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The 8:55am link bus leaves Scalloway in the half light.  It waits at the first stop in case there are any passengers from the Lerwick link.  There is only one body on that bus and he doesn’t leave it. 

The link bus travels through Trondra towards Hamnavoe. I have an aim but first, I must see if there is snow on Meal Beach.  The 300metre path to the beach leaves high from the road and descends gradually. It is peppered in polystyrene type, small, snow balls. Hard, small hail stones over a thin salt like snow. Meal Beach lies below – a perfect crescent of sand and, as if in a wish, it is covered in snow.  How often do you get to walk on sand covered in snow with the roaring sea backing off in waves of perfect blue? Until arriving in Hamnavoe, the sun has not been seen for over a week.

 

I only have an hour and a quarter before the bus will arrive from its round trip journey down to Houss, so I take in the sea view then leave, returning up the small path to the corner of the road, high on the hill, by the old tiny church, over looking the beach to a small croft house that lost its roof in the winter of 1993.  There’s very little left but it’s a fine place.  When I  encounter this building, all structure falls away and I actually meet the being of the place. If all components are right, a deep feeling of connection greets me immediately – something way beyond intellect or reason or history or architecture. What comes to greet me is purely intuitive. I look and really see the place, every detail and if I am lucky, for a few seconds or even minutes, time stands still and I am able to capture something by fluke or will. 

I place something in the croft, always in a window – either a lace knitted curtain or an engraving on aged paper or a laser cut of my lace patterns.  I’ve tried to figure out why I need to do this. It’s an urge that needs to been seen through by travelling 8 hours on two trains to get from Yorkshire to catch a 14 hour ferry from Aberdeen that can make me sick then a journey from Lerwick to a tiny Booth built into the sea in Scalloway.  And all the recent constant bad weather and a storm and power cut then an evacuation back to Lerwick for a night,  to return to Scalloway to catch a tiny link bus, miles and hours from the place I come from  in Yorkshire to a place that until today, I didn’t know existed.  There’s something special seen through a croft’s broken window that has probably not been looked out of for over 20 years. The grass surrounding the place has grown in to over knee high tufts, wind-swept into Icelandic-like grass mounds where my feet leave traces – What is it this urge to find a far off place and leave art?

 

I place the work, stand still, wait and if I am really lucky, all of my learning and thinking and knitting and talking and creative spirit comes together in that one moment and I am able to capture something of a world, partly created by me but joining with location, time, season, light, home, architecture, time lost, history and this present moment.   It’s freezing, it’s sleeting, my hand is red raw from being gloveless but that moment arrives.   It’s rich in colour – a celebration of something past and something living.  Each place has its own colour palette. 

In that instant, how I relate to this place is a real poetic encounter. And sometimes, it goes further than that, getting a sense of the wholeness of time comes into focus. And I become totally aware.  So much energy and effort in making the knitted lace-work that all of those energies become concentrated in the croft at that moment and symbolise all the different aspects of women knitting, crofting, working, home – call it nostalgia or rose tinted glasses or history itself but this is the core of this arm of my creative work.

I’m knitting stories. At this moment of the coming together of all the components, the lace that I have made that was initially inspired by Shetland lace patterns has merely becomes the bi product of an art practice. An emotional, poetic, living encounter. A long travelled road to arrive here. 

Arriving can be overwhelming.

Even if it is not my homeland.

On the deck of the ferry, the ever present wind carries something extra; a raw, beautiful, self-awakening brought on by the boat arriving into Lerwick. It hits you at the point of seeing the Southern tip of Shetland.

Hold tightly onto the white painted, thin railing or the sight is too overwhelming.

And then, after a short time, there is the light house to your right, sitting proudly on the tip of Bressay and all is well enough.  At this point, without even coming in to dock, I’m already aware of the power of these small Islands.

Every day, I try to live in the moment, but, at this time of arriving, I usually feel a hint of sadness because I know I’ll leave.

Time moves forwards.

It’s an overpowering mixed blessing.   Before that, there is the long train journey skirting the East coast of England to Aberdeen. Then the overnight ferry – all in all – 24 hours From Sheffield To Lerwick.

You never know who you will meet on the ferry, in the shared bunk cabin room, on the deck watching Aberdeen being left behind or watching Shetland come into view, or at breakfast time or at checking in. There’s a life on the ferries that is quite extraordinarily simple.  People leaving, arriving, returning and I will once again do the same in a few weeks.

I know the journey so well, it’s almost as if I can hear it, feel it.  I know where the sun rises and sets on a flat-lined horizon behind a slow-moving boat.

Sometimes, someone meets me. More recently, someone sees me off for the return journey. Happy Sad Happy.

 

Shetland can be a place of extremes although I have only scratched the surface.  The more I go, the less I know.  The more I see, the more I want to see. The more I wait, the more comes to me.

Shetland has embedded itself deep within me and added another story to my life.

Shetland offers surprising things to learn about, if you’re new to it all.

I ask many questions whilst looking out of the windows as the little pink car drives us from one place to another.  The Plantiecrubs draw me every time, second only to derelict croft houses and the beautiful spoken words of the Islanders.

 

Shetland offers an endless line of uniqueness –  the knitted lace and the knitted yokes and the music and the sea and beaches and seals and otters and sea urchins and fire and vikings and the seagulls that stamp at the edge of the tide and all the things that open your heart and mind to a realness that is rare these days.

PLACE 

I find places that become my favourite places to return to. Places to think and feel and work with. Places – To knit about.  Places to register the movement of time.

Sometimes, I feel at home in these places, sometimes a little scared because of the sheer isolation of it all. Sometimes, I purposely isolate myself. But always, I feel something special.  I notice most every detail.

I begin to wonder, who lived here, who made these homes and crofts. And who painted these walls that have been left to dissolve into thin air after the months of harsh Winter weather.  There are lives written across the walls and in the dust.

Sometimes I return to I honour a place by placing something in it. I mentally note the changes since the last time.

In December, I don’t quite know what I will do in Shetland but my time will be taken up by walking, writing, knitting, thinking, being, taking photographs, feeling – really feeling, and reflecting,

I’ll start from a point of knowing something of a place but it really not being anything much.

I’ll ask questions, hitch a lift, go to the library, listen to folks.  Not much to write home about really. But I know I’m looking forward to living in a place that sits in the sea – A place where I will feel a strength and vulnerability and find things I never knew existed.

A Shetland Self shaped by place and others.