The Bowhill Giants - Video Footage

This is three minutes of calm, from Bowhill....

Giants in the Forest: Interlude to Chapter 5

From Wat Phra Kaew

It is with a sense of melancholy that I know look back on my adventures across Scotland in search of Giants in the Forest. Not just that the summer is twisting slowly back down into the autumn: they have already become memories of a healthier Vile, one who could cycle for a good hour, all the time meditating on the nature of national identity.

In the aftermath of the Fringe, I am not able to walk for more than ten minutes: I have taken to digging out old articles to put on-line, since typing encourages shooting pains along my arms. When I stand, I am stiff and bent. My sole pleasures in life are lying very still and thinking. Like a character in a Beckett play, I remember and re-dismember, and the joys of the past only emphasises the misery of the future. In the click of my knee, I hear an oracle of my demise.

Much better times were had on the open road. The brief bursts of hitching made me think I was a beat poet (a delusion I had had during my early twenties, when I worked in a hospital and read Foucault on the wards). Cycling was beautiful, the fields and the rivers rising up to welcome me - the sheer pleasure of beating the 'suggested time' given for the distance between Aberdeen and Drum Castle on Google Maps rushed me back to childhood games. And trains, and buses: no longer the weary prisons for the commute to work, but chariots of flame that split the road open to reveal the vistas beneath and beyond...

And for three glorious weeks, the stage was not the place I looked upon to provide respite from a life of quiet desperation. The clouds and breezes, the ache of my thighs as I marched into the drive of Bowhill Country Estate, Selkirk, the car that stopped and picked me up from the side of the road (and me in my suit and carrying a rucksack thinking this combination of smart and loose would have its own symbolism): to travel was the destination, and every other cliché that I can steal.

I have explained that I am a critic because I have seen in theatre (especially dance, especially dance that comes from Belgian or has Iona Kewney in it) an intensity that seems to break the veil of illusion, that cracks open the truth hidden behind the mundane. And those moments still happen: Red Bastard did it... but what I found out in the countryside was different. It was a serene awareness, tiring, but not a sentimental rush...

Perhaps it was... perhaps it fades... perhaps the ghost of post-modern cleverness absorbs me again and I slip back into the quest for spiritual pleasure in an essentially spirit-less, urban world... do you know, by the time I got to Drum Castle, I had got into the habit of talking to the Giants (only this time I was given a tour and had to be rational or else they'd wonder about me...)

Trees Near Bowhill

The auteur in person

In this short extract, Vile's enthusiasm for cheap horror movies is an ironic contrast with the rural beauty of the scene. Taken as he strolled along the path towards the Bowhill Giants, this extract is best explained in the auteur's own words.

'You see, it's like a horror film and you are expecting the monster to come out from around the corner - and it doesn't appear. Instead, you get nice trees. Is that because there is no monster - or is the monster the one making the film? Am I, in fact, the monster?'

A Real Film Critic supplied the answer. 'Since the word monster comes from the Latin monstrum, meaning a show, Vile is right. He is certainly making a show of himself with his camera work.'

However, whatever else Vile thinks he is up to here, it is at least noting that he does capture how beautiful Scotland can be - and in the next extract, we shall see the Giants... the target of his search.

Bonus Giants Footage: Vile leaving Selkirk

While it lacks the precision of his later films, this brief sequence of footage from Gareth K Vile's Border's Journey already reveals the hallmarks of his mature style. The shaking hand - sometimes seen as a reference to the already unfashionable Blair Witch school of horror - and the lack of definition in the image would be used to stunning effect in his magnum opus. The influence of both Tarkovsky and the dogme directors are equally obvious.

Vile is always about attacking the audience's preconceptions: here, the wobble as he lights upon a notice board describing his location suggests that he is trying to remind himself of where he is, both artistically and literally: that the sign is almost unreadable reflects his meditations on the nature of loss and confusion. Nothing is as it seems.

In the Footsteps of Others (Chap 1.5)

I know that I am not the first blogger to have sought out The Giants. When I called up Helen before I arrived at Bowhill, she had a memory of the last man who came past. I feel a little in his shadow: and I just realised that I borrowed one of his pictures for a post.

I have deliberately ignored his blog so far, but Daniel Bergsagel cycled to the Giants - it is a moment of shame when my contacts look at me and realise that I am taking the easy journey. I'll try and claim that walking is just as hardy - and hitching is risky, so I am some sort of tough guy. However, I am looking over his response to Bowhill - and he is far better at the historical context.

I am now worried about reading more of his blogging - he uses  footnotes and clearly remembers more of his geography than I do. It's a fine read, though, and it may bear comparison with my latter musings: there are obvious changes from his visit to mine, including (at Bowhill), the very glade that houses the Giants. He arrives just as the space is being cleared by the tree-felling experts. For me, the felling has grown back in and far from being a detail of wood management, it has made the Giants dominate a perfect stage.

He is also a great photographer. Here's the image I used earlier in my blog - this time, giving credit to the source. In it, he captures much of what I was trying to say in my meditations on Bowhill.

The reflection of the trees in the lake and the light shimmering across the water - the calm and drama in a single moment. Add on the feeling that Bergsagel was far more immersed in the environment, since he was out on the road, finding his path and not letting the bus driver do the work.

Quiet in Bowhill (Chapter 1.4)

Sitting in front of the Bowhill Giants, I notice something that will become evident at all of the sites. Although the surrounding area is full of motion – the longer I wait, the more dynamic nature appears – the Giants themselves are static. Everything else is swaying in the wind, or being ruffled by the activity of the fauna hidden behind the blossoms. But the Giant heads are still.

Their edges – in particular, one of the heads has a spectacular branch protruding like a single horn to the left – are occasionally shifting while their bulk remains solid. Being the only man-made object in the scene, they become a focus, a point around which nature can rotate. Their stillness enhances the vibrancy of the surrounding flora.

The Giants have taken on a quality of architecture. They are far more discreet – it did take me some time to spot them, and in photographs they blend into the background – but have a different quality to their context.

Ironically, they draw attention to nature’s wildness, to its energy.

Back at the House, I am lucky enough to meet with my Bowhill contact, Helen Currie. I had not expected to see her. As important as my visit undoubtedly is, she had a prior engagement with the queen.

This had been the talk of the Selkirk visitor centre. I hoped that my schedule might bump into the monarch’s route. I was content to chat to Helen over tea in the House’s refectory instead.

Her enthusiasm for both the Borders and Bowhill is infectious – she isn’t native to the area, but has lived there for long enough to recognise its beauty. She is the first person to say that it is ‘underrated,’ which I can only use as my epithet for the area.

She tells me about the estate – it has the oldest theatre in the Borders (still active) and there are two shows arriving during the summer. She also points out that there are residents in the house, and the Estate is very much a going concern, and not just a tourist destination. Between the plays and the adventure playground – and the various walks around the tended grounds, Bowhill estate is a hub of all-age activity.

Helen also describes how the Giant heads were made: local school children added the detail to the framework that Vision Mechanics provided. She offers me a few clues about the Dark Forest event – storytelling will be involved – and remembers the previous year’s show with evident pleasure.

Since these are my first set of heads, I can’t quite take it all in, or understand how they work. A few ideas – they provide a reason to visit a beautiful location, get children out into nature and making. But I am ready to learn more.

First Sight of Giants (Chapter 1.3)

The descent to the glade where the Bowhill Giants have been installed is gentle. Part of the route is even tarmac, and it is the shortest of the routes around the gardens. It follows the curve of the lake, dipping in and out of the forest. I am alone as I walk past a nesting swan and cygnets. I sit by the water and look out over to the far bank. The trees have grown high and tall on the other side, and the summer heat has them full of leaf and life.

The peace and quiet stays with me until I reach the opening. The Giants were originally placed beneath large trees, but necessary cutting of branches has opened up the location, making it a sudden break in the cover of the treetops. The Giants – my first Giants – are in a triangle formation, staring across at each other, high above my head.

Their heads are decorated with foliage. I’d been told that the harsh summer last year(wet and dour) had preventing the plants from blooming  within the frames, and their colours are darker than the surrounding trees. I find a good space to sit, at the foot of one Giant bearing tree, and look out beyond them.

There’s a view across the lake, right back to the House. On the lake, a few feet from my seat, a single boat is moored, and the only sounds I hear at first are the lapping of the waves against the boat and the creak of its old wood at it knocks against the moorings.

Gradually, bird songs flicker through the air. I rotate my head, trying to take in the panorama. For the first time on the trip, I feel my muscles relax. Travelling is exciting. Arriving is a relief.

There’s a row of trees in the distance that nod in the wind. I stare out at them, gradually detecting shapes in the branches. The tallest tree has a regal air, crowned by leaves. I turn back to the Giant Heads.

They become a focus for my observations. I notice how they have been decorated with local branches, pinecones and earth. One head is dense, like a crosshatched illustration. Another is sparser, revealing the lines of the lattice and a wide-open mouth. It appears to be laughing.

The Giant directly above me has a flat nose, like an elderly man, weather beaten but friendly. I am amazed at how quickly each Giant reveals a personality. They remind me of cartoon characters – sketched but not photo-realistic, suggesting personality and allowing my mind to fill in the rest.

The apparent failure of the blooming plants, conversely, allows the Giants to blend into their environment. Looking at them through the screen of my video recorder, they are flattened out and the leaves behind them add shape to their contours.

Selkirk to Bowhill (Giants in the Forest, Chapter 1.2)

Although it has taken me the best part of the morning to reach Selkirk, I am not tired when I arrive. The short stop over in Gallashiels allowed me to take a walk through the shopping centre and pick up a few supplies, and I was ready for the walk out to the Estate. It would have taken about twenty minutes on the bike, but I balanced the distance against the potential trouble of carting my bike on and off local buses. I was optimistic that I could hitch it, anyway.

I couldn’t orientate myself in Selkirk. The bus turning point was at the top of a hill, heading towards the river but the town map didn’t point the way out to the heads. Fortunately, there was a tourist information centre around the corner, connected to the local museum.

The old man who furnished me with directions didn’t actually work in the centre: he had an enthusiasm for the area and not only pointed me to the road, but filled me in on local history. My route to the estate would take me past a battlefield, and he even mentioned a good place to stop where I could see the salmon – perhaps not at this time of year, unfortunately.

I did try and catch the battlefield – there’s an archaeological project going on just outside Selkirk. The original plan is to excavate the site of the battle (1645) but the discovery of an older habitation had stalled and expanded the process.

While I don’t feel qualified to comment in any depth, the battle of Philiphaugh was part of something called the Wars of the Three Kingdoms, which has been branded as The English Civil War. The least I can say is that this part of Scotland has a tighter connection to events usually associated with England.

I realise that wandering along the site of the battlefield might be safer (there’s a huge hedge between me and the road), it won’t help me in my hitching. I cross back onto into the traffic. I reckon it will take thirty cars before one picks me up, and begin counting them as they pass.

Thirty-two cars later – and about an hour of walking – and I arrive at the estate. I am regretting the three-piece suit. I am not regretting the stroll, however. It’s a beautiful day, and the green of the landscape – flat and fertile – is a generous companion.

The road into the Bowhill Estate is laden with promise. There is an adventure playground to the left of the road, and the gardens disappear off on both sides. The greenery is broken by flowering plants, the air smells sweet and clean, and the House itself has a majestic presence. It’s a stately home that still has the air of a castle – although perhaps the battlefield has put me in mind of drama past. 

The Night Before I Depart (Giants in the Forest, chapter 1.1)

The night before I depart, I spend a few hours looking over maps and my schedule. The first week is going to be spent in a part of Scotland that is unfamiliar – the phrase I’ll hear, and begin to use, is ‘underrated.’ The Borders conjures up ideas of conflict – I am sure that 7.84 did a play about it in the 1990s at Tramway. Since my main guide to the Scottish landscape, a battered copy of Julian Cope’s Modern Antiquarian, seems not to have a section dedicated to Peebles and Galashiels, I am stepping into the unknown.

My intention for this week is to travel light. Unfortunately, I am breaking my travels at Falkland for a weekend of camping. My rucksack will contain my tent but, realising that I have plotted a couple of long walks (long by my lazy fitness levels), I dump the sleeping bag for a cotton slip. I take a single book – Nietzsche’s Birth of Tragedy. I’ve been meaning to read it for years, it’s slim enough and doesn’t have all those distracting proclamations about God’s mortality that I don’t understand. In retrospect, a water bottle would have been a good idea.

The Giants in the Forest are an intriguing project: they have been placed around Scotland in collaboration with local groups, designed by Vision Mechanics – a company I know as one of the imaginative contemporary puppet masters that Scotland is breeding. I have an outline of their purpose – once in place, they become both a focus for local activity and a nice surprise for unsuspecting walkers. My own purpose, a blogger travelling between the sites, is less clear. I am part of the documentation, at least. I’m winding myself up to bring something more dramatic to my responses.

I’m more used to cities, and theatres, and art galleries.  I relate the locations to pop up versions of an art space – although most of the Giants were put in place last year and have already seen a summer and winter, I am focused on them as sculptures. Going out into the countryside, I am worrying about long walks and how well my choice of suit will hold up in what appears to be the height of summer. Having decided that I would risk hitching for certain sections of the journey, I’ve gone with a natty pin stripe. It does clash with the red rucksack.

I check the schedule. I am looking at the first three days out, ignoring later excursions – my brain gets confused at the complexity of different transports over the month. It’s Bowhill first, and a long journey. It starts on the train, then goes to a series of buses. Finally, I am going to walk from Selkirk to the Estate. I am hoping that the final stage, down to the Giants, isn’t going to be a problem for my smart shoes.

I have a look at the introduction of The Birth. This copy has some useless notes, and seems to clarify the entire idea in two pages. Its vision of nature – wild, untamed and probably hostile – doesn’t cheer me up.

Prelude to the Giants

I am about half way through my mission. So far, I have taken trains and buses, cycled and hitched across large swathes of Scotland, even dipping briefly into England (Berwick –upon-Tweed, admittedly a location that has had its share of border conflicts and now best known as the answer in quizzes to ‘what English football team plays in the Scottish league?’), made a guest appearance at T in the Park and spent a day off being driven deep into East Lothian. I spent a weekend teaching the next generation of critics at the National Festival of Youth Theatre in Glenrothes, which has the largest pound shop I have ever seen, and have been without phone signal and Internet for days at a time.  That last is oddly disturbing and liberating.

But the purpose of my mission has been both the drive to my enthusiasm and has provided highlights. I am seeking out the Giants in the Forest, a series of sculptures placed around Scotland. Sometimes they are remote – one destination was the Bowhill Estate in the Borders, a good hour from the nearest village – sometimes to hand – The Edinburgh Giants are five minutes walk from the office of The List. And although they are all based around a similar design, each set (they come in threes) has its own distinctive identity.

Looking back over my written and recorded responses so far, I can see themes emerging. The first week was spent in the Borders – dropping down to Berwick, then hooking across to Galashiels, then Peebles before rising back to Edinburgh. My writing is full of timid attempts to capture the thrill of travelling outside of the city. There’s a similar problem in the day trip to see the Holyrood Giants: I am worried that my thoughts are unremarkable, a trite collection of obvious tourist comments.

I recognise how predictable, how mediated my responses are. The first day, an extract from my original introduction, makes vague comments about how ‘escaping the city’ encourages a ‘more open, gentle state of mind.’ Nature is probably going to be described as beautiful and calming if I read on. Then I start contrasting my usual urban anxiety against the spiritual warmth of the countryside.

Then there are the photographs I took in Edinburgh. A vista that takes in Arthur’s Seat and an old graveyard: a panorama across Holyrood. They are generic, and even as I click the shutter, I sigh at the realisation that what I am seeing is never going to be captured on film, or in words.

I am spreading out my recollections in front of me. I flicker between styles: here’s a stab at beat poetry, this one is a parody of a travel article from a broadsheet paper. Every so often, I fall back on my standards; acting like everything is an exercise in aesthetics. I am on an adventure, but I struggling to find the way to relate it back to my critical writing.

Let’s start with a cliché, then. You can take the man out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the man.