Soft winter sun. After the storms of the last few days, there is suddenly no wind. Down through the muddy woodland path to the river. This landscape is still a little unfamiliar to me: the way the trees and undergrowth grow right to the cliff edge – the overhanging creepers and plants – the vertically layered shaley rock – soft light, distant sand dunes, and a curlew over open water.
I explore tangled root systems, undermined and exposed where soil has been eroded from the cliff face.
I think about every place on earth being so intensely specific.
I think about landscapes I have known and wandered, and how, over time, they became a permanent part of myself. Or was it the other way round?
I only feel lightly bonded with this place. It is a delightful place to be on a quiet winter morning, but I cannot feel it in my bones, in my existential gut.
I mark out a circle on the rock face with gold foil lametta (angel hair). I have connected myself. The circle shines brilliant gold, dazzling my eyes in the sunshine, and I feel power.