Ardfern for Argyll

The brief was ‘something about your local area, it’s history, etc.’ I can do that, I thought. For some time I’d been thinking of doing something similar anyway and here was a project that would lead me by the hand and teach me how to do it. Yes, we’d look at Craignish peninsula, go afloat on the stunning Loch, take a boat ride through history to find the place where it all began.

Easy. I can do that. Should be a doddle. What could go wrong?

Scenery and sea, and that means good weather days – sunshine and wind not too strong and from the right direction. There were plenty of them when I couldn’t spare the time, not many when I could. But then…

A day forecast when all would be perfect. It was a go. Boat ready, camera batteries charged, notebook, tripod, all ready. First a hike up the hill to a quiet place for the view over the peninsula and an intro from me. The view from the top looking south down the Sound of Jura is stunning. I set up the tripod and camera, twizzle the screen so I can see myself, get myself in shot, find a piece of sheep do to mark the spot, twizzle the view screen so the microphone can hear me, walk out of shot, turn round, walk back to my mark and start the intro. Cue half a dozen cows walking into shot to investigate. I start well, I really do, but with no list of key words easily seen the intro. declines into ‘umms’ and ‘errs’ as I become aware of the cows which, like gongoozelers behind the TV news reporter, are stealing the show. Take two.

Take two goes well, cows forgotten like the true professional, until a bunch of people crest the hill right behind the camera and the umms and errs return. Of course I have to talk, for one is a friend and it’s churlish not to. I need another ‘take’, but time has moved on and the cows nearer and I have to get down to the shore and aboard.

A hat magically appears on my head as I video myself leaving the shore. Aboard the boat the camera insists on slipping from its position however tight the lashings. But, perseverance pays and I’m determined. It all takes time. Finally we’re at Scodaig and clambering ashore to a small hummock overlooking the landing place. Set up the gear, focus on the landing point, video on, then scramble back down to the dinghy and row out of shot. Turn and row back, disembark and climb over the rocks back up to the camera, trying hard not to walk out of shot. More backwards and forwards-ing as I video my way to where I want to be.

There are marks in the rocks I want to show, but it’s late and the sun is now in the wrong place and there are no shadows and the features don’t show up without shadows – but I’m determined. ‘The show must go on’, I say to myself. So I film the marks that can’t be seen and tell the story I came here to tell. And I nearly get there, I really do. I’m just at the climax of my tale when a female voice, disembodied, says in a nasal New York accent, ‘Low battery power’, and I gabble to finish but too late, as she turns off the camera – like my story isn’t worth listening to - and so I pack up and go home.

Tomorrow it’ll be raining, the next too windy. ‘Scodaig’ will have to be done again – or most of it anyway. But it will be, it will be.