Tales from a Celtic Heart . . . . .

Saturday 21 January

2012-01-22T17:58:00.003Z

When the golden sun is sinking

to the land beneath the sea

When the sky is blazed in glory

Will you sometimes think of me?

The weeks are flying by since the newborn babe of 2012 arrived and I am amazed at how aware this little project of mine is flying with it . . how many beautiful sunsets have graced our skies from the bold and bright to the calm and cold . .

First of the week was a wonderfully pink and purple coloured sky on January 15th . . two photos, first my favourite one of the year so far I think is this one. The wind was blowing quite strongly on that day and I love the way the camera captured the movement of the wind in the winter bare trees. I like to shoot against the bare branches as they give good contrast and interest, but here they are all slightly out of focus with the movement of the wind . . I hope you like it as much as I do . .

Also taken on January 15th is this one, taken just before the wavy trees, with a bright band of pink slashed across the darkening blue evening sky. It gathered momentum and filled the sky with pinky purply hues . . .

January 16th brought a chilly and very typical winter day with a sky so full of cloud that all looked grey and bleak; but the setting sun glinted briefly on the contra trails of a passing jet plane . . oh, whisk me away on your silver wings to a warmer day!

The cold and wind continued through the week, and on January 17th the sky was only slightly less dull, but slightly bluer . . but oh! the trees look shivery cold and bare . . .

January 18th and no surprises that grey seems to be the colour of the week! Oh, dear, sweet birds, no shelter will you find in these branches tonight . . .

All change on January 19th, first of two is a bright and golden sun did shine all day and skies were blue with puffs of cotton bolls that billowed all day long . . . I think this one looks like a woman lying down holding a silver orb in Dali~esque lobster claw hands . .

and the second one shows a sea of cloud across the sky

All change on the evening of January 20th. The sky had been much of a muchness to those during the week, then all of a sudden the sun kissed the gathering clouds and set the sky ablaze with golden fire! This image captures the magnitude, the whole evening sky on fire as the sun hisses into the ocean deep

Moments later, the scene had changed again to purple evening hues, and as quick as the magnificence had come upon us, it was gone

The week ends on a quiet, calm and grey note, the cold and chill of winter days are captured perfectly against the branches bare on January 21st . . .

Sunsets of the Week

2012-01-14T21:32:00.000Z

THE SEA OF SUNSET.

This is the land the sunset washes,
These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;
Where it rose, or whither it rushes,
These are the western mystery!

Night after night her purple traffic
Strews the landing with opal bales;
Merchantmen poise upon horizons,
Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.

(by Emily Bronte)

. . continuing from last week, here are the sunsets for the second week of two thousand and twelve . There have been pale and interesting, wild and woolly, and even a small, marshmallow pink elephant.

So here is the sky of late afternoon on January 8th with magic peaks of mountains high on some distant foreign shore; full of mystery and just out of reach, beyond the far horizon . . .

January 8th

January 9th brought a sky so mono-toned that stark branches, and a small, sweet singing bird break up the pale, grey blue . . .

January 9th

The sky did come alive on January 10th, with many clouds to catch the setting sun . . .

January 10th (1)

yet it was a sky of two halves that day, as the sun caught some and others bluish-grey . . .

January 10th (2)

January 11th brought yet another still and cloudless sky that slipped silent into twilight darkening sky

January 11th

but contrast great on January 12th, a great pink blaze reached out across the western sky. . . such burnished pink aglow

January 12th (1)

and branches bare contrast against the deep, pink~purple setting sun

January 12th (2)

On January 13th a fluffy pink marshmallow elephant, even with its own, sweet shadow danced across the scudding sky . .

January 13th

And finally, the week rounds out with a vista of blue with cotton puffs . . .

January 14th

So, Gentle Reader, the changing skies as week two of our new year draws to a close, another just around the dawn . . .

Sunsets of the Week

2012-01-07T16:25:00.001Z

Oh, gaze ye on the firmament! a hundred clouds in motion,
Up-piled in the immense sublime beneath the winds' commotion,
Their unimagined shapes accord:
Under their waves at intervals flame a pale levin through,
As if some giant of the air amid the vapors drew
A sudden elemental sword.

{extract from A Sunset by Victor Hugo}

January 1st 2012

My small cottage faces due west, and as I am close to the very edge of the great Atlantic Ocean I am often treated to the most spectacular skies in the evening. Now, don't get me wrong, a 'spectacular sky' does not have to be the one that is a vibrant cacophony of orange and purple and pink; on the contrary, it can be the delicate blending of a hundred subtle shades of milky opal blue shot with a soupcon of pink and green as the westering day slips slowly away. It can be whisps of softest fleece drawn across the sky towards the spinning wheel of Heaven; it can be marshmallow puffs or giant, billowing sails; scudding past or slowly edging by; the best skies of all are those full of imagination as shapes come forth and are gone in the blink of an eye . . .

A pink marshmallow puff on January 1st

Days may pass with the subtle-hued sunsets, then one day the clouds will be like a bowl of bear's porridge, just right, and the fireworks of a blazing sunset commence. Sometimes the spectacle lasts just minutes, other times it goes on for an hour or more and the show is spectacular beyond imagination. Often, I am found sitting at my west facing window waiting to discover what the show of the day will be! Many are the times I get caught unawares too, for what starts out slow and pale will suddenly gather momentum and intensify with depths of colour that often belie the northern latitudes where I live.

Stormy January 2nd

The blue emerges with contratrails January 2nd

January 2nd Turner~esque

For the new year, I decided to try to record the daily event we mostly take for granted, that goes unnoticed, with my camera. It seemed a natural progression to offer a weekly blog, with at least seven images of the evening skies, sometimes more as the beauty that is there for the taking shifts and changes so that moments later a very different awe inspiring sky is offered. There may even be a noteworthy sunrise from time to time. So, Gentle Reader, here are the first few images that capture the mood of the changing skies this first week of 2012 . . .

A hare leaps across a wintery sky on January 3rd

or build a castle in the airy blue . . .

but on January 4th the New Year brought a wild and windy storm . . .

and January 5th brought calm and gentle grey that quickly turned into a vibrant artist palette blue with shock of pink

upon Epiphany the sun rose in the East with coloured sky to welcome Magi three . .

and lipstick stripes for the evening of January 6th

and finally . . .

the seventh day of January brought a gentle grey . . . oh! how I look forward to what next week brings, the subtle changes, the variety each day!

Blwyddyn Newydd Dda

2012-01-01T17:53:00.003Z

in 2012

Sing like no one is listening

Dance like no one is watching

Hug more, Laugh more, Love more,

Surprise a stranger every day,

Pay It Forward,

Do things for you just because . . .

Love Yourself . . .

and May All Your Dreams Come True . . .

A Cathedral Christmas Tradition

2011-12-27T17:03:00.000Z

I am sorry that I have not blogged for a while, but as a full time carer my time is currently taken elsewhere. Today, however, I was able to go to the cathedral for a few moments to see the Lilies for Christmas Remembrance. Each year we pay a small sum of money towards sponsoring arrangements of beautiful, white lilies that adorn the cathedral in memory of loved ones departed. Sadly, the lists are getting longer as more of our loved ones go on ahead to wait for us to join them. This is the photo of the arrangement where the names of my family are listed. My lovely Daddy, four Grandparents, my baby Aunt who died at just 4 months old, and my beautiful Springer Spaniel Gwen are all remembered here. Yes, many of us also remember our beloved pets with lilies too.

The Nave is so magical at Christmas, with some of the many arrangements of Lilies for Remembrance, the Nativity, where in the Processional Carol at Midnight Mass the infant Jesus is carried to the manger, and also the organ loft decorated with such magical blue sparkling trees.

A close up of the Nativity which sits underneath the organ loft at the feet of a statue of David, Patron Saint of Wales

while in the wings, the Magi or Three Wise Men wait to replace the Shepherds at Epiphany in January.

The figures that make up this Nativity are the ones I remember seeing in the Cathedral each Christmas since I was a small child. My Grandfather was the Verger and Caretaker at the Cathedral. I wonder if these are the same figures he brought out each year at Christmas all those decades past . . .

I hope your Christmas was peaceful and blessed and that 2012 brings you good health and happiness and all you wishes come true.

Sea Breezes . . .

2011-11-07T17:10:00.003Z

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying

excerpt from Sea Fever by John Maesfield

When you are in the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park one thing is certain . . you are never very far from the sea. I was raised to the sea and whereas you might have been born with a silver spoon in your mouth, I was born with a fish hook and salt water runs in my blood for my father and I shared a love of the ocean, with all her moods and we treated her with great respect. I love the high places of this wonderful world we share with each other, I love the lush green fields, the deep, dark, green and mysterious forests, and the dry, barren deserts . . but from ice capped pole to ice capped pole, my heart belongs to the wild, white-crested ocean deep. I live in a sky blue wonderland where the foam crested sea meets the marshmallow sky.

With over 185 miles of coast line, small fishing harbours dot the north of the county; the biggest ria estuary in Europe is at Milford Haven; the county town of Haverfordwest with its trading wharves; the famous Welsh pirate Barti Ddu from Little Newcastle; the history and traditions of the county of Pembroke have been shaped over many centuries by the sea.

Today, Pembrokeshire is synonymous with tourism, and the Coast Path is one of the highlights of the county, now recognised on a global level as one of the 'must see' places on the planet. To say I am fortunate to live here is an understatement. It is a privilege and honour to live here, less than even a stone's throw from such majesty and beauty. Here, Gentle Reader, are a few more photographs of the magic land I call home . .

Images of Porthclais Harbour . .
. . a small but very important and ancient harbour that served the surrounding villages, hamlets, and farms in the days long before roads and cars.
Hidden and now virtually unreachable, Porthclais is the site of one of three important Holy Wells in the St Davids area. Reputed to be the site of the baptism of David (Dewi Sant) the Patron Saint of Wales, its use as a sea port is believed to date back to Roman times.

There are Lime Kilns in Porthclais Harbour, a further indication of the importance of this small inlet, and these are now restored and looked after by the National Trust. These days, Porthclais is a picturesque fishing harbour where pleasure boats are moored and local fishermen still ply, bringing home a catch of fresh fish, lobsters and crabs to the delight of visitors and locals alike.

The coast is now a major playground too . . the sport of Coasteering was invented here

and water sports are all the rage now from kayaking . . .

to surfing . . .

and sailing . . .

. . . in the often idyllic calm that rivals many a tropical location . . .

Flowers proliferate . . later there will be a post dedicated to flowers of Pembrokeshire and the Coast Path . . today I share these . . .

A deep pink Mallow with a backdrop of yellow Western Gorse

Pink Thrift sprinkled like stars and tumbling over the cliff edge to the sea below

There are always beautiful colours of the rocks, the sea, and light sparkling everywhere you look

blue sea and sky . . multi-hued rocks . . gentle green grass topped cliffs. . as far as the eye can see . .

and hidden caves are secret places below the ledges where we stand

if quietly you creep along the path you may come upon a cormorant drying his wings

the mood can change so quick at sea from calm and idyll scene . .

to waves that start to whip the rocks below . .

but all beware the fog that rolls in from the depths to lured unwitting sailors to a certain death in days gone by on treacherous rocks that lay in wait . . our shore is littered with the wrecks from days long gone before the dawn of GPS!

soon all will be restored . . calm seas as out we look across a green and pleasant land . . the westering sun slips slowly to the sea . .

God's Grandeur

2011-11-01T19:42:00.001Z

This afternoon, a rare and sunny treat, and almost warm in (usually) wild, wet, windy, wonderful west Wales brought with it a chance to take an image I have long waited to capture. I had to pass through the nave of St David's Cathedral mid afternoon. Thankfully, I had my camera.

Work is being done inside, and the great west door was, by chance, open on this sunny day to facilitate the delivery of building materials to the work site near the High Altar. A few moments either way and the opportunity would have been missed, passed by as an ordinary afternoon in this magnificent building (not that any afternoon is ordinary in such an ancient and beautiful place of worship). But I was there at the right moment in time and space . . and I had my camera! Instead of walking straight across the back of the Nave, I chanced to glance up at the Rood Screen, and there was the sun shining across the carved Irish oak ceiling and the large crucifix that hangs above the Nave. There is a correct architectural term for this feature, but I do not know it.

I could search a dictionary for the right words and never find them. Simple majesty in the glory of God's gift of the brilliant autumn sunshine blazed off a hand carved image of His Only Son.

Here, Gentle Reader, are three of the images I captured. I am immensely happy with them. I will say no more. They speak for themselves . . .

Memories of Warm Days Past . .

2011-10-29T22:18:00.000+01:00

To say that today is wild, wet, and windy in wonderful west Wales is spot on. There is a hoolie hooling outside my cottage; it is dark with rain clouds that have not stopped raining since, well, since long before breakfast.

Trees are whipping wildly in the westerly wind.

With Hallowe'en just two nights away, it feels as if the banshees, ghosts, and ghouls arrived early, and now determined to practice with all their might to fright and get things right for their big night!

Eating a big bowl of porridge that was neither too hot, nor was it too cold . . in fact it was just right, and smothered with a generous topping of warmed raspberries, part of the bounty of my garden in a summer that now seems so long ago.

fresh picked raspberries, with a lone tayberry, in an Emma Bridgewater bowl

Looking at the cheerfully bright fruit that I had picked and frozen to see me through the long, dark days of winter I began to think about the photos I have taken, capturing the warm summer sunlight on the coast. It is a day to be indoors, so, Gentle Reader, a few photographs, reflections of spring and summer, to remind us, as the clocks go back an hour tonight and the days become even shorter, that light will come again from the dark as we continue to hurtle toward the Winter Solstice . . .

In the beginning, there came the apple blossom, fragrant, simple, elegant . . .

and walks in pretty primrose-speckled woods became the order of the day . .

The new gorse starts to bloom in spring, and flowers follow through until the year has gone full turn. Bright, golden blooms, so fragrant in the air . . . I love to walk where the wild gorse grows, I close my eyes and know, just know, because the air is full of indescribable fragrance rare that I am where I belong in this world. We have a saying that goes, "When gorse is out of bloom, then kissing is out of fashion"

Grannie's Bonnet, Columbine, or Aquilegia are three of the names given to this cottage garden flower that fills my borders, with the blue cranes bill geranium too .

Gentle strolls toward the coast, the azure ocean stretches out across St Brides Bay where Skomer Island lies, and Jack Sound trecherous and wild even on the calmest of calm spring days.

a ruined medaeval chapel lies in pastures green, half hidden by Queen Anne's Lace that sofly billows in the gentle breeze . .

and hedgerows frame where sky and ocean meet in early morning sun

a leafy lane, enchanted walk we take

past bridal bowered May and ivy trellised ancient walls topped with vibrant, pink valerian spikes

to a wild rose bush, with dancing faeries fair in garments pink

and to the coast we trip again . .

with high and flowered cliffs sweep toward the ocean calm

and fulmars jostle on a tiny ledge

to lay their eggs and raise their chicks whose later ariel acrobatics will amuse me as I sit above and watch them as they fledge and fly away like some intrepid para-glider . . oh how I envy the view he will spy from soaring high above in cloudless skies . . .

to the river now we turn, now shhhhhh! do not disturb the heron as it stalks an unsuspecting trout that swims below the surface of the water still . . .

and an orange tipped butterfly flits across a purple centred osteospurmum bloom

the berries in my garden begging to be picked

stems of deepest purple blackcurrants, ripe and juicy, for pies, or jams and cordials in the winter months to ward of chills and colds

a dish of scarlet strawberries, warm and fresh, await a drench of cream, and maybe a glass of sparkling, crisp champagne, and we'll pretend we've gone to Wimbledon again . .

then later in my deck chair I will sit and weave a lavender bottle or two from stems picked from the borders of my tiny cottage garden

and so I will remember all the days of summer sun as the wild and howling winds about my home do blow . . .

I Love Autumn Because (part three)

2011-10-24T21:20:00.000+01:00

"mind you don't get blown away little Piglet, you'd be missed . . . people would ask, "where's little Piglet blown to?" . . . really wanting to know."

(Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day A.A. Milne)

Across the fields to the south end of Ramsey Island . . superb quality of light at this time of year . . .

Mid autumn often sees us tumble back to earth with a bang from the heady days of gentle sun and golden light as the first of the weather fronts that bring the chilling winds come rumbling in from across the wide Atlantic Ocean. I find it hard to believe that it is not that many days since we were basking in that warm, golden glow of autumn at its sunshiney best, for now there is a sudden and sharp drop in temperatures that border on memories of winter that is now that not far away again.

Everywhere you look, the fields are prepared for winter . . the crops are now harvested after weeks of frantic activity, praying that the weather will be fine, that it will hold, and that the harvest will be safely gathered in . . .

Indeed, as I write, we are in the teeth of a howling gale and torrential rain. The roads, mostly downhill, are running with torrents of water and it is impossible to walk anywhere without getting soaked as jeans and trousers act like wicks, absorbing the water as it is unavoidable to splosh around it. The images of hay bales and sunshine are gone . . distant memories, captured by the camera . .

Majestic Carn Llidi . . imposing on the horizon

One of the things that makes me love autumn so is the putting up of stores for the long, dark, winter months ahead . . but what do you do when some of your crops fail? Panic . . well, although the squash and pumpkins failed, as did the courgettes (zucchini) I do have a freezer full of many a multitude of jewel coloured berries . . Raspberries, Tayberries, Blackberries, Blueberries, and Blackcurrants . . so in the depths of winter there will be plenty to raise the spirits with jams and jellies, cordials, flavoured spirits and wine, pies, and maybe some left over to sprinkle into a bowl of porridge that is not too hot, nor too cold . . but just right . . .

Haws, ripe, red berries with a rich and buttery flavour, but such hard work for they are all hard seed and very little flesh . .

crab apples hang, heavy laden on the branches and will make good crab apple jelly to go with Christmas meat and cheese boards . . .

And boughs of berries billow, bending in the breeze against a clear blue autumn pillow clouded sky . .

Teazles, dried by the sun, crispy, cruchy, bronzed brown . .

A stunning, spiky seed head full of goodness for winter feeding birds . . .

Are there enough berries here for birds to feast?

A poppy seed head, long time spent, sits, a skeleton form against the glowing garden plants

. . . and umbel spikes spear up into the sky

a late blackberry bloom, so pink and fresh, with many more to bear . .

and standing stones and trees with crisp and crunchy leaves encourage us to stomp and climb!

the softening autumn light and golden, drying stems . . .

cathedral stands in valley deep and hedgerows turn to burnished brown . . .

a green gold field, now razed, and bales do wait for bringing into store . . .

the valley, pasture green and golden tree, while others standing bare . . .

a spider web of glistening, silver beads . .

a rabbit waits, and poses so obligingly . .

and butterflies, like fairies fair, do scatter, flitting colour across the berried ivy bush . . .

and finally, a most obliging squirrel, feasts upon a sweet chestnut heart, doing as we all have done, storing for the winter months that lie ahead . . .

I Love Autumn Because . . . (part two)

2011-10-15T16:54:00.002+01:00

Across the Fields to Ramsey Island . . .

One thread is not enough for a season with all the glories of autumn . . when words are inadequate to fully express a feeling . . for it is a feeling from deep within, a completeness of mind and matter; a solidarity of season, time, and place; and a comforting reassurance as we ready for the closing of the year . . my spirit is at ease with one and all. The vibrant, clashing colours and heightened textures of the land, the gentle light of a lowering sun and shortening days, heavenly smells pervading through the house, and jolly celebrations of Hallowe'en, Bonfire Night, Harvest and Thanksgiving, and some birthdays too!

Fields, full of texture, once of ripened corn now razed and baled, and furrowed deep as textured chocolate corduroy ploughed channels cut deep . .

The gentle dew, softened by swirling mists, decorates gossamer webs with glistening silver orbs of light, garlands for faerie gatherings under the light of a full, Hunter's Moon . . .

the jewelled colours of the trees, a rich but oh so short lived cloak . .

. . . the colours of a living palette swirl . . . crisp, crunching under foot or decorating branch . . .

. . . while Blackberries, juicy warm and ripe do glint and glisten in the sun . . enticing us to pick for pies and wine and jams . . .

. . . and calm the gentle stream down in the valley flows, reflection of a year that flows now to the sea. .

I Love Autumn Because . . . (part one)

2011-10-14T21:35:00.001+01:00

One day, toward the end of summer comes the day I long for each year. It is that morning when I wake up and it just feels different. It is the day autumn appears. Just one sleep and a wake up is all it takes for summer to leave and autumn to arrive. The sun has started lowering in the sky, there is a quality of light that happens at no other time of year, and the valley starts to turn to bronze and gold . .

it is a time to take advantage of gentle days, long afternoon strolls through country lanes, a bag in hand to harvest fruits and forage for our tea . . .

or stride out along the coast winding your way from cove to cove while sail boats bob on a calm blue ocean, sweeping to the horizon and beyond . .

With luck, there will be many days like this through September and into October, where the hot summer sun is tempered by the turning of the year. . and we gather in our harvest, bringing in the food that we have grown at home and foraged from the wild . .

Apples for chutney, cider, pies, and more; sloes to flavour gin to warm our hearts in the darkest depths of winter chill; blackberries, rosehips, mushrooms, and so much more . . .

. . the air is full of expectation as we prepare, gathering in the harvest of the fields and hedgerows, for the lean months of Winter ahead. Kitchens are full of fragrant smells of jams and jellies, chutneys and pickles, as all sorts of preserves are lovingly put up and stored to feed us when the ground is hard with frost and we huddle in front of our fires as the wind chills the air outside our cottages and castles . .

Fields, full of golden ripened grain with combine harvesters and tractors cutting to bring the harvest home; but they will be home to the migrating birds of the wild northern lands, fleeing from the biting cold of a foreign winter, foraging to feed from seed we missed and left behind.

The plaintive drone of engines as they slowly crawl from field to farm remind me that the days ahead now shorten quickly into night and so begins the season of my favourite celebrations with Hallowe'en, Bonfire Night, and Harvest Thanksgiving.

bonfires blaze and smoulder, filling the air with smoke from burning leaves . . and conkers fallen to the ground for conker fights in playgrounds out across the land . . .

Tears of Love . . .

2011-06-07T16:29:00.000+01:00

Once upon a long, long time ago, in a land not so very far away, once there lived and once there was a wondrous child of such purity and innocence that all who saw her wept with tears of pure and radiant love at her magical presence. . .

One day, playing amongst the warm, golden sand dunes near her home, she glimpsed a tiny treasure, half hidden in the sand; carefully, she pulled a tiny, silver chain and from the soft, golden sand a small and fascinating bottle appeared. Drawn to its flawless quality, she slipped the precious chain and flask around her neck but somehow almost immediately forgot about it.

Time passed and the beautiful child grew up, still wearing the invisible trinket around her neck. She passed with grace into womanhood, her beauty celebrated and still all who gazed upon her exquisite beauty wept tears of radiant love.

Decades passed and now she sat, a wizened old crone on the Council of Elders of her village. The world that she now knew was not the world of her youthful purity, but one of corruption, horror, and war. Famine, want, and poverty were all the people knew. The people no longer wept at her fabled beauty but for the world that once they had and longed for it to be restored.

One day, sitting around the tribal fire, she felt something rub against her neck, and as she reached to see, her gnarled and shrivelled fingers grasped a long-forgotten chain. She touched the bottle and suddenly remembered the day she found it. How could she have forgotten?

Her fingers grasped a stopper that she was certain had not been there before. Slowly and with great certainty, she opened the flask. Instantly, the air was filled with immense, immeasurable, unconditional love; joy, peace and harmony restored across the land as if it had never been without, for all the tears shed with love at the beauty of the innocent and pure child had saved themselves inside the bottle and come to heal the world.

Snowfall in December . . .

2010-12-22T12:44:00.019Z

Softly and silently settled the snow, a pure white duvet of feathery down, unexpected and exciting; transported while dreaming of sugarplums and chocolate fountains, we found ourselves awakening in a foreign land full of fantasy and magic, the familiar changed into an unfamiliar place.

An angel had appeared upon the lawn, fluttering it's snowy, icy wings in the chilly, morning air

. . . the medieval cross on the square looked strangely chilled and stark against the snow~tipped branches of leafless trees, cold and bare . . .

Across the valley, the silent mountain stands, a great cake, risen and cracked with long slow baking in some giant oven of the Earth

. . . . the old Victorian school house, long empty now, standing alone on the hill above the sugar~dusted tree tops in the valley below,

The house I knew as Sunny Bank, Christmas~card and picture~perfect, standing still and silent in the trees; a distant hamlet stranded in the snow . . . .

A Pembrokeshire tree, twisted and gnarled by years of prevailing wind is dusted and draped with nature's own tinsel and glitter . . .

. . . while the tree at Y Fagwr is laden with royal~icing tipped boughs of green

A pristine scene, complete with its own Christmas tree

Gentle Reader, be warned, do not be caught out after dark, for evening comes swift on this, the shortest day of the year, when late afternoon sun shines like a beacon across St Brides Bay. The rock on the Garn, wrapped up so warm in their blanket of snow, look like an alpine landscape in miniature, but danger lurks beneath, for a small pool lies hidden below that innocent, feathery snow . . .

. . . furrows ploughed create a pattern on the frozen land . . .

Carn Llidi in the late afternoon, the light now fading, the cold sky drifting into night . . .

. . . and last of all, my friend, but not the least, if God has a Christmas tree in His Heaven, surely it would be decorated with more of His wonderful creations, like this frozen gorse bloom, withered by an earlier frost, now glistening with the dewdrop as the thaw comes in . . .

Really Wild Festival 2009

2009-09-06T15:26:00.013+01:00

Every year, in the first week of September The Really Wild Festival magically happens in the great outdoors in Pembrokeshire. Recent years have seen the Festival battle against the elements, and this year was no exception with gusty winds and rain forecast. However, during my visit on Saturday, despite the more than adequate chill to the blustery day, the rain held off, and indeed a certain amount of long-forgotten sunshine peeked through occasionally.

The event is held in a field on the outskirts of St Davids, and as you will see from the first montage the roof of the main marquee raises its shy head above the parapet of the surrounding fortress of Pembrokeshire stone hedges. The setting is quite magnificent, with gently rolling, freshly harvested fields and stunning rocky outcrops as a backdrop for this event which is filled with everything to do with the countryside and more. The gentleman in the bright yellow suit was a sort of Town Cryer, who rang his bell and bellowed out the programme so that no excuse could be made that an activity or event was missed.

and the boys from the Red Cross, always on hand to help with an emergency seemed to be enjoying an easy day at their hospitality caravan . . .

Inside the giant marquee, lots of goodies awaited sampling, and maybe purchasing. Fresh seafood with live crabs, Miranda's Homemade Preserves and Chutney, Cheese - freshly shaved or sliced to order, and something alcoholic to wash it all down with, maybe Perry or Cider from a local producer . . .

Herbal Remedies, Natures' Medicine Cabinet, Handmade Soaps and more . . .

Outside, a jolly lady braves the cold and sells sheepskin rugs and blankets spun from fleece . . .

. . . and all adults MUST be accompanied by at least one child if they want to listen to the story telling in the Yurt . . .

Traditional wood crafts and coppicing, using wooden lathes and hand made tools . . .

. . . now where did I leave my transport?

The Eco Group are working hard to show us how to save the planet . . .

How to decide which colour of pigment to choose to paint the house from this bright and cheery display from Carreg Lime . . .

The National Trust and Pembrokeshire's Living Heathland Project . . .

Time for a delicious home-made cake or pie?

. . . and something to warm the cockles of your heart on a chilly Autumn day?

My favourite of all, the Pembrokeshire Guild of Spinners and Weavers, a montage showing traditional spinning and corn dolly weaving . . .

I hope you have enjoyed this tiny glimpse of my Saturday spent at the Really Wild Festival. There was so much more to see and do, from gun dog displays, falconry, axe throwing, even ferret racing! I came away well laden with fresh produce, and lots of ideas and information. A little secret now I'll share, I bought plenty of Kid Me Not fudge made from goat milk, and a lovely selection of handmade chocolates flavoured with Welsh honey and Halen Môn sea salt! Delicioso! They are my new Best Friends!

If anyone is interested in learning more about the Really Wild Festival, here is a link: http://www.reallywildfestival.co.uk/

Sunrise Sunset

2009-08-21T20:43:00.012+01:00

I always wonder at the spectacular sunrises and sunsets that often grace the skies above my little cottage. Maybe there are more spectacular ones across the globe, but nevertheless I am always grateful for the free spectacle that Mother Nature provides almost every day for me, and for all who take the time to raise their tired heads to look above. Gentle reader, few words today, just images to share God's Grandeur, and to show the many colours and moods of the skies above.

A rose-pink sunrise in the eastern sky,
Warm glow of welcome in the dawning day

A golden puff of cloud, a silver lining hides

. . . and then a rainbow boldly flies across the skies
Bifröst to the warriors from the North

A pastel pink and baby blue . . .

. . . or gentle mauve and aqua hue

When rain does fall, as oft it does of late
My camera at the ready takes advantage of the drops

The attic window gives a sweeping view out west

while in the valley roses glow through windows long since passed from view

A storm is raging in the sky above

while colours clash and I can only stare

as Titans throw their paintballs far beyond our world

a desert scene, with spiky alien plant

or moody, brooding, weather holds a threat

A tropic feel of orange splashed across

or cottage window light

where we will rest tonight

when finally the sun has dropped into the sea.

Evening Sun

2009-08-11T16:27:00.030+01:00

“Summer, what summer?” I hear some of you ask. While much of the British Isles basked in sunshine, albeit not the promised heat wave, those of us to the west considered building an ark of Biblical proportions. The rain never seemed to end. Somehow, it seems to have rained for years, not months or weeks, grinding with ceaseless fall against the very existence of my spirit. Sometimes, I forgot how the warmth of the sun felt against my skin, or the shock of an ice cold drink, quickly gulped in an effort to cool down in the midday heat. My garden, as noted before, suffered. Yet, somehow, in the midst of what seems to be interminable rain, there came a day or two of sunshine, for I took some lovely evening walks along the paths and byways near my home. So, gentle reader, I share with you now some images rare, like gold dust, sun-kissed evenings when the pale evening sky stretched to the misty horizon, and the grey Atlantic turned blue for a while, when flowers bloomed, and birds sang their hearts out for joy.

What way leads the path,
so overgrown and little trod?

Why, it leads where you allow it,

and magic shall be yours for the asking.

A carpet of flowers and

grasses grow . . .

. . . and rabbits sound alarm!

The path winds on

into the west

. . . and coves

with hidden caves do beckon me

Be careful where you tread!
You'll squash it flat!

and beady eyes are watching!

Weigh anchor here, to spend the night

or into harbour sheltered sail . . .

. . . the moon is rising, 'tis time for weary walkers to wend their way for home!

Seven.

2009-08-08T18:57:00.008+01:00

Thanks to SnailBeachShepherdess, I am now sitting at the computer and racking my brains to come up with me in seven words. This is not an easy task, as many of you have already found out, but don’t worry, thanks to Frances making a blanket nomination of everyone, you can read this (should you wish to do so) in complete safety and without worry that your name will appear as if by magic at the end! Just take it as read: you are nominated. So, seven words with which to describe me. I could use Honest, Trustworthy, and Reliable, but that would sound too much like my CV (Résumé). Thinking cap on, oh, would you just look at the dust in it!

Procrastination. This is something at which I excel. It is why I've taken so long to do my Seven. If there is any way I can put off until tomorrow the jobs that should have been done yesterday then if anyone can find a way to do it I can. Of course, based on the premise that tomorrow never comes, I can procrastinate as long as I choose. Purple Coo and Facebook also significantly assist the procrastination process.

Shy. Painfully so. It is sometimes difficult to comprehend that I used to be most confident and outgoing. I’ve achieved many accomplished public speaking presentations, so you would not believe how shy I am become. Not while hiding behind the safety of a computer monitor, but in the ‘real world’ I am the one found sitting alone in the corner, hovering at the back, avoiding eye contact, always saying stupid things out of shyness induced embarrassment, that is until you get to know me. I’ve tried, really tried, not to be shy but the words come out all wrong until I relax. Because of this, I’ve often been branded a snob and stand-offish. It means I don’t have very many friends because it is not easy, nor should I expect others, to make the effort to bring me out of myself. The few people who do know me well enough to bring me out of my shell know that I am . . .

Talkative. Once I break through my exceedingly painful shyness, I can talk for Wales. Talking should be an Olympic sport and I would win gold, there would be no competition. I don’t think I need say any more, which belies the truth behind this statement, but those who know me have seen how I can ramble on, and on, and on, and on . . . . .

Emotional. Forget Bambi, I bawled my eyes out all the way through all three Lord of the Rings films! I can pinpoint the exact moment this all started. I was nine years old. It was my birthday treat to be taken to see the film Born Free and the scene where Joy/Virginia returns to the Land Rover after George/Bill has dropped the cubs off at the airport. She is grief stricken, he starts to laugh and slides open the connecting window to the back and out pops the lioness Elsa/Girl. If you’ve seen it, you’ll probably understand. I’ve loved that film and ever since the opening bars of the music see me immediately reduced to a snivelling mess.

Music and poetry especially wreck havoc with my emotions. The sort of silent tears that just spill quitely, effortlessly from the eyes welling up in response, as my very soul is touched with notes or words. They are most powerful tools to rouse emotion, if you allow yourself to open to the secret power therein. You don't want to be within a mile of me when the Welsh National Anthem is played.

It isn’t only the crying at Lassie or Tom and Meg emotion, I am overall a very emotional person. When I experience emotion, whatever it is: happy, sad, laughter, crying, love, anger, fear, it is spontaneous and off the scale. The only emotion I do not allow to encroach into my life is hatred. Hatred is far too powerful and has many undesired repercussions. I really should try harder to eject anger too, but it happens sometimes and when I get cross with someone it is fast, hot and over in a trice. Then I go put the kettle on and make everyone a nice cup of tea, the British panacea to everything.

Loner. I prefer to be alone than in a crowd. I love the company of one or two good friends, but I would far rather be out striding along the coastal countryside and coast path than anywhere else on earth, with only the vast ocean, limitless sky, my thoughts, and wildlife for my companions. Give me a book of good poetry, my recorder to play, a sketchbook and pencils, my camera, and a thermos of tea and I ask for nothing more. Well, maybe keep the rain away until I get home again!

Forgiving. I think unconditional forgiveness (along with love and respect) is one thing there is far too little of in this great big world we share with each other. I might rant for a bit when someone or something upsets or hurts me, but I try to get over it as quickly as I can. Forgiveness, like charity, begins at home, and I am learning to forgive myself while I truly forgive all who upset me, however great the pain caused. Sometimes it is not easy to forgive but thus far in my life there is only one person I am struggling to forgive, a person who told me that she does not care that my dearly loved Daddy is so poorly. This I truly struggle with in finding forgiveness and feel that I have failed myself.

Creative. Well, I like to think so. I am creative in many ways, and I have carefully chosen this word instead of artistic because creative applies to a multitude of things. I am creative in that I draw, paint, and sketch, although I am abysmal at all. I do like oils because you can scrape them off and start again! I love making things, clothes, soft furnishings, handbags, jewellery and quilts, oh, especially quilts. There is something so deeply comforting on a cold winter’s evening, curled into your arm chair, snuggling into a patchwork quilt you made yourself with a mug of steaming hot chocolate in your hand. Post editing my photography and using my photography as a textile inspiration is another way in which I explore creativity. Creativity spills into inventiveness in the kitchen, with baking, cooking, and preserving. No recipe is safe and they are constantly tweaked and rewritten! I love to create passages of text, prose rather than poetry, just letting the words flow from brain to paper, sometimes just a chain of words that sound wonderful together, nothing more, nothing less. However I am never creative with the truth.

So, gentle reader, this, in seven words is me. There are more, but as the task stipulates seven then these are the seven selected.

God's Garden

2009-08-05T19:33:00.013+01:00

God's Garden

The Lord God planted a garden
In the first white days of the world,
And He set there an angel warden
In a garment of light enfurled.

So near to the peace of Heaven,
That the hawk might nest with the wren,
For there in the cool of the even
God walked with the first of men.

And I dream that these garden-closes
With their shade and their sun-flecked sod
And their lilies and bowers of roses,
Were laid by the hand of God.

The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth,--
One is nearer God's heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.

For He broke it for us in a garden
Under the olive-trees
Where the angel of strength was the warden
And the soul of the world found ease.

by Dorothy Frances Gurney

I grew up with this beautiful poem, my Nana loved it, and so do I, particularly the fourth stanza, and I often use the last two lines of that as my ‘signature’ on a forum. Like her parents before her, she was a great gardener, and like her I treasure gardens and gardening above all else, even more than photography.

My garden is my source of inspiration for all things: spiritual, physical, hidden and not, it nourishes and heals my body, and it inspires my art. Without my garden, I would be nothing. I love the gardens of others, and I love all sorts of gardens: from the formal gardens of great palaces to the pocket handkerchief cottage garden; the structured and sculptural; the unkempt wildlife corner; the vegetable plot and orchard; and the wondrous, wild grandeur of God’s own countryside. There is little I do that does not find my mind wandering to my garden.

This year has seen my own dear garden left in a heartbreaking state of bedraggled and dishevelled disarray. Through circumstances beyond my control, I have been unable to provide it with the care and attention it needs. The weeds remain not weeded. The lawn deserved more mowing than it got. The borders are not edged and tidied as they should be. Errant grass is springing up between paving stones. Pruning and dead-heading left undone.

Nature did not help, and the merciless winds and ceaseless rain did their best to flatten and destroy. I have had to re-stake my poor hollyhock so many times this summer (“what summer?” I hear you, gentle reader, ask) that I have lost count! Yet despite this careless neglect, it has pulled through giving immense pleasure and delight to my heart. My beloved garden seemed to understand, without judgement or censure, my plight and rewarded me far more than I deserve with bright and perfect blooms to brighten the drear and gloom of our summer days.

And He set there an angel warden

In a garment of light enfurled

Each day brings forth a new miracle, and so I traipse in and out, to photograph each bloom as it parades and struts for all to see the glory. Some days, they dance so sprightly in the wind I cannot focus; some days the rain obliterates my view, but persevere I do. Looking at the images I captured, it presents a falsity that the garden was so dishevelled, for there is such a flawless beauty in the single bloom, even when the parent plant was shattered. So, gentle reader, I share now some more of the blooms that give delight, come rain, come wind, come shine.

Where the angel of strength was the warden
And the soul of the world found ease.

Distracted Elsewhere

2009-07-07T15:02:00.014+01:00

I am remiss, for many are the days I have said, “I must blog today” and equal are the days I found myself distracted elsewhere. The spring sprung, the grass grew, and rose higher and higher, and the mower mowed desperately in a state of catch up. For a short while yellow became the new green, at least for my lawn, but as with all things that grow it took no time at all for the neglected lawn to regain its former verdant state. The weeds laughed and mocked from the borders behind me; the more I pulled, the more shot forth from the ground. The longest day came and went, and now we plummet aimlessly toward the shortest day. My life seems governed by these two solstices, I spend six months of the year dreading the Winter Solstice as it approaches, the days shorten and nights lengthen. Then, for the next six months, I dread the approaching Summer Solstice, for that is the time the plunge back into the longer, darker nights begins. Of course, this means that for eight months of the year I may justify an indulgence in large mugs of steaming hot chocolate with a dash of chilli or a nip of brandy to comfort me in the dark days.

I wish with all my heart I could report that the weather is kinder now that summer is upon me, but sadly we seem stuck in the old, familiar rut of yet another ‘traditional British summer’ of rain and wind. My beautiful hollyhock was recently found lying down, having a rest for it could no longer fight against the unexpected Force 6 that came from nowhere. The paths are strewn with soggy rose petals, ripped from the bud, and my Papaver Orientalis Coral Sea, so beautiful for a few short days succumbed to the rains and ended up looking like chewed paper.

While much of the country has basked in a heat wave, I considered building an Ark. Gentle reader, I jest not when I report that the rain has been of near Biblical proportions, interspersed with the odd thunderstorm. However, a few days of magnificent, mellow sunshine pierced the gloom and for a short while my garden bloomed forth in picturesque delight. So, I share with you some images captured with my lens, a fleeting memory of yet another summer that did not quite happen.

Verbena with Alchemilla Mollis

Rose Princess Elizabeth with Rain

Lavender 'Little Bee'

Nigella with Allium

Foxglove in the Rain

Dianthus

Monkshood

Rose Frances E Lester

Rosa Rugosa

Papaver Orientalis 'Coral Sea'

Lightening Strikes!

and finally . . .
. . . this is what I wish for!

Blackbird Sings . . .

2009-06-01T13:38:00.020+01:00

Drinking deeply of the warm, gently spring breeze wafting the scent of late lilac through my window, I wake early to the sound of the Dawn Chorus. The foremost vocalist this morning, as with most mornings, is the male blackbird that has taken up a perch on Jodrell Bank. Jodrell Bank is the monstrously astral-looking television aerial that sits at a jaunty angle upon our roof ridge. I close my eyes and stay in the moment, letting nothing from the past or plans for the future obstruct the present. Our friend on Jodrell Bank sings as if his tiny heart will burst with joy as he welcomes the day and the glorious sunrise we are given. He will sit there, on his high domain, from now until late evening, singing at the top of his voice. I don’t think he has a home to go to, or perhaps his wife has thrown him out for being so vocal.

My poppy Papaver Orientalis Coral Reef burst forth from its tight green bud in the early hours of the morning, and greeted me, as I open my cottage door, with its peachy pink so delicate and delightful. I discovered its arrival even before the bud was fully open, and it emerged like a pink, crushed silk summer frock, blossoming and drying in the warm sunrise.

Later, it delighted with a display of nodding and dancing in breeze and the promise of seven more buds await in anticipation their day in the sun.

Yesterday, I took a short walk to one of my favourite spots, a rocky outcrop offering a good vantage point over the surrounding countryside. The view is spectacular from there across low moorland, valleys, and fields to the ocean and outlying islands.

This has to be a favourite seat. I can witter away multiple hours if given the chance, sitting here, mistress of all I survey. It is quiet here, but far from silent, for the air overflows with distant and nearby sounds. Pheasants crake throughout the day, but seldom are they seen, only in early morning or evening. The chug-chug-chug of a tiny fishing boat, as it bobs its way into harbour after a mornings fishing, pursued by hungry gulls. The phut-phut-phut of a tractor spluttering its way across a field, followed by the same seagulls that earlier chased the fishing boat.

Voices carry from a nearby hamlet. Birds sing, bees buzz in the gorse, and the leaves and grasses rustle gently, like taffeta gowns at a summer’s evening ball. The sun is hot, the rock beneath my feet is baking, and so I leave for home and the thought of a cooling drink of ice-cold cordial.

The Kiss of the Sun for Pardon

2009-05-06T17:23:00.017+01:00

I love days like today. Sitting here at my laptop in the early morning, steaming mug of fresh coffee at my side, gazing out across the garden, I watch it shimmering in the early morning sunshine. The light skims and sparkles off the dew that kisses everything in sight. The fantasy romantic within my heart sees the faeries flitting on gossamer wings, to-ing and fro-ing, busily sprinkling the leaves and blooms with a million tiny crystals.

Suddenly, my eye beholds a flurry of snowflakes! It cannot be. I give my undivided attention to the vision and quickly realise that it is the apple blossom gently drifting on the morning breeze.

So sad to see the cheery white and pink diminish off the trees, but soon there will be fruit to swell and ripen under the summer sun ready for picking at the autumn harvest. Few things rival the sweet-scented juiciness of a warm, deliciously fragrant apple, fresh from the tree. No wonder an annual battle ensues twixt birds, and wasps, and me!

A tiny jewel of surprise awaited, as I stalked into the garden, camera in hand. Self-sown, a creamy-white Nigella, from whence it came I do not know, and here it is, already in bloom; an early bird indeed. I noticed it some weeks ago and recognised the leaf, so did not pull it from its precarious hold between the paving stones, for I love to see the edges softened with errant plants that know better than I the place they wish to grow.

The Osteospermum, a dazzling cushion of white in the brilliant, morning sun; the deep, metallic-blue centres speckled with dusty orange pollen, tumbles from its bed and over the wall of stone to greet the day. Camellias, almost spent, in the last throws of splendour for the year, pink kissed with golden sun, litter the lawn and the borders with fallen bloom, another job to do. The richly, regal, purple Pasque Flower, stunning on its own, but patiently now I wait, for in time each precious bloom transforms into the most magnificent, tangled ball of silver wire. I never deadhead this one plant, for I treasure the seed heads as no other in the garden.

‘Tis true what they say, a gardener’s work is never done, and as I look around I see the tasks appear before my very eyes, and recall the words my Grandmother held so dear, from the poem by Dorothy Frances Blomfield Gurney:

The kiss of the sun for pardon.
The song of the birds for mirth.
One is nearer God's heart in a garden.
Than anywhere else on earth.

I guess it had to happen . . .

2009-05-04T20:15:00.003+01:00

Thanks to ChrisH for somehow working out that I was about the only person not to be tagged, and leaving me to try and work out who else hasn't, or if they have, they have not done the meme. Oh, well, here we go.

What are your current obsessions?
Oh! Obsession in plural form. Well, I guess I am obsessed with photography, always trying to get a good composition, different angle and, of late, I climbed onto the bottom rung of digital post editing in the computer. Wish I could afford Adobe Photoshop, which is probably another obsession. Then there is chocolate. I will not elaborate, either you understand chocolate, or you don’t.

What are you listening to?
Pick a day, any day, and what I am listening to will depend on many variables. I have the most eclectic taste in music of anyone I know. Today, it is Celtic Woman, REM, and the Lord of The Rings soundtrack cds.

Which item from your wardrobe do you wear most often?
Jeans, jeans, and more jeans, closely followed by Land’s End contoured polo necks and my Toggi sock collection.

What are you reading?
If you came to my house you would find many books scattered around. I am currently actively reading “A Simple Path” by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and “An Angel on my Shoulder” by Theresa Chueng. However, you will find several poetry anthologies, art and design books, and alternative therapy books lying around for me to pick up and dip into when I have a spare moment.

What’s for lunch?
Chips from the local chippie, served with shredded cheese and tonnes of ketchup.

What makes you helpless with laughter?
Unfortunately, I get seriously uncontrollable giggles at inappropriate things, and generally at an even less appropriate time. I also laughed till I cried at some of the things on the Coo, like the Taxman’s Reply Letter, and Not Farming Pigs.

What was the last thing you bought?
Oh, gosh, do I have to be honest? Oh, all right then. A matching camisole and silk ‘unmentionables’ (blushes).

Favourite plant of the moment?
Anything, as long as it is not on the menu for slugs and snails.

Guilty pleasure?
There is no such thing as a guilty pleasure. It is a contradiction in terms.

Who is your ideal Desert Island companion? Ray Mears is not an option.
Douglas Henshall.

Care to share some wisdom?
Refuse to grow old gracefully; its far more fun.

Sum yourself up in a sentence
Just the one? Can’t I have a paragraph?

The Rules: Respond and rework. Answer questions on your own blog. Replace one question. Add one question.
Tag some people.
Now I have to tag, this will not be easy as I seem to be the last to be nomintated,
Seashell Cosmos
Puffin
Blackbird
Tiggywinkle
Tattie Weasle
CalicoKate
Sorry, guys, blame it on ChrisH for tagging me!

Leaden Skies and Rain

2009-04-26T15:38:00.028+01:00

Four mornings this week, I have awoken to grey, leaden, skies. Damp, miserable days; the sort of weather that seeps into your bones, makes you switch off the alarm, turn over, wrap yourself back up into your warm duvet, and stay in bed. Yesterday morning, the weather was worse than ever, with strong winds and lashing rain. It was not the kind of weather to inspire me to leave the house, so after chasing errant compost bins and dustbin lids making a desperate bid for freedom on the winds, I indulged myself by dipping into my photograph albums to find images that inspire me. I found a panorama to use for my blog header. It shows nearby springtime hedgerows, covered with fragrant gorse. I love gorse, and I hope that you, gentle reader, like it too. The picture was taken just a few short days ago, before the weather turned. How I wish I could share the fragrant, scented air in which I took such delight while capturing this image, for on a warm spring afternoon you smell the gorse long before you see it.

No surprises then this morning, waking up to more of the same miserable weather, and a weekly forecast that is just plain depressing. I tried this morning to take advantage of a dry moment or two and nipped into the garden for some images of water on foliage. Why, the sun even managed to shine through the cloud for a few brief moments! I have a mild obsession with water in my photographs, and love the challenge of capturing raindrops, not so much on roses, but on foliage and seed heads. What a surprise awaited me, as I opened the door and heard a merry blackbird reply to a distant call, I found the first of my Icelandic poppies burst open!

Bright, glorious, citrus orange petals contrast against the glaucous leaves, and the black, hairy, reptilian shape of another bud in waiting.

One of my favourite all-purpose plants is Alchemilla Mollis, and I willingly agree to its proliferation though my unkempt borders; the acid yellow green a perfect foil for almost everything else with which it comes in contact. I once was told that it is so named as the dew that gathers in the leaves each morn was highly prized by alchemists who sought it for their chemistry.

Despite the cold and wet, the garden is coming into its own again. Suddenly buds are bursting, blossoms are blooming, soon there will be a riot of colours, textures, and shapes to capture with my lens. This is indeed an exciting time of year, as I patiently wait to see what throws itself forth into my path, old friends and new, and always a surprise or two to find.

A Leafy Lane

2009-04-17T11:49:00.003+01:00

Try as I might, I cannot resist a leafy lane that twists and wanders away and out of my view into an adventure-in-waiting. Especially when it disappears into a leafy glade and the invitation to explore beckons me forward. It teases and tantalizes, and being desperately weak of will, I just have to follow where it leads. With the sun shining overhead in a perfect, blue sky, and a gentle spring breeze wafting the heady scent of golden gorse across the air, I respond to the summons,

and succumb to temptation; the afternoon and the path are mine for the taking! One step follows another leading me forth in the absolute pleasure of enchanted exploration. A Speckled Wood butterfly suddenly appears, a mystical guide, flitting before me, leading me in.

The path stretches out gently before my feet, and the flowers of spring flank the edges, leading deeper and deeper into the sun-flecked, scrubby growth of the copse. I glimpse a wild rose bush, hidden and off the beaten track. It is still in hibernation, covered in leaf buds yet to burst forth. Later in the year, I must return and harvest a small share of the blooms for a fragrant, wild rose jelly. Then later, there will be elderfberries, sloes, and haws, a veritable feast from the bushes and trees for those who know of such things.

Overhead, small songbirds flit through the branches, chanting their melodious mantras. Travelling across the lower fields arrive the rough crake-crake of pheasants, magnificent show-offs, only allowing themselves to be spotted when they want. Deeper and deeper I traverse into the thickets; the light, filtered by the trees, is dimmer here, but the plants no less beautiful than those in the full sunlight are. Those that catch my eye today are the umbels Alexanders, or Horse Parsley, which proliferate near the path and through the undergrowth. I am fascinated by the striped bud sheaths, the sinuous shapes created as the leaves burst forth, the golden green-yellow flowers, the architectural formations created within the natural structure as it grows and stretches toward the light. I cannot resist the images that beg to for capture by my camera, and I know that over the coming weeks the plants will grow, mature, seed, and die; and I know I will return to capture the many changes within the short life cycle of such a handsome and magnificent plant.

Adventures with my Camera

2009-04-15T09:56:00.002+01:00

Oh, what a joyful few days I have had with my camera over the Easter days, the sun has graciously presided in the sky for at least some of the time and a few drops of rain saved me from watering the pots that litter my patio and step. Not only have I been playing with my camera, but also many an hour whiled away with some simple post editing on the computer.

First, my Pulsillata Vulgaris came into bloom, just one, single, vibrant purple bloom, but on the sunniest day of the year so far. I am not patient, I cannot wait for more to burst forth from the tight, hairy buds, so I set to in the post editing suite on my laptop and began to experiment. I succeeded in removing the background to one image and layered it over another! Hurrah! It worked. I have to say, for a first attempt at this I am pleased with my effort.

To say that I am eagerly awaiting the transformation of bloom to the wiry, silver, tangled seed heads is an understatement. My camera awaits with eager anticipation, as do I the arrival of these fantasy seeds.

Then, yesterday morning, a BBC television interview with Joe Cornish inspired me to try something very different to my usual efforts. Out of my comfort zone, I patrolled the garden looking for something to satisfy this new-found adventurer within. My eye was drawn to a bright, sparkling, silver globe, half-hidden in an overgrown mound at the far end of a border. As I moved it, the reflections of the garden spoke aloud, "take me, take me" and so, with a bright, blue sky with cotton wool clouds as the backdrop, I took my pictures of reflections in the orb. An antler of a deer, some trophy found when on a springtime walk so many years ago found its way into the composition. This is fun. I can't wait to take some more.

The afternoon sunshine beckoned me to take a walk across a nearby common. Long, winding lanes, twisting out of site, and lined with bridal puffs of hawthorn blossom and golden plumes of gorse beckoned, drawing me into the leafy glade beyond. There, scattered far and wide across the floor, primroses, celandine, and woodland violets, and ferns, so many wonderful, fuzzy, furry, ferns, and smooth hart's tongues, all just waiting to unfurl in the warm Spring sunlight filtering through the trees.

So, Gentle Reader, I will leave you for another day, but hope to return soon with more stories and adventures through my lens.

Tulips-in-Waiting

2009-04-01T17:03:00.002+01:00

Woken gently from my slumber by the engaging melody of a blackbird singing outside my bedroom window I listened in anticipation, as, in the first light of day the dawn chorus began in earnest. Soon, all the birds in the neighbourhood joined in, singing their hearts out to welcome in the day. Later, sitting at my window, with a mug of steaming coffee to hand, I watch them come to the feeders I have placed in the apple trees. I could while away the day watching these dearest creatures feed, and listening to their joyful song, but every now and then, the scene is ugly as goldfinch turns on goldfinch, “Get away with you!" they squawk, "this is my perch for the seed, go find your own!” and so they fight, despite the plentiful supply. A siskin appears, briefly, and is gone. That is a rare visitor indeed to my garden!

The sun struggles to break through the low-lying cloud. It fails. The light will not be good today. Many of the early flowers are now well past their prime. The flurry of snowdrops, melted, gone for another year; the daffodils struggled valiantly against the recent wind and rain, but all now lie smashed and battered on the ground. A few brave blooms have struggled and survived: the purple wood anemone, a crocus or two, and the camellia. My magnificent camellia! A giant stick of cotton candy pink, marshmallow fluffiness, glorious ravishing colour splashed across the corner of the border, glistening with dew as it shimmers and shimmies in the breeze.

Tulips lie in wait, their tight buds teasing, for soon they will burst into a bright and cheerful dance across the borders; more camellias, late to the party are beginning to show their bright red petticoats; an African currant bobs and bows in the breeze; tiny poppy seedlings struggle to push their feisty heads through the heavy soil. Soon, the Great Battle of the Weeds begins anew, but for now the joy of a Spring-time garden patiently preparing and waiting to explode into the full bloom of Summer is a joy to behold.

In The Beginning

2009-03-30T11:48:00.001+01:00

Well, I am here. After weeks of procrastination, I have plucked courage from the ether and now sit facing my screen with an image of a Snake's Head Fritillaries taken just a couple days ago when the weather was better and the blooms remained untouched by barraging wind and rain.

I beg your patience, for I will undoubtedly make errors and re-edit and change things around, but then if things are not for playing with, what are they for?

As I look out of my window across the garden, even the birds have stayed indoors today, for it is gray and damp. All but a handful of persistent seagulls are out today. The lawn glistens with a heavy dew, like crystals sprinkled across a green gown, and the Camellia, in full bloom now, is a riot of pink, teacup sized flowers. Daffodils nod, their heads heavy with last night's rain, their stems bending gracefully under the increased burden of weight.

Across the rooftops, the sky is leaden and dull, a promise of more rain to come. A sleek and handsome tabby cat, one I haven't seen before, stalks across my patio like the Lord of the Jungle that my garden has become after months of neglect. Soon, the weather will improve, and then the sweeping away of Winter debris will make way for the glories of the garden in Summer.

Gentle Reader, I will close for now, but promise to return with hopes to master this new diary!