Ice fills an imprint of my boot in the mud. Maybe from my last visit or maybe before then. My footprints cover the track, heading this way and that, a woven diary of walking. A mole has left its own trace at the place where I want to paint. I rest the paper on the crumbly earth hills, it softens and sinks and settles . In the burn I spot a broken piece of blue and white pottery. Fishing it out I look at the cobalt glaze painted in China or Japan or Wemyss down the road and think of the ceramic artist marking their pot. I trace the woods in charcoal and paint. When finished all that is left are a few squashed mole hills and some paint splattered leaves.
Mixed media on paper 140 x 60 cm.