On my travels I have seen many beautiful things, heard many beautiful things and met many beautiful people.
These are some:
I met a boy who didn’t like endings.
I found a book, the pages of which were filled with horse magic.
I met a woman who stirred a huge barrel of indigo dye, a living thing of glorious colour.
I drank tea with a woman who sold me an amulet that has travelled through time and desert, weaving stories.
I stayed in a house where Nelson had walked, slept, loved.
I stood on the evening edges of open fields and watched hares.
I drove along roads as narrow as the van, grass growing up the centre and yellowhammers threaded through the hedges in colour and in song.
I met a man who had run a pub in London where the Kray brothers drank, and then by coincidence I met a woman who had run a nearby pub where they had gone to drink too. Both had very different experiences of these violent men.
I met a woman who, as a girl had swept the floors of Edward Ardizzone’s studio in exchange for books.
I stood in a bluebell wood watching buzzards fly beneath the leaf roof.
I watched wagtails, yellow and pied, dank in the air above clear river water, and listened to the river song.
I saw lapwing dance over golden reed beds while bitterns boomed and marsh harriers coursed the golden beds in search of small birds, slow flapping astonishing flight. Behind them herons lifted into the sky.
I listened to nightingales singing in the darkness while a shooting star blazed a trail across the sky.
I saw a barn owl, pale as a ghost, whitest owl I have ever seen, carrying a vole home to her nest.
I watched from the sidelines as a whole town bedecked itself with gorse and bluebells and danced through the street to a brass band and the beat of a great drum.
I saw four foxes at a fields edge, going about their wild business, careless of the ways of men.
I drank at the Blue Anchor in Helston, but not too much.
I talked with a young boy, six years old and a head filled with stories and ambition to write. I was that child once.
I met a woman, who with her husband had raised two hares and set them free into the wild again.
I watched small brown fish in clear water rivers.
I met, or almost met, a quiet woman who sat back from a story telling session in a bluebell wood and drew. A woman who has carved a beautiful four poster bed in another secret woodland, a bed of great beauty.
I sat quietly waiting in bee buzzing woodland with the beautiful Jan, watching as the bees hunted for pollen in the heavy scented blue bells.
And at Fowey I heard a most remarkable piece of writing. It was the poem that won the oldest section in the Fowey Festival poetry prize:
Breathe the air through your skin
They call us wild; scream it from the backs of raw throats
Can you hear the drumbeat of feet against rocks?
When I jump. I watch time pass in mirror shards
Recognize my form falling
Feel gravity heave me to fresh soil
They call me water for I cannot walk
I run through rocks, the woods that made me
Roar and whisper long lost poetry in my ears
Feel it slide through my hair under my chin
Leaving a comets tail where I dance
Call me wild for here I am nameless
Lie on the grass bed under the soft rose sky
Watch the spider web patterns on your hands
Your stone engravings a lost art
These carbon creations give much, ask for little
Be unapologetic wild one
People often ask me where I get my inspiration. Ears, eyes, heart, soul and mind, open. That’s where.