Abstract Landscape Painter.  Rural Dweller.  Lover of Modernist Art and Design.

7 January

Another bright and icy day.

The kestrel is back, successfully employing her “perch and pounce” technique on the local vole population.

We decide that it is a good day to trim our two small apple trees (aided by Barry’s book on pruning, of course).  With rather numb fingers, we clip and lop last year’s growth in order to recreate more compact and less cluttered shapes.  Just before we complete the task, a loud chorus of cheeping and chattering begins in a nearby ash tree.  The garden birds are growing impatient.  We have kept them from the feeders for far too long!  As soon as we step a couple of metres back from the trees, the first ones zoom in, and by the time that we are in the house, looking out, about twenty are squabbling over the food.  There is some serious eating time to catch up on before dusk!

All text & images ©2018 Carol Saunderson

http://anartistinthelandscape.blogspot.co.uk/

Abstract Landscape Painter.  Rural Dweller.  Lover of Modernist Art and Design.

6 January

Twelfth Night begins with a sharp frost and clear, pale, blue sky.  The dissolving moon hangs over the garden at the rear of the cottage.  The rooftops beneath are coated in thick, white rime.  Millie races back in, leaping from lawn to decking - which is like an ice rink - and somehow manages to brake like a figure skater, just before the back door.  How that dog keeps those four, stick-like legs from going in different directions, I will never know!

Lavenham is resplendent in the winter sunshine.  Its houses of Suffolk pink and ochre glow warmly in the cold air.  Walking past the Priory, I hear a deep, rippling, “tchoo, tchoo”.  Standing proudly on the pinnacle of the steep roof of this white, 13th century building, is a large dove of the same colour.  It looks like the figurehead on the prow of an ancient vessel.  There is a theory that some of the timbers of such medieval houses were recycled from old ships.  Whether this is true or not, I like the idea.  I often look at our own small ceiling, with its gnarled, strong central beam and curving ribs, and feel as if I am looking at a hull from below.  I like to think that, in some past life, our small house, before it came to settle here, had adventures on the high seas!

The kestrel returns during the early afternoon.  Although I am not sure, at first, if it is a different, larger bird.  Looking through field glasses, I can see that it is a female, and the reason that it looks larger is because today it is not puffing its feathers and bending into the wind.  As we watch, she suddenly swoops down from her perch on the fence post to the grass below.  A successful kill is made and off she flies towards some nearby trees to eat or cache the vole.

The bird of prey is not the only hunter out today. I am carrying in some kindling at 3pm and hear gunshots echoing across the valley from the distant woods.  A pheasant shoot is underway.

All text & images ©2018 Carol Saunderson

http://anartistinthelandscape.blogspot.co.uk/

Abstract Landscape Painter.  Rural Dweller.  Lover of Modernist Art and Design.

5 January

As we set off this morning, Barry our elderly neighbour and font of all useful gardening and building advice, hails us cheerfully from his garden.  “Aconites”, he says, pointing to the flowerbed just in front of his feet.  I lean over the rosemary hedge to see five or six buttery-yellow globes emerging from the earth.  They are each about the size of a small marble, and seated on top of a crown of narrow leaves.  Soon they will be open to form a scattering of rich yellow cups set against the dark earth and surrounding shrubbery.

Even in these winter months there is vivid colour to be seen.  One of the features of the landscape around where we live, is the proliferation of small woods and copses.  Today we pass three, and I pause to look at the bright yellowy-green of some of the trunks and the pale spots of lichen covering the bark of a another young tree. Apparently lichen is an indicator of air quality, but my main interest in it is as a pattern of contrasting oval shapes on the slender, linear structure.

In the early afternoon, the cloud lifts to permit the sun to warm and brighten the colours further.  Whilst having a break from painting, I spot a kestrel sitting on a post on the edge of the meadow. Despite the increasing sunshine, the air is still bitingly cold, and the small bird has puffed its feathers against the buffeting wind.

All text & images ©2018 Carol Saunderson

http://anartistinthelandscape.blogspot.co.uk/

Abstract Landscape Painter.  Rural Dweller.  Lover of Modernist Art and Design.

4 January

This morning we take a different route and walk along the lane towards the church and the Hall.  Once out on the ridge, I can see for several miles in each direction.  The sky is flat grey and the chill air is damp and clinging.  The cold penetrates the fingers of my gloves. The moisture in the atmosphere is what my mother would have called “mizzle” - that hybrid of mist and drizzle. What is most noticeable, however, as we descend the hill, is the stillness.  With almost no air movement today, there is a welcome silence after the battering storm.

The road winds down between high hedges. Their auburn and mauve/scarlet branches makes them stand out against the leaden sky.  Something about their colour and roughly woven structure makes me think of a pirate’s beard from childhood literature!  From them comes the chitter-chatter of numerous small birds, who dart rapidly in and out, down the line ahead of me. Three large oaks emerge from the right-hand hedge.  Crows flap about lazily in their naked branches, flying up and down to the field below where, until recently, sheep were grazing.

All text & images ©2018 Carol Saunderson

http://anartistinthelandscape.blogspot.co.uk/

Abstract Landscape Painter.  Rural Dweller.  Lover of Modernist Art and Design.

3 January

3.15am.  The pattering of tiny paws again.  Millie is pacing due to the recent arrival of storm Eleanor.  The wind is howling round the cottage and the trees outside the window are thrashing and creaking.  The wheelbarrow has been transported from its usual peaceful posture and its handle is clanging intermittently against a metal container, as if someone is randomly ringing a tuneless bell.  We allow the anxious dog to jump up and bury herself rapidly beneath a woollen blanket which lies on top of the duvet at the foot of the bed.  She curls up between two pairs of feet. She inhales a short gasp and then exhales a long....slow....breath....hhhhhhhhhhh - relief!

We are up at 5.30am for B’s journey to work, which does not seem like a good idea in the present conditions.  Left alone (Millie is still buried under the blanket) I tend to the stove through which the air is gusting, despite the fact that both the vents are shut tight.  I find just one small spark amidst the bed of ash, but it is enough to light fresh paper and kindling, and very soon a small friendly glow is warming the coffee pot and lighting the darkness of a winter morning.  Somehow, when one is alone, a fire is companionship.

Later in the morning I take Millie for a walk around the old airfield.  We get blown along the route by Eleanor, who is still with us, shoving an invisible hand into our backs!  I pause to look at some trees and to take a couple of photos, but we still complete the route several minutes faster than usual.  Shortly before home, I catch a glimpse of three, small, stocky little birds in the hedgerow.  They have deep-apricot coloured chests and black caps.  The bullfinches move along the line of brambles and bushes in front of us, in a kind of Mexican wave.  

When we return, I head straight into my little studio, crank up the fan heater and switch on the radio.  It’s good to be back.

All text & images ©2018 Carol Saunderson

http://anartistinthelandscape.blogspot.co.uk/

Abstract Landscape Painter.  Rural Dweller.  Lover of Modernist Art and Design.

2 January

I am woken at 5.45am by the pattering of paws on a wooden floor, followed by their gentle scratching at the door.  Millie is telling me that she needs to be let out to go to the loo.

I open the kitchen door and look out over the garden to see the first and largest supermoon of the year on its morning descent.  It hangs like a huge, pale, pearlescent lamp in an inky blue sky, presiding over a scene of perfect stillness.  The valley beyond the garden appears to be made of pewter and I can see for miles.

Later, the sun rises in a bold display of crimson and gold - looking regal, but foretelling the arrival of wet and windy weather.  Its glory is soon shrouded in grey cloud.

After returning from a morning walk, I fill the bird feeders and notice the first snowdrops and crocuses emerging from one of the beds.  A gentle rain begins to fall and I remember that storm Eleanor is on her way.

All text & images ©2018 Carol Saunderson

http://anartistinthelandscape.blogspot.co.uk/

Abstract Landscape Painter.  Rural Dweller.  Lover of Modernist Art and Design.

New Year’s Day 2018

The day began with toothache - not the most auspicious start to the new year, but one that I was determined would not spoil my fun.  A couple of painkillers, a salt wash and a hot water bottle followed my gingerly eaten breakfast, before we set off to explore a new route.  Friends had recently introduced us to a walk that we had not previously known and I had worked out that we could link it to one that we did, providing us with a circuitous path of about 2 hours length.

We followed the lane down to the old church as usual and then uphill towards the wood.  There had been rain overnight, but the mud underfoot was manageable, with not too much slipping or squelching.  The sky was bright and pale blue and the air still and fresh.  It made everything seem unsullied and hopeful, as befits a New Year’s Day.  

Following the line of the wood to the left, we then turned right and passed through a pungent stable yard.  It’s not a smell that I find unpleasant and somehow reminds me of the of the interior of a shotgun barrel ( from when, as a child, my father used to let me clean his 12 bore...as you do...).  A horse, walking round and round in an automatic walker, paused briefly to watch our small procession.  It looked somewhat offended as the the crossbeam continued on and smacked it on the bottom, encouraging it to press on with its exercise. We crossed the drive of a large and ancient house and then followed the footpath through the fields until our neighbouring village came into view.  Had we more courage, we could have turned right just before the houses, but being slightly unsure, we played safe and went to the road and along as far as the pub, where we recognised the small bridge that our friends had shown us.  We crossed it and easily found our way through the sheep fields and back to the cottage .

Just prior to home, we saw a muntjac trotting along the path ahead of us.  It seemed unaware of our presence and carried briskly along until disappearing into small the wood on our right.  Millie, our sight hound, who had missed the whole thing, picked up the scent and hurried to the spot where it had last been in view.  She did well on what has been her longest trek since a recent illness.  Good to see her lively and enthusiastic once again!

During the afternoon, as we sat reading in the kitchen, B alerted me to the presence of a hawk, hovering above the garden, about 3 metres away. The light from the setting sun cast it into a rose/gold background.

Now the cloud has come and the fire is lit and there are tea and homemade, spiced biscuits to tuck into - carefully avoiding that dodgy tooth!  Happy New Year!

All text & images ©2018 Carol Saunderson

http://anartistinthelandscape.blogspot.co.uk/