‘Some wallers use just hammers, some prefer chisels. Some stick to a few favoured implements, some have leather rolls full of options. Within our overstuffed tool bag, Luke and I had at least three chisels distinguishable only by the differences in their forging angles or the thickness of their cutting blades. And hammers, so many hammers. Some to hit stone directly, some to hit chisels hitting stones. 

As my building progressed from field walls, seen solely by sheep, to garden walls, seen mostly by people (and some sheep), I reluctantly learned to shape stone. A craft within a craft. I was unskilled and clumsy. Learning to shape stone is one of the top five most frustrating experiences of my life. 

Each stone type has a preference for how it is approached, and you only glean those predilections through failure. If you hit a stone and it fires back with a shrill ‘ping’, you are likely dealing with basalt or dolerite. Igneous rocks, tough and not well-suited to shaping. If you try, putting all your strength behind hammer or chisel, the stone will resist, eventually giving up to split in ways, places, you’d never have expected. These dark-coloured, hard rocks are collectively called whinstone, which is hilarious, because you can’t.

Sandstone likes to split along its bedding planes, and you can use that to your advantage if you need to take off some height, or create precious shims. Soft sandstone will break like over-toasted toast and crumble under too much pressure. Harder sandstone’s weaknesses are better hidden—though it’s taxing on the wrists. But slate will always gratify. No bedding planes, instead planes of cleavage, and it does indeed cleave. 

Stone prefers decisive action. You don’t need to watch a drystone waller to know how experienced they are. You can hear it in the sounds of hammer on chisel, metal on stone. The pace, the pings. My worst hammer blows produce a dull, hesitant swipe, lacking the depth of a more committed ‘thunk’. Silence can also be a sign of skill. If hammering isn’t interspersed with loud swearing and the clanging of tools thrown in frustration, you could be dealing with an expert.

Stone in hand, filled with dread, I do everything right. I place it on a flat, stable surface. I support it in all the ways it needs to be supported. I measure and I mark and I pray. I raise my hammer with only the purest of intentions. I will not commit a murder. 

Shit. 

I curse the universe, my hands. I am a serial killer worthy of the longest podcast. 

While Cal, a waller for more than twenty years, nonchalantly holds a stone in one hand and a hammer in the other, executing precise blows. His stone goes on to live a long and healthy life. Three children. A picket fence. Fucker.

Although the learning curve has been steep, after braving the tool bag, I am less likely to be found sitting amongst a half ton of discarded stones, mute from exasperation. Shaping stone helps me to build more quickly and efficiently. Finding the right stone is harder (and slower) than making any stone the right one.’

- Excerpt from Drystone - A Life Rebuilt, forthcoming from Birlinn/Polygon