Saturday May 2nd 2026 - no water
I return to my pond to find there is no longer water, just a muddy surface. My circle of sticks is still there, showing where once water reached. The surface is pitted with small deep holes - maybe made by an animal - rocks poke out of the mud. I walk around searching – what’s become of the tadpoles? Have they had time to grown legs and hop off before the water went; have they buried themselves in the still sticky mud - have they all been eaten?? I am disappointed; in fact, I am really fed up and somewhat thrown - I had plans that involved water.
I sit on the banks and look around at the starting-to-green branches reaching skyward, the mass of damp still-decaying leaves, patches of moss, twigs, tiny seed cups strewn on the ground. Flecks of white fluffy seeds drift by slowly on unseen air currents, a rustle in the grass and a grey squirrel dashes through the undergrowth; above me fleeting glimpses of birds flying from tree to tree
Closing my eyes I slow my breathing and listen.
All around is bird song – an intensive insistent joyous sound of a song thrush. There’s also a robin, a blue tit, chaffinch, wood pigeon, jackdaw, nuthatch, green woodpecker and the caw of a passing crow. Somewhere in distant fields there’s the occasion bleat of sheep and lowing of cows, a faint barking of a dog and, what I take to be, shouts from its owner.
I walk round my stick-defined circumference of the 'pond' again, noticing small tracks leading away from the pond.. perhaps signs of comings and goings. I follow – they lead in amongst the tangle of trees, some end in dead-ends, others go further - deeper into the wood. I become aware of an intense perfume, and track it down to small pale flowers of hawthorn.
Returning to sit on the banks again I look bleakly over the circle of mud, eat a sandwich and phone home. I’m told to ‘just work with what you’ve got – get on with it!’
Emptying my rucksack of art materials, I set off to collect water from a nearby stream, and back at the ‘pond’ begin to draw and paint. I make a series of small studies, glancing across the rich, thick pitted mud surface, the mass of twigs and leaves – bright greens of new, fading browns of old – the deep shadows beyond, patches of flickering light that come and go, blue sky. Intuitive mark-making, my hand following and responding as my eyes moves from the mud, through crisscrossing tree branches and up to patches of sky. A blackbird lands and scuff around in the leaves. Perhaps my paintings also include the bird song and smells that fills the air.
Collecting a jar of sticky brown soil and a jar of decaying leaf-mould and twigs, I discover several torn pieces of paper I’d buried on an earlier trip. One is folded, and, as I peel it carefully apart, looks like some ancient document
I’m not sure how long I’ve been here; it begins to rain, slowly at first, fast as I pack up. I shelter under a tree for a while, watching light changing beyond the wood as the rain slants across it, then, as it subsides, make a dash through the fields back to the studio.
