sycamore

I walked to this tree on the shortest day of the year last December, and found myself standing by its side on the longest day this June. I'd not planned to do this, but found I'd measured a half turn of the Earth by my pilgrimages on foot to this tree, a sycamore.

finds

Last month I went off for a walk after a succession of rainy days. Top soil had been swept from woodland pathways revealing rich pickings of the domestic pottery shards that delight me. I've found these many times before on a particular path near Scarthin Wood, but on this walk they shone from pathways I'd never gathered from before. I kept them in the collections I'd found them, placing the muddy finds in different sections of my backpack.

I'm drawn to these worthless shards, were they a preferred bowl, favourite cup of a father or son, were they handed down from a mother to a daughter, precious, part of a wedding gift? Was anyone heartbroken when they shattered? Can I sense an echo from who held them? Who raised cup to lips, clattered a spoon scrapping the last morsels of porridge from them? The past in the present, a ceramic trail, reminding me of Hansel and Gretel's attempt at retracing steps, staying safe in the wood.

I'll paint these in their families, recording their cracks, breaks, pattern and decoration in watercolour and pencil. Devoting my full attention while I fix their likeness to paper. 

matlock

Hello again. My blog has been quiet lately because two weeks ago I relocated to Derbyshire. This morning I took a short but dramatic and rewarding stroll, following The Limestone Way to a well placed seat overlooking Matlock. These images show my return walk down the hillside. It was good to fill my lungs with fresh, clean air and see the early autumn berry jewels in the bushes and trees. I imagine this walk will become a go-to when a quick nature reboot is needed before settling down to the working day. 

 Hawthorn berries redden the trees

 Thank you Geoff and family

 Matlock

 Hawthorn framing the style

 Beautiful damp moss

 Blackthorn sloes

 Abundant hawthorn berries, an unusual deep colour

 Holly sheltering the pathway

 Reaching branches

 Inviting

 Final descent into Matlock

Looking back at the walks end

nostalgia

Two weeks ago today I went on a birthday walk with my sister. Off Oxford Street is Great Titchfield Street, where our Uncle Fred used to live. We found the doorway to his flat, then headed to the nearby BT Tower and onwards, past the cliff like edifice of the hospital I was born in to St Pancras, rising like a ships bow from the Euston Road.

 Doorstep of Radiant House, Mortimer Street

 Uncle Fred's doorway

 BT Tower

 University College Hospital

St Pancras

measure of quality

While walking an easy three mile circular route from my flat this summer I experienced a moment of clarity and heightened awareness of consciousness in THIS body in THIS time, in THIS place. Aware of myself as a wondering measure of quality, flesh and blood responding to the sensory stimulus around me as finely tuned receptor, genderless, without culture.

My surface, registering the gentlest breeze, hairs rising upon some impulse from my sympathetic nervous system, this system operating me from before birth to my death. Eyes that see and make sense, or find sense in the environment, perceiving light, distance, colour with a sensitivity no camera could duplicate. Turning home, facing the setting sun I experienced its blinding rays, a last hurrah as the horizon rose to conceal the light. This haze of golden light felt timeless, I could be anywhere, this could be anytime, I could be anyone.

Footsteps measuring pace, distance, rhythm, stone crunch underfoot, a buzz and chirrup from the long grass, the music of trees and breeze, a rush of urgent whispers. Breath rhythm, inhalation, exhalation, an emotional swell in my chest as I feel, I feel. Mind, self, cognisant, piecing together now and before. A belly full of wonder at this awareness, connection, consciousness - my time on the Earth is now, this is my time. Recognising the gift of this moment, legs that carry me, a bright and curious mind, the preciousness of taking a deep, easy breath. 

1916

My dad was born on the 11th of March 1916. To commemorate this I traveled to Scotland, walked to the cottage he was born in and planted daffodils by the front door. Soft rain fell, garden birds chirruped in the hedgerows and squawked my approach from the treetops. Snowdrops in their prime lit the way, turning my thoughts towards hope and renewal. Standing in the garden of the derelict cottage I felt very at home, though my father left this home in his youth the place echoed him. A shed full of rusting nails, bare gnarly apple trees, a slab path running the length of the cottage. HE was palpable.

I knocked on the door and considered time, of my grandmother Alexina birthing her last born on this day 100 years before, of me peering in the windows, haunting ghosts. Crouching down to dig I found rich dark soil, the sword like spikes of the daffodils pleasingly green against this earth. I left a note written in green ink, knowing it would wash away as rain pattered down, spreading, erasing my heartfelt words. I think of these daffodils now, hoping they bloom brightly, a token of life lived now as I acknowledge my father, my roots.

 Elgin

 Plant associated with Clan Logan - Furze (Gorse)

 Road to Easter Calcots

 Joynters Cottages

 Falkland Islands penny

 Haunting the long dead and gone...

 Geese

Memorial

at last

I was singing this song to myself (one of my melancholic favourites) when I walked past this sign behind a school playground fence. 

green things

Step by step and stitch by stitch I've surrounded myself with green. Sap is rising, spring around the corner and nature yawns and stretches into another awakening. I've made a simple dress, replaced the leather cord on my tingsha and covered a pillow with green polka dot fabric. Exciting!

magic

Magic happened on this walk from Matlock to Cromford. These were life affirming miles inhaling leaf mould and woodland scents, marvelling at bright berry pops of colour, becoming absorbed by bark textures and centring myself on slippery mud.  

High Tor

Arc of berries

Steep path out of Matlock Bath

Cromford

My favourite bookshop