Morning journal writing by the fire
And a happy new year to you all! I think it’s still all right to say that, but this has been my theme recently… just a little too late!
We spent the weekend after the new year in the middle of silence. It was beautiful. I’d been wanting to stay at the Elmley Nature Reserve on the Isle of Sheppey for some time, and it was everything I dreamed of.
We took the little but beautiful Salt Box, which contains a bed, kitchen and bathroom but more importantly this view when we woke up in the morning….
We didn’t take advantage of the outdoor shower – surprisingly! But we did spend time reading, thinking and walking. I made a list of all the gardens I’ve visited this year and haven’t shared with you here, so – again late to the party – I’ll be catching up with them soon.
But in the meantime, enjoy this video taken just outside our little cabin before I sat down to write…
Which made me think of this poem, Silence by Billy Collins. Here’s an extract:
And there is the silence of this morning
which I have broken with my pen,
a silence that had piled up all night
like snow falling in the darkness of the house—
On a recent holiday to Sweden, we were lucky enough to stay in a unique bed and breakfast at Edshultshall on Western Sweden’s wild coast. Ladfabriken (as the name suggests) has been lovingly converted from an old fish factory, and the owners, Johan and Marcel, have a unique sense of style and are such generous hosts to make this a really wonderful experience.
Not least because of the garden. It was no surprise to find a copy of Derek Jarman’s Garden in the house, because Johan and Marcel have created a garden by the sea too. Just look at this lushness…
There are flowers everywhere – even on the breakfast table…
And most of all the sea and rocks at the end of the garden… seen through a prism of flowers…
Here’s a poem I wrote at Ladfrabriken, sitting in the little yellow room looking over the garden:
We made our boat of rose petals,
wove lavender into oars, covered
thorns with lichen, stuffed black
violas in the gaps, and at night,
we held up pink peonies to light
our way safely back to shore.
And now, every time we pick a posy
we smell seasalt, see petals
shining like fish scales.
We feel the high wind brushing
our cheeks and we know that,
though we could sail anywhere,
the garden’s where we put down roots.