A Feast for Midges

Got up about 7.30 and perused a book on fibre art, I thought I’d take a short walk Southeast around Kirk Hill.

I paused to do a drawing and became a feast for midges, found a spot where the surface of the earth was all that was left; the roots were hanging down, exposing the process of growth.

I came to a stream and made an attempt to cross it elegantly, which failed.

The light was extraordinary and the grass and plants were almost glowing. There was a profusion of August flowers shining out from the grass.

The path sloped upwards, but I was curious to see what was at the end. As I climbed the vegetation gently changed from the slug and wild flower strewn grasses to a much more conservative scattering of less colourful plants. As the walk continued I noticed more strange plants and started thinking about the proto-trees. An early ancestor of trees as we know them, they grew taller and taller without adding any girth until they eventually fell over.

Eventually I return 2 hours later and have a meeting with Richard over a cup of tea. We discuss my ideas for the end product of the residency, he seems quite happy with my thoughts.

Going to go to Lockerbie now to pick up Brendan and Méabh.

It is a neat little town; I arrive almost an hour early and decide I need to buy string, big needles and thick needles. It is a god excuse to go into all the shops, I find 2 small rolls of cotton string and a much larger one of sisial twine from a well-stocked ironmongers. There is a fantastic drapers shop selling clothing and Scottish souvenirs

Creaking trees

I set off walking again, it is a windy blustery day.  

The trees are planted in long straight rows, walking into the woods the trees have the feeling of a church or cathedral. It is very dark and almost silent, there is a surprising lack of bird song. The silence is occasionally broken by snatches of birdsong. 

Walking along the forestry pathways I am struck by the creaking of the trees, they do not all creak. I have to climb up into the woods to record it. I wonder if holding the recorder up against the tree will make the recording more intense. 

Richard comes back from one of the possible venues for the Film Festival with two old albums, full of sequential photos of the knitting process. The albums have been left under a leaking window, the images have been water-damaged. It almost seems to be a mirror of the process of change the landscape is going through.

Fishing without worms

I wake and set off early, I feel I just want to absorb the place. I walk the same circuit I walked with Richard and Bridie, but I take camera, video camera, audio recorder and notebook. I realise that filming and recording is a version of fishing. While the camera and recorder are doing their bit, there is nothing that can be done but contemplation, and no need for worms!

I feel as if I could get lost in the woods at one point I take a wrong turn and find the path does not look the same when you are by yourself. I make it out of the woods and find I have lost the map. I go back, luckily I find it within a few minutes walk.

Events must link together

I wake up to another beautiful day – although cool – I feel in need of looking at my theoretical work – to see how this can create a foundation to my practical work. So I spend the day reading “The Subversive Stitch” and the sewing manuals. I find a quote from Louise Bourgeois, how events must fit together like the threads of a sweater.

I think of the traces of things that are gone, traces of homes, traces of the church, the graveyard incongruously full of huge trees.

I think of putting stills of the landscape and taking it and sewing into it, overlaying the images to a rhythm and beat of the spinning wheel sounds of the trees creaking and strands of singing.

There are traces here of ancient Welsh, Gaelic then English, names places. Buccleuch was a community with houses and a church, the hill is named after the church, the Burn is named after the church too.

There is a motte on the land, probably the first home of the Dukes of Buccleuch.

Traces of times past – but now the local school only has 3 children! Forestry has taken over, it is a huge farm. Rows and rows of ordered trees the taming of the landscape, but underneath the trees the ordered rows, moss has taken over.

Can I stitch the landscape back together? Reparation, the needle repairs.

Daylight

Waking and looking out of the window the view was as I had imagined it from the photos but the reality of it was so much more. My caravan looks out onto Kirk Hill, a pitted and sheep covered expanse of green.

I walk with Richard and Bridie and see the overwhelming need for Wellingtons!

The land is heavily treed by forestry. I’m intrigued by the rows and lines and order – a man made imposition of grids on to the undulating landscape.

We then go to the Ettrick show and I am struck by the sense of community, we have a tea and sandwiches.

In the evening I start to read “The Subversive Stitch” and an embroidery and needlework instructional book alternately, puzzling on how I can unite landscape and stitch, landscape and nature.

Everything is floating around in my head with no solid ideas – I decide to write the fragments of thoughts I have had on to sticky notes and arrange them on a wall.

I start with the things I can do – the end product, then put all my other thoughts down – trying to place them into some sort of logical order – a huge jigsaw puzzle with no picture.

I get a feeling of being completely overwhelmed by the hugeness of this place. I am nervous of its wildness – it is a huge contrast to Lincolnshire – where the landscape has a handmade quality, here the hands of humans seem distant.

Phenzhopehaugh

Travelled North through torrential rain; the journey seemed never-ending; a stop at the Service station took a 20 minute queue to get back on the Motorway. I stopped in Jedburgh for some food, saw a really impressive monastery ruin and found it was where Mary Queen of Scots had lived. I started thinking about how she had been under house arrest and had used embroidery to send secret messages out from her captivity, when under a seventeen year house arrest in England.

Eventually I arrived in Galashields and after 3 attempts found the venue for the opening. I met Richard and Bridie and saw Richard’s video ‘Mutus Floris’. An overwhelming journey through 5000 flowers photographed around the property at Phenzhopehaugh. It seemed to be an echo of my journey through the rain. 

Then a seemingly never ending drive though the darkness down tiny winding roads, we passed by darkened houses and even through a small town that appeared to be deserted. Then I got into Richard’s Land Rover and travelled another 10 minutes down a track, this involved opening and closing gates. I finally arrived at the caravan, completely unsure of what was around me.