The Making of a Seamstress

Bhaltos Pier, Uig

I suppose it started with the storybooks.

I was the kind of child who lived in those pages — the wholesome worlds of Brambly Hedge, Beatrix Potter, and Katie Morag. Sweeping illustrations with delicate attention to detail, stories of simple, purposeful lives — and always, somewhere in the background, a character sewing or knitting.

I used to pretend my bunk bed was a tree stump, and that I was a little mouse snuggled under the duvet. Even then, I longed to live that way — making things by hand, caring deeply, creating a quiet kind of magic.

At the age of eleven, I was deemed fit to use the family sewing machine unsupervised — and use it I did! I made everything from lavender bags to puffy rectangle skirts, which I proudly forced my sister to wear wherever we went. I was determined to learn to dressmake and would spend hours poring over the dream sewing machine in the Argos catalogue, planning all the outfits I’d one day create.

At fourteen, I got my first Saturday job. I cycled three miles to clean for a local lady, who knew I was saving for a sewing machine. She would show me the quilts she’d made, offering quiet encouragement. After months of saving, I finally had enough. I bought my very own machine and marched straight to the charity shop, where I pulled a 99p blouse pattern out of the basket.

I had no idea what I was doing, but I managed to make a rudimentary blouse that I was incredibly proud of. I still have it. I still wear it. It reminds me of how it all began.

Soon after, I started working at CoolCrafting — a beautiful shop tucked away in the Lake District. Described as “an Aladdin’s cave” and “a sweet shop for crafters,” it was a dream come true. I spent most of my wages on fabric and often popped in on my days off just to browse. The women there are the finest you'll meet — incredibly talented makers who were generous with their time and wisdom. I spent three years learning from them, absorbing decades' worth of knowledge and encouragement. They helped me believe I could really do this.

At nineteen, I followed my instincts north — all the way to the Isle of Lewis. I came to study dressmaking at the local UHI and found myself immersed in traditional methods: millinery, pattern drafting, slow, meticulous handwork. I learned to honour the process, not just the outcome. And somewhere between the patterns and the peat hills, I realised I didn’t want to leave.

I found home in Uig — on the western edge of the island, where it feels like the edge of the world. It’s a place that’s both majestic and humble, where time moves a little slower and people care deeply. In time, I married my now-husband, the man who first introduced me to the West Side and shared the stories of his childhood haunts — places that now inspire the clothes I make.

That’s how The Uig Seamstress came to be. What started as a childhood longing has become a way of life — a quiet, handmade rhythm rooted in natural fibres, vintage tools, and a deep respect for the craft. I make garments meant to last. Pieces with stories in them. Pieces that belong to the land as much as they do to the person who wears them.

And now there’s this: Hebridean Threads. A place to share that story as it continues — to talk about sewing and sustainability, yes, but also about heritage, place, and the small, meaningful moments that shape a creative life.

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