There was no reason to stay in Glasgow anymore, so I packed my bags and left, with cries of "Why are you always running away?" From my sister ringing in my ears. My Mother had nothing to say. She rarely did unless she had something particularly injurious to impart. She was a selfish woman who cared nothing for human warmth. What she cared about were entertainments, holidays, day trips, shopping trips, parties and things. The prettier and sparklier the better. For her life was about pleasure and gratification, her own and nobody else's. Fortunately or unfortunately depending on your point of view, life had refused to indulge her, and she found herself aged 25 in a small council flat in the middle of Glasgow with an incapacitated husband and two small children to look after. She was not pleased. Her fury was unchecked, and all directed at me, the second child she hadn't wanted and that she blamed for the downturn in her fortunes.

She'd been pleased to have her first child. A blonde, blue eyed doll, who received much admiration. Her husband was working as a welder and bringing home a good wage, so she was able to indulge herself, and by-pass to some degree, the domestic side of life that was so alien to her.

She hadn't wanted another child and greeted the news of her second pregnancy with rage. She was still raging on the day I was born in 1959. Whenever I asked about my birth the story my Mother always told me was the reaction of my sister when she first saw me "Take it away, I don't like it". I think she spoke for both of them.

When, a few months after my birth my Father was struck down and could no longer work my fate was sealed. What little effort my Mother had put into family life ceased as she set her will against life, against my Father and against me.

Well, here I was, leaving Glasgow for the second time and apart from a couple of brief visits I never lived there again.

I travelled South again and spent the next couple of years on the move, living in different parts of England. I liked to be near the sea, especially in winter, and I had another less enjoyable spell in London. I always attended Latihan regularly when I was near a group or did Latihan by myself if there was no group. I never again experienced the friendliness that I'd had from the Oxford Subud group where I'd been opened.

At one point I entered a dark period where I lost my direction and ceased to do Latihan regularly. Things were becoming quite bleak when I heard that Bapak, Subuds founder was in London giving talks. I managed to get to two talks and to one Latihan in Bapaks presence. It was only after this that I found the inner strength necessary to pull myself out of my decline and extricate myself from the bad situation I was in.

Sofia had experienced another difficult pregnancy, which she had, as befitted her noble character, handled with great positive force and dignity. This time she was rewarded with a brand new creative direction. Farlan was several years into his new work - music, to which he would dedicate himself for the rest of his life.

I spent my 23rd birthday in Brighton. I'd been there for almost 9 months, quite a record for me. One day I got a call from Farlan and Sofia. They were renting a house in the Valleys in Wales and I was invited to stay. The night I was packing my bags I felt an unaccustomed sadness at parting with my few possessions. This was unusual as I'd always enjoyed the freedom of whittling my belongs down to a single rucksack full. But that night something was different. I could sense a change was coming up I could feel it, but nothing in my life prepared me for what lay ahead.

I stopped off in Cardiff and caught up with Monica and the girls. They had bought a little house and had entered a period of stability after a difficult episode of homelessness chasing after Mustafas alcohol inspired dreams. The girls were lovely and seemed to be weathering the storms without too much damage.

The next day I caught the bus to the Valleys.

Sofia had not long been into a new style of writing and was anxious to read some to me. So after I'd had a cup of tea and a ciggie she got out the pages of her novel, "Classical Shaman". An intriguing title I thought, and sat back to listen as she read the opening chapter...

"A philosopher, A photographer. He trapped the last of the summer sun before winters black moon haunted night and held this gem, this ember close to his heart all winter long...."

I was knocked out, it was beautiful, so much what I felt poetry should be, so different from what our school teachers had told us poetry was. Ah, such a relief.

Farlan had progressed from mandolin to keyboard, and his song collection was growing. I didn't realise it at the time, having no real musical knowledge beyond the ability to play chopsticks, but he had devised an entirely new way to play his harmonium and to sing his songs. His first impulse on finally admitting to himself that he wanted to do music had been to get some books and learn how to do it that way. That lasted about a day before he chucked the books and started listening to the master within.

After a few days of poetry and music I began to notice that Farlan was looking at me strangely. There was an intent to his look. I wondered what it was but I didn't say anything. Then one day he said to me "You ought to take up painting."

"Me? but I don't know how to paint" I said. "You don't need to know how to paint, you just need to paint." He said. I don't know how he did it, but suddenly something inside woke up and I went from being a person who couldn't paint to a person who was determined to paint at whatever cost. Sofia gave me some of her materials and offered to sit for me. So that night, after dinner I set up my board with Sofia sitting opposite and began to paint. I was incredibly excited and also scared in equal measure. I'd had no instruction of any kind, but I'd often watched Sofia painting. She always looked like she was sloshing the paint on with gay abandon, so I did the same. Of course there was phenomenal skill behind Sofias gay abandon, which I did not possess, but it didn't matter. Four hours later, with a few tea breaks for the sitter, I had produced my first work of art. A recognisable portrait of Sofia! I was exhausted! Farlan and Sofia were genuinely impressed and full of praise and encouragement. I was feeling a little shell shocked. I looked at my painting, not fully able to believe that I had done it. But done it I had. The journey had begun and there was no turning back.

I worked steadily for a while fuelled by the constant encouragement of Farlan and Sofia. After a while I decided on a move back to the city and returned to Cardiff. I found a nice room in a house in a pretty tree lined street. The first thing I did on moving in was to nearly kill myself (accidentally of course). While fixing up the room before I moved in, the workmen had burst a pipe and flooded the carpet, so the landlady had left on an electric fire to dry it out. The fire was in the middle of the room and the plug - goodness knows why - perhaps the landlady was as daft as me, but the plug was left exposed. I decided to move the fire and picked up the exposed plug which instantly attached itself to my hand and began sending electrical currents through my body. I was trapped. I heard myself scream and then the force of the electric current picked me up and threw me against the wall with such force that the plug and I were separated. I felt really mad, if I'd had a cat I'd probably have shouted at it, but my anger was tempered by a feeling that if my life had gone differently that might have been my time up.

My bedsit wasn't far from a small shopping centre where there was an art shop, and I was really looking forward to buying my own paints and brushes. I'd decided on oils, and on the appointed day I went, quite ceremoniously, to purchase my first set of paints.

I'd always had an attraction for art shops, and had often gone in just to look at the materials and wonder, a little sadly, what it would be like to be an artist. I remember saying to Sofia once that if I was an artist I'd just paint all the time and I'd never be unhappy again.

Well, now I was an artist, and apart from nearly killing myself I never really was that unhappy again.

I felt very proud as I handed over the money for my colours. I felt as if I was buying my first real stake in the world.

I did as I said I would, and painted nearly every day. My paintings received a lot of admiration and even a little jealousy. I had many compliments about my work, even if some were a little back handed. "Well, if she can do it, so can I," from one would be painter.

I received a visit from a friend from London. She had spent 4 years at art school and had a degree and a teaching diploma. I'd told her in a letter that I was painting, and was looking forward to showing her my work. She looked at my work and was quiet, conflicting expression flitting across her face. In the end she pulled out a pastel sketch of some trees. It wasn't anything special, just a hasty experiment. She gave a little laugh and said "I thought when you said you were painting that this would be the kind of thing you'd be doing." Never the less she was generous enough to buy a painting from me before she left and to give me a good price too.

One evening there was a knock on the door of my room. I opened it to find a quite handsome, aristocratic looking young man standing there. He muttered something about going to a new years party and would I open the front door for him if he came in late. All the while he was looking past me into my room. He saw a painting of flowers that was standing on a table near the door, "Did you do that?" he said, "Yes" I replied. "Mm it's very good....I'm at art school," He said. I smiled and then he left abruptly. I never saw him again so I never did get an explanation.

I was content. I liked where I was living, I liked what I was doing and I was close to all my favourite people. I even bought a couple of goldfish, as sure a sign as I'd ever had that more settled times were here, though I put them in a painting for good measure.

Early one evening I took a walk into town to go to the library to get some books to read. One of the books was by a writer called George Mackay Brown. It was a book of short stories set on his native Orkney.

I found the stories utterly charming, and by the time I'd finished the book I knew I should go and live on the Orkney Islands. I hadn't been planning on any more sudden moves so this came as quite a surprise. But it was a powerful feeling and couldn't be ignored

It took me a couple of months to prepare. I had to save up a bit of money for this trip. I got in the mood by reading more books about Orkney and eating Orkney fudge.

I told everyone I knew what I was planning including a couple I knew who were married with two young children. The man sneered at me and said with some contempt "You can't do that".

I felt quite wounded because the attack had been vicious, but I was also puzzled. I didn't know what he meant by "You can't do that", because I was going to do it and I did do it. In the end I figured out that what he meant was that He couldn't do it. As soon as I realised that the little wound that he had inflicted healed and I forgot all about it.

I gave my goldfish to little Sera who liked them, stored my paintings with Monica, then shortly after my 24th birthday I packed my rucksack, said goodbye and headed North.

I stopped off in Glasgow and saw my Mother. She was in a good mood and gave me some money. She was occasionally prone to acts of generosity or what could look like kindness when she was getting something she wanted, which she was, a 50th birthday party organised by my sister.

Early one Glasgow morning I caught a North bound train and began the journey to Orkney. I enjoyed the ride. I'd never been this far North before. All my adventures had been South bound. Once we reached Inverness I began to have a really powerful experience of a spiritual nature. As I looked at the moving landscape I could see all these ancient people lined up, mile after mile, all looking at me as I looked at them. The seeing was accompanied by a knowledge of who these people were, these ancient Scots. I could feel how spartan even harsh their lives had been and how this spartan existence gave them a wildness and a freedom that was a little terrifying, but was also the essence of a culture that was alive with a tremendous and vibrant spirituality. None of this was intellectual of course, but a connection was made. It was many years later when I began research into my Fathers ancestral line, that I discovered that the area from Inverness and up was our ancient clan territory and that all those ancient Scots lined up watching me move through their territory were my very own ancient Scots.

I was tired when the train reached Thurso. I found some bed and breakfast accommodation where for a fiver I was given a cup of tea and a biscuit and a bed in a slightly dilapidated attic room.

I was up early the next morning looking forward to the boat journey from Scrabster to Stromness.

I'd never been off mainland Britain, apart from my disastrous trip to America and a summer in the South of France. But neither of those trips was as exciting as going to Orkney. It felt like going to the other side of the world or back in time. The boat landed in Stromness and I caught a bus immediately for Kirkwall. I hadn't planned anything but I seemed to know where I was going.

Within a few days I had found myself a place to stay. A fabulous big room with a coal fire and it's own little kitchen. I bought some paraphenalia for the room, some pots and pans, a broom, and a kitchen knife that I still have today 23 years later, and settled in.

I was quite lonely initially, in an ordinary sort of way, but that disappeared as I made some friends. But I continued to be aware of a profound sense of isolation and separateness that never left me. it was a permanent discomfort. I didn't know at that time what caused it or what to do about it so i just put up with it.

I continued to do my Latihan regularly twice a week. There was a nice girl who had lived in the same house and she told me one day that she often used to sit outside and listen to me. She thought I was just singing, as people often sing particularly beautifully in the Latihan state. I told her that I was actually doing a Latihan and a little bit about what it was, but stopped when her eyes glazed over and I could see she wasn't interested. However Inga, if you're reading this and you've found that you've burst into beautiful song occasionally over the years, or you've experienced blissed out states that you could not account for, don't worry, that's just the latihan....For that's how the contact is passed on, by being near somebody who has already received the contact and is in a state of Latihan. I'd get down to your nearest Subud group and make it official.

One day in Stromness I passed George MacKay Brown in the street. He gave me a lovely smile and I smiled back at him. I would've liked to have told him how I come to be in Orkney but I didn't. However there was a cheerful man who ran the local art gallery in Stromness where I exhibited a few paintings. He asked me one day what had brought me to Orkney and I told him my story. He then told me that George Mackay Brown was his uncle. So maybe Mr MacKay Brown got to hear my story after all.

Another time I read in the local paper that Billy Connolly was coming to perform his stage act in Orkney. It never occurred to me to go and see him. But I passed him in the street one morning when I was going down to the harbour to do some painting. I saw two little boys run up to him and say with some awe "Are you Billy Connolly?" He gave them the sweetest kindest smile and said "Aye". After that I wished I had bought a ticket.