Leonie Charlton - Marram: memories of sea and spider-silk

Im sitting in my writing box in Glen Lonan, Argyll. Its early September, and three months since I got back from riding through the Outer Hebrides with my friend Shuna and our two Highland ponies, Ross and Chief. I can see Ross now, grazing on grass that has lost its summer sheen. The forested hillside rises up behind him, a single Rowan in full bright-berry stands out amongst the Birch and Oak. Beyond the soft shrug of these trees, half hidden in cloud, is Ben Cruachan. The writing box is the back of a refrigerated van that my father converted. He took out the steel meat hooks, put in windows and a door. Despite his attention to detail it relies on a dehumidifier to stay dry. Today is my first time in here for a while and Im aware of its particular smell; a combination of damp emulsion and plywood, metal and mould. I push the window open wide and breathe in the cuspy autumn air.

Bracken has grown up past the windowsill. Coppery tones seep upwards from the ground and colour the under-fronds. There are Thistles too purple flowers long gone but the heads are still holding onto tufts of down, silver turned to peaks of grey after weeks of rain. A single Foxglove folds across, its leaves riddled with rust-edged holes, empty flower cups darkening to a loam brown. On the inside of the windowsill is a stem of Marram Grass I found in my saddlebags after the trip. It is sharp and lucent. It reminds me of how Id felt coming home, bright and still after all those slow-spent hours in the marram and cotton grass.

My mother passed to me a passion for horses which has been a lifeline, a source of love and grounding throughout my life. My relationship with her was fraught with pain and misunderstanding, at times Id wondered if life would be better without her. Then she died and I was broken. Almost seven years after her death, long enough for nearly every cell in my body to have renewed itself, it felt like the grief and regret were intensifying. I was bone-weary of the guilt, a redundant emotion Mum herself had always said. Shed been a jeweller and a passionate collector of beads. During the months of planning for the Hebrides trip an idea had formed to leave a trail of beads for Mum. Where better than through this archipelago that shed loved, itself a necklace of granite and sand, schist and gneiss, strung on streams of salt and fresh water.

I have loved the Hebrides for decades, ever since travelling to some of the islands on work-trips with my father, Max Bonniwell, who was a vet in Oban. One summer Dad took my younger brother and me on a camping trip through the Outer Hebrides, memories of that fortnight remain amongst the most luminous of my life. I associated the islands with him and everything he embodied, which was the opposite of the emotional, cultural and physical chaos of life with Mum. Dad represented safety and stability. He smelt of veterinary disinfectant. He knew the names of all the seabirds and of all the sailing boats. Mum had also travelled widely in the Hebrides, but Id never been out there with her, and now, in this unexpected way, was my chance.