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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.

Early morning, high tide. A thin veil of cloud promises to lift to reveal a bright, shiny day. A few Methil men are already on the sea wall fishing- cod and mackerel one tells me, no luck as yet. The still air allows sounds to travel across the docks – voices, lorries, a small boats engine coughing, gentle lapping of water against the pier. Warm concrete to sit on and draw the old jetty. I am astonished by the number of plants that have taken up residence in nooks and crannies of split concrete and rotting wood, where dockan, scurvy grass and birds foot trefoil seem out of place, out on a limb. I walk to the end and look out to sea. ‘Catch anything ?’, I ask. ”Naw, nearly caught a crab, this big, but it fell off. I’ll call it a day soon’. ‘Me too’, I say.

Oil on wood panel – 100 x 120 cm.

Getting ready for the mackerel coming soon. An overcast sky. A ‘Watchtower’ leaflet politely declined. Nice day I say. Have you ever thought who gave us this nice day ? he says. I laugh, walk on. George tells me about going to the co op as a child with a line from his mum, can still remember his number. The Corrs on a cd player – Irish whistles and a quiet singalong to the fixing and painting of boats. The haddock are back off Elie, first time in years. A gift of an orange boilersuit off the rigs. It’ll work once the arms and legs are cut down. Looking and watching and drawing.

Oil and charcoal on panel – 20 x 25 cm.