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wandering in a winter wood

Posted jane -->on 19th Dec 2018

most of the trees have dropped all their leaves now but this oak still has plenty. it’s on the edge of the wood by the bottom of the green lane

the hazels have their catkins all ready to expand as soon as february or before if it’s mild

there’s a section of the wood that seems in a state of collapse. it is mostly elm and ash; the elms get to a certain height then the bark boring beetles find them and spread the fungal disease Ascomycota. the tree reacts by plugging its own xylem tissue with gum and tyloses, bladder-like extensions of the xylem cell wall. As the xylem (one of the two types of vascular tissue produced by the vascular cambium, the other being the phloem) delivers water and nutrients to the rest of the plant, these plugs prevent them from travelling up the trunk of the tree, starving the tree of water and nutrients, therefore, eventually killing it. but the roots are still alive and send up new shoots, so there is a continuous cycle of growth and death in the wood.

 at the moment there seems more death, and rafts of dead trees block the old paths.

on the other side of the wood the spring-fed pools are still dry. at the end of the winter last year this was a large pond. the water bubbles up from the bottom when the spring runs.

the bare branches catching low sunlight. there were long-tailed tits, and then another bird I wasn’t sure of, possibly pied wagtails, running along the high branches, with a “plink plink” call.

oaks

and beech predominate – there are some monsters

holly in the lower storeys,

making domed hallways

while hazel grows in these bushy forms, flexible and sometimes trapped into archways

and ancient carcasses sprawl across the woodland floor. but no ash in this main part of the wood.

the wet nature of this land with its springs, sumps, swamps and little stream 

means it’s not suitable for agriculture, though I worry the owner may want to exploit it for growing trees for biomass – hopefully the expense of draining would prevent that. terrible idea anyway.

it’s quite easy to get lost in here, paths entice and bring you only to bramble patches and more fallen trees

as there are so many deer – red, roe and muntjac – I wanted to see if young trees were growing. I recently read an extract of Oliver Rackham’s book on the ash tree, in which he said that woodland oaks were not reproducing due to oak mildew, and hazels due to squirrels. deer nip off young growth too.

I found several young beech trees but no oaks, and plenty of hazels. 

our hedgerow oaks had bumper crops of acorns this year. most oaks grow from forgotten jay stashes.

I’m standing in the soft peaty earth and leaf litter of the dry pond.

there are many standing elms, some dead and some alive, protected by the other trees. 

down here in the almost forgotten centre of the labyrinth I try to find my slow way home.

the colours of the land; Orkney part two

Posted jane -->on 26th Nov 2018

some people assumed that there would not be much in the way of leaves to dye with here in Orkney towards the end of November, and that the weather would be too awful to get outside much. but in fact the weather was mild and open; some days the sun shone all the short hours it was up.

the low lying islands make the sky huge, and there is light reflected from the surrounding and interlocking water of sea and loch.

at the bottom of the garden at Woodwick House the island of Wyre is a low hump across the sound, and the sea constantly changes colour

  

and the bare trees form a patterned screen – in this case

Rousay is the pink land under the pink cloud on the horizon, caught by the setting sun.

in George Mackay Brown’s book Magnus he describes this group of islands, ten including the mainland which he gives its old name, Hrossey (horse island) “the islands shift their places around the firth, Hrossey, Eynhallow, Rousay, Gairsay, Shapinsay, Wyre, Eday, Sanday, Stronsay, Egilsay” as Magnus and his men sail/row across the sound towards his martyrdom on Egilsay

on the beach there is a thick wreath of seaweed, coloured from ochre to rust to deep wine-purple, amongst stones that are lighter versions of the same colours, and at low tide, fine grey sand, ripple marked.

from the beach you can walk back up beside the burn, as it pours over the rock steps and pools in treacle brown depths

on a path through shrubs and trees

with secret spots to hide and read a book or draw,

leant over by tree branches. from the name I suppose there must always have been trees here.

quaint post and rails – the seabird skull my addition, a find from the beach –

snow drop bulbs everywhere in bare earth and humous, already starting to sprout green horns.

at the top there’s what they call in scotland a doo-cot – a dove cote

with compartments for all the pigeon nests, providing baby pigeons for pies. whether this is a genuine really old one is hard to say, but it’s been made into a sort of pagan chapel

a quiet contemplative place

beside the sound of the rushing burn

at the gate before the bridge

and at the other side of the house there are castellated turrets – a late Victorian fancy. the gates are missing, anyway, and the path down the to the sea is public.

the hens are the rightful owners of the garden, six of them, and with no foxes they don’t have to be shut in at night.

this one is the boss, she’s twelve years old. one day they laid four eggs!

inside we had been hard at work stitching on paper, watercolour, or other special paper – some hand made. I had brought heavy weight watercolour, and it was brutal to stitch on, so mine was quite minimal. others filled up their three pieces with masses of abstract stitching and pieces of fabric.

then we made folded books, into which we inserted leaves/and seaweed

wrapped them into parcels with cloth

and after a brief cook

opened our little treasures, at the same time adding to our drip-sheets/abstract paintings (Japanese inksticks ground on beach stones and peat from the burn-side, using sticks and home-made brushes, and yes, fingers)

they looked gorgeous when wet

though this lovely rusty brown

dried to something a bit duller.

the drip-lengths were made into something very exciting on the last day.

when you work with leaves and stitches your eyes get tuned into all the fine details of the landscape

things you might walk past before, suddenly shine out at you with their beauty.

 

sister stitchers in Orkney outlands: part one

Posted jane -->on 23rd Nov 2018

another magical place in the space of four weeks – Orkney – and a wonderful retreat led by India Flint and Alison Mountain of Big Cat textiles in Newburgh (where I have been for several really good courses, taught by the likes of Michel Garcia and Larry Thomas as well as by India)

arrived in the dark after a flight from Aberdeen to Kirkwall which caught the last of the light with views of the Moray Firth, Caithness, the Pentland Firth (complete with ferry ploughing a pale blue wake) and the interlocking islands, sounds and firths of Orkney, so when I parted the curtains at seven am and saw this out of my window I was in love with the place.

we stayed and workshopped in Woodwick House, an Edwardian very Scottish looking country house with a kind of tower attic and stepped gables and crenellations wherever possible. it still has its beautiful but draughty sash windows, but also bits and pieces of more contemporary text and some quite good paintings, in a simple plain decor that felt comfortable and un-posh, not imposing anything except an awareness of the Orcadian tradition of ancient and contemporary art and poetry.

the fact that there are quite tall and old trees in two shelter belts running down each side of the garden to the beach of this little bay (“wick” means bay) is unusual on these bare and windswept islands. they are mostly sycamore, salt-hardy and tough, a non-native tree which thrives all over the UK. the pool in the photo is part of an installation of sculpture and poetry (not sure when this was made) and around its rim are words written by George Mackay Brown, one of Orkney’s most famous poets. some letters are sadly missing, but part of it reads –

drink here voyager about to depart
on the salt sound
Eynhallow

Eynhallow is one of the smaller islands in the group just off the main island here.

we began with a fancy-restaurant-standard supper made by Alison and India, setting the ball very high for the rest of the week.

the next morning down to the serious business, working on paper with Alison, splashing vegetable dyes about on paper,

and continuing to layer up with pastel, oil pastel, gesso, more paint until the whole thing a bit soggy, then we folded our large sheets into books

put more onto the nicely reduced and framed sections

I discovered that pastel in layers with the translucent dyes and also darker ink-depth mark making

and then working over the top with more pastel

gave very pleasing results. I am wondering about a bit of fixative when I get home though.

for the first textile phase, led by India, we were given a strip of old wool blanket to stitch and add more fabrics to.

I was really quite minimal in my stitching compared to most. one had no idea where this was leading, by the way!

by the end of the morning however far we had got, our rolls of blanket went into a pot or rather a huge fish kettle of burn water (a burn runs down under a bridge at the entrance to the garden and along its edge, the water a coppery clear caramel from the peat) and a little “iron water”, to steep and relax in some heat.

we had the afternoon to wander, and bring back leaves, seaweed, stones, twigs and anything else we found to add to the stitching.

bundles duly went back in the kettle for an evening boil-up

identified by tied on additions which make these little objects full of character before you even start

by the morning they had cooled down and we had our christmas present moment of unwrapping, with many oohs and aahs, much excitement.

as India fished them out

starting to unwrap mine

then they all dripped on the line

you can see how much of the landscape is imparted

eventually dried in the boiler house

we made bags. here is mine, a tsunobokuro bias-stitched envelope or sack on our expedition to some of Orkney’s ancient sites later in the week.

the stones of the Pictish broch at Gurness

their lichens and weatherings

echoed in the colours and textures we were able to obtain with the dye processes and the pigments and paints on paper during the week.

 

the fortress of the high powers

Posted jane -->on 28th Oct 2018

the last day of the course at Ty Newydd was a trip into Snowdonia, hill-walking with storytelling and heightened speech.

we drove up the Nantlle valley from the coast on the Anglesey side

through the pass to a high reservoir

where we stopped so that two of us could deliver their invocation/heightened speech in the spirit of place

the weather collaborated and while the utterances were in progress we were enveloped in a hail storm.

we stood close together like penguins keeping warm in a snowstorm. reading from an ipad covered in melting hail was quite a feat, having climbed up a very steep little hill.

although the weather was uncomfortable at times, it would not have been so atmospheric without the huge fast moving clouds and intermittent sunshine.

we drove on to Beddgelert, refreshed and warmed ourselves, and those able to march up hills and scramble over rocks continued to Dinas Emrys, to encounter dragons and fortresses.

it’s a National Trust site. I am not normally fond of carved wood things on walks, but this dragon bench is very fine. the scales on its back stood up five inches proud of the spine, its tail, with similar scales, made a a complete three hundred and sixty degree turn at the other end of the seat, and huge claws splayed out at each end. Here Eric (Maddern, one of the course leaders) began his tale of Merlin’s prophesies at Dinas Emrys, taken from Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain. the story features the welsh red dragon defeating the saxon white dragon.

we walked on through woods on mossy paths and up and down stone steps

the hill we were walking to is probably a volcanic plug; it sits between the higher mountains – on the west side Moel Hebog, which blocks any view of Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon) itself, and on the east, Grib Ddu with Moel y Dyniewd higher behind,

in the valley of Afon (river) Glaslyn

we passed waterfalls – this the biggest, with its pool of blue stones

and a huge quartz block, a pulpit stone

then more stone steps as we climbed higher

through wood

and pasture

higher

with views of wooded hills

and bare mountains

until we reached the narrow neck of land

and the steep path

connecting Dinas Emrys

a very defensible precipitous path, looking down to the Arfon Glaswyn valley

coming down, after the rain which began soon after we got to the top, I slid on my bum over the steepest rockiest part, it seemed safer.

here the view of the lake

looking down to Llyn Dinas

at the top at last, to sit in the square of what are probably the foundations of an eleventh century tower, and listen to the last part of Eric’s re-telling.

below the tower is a hollow place with a pool, a natural amphitheatre. it was choked with rush and the ground covered with bracken, but Eric has been clearing it, and now the eye is open. in one of my favourite children’s books, written in 1959, the Lantern Bearers by Rosemary Sutcliff, this place is reimagined as the mountain hideaway not of Vortigern, but of Ambrosius, the son of the leader Vortigern betrayed when he brought in the saxon warbands led by Hengist and Horsa. she uses the name Dinas Ffaraon and translates it as Fortress of the High Powers. Emrys is the Welsh version of Ambrosius, but it also means immortal one. her description of the approach, from the lake, although it’s not the way we came up, has the same feel of mystery and magic. “The path squeezed its way through, and plunged on upward. In the softer and more level places it was a slithering quagmire, at others it ran out onto bare, mist wet rock” and she places Ambrosius in the hollow place at the moment of meeting the main character, Aquila, “on the edge of a little hollow with the gleam of water at the bottom of it” Aquila hears the notes of a harp from buildings in this hollow, and finds Ambrosius within.

re-reading this book I get the feeling that Rosemary Sutcliff was quite an influence on my own writing; her strong sense of place, and detail of plants and animals make her fiction intense and vivid.

as we searched out fallen wood for our fire, and Eric dug away rush and turf from the stones, it began to hail. nevertheless the fire was lit and we ten uttered our heightened speech to our chosen entity; to the lost eagles of Snowdon, to the Green Man, to Pan, to Rhiannon (that was me), Artemis, Myrddin, Math, Sophia, Thor, and Taliesin.

although we couldn’t see Snowdon from the reservoir because of the cloud, when I left Wales the next morning I caught a glimpse of it, covered in a light dusting of snow, from the Porthmadog bypass. it’s on the very left edge of the photo and soon the cloud covered it again.

a Welsh setting

Posted jane -->on 28th Oct 2018

and a quite extraordinary week for me, really quite out of my depth.

this is Ty Newydd, the National Writing Centre for Wales, also, David Lloyd George’s last home. he lived there for the last three years of his life and died in the library in 1945, overlooking Cardigan Bay; he is buried a little way down the road into Llanystumdwy near the river Dwyfor.

it’s a beautiful place, both the lane and the river, and the woods that surround them.

tall sessile oaks and ashes line the drive

the garden is full of trees – here a huge maple

and the light everywhere mellowed by autumn leaves

it seemed to me a very colourful landscape

here enhanced a bit by the hipstamatic app on my phone

but still, there was a glow that I’m not finding back in Norfolk.

the course I was on, Heightened Speech, was sub-titled “a Spell on the Tongue” and was just one in an annual series of storytelling courses that have been going on for about twenty years, led by Eric Maddern and Hugh Lupton. almost everyone had been on one before, some people have been attending them for years, and are professional story tellers.

as I haven’t even got one poem by heart I did feel a little bit of a fake.

here’s the back of the house, looking out over the lawn to a small gate where there’s a footpath to the sea, about a mile and a half away. some of the accommodation is under the same roof as offices, libraries, kitchen, dining room – which is the medieval heart of the house, the old hall where we did a lot of the work – warming up body and voice, and taking the oral tradition up its “ladder to the moon” from riddle and nursery rhyme, to the heights of invocation and praise-singing

via Lloyd George himself, other speechmakers like Martin Luther King

curses, charms and spells,

prophesies, song, poetry

and storytelling. stories were told from the Welsh Mabinogion, from native American and First Nation Traditions, Aboriginal Australian, from Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, from India, and further east.

the course was a rich smorgasbord of magical worlds and the voices are still in my head

more painting and autumn photos

Posted jane -->on 20th Oct 2018

we have been having glorious sunny weather here in Norfolk,

but we aren’t into full autumn leaf yet, it looks like it’s going to be quite gradual

though hips, haws and berries are abundant, even holly berries covering trees already.

I’ve been painting from memory and feeling again, parallel with the writing, and done a couple of truly abstract landscapes.

I started on this one with the idea of the sea asters I wrote about last, and the late swallows on the marsh grazing at salthouse. this was the start on canvas, with some paper collaged onto it, using diluted japanese black ink, and diluted acrylic paint.

I covered it up with later stages, and wished I had done something similar on paper. it always seems a scramble trying to paint without reference to any physical drawing, photo, or indeed, being actually in front of the subject. it seems that really one has to think about balance, tone and colour as much as anything. so I put these dark splodges in, standing for the ditches, dark earth in the grazing meadows, and the black anaerobic mud of the saltmarsh.

then big strokes with palette knife, dry reed and grass colours, some little blue things for the asters, wet into wet, and there it was. it’s 50 x 70 cm.

this week I was thinking about the reedbeds at Cley. started on paper this time, using a “folded” aluminium pen and the japanese ink. these folded pens are a calligraphy tool that gives you a very fine line that changes to very wide when you twist it round, so all these marks are made by the same pen.

then I added colour – watered down acrylic – and lost that pure graphic line.

but never mind, I ripped the drawing up to stick bits of it on the canvas

which already had plain torn paper stuck on it and a foundation of dribbles and thin paint.

experimenting with how this worked

two pieces stuck on and some paint added, and the canvas turned anti-clockwise 90 degrees.

more paint went on, and I scratched through it with the palette knife and added brush strokes with a round thick brush. after the scratched lines it seemed to be finished

but the paper buckled a lot, I got it too wet, I think; however after a few days to dry out, it’s hardly noticeable.\

details show what’s happening

brush strokes floating over the paper and canvas

here the paint over the paper drawing was scraped back to reveal more of it.

and drawing with the palette knife through the paint reveals more colour.

I think the knife marks bring more of the movement and graphic qualities of the reeds. this one is 50 x 50 cm.

today the hipstamatic app brought some of the misty dewy morning mystery and drama to my photos

the sun catching a field maple bush

and Bims

this week I had an amazing treat – a journey on a steam locomotive footplate, on our local steam train line, North Norfolk Steam trains, from Sheringham to Holt and back. very special

 

 

 

writing outside

Posted jane -->on 12th Oct 2018

the autumn writing outside course led by Dr Jonathan Ward has started at Cley Norfolk Wildlife trust visitor centre, accompanied by the sounds of returning migratory birds – especially the pink foot geese.

we went to the beach and the marsh at Salthouse. the last swallows were there, swooping over the grazing. Also a marsh harrier.

and sea asters everywhere. Aster tripolium has fleshy leaves to retain fresh water in its brackish environment. my Reader’s Digest complete spotter’s guide (the go-to reference book on my shelves) says it was a popular garden plant in Elizabethen times. it also supports a solitary bee, not mentioned in the afore-said guide, the salt-marsh bee, which feeds exclusively on sea aster, leaving a larder of pollen in each tiny burrow it lays an egg in. I came across entomologists catching them and a parasitic fly which lays its live larva in the burrows on Sunday at Morston.

the tide was very low, exposing sand at the bottom of the shingle bank

etching fern-like patterns as the waves sucked at the steep edge.

the marsh grazing supports all sorts of plants and animals, in the sweet ditches and the brackish channels.

we’ve also been to Wiveton Downs, which I have never got around to visiting since I was a teenager living in North Walsham. it’s one end of the Blakeney esker, a famous glacial ridge formed by a sub-ice-sheet stream first excavating a channel in the glacial till and then dumping sands, gravels and water-worn stones until it becomes tens of metres higher than the surrounding land after the ice sheet (itself up to a mile thick) melts. so this is a remnant of ice action which ended 10,000 years ago. I went there on a school geography trip some time in the 60’s. there is a clump of tall beech trees near the road which reminds one of Paul Nash’s paintings of beech clumps.

between fortifications of gorse one can see 360 degree views of the North Norfolk coastline. picking up snaky gorse roots, I was reminded of the other name for this feature, a Serpent Kame, for the meandering shape the stream cut.

interesting dwarfed flora on the dry sandy, stony soil up there. this is a blue type of fleabane, Erigon acer.

we also found a tiny geranium, stork’s bill, Erodium cicutarium, with its long pointed bill-like seeds.

the esker has been quarried for its sands and gravels, and its cobble stones, but is now a site of Scientific Interest, and grazed by cattle to keep the gorse and scrub at bay.

this week we visited Blakeney Eye, an island of shingle and sand in the marsh which has got so close to the shoreline that it will be eroded away in the not too distant future.

the channel of the Glaven has been moved to the landward side of it now, but it was the subject of an archaeological investigation recently. probably not a chapel but some kind of medieval  building, and earlier activity, including a Saxon bracteate gold pendant, a typical early germanic form of personal decoration. are those eels?

the marsh grazing behind the saltmarsh,

and the reed beds, are semi-wild places perfect for spotting birds – we heard bearded tit with its wire-string pinging call, saw a reed bunting, and a mixed flock of brent geese, probably with some greylag, by the sound of it.

the salt marsh has dry spots, like this hump of marram

and an odd space like a sea garden, shingle floored, and sheltered by the high bank. I have to miss the fifth of these wonderful outings, as I’ve got five days in Wales, at the Ty Newydd writing centre, for a story-telling course, which I will immodestly tell you I won as third prize in the Rialto/RSPB Nature and Place poetry competition.

but two more to go. delightful, and with a lovely group of people most productive. you can see the writing from the summer one near the loos in the visitor centre.

 

back to acrylic

Posted jane -->on 21st Sep 2018

early autumn can look a bit dull – tired leaves that are still green, recently ploughed stubbles

and the weather has been warm enough to kid you that it’s still summer. now the seasonal thrashing/flaying of hedges has begun, though many which were done in early spring are safe

or are in the two yearly cycle. the blackberries have been amazing; our walks punctuated by stops to grab handfuls, bear fashion.

B is not interested in blackberries, she prefers small furry creatures, as the poor little baby bunny she pounced on in the ditch on quite a busy road and despatched immediately. our walk home disgraced by the grey furry little ears poking out from between her jaws as she carried her catch in triumph firmly clamped in her mouth.

views with newly seeded rape fields show us what next April will look like

but there is plenty of autumn texture

and inspiration for painting

back to the small square format and acrylic paint – I have so much I certainly can’t switch completely to oils.

also when painting in the village hall with the group, acrylics so much more convenient. so the usual start of throwing runny paint about, helpful on a white canvas …

I am back to using a brush more, principally for the sky here

getting there but something wrong with the composition. relatively cool weather meant the paint didn’t dry too fast, so I scraped some off and changed the shape of the cultivated field

seed heads and stalks of knapweed in the foreground indicated with blips and blobs of dark paint and scratching through paint with the point of my little pointy palette knife. I had been looking at Joan Eardley again, and I think this shows her influence.

we’ve been back to Bayfield recently, the cooler weather had banished the flies.

the conservation/bird seed planting is changing colour. this plant which looks like millet has some bright orange ochre heads and some a strong red.

surely another painting!

but last Monday I took this in bayfield woods by mistake – hipstamatic allows double exposure and sometimes I find I’ve slid the control across by accident. well, too tempting not to try to paint it.

on an old plywood board this time, a re-used one.

syrupy paint and an attempt to get the pale green light behind the main tree. as always, an earlier stage looks rather more exciting in retrospect.

both these squares are 40 x 40 cm (16″)

I am signed up for a plethora of writing courses this autumn, plus two week long residential courses. there will be writing in bed early mornings!

plus plenty of this of course.

 

the end of summer

Posted jane -->on 2nd Sep 2018

BIms and I have been walking at Morston twice in the last couple of days.

Bayfield, although beautiful, has a lot of flies at the moment; I find them really annoying.

on Friday I had an appointment with my nearest bit of coast, a collaborative project with Coast to Coast to Coast, the hand sewn poetry journal I’ve had a poem published in twice.

lots of poets whose work has been in any of the five issues went to their bit of coast and wrote two to four lines which will be used by Maria Isakova Bennett for an installation during her residency in Aldeborough’s Lookout

an unbelievable sea of cars was parked at Morston on Friday morning – the seal trips doing fantastic business on perhaps the last day of a lot of people’s holiday. we walked along past all the boats motoring up and down the channel, and out onto the saltmarsh.

we went again this morning as the weather is still perfect, and for Bims it’s great at high tide – the area she can run in is limited, and she can have a great time sploshing around on the edges of the tide. she’s wary of deep water – although she did fall in a big creek this morning and got nice and wet all over. and she meets people and other dogs in a neutral situation where there’s plenty of room.

although it was warm she had the opportunity to cool off

and pose while sailing boats cruised up and down, and all the birds were perfectly safe from her

we haven’t been there much but I think in future will make more use of it.

I haven’t done any painting this August, the writing has taken over a bit, but I have been making up some big canvases, reusing stretchers, and this painting started in 2002, has resurfaced.

it already has some areas of very thick oil paint which have cracked

and interesting textures over the foundation size of rabbit skin glue

I have had it up in the studio for a couple of weeks while i thought about it/avoided it

today I got myself together and decided that it would be less intimidating flat on the table

and like that it proved much better for gestural mark-making

pushing the brush around with thick oil paint

and working over the old surface with limited colours.

a bit of scratching back through with the palette knife

thinking about fields of sunflowers and constellations and sun/moon

and long grass and blue reflected sky at Morston

so here we are. 46′ x 60″ or 116 x 152 cm. now I can let more colours and textures get into my head for some more big paintings. tomorrow we have a demo of working with pastels in the village hall – I’m sure that will help as we are to have a go ourselves.

a few butterflies

Posted jane -->on 11th Aug 2018

I’d not seen anything in the way of a colourful butterfly this summer until we had some rain

then after the drought broke a couple of weeks ago with storms there were two commas in the garden, but nothing more except various whites until earlier this week

the commas were back

and two small tortoisehells

but they don’t seem to visit my garden often

the buddleias will soon be over

so I took several photos

but at the end of July, after the wind and rain, I found these butterflies again on the edge of the wood

the silver-washed fritillaries

I was quite surprised that they had survived our awful contrary weather this year

I counted about ten

feeding on thistle and knapweed

they are the biggest fritillary, and glide and swoop around the edge of the wood into the conservation grass

with closed wings they are very well camouflaged on the dead thistles. I look forward to finding them here again next year.

the thistles themselves are wonderful subjects

using the hipstamatic app on my phone makes them look even more dramatic.

on the Bayfield estate there are some fields of mixed planting, for pheasants but also wild birds and insects. chicory seems to be a thing too.

we walk round the “bird walk” about once a week. there’s a lot of shade if you’re early when it’s hot.

and the Glandford ford for a paddle

I feel a few paintings coming on from these fields

meanwhile some of us in the village hall painting group had a go with oil paint. and it’s true, it’s much nicer to paint with than acrylic. I still have usable oils from 20 years ago and more – including flake white, made of lead carbonate, which you can no longer buy unless you are licensed as a restorer.

I was inspired by Richard Scott antiques, where they have very pretty flower arrangements amongst the antique porcelain and glass.

but for the time being I am thinking of doing some big landscapes on some canvases I stretched and started fifteen years ago. watch this space!

 

 

 

 

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