heading west

I'm 3 weeks into my year's stint here in Benbecula and the sitting room floor of the wee cottage I'm renting is still invisible beneath several layers of stuff (books, newspapers, files, postcards, scalpels, software). It is, however, less invisible than it was this morning. The trauma of moving is fading fast but the combination of driving, humping boxes, decisions about stuff, boredom, shouty phone calls to call centres and more decisions about yet more stuff is and always will be grim. I'm still fantasising about transport possibilities to/from Morvern after my first attempt at a weekend jaunt 2 weeks ago: 1 hour drive to Lochmaddy, 2 hour ferry and then 5 hr drive to Drumbuidhe; on the way back I had to spend the night in the Uig youth hostel in order to catch the 9am ferry and I discovered that there's also a 5am ferry to Stornoway which means I got 3 hour's sleep. All this for £100 odd.

The weekend - well 24 hours - in Drumbuidhe was filled with lush autumness and the fervid glamour of the Lewis wedding (the scaffolding was removed from the chapel just 12 hours before the festivity started). I drove Campbell there and back and I did manage to have a reasonably calm conversation with him about why he's staying up here - no answer to that of course but I think the gentle prompting did get him to have a tiny bit of insight that isolating himself may be contributing to his depression. Unfortunately I take his isolation personally and I find it hard to be calm about his tactic of being nasty to me so that he can feel that he doesn't rely on me. Hey ho. On the positive side he's not going to be around at Christmas and I get the full week off so I can do a load of solitary revelling.

On the way back I stopped off to see the glamorous new building above Glenmorven which looks set to be spectacular (note to self, must get note of the owners name from Campbell and start cultivating a glamorous relationship with them). Work on Monday was grim after just 3ish hours sleep but, in general, I'm having a ball. A slightly incompetent ball but a great one nonetheless. Many, many years ago when I worked for ICI (great development courses, crap working environment) and I was on an outward bound course I had to describe my ideal day and it was, well, this: cycle to work, spend the day wisecracking over creative stuff then cycle home to an idyllic cottage. Obviously it's been adjusted for reality so my bicycle is currently broken and sitting in the yard of Mr Uist-Bicycle; the cottage is in a rather bleak idyll and I'm 9 hours away from everything but I'm delighted nonetheless.

too many speedos

A week at the Edinburgh Festival where I was yet again cruelly ignored for all audience participation (Nick was asked where he came from at Emo Philips, Emily got a coloured pencil - grey - at Edward Aczel) which was probably just as well since I tend to get hysterical and wet my knickers as I demonstrated when squashed into half a seat at kit & the widow. We'll just gloss over that bit. The theme for this year's festival was the male body in general and speedos in particular. Penelope at the Traverse was way too wordy and had all four suitors mouthing off in an empty swimming pool. The strongman with the fake eastern european accent in sub rosa also appeared in tight lycra and was very, very close. The Alonzo King ballet was just over an hour of male body fetish stuff with teeny, tiny velvet speedos. The exception was vieux carre by the Wooster group where, such was their reliance on technology such as radio mikes - so groovy and new yorkery - that when the main character stripped off to fantasise (this wasn't left to the imagination, a dirty video was superimposed on his filmed image) he was wearing a black jockstrap and leather straps holding the microphone battery. Another layer of artistic exhaustion was added with the arrival of sixteen year old Beth and Rosie who tried to take Edinburgh by storm in high heels but were foiled by the four flights of steps up to the flat (they didn't make it as far as the cobbles). I brought over west coast provisions to see us through all the art and the obvious winner was the potato salad (a mix of anya and charlotte potatoes with a jar of Hellman's) but I'd like to give a special mention to the mushroom sauce, if only because the making of it had a bit of gothic magic. On the way back from Drumbuidhe I stopped in Inverness for lunch and then meandered south on the old road from Aviemore. I pulled over at the first parking space I found next to a likely-looking wood and, straight out the car got a stack of chanterelles and ceps. Only one of the ceps was uneaten but I bagged them up anyway and, in Glasgow, sliced them and hung to dry in the window. The next day the cleaners came for the monthly visit and were appalled to discover the sink crawling with maggots who'd dropped out of the drying ceps. After a respectful period of mourning for the dead insects (and a quick drying day in the oven just to be sure they were all dead and gone) I rehydrated the mushrooms in hot water (the drying improves their texture as well as killing the beasties) sauteed them with garlic and then popped them in the blender with a packet of boursin. The sauce was a dramatic dark grey but proved very acceptable after a couple of hours of experimental drama.

killing cars in the name of art

The artist Olivia Bliss came up to Drumbuidhe for a couple of days (She's a new graduate from Glasgow School of Art working mainly in prints). I'm still not sure how she could work up there ... I'm considering commissioning a portrait of Campbell as a way of getting him some babysitting but that seems very decadent. When I was driving her out of Drumbuidhe at 8am on Thursday I managed to reverse the landrover discovery off the track (admittedly just next to the garage) I got her to the bus stop using the mark 1 landrover (LHS 94) in perfect time to meet Rob who was having his own minor vehicle crisis (he turned up in his work truck instead of the bus) but I then had to head back and have a go at getting the discovery unstuck. It's a sign that you're quite remote when a couple came walking past and asked if they could help: the lady asked where the road to our house was so they could try and bring their four wheel drive vehicle over to help - I had to repeat twice that the road in to our house was the 5 miles of track they'd just walked over and I'm still not sure she believed me. I had two days (two winches, 1 completely bust wire cable, two jacks) trying to get the landrover out and I might almost have managed it if the clutch on the electric winch hadn't finally given up. In the end I called it a day and left it to Campbell who was arriving with the mad dutch couple as I left. I drove down south via Inverness (I know that doesn't make sense geographically but it does in an, um, emotional way) stopping to collect a great stack of mushrooms in the woods just north of ruthven barracks. I then spent Sunday at the Edinburgh Festival (Hemingway, Kit & the Widow, Baroque Opera) getting more and more stressed about the 45 degree discovery with the added complication that talk talk had cancelled the direct debit for my Glasgow phone which put me in arrears so they disconnected the service. hey ho. I called Campbell this morning and he was really quite jolly about the discovery and fixing the grass cutter although he angrily accused me of fretting when I said they'd put the grass cuttings in the wrong compost bin (I think "fretting" can be translated as "pointing out an error"). There are very few positive things to say about reversing a landrover discovery off the road but I did make a very nice summer risotto with green sauce to console myself: the risotto was made with a fresh handful of vegetables (beans, peas, courgette) from the garden, pinenuts and vegetable stock. When the rice was cooked I added parmesan sauce and served it with a green sauce made with parsley, basil, lime zest, lime juice, capers, anchovy puree and olive oil.

chocolate cake

A day of unexpected sunshine and surprise guests. It's been a grey, damp week which isn't in itself uncomfortable but it's perfect weather for the damn midges so I can't do anything outside that doesn't involve walking. Today, finally, the clouds started showing blue glimpses this morning. John and Jill Horsman turned up in their shiny, new landrover to walk to Dorlin which provided the perfect excuse to make Joanne's chocolate cake (I'd been thinking about it anyway). While they went for their walk I put up a trapeze and started wrapping bandage round the bar and when they came back we had tea and cake looking out over the loch after they\d been to have a look at Joanne's memorial. I forgot to force them to have a look at the Cuban-Missile-Crisis themed bathroom but that can wait 'til another time.

The hordes of friends I imagined this fortnight have failed to materialise, in fact I'm the only person within 10 miles and feeling slightly guilty about making my dad go back to Glasgow: only slightly guilty mind. He has been better behaved recently but that wouldn't be difficult since his bad behaviour includes random violence. The BMJ's recent report into dementia seemed like common sense but I wonder how obvious it would be if dad wasn't teetering on the edge of madness.

The chocolate cake recipe from the much-splattered copy of Syllabub: melt together 4oz each of sugar, golden syrup and butter; sieve 6oz flour, 2 heaped tblsp chocolate powder and 1 level tblsp cocoa; add the melted mix then one beaten egg and 1 level tsp baking powder dissolved in 1/4 gill warm milk; bake in a moderate oven for 30 minutes. For the icing mix 2oz soft butter, 4oz icing sugar, 1 tblsp cocoa, dash vanilla, squeeze of lemon juice and the smallest quantity of hot water.

I used some old(ish) greek yoghurt with honey instead of the hot milk and baked it for 40 minutes at a rather unreliable gas 6.

blue booze

The weekend did not start well when I was down in Glasgow getting ready to go through a shed-load of stuff before I drove north (wrap and post nephew's present; go round to dad's flat to sort his mail; collect large valve for water turbine from Port Dundas industrial estate; check and email plans down to Cotswolds; buy supplies for 2 weeks in wilderness; dismantle computer and pack into car) when my dad 'phoned to say that the water system had started leaking into the sitting room and he was trying to find the wrecking bar so he could demolish the bedroom wall to access the cold-water storage where the leak was coming from, oh and he was in a really bad mood.

The possible outcomes were so terrible (wrecked sitting room; wrecked bedroom; violent father; unusable water system) that I decided to do nothing apart from email Campbell a diagram of the water system and 'phone him back 5 minutes later to suggest - gently - that he try isolating the storage tanks until I got there. When I met him (at Faith Raven's 80th birthday party in the hall of Ardtornish House: a grand event in the comprehensive rather than elitist sense since every man, woman and child within 30 miles was present) he was clean and jolly so obviously apathy had worked.

When we both drove into Drumbuidhe the next day he admitted that there had been an initial leak when a pipe junction blew, and that, when he fixed that he opened a tap which subsequently flooded the storage tanks hence the water pouring through the ceiling which was fixed by simply closing the tap. After mopping the floor and drying the carpets the sitting room is fine and the television still works despite being left switched on throughout the deluge. Campbell keeps referring to the fact that he will tidy the mess the leak left but since he didn't clean the sitting room and hasn't - in the past 2 days - done anything about the bedroom (move the beds back, tidy the carpet he cut away, clean the carpet, remove tools) that seems unlikely. I'm still hoping that he will act on the hints I've been dropping for the past 2 months and go back to Glasgow for the next 2 weeks so that I can have some time up here without having to clean up after him.

As a final thought, here is the recipe for Blaeberry vodka shown above. Blaeberries (blueberries, whortleberries) ripen from July to August this far north and, with a paucity of deer but lots of sunshine this summer has been excellent for them and this is the last week to be able to pick them before they disintegrate into blue mush. I walked along the track to Dorlin this afternoon searching for chanterelles (found just two) but spent a happy hour collecting blaeberries (and probably ticks) listening to Mark Kermode's film podcast.

Fill a clean bottle 1/3 full with blaeberries; add sugar 'til it fills in the gaps and comes up to the same level as the berries; top up with vodka (the cheaper the better but make sure it's at least 37.5% alcohol otherwise it won't strip the colour and flavour from the berries); leave as long as you can and then start experimenting with cocktail recipes (if in doubt just add ice and fizzy water).

definitely summer

and I'm definitely not on the west coast. I'm down in the Cotswolds providing drawings for the renovation of a listed cottage and pig sty. The fields are alive with lavender (£2.50 to wander amongst it though) and the entire economy seems to revolve around cakes and classic cars. I've got a year's job up in Benbecula (which is a very, very long way from the Cotswolds in every sense) so I've got just over a month to tidy up bits of work, pack up my Glasgow possessions and head west. I'm going to make another attempt to set up an office at Drumbuidhe by moving my computer and reference books up there. I've tried this twice before but each time my dad got violent (and was detained by the police in 2009) so the architecture-studio-in-rural-isolation idea rather foundered. My dad is still making a determined attempt to use every spare surface at Drumbuidhe for laying out papers, computers, cameras, electrical equipment and bits of shellfish but I'm going to give it another go.

not quite October

It's not quite cold and not quite raining outside and I'm the only person for miles (7 miles strictly speaking) around. The drive from Glasgow was 4 hours (or 6 if you forget to take your bread out of the oven and have to drive back before the the fire brigade break the door down) not counting fish and chip stops and the Corran ferry. I'm still waking up to disparate tasks (haul seaweed up to the garden; clear the brambles away from the kiln; take the boat out to fetch mussels; own up to the planing department about mistakes in my latest submission ... maybe I'll have another cup of coffee before I get round to that one) but the first I'll get the fire lit and thus admit it's now officially autumn.