from the Uists

creatures in the landscape.

places that suffered brutal clearance . . .

. . . neolithic tombs recall these islands’ human losses . . .

Barpa Langass.

darkness in the place of bones.
done

But outside, a living landscape full of light and colour. . .

yoke-yellow lichen on a fence post.

stuff of the shoreline

saltwater

sky

Vatersay – Barra

The islands of Vatersay and Barra are beautiful and arresting.

Camping on the Vatersay machair, there are beaches to the East:

and to the West.

The East beach is good for swimming and strolling. The West beach is more exposed, and a little more compelling: all pounding waves and gneiss boulders with fabulous ice-cream swirls. The beach is overlooked by an unmistakable iron-age broch, which looms dully on the horizon. The pools and waves run red with Rhodophyta — which seems suggestive of the beach’s sad history, and reminds you of the nineteenth-century bodies that are buried in its dunes.

Following the coastline on foot for a few miles, you will see many other signs of humans in the landscape: the standing stone (or is it a gate-post?) above Uidh; the abandoned village of Eorisdale; and the ruins of the laird’s house, whose absentee rule was overturned by the collective endeavours of the remarkable Vatersay raiders.

If your feet lead you to the hills, then walk up from Castlebay, where the highest of Barra’s island range (Heaval), lives up to its reputation as a materhorn in miniature:

From the top of the range there are stunning panoramic views. On Heaval, Jesus and his mum (whose effigies can be spotted all over the Southern Outer Hebrides) have nabbed one of the best ones.

It is fun to climb up to the highest point on the island.

But when the sky starts to darken, you can come down from the hills and head over to Cafe Kisimul. Here you might enjoy a Hebridean beer, great music, and some tasty scallop pakoras, in the location made famous by the 1949 Ealing comedy, Whisky Galore.

Barra is brilliant.

camping: a short, personal history

Phase 1. Here are myself, and my sister (Helen), circa 1979. Back then, family tents were gigantic bungalow-ranch-style constructions, with separate sleeping pods, living/ kitchen areas, faux glazing, and obligatory orange curtains. Putting up one of these babies was a process quite close to building an actual bungalow. To expedite matters, my mother devised a system involving several different coloured stickers — unfortunately, this code was so precise and so complex that it was it unknowable to anyone else but her. While she, dad, and the tent poles battled it out, Helen and I amused ourselves at the far reaches of the campsite. . . if we were really lucky, our canvas bungalow would be up by nightfall.

Camping is cheap, and we went away several times a year, to North Wales, to Devon, to the Isle of Man, or far, far afield to Yorkshire. Helen and I played and walked and swam in many different British landscapes. My overwhelming recollection of these familial trips is that 1) they involved a lot of laughs (we are all as daft as each other) and 2) they allowed me to taste the pleasures of independence. When one is seven, it is marvellous to pootle about the campsite or the beach, just doing your thing.

Phase 2: I am second from right, sporting the first of many terrible perms. Helen is under the umbrella. You will note that one tent has become many — less giant bungalow, more village settlement. I am not sure at what point we made this radical architectural shift, but for my parents, any small degree of privacy must have been a bonus. To my right is my good friend Julia and I’m afraid I can’t remember the name of the girl on my left. We had met her on this Anglesey campsite: she was slightly older, slightly glamorous, and therefore intriguing. During this era, we tended to camp on large family sites like this one — the sort that extend to several hundred acres, with a range of ‘luxury’ accommodation options for the mums, on site ‘country club’ for the dads, and a camp shop the size of a supermarket in which to spend one’s money on ice cream and shandy. The best thing about these places is that they are designed for – and full of – kids, and it is good for kids to knock around with lots of other kids. We formed large gangs, whose petty rivalries and attachments shifted with the passage of our stay. Camping is a transient activity, and there is something about this transience that enables possibilities. Camp friendships were quite unlike the rigid rules of association that one observed at school.

Phase 3: You will note that a lot of dye has been added to the perm, and that I am up a hill in inappropriate footwear. I still loved the camping, though. When one is a student and spends most of one’s time in libraries, it is very good to get outdoors.

Phase 4: I moved to Scotland with Tom. We began camping a lot. We enjoyed it a lot. I am pictured above in a transitional phase, when we still camped on sites, and before I realised I could just leave the cosmetics and jewelery at home.

Phase 5: The happy era of wild camping. You may recall that I wrote about the pleasures of wild camping just over a year ago, and I feel I must extol its benefits once more. If you are the sort of person who drives 200 metres to the toilet block in your 4×4; if you like to play Chaz n Dave’s ’snooker loopy’ for everyone else’s benefit from your camper van; if you can’t leave home without your hairdryer (how depressing was the recent camping episode on the Archers? I ask you! ); or if you are one of those eejits who calls out mountain rescue when you are feeling a wee bit tired half way up Helvellyn, then wild camping is probably not for you. However, if you prefer solitude over a shower, don’t mind walking with your gear, enjoy genuine proximity to wild flora and fauna, and are capable of developing resourceful hygiene habits, then it really can’t be beaten.

(Berneray)

Thanks to some very progressive outdoor access legislation, wild camping is tolerated all over Scotland. This does not mean that you can just camp where you like, or do what you like while camping. But it does mean that you can enjoy the marvelous landscapes of the highlands and islands as public spaces, rather than worrying about their status as private property. While urban Britain witnesses the rise of gated communities and private gardens; when our common land is daily eroded, degraded, and privatised; and when creative, productive, and community-oriented uses of wasted space are prosecuted as trespass, public access is something to be strongly championed. And, when one gets off one’s soapbox, one can enjoy glorious sights, in glorious spaces like this: from the cosy comfort of one’s tent, and completely alone.

(Harris)

Here are my top tips for enjoyable wild camping:

1. Do not build fires. I know there are good ways and there are bad ways, but burnt ground takes a long time to recover, and I feel profoundly depressed when I see blackened patches on the rare and beautiful Hebridean machair. We carry a lightweight stove everywhere, and it is excellent.
2. Be particularly careful about choosing your spot in Spring: do not camp near nesting birds.
3. Keep away from crops, and (I have to say after our only bad experience) conurbations, cliffs or outcrops.
4. Sheep very good. Cows not so good. Keep away from cows.
5. A bit of exposure is fine. Personally, I would rather camp in a gusty spot than in a damp valley — just as I would rather be buffeted by wind than attacked by swarming midgies. Secure your guy ropes and enjoy the blast.
6. Avoid other people. If you spot camper vans or tents steadily gathering in a likely location, then find another place. This is a matter of environmental sustainability as well as probable misanthropy.
7. Hygiene resourcefulness. Tissues and cleanser are an absolute necessity. And when all else fails (ie, you are on a three day walking trip, miles from any conveniences), you must, I am sorry to say it, face the evil rigours of the trowel (groan). Read this guidance issued by the lovely people at the Scottish Mountaineering Council.
8. Take as little as possible, and take the best stuff you possibly can. My essentials include: good boots, good 2 litre waterhose thingy; good down sleeping bag; wool socks, wool base layer, thick wool sweater, light wool shawl, wool hat, wool gloves. Oh yes, and (non wool) lightweight waterproofs. Obviously, I like wool. But, from close personal experience I can assure you that, quite unlike its much-touted man made counterparts (synthetic fleece and base layer) wool does not reek after several days of repeated wear. Tom thinks this may be a wool too far, but I do have serious plans to fashion myself a fully woollen and eminently serviceable winter walking outfit. More of this anon.
9. Leave no trace at all. Don’t camp in the same spot for more than a couple of nights, and remove all litter (including that of others, if you spot it). Yes, I am one of those people who gathers up other people’s sweet wrappers on mountain tops.
10. Enjoy the view.

(Lewis)

Egads!

Can it be? No, really? Yes, indeed it is the Dorset Cereals eggcup of dreams! Cheers, everyone — your votes were really very much appreciated. A big bloggy thanks to you all! In proper award-receiving manner, I must also thank my postie (who kindly leaves parcels for me on the mat rather than returning them to the depot-of-doom) and Mrs Fairnie from upstairs, (who retrieves said parcels when she pops in to feed Jesus (miaow)). It was an incredibly exciting package to discover when I arrived home. What joy! Oh yes, and thankyou, Dorset Cereals. This morning I actually consumed some tasty Dorset breakfast fayre from a plastic cup in my tent. But tomorrow morning, my lightly-boiled breakfast will be presented in an infinitely superior cup, warmed by a magnificent cosy of Tyrian purple hue! Three loud huzzahs for all of you kind voters, for Dorset Cereals, and, um, for me!

(breakfast-in-a-cup)

repair

A few weeks ago, something rather unpleasant happened while we were camping on Islay. I’ve not talked about this much. I found it quite disturbing at the time, and — because it happened in a place I am very fond of, while engaged in an activity that I love — I’ve not really wanted to mention it here either. I didn’t want to put anyone off either Islay, or camping. But, thinking about it, I realise that anyone who likes either the place or the activity isn’t likely to be put off.

We were camping here.

It is a great spot. We camp here every year. We occasionally see other tents, and it is a familiar and accepted place for wild camping. We are always quiet and considerate of the wonderful environment we camp in. But on our last night on the island, three local lads saw fit to hurl stones at us from the top of the outcrop that you can see on the left.

Here is one of the many stones they threw. As you can see, it is not a small stone, and if it had hit either of us it would have caused serious injury. We were lucky that the only injury was to our tent.

While Tom went to find the police, and to stop what was going on, the lads continued to hurl rocks at the tent and me. I could hear stones thudding, and fabric ripping about me. I’m sure you can understand why I found the whole thing quite disturbing.

Now, being predictably geeky types when it comes to outdoor equipment, we have decent gear, and our tent was a decent one. It was badly torn in many places. We are waiting for our insurers to replace it. Meanwhile, we have a trip planned. I had to fix it. To be frank, I have been putting this off — I didn’t really want to examine the holes those stones had made too closely. But this afternoon, I steeled myself for the task, and repaired it.

I cut out patches from the bag that holds the tent (made of the same waterproof rip-stop fabric as the tent itself) stitched them securely behind each tear with a double seam, and then carefully oversewed the sides of each tear to its corresponding patch. I found myself in immense sympathy with anyone who has to stitch textiles in any sort of industrial quantity for for a living. Feeding something this size through the machine is no fun at all. I had radio 3 on, and the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra were playing Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. The whole thing felt a bit manaical.

But after a couple of hours, several broken needles, a lot of swearing, and some sticky wrestling with a tube of seam sealant, I have managed to recreate an eminently serviceable tent. Hoo-fookin-rah! I honestly feel appreciably better. I was never angry at the stone throwers — what they did was silly, it was senseless, and it was quite dangerous too — but all one can say about that is that the young are often senseless. However, I did feel bad on the tent’s behalf. Perhaps it was doing some of my hurting for me. In any case, repairing it has certainly had a restorative effect on me too. As in many other situations, there is a lot to be said for the therapeutic powers of stitching. So we’ll be off again in a few days time for some walking, and some wild camping. I’ll see you in a week or so.

friday!

We’re off to one of my favourite places. Whatever you are doing, enjoy your weekend!

best fest

There has been much talk over the past few days about the general handsomeness, and nobility of the ovine. Here is a supreme example. Just look at that marvellous phizog! So calm, so gentle, so self-contained, so . . .sheepy! I spent a long time admiring this fine herdwick at woolfest the other day, and find it hard to articulate for you quite how much I like him. He is a bit like woolfest itself, then, which has sort of left me lost for words.

It was the best fest because it was spent in the company of friends.

Felix & Monkl

Lara. (I failed to capture a corresponding morning-head-in-tent shot of Liz — seen below in her gorgeous hand-made halter-neck dress — crack of dawn does not capture how early she rose. . .)

From left to right: Sarah, Mel, Liz, Lara, Felix. . . and Frida Kahlo. Six great women, five great knitters (I don’t know about Frida).

Inside la fest there were so many people to meet, and I was particularly excited to run into Amanda and Lily, who was also sporting her paper dolls (Lily is absolutely lovely). It occurred to me after I’d seen her that the sweater I was wearing was made from yarn I’d got at last year’s woolfest: I acquired my bowmont braf from the man at bowmont braf. I was able to talk to him about the character of the breed, the properties of the wool, and the qualities of the finished garment it might produce. We also talked about the economic realities of small-scale yarn production, and the future of projects and flocks like his. I went away thinking about those questions, and inspired by both sheep and wool, designed and knit up my paper dolls sweater. These conversations are what makes woolfest so amazing.

(Shetland markings. Designed by Sue Russo and available from the Shetland Sheep Society)

The material and sensory impact of the interior of Mitchell’s livestock centre is completely overwhelming. Faced with all that bounty, its quite hard to stop oneself running around, shouting and cooing, squeezing yarn, fundling sheep, and throwing oneself at fleeces like a crazy lady. . . But I found an oasis of calm among the stands of the coloured sheep breeders, to whom I was repeatedly drawn. The proximity of the sheep themselves certainly had something to do with it, but I also really enjoyed chatting to the representatives of the different breed societies, particularly Joy Trotter, who keeps the Rivendell flock of Shetlands. After talking to Joy, I had a sort of moment concerning the sheer range of shades in the fleece of British sheep, and spent much of the rest of the day reflecting on this, and being inspired by these colours: the creamy blue-greys of the north ronaldsays, the choclatey browns of the jacobs, the soft, almost powdery ginger of the manx loghtans, and the breathtaking non-technicolour dreamcoat range of shetlands. These colours were everywhere: on the backs of lovely beasties, in the deft hands of spinners, in plump finished skeins of yarn, in beautiful knitted and woven items.

(Yes, that cake and those chocolates are fashioned from coloured Shetland. Delicious!)

It is fair to say that I am on a shetland roll right now, and that you will no doubt see and hear more of this in the coming months. If you are interested in quality natural-shade British shetland, I would warmly recommend getting it from Garthenor Organics. Chris King is such a thoughtful man who knows his wool, and this knowledge really tells in the finished skein. More of his yarn later, meanwhile, here is a picture of the only dyed stuff I took home:

I met the lovely folk from Artisan Threads last year when I was writing a piece in which they featured for Yarn Forward. Their sense of colour, and the feel they have for the process of natural dyeing is just fantastic. They have such a marvellous Autumnal palate, and I shall be doing something with their lovely muted shades this Autumn.

(Lara taking a fest-break with a swift pint of shandy — it was such a hot day!)

After the fest, we retired to the Bitter End in Cockermouth for some much-needed refreshment and de-briefing. Really, I can think of no better way to spend a Saturday evening than surrounded by yarn, in a good food-and-ale serving pub, in the company of friends, discussing the political economy of British wool. I will say it again: great women, great knitters. The excitements of the day were more than matched by a night full of stimulating conversation. When the menu came round, we all put our money where our mouth was, and chose lamb. I had such an amazing time and am still reeling and thinking — both about woolfest itself, and the conversations it provoked. I sort of feel like I spent the whole weekend following the narrative thread of John Dyer’s seminal 1757 Georgic The Fleece which traces the economic, political, material, and indeed intellectual journey of wool from the sheep’s back to the human’s. Perhaps I shall bore you with John Dyer — and the vexed question of how to produce poetry about “the care of sheep in tupping time” — on another occasion. But that’s me all fested out for now.

**Bee-bag competition winner will be announced shortly!**

mead magic

Last summer, when we were walking on Jura, we buried some home-brewed mead above the gulf of corryvreckan. Yesterday we retraced our steps, and returned to find it.

I heart Jura.

Seven miles and a very enjoyable walk later, we climbed up a cliffside on the remote and empty north-west of the island and wondered if we would be able to find our bottle. Last August, we had dug a hole near the heather line, covered up the mead, and placed a large stone to mark the spot. Since then, the heather appeared to have receded, and other visitors had added other stones to ours.

The site now resembled a small burial cairn — which I suppose is exactly what it was. Underneath the stones was a bare patch of ground, and what seemed to be solid peat. Tom began to dig. Was the mead still there?

Of course it was!

It is hard to convey just how excited we were to see this bottle again. It had spent three seasons in the ground of Carraig Mhór, above the swirling, whirling, myth-infused waters of Corryvreckan. Our mead had lain there, quietly wintering with with Cailleach Bheur above the whirlpool in which Orwell had almost drowned. As a friend of ours said after a few in the bar of the Jura hotel on Saturday night, “that bottle is bigger than both of you.”

It tasted damn fine, anyway.

I can also confirm that the returning foot miles seemed to pass by rather quickly in a sort of warm, meady fug. Which was good, since we were walking into a headwind. Slainte!

B of O

Tom and I have been together for ten years. We don’t really do anniversaries, but this one seemed worth celebrating. We spent the weekend camping, walking, and eating at the Bridge of Orchy (B of O), one of my favourite places. It is hard to explain quite why I love the B of O so much, but I really do. Perhaps it is that it boasts a welcoming hotel serving excellent food, and good beer, including one of my favourite ales of all time. Perhaps it is that one can pitch one’s tent by the actual Bridge of Orchy, and be in said hotel, consuming said fine food and ales, in mere minutes. Perhaps it is its position among spectacular West Highland scenery. Or perhaps it is just that it has been a camping and walking oasis for us since we moved to Scotland. Anyway, for me, the B of O never disappoints.

(view above the B of O)

So we celebrated our decade with a lovely dinner at the B of O, a night in the tent, and a two munro walk. The B of O sits underneath Beinn Dorain and Beinn an Dothaidh — two straightforward and interesting munros which, together with their several associated tops, make for a fine day’s walking.

(Beinn Dorain)

We had a lovely day: the weather was kind to us with sunny intervals and fantastic visibility — we could see Buachaille Etive Mor to the North, and the beautiful hills of the Black Mount all around us, shifting in and out of the light as the clouds sped by above. In the next photograph, Tom is pictured (in the middle of the red circle!) above snow-filled Coire Daingean.

If anyone is at all interested, I can certainly write up this walk with a route map — we made a good day of it — climbing up Beinn an Dothaidh first, and then picking our way to the summit of Beinn Dorain along the leacann (fun! we could see walkers plodding slowly along the West Highland Way a thousand metres below us!), before coming back down along the ridge.

The full walk is just over nine and a half miles, with 1800-2000 metres of ascent. It took us around five and a half hours, after which we were more than ready for another celebratory pint.

(a pint of bitter and twisted in the B of O hotel)

In ten years together we have written doctorates, songs, and books, taken several different jobs, and lived in six properties in three cities. Its been a decade of curious haircuts, shifting political and personal perspectives, old habits, new obsessions. Many things have changed, and in many ways, we have grown up together. Now we intend to grow old together.

1999:

2009:

here’s to the next decade!

first pitch

(Old Bridge, Dumfries)

This weekend was the first time this year we’ve had the chance to really get outside — by which I mean, not just go for a walk, but get in the tent. I can’t tell you how happy this makes me. We’ve had such a nice couple of days. There were ruins to explore . . .

(Dundrennan Abbey)

(Sweetheart Abbey)

(grave at Dundrennan)

. . . there were textiles in the Dumfries Museum for me (I like local museums and this is a very good one.)

(‘receipt’ book. 1840s).

. . . there was a hill race for Tom. . .

(Warming up for Criffel Hill Race. . . )

And best of all, we found a well-placed pitch, complete with red squirrels scampering in the trees above. Watching squirrels from my tent with a giant cup of tea! What could be better?

(tea!)