Ink and gouache on paper – 21 x 30 cm.
A gloomy, growly dog of a day. It feels like it might bite, yet. A pack of dark grey clouds pummel in from the west. Every now and then the Forth is sunlit – an ocean liner sparkles, watched by the stone submarine of the Isle of May guarding the entrance to the North sea. Wind turbines mutter, busy, inattentive to the two swallows buffeted by the strong winds. Carole tells me about the storm last week . They lost an old apple tree and the power went off for a few hours. That was all. The combining finished yesterday and now its ploughing and seeding , no let up for at least another month. Wellies scatter outside the back door at tea time, curling stones hold open a byre door. The trees are starting to turn, sycamore leaves are crisp in the high drying winds. Orange baler twine, burnished broon conkers, the musty yellow of dried wheat, brick red pan tiles stacked in crates, these are the colours here on the hill.