We are returned from The West, where everything is eventual.
However, there is a house to straighten and an awful lot of washing to be done, so updates will remain short and snappy for the interim.
In the meantime, please enjoy these images
and some light music.
Normal transmission will be resumed.
The Weather Gods finally grace you with a clear evening, so you hurry down to the beach, camera in hand.
The sun has touched the horizon line as you get there, and you begin to snap away. And then, you stop. This is something new, and not an event to be witnessed through a viewfinder.
The sun is sinking as you watch. Over thirty seconds it shrinks to a half-coin, a sliver, a dot, before the sea swallows it and it winks away. There is no record that you can show people of this. It doesn’t matter. You have it, warming a corner of your memory in coral pink and Florida orange. This one’s a keeper. This one is safe.
You walk back to your cottage in the dimming light, hand in hand with your wife.
And your heart is full.
The Storm Giants come at us from a thousand miles away. That’s one hell of a run-up. They hurl their fury at the coastline with brutal, unforgiving force, and also with a dreadful patience.
We can do this for millennia, the cannonade of the surf declares. Eventually, your castle walls will fail you.
But the defences at Bedruthen are strong, and built to last. Better yet, they are manned by invisible creatures, twice as tall as we are. The steps carved into the battlements are much too steep and wide for we puny humans. They fling rocks at the storm, and have done so for a very long time.
We are simple observers to a war that has raged since we first whispered around campfires. A war that will continue long after we are sketches and memory.
TLC and I have gone into the west, where stories bloom between the rocks like strange, glorious flowers, and all the beasts have TALES.
She sleeps, and her dreams are as green and deep as the earth she rose from. The wind through her branches gives her the deep, even breath of a maiden adrift on a sea of longing.
In winter, she would be blanketed in an even swan-white cover. At the height of summer, the day after the solstice, the sun warms her flanks with the heated touch of a lover.
Some say it is that touch and its fleeting nature that makes her seem so sad.
Meanwhile, in his bed along the copse path, her brother lies awake and plans out mischief.
Both these figures can be found in The Lost Gardens Of Heligan, a ten minute drive from St. Austell. Very heartily recommended.
We are in the west, walking strange paths and forgotten woods.
Here be Mythagos.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 