Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

The Snow Child  is inspired by the Russian fairy tale The Little Daughter of the Snow. I am partial to a renewal of an old tale, it's a reminder that the important themes of humanity don't change so much. It is set in 1920s Alaska, and the landscape forms a good part of the story. Jack and Mabel are looking for a new life, looking to escape the grief of losing a baby. They find solid happy company in their neighbours. They find a child who lives feral in the wilderness. The rest I won't spoil for you, even if you can guess the story. This is a book that encompasses the visceral truth of nature but doesn't dwell in the negative. Neither does it enforce a positivist view. It flows and describes: 'She had no way to know its age or gender, but there was something in the light-colored chin and long, coarse whiskers that reminded her of an old man's beard. From a distance the otter gave a comical, mischievous impression, but when it slithered close Mab

Finished reading the book I'd like to share rather early this morning and have not written a review today for which I do apologise. Will be joining the party tomorrow/later today (depending on when this apology is read.) Meanwhile please do enjoy Dog's well groomed smile :-)

If I pick a moment to savour it's often coffee. There are other things, other colours, textures, scents, flavours, sounds that draw emotive pictures all over every level of my brain and soul. But often, it's coffee. This morning somehow the flask, the dinky pink crackled flask brimming with cold perky coffee for optimum morning alertness, is left on the kitchen worktop. Thoughts of it standing by the red plastic kettle and the crumby white toaster, waiting, have to suffice. In the supermarket there is something I am supposed to buy yet forget: the lure of bargains, perhaps the thought of biscuit dunked, the classic bitter sweet: anyway, the self-serve checkout beeps through two organic chocolatey packets: it fritters away a mere pound sterling. At home, an old friend arrives, all the way from France, unexpected: how lovely then, to have biscuits! And post arrives, in a box. A box of Vietnamese coffee. A thick brew at lunchtime accompanies a retrospective: t

My old friend the river returns: runs softly by, waves as though we had seen each other only yesterday. Sit down, the burbles say, down here on the felled tree bench. Swing your feet and dream. Sing Dock Of The Bay . See how the foliage reflects, and the sky, tessellating portions of coloured water. Line up sticks to lob for Dog, it's safe for her to swim. -Sitting in the morning sun- A heft cut from a horizontal trunk; that water, cheery calm, carrying images of quivery leaves. Feet catch in the surface. Dog's cape of wake spreads behind her. -I'll be sitting when the evening comes- Time is out: not stopped or the river would not move: we're just: out. -Watching the ships come in- A leaf plays the part, though it's inexpertly navigated. 'Hey leaf, when's my ship coming in?' It pretends not to have heard. Maybe it dislikes the cliché. Clichaic: that should be a word. Should it? As in: read this novella, you'll h

'I fancy a walk to the woods, to see that upended tree,' Mr says. His eyes are narrowed, ready for peering. We look out of the windows. Debris blown from hedges and bins escapes across the currant patch. Cloud cover; unfathomable. Plaintive whir of wind circles the old aerial. Thoughtful furrows mark his face. 'It might not be the weather for it.'  We try the back windows, just in case. Next door's tall fir bends. Is that a full ninety degrees? I'm thinking. He says: 'Beach?' We know at Northcott Mouth these winter storms have uncovered remains of a wrecked ship; we have no tide table, we just like the idea of it. It's enough. Once you have the spark, you should follow it. The espresso pot burbles. Coal scrapes loudly from the scuttle into the red mouth of the little Rayburn. Goodbye house! Where the wreck lies, the waves are foaming. They make sea-snow over sharp dark rocks. Foam bobbles fly over bared pebbles

 Somehow over Dartmoor there seems to be more sky: more headspace. It's the perfect place for freethinking wanderers. The ground is bogged, so land level observation is required except when the boots strike granite. It's rare indeed to sink in granite. Astride the Tor top rock eyes lift to see how clouds pattern. How fleeting it appears; how easily dark and light can shift. Yes, I suppose the lesson is just this. Refreshed by literally lofty thought, feet follow spindly trails through low gorse. As though an old grass tussock there transmutes, a bird suddenly exists and flies. A mouth, awed, forms an Oh. And while this distraction leaves a sharp impression of fine beige feathers, the eyes swoop further, inspired, vaguely aware of a person paused up on an outcrop; standing somewhat short of stature, rotund in a white puffer jacket. Oh! The person shifts, reveals four legs: is actually a sheep.

A diversion from routine today: word play has ensued offline and here I have a series of pictures from my second walk to the storm felled tree.  Picking up a camera (or a sketchbook) is another way to interpret to yourself what in your surroundings is beautiful, inspiring, worthy of appreciation. Some locations are easier than others :-)