Jamie's blog

Bogota at Night Photographed by Rodrigo Ferreira

The sky is black and below in the mountain basin is a wondrous living creature.  She is breathing.  If I were to take a photograph of her and show you she would lose the life within as you would lose it if I were to take a photograph of you, because when you are there looking at her in the flesh she is sparkling and is totally alive.  I am told the vast lights of the city that stretch to the horizon only twinkle because of thermal currents making their way through the atmosphere.  Whatever the reason, millions of lights pulsating with a rhythm that dances like the eight million people that live there is remarkable. We saw this looking down from the high vantage point of a mountain top called Montserrat onto a city that nestles in a basin two kilometres above sea level.  I have never seen in my life before an entire city before me, in fact I have seen very few things made by the hand of man that is so beautiful.  All these wondrous flickering lights are the sparkle of the people that live there.  It is the city of Bogota.

Taking a Break Photograph by Bouke Atema www.boukeatema.com

This is the place that has no seasons, it is always warm and has occasional rain that makes it so green and full of fruit the whole year round.  Here the air is thin and when you move with haste you have to breathe deeper and rest more.  Here the crescent of the moon has slipped off its hinges and sits not on its side, but on its bottom like a great white smile that reflects the most welcoming smile of the people that live here.  They are indeed one of the friendliest people I have met, and so varied in appearance that the whole country resembles a cosmopolitan city and is welcoming to all, even a red headed Englishman.  This is Colombia.

Chris taming the Cows. Photograph by Bouke Atema www.boukeatema.com

But I am not unhappy to leave Colombia.  There is something inherently warming about the place I am in now.  Here there are seasons, autumn paints the landscape with its wonderful colours and for better or for worse the dark months of winter draw near.  It is cold and wet but wonderfully green.  The crescent of the moon is as it has always been.  When I speak to somebody they understand every inflection of my voice, I can use all words and full accent.  Here there are people that have known me all my life, we have a deep understanding of each other that has been born out of the many layers of shared experience woven through time.  They need me and I need them.  I belong here.  This is home.  This is Yorkshire.

Statue of Liberty and the New York Skyline sand Sculpture by Jamie Wardley. All part of the sand sculpture festival by the WSSA in Bogota Colombia.

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Ghost Ship Sand Drawing

Our big journey started with a sand drawing and sand sculpture on Barry Island for the lovely Sarah Jones.  One part of the team was on the sand drawing on the beach making a Ghost Ship stretched 400 meters across the shore.  I for the first time was not on the job and it was directed by Captain Andy Moss at the helm with the assistance of Lieutenant pAndora directing from the promenade and with Officer Jo Billingsley and Richard Green on the deck.  We were also joined by Officer Mary Murphy and a group of Sailors from Bristol University (UWE) who as always were fantastic.

Barry Island Sand Sculpture

I on the other hand was on the shore with Lieutenant Haigh and Officer Havers building a sand castle and being sure to make the walls strong enough to withstand the cannon fodder of the Ghost Ship.  I think we won the battle as the Ghost ship despite everyone’s efforts was swallowed up by the incoming tide at the end of the day and the sand castle is still standing.  We know how to make castles.

After the Barry Island campaign we said tallyho to our mateys who headed back up to great Yorkshire.  Andy Moss, Richard Green and I headed south to make some little cars for Ford on the wonderful beach of Polzeath, Cornwall.  One of the most poignant memories of that journey was getting out of the van in the dead of night to change drivers on a new moon and black clear sky.  But it was not totally black, as the night was so clear and dark that a sparkling silver cloud stretched across the length and breadth of the sky, each drop of water being a star, and the stars together being our Galaxy.  We were certainly blessed that night.

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Red Arrows, courtesy of the RN website

Andy Moss and James Haigh arrived early in Bournemouth to prepare the sand on Thursday. I was driving towards Bristol for a party to celebrate a sand drawing and was getting regular updates from the boys on the phone. “It’s a washout, it’s a washout!” I couldn’t really grasp what James was saying and had to go to the services to call them.

“Jamie, it is a total washout, it’s just been torrential rain, I’ve never seen anything like it. The winter gardens has just turned into a lake that comes up to the waist, cars are floating around round abouts and the sand is just washing away!”

“So is there no sand for the sculpture?”

“Well we put a tarp over it and most of it is still there. Andy even called in the RAF to give him some sand bags!” This was no jest as we were making a sand castle at the Bournemouth Air Show to celebrate 20 years of MARS Ice Cream. I really can’t believe it was 20 years since they came out, I remember looking at them in the freezer when I was a boy. So, so desirable and so beyond the realms of my non-existent pocket money. It was years before I could afford one, but how delicious it was.

The little lady and her dog

I eventually arrived in Bournemouth to find the boys tucked in bed in the hotel. They however were grim and full of frowns. With unrelenting sarcasm Andy piped under his great moustache “No, this is a great hotel Jamie, you would get a lot of money for selling the antique TV.” It was so old and large in fact, that I later used it as my desk. “……And the beds are damp, last night I woke up shivering!” The peace de resistance however was that the ensuit to the toilet was separated by a partition, and the partition was made of frosted glass. This made for some very intimate bonding after breakfast.

medievil sand castle

We cracked on for two days and had a great time making our sand castle, sometimes a little embarrassed as when the red arrows were flying by some people were taking photographs of us rather than them. “It’s the Red Arrows, turn the other way!” They were as all the other times I’ve seen them spectacular, swooping from all directions to make their manoeuvres with all the grace and power of the Jets that they fly; splashing paint in the sky that is their canvas. After they departed Andy turned to me and described that watching them had left a lump in his throat, perhaps because he admired so much their dedication to becoming what they are. “I thought being a sand sculptor was the best job in the world, but now I think it is the Red Arrows.” Unknown to us at the time, moments after they departed back to the airport one of the jets ‘Red 4’ plummeted to the ground and crashed not far from where we actually were. Before impact, it is thought that Lt John Egging managed to steer his jet away from a shopping centre and towards a field. However, he ejected too late and died doing something that he loved. Although tragic there is something poignant in a man following the path of his dreams. He may have been young when he died but he was truly living his life. Let him be an inspiration to us all.

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Andy Moss and the Beethoven Sand Sculpture

Whilst shovelling some sand below Beethoven’s chin I turned to Andy Moss. “So lets go and see a show tonight.”

Andy returned my gaze with a quizzical scepticism. “Oh yeah?  Why’s that then?”

“Well, we are making a sculpture for a classical music festival and we should probably see some classical music.”

“Mmm.”  Mr Moss eyed me even more suspiciously.  “And that’s the only reason is it?”

Whatever did he mean I thought to myself.  “Well yes.  We could go tomorrow night but there is a really good tune being played tonight that I really like and I think you will all really enjoy it.  It’s called Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams and is one of the most magical tunes around”

“….And there’s no other reason why we are going? You see there is usually some other reason that we don’t know about.”

I was beginning to feel offended.  “Nope, just the music”

Mr Moss began to twist the ends of his moustache neatly in his thumb and forefinger, deep in contemplation of the situation.  “Ok.”  He was evidently willing to sit this one out and await the true conclusion.  “We will see.”

We were at the East Neuk Music Festival again making a sand sculpture in the village of Crail outside the glorious Honey Pot Café with Graham and Edna that is home to the world famous Crail Carrot Cake (claimed to be made by Page).  We were making a sculpture on the theme of Beethoven with Dan Glover from America working on the music score, me the face of Beethoven, and Andy Moss the haircut.  It was a somewhat daunting experience on account of it being a portrait of sorts and Beethoven’s miserable expression.  It is very true that if I am making a laughing face then it makes me laugh and smile, and the converse is true with a miserable face.  Still I plodded on.  I was encouraged greatly however when someone thought that it was to be Margaret Thatcher and then another Lady Gaga.  Lildhi who was one of the stewards looking after the sculpture said it was going to give her nightmares. Thanks for that.

On that note, I decided to go all the way and take up on Dan Glovers suggestion and give it roaming eyes.  You see there is an optical illusion where if you sculpt an object concave (negative) rather than convex (positive) as normal, then it will appear to follow you.  And so it was that Beethovens black eyes would follow you constantly no matter where you were.

Beethoven is watching you!

Some hours later we had arrived at the concert hall and watched the first half of the concert which was entirely strings.  “Well she was pulling some funny expressions.”  This was the half time commentary by Mr Moss on the violin soloist’s Isabelle van Keulen performance after the interval.  She is a very charismatic violinist from Holland and she is characteristically blond and tall as the Dutch tend to be.  It was evidently her that was to play the Lark Ascending.  “…..So why are we really here Jamie?”

“I told you, there is a really good piece later on.  You will like it.”

Dan then rolled into conversation with tired looking eyes, “Oh, man, I nearly fell asleep there, I need a coffee.” The poor lad looked like he had just got out of bed.  During the concert I had to pinch the soft tissue of his hand at one moment to stop him from dosing off.  “It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just so soothing that it just lulls me off to sleep!”

For the second half we took our seats and we were this time accompanied by Tilly and Mohsina who were fashionably late as they are just so cool.  Mohsinah also had a cold which was great as she added to the lulls in the music with her sniffles.  But the second half was much more lively and nobody was dozing off this time.  Schubert woke us all up and got our feet tapping.  I was so excited by the sight of the trombones (I used to play the trumpet) that I had to correct myself for using some colourful expletives.  I was in civilised company now.  It has been said to me many times, you can take the boy out of Bradford, but you cannot take Bradford out of the boy.

And back onto the stage came the lead violinist Isabelle van Keulen.  I was by this stage a little nervous due to Mr Moss’s probing accusations and the fact that I’d brought everyone here to pretty much listen to this piece.  I myself had heard it many times on the radio and then began to realise that it is actually a very difficult piece to play and some fourteen minutes long.  I began to question whether this tall Dutch lady could play this delicate solo.  As she walked on there was lots of clapping and nodding, but I did detect some nerves from her, and rightly so, only later did I find out that she had never played this at a concert before.  The audience then went quiet and she propped the tiny violin that is 250 years old onto her shoulder and then clamped it there with her chin, occasionally releasing her hands from it entirely to make sure it was balanced and secured comfortably.  Her expression was now sombre and totally concentrated.  It was just her and the violin, building up to the moment when her bow would move across the strings and the piece would begin.

Total Silence, no movement from anybody.  And then the Lark began to Ascend.

There is something utterly compelling about music.  What is in the fabric of a rhythm and sound that can make people stand aghast with such joy and amazement?  The sounds that came from that little violin and the supporting Scottish Chamber Orchester were as sweet as Dan Glover’s honey, and all were licking their lips and some wiping their eyes towards the end.  But as if this was not enough, Isabelle played the piece so magnificently that even the seagulls chimed in their calls in perfect pitch to celebrate this wonderful piece of music.  Vaughan Williams, thank you so much for such an amazing piece, and Isabelle van Keulen you were fantastic.  Even Mr Moss had to almost concede that my true intentions were to see the music.  But still there is an element of doubt in the end of his moustache!

Oh, and we also did some sand drawings just to throw in an added extra.

Brittle Star

Star Fish Sand Drawing

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Zara and the Sperm and Egg Sculpture

The flags were flying again over Glastonbury.  This time I had the joy of being at the festival before all the people arrived and was able to enjoy the creative hustled and bustle that brings the festival alive.  This year was also very different to last in that it rained.  It was fascinating to see the verdant hills of Glastonbury in a matter of hours turn to mud as the bulk of the 180,000 people marched in on Wednesday. But nobody was downhearted, it causes great amusement to watch people trying not to fall in the mud and great pride to see that they are not at all deterred by it and in fact embrace it.  The humble wellie is by far one of the greatest pieces of footwear on the planet.  Mr Wellie, or whoever you are that invented it, I salute you.

We were to make a sand sculpture under the creative eye of Zara Gaze and her company Sandalism.  Zara again employed this wonderful concept of a transitional sculpture that grows throughout the festival and we were this year joined by my good friend Dan Glover.  If the Incredible Hulk and Toad from the Wind In The Willows were able to pro-create, the Dan would be the spawn minus the green tinge.  He is hilariously funny and it is such a shame that Toad did not take up sand sculpting as Dan is one of the best.

Mr Toad © Estate of E H Shepard 2004. Licensed by Copyrights Group.

We never gave the sculpture a name but it was inspired by the coming into the world of a little bundle of joy called Huxley who is Zara’s new born baby.  He is just old enough to crack a most charming smile that makes everybody’s hearts melt.  The first phase of the sculpture was to make a group of sperm swimming towards the egg.  Enjoy watching the expression on parents faces as their child asks what the tadpoles are doing and then their panic when Zara gives their child a definitive correction: “….they are not tadpoles they are sperm…” The parents are then for a moment speechless before Zara succinctly gives the children their first sex education lesson on conception and the roles of Mommy and Daddy.  They then leave the sand pile with a sense of contentment knowing that there is now one very awkward conversation with their kid that they will not have to have.

A day or so later this sculpture then evolved into a six week foetus that most people thought was a dolphin.  We even had to write “human foetus VI weeks old”  and still people asked what it was, peoples brains are not working quite as well as usual at Glastonbury, It must be something in the air.  “It was once you my friend.”  After that it then transformed itself into a baby.

6 Week Old Foetus

The final baby finished

But of course the joy of Glastonbury is not the just the sculpture but the music we are able to see and the people that we are able to meet.  We camped next to a new band Ellen and the Escapades and then watched them on the Park Stage shouting “We love you Ellen!” much to their embarrassment.  These guys are very talented, watch out.  The Sushi girls then lined our belies with delicious food, and Shelly and the gang with morning coffee.  We danced and sang with people in the crowd embracing the music come rain or shine, and of course, I got to see my new sister and her wonderful family and friends again.

Dan watching Ellen and the Escapades

But there is one secret to Glastonbury that people do not seem to know about.  If there is one thing that a sand sculptor always has on him then it is a bucket and spade, no matter where he is going.  I even sleep with a bucket as you never know when it will come in handy.  So when we took our blue buckets to the concerts we were the envy of all those around us and naturally spread the bucket love as much as we could.  It’s an amazing feeling being in a concert, the music and the movement of the crowd.  But one thing you do not get is the enormity of it all as you can only see the hundred or so heads around you and that is pretty much it.  Most often than not you cannot actually see the performers on the stage breathing life into the festival through  their music.  You cannot see the 80,000 people sprawled across the fields and up the hill, bobbing up and down to the music with smiles on their faces.  But,…and here is the simple joy of the blue bucket, if you turn it on it’s end and stand on it’s base then you can see everything and the joy of the festival reaches a new level.  I feel a revolution coming on.

Bucket Love

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Trapeze artist

I arrived in Finland with nobody understanding what I was saying.  ”Jamie, you are talking funny.”

I’d just been to a friends wedding in Denmark but other than that was straight out of Yorkshire and had not yet adapted to my foreign twang.  I spent four minutes trying to ask a new Russian collegue “How long has it taken you to get from Moscow?”  He couldn’t understand a word I was saying.

Then a Finnish friend interjected: “How many hours you travel from Moscow?”  He totally got it.  Kimmo who runs the event then gave me yet another lesson in English.  ”Jamie, when you want suger you just look at the person and say “Sugar.”  Forget all this “May I have and please business!  ”Sugar,” That’s all you need to say”

My time in Finland was spent making two lovely ladies flying on their trapeze.  I have to thank the girl in the yellow top for having available such a nice bum for me to copy just at the right moment.  Julie and Victoria are still there swining away.  I miss them dearly.

Jamie

My Girls

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Self Portrait

When I arrived in Rugen Germany a friend of mine Krists Zarins greeted me with a new excellent shovel already sharpened.  This may seem like a small feat, but a sharp fine small shovel is a sand carvers best tool and is pretty hard to find.

This was then added to by the fact that there was a pool just across from where I was living together with a Sauna.

And then just to round it off nicely we were working on a nature reserve and there were deer and hares all about the place.  And the food was great to as long as you weren’t a vegetarian.

It’s hard being a sand sculptor, but someone’s gotta do it.

Jamie

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Zara Gaze and Nicola Wood working on Casandra

“Jamie!”  A southern accent, perhaps that of a cockney called out my name.  I glanced upwards into the throng of people and then back down at my tool ready to carve away in the sand again.  I don’t know many cockneys.

“Jamie!”  There it was again, unmistakable this time and definitely a cockney.  The caller was stood just outside the sand pit, he was an amiable looking man sporting a cowboy hat and shades and was looking somehow excited and enthusiastic.  I popped my head up in acknowledgement and stood up to greet this Cockney Cowboy. “Hi.”

I was at Glastonbury festival working for the wonderful Zara Gaze and her company Sandalism who was accompanied by Nicola Wood.  They had already made this great sculpture of a woman lying on her side before my arrival and the festival start.  But Zara had come up with a great twist to take back our maidens delicate form layer by layer so that throughout the festival you would see her be reduced to muscle and then skeleton.  A realization of what we are and a very new way of making sculpture in motion rather just in static display.  I really like this concept a lot and take off my hat to Zara.

Glastonbury festival is a most spectacular and bizarre place.  It is a totally unreal sight when you stand upon the hill of a rural valley and look down on the sheer mass that is 200 thousand people and their tents, gathered not to look at the cows but to simply to enjoy a week together in the pursuit of music and festivities.

Faithless playing at the Pyramind Stage

What it is about music that can hypnotise people I do not know, but what I do know is that 80,000 people jumping up and down at the same time to the beat of Muse is totally incredible. Listening to Stevie Wonder ponder his thoughts with youthful charm, Florence and her pals rock the pants off everyone, Foals a band I had never heard off totally amaze me, Faithless having everyone point one finger to the air in the pursuit of unity and oneness, the Edge from U2 making an appearance with Muse playing the ‘Streets have no name.’   I was living in a world of joy.  But the cockney cowboy had something to say that would top all that.

Once he saw me walking over to him I could see his face beaming with anticipation even behind his mirrored sunglasses.  “Are you Jamie Wardley?”  His hands were held open towards me, there was something unboundingly friendly about this person even though I had never met him before in my life, a kindness that you would never expect from a stranger.

“Yes I am.”

“You don’t know me,” perhaps he had read my thoughts, but I was not too put back by it.  Often in this sand business people approach you who you do not know,  “…Is your Dad called Roger Sutcliffe?”  This on the other hand totally blew my mind on account that I had only ever met my father once before and so for someone to know his name and that I was his son is to put it mildly a little peculiar.  It had only happened to me once before when a drunken fellow in a bar had recognised the face of my father in me when I was 18; commenting that I looked just like him.  But this was Glastonbury, not Bradford, and what’s more I was wearing a hat and sunglasses.  I gazed at the man and could offer only a simple answer.  “Yes he is.”

The Cockney Cowbow gazed at me a moment, his mouth widened at my words in a grand smile, his hands had opened even more and with an expression of joy he gestured to the lady stood beside him who I had not even noticed and announced “………Well, this is your sister.”

The sun beamed down the full time that we were at Glastonbury, the girls made a great sculpture which I was fortunate enough to be able to tinker on, me and Mike Copleston one of my greatest friends jumped to music so much in the night that we found it hard to walk at the end of the festival.  But the greatest moment was looking into a face that was very much like my own and who until that moment I had never known existed.

I have a sister.

In true style I demonstrated my flawed listening skills as we exchanged phone numbers, her hands shaking.  “Sorry, but what is your name again?”  I had forgotten it as soon as she had told me.  That evening I found their tent in the chaos of people and they welcomed me into their family, but the Cockney Cowboy who is Emma’s husband and actually called Neil had already done that, when he shouted my name he was not calling to a stranger, he was calling to his younger brother.  After some merriment and tales of new families, Emma and I lit a lantern together that I made a wish upon and watched it float into the night sky; and then it disappeared.  But that day another lantern was lit that will never go out and will never disappear.  It was the day that my family grew.

Jamie and Emma

Jamie

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Me and Mom

“Mommy, I’m tired.”  I am four years old and walking back from Grassington to the campsite in Appletreewick in the verdant Yorkshire Dales with my Mom, my hand holding hers. It is six miles away and I have already walked 6 miles there earlier that day.  I reiterate, I am only four years old.  My little legs are aching, I am so small and tired that I’m swaying as I walk, my ginger hair bobbing like a dandelion in the breeze, my eyes are blinking sleepily, taking in the rolling hills dotted with white sheep, my eyes close for a little longer this time, blackness, they open again and are greeted by the hills once more.  My mom looks down at me sympathetically and squeezes my hand twice.  She does this occasionally to let me know she’s thinking about me. I squeeze back.

“Close your eyes Jamie and sleep whilst you’re walking, I will guide you.”  My wonderful mother holds my hand more firmly; ready to show me the way.  I quickly resign to this, I know I am too heavy to carry now and that the only way back home is to walk.  I close my eyes. The green hills give way to darkness and I can only hear now as I sway from side to side, my hair tickling my cheeks as it bobs, my moms hand guiding me through the fields, the sound of the river Wharfe tinkling away gently to my right side, twittering birds flying over head, lambs baying to their mothers.  Blissful sounds and scents pass through me, soothing my aching legs, they are still working; as long as my legs are still working then everything is OK.

There is a slight rise in the path, but I do not falter, I have total faith in my mother, her grip tightens as she guides me, we must be navigating something difficult, I wonder what it is?  I then feel her hand move forward a little in a surge and then at the last moment she pulls back.  But before I stop naturally my four year old body jolts dead as it collides with an unmoveable object, I hear the crunch of my forehead jar against something firm followed by a dull pain. I open my eyes blinded by the light, they gradually adjust and I am confused by what I see.  There is a dry stone wall in front of my face and I seemed to have walked into it, but how can that be, my mom is holding my hand.

I look up to her, at first her expression is blank, and then her eyes narrow to creases and her cheeks bulge, her mouth widens and her body begins to spasm.  Although my head hurts I am firstly worried about my mother, she is convulsing now and her hand is held over her mouth, her breathing is erratic and interspersed by strange squeaks as she gasps for breath.  The squeaks get louder and are now joined by grunts and shouts.  Her eyes are so creased up that I can barely see them, tears are streaming from her eyes.  I then I realise.  I am generally not the sharpest tool in the box and at four years old was a little behind schedule. For a moment her convulsions lessen and her hand comes away from her mouth to reveal a broad grin, she caresses my forehead apologetically.  There is a momentary pause; the sound of sheep baying comes back to my ears.  And then it finally happens, my dear mother explodes with laughter, she is laughing at me, unable now to look me in the eye; unashamed raucous laughter, she holds her sides and doubles over bent should her ribs burst.  She has just walked me into a dry stone wall for the fun of it.  This is one of my earliest memories of cruel humour.  I laughed my four year old ass off.

The six mile walk home suddenly became shorter after that moment.  It soon became a game to see if I could catch my mom out from walking me into a wall again. I quickly became adept at this as I spied new targets ahead, but then she soon changed strategy and started walking me into trees and after that cow pat.  It was fun all the way home.

This feeling of nostalgia hit me last week as we carved away at the National Railway Museum, and after that Morecambe Bay.  The sculpting was great to do as always, but the very special thing was my time spent with one of my fellow sand sculptors.  A very talented woman who stole the show with her sign writing at the museum.  But for me it is the little bundle of life that is growing in her belly that is quite amazing, the way her body is changing seemingly every day to allow for it to grow and to nourish it.  I am told that as a man I am so lucky because I can wee standing up, but I would say that having a child grow inside you takes the biscuit.  Two hearts beating inside the same body.  It’s a great time for her now, but also the future, all the moments that her and her child will spend together that will one day become fond memories. Perhaps she too will walk her child into walls for the fun of it.

Jamie

Ps.  A special congratulations to the Mexican Andy Moss for fulfilling a boyhood dream of tooting the horn of a real steam train.  Andy has the actual model of the train he tooted at home.

The Mexican fulfilling his boyhood dream, "Toot, Toot!"

National Railway museum sand sculpture

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The Mexican Andy Moss picked up Martijn Rijerse from the airport expecting a short and rude Dutchman with a dark complexion, ready to drive for one unbearable hour to Liverpool where we were to make a sculpture in collaboration with TATE Liverpool’s Picasso exhibition organised by Walk the Plank. Instead, The Mexican found Martijn to be polite, reserved, tall and fair.  I am glad to say that this facade doesn’t last long and is occasionally shattered as Martijn has some form of mild torrets, some say that he is autistic, others say that he just has a very complex humour; either way he cannot help himself from saying what should not be said.  When I noticed a cut on a friends hand a few months ago, Martijn asked him “Was that a leaving present from your wife?”  Our friend was in the process of getting a divorce.  But other than that he’s an exceptionally nice person.  Unfortunately for him we had spent last week in Scotland with the indefatigable and exceptionally talented Dan Glover and The Mexican could not stop reminiscing about our ‘working holiday’ in Scotland with him.  Martijn had a lot to live up to and I was quick to dub him Number Two.

It soon became clear however that this was not going to be the case.  Martijn in small doses began to reveal his humour and charm our moustachioed Mexican with his dry wit.  On my complimenting Martijn on his knowledge of form making he casually brushed aside my comment and announced simply “It’s the basics Jamie, the basics.”  I from that moment lost all credibility with my team and am now know as The Amateur. I have been doing this for seven years now, but there is always something to be learnt from a Trojan like Martijn whose incredible skill is born of 13 years in the sand carving business.  There is a hint of talent there as well.

Even Goldy Locks was impressed.  Goldy Locks is otherwise known as James Haigh my lifetime friend.  The Mexican dubbed him with this name on account of him never been satisfied with anything.  ‘This chair is too soft, and this chair is too hard, this porridge is too salty, this porridge too sweet, this chicken is too seasoned, and this chicken is too plain.’  Goldy Locks’s motto in life is that ‘if everyone thought like him then everything would be all right as he is always right.’  On getting a curry he proudly announced that “We are from Bradford and have high standards when it comes to curry.”  I could see on the waiters face that he was thinking ‘well I am from India and I have high standards when it comes to curry as well.’  Unfortunately for our Indian friend, his standards were not as high as Goldy Locks’s, James had to order extra green chillies to spice things up and when the waiter asked if he liked them James replied with a dead pan stare and said “They add flavour.”  One of his favourite comments after a meal was “I’m not paying for that!”  I would then look over to him and reply, “I know you’re not James, that’s because I’m paying for it.”

"He did what!"

However, when it came to servicing Martijn everything was different and Goldy Locks had found his perfect bowl of porridge.  I could not believe my ears when after Martijn asked James for some help, he replied: “For you Martijn, anything.”  I have known James from the moment he was born and he has never said that to me.  Perhaps I can one day be as an amazing person as Martijn Rijerse.

Picasso sand faces

So we battled on through rain and wind in front of Liverpool’s Liver building, listening to the endless lyrics of ‘A Ferry across the Mersy’ hailing from the ferry that was crossing the Mersey.  We had the most water hungry sand imaginable which was a problem as we didn’t have mains water for the first part.  We made use of a triangular sculpture so that each of us could have a side to carve on whilst Goldy locks helped out along the way, baying to Martijn’s every need.

Martijn's Picasso sand sculpture in front of the Liver building

Number Two of course made a Picasso master piece and parted with all his knowledge on sand carving with the Mexican who is a newcomer to the sand world.  This elevated him to Number 1 in The Mexican’s eyes.  Sorry Dan Glover, glory is short lived. The Mexican made a very good piece himself as you will judge.  I formally introduce Andy Moss into the Sand world.  I made Picasso’s Dove of Peace which was nice enough when in the company of Gods.

After finishing we had a celebratory ice cream and said our goodbyes to the sculpture which was to be demolished the next day.  I am still awaiting the film of our good friend Ben the site manager trying to demolish the sculpture by running through it with his impressive 180 kilos or 20 stone.  I did inform him that the sculpture weighed 60,000 kilos but he was not to be deterred and bounced off the sculpture at 07:30 the next day.  This is a film I would like to see.

Andy Moss and Picasso

The sandinyoureye team with the dove of Peace

Thanks to all those involved and to Walk the Plank for having us.

Jamie

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