- Published on
There are some places where the landscape seems to come with its own weather, its own mood and, very often, its own stories. Stainmore is one of them.
It is a high, exposed crossing of the Pennines, a place of great skies and long horizons. To the east the land falls away towards the Vale of York; to the west lie the Cumbrian Fells. Up on the pass, though, you have that peculiar sensation of being suspended somewhere between the two.
And it is the setting for a wonderfully dark tale.
Long ago, a lone traveller arrived at an isolated inn on Stainmore and asked for a bed for the night. The traveller appeared to be a woman, but sometime after everyone had retired it was discovered that the mysterious guest was actually a man — and one with a particularly unpleasant object in his possession.
It was a Hand of Glory.
According to folklore, this was the severed hand of a hanged criminal, preserved and made into a kind of candle. When its fingers were lit, the Hand of Glory had the power to send everyone in a house into an enchanted sleep, leaving thieves free to go about their business undisturbed.
Or so the story goes.
That night on Stainmore the hand worked almost perfectly. The innkeeper and his wife fell into a deep sleep while the robber went to unbar the door for his accomplices.
But the maid was still awake.
Realising what was happening, she tried to extinguish the burning hand. Water wouldn't do it, but milk would. She doused the Hand of Glory, seized a loaded blunderbuss and confronted the thieves, who evidently decided that discretion was the better part of valour and fled.
The innkeeper and his wife eventually awoke to find their remarkably resourceful maid — and the remains of the still-smoking hand.
It is the sort of story that seems entirely at home on Stainmore.
Even today there is something wonderfully remote about the pass. The weather comes sweeping across it, clouds travelling from west to east in great processions, while the moorland below seems to stretch away almost without interruption.
That was the feeling I wanted in Stainmore Skyline.
I made the building deliberately small. It sits as a dark interruption on the horizon, almost swallowed by the moor and the immense sky above it. Rather than describing the place in detail, I wanted to give a sense of its isolation — the subdued colour of the land, the streaming clouds and the feeling of being very high up and a very long way from anywhere.
Knowing the story changes the landscape too.
A lonely building on a ridge is one thing. A lonely inn where, according to legend, a robber once lit the fingers of a dead man's hand to cast its occupants into an enchanted sleep is quite another.
That is one of the reasons stories of place fascinate me. They become attached to the landscape and alter the way we see it. You can arrive knowing nothing and simply admire the view. Discover what happened — or what people believed happened — and suddenly the same hills, buildings and empty spaces acquire another dimension.
There is one final twist to the tale. The Hand of Glory is not confined entirely to legend. A preserved hand traditionally identified as one can still be seen in Whitby Museum.
Whether you believe in its powers is, of course, another matter.
For me, Stainmore has quite enough atmosphere without lighting the thing.
Stainmore Skyline — watercolour
From The Striding Dales exhibition at Masham Gallery.
It is a high, exposed crossing of the Pennines, a place of great skies and long horizons. To the east the land falls away towards the Vale of York; to the west lie the Cumbrian Fells. Up on the pass, though, you have that peculiar sensation of being suspended somewhere between the two.
And it is the setting for a wonderfully dark tale.
Long ago, a lone traveller arrived at an isolated inn on Stainmore and asked for a bed for the night. The traveller appeared to be a woman, but sometime after everyone had retired it was discovered that the mysterious guest was actually a man — and one with a particularly unpleasant object in his possession.
It was a Hand of Glory.
According to folklore, this was the severed hand of a hanged criminal, preserved and made into a kind of candle. When its fingers were lit, the Hand of Glory had the power to send everyone in a house into an enchanted sleep, leaving thieves free to go about their business undisturbed.
Or so the story goes.
That night on Stainmore the hand worked almost perfectly. The innkeeper and his wife fell into a deep sleep while the robber went to unbar the door for his accomplices.
But the maid was still awake.
Realising what was happening, she tried to extinguish the burning hand. Water wouldn't do it, but milk would. She doused the Hand of Glory, seized a loaded blunderbuss and confronted the thieves, who evidently decided that discretion was the better part of valour and fled.
The innkeeper and his wife eventually awoke to find their remarkably resourceful maid — and the remains of the still-smoking hand.
It is the sort of story that seems entirely at home on Stainmore.
Even today there is something wonderfully remote about the pass. The weather comes sweeping across it, clouds travelling from west to east in great processions, while the moorland below seems to stretch away almost without interruption.
That was the feeling I wanted in Stainmore Skyline.
I made the building deliberately small. It sits as a dark interruption on the horizon, almost swallowed by the moor and the immense sky above it. Rather than describing the place in detail, I wanted to give a sense of its isolation — the subdued colour of the land, the streaming clouds and the feeling of being very high up and a very long way from anywhere.
Knowing the story changes the landscape too.
A lonely building on a ridge is one thing. A lonely inn where, according to legend, a robber once lit the fingers of a dead man's hand to cast its occupants into an enchanted sleep is quite another.
That is one of the reasons stories of place fascinate me. They become attached to the landscape and alter the way we see it. You can arrive knowing nothing and simply admire the view. Discover what happened — or what people believed happened — and suddenly the same hills, buildings and empty spaces acquire another dimension.
There is one final twist to the tale. The Hand of Glory is not confined entirely to legend. A preserved hand traditionally identified as one can still be seen in Whitby Museum.
Whether you believe in its powers is, of course, another matter.
For me, Stainmore has quite enough atmosphere without lighting the thing.
Stainmore Skyline — watercolour
From The Striding Dales exhibition at Masham Gallery.
- Published on
There is a particular peace to the walk up to Old Gang. The stream murmurs alongside the track, curlews call across the moor and, as you climb, the dale opens out beneath one of those enormous Yorkshire skies.
It is hard to imagine that this quiet landscape was once a place of intense industry.
High between Swaledale and Arkengarthdale, Old Gang was part of the great lead-mining landscape of the northern Dales. What remains today is scattered across the hillside: the old chimney, the ruins of the smelting mill, the peat store which supplied its fuel and the entrances to adits — horizontal tunnels driven into the hillside in search of veins of lead.
Lead from the Swaledale mines travelled a long way from these remote valleys. It was used on buildings across the country, including churches, and Swaledale lead is associated with the great dome of St Paul’s Cathedral in London.
But it is what happened beneath the surface that particularly fascinates me.
Mining has always attracted stories and superstitions. Perhaps that is hardly surprising. Imagine spending your working life underground, surrounded by darkness, following a vein of metal whose direction and richness could never be entirely predicted.
In the Dales there were stories of mysterious knockers underground. At Old Gang there is the tale of T’Auld Man, a presence whose distant tapping in the darkness was said to lead miners towards a rich seam of lead. You would do well, apparently, to listen.
The miners took other precautions too. Hagstones — stones naturally pierced by a hole — were hung from the roofs of the tunnels as protection against witchcraft. It is a wonderful detail: men engaged in the intensely physical business of cutting their way through rock, while keeping an ear open for something they could not see and hanging stones above their heads to guard against things they could not explain.
Today, almost all of that activity has disappeared.
That contrast was what interested me when I came to paint Old Gang Lead Mines. I wanted the chimney to stand almost as a marker in the landscape: a solitary reminder of the industry and the lives that once occupied these otherwise quiet hills.
Around it, the dale is slowly taking everything back. Fallen stones settle into the ground. Walls crumble. Grass and moorland reclaim the workings. Above them the weather continues to move across the hills just as it must have done when the smelting mill was working and men were disappearing into the hillside each morning.
In the painting I wanted to capture that strange meeting of time and landscape. The dale lies golden beneath a changing sky while the remains of the mine seem gradually to dissolve back into it. Nature is erasing the evidence, not dramatically, but patiently.
Perhaps the painting is an elegy of sorts — not simply for a ruined mine, but for a vanished way of life.
That is one of the things that draws me repeatedly to places like Old Gang. At first you see a landscape: hills, ruins, a stream and a vast sky. Then you begin to discover what happened there. The people who worked beneath your feet come back into the picture, along with their hardships, their beliefs and the stories they told one another about those unexplained sounds in the darkness.
The people themselves have gone. The landscape remains. But if you know where to look — and perhaps where to listen — their presence is still there.
Old Gang Lead Mines, Swaledale — watercolour
From The Striding Dales exhibition at Masham Gallery, September 2026.
It is hard to imagine that this quiet landscape was once a place of intense industry.
High between Swaledale and Arkengarthdale, Old Gang was part of the great lead-mining landscape of the northern Dales. What remains today is scattered across the hillside: the old chimney, the ruins of the smelting mill, the peat store which supplied its fuel and the entrances to adits — horizontal tunnels driven into the hillside in search of veins of lead.
Lead from the Swaledale mines travelled a long way from these remote valleys. It was used on buildings across the country, including churches, and Swaledale lead is associated with the great dome of St Paul’s Cathedral in London.
But it is what happened beneath the surface that particularly fascinates me.
Mining has always attracted stories and superstitions. Perhaps that is hardly surprising. Imagine spending your working life underground, surrounded by darkness, following a vein of metal whose direction and richness could never be entirely predicted.
In the Dales there were stories of mysterious knockers underground. At Old Gang there is the tale of T’Auld Man, a presence whose distant tapping in the darkness was said to lead miners towards a rich seam of lead. You would do well, apparently, to listen.
The miners took other precautions too. Hagstones — stones naturally pierced by a hole — were hung from the roofs of the tunnels as protection against witchcraft. It is a wonderful detail: men engaged in the intensely physical business of cutting their way through rock, while keeping an ear open for something they could not see and hanging stones above their heads to guard against things they could not explain.
Today, almost all of that activity has disappeared.
That contrast was what interested me when I came to paint Old Gang Lead Mines. I wanted the chimney to stand almost as a marker in the landscape: a solitary reminder of the industry and the lives that once occupied these otherwise quiet hills.
Around it, the dale is slowly taking everything back. Fallen stones settle into the ground. Walls crumble. Grass and moorland reclaim the workings. Above them the weather continues to move across the hills just as it must have done when the smelting mill was working and men were disappearing into the hillside each morning.
In the painting I wanted to capture that strange meeting of time and landscape. The dale lies golden beneath a changing sky while the remains of the mine seem gradually to dissolve back into it. Nature is erasing the evidence, not dramatically, but patiently.
Perhaps the painting is an elegy of sorts — not simply for a ruined mine, but for a vanished way of life.
That is one of the things that draws me repeatedly to places like Old Gang. At first you see a landscape: hills, ruins, a stream and a vast sky. Then you begin to discover what happened there. The people who worked beneath your feet come back into the picture, along with their hardships, their beliefs and the stories they told one another about those unexplained sounds in the darkness.
The people themselves have gone. The landscape remains. But if you know where to look — and perhaps where to listen — their presence is still there.
Old Gang Lead Mines, Swaledale — watercolour
From The Striding Dales exhibition at Masham Gallery, September 2026.
- Published on
Every month for the last few years I’ve sat down under a camera to create a painting from scratch for an online audience from across the world. The chances of something going very wrong are very high. How do I prepare for this monthly display of creativity?
It all starts with sketching...
It all starts with sketching...
In April 2026 my theme was a street in York. My first idea, above, was a view of Petergate with York Minster in the background. This led to a finished study and a further piece which formed part of the exhibition Great British Travel Posters. However I decided to use a picture of the Shambles - York's ancient street of the butchers - for painting live online. The street is somewhere most visitors to York remember and it also captures to the medieval quality of many of York's buildings.
So I gathered my materials, started sketching, working through ideas for colours and the emotional register I wanted for the painting and, well, here's the result.
So I gathered my materials, started sketching, working through ideas for colours and the emotional register I wanted for the painting and, well, here's the result.
I managed to complete the picture just before the hour was up, but it was a close run thing!
- Published on
It’s fair to say that there’s little evidence that Robin Hood had much to do with the Bay beyond an old ballad about Robin and some French pirates who had been terrorising the village’s inhabitants. In classic fashion Hood regains the loot and gives it to the citizens. Maybe the name comes from Robin Hood’s Butts: three burial mounds on nearby Brow Moor where the great archer is supposed to have practiced. Maybe its just that Robin Hood’s Bay is a romantic name for a romantic place.
The main street runs crookedly down through the town, accompanied for a while by the King’s Beck, and a maze of lanes and alleys wind between the houses on either side. A long time ago the town was more important than neighbouring Whitby and a clutch of great stories are told which testify to its rich history.As a child I was enthralled by stories of smugglers, pirates and highwaymen (Moonfleet was an especially favourite book) but most of the places I’ve hoped to find traces of these characters have been underwhelming in the extreme, but not here.
In the Georgian era the staples of the substantial local smuggling industry were tobacco, tea and spirits. Underground passages, including the channel of the King’s Beck, allowed a cask of brandy to travel from beach to cliff top without seeing daylight. All sectors of the community seem to have been involved, from the gentry and the church, to the farmers and fisherfolk. And this was no small-time operation. In 1773, for example, three smugglers’ vessels attacked two excise ships forcing them out of the Bay. And in 1779 a battle was fought in the harbour between the revenue men and the smugglers over hundreds of casks of gin, tea and brandy.
One of the Bay’s most heroic stories tells of the wreck of The Visitor - a brig which ran aground in a violent storm in 1881. To rescue the crew a team of 18 horses was used to haul the Whitby lifeboat 6 miles overland. And because the main street was too narrow to get the boat down, a group of men led the way demolishing walls and uprooting trees to form a passage. Two hours after leaving Whitby the lifeboat was launched - on the second attempt - and the crew saved.
Built in a gap between two cliffs Robin Hood’s Bay is a magical place, full of secret corners and surprises. The beach is long, curving and ridged by the scaurs - ancient reefs of limestone and shale - where rock pools and fossils wait to be discovered at low tide. From every angle the town looks picturesque - a gift to an artist. The challenge is not to lose yourself in its prettiness.
It has everything the perfect seaside town should have - a great setting, beautiful views, a pleasing variety of pubs and cafes from which to gaze at the endless drama of the sea and a terrific backstory.
From Moor Stories by Ian Scott Massie
Buy the book HERE
The main street runs crookedly down through the town, accompanied for a while by the King’s Beck, and a maze of lanes and alleys wind between the houses on either side. A long time ago the town was more important than neighbouring Whitby and a clutch of great stories are told which testify to its rich history.As a child I was enthralled by stories of smugglers, pirates and highwaymen (Moonfleet was an especially favourite book) but most of the places I’ve hoped to find traces of these characters have been underwhelming in the extreme, but not here.
In the Georgian era the staples of the substantial local smuggling industry were tobacco, tea and spirits. Underground passages, including the channel of the King’s Beck, allowed a cask of brandy to travel from beach to cliff top without seeing daylight. All sectors of the community seem to have been involved, from the gentry and the church, to the farmers and fisherfolk. And this was no small-time operation. In 1773, for example, three smugglers’ vessels attacked two excise ships forcing them out of the Bay. And in 1779 a battle was fought in the harbour between the revenue men and the smugglers over hundreds of casks of gin, tea and brandy.
One of the Bay’s most heroic stories tells of the wreck of The Visitor - a brig which ran aground in a violent storm in 1881. To rescue the crew a team of 18 horses was used to haul the Whitby lifeboat 6 miles overland. And because the main street was too narrow to get the boat down, a group of men led the way demolishing walls and uprooting trees to form a passage. Two hours after leaving Whitby the lifeboat was launched - on the second attempt - and the crew saved.
Built in a gap between two cliffs Robin Hood’s Bay is a magical place, full of secret corners and surprises. The beach is long, curving and ridged by the scaurs - ancient reefs of limestone and shale - where rock pools and fossils wait to be discovered at low tide. From every angle the town looks picturesque - a gift to an artist. The challenge is not to lose yourself in its prettiness.
It has everything the perfect seaside town should have - a great setting, beautiful views, a pleasing variety of pubs and cafes from which to gaze at the endless drama of the sea and a terrific backstory.
From Moor Stories by Ian Scott Massie
Buy the book HERE
- Published on
I've been a fan of travel posters since I was a child in London travelling on the tube and absorbing the brilliant art around me.
British 20th century poster design was driven by transport companies, beginning with the work of London Underground’s Frank Pick. He saw the potential of posters to persuade passengers to venture beyond the confines of their daily commute. Pick used artists of the highest calibre and gave them a free hand to create images of a wide range of destinations.
When the London & North Eastern and the London Midland & Scottish railways were formed in 1923, and seeing the success of Pick’s strategy, an advertising race began between the two. During the 30s the images which dominated were the streamlined expresses racing for Scotland, created as both companies sought out the best artistic talent.
Two artists stand out: Norman Wilkinson for the LMS and Fred Taylor for the LNER. Fred
Taylor (1875-1963) studied at Goldsmith’s College where he won a gold medal for poster design. He worked for leading interior designers Waring & Gillow in the 30s before working on camouflage design during WW2. Alongside this, for many years he created posters for the LNER.
His style is easy to understand: he takes a key image - a castle, a cathedral, a landscape feature - and renders it fairly accurately in a limited palette. His skies are often dramatic, but it is in the foreground that he lets himself go: vivid colours, strong brushstrokes, trees and foliage in abstract shapes. Brilliantly attractive, yet far from photographic, he covered
many of the destinations on the LNER.
I have a Fred Taylor poster of Durham on my wall and I look at it every day.
(Text from The Romance of the Railway, Ian Scott Massie 2021)
Here's a few classic Fred Taylor posters:
British 20th century poster design was driven by transport companies, beginning with the work of London Underground’s Frank Pick. He saw the potential of posters to persuade passengers to venture beyond the confines of their daily commute. Pick used artists of the highest calibre and gave them a free hand to create images of a wide range of destinations.
When the London & North Eastern and the London Midland & Scottish railways were formed in 1923, and seeing the success of Pick’s strategy, an advertising race began between the two. During the 30s the images which dominated were the streamlined expresses racing for Scotland, created as both companies sought out the best artistic talent.
Two artists stand out: Norman Wilkinson for the LMS and Fred Taylor for the LNER. Fred
Taylor (1875-1963) studied at Goldsmith’s College where he won a gold medal for poster design. He worked for leading interior designers Waring & Gillow in the 30s before working on camouflage design during WW2. Alongside this, for many years he created posters for the LNER.
His style is easy to understand: he takes a key image - a castle, a cathedral, a landscape feature - and renders it fairly accurately in a limited palette. His skies are often dramatic, but it is in the foreground that he lets himself go: vivid colours, strong brushstrokes, trees and foliage in abstract shapes. Brilliantly attractive, yet far from photographic, he covered
many of the destinations on the LNER.
I have a Fred Taylor poster of Durham on my wall and I look at it every day.
(Text from The Romance of the Railway, Ian Scott Massie 2021)
Here's a few classic Fred Taylor posters:
- Published on
For many years I've been a fan of travel posters. I can date this back to my childhood - I'm the son of a London Transport engineer - so I spent many happy hours trundling around on the District, Circle and Piccadilly lines. There were great poster designs everywhere.
Then, when I started screen printing I knew I wanted to capture the same feeling those poster designers went for. Fast forward to this year and I'm the image-creating part of Great British Travel Posters. There's already a good selection focusing on the North of England, Scotland and classic aeroplane designs and there's more to come.
I'm really enjoying seeing older work in a different setting and also creating new work with a poster design in mind.
One of the best things. from the customer's point of view, is that the posters are available in a range of sizes and come either unframed or with frames.
You can see the current range here: GREAT BRITISH TRAVEL POSTERS
Then, when I started screen printing I knew I wanted to capture the same feeling those poster designers went for. Fast forward to this year and I'm the image-creating part of Great British Travel Posters. There's already a good selection focusing on the North of England, Scotland and classic aeroplane designs and there's more to come.
I'm really enjoying seeing older work in a different setting and also creating new work with a poster design in mind.
One of the best things. from the customer's point of view, is that the posters are available in a range of sizes and come either unframed or with frames.
You can see the current range here: GREAT BRITISH TRAVEL POSTERS
- Published on
I love working on commissions. They take me to new places and give me the chance to create something I might never have thought of on my own. The joy is in the process.
It all begins with a conversation. We talk about the subject—how the commissioner sees it. Is it autumnal, summery, snowy? Is the scene distant or close-up? I try to imagine the picture they hold in their mind and reimagine it through my own painting style.
Once I’ve sketched out some ideas and considered how light and colour interact with the subject, we talk again—refining things, step by step, until we arrive at what the final painting will be.
And then comes the day the finished work changes hands. It’s always a lovely moment. Together, we’ve created something unique.
If you're interested in commissioning a piece, you can find more details HERECommissions
Below: Rutland Landscape, watercolour (A 2024 commission)
It all begins with a conversation. We talk about the subject—how the commissioner sees it. Is it autumnal, summery, snowy? Is the scene distant or close-up? I try to imagine the picture they hold in their mind and reimagine it through my own painting style.
Once I’ve sketched out some ideas and considered how light and colour interact with the subject, we talk again—refining things, step by step, until we arrive at what the final painting will be.
And then comes the day the finished work changes hands. It’s always a lovely moment. Together, we’ve created something unique.
If you're interested in commissioning a piece, you can find more details HERECommissions
Below: Rutland Landscape, watercolour (A 2024 commission)
- Published on
Remember the lock down? Remember how suddenly Zoom became a thing? Well it changed the way we do things.
When we had the idea for a monthly online painting demonstration Josie Beszant came up with the brilliant title Watching Paint Dry. I would paint a picture, tell stories about the place I was painting and answer any questions that came up. Almost immediately we had followers from across the world - we were amazed. Since then, over three years ago, we've had visitors to Masham Gallery from Japan, the USA and Germany, purely from Watching Paint Dry.
You can get tickets through the Happy House Masham Calendar. Hope to see you soon!
Below are some of the paintings from the last 3 years of WPD
When we had the idea for a monthly online painting demonstration Josie Beszant came up with the brilliant title Watching Paint Dry. I would paint a picture, tell stories about the place I was painting and answer any questions that came up. Almost immediately we had followers from across the world - we were amazed. Since then, over three years ago, we've had visitors to Masham Gallery from Japan, the USA and Germany, purely from Watching Paint Dry.
You can get tickets through the Happy House Masham Calendar. Hope to see you soon!
Below are some of the paintings from the last 3 years of WPD
- Published on
It comes as a shock to see this strange and beautiful building as you travel through some of the wildest parts of the Yorkshire Dales. When I first it, nearly 50 years ago, it was threatened with demolition. I was delighted when it was saved.
Ribblehead intrigues me - there is a strange atmosphere about this place, which only intensifies when a steam train from another age passes over it.
Here are a few of the pictures it has inspired me to make.
Some have sold, but some of them are still available through Masham Gallery.
Ribblehead intrigues me - there is a strange atmosphere about this place, which only intensifies when a steam train from another age passes over it.
Here are a few of the pictures it has inspired me to make.
Some have sold, but some of them are still available through Masham Gallery.
- Published on
When someone approaches an artist to create a special piece of work a rather magical relationship begins. Though not always as turbulent as the interplay between Pope Julius II and Michelangelo over the Sistine Chapel ceiling, nor as politically charged as the Spanish government’s request to Picasso which resulted in the masterpiece Guernica, any commission involves patience and understanding.
The picture in the commissioner’s mind will be different to that in the artist’s head. Somehow the two will, miraculously, come together, usually through a discussion about seasons, time of day, colouring and viewpoint which become the basis of a group of studies.
Showing colour studies to a commissioner is where the project usually takes flight. Suddenly it becomes clear what will work and from that point the final destination is in sight.
It’s a process I love for a number of reasons. Firstly because I get to meet someone with a vision they want me to facilitate. Secondly a commission usually involves a place or viewpoint that is new to me. Thirdly because a successful commission gives everyone - commissioner and artist - such a buzz.
Below are a few commissions from the last few years. If you’d like to commission an Ian Scott Massie picture go to my Commissions page.
Below:
Portsmouth, the island city
Oxford
The Malvern Hills
The picture in the commissioner’s mind will be different to that in the artist’s head. Somehow the two will, miraculously, come together, usually through a discussion about seasons, time of day, colouring and viewpoint which become the basis of a group of studies.
Showing colour studies to a commissioner is where the project usually takes flight. Suddenly it becomes clear what will work and from that point the final destination is in sight.
It’s a process I love for a number of reasons. Firstly because I get to meet someone with a vision they want me to facilitate. Secondly a commission usually involves a place or viewpoint that is new to me. Thirdly because a successful commission gives everyone - commissioner and artist - such a buzz.
Below are a few commissions from the last few years. If you’d like to commission an Ian Scott Massie picture go to my Commissions page.
Below:
Portsmouth, the island city
Oxford
The Malvern Hills
