1 images Created 25 Apr 2020
Keills Chapel
It is over five miles from the nearest hamlet. The local population is sheep. Occasional farmsteads peep from the hills and around crags. The single track road, with passing places, is more than enough for the traffic. Vikings raided these parts. So did everyone else. MacCormaig’s cave, a religious man’s sanctuary, lies off shore on an islet. Suitably windswept. Suitably small. Suitably barren. Castle Sween, across the Loch, hulks in the mist - a Norman keep, circa 1200, affirms hostilities, fear and uncertainty. It came much later than the celtic cross at Keills, within sight, across the water to the west. Carved by a craftsman, or men, in the 700s. These were people of practiced skill. Driven by the early Celtic Church, not of Rome, just Christian. Resonating skills and idioms from neighbouring enclaves, their work was art, albeit religiously inspired, but essentially art.
I climbed the hill. Fences limited the sheeps’ propensity to roam. The stone wall surrounding the chapel looked in better repair than I remembered some 60 years ago. Gone were the nettles and overgrowth and half buried grave markers. The sheep-gate creaked as I passed. I tried the door handle, nobody would witness should I fail. Surprise. It opened. Unguarded. The mantle of responsibility weighed down. Entry carried a covenant of trust. On the walls hung carved gravestones of antiquity. Interpretive plaques explained. A modern roof and skylight protected and illuminated the space. Skills and traditions permeated. The cross, some 1300 years old, recently moved from its original open air place on the hillside, now sheltered, cast its pre-eminence among the assembled examples of artisanship and art. A time capsule, etched in stones. Despite its unguarded vulnerability, not the slightest trace of graffiti, despoilment or disrespect. Could there be some essence of affinity with a future, then incomprehensible, art form driven by cameras, printers and myriad technology? That our creations should last as long!
I climbed the hill. Fences limited the sheeps’ propensity to roam. The stone wall surrounding the chapel looked in better repair than I remembered some 60 years ago. Gone were the nettles and overgrowth and half buried grave markers. The sheep-gate creaked as I passed. I tried the door handle, nobody would witness should I fail. Surprise. It opened. Unguarded. The mantle of responsibility weighed down. Entry carried a covenant of trust. On the walls hung carved gravestones of antiquity. Interpretive plaques explained. A modern roof and skylight protected and illuminated the space. Skills and traditions permeated. The cross, some 1300 years old, recently moved from its original open air place on the hillside, now sheltered, cast its pre-eminence among the assembled examples of artisanship and art. A time capsule, etched in stones. Despite its unguarded vulnerability, not the slightest trace of graffiti, despoilment or disrespect. Could there be some essence of affinity with a future, then incomprehensible, art form driven by cameras, printers and myriad technology? That our creations should last as long!
