Goodman's Croft Day 2/3 - Earth, wind & fire

My fall awake was as effortless as my fall asleep.  Waking up in Lumsden, I felt calm and charged with humour.  The first day here had ended in the pub, with room temperature beer and brand new smiling faces.  With anecdotes flowing freely and new perspectives being considered, I feel already that my trip feels too short. 

I'm a person who really loves people, but you can't always find people who feel the same.  Yet the people here at SSW seemed to have struck this delicate balance between giving individuals their space, and revelling in communal living.  Like a weeble toy, I think the core of this 'artist's' community is so grounded, that if knocked by stressful projects, funding crises or the frustrations of rural living, it would roll back upright again.  Like a really steady ship.

The banter over meal times and boiling kettles is infectious and yet strangely I'm inspired to focus on work and enjoy the task in hand.  Saturday I was to meet Ann from the Old Smithy, for tea and an all butter biscuit. I had introduced myself on Friday and asked her to pop over to the workshop to talk to me a little about Lumsden life.  Ann is popular and frequents the SSW regularly; for fun, for company and for the joy of being near people who create. 

The voice recorder I knew may pose a worry for Ann, as everyday words were proving elusive since the onset of her recently diagnosed Dementia.  She expressed (rather succinctly actually) that she thought she might sound stupid if she ruined the recording with her lack of eloquence.  I told her I could understand her just fine and if she or I couldn't find the words, they aren't worth hearing anyway.

The recorder was placed just out of sight and within reach of our conversation and we talked for just over an hour.  Ann spoke of her arrival in Lumsden just 6 years ago, but also of the lifetime that paved her way to the village.  She cared to remind me of the stories that weren't for public consumption and we agreed that what I would keep, would be the tales of what makes her happy, what nourishes her wellbeing and the positives of the Lumsden community.  The listeners could fill in their own gaps.

So for an hour I was engrossed and we laughed and we spoke of family, friendship and the community pulling together in times of need.  When editing the material alone later that day, I discovered it was going to be a challenge to produce a worthy recording of our conversation.  This made me sad an somewhat disappointed. I could follow Ann's train of thought so easily by being with her, seeing her physically act out the words that were just out of reach.  But hearing it again, I found myself wishing I had her there with me.  Like the comfort of a book with pictures when you're learning to read.  I suppose there is something poignant about how easy it is to understand her in her presence, but how distanced it feels to hear only her voice.  I feel happy that her family live only next door.

Consoled by the joy of my live conversation with Ann, I looked forward to the promise of her popping by again soon, but I needed a break away from the lap-top and craved some banter with Craig and the others.  Soon our plans to go to a neighbouring village pub were scrapped in favour of a bonfire at base camp, with marsh mallows, whiskey and an American with a banjo.  The company was SO delightful and cheeky, and I could totally be myself.  Such naff impressions and tenuous puns would be social suicide in the hands of a lesser mortal. 

We poked and stoked a precarious and ladened mass of wood that Brigitte, the resident Aussie, had set alight with a giant blow torch.  I realised (as crude and miscellaneous artifacts were chucked on the flames) that part of what I already love about this place, is being in the presence of not only down to earth people, but earthly matter itself.  Great hunks of wood and welded metals, and stone and glass amidst all the elements.  It's safe and healthy here inside this bubble of rubble.

I knew, the moment I thought I could solve burning problems of prejudice in Uganda, I should bid my fellow pyromaniacs adieu, and take my warm and cosy feeling to bed.  Also the zip on my jeans had gotten so hot in front of the fire, that I was beginning to scorched my lady parts.

Today, Craig and I gleefully finished off our prep for the kids 'recording' workshop tomorrow at the school.  And now I lie here in my humble abode, satisfied from Ross' skillful and sublime roast pork Sunday dinner, and the knowledge that I wake here again tomorrow.

Goodman's Croft Radio Lumsden - Permission to engage?

Today I arrived at the Scottish Sculpture Workshop and was warmly welcomed into this fervent yet relaxed arts hub, buzzing and screeching with tools and tinkering and set boldly at the mouth of Lumsden Village.

I’m here to assist a community engagement project to pre-empt the launch of Goodman’s Croft – Radio Lumsden; a community arts project steered by the inspiring and engaging artist/puppy, Rocca Gutteridge.

My mission - our mission - (that we’ve fully accepted) is to unearth the voices that anchor this village and discover a hunger for creativity in an outwardly fed and watered community.

Craig is the 'tech' wizard who picked me up from the station and he's perfectly lovely. I'm instantly endeared to his northern English easy nature, his scruffy attire and particularly his use of the expression "absolutely beautiful" when describing the people he's been working with; two weeks in to this exciting internship. We're going to get on, because I've barely wondered if we'll get on (other than to write it here) and we both love beer. Again, marvellous.

Whilst SSW folk are busying around the workshops, I set off on foot into the village, armed with dry-cured beef strips for my first wander around. It’s true I found myself masticating alongside the cows and with only slightly less foam at the mouth. Why the beef ‘jerky’ I don’t know, it was a culinary experiment, to accompany my trot into the unknown.

First stop, the Old Smithy, or as a friend with personal connections has informed me, it is the “‘al smiddy’”, owned and blessed by Anne, a local woman with worldly charm. And a tiny dog. But more on Anne tomorrow, as we have our first official chat arranged.

I stopped into the local (and only) hairdressers. My master plan was to book an appointment and slowly, snip by snip hear the owner reveal all the secrets of the village; the gripes, the moans and the stories unfolding as I am trimmed and spruced into a shadow of my former self.

“Nothing this week I’m afraid”, she smugly chirped.

The empty village shop seemed sparse and pricey and the staff have a reputation. But instead, with a very local Express under my arm, I’m greeted with smiles from a mother and daughter team behind the counter, French, and pleasant. I ask where they hail from originally (as I have a foreign accent too) and the chit-chat escalates into a tale of woe, about how difficult it is to join in activities in Lumsden, if you’re from a neighbouring village. They spoke of hostility.

The pub was closed on the way past, as I made my way along Main Street at around 5pm. It's nestled in the bosom of the Lumsden Hotel Inn, which was also closed. The reception, it would seem, is definitely not as warm as the bosoms I’m used to.

Undeterred and parched from the excessive consumption of jerky, I veered off-piste to venture onto a country track, which pleasantly sloped down towards the luscious Lumsden fields. It was on this route that I made my first enlightening discovery. After strolling past a succession of low window sills, adorned with teapots, china cats and Geraniums, I caught the glossy eye of a ceramic figure. Dark and twisty, this was colourful, macabre and altogether unusual - wait a minute, there are locals here who flirt with unusual passions and display them, defiantly, in place of a pair of china cats. Marvellous. On I go...

Final stop the primary school, via the soft and mossy path that's home to the Lumsden Sculpture Trail. The presence of the arts is weathered and permanent here, though the locals I see choose to take the shorter route on the Main Street pavements above.

I was too late for the Head Mistress and the school was winding down for the day, but just the smell of blu-tack on magnolia paint made me enthusiastic about preparing our forthcoming workshops with the P4s to P7s there on Monday.

Looking beyond the school buildings, the 'no speed limit' signs bookend a travellers pass through the village. I turn on my heels back to SSW. Checking if the pub had now opened on the way.