Leaf Vigurs

Standing in the back garden tonight it is already long since dark, and the patio and beds are illuminated by a single outside light. In the all too brief dry cold days I did as much of the winter pruning as I could, hard pruning the rose into a permanent frame work and further defining the characters of all the deciduous trees captured in their pots. Now, still damp from today’s rain, I am able to see the shape of the beds beginning to take form. Much of them are newly planted, not even a year yet, but I smile to see the Garryra eliptica has now reached the height of the fence and maybe next year we will see its first catkins. In my mind I am already rearranging pots, visualising next year’s growth and considering the next layer of planting. Standing in a cool breeze in the dark a sudden image of it on a sunny May day springs to me and I can feel its warmth. I am delighted at the old Butler sink Alice’s grandparents bought her, and I consider where it will sit within the garden, and what plants should frame it. Now she can have her own personal space to plant and grow and discover the joy of it all.

In the shed a hare waits, slowly emerging from a block of ash on those rainy days when it is too wet to step onto the garden. When finished he will sit on the ash stump in the main centre bed to mark William Harrison’s place in the house’s history, and I look forward to placing him so he can gaze towards the church and welcome all who visit. (William Harrison; rebus ‘Hare in Sun’ Rector of Radwinter between 1558 and 1593).

No doubt like many gardeners I struggle to find time for our garden, often spending just one day a week working in it while the majority of my time is dedicated to working in other people’s. It is a privilege to do so, and the opportunity to share in their gardens is an invaluable one. By doing so I tap into a vast resource of years of experience, and I have come to realize that all of my gardens feed each other. There is a growing relationship between them, and though all have their individual charms and personalities I feel less and less division between them. Certainly without them our own garden would be much impoverished and so I have a feeling of gratitude to all of my clients.

Despite the lack of time, and often a feeling of urgency to get important jobs done within their correct time frames, what I have discovered is that there is a gentleness to gardening. It cannot be forced or rushed, and the development of a garden is seen in years and decades. Recently I spoke to someone who had visited one of my client’s gardens in the summer. She said “it looked cared for”, a simple comment that beautifully captured all I could hope for.

We have been here three years now, such a tiny fragment of a gardens life, and that one day a week I have in it is precious. In that time I have done a lot that I wanted to and it has given, and continues to give me great pleasure. Naturally there is so much more I would like to do and there are no real shortcuts in gardening. Yet at every opportunity I am watching its progress and fine tuning its future, and even tonight, in the dark as the rain begins to fall again it is hard to tear myself away and come inside.

Time…..is an elusive thing. Three years full of long moments vanish in the blink of an eye. As I grow older I grow interested in fewer and fewer things, but those that remain become deeper and richer and more marvellous. Time becomes more precious. “This day will not come again. Each minute is worth a priceless gem”. (Takuan Soho)

I like the idea of a blog, an opportunity to reflect and to share. But in truth my head has always been more full of pictures than words and I reflect far more easily with pencil strokes and colour than with a keyboard.

Then our daughter was born and my world was full of her.

Days and nights full of wondrous tiredness and new eyes watch it all. She watches me too and I wonder what she sees, and my reflections also grow deeper and richer and more marvellous.

After three years absence I still like the idea of a blog though I suspect I will always draw more than I write. However I realise that her story will outlast my own and if for no other reason it will be nice to leave words as well as pictures, though neither will be enough to express my love for her.

I have always found mountains to be magical places. They are spaces like no other, and they change with the weather and the time. Today the sky was painted with a thick curtain of cloud that hung overhead, and the air was cool in the breeze. Following the path behind the cottage takes you through the last strip of pinewood, before the land begins to rise through the thinning treeline. The dark green evergreens give way to birch and hawthorn scattered in an increasingly rocky panorama, as lichen encrusted stone begins to push through the now boggy ground. Life clings to every surface and also to itself, and a sudden change of focus reveals a landscape in miniature. A Lilliputian forest of mosses and lichens carpets the ground so thickly whole worlds are hidden. If not another step was taken there would still not be time to fully explore here.

The first time I walked up Cadair Idris it was a beautiful mystery. The path fades out somewhere between the bog and the first ridge and the landscape disappears into the distance. Endless never quite repeating  patterns  of twisted trees and rocks seem to offer no bearings. It took a few more visits before I started to recognize identifiable features. A bank of broken trees to the right of the bog leads to the first folds of stone to emerge from the earth. They grow to form the backbone of the mountain. Stone walls crisscross in all directions,  yet once  familiar they pinpoint you in space.

A line of a fenced wall leads upwards, while the coarse grass conceals patches of almost black marsh that suck at your feet. Here and there clumps of heather punctuate the hillside, their purples and lilacs perfectly complementing the pale turf.

Though the ground rises it also obscures a deep crack. Carved into the soft earth by a thin stream of tumbling water, a fissure forms its own micro-climate. Climbing down into this secret space I am abruptly aware of its silence, no wind penetrates here. Permanently damp walls are daubed with yet more species of mosses and lichens, somehow finding enough light in the shadow to survive. The crack continues to descend into the depths of a pool of crystal clear water, before vanishing into a rich terracotta sediment.

Emerging from this subterranean world it is the wind that I notice first. Although not strong  it is pervasive, and full of a playful energy that dances in invisible eddies. It murmurs through grass and over rock, and whispers through trees. I am reminded that though unseen the air is as much a part of the landscape as the mountain. We place so much importance in that which is substantial, visible and quantifiable, yet solidity itself is defined by emptiness.

I love the mountain. I feel small here. In its great lifetime it will not even notice me, while I am in awe at its beauty. I have been here under brilliant blue skies and baking sun, and I have come back in the rain and walked in the swirling clouds. Sometimes I have slid over frozen bog, and I have clung to boulders buffeted by winds as they race over the summit. There is no bad weather, it is always perfect.

Today the cloud remained low and a brooding Payne’s grey. Its shadow desaturated the land of colour, so when the sun began to break through its cover the sudden brightness was startling. Where sunlight hits the adjacent hillside the grass is a bright ochre.

I am reminded of a book I once read by a scientist who studied both consciousness and zen. Gazing on some yellow winter jasmine, she asked herself, where in fact did the colour yellow actually exist? It cannot be said to exist in the flower petals, which will appear to be a different colour when viewed with a different kind of eye, for instance that of the bee. Yet it cannot be found in the head either. Different wavelengths of light hit the back of the eye, and ultimately cause some nerve cells to fire more than others. This means yellow, but where is that yellow? My not knowing makes me smile.

Here and now it does not matter. The mountain is beautiful and we are happy to be here. There is no rush, and there is nothing to achieve. As the sun begins to dip we turn and start to head back to the cottage. We follow the water as it percolates downhill, and I become absorbed in the sensation of walking. The rhythm of footfall changes with the terrain, as rock becomes heath, becomes marsh, becomes woodland. Breath, heart-rate, balance, stride, speed… All are constantly changing, adjusting and fine tuning. In fact walking is an infinitely complicated action which we can do without thinking about. Yet consciously enjoyed it is amazing.

Returning to the Dref Gerrig is like coming home.  I have always felt a great feeling of freedom and peace on the mountain. Sharing this experience with others is a great pleasure and I feel tremendously fortunate to be able to do so. Each time is different, and there is still mystery here.  Dref Gerrig is my bridge to that place, and my home while I am there.

‘Dref Gerrig’ (House of Stone) has for nearly fifteen years now been a place of refuge.  It is over a five hour drive from where we currently live in Essex, traveling west across the country up motorways and monotonous grey A roads, till eventually the fields and plains begin to blossom into hillside somewhere between Shrewsbury and the Welsh border. The A483 forgets its long straight past and carelessly wriggles its way through woods, over bridges, and past the sheep and tiny houses that cling to the rocky landscape. The land either side rises majestically and the colours change from browns and greys into greens and oranges. Hills slowly mature into mountains.

Dref Gerrig itself is located on the lower slopes of Cadair Idris, a mountain 892 metres high to the south of the Snowdonia National Park. It is the first mountain I ever knew, having been taken there by my dad a good many years ago. It is also a place I feel a little closer to my grandad, a keen cyclist who once cycled there and carried his bike up Foxes Path, a 300 metre scree run, to the summit. Though by no means a big mountain, only the 19th tallest in Wales, it is a beautiful place, and the sight of it on the final approach to Dolgellau always fills me with a deep contentment.

The road from Dolgellau to the cottage is a slightly nerve wracking affair, as the road narrows and rises steeply alongside a sudden drop to the river. Fortunately Dref has its own meandering drive, off the road and away from local drivers with more carefree attitudes to blind corners. Pulling up behind the cottage feels like coming home, and the familiar clank and squeak of the gate welcomes us.

Dref is a seventeenth century dry stone cottage. Heated by two wood burning stoves, its thick walls soon warm and keep out all moods of weather. It has everything that matters (kettle, kitchen, bath and shower, comfy chairs), and a strange collection of things that don’t (dart board, electric piano, gorilla, and various pictures including Constable’s The Haywain’). Perhaps as importantly, it has no television or internet, and I have never used the radio there. I was a little disappointed to discover that mobile coverage now creeps intermittently inside the house, but there is a reason mobile phones have an off button.

To the front of the cottage is low wall, a place to sit and drink tea, while gazing out to the mountains across the sheep speckled fields. Behind lies a stretch of mixed woodland, the dark pines and conifers give it a brooding appearance, and hide the rocks and boulders that have tumbled down the mountain. The surrounding dry stone walls gently subside into shapeless mounds carpeted in moss, and lichens of all shapes drip from the trees. In the day buzzards patrol the sky and lizards scuttle in shadows, and at night bats perform their acrobatics while owls call out to each other.

It is a beautiful place to be and a beautiful place to share with people. I was introduced by good friends, and have since shared it with other good friends including my brother. Life can seem to speed past so quickly, so this time a five hour drive was a small price to pay to be here for the first time with my wife.

I began to wonder if she would love the mountain as much as me…

The moment he came in the door I wanted to draw him. He was as yet unstooped by age, with white shoulder length unruly hair and a meandering beard creeping across a lined face. He was chuckling to himself, and his eyes twinkled behind spectacles. He weaved slightly as he walked in…and as he walked out too. The tutor looked round to see where he’d gone, then got on with setting up chairs and a table.

There were in fact two models at the portrait class. The other, a proud black woman,  sat quickly and held her pose. As we began the old man bumbled back into the room, and was herded towards a chair encircled by our easels. A pose was set and I started to draw.  He sat still for about a minute then turned round, to talk to  the other model behind him. Somehow she  fended off his attempts at conversation without moving. He turned his attention back to us. He rocked back and forth, talked, joked, laughed and gesticulated. He was Scottish, and held strong opinions on philosophy, celebrity and George Galloway.  He did not support Scottish independence. He asked a girl in the class why there were  so many zips on her jeans. She didn’t seem to know. As his attention moved around the room so did his posture. It was like trying to hit a moving target. I stopped trying to measure, and take proportions. I stopped worrying about accuracy. Throwing charcoal at my board I tried to somehow capture his spirit. I started to wish I’d used a bigger piece of paper.

During the tea break he sung an old folk tune. And he was good. The talking stopped and we stood and listened, then some nervously joined in. When he stopped singing there was silence, then applause to hide our sudden emotion.

After the break he was quieter, although he never quite stopped moving. Though his face seemed defined by old laughter lines, I thought I saw sadness too. Lost in his own thoughts, at the centre of our focus, he seemed very alone. It is a strange experience, intently studying a person in an attempt to draw them. Sometimes you almost forget they are there. I think at times he forgot we were there too.

In the last session I ground four sticks of charcoal into the paper trying to fix him to it. I did not succeed.  His spirit was too elusive and it escaped me. I hope to one day have another chance.