During our time in Scotland, the big treat for me was a solo trip out to Kintyre. Kintyre is a peninsula in the west of Scotland, one of several. It's rather remote and hard to get to by vehicle, so much so that it's called "Scotland's only Mainland isl…
During our time in Scotland, the big treat for me was a solo trip out to Kintyre. Kintyre is a peninsula in the west of Scotland, one of several. It's rather remote and hard to get to by vehicle, so much so that it's called "Scotland's only Mainland island." Indeed, it's easier in some ways to catch a ferry to get there from Northern Ireland, where I am now!
I went down there to visit Kate, so we could meet in person and do some planning on the Secret Project. There's so much to say about that, but it isn't quite time yet, and I can't even discuss how supportive and generous Kate and her team have been throughout without getting really weird and weepy, so I'll just leave that for now. What I do want to talk about is this beautiful place, that Kate has written so much about (and her husband Tom has depicted so well in pictures), and that I got to see first-hand.
The drive itself, three hours from Alexandria to outside Campbelltown, was an experience in itself. Up the west side of Loch Lomond, with its mountains and forests, west through the Rest and be Thankful pass, around through Inveraray, then south down a coast that slowly trades trees for sheep. There were sheep absolutely everywhere, mostly Scottish Blackface. At some points the hills had an irregular natural terracing, I believe just from sheep walking about on them continuously for so long.
I loved this drive so much that I strapped my camera into the passenger's seat on the way back and filmed some of it. If you'd like to come on a little bit of that drive with me, I recommend tuning into the next episode of the Wool Circle, which will come out next Tuesday.
Hentilagets! The Scots word for the bits of wool that sheep leave behind when rooing.
Saddell Abbey
About halfway up the east coast of Kintyre, lies a little glen called Saddell. According to the plaque at the car park, the name Saddell comes from a Norse word meaning "sandy." Here, sometime in the middle of the 12th century, the Hebridean laird Somerled invited Cistercian monks to found an abbey. It became a center of worship for over three hundred and fifty years.
It's an evocative old place, with layers of history in and through it. There are gravestones so old that they look like rotting teeth or ancient standing stones, while other, newer graves have been placed inside and around the old abbey after it was a ruin. It's a spiritual place that has continued to be used as a spiritual place - it isn't interpreted, so much, if you know what I mean. It's just... still there.
At the site, some of the more important historical gravestones have been protected under a shelter with some interpretation. According to the plaques, these were specially commissioned from the monks at Iona. Weathering has made their faces fade into a ghostly suggestion. But originally, these stones may have been brightly painted, and their faces would have been carved with detail.
A more sheltered spot under the elbow and on the side of the gorget helps me imagine how detailed the whole piece must have been originally. These are clan chieftans, depicted in padded armor.
The suggestion of knotwork survives on this piece, which appears to show a child praying.
Also around this site were some ancient yew trees, which I hadn't seen in person before. This tree is most likely older than the American Constitution. Connecting earth and heaven, old trees have always been a powerful spiritual symbol, and are particularly humbling in spaces like this one.
After visiting the abbey, we walked to the beach nearby. Like many of the rocks in the arctic, the rocks in this beach make a pleasing community of parallels, like a visual choir.
Those of you subscribed to Kate's current club, the Summer of Mystery, might recognize this little cottage. Like many of the gorgeous buildings on these beaches, it appears to be lovingly cared for, right down to the slate roof. (The slate roofs, you guys. I cannot get over them.)
I wear my kids' sunglasses, because I have completely given up buying my own - I lose them instantly.
On the drive back, I got a closer view of this whale shaped island named Davaar. This curious little islet can be reached on foot by means of a causeway only exposed during low tide. No one lives there except a lighthouse keeper and a few sheep, but you can stay there if you like. Kate wrote a whole book of patterns inspired by this tiny place.
All three beaches we visited had a different character. Colourful gravel, fine white sand, coarse orange sand, all of it natural. I was a bit taken with the vivid colours of the seaweed, being partial to maroon.
Of course we had to stop and stare at some Highland Coos, lazily basking on their very own private shore. That's the volcanic island of Ailsa Craig in the background with mainland Scotland beyond.
Beaches by the Mull
This is BOB, who was great company during my time in Kintyre. It isn't every day you get to meet a dog who's famous on the internet. Not as famous, to be sure, as the late great Bruce, but certainly by association. BOB graciously introduced me to his new millhouse home (above), which Kate has described in loving detail. I got to see some of the pictures of the mill before the previous owner restored it, and it's positively staggering how nice it is now. It gives one hope for the work of preserving historical buildings in a way that allows them to still be practically functional. But then, there's a much greater demand for the services and infrastructure to care for such buildings in Europe than in the Americas. Just one of many little differences that impress themselves upon one, being in the Old Country.
I am digressing inexcusably from BOB. As I said, I got to see his beautiful new house, and his favourite beaches. There was the rocky beach above mentioned. Then on the west side of Kintyre, just north of Machrihanish, there's the beach with fine white sand. That's Machrihanish and the Mull of Kintyre in the background, the sort of big rocky cliff which defines the southwest corner of Kintyre.
Then, along the southern edge of Kintyre, there's coarser reddish sand on the beach near Keil. In the background here are Sanda Island and its little neighbor, which are apparently for sale. Anyone want to spot me a couple million pounds so I can move in?
Seriously though, in this light it's gorgeous. I fancy a cabin next to that lighthouse on the right, don't you?
At this third beach was one last place of interest which Kate shared with me and I'd like to share with you. This is a place with the purported footprints of St. Columba, the Irish missionary who brought Christianity to Scotland in the sixth century.
I wasn't sure what to expect when we went to see these footprints, but they're really quite suggestive. They have a stance to them: the right foot planted at an angle in back, while the left foot points forward, the front dipping down in a way that suggests motion. With Ireland visible in the background, the prints provide a sense of a person arriving who is here to do something.
Are these the actual footprints of St. Columba? Would he have stood here? Who knows. Apparently footprints in stone like this are not unique, and standing in such places would be part of the rite of investiture of a clan chieftan. I could definitely imagine that.
We do know, however, that St. Columba is real. And the way this spot has been marked out as a place of observance and memory, the way it has been loved and treasured, makes it real. The way that Sherlock Holmes is canonized at Reichenbach Falls is enough to make one willing to forget that he was fictional. In a place like this, where the person and the work are not fiction, the love makes possibility close enough to real.
The red cliffs at this site were entrancing. They're made of a sandstone composite that in places looks almost as if it were etched with runes.
In these cliffs are natural caves whose use predates Columba. According to Kate, they contain signs of human habitation that go back to the Neolithic era.
It's just too convenient a space not to use. I couldn't bring myself to resent the bits of rubbish about, as aren't they just the current version of the fossilized rubbish heaps I would have pored over if I had followed a different path into archaeology?
The Milarrochy Tree
I've had the privilege of getting to know my heroes before, but this visit was just as much about meeting a famous place. As much as I am a shameless fan of all of Kate's work, so much of what I like about it is how particular it is. Many of her books and pattern collections reflect a personal love of a very specific corner of the world. Tom's photographs play an equally important part in communicating these particular places. His pictures, which go beyond content and into atmosphere and colour and feeling, have had a profound affect on how I look at places and try to capture them.
Having read those books and enjoyed all the cerebral and aesthetic appreciation contained therein, and then getting to see those places in person, one discovers with some surprise that they are in fact, just places. I feel all the layers of the proverb, "wherever you go, there you are." But with all the context, all the layers of history peeking open, these books have built frames around these places that make them more than just places. They become windows into another world that has been touched, not by romance or ideas, but by people.
Perhaps nowhere is more emblematic of this than Milarrochy Bay, on the eastern shore of Loch Lomond, which is home to a very particular tree.
Kate used to live fairly close to this spot, and she incorporated this locally famous tree into the logo for her Milarrochy Tweed line of yarn.
Since I just designed and knit a whole book's worth of patterns from it, I've spent a lot of time with this yarn over the last few years, so you can believe me when I say I think it's pretty special. I will shout more about how great I think this yarn is at another time, but I bring it up because said yarn has given me my own personal connection to this Tree, and I had to lay my current project upon its knee.
(The below picture contains spoilers for the Goff Mystery Knit-Along, clues 1 and 2, released a few weeks ago at this point. Please avert your eyes if this affects you.)
This has all been putting me in mind of a theological concept called the "scandal of the particular." This idea, which goes at least as far back as medieval Scottish theologian John Duns Scotus, and has roots in Aristotle (and therefore probably Augustine), just points out how weird it is that God works through particular people in particular times and places. Like, how God adopted one people, the Jews, as part of the journey of revealing himself to humanity as the God who loves everyone. How God sent Jesus in a particular time and place, in a particular culture, in order to reach the world. It's just the paradox of an infinite God communicating with extremely finite, embodied humans.
I got personally attached to this idea, at least in a metaphorical way, after I had kids. I've never been a person who gets along really well with kids, or even likes them that much, but loving my particular kids has taught me how to see and love other kids much better than I did. You can't "should" yourself into love; it's a connection, and it has to be made somewhere in order to come more generally.
My kids, horsing around in Milarrochy Bay. Above, Stringbean is just trying to build a sandcastle, but this duckling really thinks she's got food. Below,Minimighty and Dooner launch a boat they made out of driftwood, with feather sails they anchored in wet sand.
Being in a particular place that I've heard so much about, that I've gotten to experience through someone else's eyes, makes me willing to go back to my own place and see it differently. The story of my place is so different. I am both a settler and an immigrant, and the complexities of even being there cannot be explored without discomfort. Let alone developing my own creative expression out of that place. But then, so many things are the same, right down to the flowers I love to collect on my camera roll, the muirs being so similar to tundra. It's worth the discomfort to build the frame.
Bog cotton on Aonach Mor - Nunavummiut will recognize Arctic cotton.
These were the thoughts circling my brain as I got to see all these special places. Thanks, Kate and Tom, for sharing your love for the west of Scotland with us over the years, and bringing so many other bright thinkers and artists and events to our attention as well. There's so much more to be said, but it's taken me over two hours to write this much, and I really must go to bed. Good night dear ones, and enjoy your place.
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