TV LICENSE ENFORCEMENT AND INVESTIGATION OF 17 NEW TOLSTA.

 

What does that means to someone who has never owned a TV?

 

It was back in 2020 that I filled in a form from the TV Licensing people to state that I hadn’t got a television. It seemed then very odd that I should somehow require their permission not to have a television, and that I would be hearing from them again in three years’ time, just to make sure I hadn’t been tempted by the allure of television. I included a note with said form stating that I would not be responding to any further enquiries, and that I would inform them if I purchased a TV, or acquire any other method of viewing or downloading their programs.

If I’d known just how much fun this has given me I would have kept more of the letters that started to arrive early in 2023. I have only one from Ross McTaggart, the Customer Service Director from back in April 23, when I was still down with my brother in Cornwall. I did watch some TV with him, but I soon became bored and found it very difficult to hear anything. I thought this might be due to my age but then discovered that with older films I could hear every word, so this must be something to do with actors mumbling. It was only on my return to Tolsta in early May that I wrote my first rather curt reply to Ross that deliberately did not post. I saw no reason to waist a stamp, but by June things started to liven up when my case was taken further by Gordon Smith, the enforcement manager based in Dundee. These letters became more threatening in nature and the following are the series of my unsent replies, which provided me with considerable amusement.

10^th May 2023

Dear Ross, I’ve just opened your letter from April, which arrived during my absence having spent the winter months down in Cornwall undergoing treatment for cancer. You are correct in pointing out to me that I am the present occupier and that my property is unlicensed for a TV. Now tell me something I don’t know, because I certainly don’t need permission from a consumer service director not to have a TV or at least I do hope not. 

20^th June 2023

Dear Gordon Smith, I’m afraid I burnt your letter along with all the other unsolicited junk mail, but it would seem that my lack of communication has meant an upgrading from Consumer Service Director, and that I now find myself in the safe hands of the Enforcement Manager, namely you Gordon. It will be interesting to see how this process works and to what length you will go to before choosing to ignore me. As far as I know there is no law that compels one to reply to your letters, so for now the conversation if you can call it that, will be a bit one sided. I am choosing this non-communicative course of action as an experiment to shed light on the way in which the TV licencing company conducts itself. I remain confident that when a simple investigation is launched all will become clear. Maybe you’ll take my silence as some sort of proof that I must be secretly watching your programs, I do hope not. Yours the Legal Occupier.

18^th July 2023.

Dear Gordon, All has gone quiet from your end. Your last letter was dated back in June and here we are, already half way through July. How goes the investigation? Have you discovered if I’m male or female, because these days with the hormonal treatment I’m receiving I’m not too clear on that point? Can I still expect a visit? I would not like to think of the enforcement officer coming all this way and not finding me at home, so a little notice would be good. Maybe you have to wait until you get enough addresses to make the journey over to Lewis worthwhile. I am not trying to delay or stop this visit, simply wondering if it is the done thing to offer tea or coffee. It did occur to me that perhaps your letters are computer generated and that all this means nothing. One hears of so many scams these days, I even wondered if you Gordon might be computer generated, I do hope not. Yours, the legal occupier.

 

1^st August 2023.

Dear Gordon, Your latest correspondence left me both pleased and disappointed. Pleased to see that this time your letter came with a big red stamp of visit approved and officially signed by Scott. I love the way you all have such Scottish sounding Christian names. Saddened, because you still don’t seem any the wiser as to my sex and continue to address me as the legal occupier. I don’t suppose either you or Scott will be making the trip over to Lewis since with 5000 addresses a day being done you must have a veritable army of enforcement officers. Good to think that in my own little way I’m doing my bit to help with the unemployment levels. Your investigation has quite rightly led you to the conclusion that there is no TV licence for this address, but Ross must have told you that from the outset. I can only think that your records are somewhat incomplete if you still intend to continue to a visit. They should have shown you that three years ago I told you I had no TV and would not be replying to any future enquiries unless the situation changed. I didn’t consider I needed anyones permission not to have a TV. If Gordon, you are amongst those fans of BBC Scotland’s Home of the Year, you may have noticed that this address is also the same as the winning home for 2022. During the broadcast it was made clear by the judges that there was no TV or modern gadgetry, but then maybe you don’t watch that sort of thing.

Comparing your now blue signature to the previous black one, it is evident that both yours and Scott’s are printed, which in turn leads me to the sad conclusion that both you and Scott are computer generated. What a sad thought, are there any real human beings left out there in this age of artificial intelligence? It makes me wonder what sort of programs people are watching on TV, and if they are not all being brainwashed by A.I. I do hope not, yours still the legal occupier  

1^st September

Dear Gordon, My word what a splendid red envelope. You must let me know where you get them from. Another month has slipped by and still you are addressing your letters to The Legal Occupier, which makes me think that your so called investigation has been very shallow indeed. By now I would have expected your team to have at least discover my name if not my sex. I suppose this must mean my initial suspicion that you are computer generated is most likely correct and that whoever wrote the program did a very limiting job on it. What a shame, as I was rather impressed by your job  tittle of Enforcement Manager, although now it sounds more like someone who’s in charge of stuffing pork sausages. By the way, your signature is terribly easy to forge. Just thought you should know with all the fuss made these days about identity theft and security passwords.

Your last letter told me to expect a visit on the 10^th August, and although I had friends staying that week I was still somewhat excited about a visit, then disappointed that nobody turned up. It seems we have turned full circle, for now you give no date at all, only that an Officer has been scheduled. What does that mean? Have I simply been put on a list, and to what purpose? I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough Gordon, and are wasting tax payer’s money with idle threats. When can I expect some action, and what happened to Scott and his nice red stamp of approval? Perhaps he’s been sacked and you’re next on the list, I do hope not. Yours as ever, The Legal Occupier

   

 

18^th Sept 2023

Dear Gordon, It’s now the 18^th September and still no letter from you this month despite you saying that an officer has been scheduled to visit my home. I notice this is the exact same words used back in April by Ross Mc Taggart your Customs Service Director. (Great job titles by the way). Was that just another one of your idle threats, because by now you should know that doesn’t work, not in my case? We seem to be into one of those famous circular computer programing systems. I notice you don’t actually put a date to your letters, just the month, but I thought by now I’d usually heard something. Maybe it’s the summer break, but I expect your well into the investigations and I’m fully conscious that I’m not the only person to be causing problems. I see there has been progress of sorts in that I am now referred to as Sir/Madam. Well done, you have established that I exist even if my sex remains a mystery to both of us. I don’t think I’d like your job Gordon as it seems difficult to imagine what satisfaction can be obtained from it. I looked up enforce/enforcement in my 1971 Collins dictionary to see if that could shed any light on exactly what your job entails. To give strength to; to put in force; to impress on the mind; to compel obedience; to impose action upon; to urge on; to execute, all very fine words, but in my particular case none of them seem to be working. It must be frustrating, I mean people like me, the Sir /Madams of this world who simply will not reply to your letters no matter how much impressing or compelling you might do. I would find that very depressing and maybe that’s the reason I haven’t heard from you this month, because you’re off sick with depression. I do hope not. Yours, decidedly undepressed Sir or Madam.

 

28^th September

Dear Gordon, What a relief, at last a letter, you had me worried. Well it seems we have indeed returned to square one, like a game of snakes and ladders, although I’m not sure if it’s you Gordon or me who’s slid down the snake. Gone are the nice red envelopes and official red stamp, replaced by rather dull brown envelopes and a rather insipid and far less threatening green code number IN0100A3D8. Having said that I do rather like the little extra slot window design especially to display my code number to all and sundry. Am I perhaps supposed to do something with this code? In this age of high security it is a welcome change to see something so personal to me banded about for all and sundry to see, but then perhaps the code has no real value. To be admired none the less, like the stoic few who still send postcards without a care in the world as to who might read them. As a child I remember well our old postman Cecil Minors coming into our kitchen, knocking his pipe out into the sink and then informing my mother that my aunt was coming to stay.

You say this special number is to target unlicensed homes, but personally I can’t see it making any difference, it’s a number nothing more or less. You state also that your letter is a formal notification that my details have been passed to your Dundee Enforcement Team, but Gordon if you look back to your letter in June it states quite clearly that you had scheduled a visit by an officer from Dundee Enforcement Division. I think you might be losing the plot Gordon, surely it would be simpler all round just to make that famous visit rather than saying it could happen at any moment. Yes and pigs might fly, and if you don’t do it soon I’ll be heading south for my London exhibition, and before you know it we’ll be having an anniversary, and I’ll be wondering if I should bake a cake or send a card. Once again I can only surmise that such ridiculous behaviour could only come from a computer. So, either the empty threats have gone full circle, or you are truly suffering from early onset of dementia, I do hope not.  Yours once again the Legal Occupier.

 

Dear Kerry, Even from the outside of the envelope I could tell things had changed. There displayed for all the world to see through the long slit window was the statement Official notice: investigation opened. Then inside I noticed immediately that there was a new signature, and a new Dundee Enforcement Officer, namely your good self-Kerry. A lovely place Ireland, but then perhaps I’m jumping to conclusions, very unprofessional of me. You see what Gordon failed to realise throughout all those months of non-communication was that although he banded about those fine words of investigation and official as some sort of threat, it was in fact him who was being investigated by me. Well, perhaps not solely him, but at least the system that you have in place and at what point it ceases to function. So, Kerry welcome to the investigation, and I hope you have less hot air in you than Gordon did, but judging by your first letter that doesn’t look likely. In fact it all seems very familiar even down to Scott’s little signature on the red stamp of visit approved. I’m so glad he’s still about to lend a little moral support, but I want to see you get down and dirty Kerry, and above all else some action please. If not, I shall have to conclude that you are simply another cloned or updated version of Gordon’s computer program. I like to think Gordon got promotion, but fear the worst, off sick or even fired, I do hope not. Yours as ever the uncommunicative owner/occupier.  

 

20^th Nov, 2023

Dear Kerry, I knew as soon as I saw the red envelope it would be from you. I have to admit to a little excitement every time one of your letters arrive on my doorstep. What new line of attack will they have dreamed up? Well, to start with there was the red envelope. Exactly the same format as the brown envelope in Gordon’s final communication, accept the long window was filled by big bold capitols informing me this was an OFFICIAL NOTICE, which made only a little more sense than the long number Gordon allocated me, I mean it’s hardly likely to be unofficial notice after all these months. Inside was a total let down, uninspired and frankly a total waist of paper. While you continue to call me The Legal Occupier I find it hard to believe that you’ve even begun to launch your famous investigation. Over the past nine months you haven’t even managed to discover my name. You state for the umpteenth time that I should expect a visit, but you say that every month and nothing happens. Frankly Kerry I had expected better from you. You know, a bit of enthusiasm for your new job, but instead it’s the same old story, which by now you must realise is getting you nowhere. I think perhaps you all have a fear of crossing water, and true the Minch can be quite wild at this time of year. Will this go on for ever, because it’s really becoming rather tedious? If that’s your only game plan, to bore me into responding then you sorely mistaken. I’ll simply be reduced to chucking your letters in the bin, unopened? When I see those little coded squares, I wonder what information they might contain. It often feels like we have already reached judgement day and the world is now run by Sky Net and machines. I’m going away down to London and Cornwall at the end of this month. Maybe you’ll make a special effort for Christmas and come calling in your Santa costume, I do hope not.

April 16th 2024

Dear Ross, Your back, things have indeed turned full circle as it was nearly a year ago since you wrote, and I thought at first glance that this was the same letter I’d received back in April 2023. However it stated that a local investigation was active in my area. I have to say that didn’t fill me with any great confidence that anything had changed, and during my absence during the winter months Kerry seemed to have totally given up. Those few weeks I spent with my brother reinforced my resolve to never bother with a television, and frankly I was horrified at some of the rubbish he watched. It never ceases to amaze me what intelligent people see as entertaining. OK perhaps once in a while to simply switch off, but week after week the same repetitive garbage? At this point I must be clear that I’m not accusing the BBC of being the sole producers of rubbish, I’m simple horrified at the colossal choice of what passes today as entertainment from so many channels. I was also astounded at the price of a TV licence. I enjoy watching films and have built up quite a collection from my local charity shop at 50p a throw. Imagine how many films I could get with the price of a licence. OK they’re not the latest releases, but neither are most of yours, and I have my own system in choosing what to watch as well as the feel good factor of supporting the local hospice.

THE END GAME Wednesday 17th

This evening, surprise, surprise, a charming young man called round just after seven. If I hadn’t hurt my back this afternoon I’d have been out for a walk with Donald, and missed him. At first I took him to be someone come to read the meter, but no, this was indeed that much talked about enforcement visit. To be honest I thought they were a figment of both yours and my imagination, but here he was large as life and all the way from Glasgow. Hurray! I’m not sure what he made of my jubilant reaction, perhaps not the usual reception as I usher him in to BBC Scotland’s Home of the Year 2022. So evidently delighted to see him, I explained the amusement I’d had over the past twelve months of non-communication. It came as a relief to hear that none of you Ross, Kerry, Gordon or Scott are actually computer generated, however the letters that have been sent out are most definitely computer generated, and in my case totally ineffective in producing any response. When writing letters to people I’ve never met I always find I have a mental image of what they look like. Ross I saw as taller that average, clean shaven chiselled features and what I would call a distinctive nose, Gordon seemed to have a rounder face to the point of being puffy, possibly due to a fondness for the whiskey. Scott was positively tiny with a severely receding dark hair line, and dear Kerry was blond, good bone structure, but with a touch too much makeup for my liking. I’m sure my imagination is wildly inaccurate, but perhaps it’s the artist in me that can’t help putting faces to names. You on the other hand can easily look up BBC Scotland’s Home of the Year 2022 on U-tube and see me.

As I stated right at the start, “I do not need your permission not to have a television”, and there is no law that states I have to respond to your unsolicited letters. So have we learned anything from all this? Perhaps I am that oddball that no computer programmer would dream of catering for. As for the investigation, I do believe that nothing at all was done in that respect, since you failed even to discover my name. However you have provided me with a better quality of entertainment than much of your broadcasted programs and for that I am grateful, although I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’ll miss those letters. Presumably I now have three years of peace before your computer kicks back into action. Or, maybe you have got the message, and that it has been noted somewhere on your files, that it will be me who informs you if I have some sort of mental breakdown and purchases a television. I do hope so. Yours faithfully Tom Hickman, the legal occupier of 17 New Tolsta.     

 

 

PATIENCE, AND WHAT TO DO WITH MY OLD SHIRTS.

 

Patience is a virtue, our earliest memories will confirm that I’m sure, but there are times when I don’t feel particularly virtuous.

It was Kate, or was it Melany who told me that Kathleen was on her way. I’d unsuspectingly gate crashed Kate’s birthday coffee morning and for an instant I’d wondered who this Kathleen was and should I know her. Oh, the storm Kathleen, funny how the longer the name the slower it takes to blow through. Difficult to say just when Kathleen ended as the gusting winds and April showers are still with us. In these hypersensitive, alphabetically ordered times of hypocritical correctness, we pondered over what male storm-name we might expect to follow. I plumbed for Laurence, a long drawn out hot summer Arabian night’s breeze from the south. The evenings walk with Donald left me wincing and we became silent, bent forward into the blistering force that seemed to be determined we would not return home from our walk. I dared not stop to rest as it would have only served to interrupt the internal mantra I’d set up. Lift your right leg, move it forward, put it down, the left will follow. The right hip hasn’t been good since a fall last summer and despite nothing showing up on X-rays, the leg no longer seems part of me, some sort of replacement at best. I now walk with a stick, my third stabilising leg and feel no shame in doing so. On the contrary, my father’s shepherds crook lends a note of authenticity, and even the sheep look at me differently, a hint of respect that up to now I hadn’t noticed. I managed to sleep through most of that first stormy night, awoken only by the occasionally more forceful rattle of the bedroom sash window. I threw open the curtains to see all growth flapping wildly and inclined to the east. The past couple of weeks we’d had a bitter easterly that set the dead grass atop the wall with a quiff that would have delighted any 50’s Teddy boy. Now it was set in a severe westerly Scargill comb over. Kathleen was not leaving just yet, and I would be spending the day in the relative calm of the studio. As usual these days I seem to have way too many projects on the go. Wool, paper, shells, wood offcuts and fabric litter the floor, while glue pot, scissors, needles, pencils and paintbrushes are scattered on the table beside me as I paste and stitch another batch of miniature books and cover tiny boxes for precious things. A second 17^th century needlework reconstruction awaits my attention, and then I wonder if I might just empty the room out and stencil the walls. Plastic covered seed trays sit before the window and there are signs of broad beans, leeks and brassicas pushing through the warm compost. Some of the seed is on its final year so I wait patiently and hope that indoors the miracle that is germination will happen. The soil is still too cold to sow outside and gardening this far north does require patience. Likewise customers are slow to materialise. I put my sign up for the first time last week but didn’t really expect to see anyone for at least a month, and assumed I was going to clear the big Easter holiday break with a clean sheet. However on Thursday a group of six turned up and I wondered if they might have been pony trekking. I apologised for the lack of price labels, but I don’t think it would have changed anything. The only comment I can remember was, “do you remember mum used to stick shells on things” as if the creative pastime was some sort of mental health issue. The young daughter was singularly unimpressed and as they left I felt like I might as well close if I’m just going to get shitty with people. I get so very few callers, and at this time of year it will rarely be more than one a week or maybe as little as one a month. There seems little point in even bothering to put the open sign up, but on a fine day, when I’m just pottering about in the garden or workshop, I tell myself I might as well. There will be plenty who pass by, heading down to the beach, or a quick about turn in the car park, but few are interested or inquisitive enough to stop at my door. So while the storm raged outside, I tried to remain patient during this period of peace, and enjoy the uninterrupted silent of my studio, making stuff for my cabinet of curiosities. I must at least get some price labels when next in town.

 I eventually found the bin liner full of torn rags at the back of the 18^th century dresser base that servers as one of my many store cupboards. I had two very different ladder back chairs to cover, and thought a splash of colour would make a change from the traditional rush seats. Like so many of the things I’ve had kicking about for ages, I can’t remember where the ash chair came from, but I do remember picking up the green painted ladder-back in pieces on a tip in the south of Spain. I spent six weeks roaming, sketching, visiting friends and returning back to Brittany only when there was no longer room to sleep in the back of the car. It must be nearly a decade since I cleared out the old shirts and sarongs and shredded them thinking they would surely come in useful at some point. I willingly admit to being a hoarder of anything that might be of use in the creative line. I used a simple twist and tie technic for the English chair and platted for the Spanish and they sit well alongside the old Irish chair with its traditional sting seat. I will never be able to compete with the wonderful amassed objects of Sea in Design on the west coast, but with each passing year the studio is definitely taking on the carefully curated feel more reminiscent of my own home. That might have been judged a winner, but I don’t think that counts for much in the public eye, where new, bright and shiny rules the day. I tell myself I’m in danger of becoming a cynical old fart, while friends would say you’ve been that way for years.    

GOING GREEN

 

It was on arrival back on Lewis that my eyes beheld once more a landscape of bleached dead salt-beige winter grass. Autumn bracken, once rich bronze had turned to dull brown, colours now muted awaited spring, the bleating of lambs, and a fresh mantel of green. There were signs already, a sprouting elder in Norma’s garden seem surprisingly advanced, while in my own garden many daffodils lay prostrate, snapped by the harsh easterly wind. Rescued from the cold I filled two jars in the kitchen window, their perfume and brilliant yellow bringing hope of renewal to each morning.

Spring arrives late on the islands, and all the better for it, as unseasonable early growth has in the past been burnt and shredded by those salt-laden bitter easterlies. Now with the changing of the hour we do indeed look forward to leaping forward into spring growth and of pastures turning green.

When looking to change the colour in my studio it seemed only natural that my eyes should crave that same coloured bocage to display anew the flowering of my work. The fruiting bodies of objects would rest solid and stationary before it. Green, like red is a colour that does not move beyond its own boundaries unlike the radiance of sunshine yellow. I would have strength and stability for the summer months to come. I would have a real green, no washed out off-white hint of green, no chilly blue of conifer green, no acid-sparkling fresh yellow green, but a true growth green. People often profess to have a favourite colour, and I will admit to having certain colours I prefer to live with. However, I love all colours; from the deep pink of the button-hole carnation, the brash orange of blowsy dahlias and the cool blues of the mecanopsis poppies. I love the rich tapestry of a cottage garden, and yes, even the sombre greys of a rain laden clouds, for without them we would have no contrast for the sudden and delightful appearance of those angel rays.

As I paint my way around the room childhood memories awaken; of the green V lined walls of fisherman Bob Willies cottage at the bottom of New Orleans Glen, the contrasting dark furniture kept so with a fresh coat of mahogany darkalene varnish. Colours carry memories, and with those memories our choices are tinted.                

 

IN PRAISE OF THE CROFTER'S COTTAGE.

I

 Even before my first voyage through the Outer Hebrides I was fascinated by the vernacular architecture of the black houses. My father made several trip over in later life, and I was particularly interested in his photos of derelict and decaying houses. Having wandered from Barra to the Butt of Lewis several time over the past fifteen years I’ve seen a few changes. In this respect the islands are no different to the mainland as new houses seem to sprout up like mushrooms overnight. I can well understand why people in the 1920’s and 30’s wanted to move out of the dark black houses and into the new Department of Agriculture designed crofters cottages. Sash windows in every room meant for the first time the interior could be light. However thinner walls, even when covered in V lining also meant a serious amount of peat or coal was required to heat the place. Today’s hermetically sealed, well insulated and triple glazed houses are a world away from that, but my preference is still for the traditional crofter cottage. My own cottage was stripped back to the bare bones before introducing insulation and damp course, but all the interior timber was kept and put back along with its charm. I have often heard it said that location is everything and certainly many of these cottages can boast a magnificent location.

Cottage on South Uist perched high with a view of Loch Boisdale.

Tin roofs are still a common feature on all the islands and the irrational romantic artist that I am will always be drawn to a colourful bit of rust. Many of the earlier stone built cottages were originally thatched in heather or straw, while some later houses were built entirely of corrugated iron with only the chimney being built of brick or block. Today that chimney might be the only thing remaining that indicates the site as being habited. Many of the black houses no longer had a central chimney, and a cast concrete or brick chimney was built at one end. Alternatively the interior was divided by a chimney wall and the smoky peat filled rooms became a thing of the past. 

  For a time during the mid-20^th century the domed Nissan hut was popular but few remain now. When I first stopped to sketch this Nissan hut on South Uist it was complete with windows and doors, but two years later the half round black tarred tin had flown leaving just the end gable and an outside toilet.

During the second half of the 20^th century the crofter’s cottages were upgraded to include a bathroom but many also suffered greatly when adapted and modernised. The most shocking of these so called improvements was the removal of the dormer windows, replacing them with a long box window or worse still raising the entire front creating a flat roof. This is simply not a good look from any angle. Those with double sashes on the ground floor often had the central division removed and metal framed replacement windows installed. Despite the net curtains flapping at the back window this lone cottage on the Isle of Eriskay was uninhabited. This fine example had a well-proportioned porch, a scullery extension at the rear and a useful shed on one gable end. Below were the roofless walls of black houses from a bygone age. The artist’s sense of beauty for the rustic thatch, rusting tin and lichen covered walls counts for little during the reality of harsh winter months and my romanticized visions are fit only for a framed image of times past. 

While visiting the old cemetery on Bernaray I continued my walk following a trail of mushrooms. Over the ridge I came across another abandoned house. What was once the front garden, was now full of stinging nettles beyond the pair of ball topped gate posts.  Although showing all the outward signs of a typical crofter’s cottage this house had four dormer windows. The porch had long since blown away which gave it a rather vacant look with just two windows on the ground floor. Circling my way around the back I discovered the kitchen window had blown in, and while the v-lining was collapsing all the furniture remained. I clambered in and made my way through into the dining room complete with gas light fittings and a large mahogany side board filling the back wall. Through in the hall a coat stand leaned at a precarious angle as the floor boards crumbled beneath it. In the parlour there was more light, on the wall a text declared “I will trust and not be afraid, God is my salvation”, and on the chair was a rather out of place grey telephone. Upstairs one bedroom was complete with chaise longe, while asleep on the bed in the second bedroom was the remains of the last occupant, a very dead and desiccated furless cat. This at one time had been a fine home.

 

 

These cottages, whether stone built, cast concrete or tin were constructed internally entirely of wood. The name Hepburn is written in chalk on the underside of each tread of the staircase in my cottage, and I’ve seen that same suppliers name in other houses on Lewis. 

When in 2022 my crofter’s cottage was unanimously voted BBC Scotland home of the year, I assumed that maybe now with the island council also agreeing that these old houses should be renovated that the demolition would stop. However, before the year was out one of the oldest cottages in my own village was demolished and consigned in its entirety to the dump. Built in 1909 the interior was crammed with all the old furniture, but this also suffered the same fate. Yes, without damp course or insulation, and having stood unoccupied for years the interior was a mess. Later wall paper hung from the ceilings and walls, and the v-lining bellied out from the internal walls. As with my own house the interior would have needed to be carefully removed while the ground floor was dug out and walls exposed for damp proofing and insulation. I managed to save some of the v-lining from the roof of this cottage before demolition, and was not surprised to discover that there was absolutely no wood worm in the entire house. The timber is fabulous being slow grown pine and far better than anything you could buy today. With a few of the boards I have started work on making a dolls croft house. It pleases me to think that there will at least be a little bit of life after death.

In recent years there has been a trend to paint the exterior of houses white. This has happened over the length and breadth of the UK, but particularly on the west coast. Down in Cornwall, charming little granite cottages are still being painted white. It has become a selling point and even I in my needlework images of sheep will include a white walled and red roofed cottage. When I first started the renovation of my crofter’s cottage it was suggested that if I painted it white it would be worth significantly more. It is often the first thing a new owner will do and there are several that seem to have run out of money being only half painted. A publicity photograph promoting the islands will always try and include a white painted cottage, so it didn’t surprise me when a photo of my own house as it is today, in its drab grey harling appeared in the local paper, described as the winning house before renovation. I will not be painting it, or the crofter's doll's house white.

GOODBYE TO LEZELE

 

It’s been over a year since I packed up the remaining furniture. The house has stood practically empty apart from a few pieces of Breton furniture, and during the summer months there had been a concerted effort on behalf of Sarah the estate agent to sell the place. That side of the story is way too long and boring to go into now, but suffice to say the entire property proved impossible to sell, due to one of the neighbours of an abandoned house refusing to sign and regularise the right of way to the entrance that I have used for the past thirty years. I have given instructions for it to go back on the market at a much reduced price.

  As I sit here in the dimly lit interior, the house already no longer feels like mine. What made this my home has already gone, but there is still enough left within the rooms I created to bring back memories, and I’m glad to say they are all good one. Here in the gloom of the great fireplace I have passed many an evening with friends. In earlier times the fire was open and the smoke rose up through the massive chimney, where in the spring the swallows would make there nests. Installing a wood burning stove created a vast increase in efficiency, but there is nothing like an open fire. One Christmas I spent five days without electricity and cooked here, just as they would have done in time past. Now, people, conversation, and laughter return to me. The granites that surround me have seen so much during the three centuries and this fireplace has remained the hub of the house. Little has changed apart from the subject under discussion.

In those early years both animals and people entered by the front door. The cattle turned to the left, and occupied approximately half of the ground floor. If you’ve ever spent time in a cow shed you can imagine the smell. Living under the same roof with large herbivores is not that bad and the added warmth they gave was extremely important. That close relationship between man and beast was very different to today, were a disconnection allows us to accept the most unthinkable cruelty without question. The family would have lived on the ground floor, sleeping in box beds and eating around one table placed in front of the only window. The first floor has extremely low ceiling and would have been reserved for storing the farm produce. There were at this point in time very few farm buildings, and many of these would have been simple wooden construction visible now only in old photographs. Thirty years ago, when I first arrived here there was no electricity and no water. There have been improvements, but for those who enjoy the supposed comforts of a modern house this must seem like a museum.

There is so much more than just a late 17th century farm house on offer. Adjoining is my studio and at the rear a large garden, which although now somewhat neglected had been very productive.. Running at right angles to the main house is a second house that I once ran as a gallery. The ensemble is for sale at 205,000 euros.

 I am not sad to be leaving. I’ve enjoyed my time here and know I will be passing it on to other, who will no doubt have very different ideas from my own as to how one lives within these walls. The house or rather houses still hold tremendous potential, but my time here is over. I’m sure there will remain traces of me here for decades to come, from walls that I’ve built to trees that I’ve planted. I like to think I made a difference, and that my time here had some value. Further afield there lies scattered my artworks and writing, some of which will no doubt outlive those who have known me. Without daubing it in paint, carving it into tree trunks or scratching it in stone I have left my mark. I WAS HERE, GOODBYE LEZELE.      

VERY SMALL BOOKS FROM NEW TOLSTA

 

Having made a bookcase for the crofter’s doll’s house I now had to make some books. This is not a new thing for me as in the past I made similar books for my own doll’s house. With age has come a loss of feeling in my fingertips, but I still manage to thread needles and fiddle with the fabrication of very small items. It’s the sort of occupation I reserve for the winter months when I don’t want to venture far from a source of heat and the kitchen table becomes cluttered with creativity. Firstly I need to clear a small space amongst the detritus at one end of the table and start cutting up any old paper to the size I want for the pages. They are then folded and bound together with cotton just as a full size book would be. 

The outer coverings are a variety of reclaimed scraps from other books that have gone beyond the point of restoration, and are totally unsaleable. In this respect my father’s boxes of old Agricultural Society of Scotland annual publications have become a valuable resource with their blue Rexene bindings, while other books have provided good marbleized paper inner pages as well as leather spines. There is very little in this world that cannot be creatively reused. I will be offering an extremely small shelf of these books for sale this coming summer.    

NEOLITHIC PEAT FIRED POTS FROM NEW TOLSTA.

 

It was way back in 2016 when work first started on the foundations for my studio that I discovered the Neolithic axe head. It had lain not far from the surface for the past 6000 years and it felt extra ordinary to have been the first person to have touch it all those years.  

A fine example of its type in gneiss granite, which has disappeared into a drawer of our local museum, and one day may see the light of day again. Last summer on seeing a small exhibition of rustic pottery at An Lanntair in Stornoway I decided to find out where the source of clay local to Tolsta could be found. Our soil is mainly a well-drained sandy loam, and while good for carrots and root crops, in general it loses heart quickly due to the lack of clay. In times past clay was needed to dress the tops of the black house walls encouraging water to run off, so it seems inevitable that there must be a local source. I didn’t have to look far. South of the village I took the steep track leading down to the Camach beach. This part of the coast is on the move and landslide are a regular occurrence. Part way along the beach is a flat section of schist rock and at its base is a mound of clay. I took a bucket and towel with me and managed to lug a couple of buckets full. The clay had to be soaked into a gruel of liquid mud and then passed through a sieve to remove any grit. I then let it dry outside on the windowsill for a couple of weeks, turning the stodgy stuff until it became useable. I needed it firm enough to roll out into long sausages in order to construct the coiled pots. The building of a pot without a wheel will always result in interesting wobbly items, and it is there that the charm of these objects lie, along with the simple scratched decoration. They were then left to thoroughly dry out. The pots would have originally been fired using peat and this is where my old Rayburn comes into play. While I prepared my cake mix I would also have a wobbly pot warming up in the oven. When the pot was good and hot and the oven up to baking I replaced pot for cake and transferred the pot into the fire box, making sure there was enough high quality peat to cover the pot and take it to at least 600 degrees. The pot would glow bright red, almost transparent and time would do the rest. Killing two birds with one stone as it were, I was able to fire my pots and bake my cake, both turned out successfully. Over the following few weeks I popped more pots into the firebox on baking days. The following morning I fished out from the ash a still warm crogan pot. The clay had turn a rich terracotta colour and bore incidental marking depending on how it had reacted with the peat. I now have a small shelf of Tolsta ceramics that I will be adding to the eclectic mix of items for sale from my studio this coming summer.