Jamie's blog

Photograph by Nigel King blueriverstudios.co.uk

It had rained the whole day but was forecast for clear skies with a full moon.  I had trundled my way up to Northumberland in my van to meet with our Aeroplane man Nigel King.  We were to make our first moon lit sand drawing, just me with a rake, and Nigel behind the camera, occasionally having to nip off to his car to get warm.  I on the other hand was charging around getting the drawing done in the darkness so was quite toasty.

It’s a peculiar thing doing a massive drawing in the dark, as you can’t really see anything.  It is only when the moon comes out from behind a cloud that what you are making is revealed to you in the silvery light.

Photograph by Nigel King blueriverstudios.co.uk

On an off chance I decided to collect some lanterns that I have whilst on the way up to Northumberland, to see if they would work on the beach.  I feared that they would go out in the beach wind, but we had been blessed.  We had earned calm weather during the evening as we had had so much rain earlier on.  Like a windswept wizard I lit the little lanterns and placed them on the ground around the rim of the circle.  There is something rather spiritual and calming lighting candles on a beach under the gaze of the full moon and the twinkle of the stars.  The lanterns are almost like little bundles of life flickering away in the gentle breeze whilst keeping me company.  The exterior of the lit circle is all chaos, and the interior tranquillity.

I occasionally heard Nigel from on top of the cliff shout directions or approval.  He seemed to get very excited at one point and I thought we had really hit the mark until I realised it was because he had nearly dropped his rather plush camera down the cliff.

Photograph by Nigel King blueriverstudios.co.uk

Towards the end of the evening I did start to get a chill so decided to be a little more aerobic and make myself a light igloo with my torch and then run around seemingly without purpose.  I think the fisherman down the way must have thought I was mental.  Afterwards we decided to call it a day and I said goodnight to my lanterns as I blew them out one by one, thanking them for their warm company.  It had been a very nice evening.

Photograph by Nigel King blueriverstudios.co.uk

Jamie

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The Bar tailed godwit

My alarm chirped at me and it was 3am.  I’d not had much sleep on account of my head been so busy with grids, measurements and images. and I was rising so early to finalise designs for the day to come.  In an hour and a half we were to descend onto the beach to make a protest against a proposal for a coal fired power station on our shores with the RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds).  The proposal would destroy a wading area for birds and significantly contribute to climate change.  There is no need in this day and age for Britain to source such energy; is it not so windy over here after all.

I woke Andy Moss at 4am.  His face was uncharacteristically blank and like a zombie he clothed himself, carefully taking one step after another, slowly becoming more alert as his body arose from its deep sleep.  At that moment there was a knock at the door and Jo Billingsley popped her head through.  Our quartet was almost complete.

We drove down to the beach in the dead of night, me desperately trying to see through the windscreen all fogged up by the warmth of our bodies snatched from our beds.  It wasn’t far to the beach and when we arrived there was no one but ourselves, the beach lit up for a moment by our headlights and then black as I turned off the engine.

The Super Nova sequence with the solar orbs at Druiridge Bay

We were to make two drawings that day.  One set of images were to be birds flying down the beach.  The negative space would be highlighted by the signatures of those people who had signed the protest, it was to be a visual demonstration.  This idea had come from some work we had done the week before.  Working with a youth group we had made some solar orbs in negative space with squiggles as the flares to highlight them.  Some of the kids had made pictures instead of squiggles; others had signed the images with their names.  It dawned on me that it would be poignant to make the birds using the signatures from the protest.  The Signature Bird was born; this was to be done by me and Jo with the help of the RSPB volunteers.  The second image was to be a face of a girl cracking as though it was in a dry river bed.  This was to be done by Andy Moss, the Mexican, the Major, the Moustache; he goes by so many names.  Joining Andy was to be Pandorà.  The quartet was complete.

Pandorà was waiting for us on the walkway.  We met her last week in Bradford whilst we struggled with some preparations.  She offered to help us.  She is an unassuming character and at first I was not sure what is was that she could do.  But now I feel a little embarrassed at how I underestimated her and I think I speak for everyone to say that we were blown away by her insight.  In the hours that she bestowed upon us sand drawing was changed forever and it seems a revolution in how to draw large images occurred that day.   I cannot tell you who or what she is exactly as I fear she may blow your mind.  What I can say though is that she is the Truth Teller and the All Seeing Eye.  She has such a noble and regal air that I feel she must be some sort of princess in another far off country that is perhaps not even of this world.

In the dark the four of us began plotting out the main points of the face image, overcoming obstacles that the darkness posed against us as they arose.  Like a drone Andy buzzed around the beach plotting the markers whilst Pandorà instructed him where to go in her calm stately fashion.  If it were me and Andy alone trying to plot the markers in the dark, then we would be fumbling around with frustration for hours only to get it wrong.  But Pandorà instantly knows where everything should go without any tapes or string; it is quite remarkable.

Soon the RSPB volunteers began to arrive and the drawing commenced.  Jo and I went to make the bird images that were to be photographed by the Aeroplane which is piloted by Nigel King.  Nigel is an incredible character and I feel that he needs a story of his own.  For now he is the magician of the air, taking incredible photographs that are far superior to any others that we have had in the past.

Jamie posing for the cameras with The cracking face. Drawn by Andy Moss and Pandora

It is characteristic of large sand drawings that you are often isolated in your own space as the team is so spread out along the beach.  Occasionally there is talking on the radio reassuring you that you are not alone.  Hand poised on stick, stick drawing in the sand, making marks that are yet to be signed with the rake.  We drew for four hours right until the sea was lapping at the wing of our final bird which was my favourite the Bar-tailed Godwit.  Myself and Jo drew it together in haste to try and beat the tide and we got the raking team to come and sign it before we had even finished the drawing.  I could not see the finished result as I had to run the 600 meters down the length of the beach for a press call on the work of Andy and Pandorà.  It was fantastic.  An anamorphosised face that was 100 meters long, done by just the two of them.  We posed for the journalists before the tide took the image.

The Bar Tailed Godwit signed in the sand

It was to be a great success on Irvine beach that day.  We did not know it at the time as we were so exhausted and ready to go to bed, our eyes glazed.  But we could not go to bed as we had to drive home for five hours to verdant Yorkshire.  The morning had been so intense that it passed into a dream like memory.  It was only the next day that we realised how successful it had been as the images of the face appeared in newspapers up and down the country.

“Jamie, I just saw your face in the Metro  and the Telegraph!”  This was a message from a dear friend of mine Danielle.  What surprised me though is that she was writing from Sydney Australia.  The images had gone global.

My thanks to Andy, Jo, Pandorà, the people at the RSPB and finally Nigel King who took all the ariel images.

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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I’ve just come back from a Holiday with my twelve year old niece to London and Holland.  We had a great time, saw old friends such as Natalie and her fiancé, went walking around the streets of London, stroked a pelican in St James’s park, said “Hi” to the Queen, went to see the musical Wicked and eat in a swanky restaurant in our trainers.  Went swimming in a lido whilst enjoying the sun with Alan Magee, I got to see my sister and Niel again, and meet my new niece for the first time.  In Holland we stayed with Jennifer and cycled each day, Teigan even fell of her bike whilst trying to punch me; I like a responsible Uncle could do nothing but laugh.  We ate heartily at Martijn Rijerse’s house and went walking with Jennifer’s cats.

But for me the most profound moment I had on our holiday was when a little girl called Anne invited us into her house.  It is down town Amsterdam.  She doesn’t live there anymore but she may as well do as you can feel her presence and that of her family everywhere. You can hear her voice, read things she wrote, and listen to many people talk about her. She was the same age as my niece when she came into the house and lived there for two years.  She wrote a diary of everything that happened there, and it still has a lot of meaning even though it was a long time ago.

The entrance to her house was a little strange.  Instead of a door it was a bookshelf that opened up from a wall.  This was so that nobody would know that they were there. As we climbed the stairs we came into a little room and all the windows were greyed out so that people couldn’t see in so that nobody would know they were there.  Before we went in we bought some drinks and the lady in the shop said to us, “Just keep your mouths closed for two minutes.”  I thought this was a sign of a respect until she continued “…because they had to do that for two years so that nobody would know that they were there.”

There was a lot of people in the first room which was her family’s living room and a bedroom for her father’s friend.  Anne is a now a very popular girl and a lot of people come to where she used to live.  We had to shuffle round the room slowly.  It is strange for so many people in such a small room to be so quiet, looking, absorbing and contemplating. There were a lot of things to see in her house but it was this first room that caught me.  It wasn’t the furniture as there wasn’t any.  Apparently when somebody did find out they were there, they and all their belongings were removed.  Anne’s father Otto on his return some time later said he wanted the house leaving as ‘they’ had left it, just the wall paper and whatever was stuck on it.  On the far wall by the door to the next room there were two pieces of Perspex glass mounted onto the wall to protect what was underneath.  One was a map of France, Anne’s father had placed pins in the map in different colours to show where the allied invasion was; the war by that stage had turned and hope of it ending was real as the Nazi forces were retreating.  The Perspex glass next to this one had nothing in it.  Obviously the item had slipped out or had been removed.  My eyes shifted to look through the doorway, the next room had posters on the walls, it was Anne’s room.  I was ready to move on and then I noticed some grey marks on the wall paper just under the Perspex glass that seemingly had nothing under it.  The light was so dim that it was difficult to make out what it was and so again I almost walked on, but the glass had a description written on it in Dutch and English.  It said ‘A height chart of Anne and Margaret Frank made by the girls during the two years that they lived in the annex.’  I strained my eyes to focus on the marks and saw the pencil lines that would have marked the top of the little girls heads; next to each line was a date and the name Anne or Margaret written in their own hand.  It took me some time to truly comprehend what this meant as I stared.  And then the image of two little girls standing against the wall, one stood there excited to see how much she had grown, no shoes, no standing on toes, but always a straight back, the other marking her height.  You could watch them grow as subsequent marks moved higher up the wall, each with a date and one of their names.

I stared at these simple marks transfixed, then in my mind the image of a white door flashed by, it is the back of the door of our boiler at home that has the same marks but with different hand writing, names and date.  These marks were made by me and my brother when we were children, also fascinated to watch ourselves grow, no shoes, no standing on toes, but always a straight back.  There are even marks of my niece who was in that same room and the same height as Anne.  This is a game that many children play.  Anne Frank didn’t grow much taller than the marks on the wall her and her sister had made because she didn’t live much longer than the last date she had written against them.

I find it difficult trying to absorb the enormity and the atrocities that occurred during the last world war.  It is difficult to comprehend the millions of lost lives and to grasp that each of them was a life.  Visiting this little house helped me to realise this, to really feel that there was once a young girl living here who marked her height on the wall just as we did at home.  Her presence is everywhere through her diary and you really begin to feel you know her, and the more you do the more you grieve as she needlessly died as a victim of the Holocaust.

There are a lot of things to see in Amsterdam, but if you find yourself there consider visiting Anne in her house and let yourself imagine.

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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Jamie and the Jellyfish

My head popped out of the water and I drew breath.  Whilst under I had hit a rock and grazed my shoulder, swimming amongst the jagged rocks at low tide was not the best place to be for a land lover.  As I came to shore Jade, a Scottish lass who works for the festival was just leaving the beach to go back to work.  With her red hair she is one of the prettiest Gingers I have ever met and it always brightened our day to see her beaming smile in the morning.  I stood there in front of her, stripped down to my underpants with a bleeding shoulder and wished her on her way.

Andy Moss and Dan Glover sunning on the rocks in their ridiculous hats.

As beauty walked off the beach I walked on towards my brothers in arms eating their lunch on the rocks.  As I approached, Dan Glover from America and Andy Moss who is now labelled the Mexican, were mocking me as I limped over the shells with the grace of a drunk, Dan then complaining that he couldn’t see on account of the glare coming from my white skin.  But they were unable to mock me deeply as they looked so entirely ridiculous themselves, Andy with his Pink Sombrero and black mustachio, and Dan with his Chinese style peaked hat.  I had a cowboy hat and together we were the Three Amigos.  I put on my hat and laid on a rock in my underpants so that the sun could dry me.  On sitting down I was fortunate enough to catch Dan on a rant: now that he had sampled Haggis he had to take the next step and buy a kilt in honour of his Glover ancestors that came from Scotland and then became plantation owners in America.  Apparently the Glovers were ‘good slave owners’ which is why so many slaves took the name on emancipation; this comment which was meant in the best possible taste led to days worth of relentless mockery from me and Andy.  And his pursuit of a kilt was yet another example of North Americans trying to claw back some culture that is more than 250 years old!  It was so good to have Dan there, we are fortunate that he has such a good humour and was not too perturbed by the choice of t-shirts I had given him, one that was so big it made him look like he was wearing a nightly and the other being so tight that he looked like the hulk in miniature.  But then Dan countered with the fact that the 4^th July was coming up and that we could all jump.

Crail Harbour

It is one of the great pleasures with sand sculpture that there are occasionally moments when people meet from across the globe who would have otherwise not met, and I am pleased to say that I think Dan from America and Andy from Yorkshire are to be lifelong friends. Dan reminds me of the manic toad from Wind In The Willows, he is so funny and has undaunting enthusiasm, whereas Andy is like Badger ready to mock him down and in his words “Outdan Dan.”   I’m not sure if they should meet too often as the resulting dark humour may get them into some trouble.  On his return home Dan was hankered by his wife for his vulgar language.  A real kinship was born in Crail.

Jade applying the finishing touches

As we ate our lunch Craig who is a steward for the festival came to eat with us and informed us that the BBC were waiting for us by the sculpture.  Usually this would cause me to jump to attention, but this day was so bizarre that I was to enjoy finishing my lunch.  Since 8am that morning we had had a frenzy of photographers and news crews streaming all over the sculpture and us one after the other.   I was not to carve anything until four thirty that afternoon.  I am certainly no model but enjoy posing in front of the camera like some Leonardo or chattering my Yorkshire on the telly.  It is always a cringing moment though when the photographers ask the other sculptors to stand aside so that they can take a photo of just me working on a piece of the sculpture that I had not made.  My credit to Dan and Andy for not breaking my legs whilst I was asleep.

Jamie and Graham from the Honey Pot Cafe

But the press frenzy which was reflected in the papers and news the next day was not a reflection of the sculpture, but of the festival it represented and the hard work of Debra Boraston who is the media dynamo for the festival.  It reflected the toil of the whole team who work the festival, many in their holiday time from normal jobs in the pursuit of quality in the arts and the joy of music; a vision I feel of the director Svend and his associates.

The A-Team waiting to catch a train

One thing that I did not anticipate was the hospitality of the people of the village Crail, who embraced us with open arms, Graham who let us dump 20 tonnes of dirt outside his cafe the Honey pot and complained not, only giving us coffee and the best carrot cake in Britain made by Edna; try it if you go there.  And a special thank you to Dorothy, a lady who on our first evening when I enquired “Do you have gravy with Haggis?” replied “Ach no, but you may sprinkle a dram of whiskey over it.”  At this she got up from off her stool and paced over to her house only to return with one of Scotlands finest single malts.  “Enjoy it on your Haggis, there’s enough there for a wee tipple afterwards as well!”  And indeed there was.

Jamie

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Quality time with Donald

“I’ve left my passport on the plane.”

This was my conclusion after searching my bag and pockets to no avail.  I had just landed in Helsinki airport but wasn’t too deterred as there were two attractive women sitting at the Finnair lounge just waiting to save my bacon.  I placed my hat on the desk as though I was here to stay until the matter was resolved.

The lady at the desk was bewildered and then hypnotised me for a moment with her magnificent eyes, pool blue with a dark rim to frame the delicate light tones as though she’d gone round them with a pencil.

“……What?”  She had asked me a question whilst I was swimming.

“Where did you fly from?”  She looked up at me directly from her seat .  I regained my composure.

“Leeds, uh, n…., Londo…., ah yes, Manchester.”  My composure had failed me.  “Yes, Manchester.  I was seat 19 A.”  Remembering my seat number immediately filled me with renewed confidence and I could not disguise my pride as a well deserved smirk crept from my mouth.  “What is your name?” “Jamie Wardley”  I remembered that OK.  She smiled.

“Okay, we will need to find it or else you will not be able to get out of the airport, there is security just down the corridor, but then they won’t start cleaning the plane until later.”  I was beginning to feel that I was to spend quite a bit of time in the company of this young lady for all the wrong reasons.  She rummaged around her keyboard and then picked up the phone and began to babble in Finnish.  She got up from her desk and was obviously trying to get hold of the right person, one of her contacts on the ground no doubt.  She then began to pace up and down and I followed her with my eyes which wasn’t a chore.  Occasionally she would give me a neutral glance as if to say all is under control.  And then she went into the back office and everything changed.  She came out pulling all kinds of faces which weren’t encouraging.  There was a slight pause in her babbling so I took the opportunity to give more information:

“…..There was a newspaper on my seat and the passport will be under that.”  This I was sure of.

“What was the newspaper?”

“It was the ….Daily Mail.”  My memory was in overdrive, “In fact there may have been a book with it as well,” my god I was on a roll.  Oh dear, I had left my book.

There was renewed hope in her voice at my new information but then this gradually faded away as she began to pull faces again accompanied by babbling, starring at me with those deep blue eyes as though I should understand something.  This was not good.  I began to fondle my hat still sat on the desk.  There was a bar down the way.  I had only 5 euros.

She pulled a face and with an apologetic grimace said “They cannot find your passport.”  I mumbled an appropriate expletive under my breath at the thought of been an airport refugee, wandering around in the same underpants for weeks on end until a new passport could be issued; and only 5 euros to my name.

And then the other rather more humiliating possibility dawned on me.   I could feel my bag next to my feet.  ”….maybe I have it?” The girl looked at me with a tilted head expressing her thought that ‘maybe you do.’   I leant down and slowly unzipped a pocket.  Three week old underpants and 5 euros were looking more and more appealing.  I had already checked this pocket earlier and was now hoping not to find it.  As I peeled back the fabric there was revealed a clutter of items, wallets, hard drives and a small burgundy book with the emblem of my protector her majesty the Queen of England plastered across it.  Oh dear.  I pulled it out and held it in my hand sheepishly.

By this time the girl with the pool blue eyes had come round my side of the desk and gave a roar of laughter, I indulged in a slight moment of humiliation and then shrugged off my shame and merrily joined in laughing at myself. I’m quite fortunate that I don’t dwell too much on my foolish mistakes as I make so many of them.  Practice makes perfect I always say.  Just before I made my farewells she checked me with her blue eyes for the last time.  I paused to take in the moment and then realised that she was testing me to see if I would remember my straw hat neatly propped on the table.  I had not.   She took it and placed it on my head.  “Welcome to Finland!” she said with delight and another roar of laughter.  How to make an impression by JS Wardley.

I smiled my broadest smile, “Thank you very much.” I was back in my second home.

Jamie

P.s  A sculpture I have made since I’ve been here:)

Me and m'new mate pterry

The Pterodactyl, can yo see the baby tricerotops?

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It was the late afternoon and we had stopped off at a motorway station on our way back from two days in Liverpool for a coffee.  We were in the outside garden, sprawled out on plastic chairs, the tranquillity of our mood not disturbed by the cars speeding by on the motorway behind the thin veneer of trees.  I looked across the table at Andy Firth and then Andy Moss.  Mr Firth was sat back with his eyes closed and face raised to the sky, his café latte in hand and mouth moving ever so slightly as he savoured the taste of it.  Mr Moss with his long black hair and moustache wore a downward gaze and cradled his French style long espresso; reminiscent of a holiday in Paris.  The thing that struck me so profoundly as I sat there watching them both was that here were two people dressed in the robes of utter contentment.  A peace within that needs no words or grand gestures, just a very comfortable silence that had been so well deserved.

Picasso's dove of Peace by sandinyoureye and Holly Lodge School

This moment of serenity had come by collaborating with two Liverpool Schools and sharing with them a day drawing in the sand on the great beach of Crosby surrounded by the ubiquitous sculptures of Antony Gormley.  These schools were Calderstones and Holly Lodge respectively, full of kids with charisma who like a small army of ants swept onto this huge beach and made two most wonderful pieces of art.  I thank them for their efforts and two great days spent on the beach with them.  I hope they didn’t ache too much afterwards.

The Dancer sand drawing made by sandinyoureye and Calderstones school

Also, thanks to the lovely Kathy Haywood who with great spirit marched us on and adorned the every so grateful Mr Moss with his Mexican sombrero with pink decoration; he will treasure it always.  And thanks to the chaps from River Media who were undaunted by the challenges of the scissor lift and were so patient with our bizarre choreography.  I look forward to seeing the films.

Jamie

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This is the film dedicated to the UK’s largest beach sand drawing as commissioned by Island Records for Jack Johnson’s new album ‘To the Sea’.  It is also a very nice track by Mr Johnson I must say.  It is called “You and your heart.”  The film was made by the most talented Finnian Varney of aberration films.  The sand drawing was of course made by us at sandinyoureye with special thanks to Andy and Helen for a terrific job organiseing everything whilst I was galavanting around Holland making the himalayas out of 250 tonnes of sand.  I did make a nice Hare though if I do say so myself.

If you want to read the diary from the day then go to the blog page

800 meters long, 90 meters deep

I would like to thank the team for a very hard, but very good days work.  Nice one

The sandinyoureye team. From left to right: Ra Horgan, Richard Bottomley, Jamie Wardley, Andy Firth, Jason Lynn, Jo Billingsley, Tim Curtis, Jonny Sayers, James Haigh, Mark Yates, Warzier Mirza, Goran Namiq, Andy Moss. And not featured, Helen Tidswell, Finn Varney, Louis Waller, The Munson.

Jamie

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