RoughBounds

On a wet July day we set of through the dunes. In the novel ‘To the lighthouse’ by Virginia Woolf the family travel to Skye. Godvrey lighthouse is the actual lighthouse, that and the cafe at the were our destinations. On the way we wandered through the dunes, stumbeling through the ruins of an ordinance factory.

We approached Gwithian and the nature reserve huge stacks of Sea Holly sprung from the dunes.

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Mid May took us to Muck visiting.

Follow the road from the pier, as you approach the prow of the hill – slowly ambling past darkly ploughed fields – the rest of the Small Isles open before you, smudged hills clasped to the sea.

With kids, charcoal, beers, salad and catch of the day we set to finding fire wood and building a BBQ in the sand.

The beach was surprisingly free of fishing plastics and sea bleached wood. Perhaps I am too used to the fishfarm detritus. As we widened the search the low fast upright stride of a ringed plover caught our attention. We left them in peace.

We dug a pit, ringed it with stones. Using grass, seaweed, dried manure and the odd twig, we lit the fire. Fresh Mackerel, small but fine. When I was growing up it was always with oatmeal. Hauling them into the boat, off the darrows, gut them on the shore, and then round the houses. Things change.

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The path in from Acharn takes you along the southern shore of the Loch. I first walked it in Winter. Brown and damp. It leads to Arienas Point. A closely grazed green finger that stretches out from the heaps of ordered stones. Here the Oak peters out and gives way to Ash. Here the signs of a once inhabited village.

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Crossed the ferry at Lochaline, turned of at Salen, and over to West Coast of Mull. Rounding headlands, with views of Coll, we arrived at a reasonably deserted Calgary Bay. My first time.

The sea was clear and cold. Little flatfish dashed away from underfeet. Fronds of kelp broken,and in places stirred like a black porridge, the sand hard from the sea. The kids had a great time.

Lunch at the Calgary Hotel – okay. The adjacent gallery – vertical clad in timber with a tin roof – attracted my attention. Light, cheap, local, and part of the Highland vernacular – what have the planners got against timber and tin.

My grandfather lived here briefly in the 1930’s- before returning to Skye. His stepfather worked at the sawmill. The ruined remains are within the galleries woodland walk. When he was growing up the laird didnt allow anyone on the beach or dunes. Occasionally in summer the boys were allowed to play football. Perhaps that might have limited the erosion. The dunes are worn and slipping, fences and brash lines coves, a foothold for the sand. Telltale holes of sandmartins, quickly flight.

‘Coffee and Books’ in Dervaig, chips on the pier in Tobermoray, home.

The boat crunched on the gravel. Telescope, binoculars, flask. The birch is just opening its leaves, in the light rain they glow pale green. Through the trees we settle on a small rise and unpack lunch, pore a coffee, and wait.

A dark wet hill rises from and surrounds the bay. It is thick with rain and visibility is low. Eventually the rain drifts down to us. I watch it run down the sides of my empty overturned mug. Sun. Eyes turn to the hill and we catch site of the two birds coming of a potential nest site. I follow the male with the binoculars, my companion follows the female. ‘If they are up to anything, then they will only leave the nest for about 20 minutes’. Up to anything means chicks.

My arms ache. I dare not lower the binoculars, they are so high, so faint I would never find them. The male hovers, then drop behind a ridge – lost. The female drops into the hill to roost. It begins to rain. A low hum tumbles down the loch. I turn to see what looks like a WWII plane come round the point doing a barrel role. It disappears then, then we hear it come back, it skims low, rolling over our heads. ‘She was watching it you know’.

3rdApri’08- – Just completed a self guided walks leaflet for the Sunart Oakwoods. Its been interesting. The best bit is having an excuse to get out walking.

6thApri’08- – Sitting enjoying the sun about to go out on a village clean up

6th of May’08 – - Making sure the stove works and heading of camping in Morvern with Dugald

16th of May’08 – - Back from Muck

Farquhar Angus (2006) “the Storr: Unfolding Landscape”, Luath Press, Edinburgh

I first heard rumblings of a project to turn ‘the Storr’ (a finger of basalt at the base of the Trotternish peninsula on Skye) into an ‘environmental art installation’ in 2002. Angus Farquhar responded promptly to my answer phone request for information. We had a long chat about the iconography of landscape and about visual arts in the Highlands, a chat that left me wondering just how ‘the truth’ of Bodach Storr could/would be extracted from the myth.

In August 2005 I stood in the Storr car park waiting to find out. I was impressed by; the repair of the footpath, the light ecological touch, and the contribution to the local economy – but not the artwork. The poetry of Sorley MacLean and songs of Mairi Mhor nan Oran were confined to the non-native forestry block, while silent 70s disco dancing and the ‘Romantic’ poetry of Rilke were settled in the midst of the ridge. Invoking ‘German Romanticism’ does not disrupt the mythology of Highland landscape. It re-inscribes the Highland landscape with the ideologies that saw clearance landlords de-politicise their actions, and rewrites the area as a wilderness playground.

If the intention of the work was to highlight the role of ‘Romanticism’ in reimagining the Highland landscape (through the absent presence of any critique) then it is to be commended. If this was the project agenda, then the knowledge required to decode the message is too exclusive. Essays by people from Skye temper that sense somewhat – Rilke would have approved. Rilke (like Heidegger) saw that ‘being’ and ‘authenticity’ were dependent on dwelling. However, many of the essays deal with ‘the Storr’ at a distance, this, coupled with the relative lack of post project comment and reflection, occlude the desire to dwell authentically.

The majority of the material in this volume was handed out free at the end of the £25 trip up to ‘the Storr’. This reprint has a glossier cover, but really features no notable additions. That said, I think this is still worth a look. Spot the rehashing of the argument that heritage quangos are the new landlords, except this time clearance landlordism is cast as being a democratic shaper of landscape (sorry no book token for the first correct entry). You will find plenty of other arguments of interest and ire in this volume.

 This article appeared in Issue 5 of Northwords Now, March 20007

From Argegno we took a cable car through a fine mist to Pigra. Como is quiet in the autumn. We had the viewing platform to ourselves, but all we could see were dark suggestions of hills in the distance. As we passed by an old wash house we fell into step with a group of well dressed middle aged Italians. My son half hid behind his mother, while my daughter beamed and cooed on my back. They said ciao and wandered down into a copse of trees. We saw them rooting through the leaves and turned back to investigate – our minds on fungi. It was walnuts. With a good bag full we set into the woods heading for the old Roman road and Colonno. The woods were cool and damp and we kicked through the leaf fall picking up hazelnuts and chestnuts. ‘Look dad’, barely discernable amongst the leaves, was a black salamander with bright orange marking – my first sight of a fire salamander. The path took us past various small settlements. Houses only accessible by quad bike with generators humming in sheds. Rounding the rough cobbles in a reasonably large community of houses we come upon a man skinning a hair. My son stares with amazement, its lean dark body hangs from a spike, as the man pulls down hard on the skin of the steaming shape. Later as we sit by the side of the roman road slicing cheese onto bread the man passes us, thumbs up, on his motorbike.