alnwick

Last week I visited Alnwick Garden in Northumberland with a friend I've known since my teenage years in the late 1980's. We don't see each other often but easily slip back into our companionship, laughing, shrieking and talking the serious stuff as we explored the garden. The sky was cloudless with a blue that appeared infinite, the kind of blue I dream about in the depths of winter. It was a breathtakingly beautiful day. 

I spotted the fox atop some garden folly, the fox is a totem animal for me, this one looks defeated and unsure of itself...

tan lines

My feet have sandal tan lines that are fading, I notice them while in the bath.

There's something about the end of summer that gently revels a sadness in me. It’s hard to explain as I have a fondness for seasons. Autumn in her richness and transformation, of blue skies and red leaves, the surprise of jewel like berries in the hedgerow and hot summer like days. Winter brings such wonderful colour, hazes and chill air, breath becoming seeable. It takes us to our bare bones and this is reflected in the skeleton trees, their individual branches silhouetted, showing themselves. 

So why melancholy, a feeling of having missed out, of being passed by?

There is hope in spring and summer as we turn towards the light, a fullness and freshness in nature. Summer flowing into autumn foretells of a turning inward, of reflection and tallying, discarding the old map and rewriting anew, setting goals and intention. Is this what dulls me?

Could it be the back to school feeling that anyone who has experienced bullying recalls, in our cells as bodies register changing light levels. Years may have passed but that eleven year old is still here, still anxious.

Does any of this matter? The feelings are here and need to be felt. One thing I’ve learned is that we must allow our feelings, this is how we work through. Its all about layers. 

As this world turns I question myself, am I moving forward? I’ve been feeling stuck, that my efforts haven’t got me so far, that I’m up against the same old same old. I’m finding it a challenge to keep up my mantra that all will be well, to trust, to allow. I’m tired.

view

Us E11 folk have been spoiled recently with the Leytonstone Arts Trail and the Leytonstone Festival. During the festival tickets were offered for the St John Tower Tour and I snapped up the chance to see inside this local landmark and view the London skyline from 75 feet up. 

On a scorching hot day we climbed the narrow stairway in hard hats and were rewarded with wonderful views of the city 8 miles away and the hills of Essex, Kent and Surrey. It was a green view, full of trees and we were treated to a flock of geese flying in V formation to the Walthamstow Marshes a few miles beyond. 

Frustrated by my cameras zoom function, (which I keep forgetting has shuddered to a halt) I had the idea of using a pair of binoculars that were passed to me to magnify the view. With wobbly hands I held the binoculars to the camera lens and snapped away. The binoculars were a little out of focus so the images are blurred, but I like the effect and circular framing and will develop this technique in the future.

 St John the Baptist

 BT Tower

 Canary Wharf

 The Shard

Arcelormittal Orbit

scotland

Scotland highlights. Photographs by my sister Clare.

Our first days wander along the 5 miles of beach from Burghead to Findhorn, worm casts, clear sea, tracing the waters edge with bare feet.

Finding washed up Jellyfish on our return journey and throwing them back into the sea.

Scoffing my first knickerbocker glory since childhood in the Bog Cotton cafe, Cannich. 

Stopping in our tracks on hearing an odd sound in the sky while walking around Loch Affric. Turns out it was a Snipe, a feather in its tail creating this strange noise. 

Shrieking as a young Golden Retriever bounded over a rock and stuck its head in my rucksack, lured by a cheese sandwich. 

Wailing seals off the beach at Lossiemouth.

The breathtaking prettiness of Rosemarkie.

Seeing Moray Firth dolphins for the first time at Chanonry Point. Their fins and tails popping up in the water, the sound of their blowhole out breaths.

A strip of pink sky and wonder at the 11pm light on the drive back from Findhorn where I danced to the drums of Kakatsitsi.

Understanding gloaming for the first time, midsummer nights of twilight and dusk.

 Burghead on our arrival

 Loch Affric

 Rosemarkie

 Towards Fortrose

Burghead at 11pm

burghead

My grandfather, John Logan was born and raised in Burghead, Morayshire and my sister and I are renting a fisherman's cottage there for a week from tomorrow. It sounds impossibly romantic, but the online pictures of the cottage show swirling 70's carpets and dodgy decor - just how I like it! Not knowing my grandparents has bought the seeker and feeler out in me, piecing together stories with an intuitive mix of research and guesswork. What will I learn about John? What will I feel in the coming week? As much as I like questioning I enjoy the unknowing too, being comfortable with uncertainty.  

eyelids

Today, while waiting on platform 1 at Wakefield Westgate station I shut my eyes and turned my face to the sun. For the first time this year I had a moment to sit and feel the suns rays on my skin and it was marvellous in its newness and familiarity. A wood pigeon cooing nearby brought memories of summers past and bright orange light streamed through the skin of my eyelids. 

I wondered at this particular shade of orange, wanting to capture it somehow and decided to find its match by searching my photographs. This is the closest I could get...

 Tulip, Chatsworth House, Derbyshire, 2011

Camera Obscura, Edinburgh, Scotland, 2013

Balloon, Flekkerøy, Norway, 2013

Rose in Mum's garden, Loughton, Essex, 2013

big CD things

Conversation with a 17 year old last week. 

Him: 'I was looking through my dad's... um, big CD things' (making a circle in the air with both forefingers)

Me: 'Records?' 

Him: 'Yep'