It was well over a year ago now that I found myself outside the cottage having just ended a phone call with a prospective drummer for the project. I had been discussing the project with various possible candidates, all fantastic technically, but ultimately not quite feeling right, or able to commit to spending time on Jura. In trying to convey my frustration I exclaimed, to the chickens(!), “I just want someone like Steve Jansen”. That was the spark and within half an hour I was in touch with his management.

Working on the building site I had pretty much been in a cultural vacuum for a few years and, apart from music articles that made it onto BBC Radio 4, my mind was completely switched off from who was doing what in the music world. I had barely been listening to other people’s music for a few years, so the fact that Steve’s name entered my head at that moment seemed slightly surreal.

I had always admired his work, particularly from the early David Sylvian solo albums where I always had a sneaky suspicion that Sylvian’s apparently modest brother contributed a lot more than a conventional drummer to the process. I was a bit too young to be anything other than vaguely aware of the Japan work or any of the earlier spin-off projects, but Rain Tree Crow and more recently Nine Horses positioned Steve in my mind as a completely original and musical percussionist. Subsequent listening of his more recent solo work confirmed this (see www.stevejansen.com).

Following discussions and submission of my demos I was delighted when Steve’s manager let me know that Steve might be interested in being involved. But there was a condition. Due to his other commitments and travelling, he wasn’t able to come to Jura to record and his involvement needed to be via remote file sharing. I subsequently wondered if this stipulation might be more to do with him reading my blogs in which, for the most part, I seem to bang on about how hostile the weather is up here!

Working in this way wasn’t new to me but it hadn’t been what I had in mind for this project. However, the prospect of Steve being involved more than persuaded me to be open minded and we committed to work together. There followed an incredibly enjoyable period of collaboration.

I must admit that I’ve rarely enjoyed creative musical collaboration with relative strangers when we’re all put in a room together, sometimes under the added pressure of recording. It was with some relief to be sending off my songs to Steve for him to work on quietly in the privacy of his own situation, much as is my style of working. He was someone who, by knowing his previous work, I trusted, and it felt liberating to be sharing my early outlines with him.

There were some technical challenges to overcome. Internet from Jura is via microwave and, at the time, was a maximum speed of 512K with regular drop-outs. Given that high sample rate files in modern music production are enormous, much experimentation was done with the most reliable file sharing host (www.dropbox.com was chosen). Uploads from Jura would typically take days! As I’m not too bothered about which production software I use, I also elected to switch to the same system as Steve, so that we could seamlessly share the same project files with no compatibility issues.

Over a few months, I uploaded two or three songs at a time, prepared as multitrack outlines with my rudimentary percussion guides. The process was pretty open from a scheduling point of view, so whilst there was a desire to keep up the momentum, things just happened in their own time. It was with great excitement that every now and again I’d receive mp3 files back with work in progress. It was clear that Steve was taking time really working stuff through, and the results delighted me when they arrived unannounced wherever I happened to be at the time. The most memorable occasion was when I was in Istanbul for my birthday. On receipt of an e-mail, an immediate hunt for a wi-fi connection ensued so that I could download a new track to my phone. This was followed by a very happy half hour sitting in the Grand Bazaar listening to Steve’s ideas for the track ‘Rescue Me’.

During this process we would communicate via email or phone, meeting in person only when we both happened to be in London. I actually found the remote working process to be very personal and fulfilling – much more so than a relatively fleeting collaboration in a studio. It gave the opportunity for properly considered discussion, over time, allowing fine tuning to be made and options to be explored. It gave me the opportunity to grow used to what Steve was doing before having to give feedback, which I’m sure has resulted in music which retains more personality and spirit.

There are two sets of recordings. Firstly, those made by Steve at his place in London, which are mostly recordings of him playing, which are then sampled and programmed. I had also sent through samples of ambient Jura sounds which I had recorded; winds, water, stones, shells etc… which he could incorporate. Secondly, studio sessions to record his live drumming parts. By happy co-incidence around the same time Steve was in New Hampshire working with his brother at his Samadhisound Studio, so we were able to record all the live takes there. The fare for me to fly out and join him wasn’t in the budget, but actually when I thought about it, because of the process we had already gone through, I realised that there was no reason why I needed to be there anyway. Steve sent a few photos so that I could see what instruments he was playing (see above) and my duties were limited to technical support back in Jura, sending appropriate files through when required. My absence also gave me that first shiver of excitement when hearing the work when I received it a few weeks later – a good barometer of whether you’re on to something!

I’m now right in the middle of mixing Steve’s playing with all the other layers in the music. His performances, as do mine, all end with his ghostly footsteps walking away from the microphones. He still hasn’t been to Jura.

Over and out

Hugh

Click here to find out more.

There’s no alternative but to be here and make the most of it. OK, the weather can be pretty inhospitable, but it makes a very good job of simplifying the options available.  Today for instance, I have no need to go anywhere, I can certainly live without post for a day or two, and there are enough food supplies in the pantry.

Simply knowing that we’re cut off somehow focuses the mind on what’s realistically possible and important.  On Jura today there is one shop, one pub, and nowhere to go other than a walk in the wind.  There’s nothing to do other than exactly what I can actually do.

Whilst I didn’t plan it this way, exiling myself on a quiet island, for a time separated from the marketeers’ prevailing assumption that everything is possible, has been strangely liberating. Today, only a few things are possible and I’ll get them done. What a relief…

It helps that I have plenty to get on with. Following the collaborations with Steve Jansen, Dudley Phillips and the Scottish Ensemble last year I’ve been editing the recordings we made and starting overdubs and mixing.  Continuing in a vein of self-sufficiency, and because I’d like the completion of the record to happen in as organic a way as possible, I’ve upgraded the equipment here so that I can make the highest quality final recordings and mixes in my own time rather than decamping to another recording studio.

So the final production stage commences. The first mixes should be appearing by the time Spring eventually asserts itself over the Winter – which is still a month or two away.

Over and out.

Hugh

It’s been an interesting learning curve for me.  From the outset I had general ideas of the tunes and arrangements for the strings – but it’s been a detailed process writing the arrangements properly.  Like everything in life, there’s an option to hire someone, who appears to know what they’re doing, to do it all for you – and this is what tends to happen in modern music production if the song-writer hasn’t been classically trained.  Living in Jura, however, encourages/necessitates you to take a more resourceful approach, and I’m glad that I’ve stuck at the writing and arranging task myself – as hopefully the results will be more personal and original….

I’ve had the perfect motivation.  At the end of last year I learnt that the Scottish Ensemble was keen to be involved in the project.  I had seen them perform a few times and was impressed both by their incredible playing but also by their spirit, and they were at the top of my list for possible collaborators.   Knowing that, in a few months time, I would have them reading and playing my music, has been a good reason to put the work in.

The parts have come together slowly.  Being untrained, I’ve had no reference other than what sounds right to my ear.  I’ve sometimes had periods when I’ve doubted the simplicity of the notes on the page and felt the need to throw in clever phrases.  Followed, usually quite quickly, by a mass cull of notes to make everything as simple as possible!  I’ve learnt that it’s much harder to keep the arrangements restrained but still conveying emotion than it is to embellish them with lots of perhaps clichéd musical baggage.   The strings are written in five parts and have evolved to the extent that they are a really vital voice in the music – much more than just a melodic backdrop to the other instruments.

So tomorrow we leave for recording in Dundee.  Why Dundee you ask?!

I had originally imagined that it could be possible to record all the music actually on location in Jura.  However, whilst all of the recordings of my performances are being recorded here, some of the other elements are being recorded elsewhere – for good reason.

Steve’s percussion for example, was recorded in New Hampshire where his brother has his studio.  Steve was out there, his instruments were out there, so it made sense to record him there – without the usual time constraints which exist if a third party studio is booked.  For him it was the equivalent of me recording my parts in Jura – except with a pinch of yankee-cool!

For the strings recording there is an acoustic necessity to record in a room which helps the players whilst allowing us to record rich and transparent sound.  Rooms like this are rare – certainly in Scotland.  I put the word out to find the right place and most advice led to an old concert hall in Dundee, named the Caird Hall. There have been some great classical recordings made there and listening to some of these on CD confirmed that it would be the right location.  We’re also fortunate to have Phillip Hobbs overseeing the sound recording.  Phil is world renowned through his work with Linn Records and has made some beautiful recordings already at the Caird Hall.

The last week has been spent collating all the individual music parts – and they now sit in a pile on the kitchen table.  I can hardly believe that in a few days time these harmless bits of paper and print will turn into real life sound.  It’ll be quite a moment – I only hope that I’ve got it right!

Over and out

Hugh

Since coming to live in Jura, thanks to the Fletchers’ generosity, I’ve been fortunate enough to visit and stay at Barnhill several times. It requires a degree of determination just to get there. Several miles over a stoney track requires a decent four wheel drive vehicle, but perhaps the most eccentric obstacle is ‘The Chain’. In the middle of absolutely nowhere, the track weaves its way across a boggy moorland towards the north of the island. To the traveller’s surprise, on the boundary of the Barnhill Estate, two short posts on either side of the track support an old rusty chain held in place by a large old fashioned padlock. The ‘Key to the Chain’ is a thing of legend in these parts and is protectively guarded by Kate Johnson (nee Fletcher), through whom vehicular access to Barnhill must be skilfully negotiated in advance.

The house itself is refreshingly unspoilt by progress, and reminds me of old times in Jura – candlelight, jumpers, board games and silence. It does however have one very cool technological feature: The Generator. Triggered automatically when a light switch or power socket is switched on, the machine splutters into action; providing a slightly flickery supply and a rather pleasing background hum. It is located in a shed which adjoins the house and has an exhaust pipe which is engineered to poke surreptitiously out of an old stone wall. It’s hard to articulate why it’s a pleasing sound, perhaps my fondness for classic cars explains it, but the sound the old engine makes is quite unique; dependable and strong.

So I found myself at Barnhill with my high quality recording gear to capture this unique audible experience. I’m not sure exactly how it will feature on the record but I hope to have it in there somewhere. Effected recordings of old corrugated iron roofing sheets (a common Jura fabric), also recorded at Barnhill, have already found their way into the track ‘To The Lighthouse’.

Incase you’re unable to negotiate ‘The Chain’ yourself, you can hear The Generator here.

Hugh

But my memory is more of not listening to the BBC than listening to it.  Programmes on our little radio would always be masked by hiss, interference and the somewhat bizarre interweaving of distant Russian or Scandinavian broadcasts.

These sounds always fascinated me.  I also now realise that, in an age when we completely take for granted media of all kinds being fed into our homes, the sound of a radio struggling to tune in to the world illustrates a sense of distance and remoteness.

So I’ve always imagined some sampled radio parts interweaving with the music on the I’Anson album.  For this purpose I purchased a 1950s Quad valve radio tuner on ebay (pictured).  On it’s arrival I discovered that it didn’t include a power supply – so ensued a prolonged dialogue with James, a very helpful radio/electronics expert based in Eastbourne.  He and his friends were incredibly helpful and custom built a power supply to meet the precise 1950s Quad requirements.

The next challenge was to get an aerial for the radio.  Although I was keen on pure radio interference noises I also wanted to be able to pick up distant broadcasts and, without any form of aerial, these were completely absent.  With experimentation I soon realised that a major cause of the radio interference was, in fact, the three foot thick stone walls of the old cottage (yes, I know, perhaps one of us should have realised that before now!).

However, it also occurred to me that our old cottage has about one hundred square metres of corrugated tin on it’s roof, and this might suffice as an improvised aerial.  It took me five minutes with a drill and a cable to attach the old roof to the radio tuner, and hey presto, I can now tune into the world with some degree of accuracy.  If only we’d made this discovery years ago…

Hugh

When Minn first came to Jura it was Spring.  The fresh scent of new growth was abundant and her nose was raised enthusiastically in the air from the minute we got on the ferry.  Sniffing it all in.  Chasing rabbits on the beach.  Running up the hills.  Making a warm nest in the back of the old Land Rover.  There may have been the odd moment when she missed the bustle of a London park, certainly the smells of other dogs, and most definitely the crumbs of a take away pain-au-chocolate intentionally dropped by her master.  But Jura provided her with plenty of new distractions.

Here she encountered new animal smells all together.  The cows on the old air-strip in the morning – staring her out and forcing her to make a mad dash between them to get to the beach.  The scraggy sheep on the hill, providing a permanent test of loyalty to her master; “Minn”, deeper, slower voice… “No”.  The occasional otter providing fleeting intrigue and Willie’s new free range Tamworth piglets confusing her completely.

Once, walking on the beach, Minn and I became aware of a sort of evolving ginger shape at the other end of the beach by the burn.  It seemed to be moving towards us, kicking up white sand and making a deep, repetitive sound akin to a galloping herd of wildebeest in a David Attenborough wildlife programme.  A galloping herd it soon proved to be, as the ginger blur morphed into a pack of enthusiastic piglets with the support of their enormous and protective mothers – all building up a surprisingly quick pace.  Minn, sensing a game, ran towards them with her tail wagging.  Now it was fierce pig squealing that was getting louder.  She stopped in her tracks, looked back at me for reassurance, then belted as fast as she could in my direction and hid behind my legs.

I was no doubt laughing at the spectacle and cheerily reassuring Minn that she was safe when, to my horror, I realised that the wildlife sound effects hadn’t stopped.  I looked up.  The sows at this point had obviously built up such a head of steam that they thought they might as well finish off the job.  I may have yelled towards them in an authoritative way.  To no avail.  I turned with Minn, starting with a brisk walk in the opposite direction to convey an element of control in our demeanor (not that anyone was looking…).  As the galloping swine vibrations started to communicate directly through the soles of my boots, we upped the pace, breaking into a jog, then with a swift fearful glance back towards our predators, we broke into a full blown sprint.  We ran.  And ran.  It was only once we got up to the road that we sensed that the athletic sows had given up the chase.

Although I thoroughly enjoyed it most of the time, by most people’s standards the first Winter living in Jura was pretty bleak.  I had stripped out the old cottage which was virtually a ruin anyway.  It was damp and cold with a leaking roof and draughts coming in all the old broken windows and under the outside doors.  The new extension was a building site and certainly not remotely wind and watertight.  It had been my intention to be living in this new building by the Winter, but the inevitable delays had put paid to this.

So Minn and I made our little bedsit in the end stone room in the cottage – which is now the studio – while I built the new walls around us.  Cooking facilities were provided by a little ‘foker’ gas burner and loo facilities were of the ‘chemical’ variety through in a secluded corner of the new building.  There was a single pipe of water from the hill and bathing consisted of boiling a kettle and standing in a small blue plastic bowl (as had always been the case on holiday in Jura!).  The Winter did seem to be particularly harsh that year, with frosts, endless gales and driving rain enough to question even my enthusiasm on occasion.  I was active building the house during the day – learning new skills and developing my addiction to Radio 4.  Evenings were harder but by the New Year I had installed a wood burner in the ‘studio’ which provided much needed comfort and an extension cable ran electricity through enabling a once a week treat of a DVD in front of the stove.

If it were in my personality to see the dark side of life (which I fear it is…) then it would surely have been this experience that could have driven me to some pretty dark places.  Minn, however, whilst normally prone to the occasional self piteous shiver herself, remained extra-ordinarily upbeat.  Everything became a communal excitement in our little home.  Waking, eating, working, walking and welcoming visitors were enthusiastically accomplished.  Hardships were accepted and simple pleasures celebrated.

She was always a devoted dog but somehow this came to the fore in the adversity of our situation – perhaps because she sensed that she was needed, or that we needed each other.  I do wonder whether, without her, I would have ventured up here on my own at all, let alone get through the tough mental and physical challenges of that Winter and beyond.  I’m glad to say that her significant contribution towards this house eventually paid off in her lifetime.  A new warm building with underfloor heating no less – what could better that?!  In her old age she even, remarkably, grew quite fond of Louis the cat, who had been drafted into the team as Head of Rodent Control.

After Minn was put down, I brought her back home in the Land Rover.  She lies buried at the back of the house, in front of a crumbling old stone wall, shaded by a willow tree.  The picture above shows her windswept, paddling in the sea on a bright morning of that first Winter.  That’s how I’ll remember her.

Hugh

Alasdair Darroch arrived on Jura with family earlier in the summer in order to compete in the hotly contested Jura Regatta. (Alasdair, Archie and Jeanie can be seen in the photo sailing Morag on a balmy summers day). Morag is a veteran, having been sailed by the Darroch family at the Regatta for decades. Due, I imagine, more to my possession of a Land Rover with a tow bar than my sailing prowess, I was enlisted to help prepare Morag for the race. So began a whole summer of Morag related adventures! The first job was to tow Morag down to Craighouse. A gridlock situation developed on the Jura road as the trailer collapsed beneath the boat, blocking the road completely until we were able to enlist Martin Boyle with his massive digger to lift her free. The effort was well worth it as by the end of regatta day we were celebrating a double victory.

During the summer months Morag had been happily moored on an anchor in the Craighouse bay. On arrival back from the recording sessions at Crear, the plan was to get her out of the water for the winter with the help of Alasdair who was bringing up a new trailer. To our concern, the evening forecast brought news of gales coming in from the West. A step outside the front door confirmed that it was already getting blustery and obviously too dark for us to even think about transferring Morag to a more secure mooring. We’d have to sit it out and hope that Morag’s very generously specified anchor would do it’s job.

During the night I was kept awake by the old roof creaking in the gales and, in addition to my usual concern that it might suddenly take off to give me an uninterrupted view of the stars, I found myself thinking of Morag, on her own in the bay. First thing the next morning I rang Jack and Rhona Paton who live on the shore in Craighouse and have a close view of her. ‘Hope it isn’t to early to call, I just wanted to check that Morag has survived the night’, I said. Rhona put the phone down and went to have a look out the front window. I had been expecting a quick reply to my question. There was silence. Followed by muted discussion in the background probably involving Jack and their son Angus. Rhona came back to the phone. ‘I can’t see her’, she said.

Rhona went to have another look out to sea, this time with the aid of some glasses. More moments passed. With a Westerly wind Morag could have been blown over to the mainland, unless she had been broken on the rocks of Goat Island on her way out of the bay. Either way, it wasn’t looking good. ‘OK, we think we can see her. She’s dragged her anchor across the bay and seems to have come to a standstill just this side of Goat Island – but it’s terribly blowy out there so she may not survive for long’.

A few phone calls later and we were standing on the end of the big pier with Colin Campbell. It was so gusty that we could hardly stand up (you can see the pier and Goat Island in the photo). Morag certainly was in great peril. Remarkably her anchor must have snagged a rock as the sea shallows towards Goat Island and she was holding fast, for now. We decided that it was too dangerous to take any of Colin’s boats out to try and rescue her. Colin retreated to his van and made a call to his father, Bill.

Bill arrived a few minutes later to take to the water in his fishing trawler, ‘Ceanothus’. Within minutes we were on our way out to Morag and planning the rescue. Assuming we could get close enough, Colin would jump aboard Morag, take a rope from Ceanothus and cut the anchor loose so that we could tow her to safety. Although initially I had been assuming it would be me doing the jumping, I was quite relieved when Colin volunteered – he is certainly more sea-dog than I!

All went to plan. Our rescue mission complete, we clambered back on the pier. Morag was safely secured to one of the big mooring bouys in the bay, and we all felt a sense of relief that we had managed to save her from a certain, and rather violent, end.

Colin and Bill gave such an air of confidence, and Ceanothus felt so steady, that it had been easy to forget that we had been out in a Force 8 gale.

Never a dull day in Jura!

Hugh

The royal connection brought back childhood memories.  One of the summer highlights was the Royal Yacht Britannia passing the island.  When we knew – via R4 – that the Royal summer holiday was due to start, we would eagerly watch the horizon for the unmistakable silhouette of Britannia’s funnel and three masts – accompanied by a navy frigate fore and aft.  Once a sighting was made, we would all dive in the car and race down to Feolin Ferry where she would pass close by.  My father drove an old Rover P4 and this occasion provided one of the few legitimate excuses to drive it fast!  When combined with the bumpy single-track road down to the ferry (and my dad’s driving…), the Rover’s weight, soft suspension, and overly bouncy leather seats gave us a ride Alton Towers would be proud of.

Of course we weren’t the only ones.  A small gathering of Jura folk and visitors would congregate on the old pier.  Union Jacks would materialise, car lights flashed (it was usually at dusk), horns sounded and a few rounds of Rule Britannia and God Save The Queen would be sung out as loud as we could while the ship passed by.  Once, to our great excitement a small female figure came out on deck and waved back.  Could it have been you know who?  It must have been…

Hugh

OK, perhaps it was a little hopeful to expect to make huge progress during July and August. You may find it hard to believe but Scottish islands magically become very busy around this time with the influx of visitors and lots of local events.

This year has been no exception – with the Ardlussa Sports, Regatta and Cricket Festival to name but a few of the very enjoyable distractions available. Jura has two distinct states. In season there are lots of new faces, more cars and bikes on the road, more socialising with friends and family here for their holidays and, of course, more beautiful days to enjoy the island. Out of season everything settles down to its natural order – and we become aware again of the local community with informal evenings in the pub and village hall and more time to spend with each other and by ourselves.

However, despite the recent hectic island life, during the last few months I’ve been in the studio most days making good progress arranging the music. Many of the songs have existed in my head for a year or two. They have been written on guitar or piano with all the accompanying arrangements and words played out in my imagination. A few, relating to my late father, came during my last months in London – hankering for time in Jura, whilst the rest have been written in the ‘building site years’ here when I was, sometimes literally, soaking Jura up.

Over time, and much repetition, these imaginary arrangements have taken different forms in my head until things have stuck. My imagined band has been an orchestra – strings, horns, clarinet, xylophone and percussion interwoven by sampled found sounds. Of course, it sounds effortlessly perfect in my imagination(!) – so the challenge now is writing it down into parts – making it real.

It took a few inevitably frustrating technical weeks getting all the studio up and running. A mouse had made its home in my mac and obviously found something in there tasty – meaning that new parts had to be shipped in and fitted. But now everything is working so that I can record in very high quality and, for composing, mimic all the instrument parts with sound samples. With all the mental preparation, many of the arrangements are easy to write – although the mixing will take a lot of work to match my imagined version.

Once all the arrangements are written, I can start to record my own performances on guitar and piano. I have a ‘snake’ cable that reaches to all the rooms of the cottage – so I can set up microphones to record in differing acoustics. So far my favourite acoustic guitar sound is in the new kitchen, sitting in the pink chair, with a window open – as long as Willie isn’t driving by in his tractor! It’s as much about it being a ‘Jura’ sound as anything – I’ve sat in the pink chair for hours playing my guitar – so that has become a sound that I’m after. Likewise, with the composing and arranging, I often ask myself if what I am doing sits comfortably with Jura. It’s a good test. Certain harmonies or sounds can suddenly sound contrived or out of place when I look out the window or go for a walk. So then it’s back to the drawing board until something sounds at home here.

I will be recording the piano parts on the mainland at Crear – an amazing space (an old cow byre!) with a beautiful sounding Steinway D – and a magnificent view of Jura.  All being well, that will be happening in the next month – much piano practise required so that I can really make the most of the time and get some great recordings.

Then, the fun really starts with sessions for musicians to rehearse and replace my sample arrangements with real performances. I’ll have recorded guides of singing parts and found sound sequences so that everyone can get a feel for the end result. It’ll be at this stage when I will properly start to hear the music for the first time. I hope to have this in the bag over the winter.

So, there you are, a plan of sorts. I’d say 90% of arrangements are now done – it’s really starting to come together.

Over and out from an end-of-season Jura.

Hugh

Some music!  Not mine – yet – but some with a family and island connection.  A song from my grandfather Bobby Carswell.

The connection with Jura is on my father’s side.  My great great grandfather Alexander (Sandy) McDougall lived and worked on Jura’s Ardfin Estate as a stalker, with his wife Jessie.  One of their sons, also Alexander, apparently excelled at school here and, having sea legs as well, was offered an apprenticeship to train as a ship’s captain.  He served in the 1st World War, including the Dardanelles Campaign, and spent twenty years or so of his career captaining a ship out of Port Glasgow – maintaining all the lighthouses around the west coast of Scotland (what a job!).  His siblings Hugh and Mary stayed on the island until their deaths, never marrying.

Alexander the Ship Captain had a daughter named Muriel who was brought up in Port Glasgow with very regular trips and long holidays spent on Jura with her Aunt Mary and Uncle Hugh.  She married a Carswell named Robert (Bobby) who was a Caulker at the Lithgow shipyard on the Clyde. His main passion however, was his music, playing many instruments, leading the Royal Artillery Band (see picture) and writing songs and hymns all his life.  He was my grandfather.

I didn’t know him but I have memories as a child of the old crofters around Knockrome fondly singing his songs – songs about Jura.  When I came to live here a few years ago, these had almost been forgotten, until one evening at a Jura gathering when a lovely woman named Mary Keith got up and sang ‘From Feolin Ferry to Far Glengarrisdale’ one of Bobby’s best tunes – written about my Grandmother Muriel (Moira).  Mary sang the verses unaccompanied and then to my amazement, everyone in the hall joined in the choruses!

To my knowledge the music or words have never been written down.  It has just been sung and enjoyed and passed on by successive generations on the island.  So I went up to Mary’s house in Keils and recorded her singing.  She’ll be the first to tell you that her voice struggles with the asthma – but it’s a lovely record.

People speak well of Bobby – apparently very warm hearted, health conscious (fitness & breathing exercises every morning),  softly spoken (never got a word in edgeways with Muriel…) and quietly enjoying his music – always tinkering around on a piano.  He undoubtedly loved Jura, and I have often been aware during my renovations of The Cottage that his will have been the last hands to have worked on the fabric of the building.  He’d probably be amazed that several generations later his music is still being sung, played and enjoyed.

You can hear the recording of ‘From Feolin Ferry to Far Glengarrisdale’ here:

LISTEN TO MARY SING!

Happy listening and thank you Mary.

Hugh