Artisan woodturning — East Lothian, Scotland
Each bowl, vessel and form is shaped by hand from sustainably harvested British hardwood. No two pieces share the same grain, the same light, the same life.
Nothing here is extracted without purpose. Every piece of timber in the Arboris workshop comes from trees that have completed their natural lives — felled by storm, cleared for safety, or taken from managed coppice. We do not buy from commercial sawmills.
The journey from log to finished form is measured in months, sometimes years. Green wood is rough-turned and left to move and dry in the barn. When it is ready, it tells you. The lathe does the rest — slowly, unhurried.
No. 47
Burr Oak · Fallen estate timber
The medullary rays in this piece catch morning light like rivers seen from above. The natural edge was preserved to honour the tree's original contour — one of the most characterful pieces to leave the workshop this year.
No. 12
English Yew · Churchyard clearance, East Lothian
Yew that has grown slowly in dry ground produces the deepest, most intense colour. This piece was taken from a tree already over four hundred years old when it fell. The pale sapwood and dark heart create an ombre that no dye could replicate.
No. 61
Figured Ash · Storm-fallen, East Lothian
This platter was the entire reason a particular ash log was brought into the workshop. The figuring — that rare, rippled pattern in the grain — is present in only a fraction of ash trees. Food safe, finished in raw linseed and beeswax. Made to be used daily.
No. 29
Wild Cherry · Orchard clearance, Scottish Borders
A whisper-fit lid forms a seal without a hinge or clasp, turned so the grain runs continuously from base to top. Cherry deepens in tone with light and handling, gaining character through years of everyday use.
Every commission begins with a conversation — about the wood, the use, the space it will live in. Whether you're looking for a wedding gift, a memorial piece from a specific tree, or a set of bowls for your table, we'll find the right timber and form together.
Begin a conversationFirst
A fallen oak. A storm-felled ash along the lane. A yew from a churchyard that's stood since the Norman conquest. I look for timber with a story — with character a fresh-cut tree hasn't yet had time to develop.
Then
The green log is cut into blanks and mounted on the lathe while still full of sap. A rough shape is made — slightly oversized — and the surface sealed to slow drying and reduce cracking.
Waiting
The rough blank rests in the barn for a year, often more. It moves, warps, twists. Some crack and are lost. The ones that survive have found their equilibrium — they are done moving. Now they are ready.
Finally
Back on the lathe, the seasoned blank is finished to its final shape. Wall thickness, rim and foot are worked by touch. Coats of oil are rubbed in by hand, the last dressed with beeswax, buffed to a quiet sheen.
The oak bowl is the most beautiful thing in our house. I pick it up every morning just to feel the grain. Knowing exactly which tree it came from — and that nothing harmful was used to finish it — makes it mean even more.
I commissioned a yew vessel to commemorate a tree we had to take down in the garden. The care and thoughtfulness in the process — from the first conversation to the piece arriving — was extraordinary. I cried when I opened it.
As a woodworker myself, I know how long it takes to achieve a finish like this. There is nothing showy about it — just the quiet evidence of someone who has spent years listening to the wood. I'll be buying again.
For most of my working life I built things you couldn't hold — software, systems, products that lived on a screen. It was a good career in the digital sector, fast and absorbing, but somewhere along the way I started craving the opposite: something slow, something physical, something that left sawdust on my hands at the end of the day.
A weekend turning course became an obsession, then a workshop, then a life. The lathe gave me everything the screen couldn't — the smell of fresh-cut oak, the resistance of the tool, the moment a rough blank suddenly reveals its grain. There's a directness to it I never found in twenty years of code: just me, the wood, and the tool, with nothing in between.
The workshop sits in East Lothian, on the Scottish coast east of Edinburgh, heated in winter by the same shavings the lathe produces. The .eco domain isn't a marketing decision — it's the most honest description of how this place runs.
Whether you're interested in a piece from the collection, a commission, or simply want to know more about the wood or the process — we'd love to hear from you. All enquiries are answered personally.