Month: June 2024

The wind flaps shed doors on too small hinges, ripples a delaminating plywood roof. A constant state of nearly undone. Slatted sun under the pier, rain on its way.

Rannoch. Walking. Here we find our feet. I didn’t do half the things I wanted to do says Mum. Do it now before it’s too late, tell the boys. Just look at that will you ! Spread out before us. Our selves stop. Perfect. Still. Grinning.

Climbing the hill and up above the tree line the whole Moor opens out, a moth eaten tablecloth holey with lochans and boulders. Every step higher brings more into view, a feast for the soul. A skylark rises singing as if to say I told you it would be braw, up here, in the sweetness of wild air. A pibroch for Rannoch.

East coast grey, some might call it silver, depends on how full your glass. Today there is a slight sparkle on the water as the small boats make their way back to their moorings. Swallows skim low over the sea, rising sharply before the seawall and back around to dock number two. I am drawing the stuff of fishing – creels and buckets, flags, poles and other useful things, spilling out, a guddle, fankle of ropes. I look out beyond the walls of the harbour to the island in the Forth and beyond, the Pentland Hills, their edges rubbed graphite on paper. The only cololur here is that of tackle, buoys and boats of course – neons of orange and yellow and saltire blue. Everything crossed for the football tonight.

Oil and charcoal on wood panel – 40 x 50 cm.

‘Good man is Charlie’, and there’s another Charlie, painting the underside of his boat. Squally winds and bright sun between the clouds. Fishing for razors , diving for scallops. George starts the engine, a lungful of diesel, head full of holidays and boats and boys. A cuppa from the wee stove. ‘Aye, she needs a bit of paint’. Jim wheels a rolled up tarpaulin across the yard. ‘That’ll be the dead body’, laughs George. The crane ambles tward Sea Spray. Two slings are flung under her belly and she is slowly lifted into the air. Holding a rope at the bow we walk towards the edge of the pier and the crane lowers her in, thats it, simple as….A daunder to the edge of the harbour and back around to berth next to the Tina Louise and a promise of a hurl around the bay when the wind dies down.

Ink on paper.