Winter Cometh

On the day that Trump becomes the 45th president of the United States, winter comes to Norton Conyers, both arrive on the scene with an unexpected bang - the former somewhat less welcome than the latter. Snow has fallen throughout the morning and in an effort to keep the studio at a workable temperature, I spend most of the time feeding logs into the wood-burner. By lunch-time, though the snow continues to fall, it’s clear that a thaw has set in: clumps of soft, wet snow flop from the trees and the sound of trickling water seeps music into the day. I pull on my wellies and head for the woods - I’ve been thinking of making an autumn woodland picture so I had a wander round with the camera yesterday to gather some ideas. The woods were full of spectacular colour from canopy to leaf littered floor and now I re-visit and see what overnight changes have occurred.  The changes wrought are subtle and delicate - a powdering of snow has filtered through the canopy and dusted the woodland floor and the sky has a steelier look to it but still the autumn holds on. Pheasants call throughout the wood, sometimes flushing from beneath my feet and a woodcock zips between the elephant’s legs of beech. On the way back to the studio I stop to watch the sun go down and as I stand a dog fox slides onto the track and stares me in the eyes. 

Autumn's Bounty

Autumn has arrived in a blaze of glory. The world looks and smells different, and strangely, it sounds different too: even though most of the leaves are still on the trees, somehow the acoustic has changed. Someone was shooting in the woods this morning and the echo reverberated for longer, but was softer. Perhaps it's just my imagination.

There are two cottages in the stable courtyard; one occupied by Walter, a horseman and milker of cows who sadly lost his wife a couple of months ago and the other by Stuart who I met for the first time today. He seemed shy and friendly; perhaps because of his news - his wife, coming out of hospital today has given birth to a baby boy. Stuart is strong, he works outside and his joy was gently evident. I spent the day working on two harvest paintings; one in oil, the other the big (5' x 5') mixed media of Ripon cathedral from Studley. I may post a picture tomorrow.

Woodburner

I saw it first in Giles's workshop: squat, bulldog legs and growling empty amongst tired tools.

A cast iron fire-dog fed on trees, it had coaxed fruit ripe in the greenhouses of Norton Conyers until supermarkets dazzled us with shinier, shapelier, taste-free options like fruity page three girls.

It is a Jotul 118; built in Norway and designed in the late 1930s by the artist Ørnulf Bast. It reminded me of the Bankdam-Crowther in J.L.Carr's 'A Month In The Country and like Carr's hero Tom Birkin, I'm looking forward to cajoling it to life and learning of its caprice and foible.

Perfectly timed for the recent drop in temperature (can't have an arctic artist), Dougie the sweep and son Paul arrived to infuse life back into the Norse fire-breather on Monday. In an effort to have as little impact on the fabric of the building as possible we'd intended to put the flue out through an already broken pane in the window. It soon became apparent however that we would have to make extensive alterations to the frame and louvres which appear to be original to the building so we ended up going straight up through the roof which has clearly been replaced in recent years and would, we felt, be the better option. The experts did the clever stuff, I replaced the broken glass in the window and all was finished in an afternoon.

So - here we go: for the first time in many years the Jotul 118 gets fire up:

It made for a lovely environment to work in Yesterday and we'll see how it copes as the autumn turns to winter.

Latest Painting:

'Fishing Boats, Scarborough', mixed media on canvas 100cm x 100cm.

Oft' maligned, Scarborough is one of my favourite seaside places: Mrs S. and I visit often and it always has something new to give. Yes it has something of the 'kiss me quick' culture, but the harbour that gave rise to this painting is as lovely as any in northern Europe and high above the harbour crouches the magnificent Scarborough castle with stupendous views of both the north and south bays, out to sea and inland to the moors. Just outside the castle walls is St Mary's church which is the final resting place of Anne Bronte who died at the tender age of 29. It seems she'd come to Scarborough for it's health giving air......Hmm!

Indian Summer

A beautiful autumn day with warm sunshine and a chill in the shade; Mrs S. and I wandered the garden and sat watching insect industry:

Apple Harvest

Giles and the girls have been busy with the apple harvest; they are making apple juice to sell in a pop-up shop in the spring; it means fewer apples for the wasps to enjoy but such is life.

The masher:

Shandy feigns interest

Hedge Cutting

I spent the day with Giles, cutting the huge yew hedges in the garden. I grew up part of a farming family and spent my early, and teenage years involved in agriculture so I'd been looking forward to a day of physical work but my.....these are big hedges and somehow I ended up doing the upper storey. It was a full day, up and down the ladder brandishing my, not so light, sabre and as the blisters on my hands ballooned the last few meters seemed to go on forever but it was finally finished (in record time according to Giles) and I did get an enormous sense of satisfaction from the day.

 Lunch with Giles and the garden girls in the orangery.

Butterflies

Painted Lady and a Red Admiral in the walled garden

Life and Death in the Countryside

On many warm, sunny mornings I have cycled out of Ripon, along four miles of country lanes and re-engaged with the countryside in a way I'd almost forgotten: the green fields of May turn slowly to gold as wheat and barley ripen, and as I write, are harvested. Cockerels spill onto the road at Nunwick, a pair of gunmetal crows seem to have accustomed themselves to my passing and a flock of white doves scattering at my approach have not. I have watched swallows arrive, produce and nurture their young and now gather in preparation for their miraculous journey south. The garden has filled our senses with colour, scent and the constant sound of bees and is now going over; both house and garden are open for the last time this weekend and as the season draws to a close, Walter, who lives in a courtyard cottage opposite my studio, lost his wife Jacqueline. She was 38.

Alice prepares the funeral flowers

A sombreness is draped over all of us and yet at the same time, life goes on - the garden goes into its Autumn colours but the bees, butterflies and birds seem almost busier than ever in their haste to stock up for the coming winter.

"Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt".

William Allingham