Dawn in pink and blue; sunlight becomes rain, becomes sleet, becomes snow, hills transform. Horizons vanish, vistas shrink - a snow globe in life, briefly shaken by the weather. A hush gathers with the fall, even the birds cease singing, for a while.
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Rare days, topsy turvy days, all stood on it's head. We breakfast late watching the snow, mesmerised by a fleeting marvel. Lunch becomes dinner, dinner lunch, plans cast adrift; this and the weather rare occurrences both. My man walks in the snow fall, flushes a woodcock - picture and story, nothing wasted. I gather ingredients, nourishment in between work, feeding internal fires - apple and cheddar for soda bread, mushrooms and cider for soup and cake to fill the corners. Mind and hands drift between writing and drawing, planning and creating, always moving. It is best this way; one idea gives rise to another, movement generating warmth, momentum sustained.
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Cosy, timeless, cocooned and fire lit - mementos from last week's yearly escape. Hearth and home, they fit the mood of the day. Time suspended and imagination fired, a flood of fuel for word and picture all dressed up in different houses from different times. This place never gets old, always something new. Woodsmoke drifts lazily from chimneys; I settle to shape a future.
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St Fagans National Museum of History
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