The Phantasmagorical Heritage of Fences

It is a cold, bright autumnal morning in the far north-west of Scotland and my wife and I are sat in a café contemplating buying handmade pots. Disappointingly, we learn from the café owner that our destination of choice now closes at weekends as we are out of tourist season. But, she tells us, there is another potter who may be open, and who throws just as good stoneware, to be found up the road to Affric Lodge. ‘Mind you, the road is not in good condition.’ We brave it anyway but never find the pottery. Instead, we are stopped...