The damp from last nights rain seeps into my old shoes numbing toes as the wind finds my fingers, stiffening the joints making it difficult to draw. But I am here and that feels fine enough. I sit in one of the iron age hut circles still visible with my back tucked between rocks that make up the surviving boundary wall. Rain spots the paper as a hand not quite my own scootles over the terrain with a crayon, looking, listening to the song of skylarks in the fields below. A bumblebee sits to my side, its wings gently folded against it’s body. Rabbit’s fur caught on a gorse branch smokes in the wind that whips my hair toward a crow and the horses watch on. A dog barks on a farm.