As Prisoner 8472711 glided over the wall, things began to look a little brighter

Today's other illustration. Anyone would think I was looking for an escape route from this Scottish wasteland... it's entitled "As Prisoner 8472711 glided over the wall, things began to look a little brighter"

Some finished work...

This weeks magazine for inspiration is Aprils "Prima" which is apparently 'packed with ideas, advice and inspiration'. £2.95 from your local newsagent. Just in case of confusion, no they haven't commissioned me to draw anything for them; I'm just using it to practice.

Article title: "Make-up that's good for your skin"

Size required: 100mm x 70mm

In a nutshell: Communicate 7 great make-up suggestions, from lipstick to eye liner.

Article title: "Fall In Love With DIY (again)"

Size required: 200mm x 280mm

In a nutshell: Book jacket with a bold and quirky DIY theme

Illustration Friday - Swamp

This weeks Illustration Friday is 'Swamp'. Here's my submission, inspired by the constant need for wellies around these parts...

Build Your Own Lightbox (for less than £10)

I don't own a lightbox, and because we're now super poor and there are no shops locally that stock them anyway, I thought I'd have a stab at building one, to aid me in perfecting my illustrations (no Mum, tracing your own work isn't cheating!)

After finding a broken picture frame and a broken lamp in a cupboard here, I hunted for some lengths of wood to create the sides, nailed the picture frame to them, and used the back of the frame as the base of my new unit, which I covered in tin foil to reflect the heat upwards away from the desk. The whole thing was bolted together using cheap brackets and bolts from the hardware shop, although if you're any good at woodwork, you could build something without these.

I used electrical tape to affix the broken lamp guts to the foiled base, and popped in a 25w bulb (it only sits a couple of inches from the glass, so it needs to be dim to stop the whole thing getting too hot / cracking the glass / catching fire / melting your fingers.

I also bought an on/off switch for a couple of quid, to ensure ease of on/off-ness, and finally, I taped some tracing paper to the back of the glass, to defuse the light, and dropped it into the upturned frame (from where it originally came).

It's hardly stylish, if not a little dangerous with an inquisitive toddler always at hand, but it works as well as a £100 studio light box, and given it cost me less than a tenner, I'm very please with it!

Lots Of Drawing

In my last confession, I claimed to have done lots of drawing. And indeed, I have.

Primarily, my attack into the world of illustration revolved purely around actually finding the strength to pick up a pencil, and put it to paper, given the fact that I hadn't drawn a single thing in almost 3 months.

Being motivated to do anything other than loaf around or play with Rhett has proved much harder than I thought - maybe testament to just how totally knackered I am from all those years of having my large nose affixed to the grindstone of commercial design, producing 'landfill' as a good friend calls my packaging design work. It's a fair comment.

This week however, I've finally found my mojo, and I've gone through paper and graphite like it's going out of fashion.

I seem to be creating illustrations that I actually quite like - and that's a first for me in all honesty. Whilst I've produced individual pieces in the past that I'm proud of, I've always struggled to stay focused with a consistent style - crucial if I'm to seriously offer my services commercially.

Time has always been the main issue, something I now have (in theory) too much of, and this week, I've dedicated much of my time to producing hand drawn illustrations in one consistent style - not as easy as it sounds, especially when I'm so used to creating imagery on a computer - perfect Xerox copies each and every time you press Apple P.

That said, I am still intending to colour them up digitally, as its both quick, effective, and commercial. And besides, I hate colouring in.

The wall over our makeshift desk has become littered with my latest scribblings, some of which I'm fairly happy to show the world - a rarity for me.

My plan over the next week or so is to start producing some 'dummy' illustrations for real headlines found in a couple of magazines I've bought, to get into the swing of answering a real brief.

Once I've got that down, I'll start trying to get some actual commissions, to start paying for the hugely expensive diesel they sell here in the middle of nowhere.

Wires Wires Everywhere

You know, you just don't realise how important being in contact with others really is until you don't have that ability.

But thanks to the man from BT, thats exactly the situation we're in - he somehow cut our line killing our 2 days old internet connection, and thus terminating our contract. No broadband, and thanks to not one single mobile phone company seeing Kintyre as worth covering, we don't even have a fully functioning mobile phone. To receive SMS texts, we must board Croissant the Peugeot and journey down to the main road.

Ironically, there's also a public phone box there too.

Initially, this was fabulous. After years of being at the 24 hour beck and call of my office, I loved the fact that no one was able to reach us, and indeed, most people didn't even know where we were, thanks to the Google Maps car failing to drive along our farm track.

I mean, why would it?

But 3 weeks later, and still without broadband at home, it's becoming a little challenging.

Aside from speaking to friends and family on Skype, and seeing what the world is up to on Facebook, the general crapness of Campbeltown Library means inspiration here is very limited.

I remember great people like Andy Hall and Derek Johnston telling me that inspiration comes from real life experiences, not from the internet, but alas, here, surrounded by nothing but sheep, tractors, and farm gates, it appears these guru's of creativity were wrong all along.

The entire place is crap. I'm sure it must feature in 'Crap Towns Of Britain' although sadly my limited time online outside Whisky Macs pub, sitting in the cramped conditions of the drivers seat means I can't check to see.

Who'd have thought it. You move to this remote little place for a utopian lifestyle, and end up looking like your up to no good in the car park on a daily basis - all because the man from BT is still to return to finish installing the line which he started a fortnight ago.

If it wasn't for my happy go lucky approach to electrical engineering, we'd still have exposed live wires for the local sheep to nibble, but thanks to a Tesco's bag and some electrical tape, there will be no need for Douglas McDougal (I kid you not) to return to tidy his mess.

Still, on a positive note, there has been a huge amount of drawing undertaken. I only hope the limited supply of pencils and paper last the course - the local shops only stock Bic pens and lined note pads...

Top Ten Things To Be Wary Of In Campbeltown

Flooding

With so much water in the skies above us all the time, flooding is a real risk. Our cottages are located at the base of a very waterlogged hill and have flooded twice in the past 7 years. We have been provided with a large sandbag to protect ourselves. The only snag, it doesn’t currently contain any sand. For that, we must visit the beach.

Mice

Tiny field mice are ready and waiting to pounce on any food left out. They must be kept at arms length with electric anti mice devices, or failing those, poison and the good old fashioned mouse traps. There is nothing like the sight of a mouse with a broken neck, spiked through the head on a nail to cheer you up on a rainy morning.

Sheep

We’re surrounded by livestock on all sides, and they can wander not only onto the property at any given time if gates are left open, but also INTO the cottages if doors are left open. They are often found on the surrounding roads too, taking far more interest in their intake of grass than road safety. We’ve also seen sheep on the beach here.

Burst tyres

The track to the cottages is littered with small rocks. Great if you drive a Massey Ferguson 6490, not so great if you drive a Peugeot Partner with regular wheels.

Tractors

They are as common here as buses are on Oxford Street. We’ve seen a farmer parking his full sized tractor in the Co Op car park in town and nipping in to do his shopping.

Mud

It’s everywhere - in the car park, outside our laundry room, at the local playground in town, at the beach. Wellingtons are essential footwear at all times, somewhat ruining our cool urban look.

Upsetting the locals

Everyone here knows everyone, and everyone knows everyones business. Upset one Campbeltownian, upset them all. We’ve been warned not to slag off poor workmanship at the cottages (which is rather hard given their disheveled state) in town because of this fact.

Boredom

With so little here, and no way of easy escape to any nearby urban centre, this is probably Campbeltowns worst enemy. Visual stimulation is sorely lacking here, with the same drab images of fields, stone walls, grass and sheep burning into our retinas.

Hump back bridges

They’re everywhere, and seem to leap under the wheels from nowhere, launching us skyward, much to Rhett’s delight.

Deep fried food

It appears the Scots love it far more than the English. The battered sausage I had for lunch yesterday had more batter than one man can manage, and due to a terrible miscommunication between Twinkle and the man behind the counter, I somehow ended up with two to consume. Whilst it was totally fantastic, I could feel my arteries actually straining under the shear weight of fat, and at one point I caught sight of Twinkle actually ringing her chips out like a pair of soggy socks before eating them.

Other culinary delights that I might be forced to try - deep fried meat pie.

Mull Of Kintyre Lighthouse

Before we left for Campbeltown, my friend Kate asked if we were going to live in the Mull Of Kintyre. I believed (incorrectly) that that was an island further up the coast, but now know differently. It's the very tip of the peninsula where we now reside.

In 1966, Paul McCartney bought a farm here, and in 1977, sung a song about it creatively entitled 'Mull Of Kintyre'. Yes Kate, it seems we are.

Well, a slight lie - it’s at least a few miles from us, but given there’s nothing else around us except sheep, a few farms, some sheep, stone walls, a few farms and some sheep, I guess it’s almost right on the doorstep. There are certainly no other attractions between our cottage and the Mull Of Kintyre - Scotlands most infamous plane crash sight.

Whilst en route to Southend Beach yesterday (you can take the boy out of Essex, but you can’t take the Essex out of the boy) we spotted a sign for Mull Of Kintyre Lighthouse which I decided would be worth a visit. I have a phobia of lighthouse staircases that needs to be tackled head on, and I thought what better place to conquer this most stupid of fears*.

The road quickly became a single track, with a 60mph speed limit we’d never achieve due to the pot holes the size of duck ponds littering our path, and Croissant the Peugeot quickly felt like a bouncy castle as I dodged, but often hit them.

We came across a farm gate (surely there aren’t too many of these across the public highway?) which we proceeded though, upwards into the hills, following a single power line with wooden poles standing at every angle except vertical, until finally we reached another gate.

This one however was padlocked closed, and a large sign informed us that the road had come to an end.

Alas, there was no lighthouse, and thus no phobia overcoming was to be had. We turned back.

As it turns out, there is a lighthouse, and you can visit it, but we were glad we didn't. Rumour has it that it's miles down a steep rocky road to hell which can only be reached by foot, and (in the words of the locals) isn't worth the effort at all.

*I’ve had two major panic attacks inside structures with spiral staircases now - one in a lighthouse somewhere in the south of England, and one inside the Statue Of Liberty. There’s something about a circular set of stairs running straight up the middle without touching the sides that sends the fear of God through me. Going up is no issue - it’s coming down that turns my legs to jelly, and guarantees that both my hands will take up a vice like grip, thus gluing me to the handrail. On both occasions, I had to be talked down by Twinkle, step by step.

Take Two

After a long long drive to Campbeltown (note to self - only one L in Campbeltown) from Ayr where we stayed last night, we arrived in what appears to be a smallish town - not as pretty as those we past through, but with a harbour and lots of old character.

The GPS led us into town, and then back out into rolling green hillsides. It wasn't long before we were turning left onto a single trackway, and then onto a farm track and to a farm gate, behind which stood many sheep. We felt Betty the GPS had made a mistake, and turned tails back to the road, but no, it seemed she was right, and after asking a neighbour the way, we found ourselves opening the gate, and driving past the flock, spotting one stuck with her front leg wrapped in brambles.

We had a quick look around the cottages, finding ours, a rather tatty, cold and sparsely furnished abode which started to bring back memories of Umbria. It's small - very small - cold, although not as cold as Angelika's place, and tatty - paint peeling from the ceiling in the living space, and in places, 1950s style fixtures and fittings including a one bar electric fire bolted to the wall in the bedrooms.

Tara began to look glum.

But the power was on, there was a kettle, and the local farmer speaks enough English to help us with his tractor is it snows and we need to escape, so it could be worse.

After stopping to tell the farmer about his poor stranded sheep, we stocked up on fine local produce (Tesco's spuds and some chicken wings), cooked ourselves some food, and are currently zonked in front of the telly, re-charging our batteries, and planning tomorrows day out.