Garden sun

It's the last week in September, it's half past five and I'm sitting in my garden bare arms exposed.
My cat lies with a smile on her face, having dined on sea bream courtesy of a fridge freezer whose prayer to be defrosted was finally heard. Let's just say it took longer than anticipated for the iceberg-like lumps to descend drip by drip into the strategically placed plastic basin.
Soggy potato dauphinoise, the sad half of a Marks & Spencer meal for two cuddles up to a flaccid bag of drippy peas, some have escaped into the lake of raspberry ripple ice-cream that laps the 100% beef burgers - no barbecue for them.
Opaque eyes of vacuum packed fish stare up at me accusingly. They've waited so long to be consumed. My hand hovers over the flip top bin, relents and turns towards the oven. Neatly packed head to tail the silver skinned four meet their 180degree fate. The cat's dish is full, a happy customer.
The warmth of the sun caresses my face with the pretence of Summer but this is not the intense shimmering heat of the Alpujarras, the heat that cried out for a wide-brimmed hat and a loose cotton caftan, the heat that stole away inhibitions and led naked figures into an icy pool, the heat that lay with me all night in my cloistered bed. Nor is it the swallow brought heat of a rare English Summer, a heat given thanks by picnickers who swim in the cool, peaty river and pretend it's not cold, a smoky heat of barbecue skewers mastered by butcher aproned fathers on tidy patios.
No, this heat us the reluctant guest who throws a backward glance as the party bell chimes the midnight hour. A last lingering look and then it's gone.

A washed out world

Today I am lost in black and white, just a walk on part in an old movie. Discordant notes screech across my consciousness; the world is showing it's frayed edges; I am so small. Oh how I long for technicolour.

Imaginary Friends

Today brought no travel except in my mind and on my computer screen. I sat at my kitchen table and entered the world of Brenda. Brenda started as a very small character in a very small story, written during my sojourn at Cortijo Romero. But how Brenda has grown! She and I have become friends and she’s beginning to amaze me by what she thinks and says. I can’t wait to see what she does next.

Have I discovered the writer’s secret pleasure? The world of imaginary friends? One day I hope you’ll know Brenda too.

At home

I'm in Troller's Ghyll. Late afternoon sun holds the chill at bay but I know it's coming. A deep valley, a limestone tomb carved with the hands of previous lives. Shadows of long-dead lead miners fall across the well worn path and I hear the passing of their weary feet as they leave, the day's work at an end. A silence hugs the settling hills and roaming sheep nod their heads in acceptance of a natural isolation. Water is high in the Ghyll. It forces its way through cracks; it eddies, carving shapes for future generations to wonder at. I hear the rush, the power, the freedom. Darkness brings the screech of night time kills, pulsating fear for those not safe at home. I turn with thoughts of fireside warmth drawing me back along the narrow path; passed down tales of the red eyed dog snap at my heels as my imagination walks, then runs before me. Through a gate and onto tarmaced road. Safe.

An Artist's Eye

Flashing by
A Payne's Grey sky
Umber furrows
Rabbit burrows
Cobalt seas
A line of trees
A pebbled shore
Vermillion ore
Sienna sand
A waving hand
Jacob sheep cream and Umber
Ochre piles of new sawn lumber
Hung out washing
School boys crossing
Magenta station
Wild elation
Journey ending
Lovers meeting

St Andrews

St. Andrews: Grey skies. Neap tides. Bunkered Links. Chapel bells. Grassy aisles. Cloistered quad. Empty wynds. Rhubarb pies. Ghosts in corners. Bookshop browsing. Tide out harbour. Pier meanders. Red gowns. The old town.    Home