Since moving to Scotland last year, when we replaced our coal fire with a wood burner, I have become fixated by WOOD and STICKS. I'm always pleased when the wood shed is full to the brim with logs. (Above is a fresh delivery received on Friday.)
Even if we're out for a walk I am constantly scouring the countryside for bits of wood. And if I see stacks of wood on television I immediately lose interest in the action and am mesmerised by the wood. I love walking past this neatly-constructed pile. It is breathtakingly beautiful, and satisfying.
I think I love it because it promises warmth on cold winter days.
But I love the jumble of different shapes and colours and texture - some with moss on, some quartered vertically, while others are fully-round limbs. I love the non-uniformity of it. It is all good, all natural, all useful.
One of my favourite pastimes is collecting small sticks for kindling. The logs we have delivered are so dry that actually we don't really need to use kindling, but I like going for a walk and collecting sticks anyway. I love being outside, away from people, surrounded by nature and trees and wildlife, and I love the colour of the Pentland Hills, the amazing blues and greens and purples. I am always happy outside.
Though occasionally it is good to be inside too! We popped into Whitmuir yesterday and had cappuccino and gingerbread! The gingerbread was delicious. Hagos had butter on his, but mine was just great without it.
On Birth and Lino-Cutting
13 hours ago