Not finished, but vanished.

Very quiet today. No builders. Not even in the bucket.

Blue sky, early morning, seal pup day.

A blue sky morning. Up the green lane, a tree tunnel to the high hill top. Today we go to look for seals. And sure enough, on the pebble beach, one pup, wrapped in white fur with a sooty nose. And in the water, his mother, lifting to the gentle toss and sway of the sea.

And the sea and the sky so blue.

A long walk, along the early morning coastal path. Out at sea the gannets dive, pure white arrows. Below them porpoise rise to cut through the roof of the sea. For a while I ride on shoulders, then down to walk through the honey scented purple heather.

On the way home I walk the bone white lichen covered wall that leads along the green road to Maes y Mynydd where the ghost cats dwell.

A good walk. A long walk. And good to know that the wheel of the year is turning with heather and seal pups and porpoise and harebells.

A heady mix of light and love, hiraeth.

For a while She went away, but brought us back a picture of a beautiful bronze cat. It seems She was working at a place called Art in Action. We also were working, doing site management, watching the roof getting covered and the rain retreat. Now we are glad that She is back and She also is happy to be home, and this bright morning, in the early slant of sunlight we walked together up the green grass lane to the high hill top.

The grass made a tunnel of green light for our path and on the hill top small moths danced intricate dances through bracken tunnels. The fern fronds cat curled. We found the quiet death of a butterfly, ginger wing striped by grass shadow.

The air was sweet and fresh, washed clean in the night.

Sun made our coats glow rich with light and ginger, a heady mix.

Heather softened the brightness, scented the air to a honey-soft sweetness.

On top of the hill we sat with Her, and then on Her, so that She would rest in a moment of ginger stillness. This was bliss, how life should always be, together, sunkissed by early morning pale light and warmth, watching the birds fly.

But work called to Her, so we walked back down through the field, to home, dry now, but still full of builders and dust and bang clattering chaos.

And then She went back to work.

Heavens open

If we were ducks then the weather would be fine. Were we slugs, snails, toads or frogs we would be dancing. But we are cats and cats like the sun. So we sit and curl together in the devastation of the up-turned house and listen, and wait.

It is dark, like twilight. Heavy rain beats the house and the wind cat howls and lashes claws and tail and spitting anger in a maelstrom torrent of tumbled water that falls through the roof, that runs down the stairs, that drip drip drips in puddled circles on the floor.

If we were ducks we would like this. But we are not. We are cats. And we do not like it not one whisker.

On the slates

One cat

Two cat

Three cat......

Five.

Watch the house come back to life.

Curled in the warm circle of mother's paws

While the house is unpeeled around us She is colouring in Her studio, listening to the bang clatter crash. The Ice Bear holds her cubs close.

Prowling around the wreckage

Outside the house looks strange. No roof, open to the wind and rain. Inside it makes a good climbing frame. Up the stairs, covered in rubble and dust, and in the corner of the roof there is a small and secret way that only a cat ( or a rat) could find, into Her studio.
It is cold.

We miss the roof.

Pitter patter pad and pat, drip, drop and splatter.

Now the day moves towards twilight and the sky is a dark dark bruise and heavy weight of water. There is no roof on the house at the front and the rain drip drip drips and puddles in pools and splashes through the floor boards and onto the ground. The house looks small and sad and tatty as can be. She stays in Her studio and broods and paints . The dogs wait patiently for moments when She takes them out to walk. We curl together. It is cold. It seems as if the very house is crying. At least Elmo is happy. There are puddlecats everywhere.

Thinking about the sky

When She is not moving furniture and finding three year old packed lunches in Tom's bedroom She has been finding moments to colour in. And so very slowly She inches towards finishing The Ice Bear. I am still waiting to hear from the publishing lady who did say that she liked my cat book, so now we have to wait for a thing called 'an offer'.
She hides away in Her lofty studio and people come to the door and the dogs bark but She won't go down to see who it is. She will not let us in, says we will walk on Her paintings when all we want is to curl warm in the furry dog bed and make encouraging purrs.
And She cannot get Her laptop to work on facebook (which is not such a bad thing as it means that She can get on with work) but She wanted to say hi to everyone on fb.
My sneezes are no better, but are no worse either. and now I am off to explore the hole in the roof as Kiffer tells me he has found a secret way in to the attic.
And James Mayhew has decided that if a cat can manage a blog then so can he. We like James.

The house under water.

By day the house is all bang clatter crash and crumble. On the roof there are men. In the night it rained so much and the rain came in, drip drip drip, through the ceiling. Now the house is wrapped in blue and though it rains the water stays outside. Inside the light is dark and blue and when it rains you can hear the water dance. Even when the sun shines it feels and sounds as if the house is a drowned house from an old Welsh tale of lost villages, of drowned lands, where fish swim through blind windows and bells toll slow in the tide. The wind blows through the blue, rattling it and rolling over to make it sound like water.
By day we curl in corners, or watch from hidden places until the men are all gone. Then we spill from our hiding and prowl the underwater house. And we look forward to when the house is finished and all is peace again.

Pixie still sneezes, and all the dust thrown up by the building work does little to help her. She clings tight when you hold her, so small a cat, so lovely.