A couple of the best castings from yesterday. Much less formal and more uncontained than I envisaged, these initial attempts are encouraging. I need to find a way of casting them thinner or reducing their thickness once cast, maybe by filing (in order to make them lighter and less prominent). This will allow me then to fix them to an inlay on the book cover.
Wistman’s Wood is alive with twisted, mossy shapes, bearing testimony to the hardships of its ancient existence. The wood has a peace which is striking from the moment you set foot under the canopy. I have been there in winter storms and balmy summer heat and, whether arriving wet and frozen or sun-beaten and parched, a sense of safety, shelter and enduring calm fills me. It is a place where I feel both accepted and wholly accepting.
Trunks, sunshine and shade under the canopy.
The magical Wistman’s Wood, filled with twisted, mossy, stunted oaks. Even when deserted, it is impossible to sit amongst the boulders and trunks and feel alone here.
My route crossed the river once more: brooding sky, cascading, peat-laden water.
The Dart is a beautiful companion, continually moving, tracing lines, shapes, geometries of its own. Descending into the shallow moorland valleys hear the high, embracing pitch of the constant breeze punctuated by its roaring and gurgling. To be near it means to drink, to bathe; cool respite; thirst slaked by cold, peaty water of life.
The West Dart River – beautiful, cool and lively.
The intricately patterned granite monolith displays a texture reminiscent of the patterns in the clouds. The sky and land so frequently seem unified here on the moor.
I have fought shy of the truth of this photograph for some months now. My photographic eye by default favours contrast and shadow whilst here there is little of either, and, as a result, I nearly discarded this image. Now time has passed, I am revelling in the delicacy of the grey, the softness of the light, and a vivid memory of the dampness clinging to the lichen-covered granite.
Sharp wind wrapping ancient stone
Sun, time-telling, spiking earth.
Menhir piercing the millenia
with a howl and a sigh,
drawing its arc,
digging its home,
pointing the endless way.