From Yesterday to Bute (Part 3)

Over the next eight years, the Crafts Centre in Corwen, North Wales takes in several thousands of visitors, including coach parties from Manchester, Liverpool who are entertained by our resident band. At the same time, tens of thousands of our books are distributed far and wide.

With the money earned from the Crafts Centre and from our wholesale jewellery trade, we purchase some smallholdings on the island of Eday, Orkney and begin experimental organic farming. Why Eday? Well that, as they say, is another story. But it’s a long trip from Corwen to Eday, and with no particular need to stay in Wales, we decide that it’s time to relocate northwards.

Dorothy, Bill and I spend months looking for a suitable property in Scotland and the North of England. We investigate old school buildings, derelict hospitals, castles with no roofs, bonded warehouses without windows, and even another old workhouse. Nothing is exactly what we want.

Then in 1988, whilst watching News at Ten, we hear that a disused oil-workers’ village in a place called Portavadie, on the West Coast of Scotland, is up for sale. Dorothy and Bill head off to see it. But by the time they arrive it has already been sold. Whilst in the area, they go to see the local planning officer, who points them in the direction of the Isle of Bute. “If you’re looking for large, empty property at a reasonable price, that’s the place to look,” he says.

They arrive on the island on the short, five-minute ferry from Colintraive. A twenty minute drive takes them through Port Bannatyne, and then into Rothesay. And that’s when they fall in love with the island. Rothesay, set in a beautiful bay, surrounded by hills, is our new home - they just know it. There’s something different about this place, something serene, something safe - and yet something needy. It’s seen better days, for sure, and perhaps, just perhaps, Rothesay needs us as much as we need Rothesay. All we have to find now is bricks and mortar.

These come in the shape of the ‘Isle of Bute Hotel’ and adjoining shops, situated off the main square. Despite the fact that the owner has not wanted to sell to anyone at any price, as soon as she meets Dorothy and Bill, a door is unlocked, a window opened, and suddenly the property is ours.

Gradually, we move our business, our belongings and ourselves to Bute and settle in. I arrive in December 1988, sailing in from Wemyss Bay on the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry. I’m captivated by my first view of Rothesay. This isn’t the place I’d envisaged from my conversations with Robert Paterson fifteen years earlier. Yes, it’s quiet - but there’s nothing boring about the island. And Rothesay is a proper town - with shops, pubs and restaurants - as well as motor cars, telephones and even electricity!

Looking back today at an article published in the local newspaper, The Buteman, regarding our move to the island (‘Move to Bute Complete’, 10 February, 1989), a group of twenty-eight of us are pictured celebrating with a few drinks in a Rothesay pub. We all look very happy. When asked by a reporter what is was like coming from down South to reside on Bute, one person replied, “It’s like coming up from the Underworld to live above ground.” And so it was.

From Yesterday to Bute (Part 1)

After the Beatles demise, a school friend tells me that Ringo Starr has taken six months to write his top-ten hit ‘Back off Boogaloo’. “Even I could write a song quicker than that,” I boast one day, under the teenage delusion that I can continue where the Fab Four left off.
“Well, why don’t you then?” he challenges. I pick up the gauntlet, dismissing the little thought that reminds me I can’t play an instrument. But that is about to change.

It’s September, 1973. Given the chance to leave parents, school, old memories and Leicester far behind, I jump at the opportunity. My three A-levels are my ticket to a destination far, far away from home - and the perfect excuse not to return for the weekends: it’s just not possible.

I enrol on a mathematics degree course at Edinburgh University and move into Pollock Halls of Residence. I waste little time in meeting a girl I like very much. She’s not like Deirdre Barker - not in any way. She’s bigger to start with. I learn later that her nickname BB stands for Big Bum. Yes I know, students can be so cruel - but in this case it was her mother.


Anyway, through BB I meet another student in my year who also stays at Pollock Halls. His name is Alasdair Fraser and he’s studying physics and maths. Oh, and he plays the violin - very, very well. He hears a tune and then just plays it. A real musician - unlike me. But I do try.

After collecting my first grant cheque, I waste no time in visiting a small music shop in Edinburgh that is very keen to relieve me of my income. To most students, that money is for books, food and alcohol. But to me, it’s primarily for a guitar - and an entry ticket to the world of music. I learn three chords from my guitar-playing neighbour in Pollock Halls, and prioritise my University schedule: number one, learn to play the guitar and write songs; number two, socialise and meet girls; number three, pass exams.

One day, Alasdair finds out that I play an instrument. I’ve no idea how he knows that. No, wait - I’ve just remembered: I told him. “What songs do you know?” he asks.
“The Streets of London,” I tell him. It’s a song that BB had taught me.
“Nice song. Anything else?”

“The Streets of London very very slowly.” He laughs, thinking it’s a joke. It isn’t. “Actually, I really only play my own songs,” I tell him - missing out the fact that I’m rubbish at playing anyone else’s. But Alasdair is impressed.

“I wish I could do that,” he says picking up his violin and tucking it under his chin, like anyone else would pick up a pencil. And then he plays - beautifully. Fast jigs, slow haunting melodies. He’s a natural, and I wish I’d never mentioned the guitar. But it’s too late. He gets me to play a song I’ve written called “Let Ireland Be,” a semi-political song inspired by Paul McCartney’s ‘Give Ireland Back to the Irish.’ Alasdair plays the tune straightaway, and I’m in raptures. I’ve only ever played my songs to BB and my family, and to hear him accompany me is out of this World. He apologises for missing a note. Like anyone would know.

And then Robert Paterson, Alasdair’s room-mate, comes in, holding something that looks a bit like a flute, but I later learn is a chanter - a part of the bagpipes.

“That sounds good,” he says, referring to our playing. “But you could do with the pipes in it.” He has a twinkle in his eye.

Robert Paterson shares not only a room with Alasdair, but also a great sense of humour, a love of music, and a passion for Scotland. “Have you ever been to Rothesay?” he asks.
“No - where’s that?”

“The Isle of Bute - it’s a grand place. It’s where I grew up.” He digs out a map and points to a small island situated on the west coast of Scotland. It looks a long way from Edinburgh. “You should come across one vacation, Steve, you’ll love it there - it’s so quiet.” I thank him for the invitation. But to be honest, looking at his map, I can’t see the attraction of travelling to a small island in the middle of nowhere. ‘Quiet’, to me, equals boring.