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Published: January 21st 2011
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Davaar Island
Davaar Island glows purple and orange in the low morning light reflected from an emerald sea, squatting toad like, a vast plug restricting the mouth of Campbeltown harbour. This isn't the first time I've done the trip north to the Isle of Lewis from my home in Brittany France, so you might ask what keeps on pulling me back there. It was in May 2005 when I'd made curtains for my car, packed a trangia stove, oil paints, sketch pads and most importantly picked up my fathers ashes from Cornwall. I was brought up on the Mull of Kintyre and this was the first time back since 1961. I was about to go Island hopping and had bought a Caledonian MacBrayne ticket starting with the crossing to Arran. I had spent six years of my youth staring across the Kilbrannan Sound to the sothern most tip of Arran but had never been over as my parents always took the long way round via Inverary and Glasgow. I had hoped to look back towards Campbeltown and our old island of Davaar but the weather put pay to that with a grey drizzle shroud drifting up the Firth of Clyde. I arrive in Campbeltown two days later in full sun passing by the fine brewers houses marvelling at how everything seemed unaltered even my old school Dalentober (that I would have
Oyster Catchers
Two Oyster catchers dance and mate at the waters edge, their love making brief she wiggles her tail after what seems like just a slight inconvenience and continues to search for food happily burnt to the ground) remained the same. The derelict housing that once sounded it had gone only to be replaced by some cheap looking prefabricated 80's style housing that looked if it to would soon equire demolition. The town had lost little in 45 years even the same butcher in the high street and the old 1930's Chinses pagoda style cinema. I drove through eading for the cemetery on the soth side where I spent an emotional hour looking for and eventually finding our old shepherd Neils grave. He had been like a grandfather to me but when he died we were left at home seemingly too young to attend and with no need to grieve. It was only now all those years later that the flood gates opened and I shocked even myself with the idea that I had carried all that with me for so long. Scattering my fathers ashes from the top of Davaar Island the following day proved far easier. I tested the wind first and then watched as the fine curtain of powder floated out over the cliff heading straight for our old home of Kildalloig. Now I was free to start my journey
Trig point on Davaar Island
From here you can see west to Machrihanish and the Atlantic, east to Ailsa Craig and the Ayrshire coast, north to the mountains of Arran and south to our old home. north following in my fathers footsteps and taking a trip to the Outer Hebrides something he loved to do on his own in his little camper van during the later years of his life.
I hugged the west coast past the Paps of Jura via Lochgilphead to Oban and spent damp a day seeing little from the inside of my steamed up car. I worried about the ferry the following day out throught the sound of Mull and if I would manage to see anything in such weather. After a stormy night at the loca campsite that saw tents flattened and bewildered students scrambing for shelter in the toilet block I was delighted to see the clouds parting. As the ferry headed into the sound the sheet rain parted and sun flooded down onto the hills of Mull illuminating the burns in full frothing spate. It was the last rain I saw that trip and from the moment we landed in Castlebay on Barra I knew I was hooked. I made my way slowly north wild camping or staying the odd night at Gatliff Trust Hostels at Howmore, Berneray and Rhenigidale. Arriving on Harris was so overwelmingly beautiful that
Davaar Island
The island from below the sheep fank at Ballimenach the oily smell of wool still hung in the air. I burst into tears and had to pull over. I drove on a few hundred yards and the same thing happened again. I had to get out and make contact with such a wonderful landscape. After half an hour roaming aimelessly across granite, heather and bog I felt able to continue, such beauty did exist. It was similar to an Aboriginal having to sing the land into existance for it to be real, I had to make contact with it drink the peat stained water from the burn, lie out on the warm granite outcrops, see my feet sink into the water logged bogs. I watched locals driving past at speed and hoped I never became immune to these glorious surroundings.
Later on that same year having fallen in love with the islands I learnt of a house for sale, the last house in fact on the north east road out of Stornoway. I decided that this was how I would spend my inheritance and that autumn my offer having been accepted I flew up to sign for the paperwork. Since then I have returned each summer to work on the house and barn taking time to explore and paint some of the remotest parts of these beautiful islands, perhaps the last remaining coastal wilderness of the UK.
This year I am leaving earlier since I have an exhibition of my work to be held on the Island of Gigha starting the 5th March and running until the beginning of May. While this is on I will continue north up through the islands, my route and timing unplanned as I prefer. I have become accustomed to the cramped sleeping quarter of my car and being able to stop and sketch during the late evening and early morning is important to my work as a journeyman artist. My early departure will I hope be snow free as this has been my only concern during Britains coldest winter for 100 years.
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