#berneray

[segmentedleg]

WHEN: 28 July, 2022 WHERE: Berneray Machair, Scotland WHAT: bluebells and other plants WHO: Alasdair W on Wikimedia Commons [x] [x]

[vox-anglosphere]

Britain's finest beach lies on the remote Scottish island of Berneray

[katieharrismacleod]

Seaweed Cyanotypes, Isle of Berneray, Muir is Tìr Residency, August 2018.

A series of cyanotypes made by the tide, sea water, seaweed, rivers, rain, salt and, sand. Stemming from a body of, predominantly photographic, work: 'cha ‘be bàthadh do ‘d dhàn // drowning was not your fate'. This body of work is reminiscent of being underwater. The outside world is muffled. Silence.

[ukdamo]

Crònan an Taibh

Màiri nighean Alasdair Ruaidh

(English translation below)

Ri fuaim an Taibh Is uaigneach mo ghean; Bha mise uair nach b’ e siud m’ àbhaist.

Ach pìob nuallanach mhòr Bheireadh buaidh air gach ceòl, An uair a ghluaiste i le meòir Phàdraig.

Gur mairg a bheir gèill Don t-saoghal gu lèir: Is tric a chaochail e cheum gàbhaidh.

Gur lìonmhor a chùrs Nan dealt air an driùchd Ann am madainn an tùs Màighe.

Chan fhacas ri m’ rè Aon duine fon ghrèin Nach tug e ghreis fèin dha sin.

Thoir an t-soraidh seo bhuam Gu talla nan cuach, Far am biodh tathaich nan truagh dàimheil.

Chun an taighe nach gann Fo an leathad ud thall, Far bheil aighear is ceann mo mhànrain.

Sir Tormod, mo rùin, Olgharach thu, Foirmeil o thus d’ àbhaist.

A thasgaidh ’s a chiall, Is e bu chleachdamh dhut riamh Teach farsaing ’s e fial fàilteach.

Bhiodh teanal nan cliar Rè tamaill is cian, Dh’fhios a’ bhaile am biodh triall chàirdean.

Nàile, chunnaic mi uair Is glan an lasadh bha ’ad ghruaidh, Fo ghruaig chleachdaich nan dual àrbhuidh’.

Fear dìreach deas treun Bu ro-fhìrinneach beus, Is e gun mhì-ghean gun cheum tràilleil;

Den linnidh b’ fheàrr buaidh Tha ’s na crìochaibh mun cuairt, Clann fhìrinneach Ruairidh lànmhoir.

Chan eil cleachdainn mhic righ No gaisge no gnìomh, Nach eil pearsa mo ghaoil Iàn dheth.

An trèine ’s an lùth, An ceudfaidh ’s an cliù, Am fèile is an gnùis nàire.

An gaisge is an gnìomh, Am pailteas neo-chrìon, Am maise is am miann àillteachd.

An cruadal ’s an toil, Am buaidh thoirt air sgoil, An uaisle gun chron càileachd.

Tuigsear nan teud, Purpais gach sgèil, Susbaint gach cèill nàdair.

Gum bu chubhaidh dhut siod Mar a thubhairt iad ris, Bu tu an t-ubhal thar mìos àrd-chraoibh.

Leòdach mo rùin, Seòrsa fhuair cliù, Cha bu tòiseachadh ùr dhaibh, Sir.

Bha fios cò sibh Ann an iomartas rìgh, An uair bu mhuladach strì Theàrlaich.

Slàn Ghàidheil no Ghoill Gun d’ fhuaireas oirbh foill, Dh’aon bhuaireadh gun d’ rinn bhur nàmhaid.

Lochlannaich threun Toiseach bhur sgèil, Sliochd solta bh’ air freumh Mhànais.

Thug Dia dhut mar ghibht Bhith mòrdhalach glic; Chrìost deònaich do d’ shliochd bhith àghmhor.

Fhuair thu fortan o Dhia, Bean bu shocraiche ciall, Is i gu foistinneach fial nàrach:

A bheil eineach is cliù, Is i gun mhilleadh na cùis, Is i gu h-iriosal ciùin càirdeil:

I gun dolaidh fon ghrèin Gu toileachadh treud, Is a folachd a rèir bànrighinn.

Is tric a riaraich thu cuilm Gun fhiabhras gun tuilg: Nighean oighre Dhùn Tuilm, slàn dhut.

The Murmur of the Atlantic

Mary MacLeod

Translator: Marcas Mac an Tuairneir Mark Spencer Turner

Hearing the sound of the Atlantic I grow lonely; There was I time when that wasn’t the case.

But the great howling pipe Would surpass all music, When stirred by the fingers of Patrick.

Piteous is he who succumbs The wide world: Often its perilous path has changed.

Its course is more abundant Than the morning dew at the beginning of May.

I have never seen Anyone under the sun To whom a spell of this has not been given.

Bear from me this this farewell To the hall of the quaichs, Where the piteous amongst us would visit.

To the plentiful house Beneath yonder slope, The source of my melody’s joy and theme.

My beloved Sir Norman of my love, you are a descendent of Olgar, And statesmanlike in your manners.

My beloved treasure, It was always your way To keep a liberal, welcoming house.

The minstrels would travel Many miles and hours Knowing they would depart as friends.

Alas, one time I saw When your cheek shone brightly, Under your usual golden ringlets.

A man straight, strong and skilful, That was completely truthful, Without displeasure or slavish step;

Of the family of best influence within these borders The clan of generous Ruairidh.

There is no princely virtue, No valour or deed, Dispossessed of my beloved.

In strength and in vigour, in intellect and renown, in generosity and modest countenance.

In heroism and deed In unwithered plenty, In beauty and in desire.

In fortitude and in will, In his impact on learning, In nobility with no character flaw.

Knowledgeable in the harp, the heart of every story, the stuff of all natural sense.

All that befitted you, referred to as the apple surpassing all the tall tree’s fruit.

My beloved MacLeod, Those that found fame, This was new beginning for them, Sir.

Who you are was known, In the affairs of the king, When the woes wars of Charles befell us.

Gael or Saxon, alike, no deception was found in you, unlike the temptations of your enemies.

Mighty Norsemen The genesis of your story, The wily descendents of Magnus.

God bestowed destined you to be Majestic and wise; Christ, grant your progeny good fortune.

You received a dower from God, A wife of steady reason, Quiet, generous and modest:

Possessed of clemency and renown, And without blemish, Humble, gentle and friendly.

She is without any defect For the crowds she entertains, And her lineage equal to a queen’s.

Often you have given banquets Unmuddled, unprovoked: Daughter of the heir of Duntulm, hail to thee.

[whateverbringsyouthroughthenight]

Berneray

[whateverbringsyouthroughthenight]

Berneray

[katieharrismacleod]

During my time on, Berneray, every day I would walk/trace the coastline. Finding a different part of the island to create cyanotypes and drawings made from seaweed or plastic that had been washed up over the course of an incoming gale. The weather changed dramatically over the few days we were there and made it extremely difficult to make work outside and even walk along the coastline without being blown backward, though there is something extremely liberating in battling the elements to make artwork. This time-lapse was shot almost in the centre of the three-mile-long beach on the west side of the island, overlooking the Isle of Harris and Pabbay. Making art outside becomes a ritualistic process and the landscape literally becomes the work. I become the work.

[jollysportingbear]

In flight! by John Methven Via Flickr: Berneray Beach, Outer Hebrides