I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world—though, if I’m honest, it’s mostly because I’ve spent far too much time in places where I haven’t the faintest idea where I am. After many years of wandering, both figuratively and literally (and a few too many wrong turns), I eventually settled in Oban, on the West coast of Scotland. Over two decades later, I find myself quietly admitting that I may have accidentally planted roots. Who knew?

At the heart of it all, I’m a husband and a proud father of two boys. They’re remarkable individuals, full of promise and potential, though also two ever-evolving forces of nature—unpredictable and capable of turning even the most peaceful afternoon into a whirlwind. Each one is growing into their own character, and I have no doubt that one day they’ll either change the world or find creative ways to break things in the process. Either way, it’s going to be a wild ride, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

But there’s more to me than just being a husband and father. In 2018, during one of those inevitable “What am I doing with my life?” moments, I stumbled upon woodcarving. It wasn’t planned, but something clicked when I picked up a carving tool. It became the perfect distraction from the existential crisis of midlife. Crisis averted

While my family gives me purpose, it’s the landscape of Scotland—the mountains, lochs, and oceans—that fuels my creativity. The beauty here is transcendent, and even the most ordinary view can evoke a sense of awe. Nature and I have always been close (perhaps too close at times, like when I trip over rocks in my own garden). Lately, my connection to the land has deepened. My career shift has strengthened that bond, and now? I carve. The land speaks to me. The wood speaks to me. It feels like something out of a great novel—though, perhaps with fewer elves and more sawdust.

When I carve, I often work from memories or images, but I’ve learned to trust the process. Sometimes, I let the wood dictate the direction. It’s like playing a game of “don’t mess this up,” but occasionally, I find myself swept up in the process, watching the form emerge as though the wood itself were the sculptor, and I was merely the guide.

I've developed a deep appreciation for woodgrain. I’ve spent countless hours experimenting with different finishes to highlight its natural beauty. But texture—texture is where the magic truly happens. It’s what gives the piece life. A graceful shape might catch the eye, but it’s the texture that animates it, letting light and shadow dance across the surface. Elm and European ash have become my closest companions, with their rich, fluid grains. Lime and birch are the endearing cousins, full of surprises. Oak, beech, and hazel? They're the regal figures of the wood world—always commanding respect, but more than just beautiful—they’re alive in the way they respond to the tools that shape them.

Power carving has become my weapon of choice. It’s the superhero of wood carving tools—swift, effective, and unlikely to reduce my work to a pile of splinters. I know some purists might raise an eyebrow at my reliance on power tools, but efficiency is key. Power carving lets me breathe life into a project without unnecessary delay. Of course, I still turn to hand carving when I need to finesse the finer details, but it’s the power tools that allow me to make the grandest statements.

The pandemic, undoubtedly one of the most challenging experiences of our time, offered me a curious gift: it gave me the time and space to fully embrace my passion for woodcarving. I wouldn’t wish a crisis on anyone, but in its wake, I found clarity. While the world outside was in turmoil, I was in my workshop, surrounded by the hum of tools and the scent of freshly cut wood, carving a path to something deeper within myself. The pandemic came, turned everything upside down, and eventually, as all things do, receded into history. But my love for carving? That stayed, steadfast and unwavering.

As the world slowly healed, I found refuge in my workshop. It became a steady constant, a place where I could create something solid and real when everything else felt uncertain. Even now, when life throws its unpredictable curveballs, I know that no matter what happens, my chisels will be waiting, ready to shape the next piece of wood into something beautiful.

What truly brings me joy, though, is when others see it too—the stories, the beauty, the life embedded in every piece. When a purchaser or admirer connects with a carving and sees something that resonates with them, I feel I’ve truly brought the wood to life. It’s not just about shape anymore; it’s about the emotions, the history, and the moments it captures. And that, more than anything, makes the carving worthwhile.

When everything else is uncertain, the wood quietly invites you to listen—to shape, to refine, and perhaps, to heal. It doesn’t rush or demand. It patiently allows you to carve away the rough edges, whether smoothing out a piece of wood or, in some quiet way, tending to a part of yourself. In that stillness, in that deliberate shaping, both the work and the maker find their peace.