Jean's articles

I've always had a bit of a temper. Liable to get into a strop at a perceived injustice even before I knew what justice was. Which probably explains my earliest memory. If it is a memory that is. The ingredients are a window, a cot, a blanket, an enamel pail, a door, my parents and a poo. I'd just performed in my nappy and it was really very pleasant. Satisfying, warm, soft and good to have got rid of. I could see my mother at the bottom of my cot and about to change me only she didn't. My f…

After spending more than a year crawling around the house, holding onto furniture and doors, shopping online and endlessly reading about Brexit, I decided it was madness to be wearing hill-walking gear and began to buy ankle length skirts instead. I went for black because I love black and I felt gloomy and saw myself as one of those old Greek or Russian peasant women hobbling around on a stick. Granted I was using bright pink elbow crutches with red mules and hadn't got round to a headscarf bu…

There are times when I just can't be bothered taking photographs. When commenting on other people's is just too much for me. When going to the shops or just going up or down stairs is more than I can face. When I was young and busy my idea of heaven was to recline on a sofa and read all day, every day. Well, they say be careful what you wish for. Here I am with exactly what I dreamed of and, like the old woman who lived in a vinegar bottle, I'm not happy. It's about ten years now since I develo…

What is it with me and holidays ? I had a wonderful time on Mull. The cottage I rented was delightful, the location beautiful and the weather idyllic. The island looked its best. The sun shone every day and I enjoyed every minute. I arrived home suntanned, relaxed and pleased to see my house and neighbours again. Then what did I do ? I fell into a coma on the sofa. Yes I unpacked. I washed clothes. Put everything away. Fed the birds. Shopped. Did a bit of walking. But by mid week I was firmly en…

Never satisfied was a phrase frequently on my mother's lips while I was growing up and she went on saying it when I was an adult too. Now, at seventy five I say it myself. And it's true. The latest example is my Tay project. A hundred photos of the river Tay in 2014. I'm about a third of the way through. Very pleased to be doing it. It's getting me out and about and I'm discovering so many things.There are amazingly preserved relics of the Industrial Revolution just north of Perth. Water powered…

It's the story of my life. For someone who is fairly cautious, I plunge into things. If an idea catches my imagination, I think "Yes ! I can do that. It will be easy." When I was at work and said it aloud, people used to groan and shrink away. Rightly. It was never easy. Didn't give up though. I struggled through whatever it was. I got there. But I never learned. Another idea came along and it was "Oh Yes ! This one WILL be easy. That's what I've kind of done again with the river Tay. The group…

I don't think of myself as a person for keepsakes. Clutter. I want things streamlined. Involving as little housework as possible. And keepsakes I am given are a problem. Often not my taste. If I give them away I feel guilty. What can I do with them ? Sometimes you can't win. So when keepsakes turned up as a subject in the Alphabet Photochallenge I sighed. This was going to be difficult. After a lot of thought I remembered the seashells and started looking for them. Searched and searched. I…

I have met three mad axe men in my life, although only one of them actually had an axe. The first one had a bicycle. I was nineteen, never visited France before, and it was Bastille Day. My friends and I were staying near St Omer in a tiny youth hostel down a wooded lane. There was no warden. Just us and three Irish boys. Together we all went off to the village dance. The others entered into the spirit of things. But not me. I was young for my age, self-conscious and proud. Embarrassed bec…

I've spent a year and a bit going round in circles. "Yes," they said when I had a knee replacement, "you will be able to go hill walking. And yes, you will be able to go up Munros." I took the Munro bit with a pinch of salt but friends with two knee replacements could walk five to seven miles so I was hopeful. I got myself a physio, did all the exercises exactly as I was told but I was never able to walk very far. If I increased the distance, in a few days, I had to stop and lie on the sofa…

The first rabbit I knew at close quarters was dead. I was sitting in bed in a cold cottage in the middle of nowhere eating my dinner from a tray when it arrived. My two cats and I had come from London to wildest Galloway. I was a city girl and for numberless generations their ancestors had been city cats. But we'd all taken to the country. They had leapt out of the kitchen window and brought back a stream of wildlife. I could identify shrews, voles and mice in no time. The rabbit was a first though and Thomas was clearly very proud. The aristocratic Saul was too cosy on the duvet to take more than a languid interest but I was riveted. I watched as Thomas re-enacted the kill. The rabbit was hurled up and down the bedroom while he raced in pursuit. As his excitement grew, his aim diminished and eventually the rabbit got stuck behind a radiator. Horror ! Panic ! Within seconds he was on his back scrabbling like mad. Phew ! After a struggle he got it out. There he lay with the corpse between his paws licking its fur and trilling joyously. At that point I lost interest. The second rabbit was very much alive. By this time Saul, Thomas and I were living in Fife. I was doing an OU course and was late with my assignment. Looking up from my work I saw the cats beside a carrier bag and wondered why they were staring at it so intently. I picked the bag up and there, behind it, was a rabbit. A brief Tom and Jerry episode ensued. The rabbit evaded all three of us and took refuge behind the fridge. At the time what I did seemed sane. Moving the fridge meant moving other stuff. All heavy. And I was busy. Rabbits could be tempted out. I cut up some carrots and put the dish in the middle of the room. Went back to my assignment. Got completely engrossed and forgot the whole thing. A long time later I looked up. Both cats were sprawled like sultans on the sofa. A few feet away the rabbit was tucking in to its carrot dinner. That's when I realised the flaw in my plan to sneak up and catch it. Rabbits eyes are so placed that they cannot be snuck up on. In no time it was back in its hidey hole behind the fridge. After cat removal and furniture removal, I caught the damned beast and released it unharmed to the wild. My assignment got finished, the carrots got binned and the rabbit had a story to tell. The third rabbit arrived in the dead of night. By this time I lived in Falkland and had different cats. One minute I was blissfully sleeping. The next I was standing upright beside the bed feeling like the bride of Dracula. Who or what had produced that blood curdling scream ? Whatever it was, it was in the room. I switched on the light expecting to see Jack Nicholson in "The Shining" mode. All I could see was my ginger Tom, GP, howking frantically under the wardrobe. I got down on my knees and looked. A pair of terrified eyes looked back. GP was slung unceremoniously into the spare room. I put on my wildlife catching gloves and did some howking myself. Eventually the rabbit was dragged kicking but not thankfully screaming from it's sanctuary. There was no blood. All it's parts were moving as they should. I put on my clogs and, at three in the morning, in my nightie, crossed the road and stumbled down Andy's back garden to return the lucky survivor to the field from which it had probably come. GP learned his lesson. I never saw another rabbit after that. Only, in the mornings, I sometimes found a small tuft of fur on the floor. And GP stretched out on the sofa four paws in the air. Digesting.

They are almost gone. I keep finding them dozing on a flower or a leaf. One nodded off inside a hollyhock. Not a bad way to go. Carder bees are still bustling round the globe thistles but even they are beginning to look a bit tired and worn. And the mornings are getting colder. Autumn is nearly here. I was terrified of bees as a child. And wasps. Any insect really. I'd been stung twice. Now here I am, besotted. Sticking a camera lens in their face, planting flowers to please them, building an insect hotel at the top of the garden. How did I get here ? When I was seven I went to Reid and Todd's in Glasgow to choose a book for my birthday. Almost instantly I fell in love with one about nature. Photos of otters did it. My parents were taken aback and tried to dissuade me but I was adamant. The book was bought. Once home I found that not only were there pictures of otters, there were insects too. Giant insects. A magnified bee that scared the wits out of me. For years the book was opened with great care to avoid the insect section. In real life insects were greeted with screams and cries of "Kill it ! kill it !" It fills me with shame to remember. Through my growing up years I read vociferously and came across images of bees as fairylike creatures. Wise. You were introduced to them. Curtsied to the hives. Wondered if "there was honey still for tea." If they liked you it meant you were a good person. I stumbled on a little known book of Gene Stratton Porter's called "Keeper of the bees." Saccharine romantic tosh but good on the insects. I stopped screaming "Kill" and taught myself to like honey. But I kept away from its producers. Fairly easy as I lived in the city. By the time I moved to the country bees were beginning to decline. It registered but that was all. Then I joined a photography website and found people photographing insects. I was repelled. How could they ? But I did like butterflies and that was where I began. Damselflies. Never heard of them. But they followed and then dragonflies. I photographed the odd bee and found that some weren't bees but hoverflies. Never heard of them ! But they reminded me of Gromit in the cartoon films and I fell in love. That was it. The rest of the insect world crept slowly in. Spiders, robber flies, soldier beetles. And all those bees. At last I learned that honey bees and bumblebees were different. I photographed a leafcutter bee. By this time we all knew that bees were in trouble and that we were too. No bees and not much food is left. And what is, is pretty boring. In the scheme of things my small garden won't make much difference but you have to try. And I'm selfish. I want lots of bees to photograph. Carder bees with their little fox furs round their necks. White tailed bumblebees. Red tailed bumblebees. Garden bumblebees. Early bumblebees. There are even cuckoo bumblebees and that's not to mention the hairy footed flower bees and the harebell carpenter bees. I could go on. But I won't. I'm off to take a few last photos and finish the insect hotel. Nip over to the garden centre. See if they have a pussy willow for sale. Must have early pollen for the emerging queens.

A few years ago I had a house fire. Lots of smoke damage. About 700 books went to the tip. A lifetime's collection. Which was a bit of a test. Last month two hard drives failed and I lost thousands of photos. I have low resolution copies but the RAW files have gone. Another little test, which I may have passed, because, a bit like the books, I don't seem to mind that much. Maybe it's to do with getting old. We all seem to gather and heap up possessions during our lives. Security blankets. Ways of telling ourselves and others who we are. As our lives change, things come and go with the tide. Some also change, some stay the same. Then, as we get old, we find ourselves surrounded by ornaments, clothes we'll never wear, fancy cutlery, a dinner service bought to impress people we hardly remember. All things washed up along the tideline. Some people treasure them. A picture of their life. Others, like me, don't want the clutter and the dusting. So things start to go. By this time after all, I know who I am. But sometimes there is a bit of an upheaval. A crisis. Some things survive it but others are lost. Things I wouldn't have chosen to part from. And strangely I find that I don't really mind. I can start again. The house is full of books once more. Old favourites have reappeared. My reading has got more adventurous and changed for the better. I now have a Kindle. The same thing will happen with the photographs. Lots of places to revisit. To look at with fresh eyes. Branch out in new directions. And maybe take the hint to look at my possessions again. Just how many of them do I really need ? I can't take them with me so best not be too attached. Part from them without pain. Leave an uncluttered tideline with hopefully a few treasures.

Sitting at the back of the house in my new all weather bistro set making a list of things to do in the garden. I am rather close to the feeder and the birds are not pleased. But my heart has hardened. Who pays for the bird food ? The few brave ones are young and naïve. A blue tit not yet blue. A goldfinch fledgling. And a pair of feisty adult siskin who care for nobody. I'm pleased with the changes. Twenty years in this house and I never seem to have got the garden right. It's making me think of my mother. As a young woman she worked as a machinist in a factory. Piece work. You learned to be quick and accurate. Eventually she graduated to men's tailoring. The crème de la crème. Then she married and the Second World War came along. Hard times. After the war my father died and times were even harder. We lived in a tiny tenement flat and scrimped and saved. But we looked good. Other people's cast offs which she took apart and transformed. She had a great sense of colour and style. But the inside of the flat was a disaster. It wasn't the lack of money and it wasn't that she didn't try. She just didn't like housework and had mad ideas. The kitchen where we lived was painted with orange gloss paint. Cheerful and easy to clean but it showed every bulge and crack. The linoleum was brick red and the table had a wine table cover. It gives me a headache to remember. Her flair for colour didn't seem to translate from clothes. My garden has been a bit like that. Why didn't I see that orange oriental poppies were not going to look good next to a pink rose ? Why did I try to grow every kniphofia known to man when the conditions weren't right ? Or build a wildlife pond which wildlife mostly couldn't get to ? Now I have a focus. My knees have crumbled and I like photography. Bees and butterflies are in trouble. Even I can add two and two. My insect friendly plants stay and have been given room to spread. New additions may be wild or cultivated but they must like the conditions and insects must like them. Although still in transition, the garden in July was a-buzz with bees and yesterday I saw a white butterfly and five tortoiseshells on the inula. Five ! I must be doing something right. After twenty years my mother got things right too. Coming home for Christmas once I found the kitchen transformed. Some things remained. I think the wine table cover was one. But the room looked calm and cosy and all of a piece. What had happened ? I never found out although I paid her compliments and made a fuss. But I know she was pleased with what she had achieved and so am I.

Sitting on the machair at the top of Bernera watching rabbits. There is a beach of white sand. A turquoise and indigo sea. Small hilly islands off shore and, among the rocks in the bay, an urn like object rising from the waves. It looks tropical. Exotic. Round the corner a burn crosses the beach to the sea. Tucked in a fold of land it has created are the remains of an iron age village. Sheltered from the weather and any passing shiploads of marauders. The rabbits would have been appreciated. Meat, fur, bone. Food, clothes, tools, ornament. But, by the time the rabbits came, the villagers had been gone for a thousand years. And anyway they had cows, sheep, pigs, deer and fish. Middens full of shellfish. And there were a lot more trees around than now. They would have known every plant and its uses. Every season, every change, however tiny. A small world but understood in depth. Now tourists pass through. They admire the remains and the view. Watch the rabbits whose place it has become. The rabbits who know every nook and cranny. Are familiar with every detail. Because the land gives them life as it did the villagers. Later I discover it isn't an urn at Bosta beach but a Time and Tide bell. It marks the rise and fall of the sea, ringing at high tide when the water moves the clapper. As levels rise with climate change the bell will ring more often. I wonder if the tourists and the rabbits will be listening. Machair.....A distinctive type of coastal grassland found in the north and west of Scotland and in Western Ireland Burn.... A stream Midden....An old word for a rubbish tip used by archaeologists but still in common use in Scotland.

Lying on a sofa in a holiday let perched on a cliff on the edge of nowhere. Looking at a tiny gleam of sun. The first in days. Until now the light has been flat, the cloud continuous, the wind fierce and the rain horizontal. I am coughing, sneezing, shivering, sniffling. Surrounded by Beecham's powders and used tissues. Yesterday the wildlife cruise I booked was cancelled. The boat had developed a fault. Today the water board are doing essential maintenance and the water is off. The building my sofa is in is part of a brutalist looking complex built to house RAF personnel. It is now painted white but looks as if it could still withstand a few bombs. Inside it's a honeymooner's dream with polished floors, an appliance filled kitchen and a luxurious bathroom filled with light. All put together by someone with excellent taste. I wonder what the looking glass makes of the wrinkled old woman reflected in it. She's coughing her lungs up and longing to go home. What a difference a day makes. It's midnight and I'm lying on the sofa once more. Eating strawberries and madeira cake. What changed ? Yes, the sun came out. Yes, I spent a few magical hours on a white beach with turquoise waves and flower studded machair, But the highlight of my visit, what made it all worth while was standing among the stones of Callanish in torrential rain. Soaking trousers, water pouring from my shoes, struggling to keep my tripod upright. Mopping water off my camera and lens. Trying to photograph amazing light and a double rainbow. Did I do it ? Succeed ? It doesn't matter. The magic was in the moment. Being there. Battling with the elements. Doing a polite dance with a taciturn American using a gigantic lens. He must have been doing extreme close ups. Eventually everything calmed down and the light went. But we both still stood there. Sunset was coming. Then people appeared. Clouds thickened. The mood changed. Show over. I returned to the warm car and the long drive back to the sofa on the cliff top. I could go home now. Satisfied.

I'm off on the Calmac ferry to Stornoway then west over the moor and through the hills to Uig sands. Where the Lewis chessmen were found. Somebody's lost treasure. I could get a boat to St Kilda from here, but after that it's America, and for me, even St Kilda is a step too far. Why am I going ? It's a place I visited years ago for an hour or two and never forgot. This time I'll have days to let it sink into my bones. The tide goes out a long way. Miles of white sand. Wild flowers, wildlife. The Vikings used to go past on their way to Ireland. And came back again laden with booty. I'll bring back treasure too. Photographs to remind me of what I've seen. Maybe a sea eagle or a basking shark. Perhaps the stones of nearby Callanish at dawn. Or the endless white sands at dusk. Who knows ? It will be a bit like trying to bring water home from the well in a sieve. A task set in a land of magic. Far away on the edge of the world.

When Ginger Fred gave birth to six kittens she changed her name to Freda. I took one of the kittens home. A tiny ginger ball of fluff with a very long tail. When Arianne saw it she was affronted. A common cat of farming stock in the same house as a pedigree Abyssinian ! We'd see about that ! Stretching out seductively on the floor, she twitched her paws. "Come to me..........just to me...." The ball of fluff naively came. Pounce ! Ferocious growls. Arianne ripped out the kitten's throat and kicked frantically at its guts while maintaining meaningful eye contact with me. Consternation. Intervention. Phew ! A bluff ! The kitten was unharmed and unfazed. My response was to show Arianne that she was still top cat and most loved. I lavished attention on her and ignored the kitten as much as possible. Difficult. The ball of fluff fell over the bannisters. Mountaineered up the Christmas tree. Climbed the bookshelves. Swung like Tarzan from the net curtains and shredded them on the way down. Arianne was not amused. I was entranced but worried. What would Arianne do to him while I was at work ? Nothing lethal it transpired. It was all bluff and she gradually learned to ignore him. Meanwhile the ball of fluff got shut in a cupboard overnight, was spectacularly sick after eating a large chunk of cheese left out by mistake and fell into the loo creating fears that he had gone round the S bend. Over time I took to calling him the Ginger Peril which got shortened to GP or Jeep. Sometimes also Jeepy Peepy, Cuddles, The Ginger One, Ginge, Big Boy, Fatty Lumpkin and a host of other aliases. But trouble was always his middle name. As he grew up he took to sporting a single gold earring and a leather bomber jacket. A Harley Davison appeared outside the cat flap. Over time he developed a bit of a beer belly. That's the sort of cat he was. Arianne never became reconciled. Occasionally, when driven beyond endurance, she smacked him round the chops, but mostly he remained beneath her notice. Except when the Doberman from next door appeared on the scene. But that, as they say, is another story.