Autumn 

Autumn 

I begin to find that the observations I have heard my mothers and mothers-in-law make over the years are now my own – I too have had enough of cooking and Christmases.

Telling tales at Crediton Arts Centre this autumn

Telling tales at Crediton Arts Centre this autumn

A new course of creative writing workshops at Crediton Arts Centre might be just the help you need to start getting your story on to the page.

Birdlife

Birdlife

“It was brutal, but wasn’t that what nature was, what we were, made brutal by our drive to survive?”

Poems to grow by

Poems to grow by

“We clamoured to be told the stories she had told us a thousand times before”

Tramp

Tramp

“Once we’ve parted ways and I’ve set off around the fields, trying not to notice the stakes hammered in around the perimeters of both fields, I feel the jolt of reality. To walk here wouldn’t be possible for much longer – once the fence was up, it was up. It wouldn’t be coming down again. Each fence post suddenly feels like a line drawn in the sand.”

Running

Running

‘As an adult I’ve always likened running to ironing – it’s just showing off. I’ve looked at runners and thought, but what are they actually running away from?’

There and back again

There and back again

When we reach the station we discover the Station Tea Room. We push open the door, hovering, masked, in the doorway. “Can we come in?” we ask Dominic and Roger, working at a table. “Of course”, they reply, smiling.

Only Connect

Only Connect

“For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.”
As the light changes I begin to think about the big stuff and Carl Sagan’s wisdoms come to mind.

Rich pickings

Rich pickings

‘One day Theo handed me a roll of electric fencing. “Hold this for a second, Nels,” he said. “You won’t connect it, will you?” I ask. “Nah, course not,” he says.’

Together apart

Together apart

“Sorry,” the woman says to her invisible friend, murmuring hello to the dog as he lifts his head to her in greeting, “it’s just someone holding the gate for me.” Together apart. Together, together again. Sort of.

Making the jump

Making the jump

The swallows return and we host our first gathering in the garden, leading me to reflect on what makes it possible to make leaps of faith.

Cartwheeling

Cartwheeling

The natural world bounds and cartwheels back to life, bringing opportunities for much-missed connections.

The view from the hill

The view from the hill

A reflection on our relationship with the natural world in light of a proposed development on a green field site in Sandford

Bita kaulo munthos

Bita kaulo munthos

February turns from darkness to light as the days lengthen, life begins to push up out of the earth and we find reasons to have hope.

Three carols and a song

Three carols and a song

So this is ChristmasLike most of us, I navigate and feel comforted by the traditions that we wheel out at this time of year; the foods that we cook, the people we see, the stories we tell, the songs that we sing. And this year, 

Imperfect

Imperfect

Learning to embrace imperfection in life and writing

Sandford Scenes – Autumn

Sandford Scenes – Autumn

Like most dog walkers, we regularly walk the same ways with Cooper. One of these is a there-and-back again which runs along the footpath alongside our garden through into Gorwyn’s Field, down past Furlongs and over Lower Creedy bridge, along Thornedges to the river. John 

Sounds of Silence

Sounds of Silence

Sandford is a village in mid Devon. It lies 2 miles north of Crediton and 9 miles north west of Exeter and is one of a number of villages scattered along a sandy valley where the earth is red and ribboned by the river Creedy. 

All Change

All Change

It isn’t always possible to see that things are changing, it can happen so gradually that it’s hard to detect, or you’re so immersed in the moment that you don’t notice – and then you find that suddenly your hair covers your eyes, new lines 

To and Fro

To and Fro

LOCKING DOWNAs lockdown rumbles on, my fantasies begin to revolve around journeys. I roll the memory of driving into the grey January dank on the Saturday A303 around in my head; the cushion of the seat against the back of my legs, the low chatter