I find the alphabet a helpful structure in my writing, so when I came to write a list of what I feel grateful for over the past twelve months, I turned to it again to help me.
​It didn't let me down.  
 
A is for Art and creativity – admittedly, this has come in waves, but at times has been very helpful in keeping me moving forward.

B is for Black Isle Correspondent, daily videos from; a little bit of madness, kindness and real life every day, especially during the first lockdown. Grateful thanks to Anna Massie.

C is for Camomile tea. And cake – the making and partaking of it, the sharing of it with friends, when possible.

D is for Dog.  My dog for making me smile every day, and often laugh too

E is for Empty beaches for walking on, I'm so lucky to live where I do.

F is for Friends and family, for staying in touch

G is for Growing things and gardening.

P is for Playing music on my mandolin. Also Photography - taking photos feels like a form of meditation to me. 

Q is for Quiz shows on TV, especially Only Connect and Mastermind. Monday evenings’ entertainment.

R is for Refreshing my knowledge and love of languages and learning a new one or two, on Duolingo.  Also, reading.  Novels, poetry, familiar and new.

S is for Slowing down, social media, staying in touch. Also Soup, the making and supping of it.

T is for Tunes – playing old ones and writing new ones

U is for Unforgotten – a cold case series on TV; totally hooked. Also old murder mysteries, the familiarity of them, the satisfying resolution.

V is for Very funny radio programmes, especially some of those on at 6.30pm on Radio 4, providing lots of laughter while I make my tea.​

W is for Walking. Every day. Walking and the peace of it. Sometimes walking with a friend.  Also for Writing; the joy of putting words together, in a poem, a story, a post.

X is for Acceptance – I will cheat a little here perhaps – taking the X to mean being not being allowed to do things. Accepting the situation, the imposed restrictions, the fact that I could not travel anywhere and no-one could come here – all that. Accepting it all made it a whole lot easier to make the most of what I could still do – many of these things are listed here.  

Y is for Yes – saying yes to new things, to taking part in online workshops and courses and exhibitions.
​
Z is for Zoom, which I hadn't heard of this time last year, but now value highly, for staying in touch and keeping things going. ​

There are days
when your footsteps in the sand
barely break the surface
when the grains are hard packed -
stacked by the receding tide
the sea seeped away
drained into the bay
those are the days
when you make no impression
barely a dent is rent
in the perfect surface
only the occasional crack
of a shell as your track
shifts to the high tide line
 
there are days
when the sand shifts -
drifts beneath your feet
each step an effort
in the soft brown sugar
of the shore
and others have been here
before, churning, turning
stirring its softness,
leaving it spoiled
soiled until the
tide turns
 
there are days
when the top layer
of sand looks firm
but your boots sink
several inches
into its depths
you plod on,
across the bank
leave holes where
you sank
but rose again
 
there are days
when the sea weeps  -
seeps its way
back up the shore
more and more
till what seems firm
is liquid
and when stepping forward
you realise
a little late
the fate awaiting -
the fluid form
lying low
ready to pull you beneath
its innocent surface
with an insistent grasping
 
there are days
when the wind howls
across the bay
your boots
sandblasted by the
loose top layer -
the poor dog’s eyes
filled with grit -
those are
no days to sit
and stare
out to sea

A friend asked me the other day what I'd been up to recently.  I answered very unsatisfactorily, I suspect.  "Oh, this and that," I said.  I managed to gather my thoughts sufficiently to mention a couple of reasonably concrete things - a new outlet for my work, plans for the open studios event later in the year.   I feel as if I have been pretty busy recently, but it's all fairly disparate, with not a lot of tangible results for my efforts.  Perhaps it is time to take stock, see where I am with various projects, and start prioritising what to do next.  North East Open Studios seems a long way off (it's not really, it's in 4 months' time!).

This is the problem I find with working creatively, on my own.  The lack of a sounding board, someone to say "that's not one of your best ideas, what about that other one you mentioned the other day?" - the less brutal version of "that idea is rubbish.... next!"   I find I am often full of ideas, but whether it is worth pursuing them can be a difficult decision. Recently, I have done a bit more drawing, as well as some sketching out and about (sitting on the harbour at Portsoy was so lovely, especially in the sunshine).  It made me recall how much I enjoy this; absorption is total, concentration absolute, focus intense.  Time just disappears.  I had hoped to do a pile of sketches, and managed three or four.  I tried doing a few in the city centre the other day, but found that I needed to find a quiet spot, somewhere I could sit, as I felt too conspicuous otherwise.  The practicalities of balancing sketchbook, water pot and tiny box of watercolours also have to be taken into account.  Of course I took photographs as well, many of Portsoy harbour.  I very much admire the work of John Glynn, who I believe is now based in Moray. When I got back to my shed/studio I had a go at doing a simplified drawing of Findochty harbour, inspired by his style.  It was an interesting exercise, which made me focus even more clearly on the shapes I was seeing, and avoid making "sketchy" marks.   Plans are afoot to do some drawings like this, using some of the reference photos I've taken recently of northeast harbours.  There we go, a plan has been crystallised before my very eyes!  Thank you for listening/reading :)

No words required.

I spent last week on my beloved west coast.  Last year, I did not take enough holiday; this year I am determined to do better.  We were lucky with the weather, as often happens at this time of year. It is too cold for the midges and it was dry, bright and sunny with the occasional April shower.  Cold, too - there were wild hail-storms in the night at the end of the week and a few in the daytime too.  

​Time was spent outside, as far as possible. Walking the beaches, scouring the high tide line for driftwood and shells; looking out to sea at the distant Cuillins of Skye and then back at the near things - the textures of the ancient rocks and lichens, seaweed patterns, fishing nets lying on the harbour. I absorbed the images like a sponge; my camera is a very useful tool. My well was refilled.

All the time I was there, my focus kept shifting.  From a big seascape, with a tiny boat on the horizon, to the shapes of the cracks in the tops of the huge wooden posts which hold up the harbour.  From gulls wheeling above us in the bitter breeze, to the shadow shapes formed by a rope lying across a beached dinghy.  

​It's all there.  

"So, is there anything to do round here, then?" I was asked by someone I met on the beach the other day. They had never been to the area before.  
My answer at the time was a bit glib - 
"Well, there are no shops or cinemas, if that's what you mean." 

I meant clothes shops, department stores and multiplex cinemas, of course.  There are grocery stores, a very good butcher and a rather well-stocked book shop. Since then I have been thinking.

It's all a matter of what you want to do.  This is your kind of place if - 
- a stroll on the beach, gathering cockle and limpet shells, empty sea urchins and the occasional starfish appeals to you

- you can stand and watch the waves crashing on the shore, without being impatient to move on 
- you see the rapidly changing weather as a source of fascination and varying light conditions
- carrying a camera is a way of life
- carrying a sketch book and pencil and maybe a small box of watercolours is a way of life
- you like mucking about in boats and fishing, both fresh and salt water
- you enjoy any kind of walking - hill-walking, mountain climbing or a brisk march along a sandy beach
- you play golf
- you like horse riding
- you don't get phased by single track roads and know the appropriate polite gestures to use when driving on them.


I don't think I'm finished with this theme. To be continued.
  

One of the many things I love about the west coast is the light.  More specifically, the way the light changes. One minute you can be walking along the beach with blue skies all around and the next, the sky is slate grey and so is the sea.  And more often than not, there are wet spots on the stones and pebbles on the beach, or pock marks in the sand, if there is a significant amount of precipitation.  There may be a gleaming patch of sunlight on the sea, in the distance.  Not so much a patch, perhaps, as a sliver, a sliver of silver.  And then there are the beams of light which come down through the clouds, a reminder that the sun is in fact still up there, waiting to put in another appearance.   This rapidly changing light is great for photography, but much trickier for painting in situ (or plein air, as they say).  It's a good incentive to work quickly so as to capture the moment.  Soon it will be warm enough again to do some outdoor sketching and painting again - I'm looking forward to it.

Last weekend I discovered that it's not easy to take photographs with gloves on.  The air was chilly, as one would expect at the start of February in the Scottish Highlands.  The pale turquoise soft wool gloves I received as a Christmas present nearly worked, though I struggled to take the lens cap on and off.  Still, some photographs were taken; more "source material", as I have come to call it, for my boat paintings.  And also some photos which I think work well just as they are - like the ones above. They are bits of a boat which has been lying on top of the harbour in Gairloch in Wester Ross for quite a while now.  It's a great subject - I've taken pictures of it before.  I love the peeling paint, where layers have come off to show what lies underneath; the corroded metal, like verdigris - perhaps it is.  

Before Christmas, at a little fair where I was showing some of my recent work, an American lady asked me why I was painting boats.  I hadn't really thought about this; I like them, the shape of the them, the colours.  But it is more than that.  I only started to discover the answer when I told them that I used to sail.  And now I have thought about it some more and these memories have come to me.

I used to sail a lot when I was young.  I sailed at school, in the sailing club;  in a dinghy, on Linlithgow Loch, on summer evenings.  And then we sailed as a family, a wee blue wooden dinghy to start with, then a slightly bigger boat, a cruiser with an inboard engine and bunk beds, a gas stove for making toast and tea and heating soup.  We sailed on the Firth of Forth during term time and then on the west coast of Scotland during the summer holidays   The boats were towed north and then south.  Long days were spent trekking the trailer down the shore, waiting for the tide to come in, floating the boat off and then mooring her safely in the bay.  I was never so keen on sailing in the cruiser.  There wasn't the immediacy, the closeness to the water, that one felt in a dinghy.  The sound of the water lapping at the bow, the feel of the rudder in my hand, the tautness of the sheets, held against the wind.   Watching the luff of the sail for any flapping, indicating that you were sailing too close to the wind.  Or the homemade woolen telltales tied to the stays, showing exactly where the wind was coming from.  All these memories, there in the back of my head; there whenever I paint another boat.  There is more about this in there - more for another day.

I'm heading west this weekend, laden with some of my creations.  Some original paintings (including those pictured above), mounted prints and a selection of greetings cards.  The paintings are going to be brightening the walls of the lovely Steading Bistro in Gairloch (in behind the Gairloch Heritage Museum).  The plain white walls will be a great backdrop for my boat paintings.  There are a couple more which are now complete, but didn't quite make it to the framers in time - photos soon. I'm really enjoying painting boats, although getting all the curves and angles and proportions right can be quite a challenge!

I'm hoping there will some gaps in the rain over the weekend, to get out and about.  Feeling in need of some brisk walks on the beach, to blow away my January cobwebs.  If I'm lucky, there will be enough light for a few photos too.  

I find it almost impossible to walk along a sandy beach without stopping and stooping to collect items which then get taken home in my pockets (or, if there are lots of items, in a handy poo-bag, which I always have about my person).   Depending on which beach I am walking on, these items vary.  My most recent foray was on Aberdeen beach.  My companion was collecting sea glass, so I settled for something else instead. I focused on white or cream-coloured pebbles and small pieces of wood, smoothened by their journey across the sea and up the beach.  As they are tumbled up the shore, these pieces of box, or boat, crate or fence, door or simply branch, are pounded by the waves, and by the sand and the pebbles within those waves.  I love the feel of them.  When they are dry (the ones in the photographs above are still damp), they will often be salt-bleached and white.  

And then, when they are tumbled out on the table, on a big sheet of white paper, there seems to be a requirement to arrange them. By size, shape, colour? Any and all of these. Until a pleasing pattern is formed. Which is when I take a photograph.