way. Having been here for a week I have learnt where they will be as they always sleep just beyond the blind summit just as you get to the bridge so I adjust my speed accordingly beforehand. As the chances of me speaking to a human being once I get home are slim I always wish the sheep a good night. Just as I always say good morning to the seal and to Wolf. No answer from either obviously, but you work with what you are given.
The exhibition was a mixture of paintings, sculpture, photographs, video, the usual, but there was a definite theme that ran through them all, even the ones I didn’t like ( the garish oil of a space sip amongst the Callanish standing stones for example) but there was so much of the sea and an earthiness in pretty much all of them that I really liked. And I must admit I am really loving the gaelic which is so beautiful to listen to and to read even though I don’t understand a word, but if you wanted a language that sounds like the wind and the sea and the soil it would be a strong contender, in my humble opinion.
The second part of the evening was a showing of the 1985 Scottish film “ Restless Natives” , the best bit being that the admission fee was at the 1985 price, a stunning £1.79. And even better, the footage at the start was from the same era with trailers for two really awful films, ‘Teen Wolf’, starring a very young Michael J Fox and the truly appalling ‘King Solomon’s Mine’ with Richard Chamberlain and a whole load of savages, cooking pots and cannibals, a film that simply would
So yesterday was the 40th birthday of the An Lanntair ( Arts centre) in Stornaway. This was celebrated with an exhibition of forty pieces from local artists who had previously shown their work throughout the years.
It was the usual private view shindig with wine, whiskey, canapes and a herd of people who would have looked at home at an event in Dalston, complete with slightly too short trousers and big boots, though with an added splash of wool ( in particular a splendid gentleman with a gorgeous orange guernsey style jersey that I am still thinking about the next morning.) You got the feeling that everyone knew everyone and they probably did, and I sort of wished I had been in their gang ( by chance I was wearing orange woolly socks but nobody noticed).
I wonder how far everyone had travelled to get there, as one of the things I have been very aware of is how much driving I am doing to get to places. It’s similar to my time on Vancouver Island where it was a good twenty minute drive to the nearest store (or thirty to a monstrous shopping mall) and here even going into Stornaway is a good forty five minute drive each way (albeit a glorious one on the off chance I have picked the tiny window when it isn’t raining). Driving home in the dark was a little challenging the first time I did it, mostly because there was a gale force wind and Wolf’s windscreen wipers aren’t quite up to the job of coping with torrential rain. One of the ( many) interesting facts about the Isle of Lewis is that the sheep prefer to sleep in the middle of the road. A fact that was quite startling the first time as I assumed somebody had run them over. But now I simply slow down, toot the horn and one by one they stagger up onto their feet and waddle out of the way. Having been here for a week I have learnt where they will be as they always sleep just beyond the blind summit just as you get to the bridge so I adjust my speed accordingly beforehand. As the chances of me speaking to a human being once I get home are slim I always wish the sheep a good night. Just as I always say good morning to the seal and to Wolf. No answer from either obviously, but you work with what you are given.
The exhibition was a mixture of paintings, sculpture, photographs, video, the usual, but there was a definite theme that ran through them all, even the ones I didn’t like ( the garish oil of a space sip amongst the Callanish standing stones for example) but there was so much of the sea and an earthiness in pretty much all of them that I really liked. And I must admit I am really loving the gaelic which is so beautiful to listen to and to read even though I don’t understand a word, but if you wanted a language that sounds like the wind and the sea and the soil it would be a strong contender, in my humble opinion.
The second part of the evening was a showing of the 1985 Scottish film “ Restless Natives” , the best bit being that the admission fee was at the 1985 price, a stunning £1.79. And even better, the footage at the start was from the same era with trailers for two really awful films, ‘Teen Wolf’, starring a very young Michael J Fox and the truly appalling ‘King Solomon’s Mine’ with Richard Chamberlain and a whole load of savages, cooking pots and cannibals, a film that simply would never be made today, and good thing too.
So yesterday was the 40th birthday of the An Lanntair ( Arts centre) in Stornaway. This was celebrated with an exhibition of forty pieces from local artists who had previously shown their work throughout the years.
It was the usual private view shindig with wine, whiskey, canapes and a herd of people who would have looked at home at an event in Dalston, complete with slightly too short trousers and big boots, though with an added splash of wool ( in particular a splendid gentleman with a gorgeous orange guernsey style jersey that I am still thinking about the next morning.) You got the feeling that everyone knew everyone and they probably did, and I sort of wished I had been in their gang ( by chance I was wearing orange woolly socks but nobody noticed).
I wonder how far everyone had travelled to get there, as one of the things I have been very aware of is how much driving I am doing to get to places. It’s similar to my time on Vancouver Island where it was a good twenty minute drive to the nearest store (or thirty to a monstrous shopping mall) and here even going into Stornaway is a good forty five minute drive each way (albeit a glorious one on the off chance I have picked the tiny window when it isn’t raining). Driving home in the dark was a little challenging the first time I did it, mostly because there was a gale force wind and Wolf’s windscreen wipers aren’t quite up to the job of coping with torrential rain. One of the ( many) interesting facts about the Isle of Lewis is that the sheep prefer to sleep in the middle of the road. A fact that was quite startling the first time as I assumed somebody had run them over. But now I simply slow down, toot the horn and one by one they stagger up onto their feet and waddle out of the way. Having been here for a week I have learnt where they will be as they always sleep just beyond the blind summit just as you get to the bridge so I adjust my speed accordingly beforehand. As the chances of me speaking to a human being once I get home are slim I always wish the sheep a good night. Just as I always say good morning to the seal and to Wolf. No answer from either obviously, but you work with what you are given.
The exhibition was a mixture of paintings, sculpture, photographs, video, the usual, but there was a definite theme that ran through them all, even the ones I didn’t like ( the garish oil of a space sip amongst the Callanish standing stones for example) but there was so much of the sea and an earthiness in pretty much all of them that I really liked. And I must admit I am really loving the gaelic which is so beautiful to listen to and to read even though I don’t understand a word, but if you wanted a language that sounds like the wind and the sea and the soil it would be a strong contender, in my humble opinion.
The second part of the evening was a showing of the 1985 Scottish film “ Restless Natives” , the best bit being that the admission fee was at the 1985 price, a stunning £1.79. And even better, the footage at the start was from the same era with trailers for two really awful films, ‘Teen Wolf’, starring a very young Michael J Fox and the truly appalling ‘King Solomon’s Mine’ with Richard Chamberlain and a whole load of savages, cooking pots and cannibals, a film that simply would not be made today, and a good thing too. Then we had the adverts. What utter joy to revisit such technicoloured memories of visits to the cinema as a 25 year old. Kia Ora, annoying kids with terrible haircuts on a school trip advertising ‘Wotsits’, hilarious British telecom advert with Arthur Daley, and then the footage of the food on offer at the kiosk, popcorn, and long forgotten brands of ice creams Then we had the adverts. What utter joy to revisit such technicoloured memories ofI had forgotten even existed, and a repulsive radioactive orange hot dog with ‘special sauce’.
But the crowning glory of it all was the bit that came up at the end was the screen saying that anyone who wished to smoke should sit on the left side of the auditorium. I can hardly imagine that then it was normal behaviour and that somebody actually thought that it was worth separating the smokers and non smokers by seat numbers. A bit like on planes where the smoking section was behind a flimsy curtain.
The film was sweet and very dated, with a very thin Mel Smith, Bernard Hill and Nanette Newman ( can’t remember anything she was in but think it was a sort of family drama). There were others who I vaguely recognised. The story was ridiculous but with a touch of feelgood innocence.
And then I headed home in the dark, making sure to slow down just before the ‘Blind Summit’ sign.
So, as many of you know ( as I have been banging on about it for ages) I am on a three week residency ( writing, poetry, collage, all things sea weed) in the outer Hebrides ,on the isle of Lewis.
I am staying in the Otter Bunkhouse, which is perched right on a sea loch in Uig which is about forty minutes drive from Stornaway, the one and only big town, and where I got off the ferry from the mainland. I imagine Stornaway is a bustling hive of activity in the summer, but at this time of year any sign of activity is a little thin on the ground. This was apparent when I went into Argos to collect a new blender and the three shop assistants almost passed out with excitement that somebody had actually come in to buy something. Even the ‘Fancy Fun Party Tweedy’ shop on the sea front was closed, as was the shop that had knitted highland cow tea cosies.in the window. It goes without saying that the Arts centre and museum were also closed. When I was in Ullapool waiting for the ferry I went into the book / gift / tackle/ hardware /tea shop and asked when the museum might be open. ” Sometime in the summer” said the owner ( who looked exactly like the flute playing hotelier in ‘Little Britain’, the one who spoke in riddles.
The bunkhouse is five minutes drive from the Uig Community shop , the sort of shop you simply never get in a city. This shop is fabulous (eclipsed only by the community shop in Barra)and sells pretty much anything you could want, with a post office, laundry, tea shop and garage thrown into the mix. I even found a tin of L’Escargot on one of the shelves, perhaps a hasty order from a hungry French tourist. I didn’t check the sell by date or make a purchase. It is run by volunteers who were all friendly and smiley and already knew who I was and where I was staying. When I went to collect my washing, the woman said “You’re the one with the red van staying at the bunkhouse”. And the man at the petrol pump said ” You’ve got the wrong hair for this weather”. Someone else asked why I had chosen to come somewhere so remote at this time of year, when it is so windy and stormy. I was reminded of the George Mallory quote when asked why he wanted to climb Everest . “Because it’s there”. This makes me sound more intrepid than I am. I am not in a tweed jacket trying to climb a mountain, I have a house with heating and Radio 4. And it is a very good lesson on how to be alone with the howling wind for company, looking out at the seabirds bobbing up and down in the choppy water.
The other excitement is the little boxes that people have at the end of their driveways where they put freshly baked bread, cakes etc.You put money in an honesty box. Though I have no need for more bread and am still wading through a large delicious ginger cake that a friend in Manchester gave me for the journey, I cannot resist.
And now I am heading out to collect some moss to add to my pulped grass which was intended to be a lovely pale green, like the demonstration on You Tube. Instead it looks like mushroom soup but may look less unappealing when it has dried.
There is an air of mild panic on the airport bus as everyone tries to cram suitcases and bags into a rack that is too small wearing coats and and boots that do not suit the sweltering heat the rails shiny with other peoples sweat I have the same feeling that reminds me of the drive back to boarding school a draining anxiety in my stomach as we pass the straggling grey industrial estates and onto the autobhan I think of you and your little face as we said goodbye
His back gave way while he was picking peas as the summer sun turned towards evening and as he fell amongst the plants green peas scattered like a broken necklace across the warm earth
Hi folks How’s your day been Can I get you a drink Oreo milk extra thick Tango Pepsi Dr pepper A Grimace shake even better If you are in a hurry Make a date with a Mc Flurry Strips of chicken Nice and lean In Canada you can have poutine If you’re brave take a chance On chicken and avocado ranch Happy meals or fillet of fish Look at your life at what you’ve missed Steady on go no further Have yourself a tasty burger Quarter pounder double cheese A triple burger if you please Bacon, pickles chicken melt Excuse me while I undo my belt Buffalo wings jalapeno spice Snack wraps with chilli very nice Ketchup mayo crispy fries Xx large looks like your size Then for pudding may I say Hot fudge caramel Mc Sundae Piled high with cream from a can Some carrot pie or a slice of flan Pineapple chunk chocolate chip Please get out of my car before you are sick
Big Mac
We asked the voice at the drive thru if they had any vegetarian food. “I’ll have to ask my supervisor,” said the voice On his return he said ‘Yes, we do vegetarian”. We enquired what was on the menu “You can have a Big Mac without the meat” he replied “Which is what?” we asked “The roll and a bit of lettuce”
Larches and firs huddle together
fighting for a glimpse of sunlight
fiddlehead ferns stretch and uncurl
tiny octopus suckers
rotting pine cones under our boots
damp spattered scattered leaves
pink salmon berry brambles
soft drizzle air
distant rushing water
soup green and thick
the drill of woodpeckers
and the whistling bird
echo through the forest
what waits for us in dark corners?
The pine needles smell of summer dried fig leaves sticking to my dusty feet grey porridge sky thick with the promise of rain I remember as a child waiting for the skies to open on a stifling Tokyo morning the sizzle and hiss of scorched earth gasping with relief releasing a hundred tiny frogs who streamed through the French windows into our sitting room
In January she would put on her apron the one with sunflowers on the pockets and go into the larder to find the pans big wide pans with handles scrubbed and shiny put away on the top shelf among the pickle jars and a Christmas pudding on bone cold slate shelves the smell of cooking apples and vinegar she had a special knife to scrape the skins dry to chop and tip the peel into the pan with juice sugar and water gathering the pith and pips in a muslin cloth which she tied to a cooking chopstick from Tokyo with string from the drawer dangled in the liquid heat on with a whoosh deep auburn barley sugar saucers chilling awaiting a wrinkle a sign it’s set ready to be poured molten bubbling gold into assorted glass jars gathered through the year labels steam cleaned placed on the windowsill until cool I still have the pans they live on a high shelf above my fridge and today I remembered her when I got them down and made marmalade
The blossom is out despite the cold that numbs your fingers as you stand in the queue at the Turkish market for fat steaming loaves olives and clementines with bright green leaves and stalls piled high with dates Zaatar, lemons and Turkish delight with a dusting of sugar thick chunks of feta in brine fresh mint tea, alpaca socks ladies pants and slip on shoes Ladles, spoons and cutlery Lemon squeezers, knives and tweezers Clothes pegs, rolls of cloth Plastic sheeting, strings of chilli’s Coriander parsley dill Cooking spices fried felafel the noise, the smells the coffee stall at the Turkish market
Theresa's writing 