Lagom

Walking with Hannah and Rosie through fields in the Cotswolds to the church where I used to sit and revise many years ago. The day is warm, fields full of horses, sheep with heavy fleeces, and on the way home I fall in love with an old camera in a charity shop.
Tomorrow my dad is 77 years old. 

As thow art so was I. As I am so shalt thou bee.

Inscription on a stone memorial inside the church.

 Old carriage for carrying the coffins.

 

 At the other end of life, the font with medieval tiles.

Tiles remind me of patchworks. They must be at least 500 years old.

At the alter there are memorials stones from 1641.

Light on the tree. Beautiful.

When they were peasant's cottages they were called Flea Bank Cottages. 

Now they are holiday homes with burglar alarms they are called Shakespeare Row.

Beautiful honeytone Cotswold stone.

A moment ago

Taking out the flowers to the compost. They have faded now. They leave behind a trail of petals like Hansel's stones, all along the early morning garden path that is loud with sparrow song.

Walking in the early morning with Helen, who remarks that the sea looks like Cinderella's dress, the third and final one in the Ladybird book from our childhood. Shot silk, pale with deep folds. So still.

I say that the temperature is that of Baby Bear's porridge. Not too hot, not too cold, but just right. In Swedish there is a special word for this.

  

We walk home through the warm ruins of Maes y Mynydd where the skylarks sing and buzzards mew. And still I do no writing. Except for this.

  

Days off, birdsong and books.

This morning I woke early and listened as the birds sang the sun to rise and thought again about the symphony of birdsong that always, at some time in a day, is singing the sun to rise, somewhere in the world.

 

 

Yesterday Tom rowed out of Porthgain Harbour for an evening training session while Helen and I sat on the cliff top in the late evening sun and watched. The sky was patterned by cloud and swallows and swifts, air warm, a promise of summer. Soon he will be off to the Scilly Isles for the World Gig Racing Championships.

Today more sun and blue sky and a parcel waiting on the doorstep when we returned from dog walking and listening to a sky filled with larks. On the airfield the larks are battling for territory, their war songs so beautiful. 

The parcel was my latest instalment from Mr B's ( to find out more click on the link for Mr B's at the bottom of this post) Once again beautifully wrapped.

Inside this time, three books in one, Skippy Dies by Paul Murray, published by Hamish Hamilton. Beautifully designed. So looking forward to making the time to read them. 

The days are busy, a few days off work only marred by constant headache. Back to work next week and will try and make some order and begin to move through the nursery rhyme book.

When things are low to the horizon they always appear larger than they are.

Across the western horizon Orion strides, large in the darkness. My head hurts and feels fogged in a web of confusion. Today I have walked on the path of pilgrims, past the pilgrim's cross at Nevern. I have walked on the beach with the tide out while the dogs ran wild. I have walked up the cliff path to the white waymarker at Porthgain and watched as Tom and the crew of the Kathryn Rose pulled away from the shore and across the blue bay. Swallows flew over cliffs, swift. There must always be a little time left at the end of the day to read, and tonight I read Cyrano by Geraldine McGaughrean.

My thoughts are very like the swallows, gathering for summer.

Writing. Awards. Blogs.

Yesterday I found out that the cover for The Dragon Keeper by Robin Hobb is shortlisted for The Ravenheart Award. Amazing. When I find out more I will put links to all the other covers and a link for voting.

Today I find that this blog is shortlisted for the Author Blog Awards. It is strange how that has tied my fingers in knots. Took me years to think of myself as an 'author'. Someone asked me the other day if I 'managed' to make a living from painting alone. I replied that, no, I also write books, and a blog or two. This didn't help their confusion, and neither did it sit well in my mind. 

I have a headful of stories. I write books, and the odd fragment of poetry, and lists, lots of lists. And I try and write just a few things every evening in a moleskine diary, to close the day. Above is a fragment from part of a new story. I wrote it on a beach that was soaked in early spring, early morning sunshine, while waves rolled ashore. I paint in my studio, write on the hill or on a beach, usually. 

Below, a random opening of the diary page.

1. I have not yet found any blue sea glass. Clear, green, amber, but as yet no blue.

2. A head full of dormice in teacups, hares running through panels of paper, the wolf gondolier and his midnight cloak of stars, lion dancing with unicorn, patchwork quilt made by convict girls, thimbles and patterns and Christmas cards all tumble together in my head and doing no painting as friends are staying.

But today we walked through woods greened emerald by fresh leaves beside a tumbling river that echoed my thought. Wood anenomes danced in light wind. Ruined house patterned by shadows.

3. More painting, more writing, more listening, less talking.

4. And it is always good to contemplate the finite.

So, if you feel like wandering through the world of blogs then have a look at the shortlisted ones, and vote if you feel so inclined. I will be voting for Fiona, although this is my favorite of her blogs. I love the economy of A Small Stone as well as the idea behind it. 

Drawing hares

While I was distracted drawing hares the cats seem to have sneaked in and posted their picture on my blog, so I am going to sneak over the theirs and put some of my things on while they are curled in sleep. Sshhhh......

Three, or Lazy Saturday Afternoon

Spring watch

Snowdrops fading, primroses pale yellow in small flower pools. Shy, dark violets hidden in secret places and on the fresh blackthorn twigs the tightest bead-balls of blossom. Magpies have tumbled tangled twigs into the blackthorn bushes and are courting fierce and harsh outside my studio. Daylight hours linger longer before the night chases them away. March winds dance with April showers. It will be a month of rainbows.

Woke with an image of a gril working on a patchwork, thinking about tools for stitching and all the scraps of stories that are held in the paper templates in patchwork quilts of old, a mosaic of memories. Possession. Now I understand what A S Byatt meant by that title. Possession.

Strange happenings, rain and hares.

Working away yesterday I suddenly realised all had gone quiet. Tom and Hannah had broken up from school for Easter. Time had slipped through my fingers and neither had mentioned lunch, and anyway they are big enough to get their own. Should I go and see what was happening? Should I leave them and sort it out later? I crept out of my studio and down the stairs.
Silence. 
Strange. 
Cats curled in purring piles, dogs asleep under stairs. Silence. 
So I went towards the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and there they were, and oh dear! They were both sitting at the kitchen table, next to each other (Hannah 15, Tom 17) doing their revision for exams. Kids today! What are they like!
Situation returned to normal later with the fierce, though slightly more friendly fight for The Sofa of Choice while we watched Doll House in the evening. Despite the bad reviews we love it.

Today, hares, and I now have two big tryptychs of hares that I want to do. Meanwhile nursery rhymes are beginning to nag again and I only have until October to get them all done, and another sleeping dormouse is wanting to be painted and a running white rabbit. John Foley will be pleased.

Yesterday Robin (long suffering partner) put some film up on Youtube for me, a sequence of short films he made as part of  his Open University course he was working on. There are three altogether and you can view them through these links below.
How I started out in illustration. 
The Seal Children and Dragons
Can You See a Little Bear.

Later, when I went to feed Nadolig in the garden ( neighbour's black and white cat ) I found him chatting with a badger. It was warm, middle of the afternoon, sunshine and primroses and the badger was checking out beneath the bird feeders. Looked at me and then ambled off down the garden path. Very odd.

 

Inside, outside and fine china cups.

Last night the moon rose late into a clear darkness-pinned-to-the-sky-with-stars cloth of dreams. It was pale lemon, beautiful. Now the world has darkened and outside the lambs are running for cover as sleet falls in a fast wind.

And that is the weather report today from Treleddyd Fawr.

Inside there will be dormice in teacups.

Yesterday the accountant gave me a gold star. Might be premature, but I treasure it to my heart anyway. 

And my flowers are still beautiful, well cared for and every time I see them it makes me pause and smile, inside and outside.

Today I have contacted one of the descendants of Grace Stevens, whose young hand helped to stitch the Rajah Quilt so many years ago, I have drawn dormice and found a new theme of dormice sleeping in teacups to occupy my time and I have received my catalogue from teh V&A. The book fell open at the page that shows the Rajah Quilt, just as I was beginning to wonder whether it would be possible to make the story into a picture book. There can sometimes be something quite haunting about being taken over by a story. I think this one wishes to be written.

All the work above is destined for the Alice in Wonderland Exhibition at The Imagine Gallery. Would love to be able to go as John has gathered together such incredible things, including work by Graham Piggott. I have a polar bear of his and I think this was the first thing of Graham's that John saw when he came to collect work from me.