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.

Sunshine on the kitchen table

The house is inside outside upside downside and all in a middle of muddles. Sofa in the kitchen, kitchen table in the garden. What is going on?

Pixie went to the vets and is not too bad and had an injection, but doesn't like being in the car. She has a runny nose and is using her tongue as a hankie.

NB. Mug by Gwili Pottery, Carmarthen.

One lost cat

She woke early to a blue sky day that promised summer and butterflies. The morning began to fill with gentle noises, a swallow or two, the strange vocalization of a black rook, wren and robin song and then cathedral bells, hushed and distant. She sat on the bench in the garden and chuckled. She was reading, and try as we might we could not get between Her and the book, even though we managed a cat pile of three on her lap! We did not want Her to read this book. We did not want Her to realize that She too is Under the Paw.

Tom Cox, who wrote the book, has six cats too, and he knows who is in control. The last thing we need Her to do is realize this. But today we stole Tom away from his cats and he had came to walk with us.

Past Glyn's house where Nadolig basked in the warm sun and looked very Mediterranean.

Up the hill where the grass gave off small breaths of pollen as we walked by, like smoke wisps, and sun bleached out the colours.

We were walking slowly. I have a sneezing cold again and Maurice became camera shy. Elmo and Kiffer kept being distracted, by cows, butterflies, long grass and the rattlewinged dragonflies. And the sun, so hot. By the gate Kiffer decided that Tom was definitely part of the cat clan, more cat than human and very comfortable to lie on. But then Kiffer hid in the long grass and bracken. Too hot to work and walk.

We walked on, Elmo and I, up the hill to the high top where we sat for a while in sunshine and warm wind , watched the birds fly, buzzards and ravens and kestrel, and posed for David.

On the other side of the hill it was warmer, but after a while it was time to go. So back down the hill to find Kiffer. But now Elmo decided the only place to be was in the shade, so off he went, into the long grass and bracken too! She does not like to leave us up the hill, so while She searched I hung around Tom's neck like a scarf, but no Elmo, no Kiffer, so down the hill we went without them.

They sat for a while and talked in the garden and David took photos of cats and the house and Tom and the wheelbarrow, but still no Elmo, no Kiffer. Then Tom and David said goodbye and She went back up the hill to find the naughty ones. Sure enough there was Elmo, at the top of the hill, seeing how well his fur went with the golden grass. He seemed pleased to see her. But no sign of Kiffer.
She went restlessly back to work.
Kiffer did not come for supper when She called us in.
Later, back up the hill, with Elmo and Martha, calling, calling, and hearing, maybe the wind or the cry of a buzzard, bleat of a lamb, rustle of grass. No Kiffer. Calling, calling. The lowing of a calf, a rabbit in the grass, mouse squeak, gate rattle. No Kiffer. Now She was really worried. Kiffer is sociable, would go to anyone. Might he have wandered off, away over the hill? Could he really be lost? Would we see him again? He has not been long with us but he is written so large in his kiffed character, a small bear of a cat.
The hill seemed so big all of a sudden.
We walked back down, slowly, slowly, looking back, calling, calling. No Kiffer. She would try again tomorrow and hope that he would be safe in the short night, from foxes and badgers. Down through the farmyard, She worried. Should She go back for one more look? Maybe he had gone further up? We walked through the gate and there was Glyn, outside his house. And Kiffer, stalking nonchalant through the long grass, not a care in the world.
I would say by the way she stooped to pick Kiffer up and cuddle his great cat weight close that She was pleased to see him.

Dreaming of whales

It would seem that She has plans to run away to cold lands and leave us. Bad woman. Loyalty alone presses us to help. Let Her have Her dreams. But should She go, speed Her back where we will ignore Her and cold shoulder Her into remorse!
Click on this link to help take the woman away to a cold land of penguins and snow.

Evening walking

A new day

And the morning garden is full of the hush rush and whisper flutter of small birds' wings. Fledglings fill the trees and roses. Bluetit and greattit, robin and wren. Jackdaws make a string of jet black beads across the pale sky as they fly from their night roosts to their day time places. Crows caw and squabble even in flight and swallows are too few, but chatterful. Fat bees scent the garden as they push into the flowers stirring their perfume into morning air that is clear and clean. You can almost feel their gentle bee song. Roses open on a new day.

Moth dance.

In the late almost dark of twilight gloaming we walked up the hill, shadowcats all. The lane held warmth still from the days sunshine. Once this lane was wide enough for a cart to drive through, but now walls have tumbled and gorse has grown to make a narrow path. As the dogs walk they brush the pollen from the heavy grass flowers and it rises like smoke.
On the way home we pause in the tunnel of trees to listen to the night. Leaves make mosaic patterns against a blue dark sky. Moths dance in their own light, flecks of the moon fallen to earth and their wings makes the faintest moth song in the stillness of early night. We are cupped in the darkness beneath the trees.

Ginger, big, beautiful

Just as She was about to start work She checked Her email only to find one from the very elegant and quite feline Vivian French. We are hoping that it does not give Her too many ideas, but are all amazed and astonished by the photographs of tigers and monks. Viv's email reads-

This is extraordinary
The tiger temple in Thailand is a place where an extraordinary bond between man and the world's biggest cats has been formed. The tigers here are so peaceful its almost as if they have accepted Buddhism as their religion. In fact, they even sit for the meditating sessions with the monks and kneel down in front of them as it they are the gurus. The tigers are so docile that the monks have to sometimes train them to fight otherwise they would lose all their power of self protection.
The link started in 1999 when a sick baby tiger, orphaned after poachers shot its mother, was brought to the monks. Within a few years several other tiger cubs similarly orphaned by poachers had arrived. The most amazing thing is none of the cubs turned out ferocious on growing up. The monks believe that these tigers are none other than the former Buddhist disciples who have taken rebirth in the same place.


The tigers live in a temple in Thailand at a place called Kanchanaburi and there are pictures of them all over the web, and videos on youtube, and you can see more photos here

Turning of the circle of the world.

New moon and solstice. Powerful. Catclaw silver in the sky. Curlew call into the moth dancing darkness. Honeysuckle, rose and mouse scent in the garden. Night time starlight bliss. Midsummer.

Calendar of days

Today when She should have been painting polar bears She has been helping us with our calendar instead. At the moment the calendar runs from July 2009 to December 2010. It shows pictures of us and has some words but few, and marks important days like our birthdays. It is A3, spiral bound, heavy, thick, beautifully designed by Jane.
As the year goes on it will change. She might do a little drawing of a cat on the front and sign it, but if She does She will have to practice first as She is not very good at drawing cats! You can order one by emailing Her. At the moment they cost £20 plus post in UK.
(Her email is on Her website on the menu bar top and bottom.)