A Walk in the Morning

Early morning misty walking. The sun already warm, the dew thick on the ground and the air noisy with birds. We walk from soft light to sunshine, through grass and foxgloves and lichens. On top of the hill a pair of chough fly over and horses crop the dewy grass.

On the way home the dogs play 'wild things' in the field.

She has a new book coming out and a booklaunch at Solva Woollen Mill on 8th August. She says 'all are welcome, bring a cat.' You can order signed copies of it here, and other ones too, and the Mill cats will make sure She doodles in it.

Somewhere, a dormouse.

Somewhere a dormouse is hiding. There are new paintings in The House of Golden Dreams. There are dormice in the kitchen and birds in the garden.

At last!

Well, it has taken Her years but it looks like She is finally beginning to get the idea of how to paint cats. We have been so patient with Her. We thought there would be trouble when She said She was working on a cat book. We have been helping, sitting still in warm places, watching, walking in paint. These two are for front and back endpapers, and have cat paw prints to go with them thanks to Pixie.

Hey Diddle Diddle The Cat and The Fiddle

We three cats have been quiet cats for a long time now. She has been busy and we have been curled and hushed. Pixie is not well, with a green sticky sneezing. Maurice struggles to take a breath. So now only I walk. But mostly I sit and guard the house for Mr Griffiths. He is away in a warmer place but news is that he will soon be home. And Nadolig has made himself very comfortable by the fire at the neighbour's house.

As for Max, he has been strutting and posing and sleeping and helping. And I, well, I have been sitting in the bird tree among the bird feeders, waiting. Because I am Elmo and I am bad.

At the turning of the day

Before the coming of the light we walked, up the green lane to the top of the hill then over the hill and far away.

 

In places pockets of hoar frost still hung on the winter leaves. The great muckle cow had frozen tears of ice. The world was hushed. Only the sound of birds' wings and a waiting.

We walked to the ruins of the village where old cold stones stood and the ghosts of cats long gone prowled. Now the only bright flame in the chimney fawr was the ginger fur of me. Once cats curled and people sat, talking and whittling at Welsh love spoons, gifts for Christmas at a time when the feast would be sparce, for all but the cats whose work it was to keep rats from the winter food stores.

 

On top of the hill the wild ponies were curious.

 

Home again. It had been a walk of winter birds. Snipe and woodcock that flew from thefeet almost at the moment you stepped on them. Ravens corkscrewing the air on ragged black wings. Only the memory of larksong. Wren and linnet, lapwing and curlew, mounrful.

 

Back home, fire lit, time now to curl and dream and run with the ghost cats by their cold ghost fires in the winter stone walls of Maes y Mynydd.

Making an exhibition of Herself

It has been a while since we posted. Not because we have been busy. We have just been being cats, which is the best ting to be. And not much has happened. We have watched birds fly, visited Glyn, walked in the starlit world and marked the paths of bats across the night.

She has been busy, painting and getting things together for an exhibition a long way away from home in England.

 

 

We are glad to see that She is painting cats, although She seems to be spending too little time in Her studio, too little time with us.

It is summer. The garden should be butterflies dancing but today is rain. It taps its claws on the roof and trickles in bright trails down the windows. So we curl on the sofa and dream cat dreams and wait. There are seal pups on the beaches.

Life is sweet.

 

 

On 24th September it will be Glyn's birthday. We think he will be 85, but we are not sure. Each year he gets a few cards for his birthday. Each year these get less. If you would like to send him a car please do, to C/o Chris and Julie, The Moshulu Shoe Shop, New St, St Davids, Pembrokeshire, Wales, UK. SA62 6SN. All of the cards sent to him in hospital and at home have warmed his heart and astonished him that there are people around the world who know him and care. There is an invisibility that comes with age, but Glyn feels good that people around the world know of him, of Nadolig. And if you mark the envelopes 'birthday' then She will keep them and take them all to him on the day. You never know, we might even persaud Her to make him a cake.

Oh, and She has a new book out on 2nd September, but it isn't about cats.

Not Impressed!

Max: Well, I don't see what is so special about gingercats that they get all the press! No wonder She gets jealous! There'll be no talking to them again when they see this and they'll be wanting gold plates for eating off.

Not the first time they have been in a magazine either, but last time it was before they had a blog.

Her: Well I think they look lovely and at least they did mention me, in passing. Besides, lovely Max, you are the cat that I usually paint. Don't be jealous.

Max: Yes, but did you have to put me in The Owl and the Pussycat picture in Classic Poems? That was a girl cat.

Pixie

At last, long last, the contract for Pixie's book has been drawn up and is in the post. So, after Nursery Rhymes and The Ice Bear She will be colouring in with cat help!
So, Pixie is thinking that maybe she might just get her own facebook page.

Something to shout about

It would seem that we are to become gallery cats. But why, we want to know, has She called it The House of GOLDEN Dreams when it should be called The House of GINGER Dreams?

Cold, and a distant view of snow

For too long She has walked the dogs at the beach. Today, despite the cold, it was our turn to walk. Yesterday a few flakes danced down in circles from high. Today, from the hill top, a distant view of snow.

Maurice walked too, all cats keeping close, Kiffer bounding ahead like a dog then keeping close to heel, so close it was as if he were stuck to Her foot. And Maurice and Kiffer found the perfect outside scratching post for cats.
We did not tarry long at the high hill top as the wind had claws. Long enough to see the pale view of hills adorned with snow and to wish it closer, closer, closer ( for we have wishes in plenty left over from star showers).

Back home we all curl around ourselves close to the bright fire. She says She loves the scent of woodsmoke in her hair, on her hands.

Now She has Her own blog.