Honeysuckle bomb shelter

  I leant on the fell gate earlier, before the thunder came,  and watched a dove grey cloud, in the shape of a dragon, sail along the ridge and dissolve; I was trying to think of whether or what to write to you, after such a long break. It was snowing last time I wrote and today has been the hottest day of the year. I've never left such a long gap in writing this blog and I wonder why that is;  because I think if I'm honest it's the part of my creative life that I find, have found, to be the most enjoyable and useful. I'm alone a lot these days and maybe I've lost my voice, or just the confidence to use it? There seem to be so many voices, so many images and opinions and although every day I wander and ponder and think and look, it has seemed unnecessary to add more to the noise.Anyway, I'm determined to write something now that I've started, so I suppose I'll begin with places. Here is the view up the valley, where I sat earlier today  peering through the feathery meadow grass after my dip it the beck. I wander down there most days and Nutmeg Cat comes too, sometimes there's a big gap in our visits though and when we go back everything has changed (he was very surprised when the bracken appeared like a lush jungle and made new ambush games a possibility). Last night the air was full of moths and the smell of honey, that heather scent that reminds me of all the summers I've ever had.For some reason hot summer days always do bring childhood memories - the smell of warm tarmac , the feel of bare feet on grass. Last week I had a really special time down in Wiltshire with the West Country bits of my family. It was wonderful to walk in a landscape so different to the Lakes, big skies and the chalk meadows above the white horse at Cherhill, a billowing magic carpet of wildflowers and butterflies, even the air sounded different as it whispered through barley fields and sang like eerie uilleann pipes through a metal five bar gate. Visting Wiltshire always feels a bit magical and nostalgic, in my mind it's always summer, always a bit golden and bleached out like a 1970s photograph; this time I even fell off my bike and got a scab on my knee for added 70's authenticity!  So as well as doing some XR things in Bristol, weaving offerings for the Avebury clootie tree and  visiting the window at Lacock (where the first ever photograph was taken), we went to see the house I'd lived in in 1978/9 when I was 11 ish and my parents borrowed a beautiful pink stone, house belonging to the artist Richard Smith. It was the year that I got obsessed with the white horse at Uffington after watching The Moon Stallion on TV and also the year I started "big" school; beginning the whole tummy ache and tantrum strewn  process of puberty, trying to fit in with the wrong accent /shoes /clothes /attitude and trying to avoid going to the massive school in Chippenham while my brother went to the tiny village one next the house, where I think I can remember him learning to make fudge and plant carrots! There is a point to all this reminiscing, I just can't quite catch it yet...I think I have it, I think it's places and memory and getting older. I suppose that year in Wiltshire marked a point in my life where I still retreat in my head... still safely a child with no responsibility but old enough to wander and cycle about the lanes or clatter about in the neighbouring churchyard in my clogs, being a pony, lost in an imaginary world of magical horses, standing stones and mysterious jumbled up stories of myth and legend. I read quite a lot of "children's" books at the moment ( most recently The Girl Who Speaks Bear and Lampie and the Children of the Sea .... read them, you must!) and it seems no accident that the characters are often that age or round abouts ...so here's the point and the reason I'm in a muddle....I just paid the final balance for a thing I booked whilst in a fit of January gloom, the same day I ordered pair of silver boots when I probably ought to have bought a SAD lamp or some heating oil. Anyway, it's a week's "picture books" workshop at Moniak Mhor, Scotland's Creative Writing Centre with James Mayhew, Sarah McIntyre and Pam Smy (who are all illustration super stars) and it cost more than I earn in a month. I must be mad? Imposter Syndrome walloped me immediately I'd pressed "send" on the deposit, even though I was about to begin a paid commission to illustrate The Secret Garden and people do occasionally buy my pictures it still felt really self indulgent and anyway...what have I got to say to children now that mine are grown and I'm coming apart faster than that cloud dragon? One thing working in a bookshop tells you, if you ever doubted it, there are a LOT of wonderful books out there.Well, I've paid now and I think it will be inspirational and scary and fabulous . Truth be told it is unlikely to help me make a living but then, all the money I invested in doing Trade Shows didn't really do that trick either.  Making a living as an artist or writer is never going to be easy and whist I long for a place that could be Home for long enough to plant a tree or two, I know I am lucky to live like I do, it's just a question of believing it's ok and not panicking too much about time being short. When I grow up I want to be.....Now for a bit of housekeeping... I've just delivered work to the new Maker's Mill in Keswick which opens on Saturday 3rd August. On Wednesday 7th of August until September 3rd I'll have a shop space at Craftsmen at the Priory in Lanercost (where I was a guest exhibitor last year) and there will soon be new workshop dates announced on my website, including one at Dove Cottage in Grasmere. Ok, that's me done, time to go to bed and read . I hope you've kept cool in the heatwave and I hope I didn't put you to sleep with my ramblings. x*Blog title inspired by a panic stricken, last minute, homework project we "helped" with at my brother and his girlfriend's house...Reading: The House of Glass by Susan FletcherListening to : Possession by AS Byatt and "Life's what you make it" Talk Talk