THE Kelpies, those wondrous enormous horse heads emerging from beside the Forth and Clyde Canal at Falkirk, and swiftly becoming an iconic image of Scotland, were nearly given individual names by their Glasgow sculptor Andy Scott.

He knew his great grandfather had worked with a horse, so Andy began a family quest amongst older relatives to discover the horse's name, with Andy hoping for an inspirational Hercules or somesuch.

Calls went out to relatives in England, and from there to an aged great aunt in Canada. The reply from across the Atlantic eventually got back to Andy - his great grandfather's horse was called Ned. And at that the idea evaporated. Presumably going to Falkirk to see some Neds didn't sound like such a great day out.

It is one year this month since The Kelpies were open to the public, and as Andy told his audience at Glasgow's Aye Write! book festival at the weekend, the 100 foot eye-catching heads were almost reduced to half their size, or indeed to just one, as financial pressures put the squeeze on the project when they were still being planned. But Andy, who may seem quite mild-mannered when you meet him, has a steel core like many of his artworks, and he stood his ground that the site deserved, and only worked, with such behemoths.

He's correct that there had to be two. When you visit The Kelpies in the Helix Park, it is when you slowly circumnavigate the pair, that their relationship to each other subtly changes, giving a string of contrasting juxtapositions.

One battle he did lose was a nearby powerline which Andy wanted buried underground as its appearance was intrusive. "I said, 'That's got to go.' We tried, but moving the powerline would have cost as much as the whole project. Now I've grown so used to the powerline I don't notice it," he explained.

It's at public talks like this that you pick up on points you would never have noticed. One young woman in the audience, presumably a horsewoman, asked why the ears on The Kelpies were at such an angle that would normally mean a horse was terrified. Goodness, you would have to study the statues, the largest equine statues in the world, with some intensity to notice that one. Andy explained that the angle of the ears was not a sign of terror, but of them struggling to get free from the earth below them and was really a sign of dramatic tension.

Andy after all had borrowed two Clydesdale horses from Glasgow City Council which he had in his Maryhill studio in order to absorb their movement and foibles. He must love horses - although has only ever been on one once. His Heavy Horse just beside the M8 on the eastern edge of Glasgow is seen by 130,000 motorists who pass every day. Andy himself was bending the inch thick steel which forms the Heavy Horse some years ago. "That's a young man's game," he says. Fortunately The Kelpies gave him less physical hardship as they were constructed in a forge in Yorkshire before being assembled like a giant Meccano set on site in only 90 days.

It is hard to imagine any visitor to The Kelpies who are not impressed - not simply because of the scale of the project, but the way that despite their size there is a feeling of movement and litheness about them. One review in a London-based newspaper was dismissive. Written, Andy pointed out, by someone who had not actually been to see them. One tabloid newspaper described him as a "glorified scrap metal merchant."

One wonders, and I hope this does not come across as Glasgow paranoia, if some critics slight him because he is from working class roots, growing up in Springburn, and without a dandified air. The only silver spoon near his lips would have been the brand of sugar scattered over his corn flakes. He is more comfortable in a boiler suit than a Hugo Boss one.

It is the heavy industry of his background that inspires him. Although the tile The Kelpies refers to mythical sea creatures, Andy has in fact taken the brief and moulded it into a paean to the working horses which drove so much of Scotland's early industry. The Kelpies are lit from inside in different colours, and Andy's favourite is the red hitting off the steel which gives an echo to the glare from the furnaces of Scotland's industrial revolution.

After school he studied at Glasgow School of Art where he was gently guided towards more abstract work but he rebelled in his last year, embracing a more figurative style believing his work should be more accessible to more people. Afterwards he took what work there was - props for opera, sets for television dramas, even putting in staircases in trendy bars which gave him valuable insight into how construction actually worked.

His work is now sought after around the world, but like the saying about prophets not being taken seriously in their own country, he is probably still unknown to many folk in Scotland.

He laughs about the fact that he and his wife were flying to Chicago where his work was being exhibited. On the back of every seat on the plane was a photograph of the Beacon, a giant female figure created by Andy in Belfast as part of the city's regeneration following The Troubles. It was part of an advertisement enticing travellers to visit Belfast. "Do you think we'll get free Champagne if I pointed out I made that?" Andy joked with his wife. "Let's find out," said his wife who told the next air stewardess who passed, who coincidentally was from Glasgow.

"Aye right," she said, and kept on walking.