My home made mini movie and just some of the places I find inspiration! ❤️
My home made mini movie and just some of the places I find inspiration! ❤️
Soothing our spirits in a pandemic is a huge challenge as the Covid-19 rollercoaster lurches onward.
We are in the final quarter of 2020 and autumn heralds acute anxiety for many. Less light and lower temperatures are winter’s frozen way.
Yet there is comfort in the steady turn of nature’s wheel.
Autumn’s rusting flag show is the great celebration of growth through the year. Leaves and seeds emerged from buds and pods to flourish and ripen in sunshine. Now they fall away, dropping to the forest floor where they will nourish the deep dark earth through the dreaming time of winter, so that the growth cycle may begin again.
In hibernation we retreat also, and for many this is a time of self care and connection to our deepest selves. Spring will surely come and invite us to resurface, into the light. This is how our ancestors understood the world.
Treading the path from autumn and winter, in the company of Covid-19, will cause many to feel the dark hibernation experience more acutely this year. We are social creatures experiencing trauma, this global pandemic presses heavy upon other challenges in our lives.
Finding meaning in the everyday offers hope, builds and strengthens our resilience. Nobel prize winner Seamus Heaney turned to nature and places of ritual.
The Irish writer felt deeply his connection with the land, the seasons and community. His words were quoted widely at the time of the 1988 Good Friday Agreement, a milestone in the peace process between the UK Government, the Irish Government and Northern Ireland political parties.
“Believe that a farther shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles
And cures and healing wells.”
These images are of a healing well I visited in May, when the surge of spring growth created a great emerald canopy in a hideaway almost forgotten.
Yet through centuries, the freshwater source provided an opportunity for people to wash themselves, their clothing, linen and blankets. Here they celebrated the spring clean that followed deep winter.
These wild places offer beautiful energy.
Seamus Heaney reminds us that to reach any farther shore, there is magic in nature to support us too.
Happiness is a rusty robin! A little magic happened this morning when I opened the front door to the full force of Storm Francis prowling around the place.
A small lady, attached by fluorescent yellow leash to a small Jack Russell dog, bent double into the wind as she walked by my house. She tugged the hood of her jacket tightly around her head and rain lashed at her glasses. I smiled and said hello, expecting that she could barely see or hear me. She returned the greeting and, keeping firm hold of the hood, battled on through the blast. Then she halted.
‘Excuse me’ she said, turning to walk back. ‘I just want you know how much I love walking past your garden. I know it’s only small, but the way you move things around every so often makes me so happy. I love looking for them every time I walk past here with my dog.’
She reached down to raise the brown, black and white hound high. ‘This is Abbie, she’s old and she’s a rescue. Anyway’ she continued, lowering Abbie tenderly to the ground, ‘I want you to know how much pleasure it gives me, and how I notice all of it, the hare, the elephant, the stag and especially the robin. Especially the robin! I like your robin so much that I went bought one for myself. He’s not quite the same as yours though.’
I was completely overwhelmed by this unexpected and lovely insight. I do love to create magic in my garden. The rusty robin has been a friend for many years. Occasionally a strong gust picks him up and flings him to the ground. I’ve always taken this as a sign to shift him to a new perch for a while. I had no idea that passers-by noticed these moves. But clearly they do, and today I have two new friends, Abbie and Hils!
Robins are associated with hope for the future and this verse by Emily Dickinson springs to mind.
‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I’ve heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
A weekend visit to Wales. Time to take it easy in favourite places across the Llyn peninsula after so many months of lockdown.
Acquired from an Inverness charity shop many years ago, this much loved picnic rug in the clip below has since enjoyed adventures day and night, far and wide! Today it served to line a a deep sheltered dune hollow where the summer sun warmed soft sea air.
The view was magnificent across a vast bay littered with shipwrecks, known as Hell’s Mouth, or Porth Neigwl. Here the Atlantic Ocean bellows on tempestuous days, the roar is spine tingling. Skilled surfers ride risky waves and coastal path walkers battle hard to remain upright.
Yet today the great deep was serene, perhaps wearied by stormy winter or maybe its calm was a generous gift to soothe souls who have been much locked away during the Covid-19 pandemic.
The opportunity to daydream in a dune nest to the accompaniment of whispering waves was heavenly!
Stirring ourselves, we tracked through country lanes, thick with wildflowers, to Tafarn Yr Haul or The Sun Inn, a popular hostelry in a snug of cottages around a country church.
The historic place of worship is dedicated to Saint Engan, a sixth century soul who gave his name to the village – LLanengan. The church has long been a staging post on the pilgrim route to sacred Bardsey Island.
By night, the beam of the holy island’s light house flashes warning across Hell’s Mouth, telling of the treacherous currents that swirl around the isle. The beam is broadcast by solar power from the tallest square tower lighthouse in the UK. The stocky beacon sports stripes of red and white and reminds me of socks on a footballer’s chunky calves!
I saw this lovely doorway in the village and appreciated the smart simplicity of paint, bare wood and an open heart.
One of my favourite Welsh verses is a romantic and anonymous promise:
Mi gerddaf gyda thi dros lwybrau maith A blodau can a breuddwyd ar ein taith, I'th lygaid syllaf a dal dy law, Mi gerddaf gyda thi beth bynnag ddaw. I will walk with you across distant paths, Flowers and dreams will bless our journey, Into your eyes I will gaze and hold your hand, I will walk with you whatever may come.
June arrives with roses. From tightly bound buds comes the fullness of soft plump petals. Fragrant old varieties, rich in history, flower once and rest again while modern thoroughbreds reproduce blooms with gracious ease.
Foxgloves arrive in June too, most often country travellers, arriving by Nature’s design. The unapologetic company are happiest making themselves quite at home.
In the garden shown below, which I am fortunate to know well, the designer’s intention was a glade of white foxgloves. Happily, their pink relatives have a healthy disregard for segregation. They have every right to be there and I find the beauty of it uplifting.
There’s something magical about these woodlanders, arriving to make camp and erect swaying towers of colour that hum to the song of busy bees.
The roses welcome pollinators too, with ‘come hither’ fragrance and velvet boudoir petals. ” Stay a while!” they whisper sweetly. “Let’s enjoy the romance!”
This shoebox of romance arrived on my doorstep unannounced. A gift from someone I love, who knows my ways in June – always ready to stop and smell the roses.
And perhaps gather up dropped petals in a short lived summer pot pourri. While I share these pictures, how I wish I could send fragrance too!
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!
From Robert Herrick’s 1648 poem ‘To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time’
A refreshing highlight of lockdown life is an engaging series of online gatherings hosted by the Society of Authors at which established authors and other members of the writing community gather for afternoon tea and chat.
What a joy to sit in on the easy conversation between Joanne Harris and Nicola Solomon, Chief Executive of the Society of Authors. Joanne was taking tea and questions in the ‘shed’, a creative den in her Yorkshire garden that she references often in Twitter posts.
Joanne spoke of how she is managing lockdown life as the the Covid-19 pandemic nears its peak in the United Kingdom. The acclaimed author of 16 books draws much resilience and daily discipline from her previous career as a teacher. Days take shape around a timetable that caters for an early morning run, creative work, attention to her garden and interaction with loyal followers, friends and connections on Twitter. She describes the social media platform as her ‘staffroom’, a place where she hops in and out to ‘reboot’ and connect. The solitary process of writing makes many of us hermits to some extent.
Apart from her own books, Joanne continues to connect with the work of others and finds herself currently returning to old favourites like Donna Tartt’s Secret History for ‘comfort reading’ and Georgette Heyer, for bath time indulgence! She is also reading non-fiction to ‘reset’ her fiction brain.
Nicola describes Joanne as an ‘incredibly generous’ writer who does much to advocate for others, especially through her role as the Chair of the Society of Authors. Considering the changes that a global pandemic may bring to our communities, Joanne hopes for good things among the many challenges. She feels passionately that small presses and small bookshops will need vital support especially. And while many authors are asked to share their work freely, Joanne cautions that exposure must not be regarded as a living for an author and those who issue invitations expecting authors give their professional time and work for free are urged to reflect that harsh truth is that while exposure can lead to a living, an unpaid author may also die from it.
Life in lockdown is impacting the creative community in many ways; while some feel in flow, others are frozen and struggling with poor mental health. Joanne’s advice is wise. “Writing doesn’t come from a place of stress and anxiety, it comes from a place of calm and joy and reasonable mental health. Self care comes first. “If you can get out of this feeling ok then you are already doing very well.”
Joanne’s warmth and compassion shone through the afternoon tea party and her final words to the gathering were deeply encouraging. “Be kind to each other. Be kind to yourselves. Writing will come when it comes. Don’t worry if it is not starting.”
Catch Joanne’s chat in the shed here; a Vimeo recording of this special lockdown event.
In the throes of a nation-wide lockdown across Britain and also throughout the world, the spectre of Covid-19 wraps itself around anxious hearts and minds.
This ruthless invisible virus has humanity in its breathless grip. As key workers and health workers labour under awkward protective masks and gloves and clothing, supplied too late and too scarce by the government, it is the moral obligation of the rest of us to stay put in our homes, with the opportunity of breaks for exercise in the outdoor world once so familiar to us and now eerily alien and emptily sombre.
Never before has my garden oasis been so important. While this private outdoor space always been precious, now it is my well being sanctuary more than ever, and I am full of gratitude for it. The opportunity to leave the enclosure of the house and step into the freshness of the spring garden is supporting my mental health, well being and creativity immensely.
Deep inside my cream painted shed, happily decorated with rusty running rabbits and festoon solar lights, were forgotten seed packets, discarded in boxes of good intentions grown thick with cobwebs and rediscovered with fresh zeal. Compost, pencilled plant names on ice lolly sticks, watering cans and bamboo canes are part of the armoury keeping fear and hopelessness at bay during this lockdown experience of pandemic.
Planting for the future melds with memories of the past; I celebrate the blossom of the cherry tree, bought from a supermarket and planted in hope of shiny red fruit. I recall buying the small souvenir envelope of giant dill on my last trip to the United States and marigold seeds harvested from the community gardens around Windsor Street in Toxteth, and I remember a glorious day and the perfumed stately white sweet peas in the garden of the Castle of May in Caithness. Each packet brings me joy and hope. And as for the cherries, the snowy blossom softens the blow of losing the fruit to the birds.
My garden energises my spirit and I love this quote attributed to Seamus Heaney, so resonant and so apt for this extraordinary time in the history of humanity.
A favourite road, a favourite view, and a favourite part of the world! This is Assynt in the far northwest highlands of Scotland. A magical kingdom where mountains tiptoe to the sea; a perfect place to discover the Scottish Year of Coasts and Water.
This is a landscape I have known intimately since childhood. My family roots run deep here. I have experienced these far flung highlands in all seasons and I remain decidely under the spell!
My best selling book North Coast Journey, is illustrated with my photography of this enchantment! And I share inspirational ways for you to discover gently the people, the places and experiences that make this bewitching territory so special.
With my very best wishes for 2020! May this new year be kind to you!
The festive season arrives early. I struggle with the onslaught of commercial Christmas activity that kicks in soon after the August bank holiday. For so many of us, it feels like overkill.
And so when I come across something that brings together a community in a creative and meaningful it way, it feels hugely uplifting. That’s what happened when I visited the Lochbroom and Ullapool Parish Church Christmas Tree Festival.
The small village on the west coast of Scotland welcomed the challenge of creating a Christmas tree festival with gusto. For four days there were 46 beautifully dressed trees on show, each revealing something significant and relevant to the makers, something to be shared with their community.
This lovely seashell tree was made by Ullapool Sea Savers, a group of passionate, articulate, well-informed & dedicated young people who celebrate and raise awareness of marine life in an area where fishing is a vital part of the economy.
This stunning creation below was another of my favourites! So good to see how the young people of the area brought the issues that deeply concern them so creatively to the festival.
This beautiful bare winter tree stood out.
From the birds to the bees!
Mike explained how well behaved Jack Russell Peggy had been when Gaelic broadcasting station BBC Alba came to visit the magical trees. Moreover, one of the creations, Give The Dog A Bonio, was her own work and funds raised would be donated to Munlochy Animal Aid shelter.
The importance of libraries in our communities is immense. Our libraries offer an opportunity beyond reading, they are a place to learn, to meet, to share information, to stay warm, to receive support and inspiration from compassionate staff and so much more. How lovely to see the Ullapool Community Library tree of stacked books. My author heart would swell if I saw my own work in such a pile!
Even the local chipper, The Seaforth, got in on the act with takeaway food cardboard boxes reminding everyone to Keep Scotland Beautiful.
The Ullapool Forget Me Not cafe will be a welcoming and social place for people with dementia to gather with their families and carers. I was especially moved by these simple words that express hope for people impacted by dementia.
The little church was beautifully decorated throughout. These coat-hook decorations caught my eye too! My congratulations to all involved the very first Ullapool Christmas tree Festival, it was a very special visit.Thank you!
When impoverished Scottish families emigrated from the highlands to make new lives in the ‘new world’, they took their traditional music and Gaelic language with them.
The opportunity to see the descendants of those emigrants return to Scotland and perform the music that binds far flung communities is a really special treat! And that’s what happened last night when the Blas Festival celebration of Scottish culture brought Canadians Dawn and Margie Beaton from Mabou, Nova Scotia to Ullapool in the northwest highlands of Scotland.
Mabou is small rural community in Inverness County on the west coast of Nova Scotia’s Cape Breton Island. Celtic traditions are strong and the Gaelic language has been on the school curriculum for thirty years.
The sisters are massively talented women who have been step dancing since the age of 4 and playing fiddle since the age of 5. And, as they told their wowed audience last night, they were taught Gaelic by teacher who emigrated from the Isle of Eriskay.
Here’s a short clip of them performing a sweet, two fiddle, wedding waltz that enchanted the crowd. Dawn and Margie’s talent and warm humour make the sisters great ambassadors for Cape Breton and, if, as they travel the world performing at Celtic Festivals, they come your way, do go and experience the magic! You’ll hear traditional fiddle tunes interspersed with beautiful pieces they have composed, an uplifting blend of old and new.
For more information about the special links that exist between Canada, Nova Scotia and the Scottish highlands, check out Ullapool Museum and especially the story of The Hector a creaky ship that sailed to Pictou, known as the birthplace of New Scotland, with the first wave of brave Scottish families hoping to make new lives in a faraway land at time when the Clearances were sweeping their birthplace.
To discover the beautiful landscape of Ullapool and the wider northwest highland experience, check out my illustrated book North Coast Journey.
I am especially happy wandering along the shore. I am fascinated by different approaches to the sea. Sometimes the beach is backed by a dense forest of skyscrapers and the bright lights of a vibrant city, sometimes a sprinkling of rickety wooden shacks, sometimes nothing but nature.
Here are two of my favourite beaches. The first is in the northwest of England, the second is in the northwest of Scotland. Both are without the company of a concrete jungle. Both are not immediately obvious, they require a little effort to discover, and so the peace is deep and the journey worth it.