Page 27 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

Stained glass was something she would like to have a go at, and maybe she would when she found the time. Glass-blowing… not so much. The intense heat and the danger of burning herself put her off. She classed it in the same ballpark as blacksmithing – another craft she was too wary to try.

Freya emerged from the glass studios and went in search of the pottery, her heart lifting when she saw the array of ceramics displayed in the window. Pushing the door open, she went inside and was immediately transported. This was where she belonged, and her spirits soared.

The potter was hard at work, a bowl taking shape under his fingers while she watched, transfixed. No matter how many thousands of times she had seen this done, and had done it herself, it still felt like magic. She assumed every craftsperson felt the same when they transformed a blank page, a lump of wood or a piece of uninspiring metal into something different, new and beautiful. This was why she did what she did.

After watching him for a moment, her gaze roamed around the workshop, noting the barrel-shaped kiln. A pair of protective mitts lay on a nearby shelf, along with a pair of safety glasses, cones and items of kiln furniture. The studio’s set-up was much like her own. There was a sink, an area for wedging the clay and hand-building, the wheel itself for throwing, and a glazing station.

There were bags to keep the clay moist, tools for throwing, decorating and trimming, a set of scales, pots of brushes, wareboards, bats for throwing, bowls, sponges, bottles of glazes, slips, and stains. Drying rails held greenware that had yet to be fired, and on other shelves bisqueware sat ready to be glazed. Several aprons hung on hooks near the door, and everything was neat and nicely arranged.

Freya’s attention returned to the potter as, satisfied with his creation, he took a wire cutter and sliced through the base of the bowl, separating it from the circular wooden bat that sat on the wheel.

Only then did he look up from his work. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello. You’ve got a nice set-up.’

He smiled. ‘Are you a potter?’

‘I am.’

Getting to his feet, he picked up the bat with the freshly thrown bowl, and carried it to the drying rack. ‘I’m Rob. I’d shake your hand, but…’ He held up his clay-covered hands.

‘Freya. Have you been here long?’

‘About four years. I used to be a copper and pottery was my hobby, but now I do it full time. You?’

‘I teach and I also potter.’

‘Are you local? You sound Scottish.’

‘I grew up on Skye, but I live and work in London now.’

‘Back for a visit?’ He was cleaning the wheel as he spoke, washing it thoroughly. ‘Duncoorie is a braw place to escape the rat race for a while. I’m from Newcastle originally.’

‘I thought I heard a Geordie accent.’

‘We came here for a holiday once and fell in love with the place. Me and the missus decided to move to Skye when I left the police force. We live in Portree now. Duncoorie is too quiet for her. Not enough shops.’

Freya said, ‘The craft centre seems busy.’

‘It is, thank God. I sell through the gift shop, so the more visitors, the better.’

‘I’ll have a look at that later.’

‘You should. There are some lovely things, real quality workmanship.’

‘Like yours,’ she said truthfully.

‘Thanks, that’s kind of you to say so.’

‘I’ll leave you to it. Nice meeting you,’ she said.

‘You, too. Maybe you could stop by again before you leave?’

‘I definitely will. I’m going to be here for a couple of months.’

‘Ah, that’s the upside of teaching – the school holidays. But don’t let my daughter-in-law hear me say that. She claims they’re not long enough! She teaches primary kids. I wouldn’t have the patience. What about you?’

‘Higher education.’

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