dominique cameron RSW

She has a repair to her coat, bright yellow dashes of thread pull together a tear in the collar. She asks if I think it will be warm enough, her coat, to wear on her day trip to Orkney. Perhaps I say, but isn’t it an awfully long way to go for a day trip ? Turns out she is going to Thurso for a holiday, which raises yet more questions but the bus has arrived at stance number four. The door opens and she slowly ascends, her first steps to the far north. I gaze out at the grey sea, grey sky and wonder if it might be warmer in Wick right now.

Clay head of Samer from a weekend sculpting course at Edinburgh Sculpture Workshop with Duncan Robertson.

Charcoal, crayon and graphite on paper – 76 x 56 cm.

Sketch, Ruby Bay, Elie.

A good westerley this morning ruffles the shoreline. Clambering over the rocks, a picture of my younger self, but now cautious, considered. I try a small leap, it feels good, I just need a bit of cajoling these days. The rocks here are impermeable, the sea has seemingly made little impact, grey in colour or rather, if I look closer more of a burnt charcoal ashey smudge of a colour- ‘mole’s breath’ according to a paint chart I am looking at on my desk at home. Below the rocks the sea slaps, slips over bronze bladderwrack . The wind is picking up and the sea responds, churning itself round the small bay, dashing into the smallest of gaps, salt floats high in the air, curing this landscape like a memory. A startling white gannet glides past heading east to the Bass Rock.

Climbing this short rise the view to the west and the north opens out towards mountains in the distance – Schiehallion for sure and others I can’t name as yet. Swallows dart across the topmost fields, old hawthorns berried on the brow of the hill. Eyebright, birdsong, gorse bees. A housemartin zips past my face, so close I feel the whoosh as it dips its wing and is away, like the summer up here on the edge. A vole scurries into the long grass. A new view, a new home ? I like the clear, broad space and the constant north light. I think so.

I am just back from an epic trip to China to visit our son Joe. We travelled from Shanghai across China to the Tibetan plateau and back again. It was exhausting, wonderful and eye opening . There were only a handful of foreigners on the whole trip west and the further west we got the more the landscape became less known, less knowable – higher, broader, wilder with mountains in all directions. Local people wanted to take our photos which felt novel and odd but they were pleased to meet us and the differences between the more rural traditional landscapes and the new urban construction were stark. A fabulous trip. Need a month to recover 🙂

The trees have a heavy dark green velvet curtain feel to them, as if they are being pulled open and shut in the cool wind that blows in from the Tay. They are starting to reach the end of their fullness, too tired to keep their youthful hue . Cows daunder on the fields edge and behind, Normans Law, rising to such a view it is worth the climb – north, south, east, west – river, mountain, tree. An ancient history here sings the yellowhammer and wren while the yew trees in the churchyard shift their weight in response, a dance for what its worth, a memory of younger times.

Mixed media on wood panel – 40 x 50 cm.

Overcast, muted, today. The sea mumbles, a few dogs on the beach come over for a nosey. The red rocks here in this small outcrop are different from everything else around. Contorted and spewed, this particular ancient volcanic seam, now held fast, petrified, tumbling toward the sea. From the beach looking back it takes the form of a slain dinosaur, spiny platelets marking the passage of its body. Seals and shags keep watch. The Bass Rock flattens to a tanker inching its way along the horizon.

There they are, the swallows, flitting between the station roof and the railway track. A warning about the midges from a waitress who says when she lived at Rannoch she would even find them in her knickers. As you do. A lone bumblebee fills the whole moor with its buzzing. Slipping as I cross the burn, wet feet again. The rowan greets me as I climb on to my drawing knoll. Standing on a large granite boulder as if it were the prow of a ship, I look out, beyond all of myself to the great unfurling moor, and feel as if this sky, these hills, this bog is enough for any one person. Sitting down I pull out drawing paper and a plastic freezer bag that should contain pencils, crayons, ink and brushes. Instead however, I look to see a bag of cooked , cold chipolatas. I stare at them for a long time, unsure as what I am thinking and when finally a thought does arrive the question is whether I might be able to draw with a sausage ? Really? Really. Rootling around further in the depths of my rucksack produces the art materials, Drawing, following the line of hills, brushing sun and shadow, finding the rhythm of Rannoch that sounds across the bogland, I close my eyes and fall in.