Shadow cats and shadow birds

It had been quiet in the studio for a while so I was sent up to see what it was that She was doing. Up on the roof, scritch scratch at the window then push push and in! And She was painting a black bird flying. Raven.

Later we pulled Her out from the house and up the lane in the early evening light. Foxgloves towered and hummed with promiscuous bees.

On the hillside the sun painted dark green shadowcats to walk beside us. There were ravens here too and shadow ravens so we could not count how many flew and how many were deeper black shadow birds.

Choughs also called from the high rock. Clown birds with their red beaks and fingertip wings. Through the long grass the little people of the air moved, more numerous than the hairs in a cats coat.

Now it begins to fall into twilight again. Time to watch the colour melt from the day. And the last colours to fade are always the deep pink of the campion flowers and the firebright ginger of our fur.

Strings

We have discovered how it is that humans stay upright. They have strings that are only sometimes visible. Like puppets. Below you can see Hannah's strings.......

and here you can see that someone has cut them!

Strange.

The Land of Cath Palug

On this quiet evening She left behind the dogs, left behind the camera, walked to the high hill top and Kiffer and I walked too. My fur glowed rose in the evening light as the sun set red over the sea.
So still an evening that you could hear the moth wing buzz as they rose from the grass beneath our paws, could hear a feather drop like the skylark song, could hear the sheep across the fields and way away the horses drum hoofbeats. So still we could hear the badgers yicker yak and tumble outside the set like a city under wind twisted thorn trees. So still we could hear the rustle of bracken and then see the red mask of fox face as she hunted, searching for fat pheasant. Summer sleek and dark, she blended with the shadows on the hillside, but we watched her sure footed rambling, nose down, tail up, dark back and robber's mask.
The sea so calm in made a perfect mirror for the sky to look at her beautiful face. The air so clear that if you looked towards the north the coast of Wales stretched out, beyond Snowdon and up to North Wales, where Cath Palug the great cat of Wales still haunts the hills. The land looked like faery islands. Beautiful.
Home in the twilight and the white flowers glowed like fallen stars and the moths grew larger, more numerous and early bats flitted in their aerywinged hunt and the fox bark and badger call laid claim to the land and to the darkness.

A calendar of days.

We are excited because the lovely lady Jane has been putting together a calendar of our fine gingerness and we hope that soon it will be ready and that people might like to follow us through the year. We have seen glimpses of it and it looks full of ginger. There will be more news of it soon.
Meanwhile the day is one wrapped subtle gray, a pearl day of soft light and gentle rain. In the garden the grass is jungle long and good for hiding. The sky is full of raucous teenage jackdaws and pied robber birds, but gentle whitethroats sing like nightingales in the blackthorn bushes that are so emerald. Swallows sweep low, taunting and tempting.

Silver gold and glorious

... and so, as we stepped into the garden we were awe struck by the golden orb of moon that rose into an azure sky and lit the remains of the day and the dimmity darkness of the scented twilight land.
Each night the light of day hangs a little longer in the air. Each full moon is beautiful, but this has clothed itself in an imitation of sunlight. Glorious.

Etched out by fire at day's end.

Plotting mischief, in the long grass I wait.

Over the hill we walk, She hobbles. We walk slow so that She can keep up. The evening sun is sinking to the sea.

Foxglove flowers spear the blue sky.

To the top of the rock, so high I climb and then pretend that I cannot get down.

Then together we watch and wait for the sun to sizzle yet again into the sea, and we are dark silhouettes outlined by fire.

The thief of shadows

Almost night and as we walk the bounds of the village we find that we are at the time of perfect balance, caught between day and night so that even though the moon is bright there are no shadows. Or maybe it is because the shadow thief has taken them all to the shadow lands where he holds them all prisoner forever in the light.
There is no colour in the world but darkness and silver. The ocean of air is filled with cloud and the wind has swung around to the north. The air is scented heavy with flowers.
Maybe the shadows will escape and be back with us tomorrow.

Evening song.

The wind that sings in the summer leaves is a warm wind. The butterflies have handed over the skies to moths, though some colour still hangs in the world and no stars shine yet in the still blue sky. The bone white moon rides across and silver-blues the sea. The evening is hush, so hush that we hear the aerymice on the wing and the moth wing hum and the leaf song and the grasshopper warbler summoning starsong. Distant cows call, a dog barks across fields. The sea is so still that the surf song is absent from the evening's symphony.
Perhaps summer has come at last.

Secrets

In a place far away from here She saw a house. The house sat quiet by the side of a busy road. A garden at the back, maytree at the front, pear tree at the side and the house itself in a tumbledown state. Something about it made Her stop and as the car pulled up, behind the dusty window shapes moved. The house was full of cats, waiting by the window, watching for someone. Ginger cats and tabby cats, all but one scattered as she approached.
Since then She has been haunted by the house of cats. Maybe they had moved in when the house became empty. Maybe their parents and grandparents had been the pets of a person who had been taken one day, years ago, to hospital. Each day the cats would wait for their person to return. Each year kittens would be born and the story of the two legs that lived in the house would be told until the story became a legend.
Or maybe someone is still there, in this tumble down house of cats, guarding a secret.

Simple moments of peace in busy days

As She came down from her early morning walk She stopped for a brief while to talk with Glyn. We had already been calling to be sure he was well.
It seems almost as if his house is being taken back to the wild. There are jackdaws calling in the chimneys, hungry young in bundles of stick nests, and great-tits feeding young in nests in the sheds.
Glyn was smiling and feeling the sun beginning to warm his face, but troubled by misted vision and saddened that he can no longer go walking up the hill for hours.
But still he wanders where he can as his world gets smaller. He feeds the birds and talks to cats and passing people.
Today his smile warmed our hearts.

Waiting for the sunshine in the land of green and ginger.

In long green grass and clover we walk, and the grass is wet with rain. A light drizzle falls, little more than a low cloud, not quite rain.

Together we walk up what was once a road, a narrow track where horses pulled carts, the road to Pennsylvania. Many years ago the track led over the hill to a small hamlet clinging to the hillside, no more than a huddle of house. Now it leads to ruins.

At the top of the track we practice climbing and flying, then walk again, past the city of badgers.

The raven family are practicing flying too and todays lesson would seem to be folding back wings and tumbling in the air. The wind today is kinder to them. Their flight is more confident.
On the gate Elmo poses, legs wet from the long grass, bright orange fire cat on a dull day.

On the way home there are foxglove flowers. Soon it will be summer. Soon the sun will shine.

Monochrome days of rain.

We walked in the rain and the monochrome sky made the gorse glow even more golden.

Between tree and stone, above sea, we sheltered in emerald light and the rain drops dripped.

Then out again through low heather waiting for sun to bring out flowers and past the bluebells that shine in the gray light, back home.

Sky dancers

Walking up the hill on a gray day, past the low cottage where Glyn is eating his solitary breakfast and up the emerald lane we disturb a family of four young ravens, newly fledged and full of the first joys of awkward flight. They rise into the wind and are tossed around in the turbulent sky while their parents sail on the ocean of air like anthracite bird ships, so in tune with their element, so sure and swift.
The parents dance with the wind, folding back wings to tumble in ecstasy, hanging still on the wind's edge. The young ones will learn how to balance the air on their soot black wings. For now they delight in their stumbling flight as we watch and wish for wings.

Cat dreaming and the night song.

It is night and the half light of the half moon silvers puddles and pools. The wind is fierce, not cold but fierce. She blows and howls her song across the land and right on the edge of hearing she carries fox howls.
In the dark she plays with the golden gorse and dances in the lace fringed branches of the ash tree, no longer showing winter bones against the clouded sky, but clothed in new leaves.
It is night and darkness dances with the wind. Clouds sail fast across the rain bruised sky and throw their heavy cargo to the earth with a music that counters the song of the wind, the call of the foxes, the bleating of sheep and the distant dog bark.
It is night and we curl together in warm places and dream our dreams.

Ginger, green and more ginger.

We walked up the hill to where the bluebells make the ground shine with blue haze and the air smell beautiful, but the wind was strong and it started to rain. Kind Robin picked me up to shelter me inside his strange coat which is not of fur, but I wanted to walk, so said thank you but no, I would walk in the rain as I walk in the sun.

There were long horned ginger cows by the old village with great horned heads, and I would like some horns like that so I could be the great-horned-ginger-cat of the hills.

Maurice has been taking naughty lessons from Elmo.

As you can see the ash tree is growing a gown of green leaves.

So, if I stick my tongue out I look rude and if I go like this....

... I look fierce, and if I go like this.......

...you can see my poo is cat shaped!
And if I go like this.....

...you can see that I am just beautiful!

Owl hunting

Dusk walking, owl hunting and the light fades from the day turning all gray, except for the golden gorse. The air is scented with honeysuckle, gorse, bluebell and twilight.
Five cats walk in ginger chain up the darkening green lane to the high hill top and wings flutter and flush in the twisted thorn bushes.
Across the fields a blackbird sings, is answered and sings again. From the moorland the cuckoo calls its twilight song.
Aerymice paint black flashes against the dark gray cloud filled sky. The pattern of their flight looks like music.
Only the birds sing. All else is silence, waiting for darkness.

Painting the moon-eyed, heart-faced hushwing and his bride

So this is how it was. She had slept well and was feeling calm and rested and together we walked to the top of the hill, at first just me and Kiffer and Elmo, but Maurice was hunting by the barns and he came too. We had told Her to leave the camera behind. Just walk. Just rest.
The sun was shining and the wind was cold and it blew patterns in our ginger. Too windy to hear cuckoo call, but all around small birds flew and flowers danced.
At the top of the hill Elmo stood up, as tall as tall as he could on his very tip toes, just like a small man in a cat suit! Then in his usual style and with amazing flair he stood on his head! We could see that She wished for Her camera, so we all four gathered in a small pool of ginger and posed so beautifully, just for Her. And we sat close to Her and She stroked us and we watched the birds fly below our perch on the high rock. The cares and worries blew away on the breeze.
All too soon we headed for home. On the path back down She would look behind, one, two three, four, checking we all followed. One, two, three and four, and yes, we were all there. One, two, three and four, and She is quite good at counting, if they are small numbers. One, two, three and f.......
"Where's Elmo?"
Gone.
She sauntered back up, still relaxed, calling.
No Mo.
The wind was strong so She couldn't hear him calling.
Still no Mo.
She walked down again. Maybe he had run in front, but no Mo.
And back and She waited and She called and She worried. She couldn't leave him there on the hill all day, alone. Time was passing and we could see that She was getting quite worried. No Mo anywhere in sight.
And then all of a sudden, one two, three and ..... four. There he was, wondering what all the fuss was about.
So I went to see and he had found secret tunnels that led through the gorse, and so now of course there were still one, two, three and ...
" Where's Pixie!"
At last we were all together again and back down the hill and then She bundled stuff into the car and off She went to do something called work.
We could hear Her saying, under her breath, "thanks cats. Lovely walk. And now I am late."
Nice that She took the time to say thank you.

Hunting

Today She is walking without us. She has gone to try and get closer to the cuckoo we heard yesterday. But we know the secret of cuckoos. You cannot get closer to them, but have to wait for them to come to you.

Tomorrow She is leaving us again and will be in the place where She is making an exhibition of Herself again, only this time She will be painting, or rather gilding while anyone that wants to can watch. We know what She is like when She is working and we wonder if it is safe for people. Will She get cross and throw things and say bad words like She sometimes does here? Beware, we say, sometimes the artist bites!

This is what She will be working on, two mooneyed, heartfaced hushwings. A big painting.

ps. the exhibition is in The Cloisters Gallery a St Davids Cathedral, Pembs and if all goes well She will do the same thing next Saturday too, from 11 am -5 pm. And again at Art in Action in July near Oxford. She might sign some books too, if people want Her to.

Poolcats

Elmo: Maurice, quick, look. There's a cat in this pool that looks just like me!
Maurice: There's two in this one!

May

It is May, early morning dew drop scattered May. As we walk together up the green lane to the high hill top we are thinking of cuckoos. The swallows came a while back, the swifts are here too now and on the walls wheatears are dancing. Whitethroats sing in the gorse, skylarks throw down song from on high and everywhere stonechats chip chip. Chiff chaff and wren fill hedges with their sound, but so far we have not heard one cuckoo.
We walk and the dew drops drip and cling to our fur and the scent of the gorse is the thin early morning before the sunshine scent.
Then there, right on the edge of hearing, so faint that it might not even have been, cuckoo. Was it real? Was it an echo of a memory of the call of the cuckoo. But no, again, still faint, cuckoo. Somewhere, away, over the moor, a cuckoo calls.
It is May.

Paws For Charity Picture

This is the photograph that is in the Paws For Charity Book, taken some time ago. She thought it was Maurice, but it's me, Pixiecat. It was taken on a blue sky day.

The book is full of cats and dogs and was made to raise money for a cancer charity, though not for medical research as She didn't want our picture to be used for anything that might fund experiments on animals.