ICARUS FALLING INTO THE FIRTH OF FORTH with Muirhead Bone sketching the Grand Fleet.

Icarus falling into the Firth of Forth
 with Muirhead Bone sketching the Grand Fleet.

Oil on canvas, 91.5cms. x 120.2cms.   2020

Muirhead Bone and the Grand Fleet

Muirhead Bone was born in Glasgow and qualified as an architect before studying at Glasgow school of Art. He was unusual for his day in depicting city and industrial scenes with a powerful graphic style using both etching and lithography.

In 1901 he moved to London where his career flourished and he became a successful artist. In 1916 he was appointed Britain's first official war artist, partly because the realistic intensity of his work reproduced well in the propaganda publications of the day. His ability as a draughtsman enabled him to take on complex industrial subjects such as gun and shell manufacturing, as well as producing hundreds of behind the lines sketches of the Western Front. During March 1917 he spent three weeks sketching the Grand Fleet in the Firth of Forth. He also served as a war artist in the Second World War.

The Grand Fleet was the greatest congregation of major war vessels the World had ever seen. The pre war naval arms race with Germany had been won by the British and the Grand Fleet, even after war losses, was far stronger at the end of the war than at the beginning, with many new vessels coming into service. The fleet was formed in 1914 and at the outbreak of war was immediately able to sail to it's operational base at Scapa Flow, where it would engage with enemy forces entering the North Sea and support the blockade of Germany.

Scapa, however, was without repair facilities and with the completion of Rosyth Dockyard the fleet moved to the Firth of Forth. The coastline and islands were heavily fortified and mine fields and booms deterred attacks by submarines and small craft.

By the summer of 1918 the years of trench warfare on the western front were over and the Allies were inexorably pushing the German army back. The naval blockade had bitten deeply into German society and it was clear to the military leadership that they had no hope of winning the war .The admirals, however, planned one last, probably suicidal adventure into the English Channel. This was too much for the crews, who mutinied and started the  revolution that forced the Kaiser to abdicate. The fleet made one last voyage, but not the one that was intended. They were led by a British cruiser into the Firth of Forth and passed between the lines of British and allied vessel then anchored in six lines stretching from Kirkcaldy to Aberlady. After surrendering to Admiral Beatty they steamed to Scapa Flow for internment. There they waited as the Allies wrangled over reparations and how severely to punish Germany. Fearing that the fleet would be parceled out to the Allies, in June 1919 the order was given to scuttle. In an act of defiance the flag of the Imperial German Navy was hoisted to the mast head, the sea cocks opened and the ships sank to the bottom. 

There the proud fleet lay until the 1920's when a scrap merchant decided to raise them. This was no easy task but slowly most of the major vessels were brought to the surface. Their upturned hulls were towed to the Firth of Forth, under the Forth Bridge and broken up in the drydocks at Rosyth. A sad, but fitting end to the fleet that was the deranged Kaisers great vanity project.

Icarus

In an ancient time, long before the Roman vessels unloaded their cargoes of red wine, fish sauce and olives for the troops at Cramond lived a great King of Fib. The king had a problem and this is where the story starts to get a bit weird. It should be remembered, however, that the world was very young then and material things had not been fixed and understood as they are today. He had married a young wife but she had turned from him and fallen in love with a beautiful white bull. Such was her passion that she copulated with the beast and begat a son. As can be imagined, this was no ordinary creature, but had the body of a man and the head of a bull, just like his father. If this creature had been a placid herbivore, living on salads, the king might have turned a blind eye, but it had an insatiable lust for human flesh.

The king needed help and he remembered there was a wise man living across the water in the land of Loth. Now Daedalus,(for that was his name) was not only wise but a great maker and inventor. He did not take the old ways for granted but experimented for himself and Nature was his teacher. Having been promised a great reward, he sailed with Icarus, his son and apprentice, to the land of Fib. He listened and wondered at the Kings strange story, then produced a plan.

"We will contain this creature under the ground, where it belongs," he told the King.

"These passages will be so dark and complex that the beast will never find it's way out."

It took years to construct the labyrinth and at the end of every days work they had to follow a thread to find their way out. With the work competed and the beast contained, they waited for their reward. The King, however, either wished to keep such useful workers to himself or was frightened that his dreadful family secret would be spread throughout the world. Daedalus and Icarus were imprisoned in a high tower on the island of Inchkeith.

Of course, Daedalus had no intention of being a prisoner long, but the island had no wood or skins to build a boat. Day after day he would look south from the tower and in fine weather could even see the smudge of smoke from his homestead in the green land of Loth. Every day he watched the seabirds launch themselves from the cliffs, then with a few effortless flaps of their wings, wheel and soar in circles, flying higher and higher in the updraft from the island.

From the honey bee he took the wax comb and from the sea birds collected the feathers. Through the dark days of winter, when the island was battered by storms, they constructed two sets of wings.

"Now listen son," said Daedalus, " If these wings work, don't fly too low in case the feathers grow wet and heavy. And remember, never, never fly too high because the sun will melt the wax."

"Yes Dad, I know. You've told me this a thousand times."

On a fine summer day, with the sea birds soaring above them, they stood trembling on the edge of the tower. It took great courage to jump off but after a few panicky flaps they were caught by the updraft and carried skywards. Round in great circles they soared, climbing higher and higher. When Daedalus looked down and saw the island about the size of  his hand he shouted to Icarus,

"Turn south! This is high enough."

But Icarus had another plan. Filled with the exhilaration of youth and the freedom of flying he soared higher and higher. 

"Come down!" shouted his father, "Icarus, come down!"

Daedalus watched his son disappear into the arching blue of the heavens then turned south. He had tears in his eyes and felt a terrible foreboding.

Overwhelmed by excitement, Icarus felt no apprehension at all till he felt warm wax trickling down his arms.

"Dam!" he thought, "I'll have to go down," but it was far too late. He started a controlled descent but great chunks of feathers started to break off the wings. He lost control and began tumbling.

Poor Icarus! He plunged faster and faster, head over heels. Not only was he plunging through space but his acceleration was such that he was moving forward through Time. If he managed to open his eyes he would have seen his homestead in Loth was now a great, stone city, shrouded in smoke. Another tumble would have revealed an enormous bridge striding confidently across the shiny estuary and below, swinging lazily on their moorings, the gigantic war vessels of an unknown tribe.

 

 

THE QUEEN ON LOCHNAGAR

The Queen on Lochnagar
Oil on canvas bonded to board.
40.6cms  x 56cms, 2020

The last trip I made to Lochnagar was in 2017, which I wrote about in 'At the well of the fox'. What I didn't mention in this account was that while on the summit I met the Queen. I was so stunned by this event, which seemed so out of context that I didn't really know how to deal with it. Instead, I created this little painting in commemoration.

 

Now, you have to understand that I am no royalist. In fact, most of my life I have been a republican. Not one of the militant sort that rant and rave as I don't think who is head of State matters much. The truth was that I was quite concerned by the event. Here was an old lady inexplicably wearing court dress on the snowy summit of a mountain and it was becoming very cold. At first I thought she must have been wandering a bit and a little dottled. She seemed to be completely alone so I considered calling the police and social services to arrange a helicopter. However, I needn't have worried. She was as bright as a button, saying it was a few years since she'd been here and we talked about the tree planting and the ravages of weather. At this one of here ladies in waiting appeared from behind the cairn. By the way she was adjusting her clothing I assumed she'd nipped behind a boulder to have a piddle. Away they went, skipping quit spryly over the boulders.

Now you may ask, what was the Queen doing there, on the summit of Lochnagar?

Well, she owns the whole mountain. I was wandering in her back garden!

   
 

JOHNSON AND BOSWELL ON INCHKEITH, having mistaken the century.

Johnson and Boswell on Inchkeith,
 having mistaken the century.
Oil on canvas, 2020
61cms. x 81cms.

On the 18th of August 1773, Samuel Johnson with his friend and travelling companion James Boswell embarked on their famous journey to the Western Isles. They sailed across the Firth of Forth on the ferry from Leith to Kinghorn, but half way across they landed on the uninhabited island of Inchkeith. There they examined the ruins of an old fort and Johnson "stalked like a giant among the luxuriant thistles and nettles." I assumed this was the only visit they made to the island, until my attention was drawn to another source. A friend, who is a military historian, picked up a box of junk from a car boot sale and one of it's contents was a battered old notebook. To his surprise he discovered this was the diary of Lieutenant Arthur Perkins, Royal Garrison Artillery, A Group, South Battery, Inchkeith.

The keeping of diaries by soldiers in wartime was strictly prohibited but the diary of Lt. Perkins would have provided little military information to an enemy. He was a keen ornithologist and used the diary mostly to record the behavior of ground nesting and migrating birds that landed on the island. This was not the safe haven it had been, or was later to become, for many species of birds. During World War 2 over a thousand men served there and any open space was taken up by hutted accommodation. With over two thousand hob nailed boots clambering over the island the nesting gulls and Eider ducks were pushed to the fringes. However, his position, in the command post of the south battery, looked down on a grassy area next to the shoreline. Here he was able to spend many long hours studying the domestic lives of Cormorants as their large nest lay safely within a barbed wire entanglement. 

He served on Inchkeith till 1943. By this time the threat of invasion or surface attack was minimal and personnel were being selected out for the invasion of Europe. He was transferred to a field artillery unit which was heavily engaged and was seriously wounded. Fortunately he pulled through and survived the war. His passion for the natural world continued and he became an eminent professor of Zoology. His work is seen as influential in the development of modern Ecology. 

Extract from the diary of Lieutenant Arthur Perkins for April 1st, 1941.

08.35 hours.

Battery on full alert. Periscope sighted east of island. A Hudson aircraft from Leuchars patrols the shipping lane.

09.15

Stood down. As suspected, false alarm. Naval launch identifies periscope as driftwood.

09.30

Naval launch withdraws. Hudson bombs alleged periscope, sinking, (possibly) offending driftwood. Great glee and cheers, (jeers?) all over island.

15.25

Gunner Ambrose relates a strange story which may yet prove to be an elaborate practical joke. He was on guard duty on the northern side of the battery when he was approached by two men, dressed, as he put it.

"Just like Dick Turpin or actors in Treasure Island. One of them was a massive, fat, sort of cove wearing one of these old fashioned, triangular hats, a big brown great coat and long leather boots. His pall was finer dressed, in white silk stockings and white wig, like those worn by legal types in court."

Naturally, he challenged them. He assumed they were some chaps from another group having a joke but the older character acted up, waving his stick violently in the air and giving him dogs abuse. I would have inclined to think that Ambrose was pulling my leg, or the isolation of this posting had finally got to him and he was hallucinating, but an M.P. (military policeman) arrived on the scene and corroborated his story. He was so concerned about the waving stick and violent expletives that he drew his pistol and was about to arrest them when they suddenly disappeared into thin air.

Although concerned he would be made a laughing stock the M.P. did his duty and informed the Commanding Officer. The C.O. was concerned there had been a breach of perimeter security  so the whole place was thoroughly searched and a naval launch circled the island. The barbed wire was still intact and no one answering their description or any vessel was found. This will be the subject of great hilarity in the Mess tonight.

SHIPYARD, the story of a painting.

Oil on canvas, 81cms. x 64cms.
1967

This painting is a survivor. It is now over fifty years old and was lucky enough not to be committed to the annual bonfire of my student work I had every summer. For many years it languished in the attic but always had some personal value for me. It was a product of a unique experience and for me, a painting in a breakthrough style.

 I started at Duncan of Jordanstone College of Art, Dundee, in 1965. In those days there was a two year general course before specialising in the subject of your choice. I was keen to be a painter. I worked hard but I don't think I was regarded as having more than average promise. The painting school was run by Alberto Morocco and like all the Scottish art schools the course was very traditional. The emphasis was on life drawing, painting and still life. 'Composition', where you could make paintings of your own subject, was the place where aspiring artists could shine. At the end of the second year those of us going into the painting school were told to make a painting over the holidays. There was no specific subject given and the return to college in late September seemed far away. I had no idea what I would do.

As it happened, I was lucky to get a summer job working as a plumbers mate at Burntisland shipyard. The duties were quite simple, just to assist the plumber with another pair of hands, fetch and carry and generally make myself useful. The work was not hard and there was usually some free time when pipes were being prepared or waiting for access to areas where other trades were working. My plumber was tall and gentlemanly and as a tradesman wore a collar and tie, a bunnet on his bald head and a clean brown boiler suite that was belted in the middle. He never swore but had a dry sense of humour.

"Dougie, you know, this ship was designed in Switzerland. I'll let you into a secret. Why don't you go down to the engine room, into the double bottom and find the golden rivet."

He tried all the usual ones like

"Dougie, go to the stores and ask the store man for a long stand." 

If you fell for that one the store man said.

"A long stand? I think there's one somewhere. I'll be back in a minute."

When we were not working in tight, dark corners bolting flanges together I would be out on deck, watching what was going on. Big sections of rusty steel would hang in the air as cranes lowered them to the deck. There was the constant flash of welding and cascades of sparks as burners cut through plates. Although riveting was almost a thing of the past the noise of metal clanging on metal was intense. Then the hooter would blow and in an instant all fell silent. Tea break. As if from nowhere flocks of seagulls circled as men opened their haversacks and unwrapped their pieces. The burners would reduce the pressure of their torches to a yellow flame and play it on blackened syrup tins with a screw of tea leaves in them. The hooter blew, the gulls flew off, the cranes began to swing and the clanging, bashing and flashing continued till dinner time.

One afternoon, when things seemed slack, I skived off and went to look for a pall who was an engineer. I knew there was a big push going on in the engine room  and to get there I had to go down though the decks of the engine trunking .This was open to the sky and as I descended the steel companion ways there was an outbreak of shouting and laughter above me. Sparks had set fire to an awning and blackened canvas drifted down as men pulled it down and stamped the flames out. I stared down into the depths at the top of an enormous diesel engine. The three cylinders were open and I could see one of them held a person. I could only see the top of his head but recognized Richard. He was standing in the giant cylinder pot with a small square of abrasive, rubbing it smooth. I shouted above the din,

"Richard! How do you get all the good jobs?"

He looked up with the expression of a martyred Saint. There was nothing to be said.

Laying deck service pipes in a straight line was easy, but it was not all like this. In difficult sections, like the bow, there were no straight lines at all. A template had to be tacked together, using thin strips of wood then carefully carried to the plumbers shop where the workshop team took over. The template was laid on a large metal bed, perforated with holes and steel pegs inserted at every bend. A suitable pipe was filled with sand, (to stop it buckling) heated red hot and placed on the bed. A cable attached to a winch bent the pipe round the steel peg. This could be done several times, till the pipe was true to the template.

For me, all this was a visual feast. Every day the hulls in the stocks changed colour as the red leaders rolled on different layers of paint. They reminded me of giant Rothko paintings, which at that time  I'd only seen in books. I've seen a lot of Rothko's since and for me the ships hulls were much better. I thought of taking in a sketch book and doing some surreptitious drawing, but my senses were over awed and I hadn't learnt yet to be selective. I was also frightened of the ribbing I'd get being seen to be an artist. The word had spread, however, that I was an art student.

One day I was high on the superstructure when a young welder came up to me.

"Whit dae ye dae?"

"I'm an art student."

"Aye, a ken that, but whit exactly dae ye dae?"

"I study drawing and painting."

"Aye, but whit dae ye paint? Dae ye ever paint lassies?"

"Oh aye, we have to do life drawing and life painting."

"Life drawing, whits that?"

"Oh, just drawing the human figure."

"An these lassies, dae they hae ony claithes on?"

"Nope! Not a stitch."

"Totally naked, nae nickers or onything?"

"Nude"

"Naked nude? Fuck me!"

"Actually, it's really boring."

"AW JIMMY, THIS BOYS GONNAE DRAW US A BIG NUDE!"

When I left the shipyard to go back to college the sights, smells, sounds and even the taste of rusty metal and red lead went with me. I was bursting with sensations.

I arrived in Dundee a few days before college was due to start. I'd rented an old flat in St. Peters Street, part of the 'Twilight Zone' that was soon to be demolished. Things were, to say the least, basic, but it was cheap and only a hole in the wall where I could come back to sleep. There was a little box room with an easel so I quickly stretched a canvas and primed it with emulsion paint, which dried quickly. I had no problem about subject matter as my head was full of shipyard. I painted quite spontaneously with no preparation and it was still wet when I took it into college.

A tutor came into the studio to see what everyone had done and give us a crit. This was Dennis Buchan, one of the younger members of staff. Usually he lit a fag and drew heavily on it while he pondered the work. When he saw my painting, however, he cried out,

"Wow! Who did this? Where did that come from?"

He seemed genuinely surprised. I was pleased with this response and painted a longer version, looking down on two vessels. This was accepted for the Scottish Young Contemporaries exhibition held at the Richard Demarco Gallery in Edinburgh and sold for £25, which seemed like a lot of money. Unfortunately, at this time I lacked the confidence to sign my work so I had to take my box of paints to Edinburgh and make a signature, a lesson I've never forgotten. That painting disappeared from my life, but a few years ago I found it online in an auction house in Glasgow. The title was given as Dundee Shipyard and attributed to one Douglas Stannus Gray, (1890 - 1959), whose work is completely different from mine and died seven years before it was painted. Whoever bought it got a bargain, for it went for only £170.

It was years later that I found that Stanley Spencer had served as a war artist on the Clyde and made a remarkable and unparalleled record of ship building. When I viewed these paintings in the 1980 exhibition at the Royal Academy it was as if I was back in Burntisland. All that was missing was the noise and I could remember that. Sadly, the yard which had built 310 ships and worked for over fifty years failed two years after my summer there. The ship that I worked on, the Ohrmazd, was financed by the British Government for Pakistan. There were endless changes and wrangling over equipment, so that the contract over ran. This incurred severe financial penalties which the company couldn't pay and closed in 1969.

The Exhibition (2)

                           Of maps and Munro's Tables

Nowadays we take maps for granted but the mapping of the Highlands and islands of Scotland wasn't completed by the Ordnance Survey until 1855. Roads were poor and the railways connecting Inverness and Fort William to the south still to be constructed.

In 1889 the Scottish Mountaineering Club was formed, mainly to promote the cause of Alpinism. The members were inevitably drawn from the landed and professional class, men who had the wealth and leisure to pursue such an unusual activity. The Scottish Hills were not much thought of, seen mostly as training for the Alps. The general consensus was that there was only between thirty and forty tops over 3000 feet.

To dispel their ignorance and settle the question once and for all, one of their first and keenest members was asked to look into the matter. Sir Hugh Munro, an estate owner from Kirriemuir, published his findings in the Scottish Mountaineering Club Journal of 1891. His tables must have come as a surprise, for he listed 538 tops over 3000 feet and 283 considered as separate mountains. This gave a huge boost to the exploration of the Scottish hills as enthusiasts pushed into the remote areas attracted by the tops listed in Munro's Tables.

Sadly, many of these areas had been depopulated. Even the sheep runs that had replaced the people had gone and the mountainous areas transformed into large sporting estates, some of which jealously guarded their privacy.

Munro managed all but two of these tops, but others went on to complete the full round. In recent times, with improved communications and almost universal car ownership, most communities have a few people who have completed the Munros. After that, if they still have the energy, they can tackle the lower Corbetts and Donalds. These hills are also listed in Munros Tables.




Munro's Tables
Oil on canvas bonded to board.

Of course, all this scurrying around the country climbing hills was impossible without maps. I have come to believe there are two types of people in the world, those who love maps and the rest, who are indifferent to them. This second group seems to live in a cloud of environmental vagueness, verging on the permanently lost. Maps are knowledge and as the old saying has it, knowledge can be power.

I'm sure there are still people in remote areas who resent having their photographs taken. They believe that someone making an image of them is stealing their vital powers, soul or spirit. Maps are much the same. Mapping a country is an essential precursor to invasion and many maps are state secrets. Having a collection of maps of mountain areas stuffed in a drawer gives us a sense of ownership. We can follow the watercourses, work out routes and poke our fingers in the most inaccessible recesses without stirring from our home. They are an aid to action, things of beauty and a perfect blend of science and art. However, I sometimes wish that Scotland still had some unmapped land.



Walkers discover a disturbing anomaly in their map
Oil on canvas, 61cms x 81 cms 

 Sometimes, Chance takes part in the production of a painting. One day, on my daily walk along the beach I came upon a worn, white board, washed up on the tideline. It was plywood coated with Formica but badly worn with a hole right through it. I reckoned it must have been the table off a creel boat, worn by the creels. What attracted me to it was that each layer of plywood looked like the contours of a map. I walked on, but decided if it was still there the next day I would take it home.

It lay in the studio for some months while I thought about it. Eventually I patched the hole and started to use the plywood contours as a start of a painting. Of course, it had to be a map.

The Living Mountain
Oil on driftwood panel, 160 x 60 cms

 

I peopled it with a host of hill walkers such as you find nowadays on a good weekend. The colouring was based on the old Bartholomew's maps which I found very attractive. The mountain is called Ben Dinnaeken. A friend actually asked me where Ben Dinnaeken was, so I told him I didnae ken.

 

 The title, The Living Mountain, is a book by Nan Shepherd which has recently become very popular. The book is unusual and well worth reading, especially by anyone who loves the Cairngorms. There are some beautiful description but it leaves me feeling slightly uneasy.The essays are an attempt to distill the "essence" of the hills, which seems to me an impossible task. As a poet, author and teacher she was obviously aware of contemporary trends and her writing seems a bit self consciously literary. This, of course is my personal view and I would encourage anyone who is interested in the Scottish hills to read it for themselves.

 

 

Hill Fever - The Exhibition (1)

 

In the spring of 2018 I put together many of my paintings on a Scottish hill theme for a one man show at the Kinghorn Station Gallery. I intended to post the paintings in time for the exhibition, but I was too busy. So, only a year late, I'm doing this now. I could not afford a catalogue but I did put together a loose leaf folder which I called 'The Exhibition Viewers Manual' containing photo's of the paintings and text relating to them. The manual forms a basis for this and subsequent blogs, with a few extra comments and additions. I hope this makes sense. 

 




On Ben Macdui

0il on canvas, 61cms x 71.5cms.

 On an April morning I left Bob Scott's bothy and walked up Gleann Laoigh Bheag. I intended to climb Derry Cairngorm up the side of a burn on it's south western slope, but I was in a complete dream and walked past my turn off. Soon I was climbing Sron Riach and could see Derry Cairngorm across the glen. It was too late now to turn back, so headed, quite happily, up Ben Macdui. It was one of these dark, gloomy days, but with cloud just above the four thousand foot mark. The steep slope soared skywards, partially covered by snow fields. I now looked down on the summits of Carn a' Mhaim and Devils Point and into the gloom of the Lairig Ghru. The true immensity of Macdui is revealed on this slope. The term 'awsome' is greatly overused, but I did feel awe, along with a little trepidation.

By the time I'd reached the ruin of the sappers bothy black cloud covered the top, blowing stinging, horizontal snow. At the summit I turned my back on this and marched on a bearing till the mist cleared. Then I had the pleasure of loping over big snowfields all the way down to a frozen Loch Etchacan. All the way I kept my eyes peeled for the Big Grey Man, but he was not there.

A Mountaineer Fleeing.
Oil on canvas, 46cms x 66cms
 

The Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui

 

In the past, when people had to make their own entertainment, the Highlands were rich in stories and legends. Many of these tales were of fairies, witches, monsters and the supernatural, created to make the listener uneasy or give them a fright. Most have now been forgotten, but one or too, like the legend of the Loch Ness Monster, have grown arms and legs and attract tourists from all over the world.
 

The Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui would have been forgotten, or not even born, had not a senior member of the Cairngorm Club, at an annual dinner, told a strange tale. The speaker was Professor Norman Collie, an Aberdonian by birth and now first Professor of Organic Chemistry at London University. He was also one of the great mountaineers of his era and had climbed extensively from the Rocky Mountains to the Himalayas. The year was 1925, but the event he related occurred much earlier, in 1891.

He had just left  the summit of Ben Macdhui and the mist was thick. He couldn't see much and his only sensation was the crunch of his boots. Then he began to hear another crunch, as if someone was following him, but taking a longer stride than him. It happened again and again and he could make no sense of this. He stopped and peered back into the mist but could see nothing. When he started walking again the crunches followed him. He was a rational man and told himself that  this was nonsense. However, his nerve broke and he fled in panic all the way down to Rothiemurchus forest. He said "Whatever you make of it I do not know, but there is something very queer about the top of Ben Macdhui and I will not go back there again by myself, I know."

His account was published and all sorts of speculation and nonsense swirled about it. Collie hade only heard a noise, but eventually he received a letter from a very reputable source that claimed to have actually seen the Big Grey Man. The writer was Dr. A.M. Kellas, who became a Himalayan mountaineer and a pioneer in the study of high altitude physiology. One day he and his brother were just below Ben Macdhui summit, hammering on rocks and trying to find crystals. Suddenly they saw a giant figure come down towards them from the summit. It disappeared in a hollow but while waiting for it to reappear they were overcome with terror and fled down to Loch Etchacan and off the mountain. They were absolutely convinced this was a physical entity and not a shadow or optical illusion.

Since then the Big Grey Man has been mixed up with all sorts of nonsense, including flying saucers. Others, on the outer boundaries of religions such as Buddhism, claim he was one of the five 'perfected men' who control the destinies of the world and have even conversed with him in the Lairig Ghru. My own view is that people do get frights, especially when they're tired and suffering the sensory deprivation of thick mist when there's very little tangible to relate to. The human mind abhors a vacuum. Also, too much is made of Collies and Kellas's scientific rationality. They wouldn't be the first or the last scientist to find an outlet in practical joking. However, if such a creature does exist he must be lonely. For companionship, the cause of sexual equality and the propagation of the species I have invented a Big Grey Woman. May they be happy!

The Big Grey Woman
Offset drawing and watercolour, 29cms x 31cms.

 

 

 

At the Well of the Fox

I left the car in the Balmoral car park and took the track that leads from the estate village south to Gelder Sheil. This was new to me, as all my previous walks up Lochnagar had been from the Spittal of Glen Muick or long days from the old campsite in Glen Doll. It was in the last days of March 2016, after a winter of heavy snow on the hills. By this time the wide moors were clear but the northern corries of Lochnagar were still plastered with snow. In fact, we were going through another cold snap and much of the snow on the tops was new.

Beyond the woods a good Land Rover track wound across  the rolling moor. In the distance, the small clump of trees around Gelder Sheil were an obvious landmark, slowly growing closer. About a kilometre from the trees there was a parting of the ways. The left fork carried on over the bealach between Conachcraig and Meikle Pap to the Spittal of Glen Muick, while my route swung round and followed the course of the Gelder burn.

Along the banks of the brawling Gelder the Queen had been out planting trees. Unfortunately, many of the young saplings had been swept away and a stretch of the gravel track damaged and repaired. I took this to have been caused by the great downpour in January of the previous year which had washed away part of the A93 between Crathie and Ballater as well as destroying the footbridges at Derry Lodge and Glen Clova

Gelder Sheil is a small shooting lodge and stables dating from Queen Victoria's time. The stables have long been used as a climbers bothy and have only recently been renovated by a group of tradesmen called the Ballater Chiels. They've done a grand job. It is now well insulated with wooden floor, walls, and a stove. Unusual for a bothy there is no communal sleeping platform but wooden bunks. I was slightly suspicious of the high, coffin like sides, but the truth was that I had the best nights sleep I've had in a bothy in one of these bunks. It kept me tight and snug and I couldn't role off my sleeping mat.

I was out at first light and stood at the edge of the trees and looked up over the moor to Lochnagar. There was not a cloud in the sky but the still hidden sun blazed on the snowy tops and corries. It was magnificent. I had to be there.




Lochnagar from Gelder Sheil. Oil on board, 2016.



I strapped my drawing board to the back of my rucksack and set off over the moor. The track soon ran out and I followed a faint, boggy path up towards the corrie. I couldn't help notice that cloud now covered the sun and mist banks were slinking in from the north east and obscuring the tops. This was not good and It was very cold. The boulder fields were snow covered and I had to exercise great care to prevent plunging into hidden holes. I struggled on, probing every footstep with a walking pole till I could see the loch which was frozen and snow covered. There was no sense of the scale of this great amphitheatre because of the mist swirling across the corrie. Occasionally the high edge of the plateau would appear and I'd think the mist was lifting but it didn't and closed in again. I brushed the snow off a boulder and sat down to sketch but knew it was a forlorn hope. I'd piled on all my warmest clothing and I can draw with thin gloves on but the wind cut through everything and I soon began to feel cold. I couldn't see anything so why risk hypothermia by hanging about? Reluctantly, I repacked my sack and followed my route back over the boulders again. I wandered down to the bothy feeling rather despondent and decided to implement 'Plan B'. The previous day I'd started a drawing of the Gelder Sheil so I finished that then went home. Although it had been a good trip I'd expected too much of the weather and from a sketching point of view had been a failure. I'd have to give this more thought.



Gelder Sheil with the bothy on the right.
Above, view of Lochnagar.





Just over a year later, in April 2017, I was back on Lochnagar. I'd risen early and arrived at the Spittal of Glen Muick just after 9am. My pack was heavy for as well as a drawing board and art kit I carried a tent. I took the 'tourist route' that crosses to Gelder Sheil. From the top of this Land Rover track, now badly eroded, a footpath cuts off to the west, climbing up over boulders and heather grouse moor. This took me some time with a heavy pack and I pitched the tent on a rare patch of gently sloping grass by the Fox's Well. This little spring is the last water before climbing onto the summit of Lochnagar.



Camp by the Fox's Well, looking down to the Spittal and Mount Keen.

After a quick snack I set off with only my drawing board on my pack and with the lightened load felt positively sprightly. The view into the corrie is dramatic but this winter had been a poor one for snow and there wasn't much in the gullies. There was, however, a sprinkling all around as it had snowed the previous night. I walked up to the rocky summit of Meikle Pap and tried to find a sheltered station with a good view of the corrie. The view was wonderful but shelter hard to find so I maun thole the bighting breeze. I managed to sit and draw for about two hours, usually long enough to make a good start to a picture which I then finish back in the studio. This time I was not happy. Drawing is a bit like sport. When you are warm and relaxed its possible to work fast and there is no separation between hand and eye. The colder you are the tenser you become and more aware of the hand not doing what the head wants. This disconnect leads to messes and mistakes. Pens are dropped, splodges appear, the wind buffets the drawing board so its impossible to make accurate marks. Pencils roll down holes between boulders and are difficult to retrieve. Eventually you begin to shiver and blurt out, even though there's no one there to hear you," THAT'S IT!" and give up in disgust.

Quite clearly drawing in extreme conditions requires different methods. I had tried one but had another up my sleeve. During the winter I'd been drawing along the Fife coast, just using pencil on A3 paper which I'd prepared previously with a wash of watercolour. This meant I could work quickly standing up and complete a sketch in a few minutes. This could then be worked up with watercolour back in the studio. This method was practical for a cold, windy climate, required the minimum of equipment and also retained a freedom and spontaneity which I like.

Lochnagar from the Meikle Pap, April 2017

I descended from my windy perch on the Big Tittie rather thankfully and started to climb the Ladder. This, of course, is not a ladder at all but a cunningly constructed track up a steep boulder field. I used to enjoy scrambling up the higgledy- pigildy granite slabs where I always seemed to make good time for less effort because it was interesting. Whoever planned this path, however, is a subtle genius and by the tilting of a rock here and moving one there has created a pathway of delight. It is virtually invisible till you are on it and carries you heavenward, or at least to the rim of the corrie. From there you can peer down the Red Spout to the dark lochan below









Looking into the corrie from the top of the Red Spout.
Pencil and watercolour, April 2017.

The path moves away from the corrie edge then starts to climb again to the summit plateau. From a big cairn you can see over to the western corrie and the rolling plateau that stretches to the Tolmounth and Glas Maol. Sir Hugh Munro, him of the 'Tables', commented that, "so elevated and flat is the range that a straight line of ten miles could be drawn from Creag Leacath ( just south of Glas Maol ) to the Meikle Pap of Lochnagar and except for about half a mile on either side of the Tolmount, the elevation is everywhere above 3000 ft. while even at these points it only falls to 2863 ft. and a dogcart could almost be driven the whole way. "

It was a fine day with high cloud and visibility was good. I did a few sketches on the broad summit and peered down the black spout then headed back again. A few minutes walking passed the cairn I realised I was on the wrong track and heading west. This was a navigational error in perfect visibility. I cut back onto the correct route reflecting that I was tired and couldn't be too careful. At the top of the ladder I met a gentleman coming up and  had a pleasant but brief chat. He looked up at me and I looked down on him, both unable to pass until the other gave way. He had, however, to press on as the day was getting late, so I stepped aside.

Cac Carn Mor, left and Cac Carn Beag, the summit, right. In
English, Little Shit and Big Shit.

Looking north from the top of the Black Spout

It was 6pm when I returned to the tent with still a couple of hours of good daylight left. I was tired and a bit fed up as I felt my drawings had been a failure. A brew and a meal of spicy rice and chorizo sausage cheered me up a bit, but I was still wondering why I did this. I looked out of a narrow gap in the tent door at a small patch of rough heather. A cold breeze was blowing so I wrapped my sleeping bag over my shoulders. Time for a dram. I poured some whisky with a dash of water from the Well of the Fox. Ah! I felt the warmth of the spirit spread around my body till I glowed all over. Time for another dram. Ah! I sat there like Buddha, smiling to myself and quietly at peace with the world. I loved my tent which was as steady as a rock and kept out the chill winds. I loved this patch of heather and the raucous, croaking grouse. I loved being here, probably the only person high on Lochnagar in this cold, Spring night. It's a grand drug, whisky, taken in the right place at the right time.

Next morning a cap of cloud clung firmly to the summit so I gave up any thought of going back up and doing more drawing. I was away early and sat down on a rock where the Lochnagar and Spittal tracks meet. The grouse were very active and noisy. They make interesting sounds, which in human speak sound like "I will, I will, I will - What?, What?, What?" then take flight and land with the classic, "Go back, Go back, Go back." Lower down I rounded a corner and stopped dead as a heard of red deer flowed over the track only a few yards away. They scrambled up the banking with a touch of wide eyed panic when they noticed me then headed up the hill. I presumed this was the same mob I'd seen the morning before cropping the haughs at the Spittal. They were still in their drab winter coats and quickly became invisible among the dark heather.

The slopes around here are managed grouse moor and just before the woods there was a big patch of moor burn. This is done by sporting estates to encourage new growth of heather and provide a variety of environment for the grouse. Among the black ash and stalks were weird clumps of sphagnum moss, not green but pinky brown in colour. Soft and spongy, they were like the life of some alien planet, surviving in a blasted, hostile landscape, which indeed, was true.

Sphagnum Moss surviving among the moor burn.

 

The path through the woods avoids the estate cottages and a good Land Rover track leads straight across the flats for a kilometre to the stand of pines around the Spittal. Now there is only one occupied house, toilets and a wooden hut serving as a Ranger and visitors centre. The Spittal, (from where we get hospitality and hospital) was a hospice or hostel established for pilgrims and travellers by the Bishop of Aberdeen back in Medieval times. The other main pass, over the Cairnwell, had a hospice at the southern end, the Spittal of Glenshee. In those days, St Andrews with its shrine was a big attraction. This all got knocked on the head with the Reformation but the community must have adapted and the religious hospice became an Inn. This would have served drovers with their herds, cadgers with strings of pack ponies, packmen, itinerant labourers as well as whole regiments of horse and foot crossing the Capel Mounth track. Archaeologists have found the remains of ten longhouses, a corn drying kiln, barn, kailyard and drove road. High on the crystal waters of the Alt Darrarie there was that essential for  medicinal purposes and civilised living, a whisky still. The Inn is thought to have closed in the 1850's.

 

As I suspected, the deer had gone. The leaden grey sky and the distant piping of Curlews gave a lonesome, sad feel to the place. This was exaggerated by a solitary pink foot goose, flying low and honking balefully which crossed the track just ahead of me. It sounded agitated and I suspect it was looking for it's palls. I arrived back at the car just after 9am, having spent almost exactly twenty four hours on Lochnagar.