Snow! Chasing sunsets and a golden escapee

You either love or hate snow.

If you were to ask my children, they would probably be of the opinion that I fall firmly into the hating-snow camp. But this isn't - always - true.

Yes - the over-protective curmudgeon in me hates driving in it; or trudging through it in an attempt to arrive at the school gate with Littlest, rather than get there and find she has stopped somewhere en route between car and school, dreamily ambling between snow-laden trees looking for "fairy footprints." I also hate falling over in it; don't like it's disintegration into wet, greyish slush, or worse, yellow slush, and am not that keen on snow ball fights.

However, I do like the definition snow gives to the normally undefined - such as the old cart-wheel above; the way it outlines branches of trees; blurs contours and turns the world black and white; and how it somehow softens noise.

Suddenly, on a snowy walk, I can see what the dogs are smelling - rabbits!

A ploughed field becomes a thing of beauty

That 'path less travelled' (Blog post on 31.12.12) takes on a pristine, cold, don't-tread-here-and dare-to-spoil-me beauty, while the one much travelled is full of bear-prints; rugged welly sole-prints and ... dogs.

Where all furrows lead to home - but we have to follow the footpath

And I get to chase sunsets - New Year Resolution ... tick!

Bertie Baggins ... I reckon it's time to use his actual name - much less confusing! ... rather over-enthusiastically chased the sunset. Or perhaps he chased it faster than I was able to keep up (did I plan a dietary/exercise resolution this year?) And slipped his collar. Strictly that should be slipped 'out' of his collar, but he made little effort to slip back in: "I didn't mean to escape, Mum. Honest!"

Watching the snow fall now, I have a growing suspicion that snowman-building; sledging and snow-ball lobbing will all be occurring in the morning ... hmmm ... oops! - what part of me thought it wasn't a good idea to do my daily shovel-poop-scooping patrol of the grass? Too cold today - brown skid marks tomorrow. Yuk!

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Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful. Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here - in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast. Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and

Walking The Dog

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