Scotland autumn 2019

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Driving across these high‑land hills, we had no idea we were travelling through the fabled Scottish Highlands. Rolling slopes lay carpeted in deep‑red vegetation. Violent wind drove rain slashing sideways, stinging sharply against the skin. That deep crimson was not the hue of frost‑bitten foliage; it seemed an inherent colour born of soil and rock. The reddish growth stood taller than I had imagined. Far from low‑lying scrub, these were a peculiar type of tree, averaging over a metre in height. I thought to myself: I must return in spring and summer, when wild blossoms will surely burst into full bloom. Only later, studying the map, did I realise I had traversed the Highlands at their broadest stretch. Hints of magenta threaded through the deep red.

“Those magenta patches look almost alive, rippling across the whole range — magnificent. We must come back in spring. It will rival the beauty of the Cotswolds.” I spoke to Jiujiu, touching my stinging cheeks. My voice was almost swallowed by gales and horizontal rain. In my mind I pictured summer splendour, yet for now we could only press on, heading toward the northernmost sea of Scotland.

Dark clouds hung low, crushed down by the wind. The sky dimmed, save for a thin band of pale light along the distant horizon. Salt‑laden gusts blew in off the ocean. Still, conditions were milder than in the Highlands the day before. At least I could sit on coastal rocks and paint a water‑colour sketch — something utterly impossible further inland. I regretted not bringing French water‑colour paper sealed along all four edges with glue. The corners of my sketchbook flapped wildly in the wind. I had to keep pressing them down with both hands. Before long, the coastal scene of north‑eastern Scotland, caught on the verge of storm, took shape on the page. Plein‑air sketching imprints fragments of lived experience; therein lies its magic. Free of distraction, you fix fleeting natural emotion onto paper. Later, whenever you look at that sketch, the vivid memory of the moment returns.

Scotland’s nature feels genuinely unconstrained — that is the simplest way I can put it. It differs greatly from rural France. Natural landscapes everywhere are reshaped by human economic activity, and Scotland is no exception, though its transformation bears a primitive quality. Vast ancient forests have been cleared to make pasture for cattle and sheep. This pattern persists even on the far‑northeastern isles. Driving through these grass‑covered hills, one sees wide levelled tracts of land undulating along mountain contours, glowing with vivid emerald greens. Yet this is not primeval wilderness. Ancient towering trees and decaying undergrowth are gone, erased for human gain. Occasional small woods are mostly commercial plantations, felled on a cyclical schedule.

One scarcely sees scarred mountain ranges or diverted river courses in Scotland. Primarily, the old‑growth forests have simply been cleared away. With the woods vanished, much native wildlife vanished too — a story repeated across our planet. Roads wind along hill contours, convenient yet visually intrusive. Few people wander these open landscapes. Though livestock are farmed, cattle and sheep appear far less confined than animals near urban centres, roaming contentedly across green slopes beneath blue skies.

Clouds churn swiftly above the sea. My paint was still wet when the sky shifted into an entirely new mood. A sheepdog trotted past its owner along the wind‑swept shore. It ran toward me, stared intently at my painting, then hurried off chasing some dark shape ahead. I cannot know whether it truly understood my study of storm‑clouds, yet its gaze suggested it sensed the mood of the scene. After all, the sea‑wind and approaching downpour embodied the very spirit of water‑colour. I kept the paper generously wet, hoping the storm‑clouds on the page would retain that sense of constant flux, capturing that rare natural mood.

There is no point complaining that art cannot be understood. We can master technique, follow narratives and learn history, yet genuine art itself resists full comprehension. The artist does not create merely to be understood. Still, I liked to think that sheepdog had grasped something of my sketch. I secured the swirling pre‑storm clouds on paper. The sketchbook corners curled upward again. Dog and owner had vanished into wind and rain. I packed my art supplies, hoping to reach shelter and a hot cup of tea before the tempest struck.

Over one steaming cup of tea, I witnessed the full force of the gale. The shore outside emptied. The sky, moments earlier roiling with cloud, turned pitch‑black. Near‑shore waves churned pale grey, while further out the sea loomed in oppressive shadow. Rain hammered against windowpanes. Surf surged beneath the storm, and gales bent coastal grasses sideways. I wondered what it would be like to sketch amid full‑blown tempest. Perhaps violent weather could unlock unique water‑colour effects. After all, weather remains one of nature’s forces largely untouched by humanity.

I remember the flaws in those plein‑air sketches, most wrought by climate. Sketching is a state of living. Scorching heat makes it hard to keep washes damp, creating awkward breaks between colours. Here beside the Scottish sea before the storm, there was too much moisture instead. Spattering rain complicated control over the image, and relentless wind kept yanking at the paper corners, forcing constant manual adjustment. This brought back memories of winter sketching in Bordeaux, France. Bitter cold brought chills and colds, and oil paints dried so slowly that those works only finished curing long after I had brought them back to Beijing. I think I shall include those Bordeaux oil sketches from winter 2016 to enrich this body of work.

Travelling south from Scotland toward London, returning to ordinary reality, a quiet sense of disappointment grew within me. Passing the Lake District and Peak District, I saw landscapes heavily shaped for mass recreation. Nature seemed to lose its inner spirit, beset by crowds. Beneath still‑green hills and clear waters lay quiet exhaustion. Human frustrations have been projected onto these spaces, accumulating over time. One day we may find that green no longer feels green, and even crystal‑clear water feels tainted.

At last I reached my modest lodging through mist. I lay down fully clothed, storing visions of green hills and clear waters deep within my soul. Sleep would bring its own strange realm.