Green lanes and yellow pillows.

Late morning and finaly She starts to walk, up the green lane that now tunnels the emerald summer light, narrowed by grass and fern and bramble, all full of summer growth.

At the top of the hill pillows of tormentil  soften the grass where the little people of the air criss cross on butterfly wings and glass wings and feather wings, or jump and sing their grasshopper songs in golden grass flowers. A short walk. We rest amid the songs of insects and watch cloud shadows dance across the land.

Then home again as She has work to do, but at home we find rest in the garden where the herbs grow.

The moon has come to rest in our garden of herbs.

 Meanwhile, in the studio, and She is wandering off into a world of painting when She should be thinking of nursery rhymes. Soon She will begin work on the cat book. For now, cheetahs and cherries.

A Cloud Bitten Day of Bright Colours

On the way up the hill the dogs played in the long green gold swaying grass. It seemed that the sky had come to earth and bitten pieces from it.

We walked together and close, tails twined.

The gray sky made the fields grow emerald bright, made ginger fur shine like fire. In the green lane home the grass and bracken bent almost to tunnel the path. The lane held the air from another day, a warmer day, scented with summer smells. Beautiful.

A pool of beauty

In the early evening twilight time of day Elmo discovered that a small patch of sky had tumbled to earth, bringing with it clouds lit by falling sunshine.

Somewhere, the moon.

Walking the twilight village and the sky is like the under belly of a fish. As I rest in Her arms She is reminded that a year has passed and I am still here. As She feels the weight of me, the warmth of me, the great purring life in me, She is glad. A whole year of time, and in that year She has spent too much time painting and not enough time walking with me. Now the weight of my tail resting wrapped around Her cold arm shows Her that I forgive Her the time She has wasted in not being with a cat.
Bats fly. The growing darkness is lit by flickers of moth flit.
I purr. She walks. Somewhere the moon watches.

Thoughtful

On top of the wood pile is the new place of choice for a cat to sit and think, about life, love and the persuit of happiness.

Twilight and life.

She walked too early this evening, around the  village. She wanted to see bats. She wanted to draw. Three dogs, four ginger cats and Her, a curious ritual procession to call the dark in on another day. In the hedges the campion flowers glowed brightest pink. Across the fields swallows skimmed the sea of grass. At Glyn's house he was standing on the doorstep looking tired and frail, but still there with a pat for a cat and a treat for a dog. She stayed and talked and he wanted to know if She thought there was a heaven up there.

As they talked the sky began to glow a rich pink, a flood of colour across the land, a splendid dance of setting sun, a radiant roof for the world. Bats began to flit flitter across the yard. Moth flutter, bat flit and the reeling rasp of grasshopper warblers as twilight fell.

Beautiful fading light and life.

If any could spare the time we think perhaps Glyn would like some letters. They have brought such joy to his life, knowing that he has friends so far away. Just someone out there who is thinking of him.

Cards can be posted to: C/O Chris and Julie, The Moshulu Shoe Shop, New Street, St Davids, SA62 6SN, Wales, UK.
We will make sure that She takes them to him. 

A heartfelt thanks from Glyn and the patient cat.

We at the House of Ginger have been asked by Mr Griffith, our good friend, to say a very big and warm thank you to everyone who took the time and trouble to send cards and letters and pictures and good wishes to him while he was away from home. He is back now, home with Nadolig who is very pleased to see him. He is well, enjoying the sunshine, the familiar and loved surroundings, the garden and the birdsong, and the company of cats again.
And he just wanted to say thanks.
He still has all the cards, in a very heavy bag and will sit and look through, sharing with Nadolig, and marvelling at the simple kindness of strangers who took time to send a line, a wish, a greeting until their thoughts wrapped around the world in a wish that these two friends would be reunited.
And they are.

She has been painting.........

......cats!

To see more have a look at Her blog.

Somewhere a cat is always watching

Once upon a time there was a catch who hatched the egg of a dragon.

We have made too many people cry this week, and now She is looking through photos on the computer. It seems that there was once a crooked man, who walked a crooked mile and found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile. He bought a crooked cat, who caught a crooked mouse and they all lived together in a little crooked house. And She is doing a book of nursery rhymes. And Kiffer was the perfect crooked cat. If anyone could catch a crooked mouse he could.

Sunday.

Early morning sunshine paints the sycamore seeds a glowing red. Bird song raises the sun. Wind plays with the leaves and grass and flowers through which butterflies dance a chaotic canter. The honeysuckle tree is rich with a thousand flowers, almost open. The ash tree is heavy with a weight of leaves. Foxgloves line the stone walls, made centuries ago by working hands while cats looked on, dreaming of the plump and succulent mice that would make their homes in a labyrinth of tunnels that weave through them now.

It is peaceful quite in the rose swaying, breeze blowing, summer sunshine land of garden.

Early twilight

Now is the dusk time cooling of the day and in the garden daisies have closed their eyes against the fading light. Moths are flitting through narrow pathways between leaves and flowers where in the daytime the butterflies moved. Overhead aerymice  sing high songs across the sky where earlier the swallows flew. We watch and wait for the fading of the moon and the coming of the stars. Tonight they will be brilliant, a diamond canopy of light thrown up into the velvet dark. No moon. Soon the stars will be falling again.
The air is thick with the scent of honeysuckle and roses and the fading song of birds.

Sunshine in the garden on a lazy afternoon.

A field of long grass

Thanks

We cats would all like to say the biggest thank you for all warm wishes sent from round the world to us, to Her, on the sad day. Now we are five again. We are sure to find Kiffer on times in the night when the moon is full and we gather at the well to sing songs to the moon.

We thought it best to let people know how we all are fairing.

Martha is old. 15 this year and skinny But good, for now.

I, Pixie, still have the sneezes, something like a poor imune system. We shall see.

Maurice seems well, though short of breath at times and She forgets to give him his tablets. He was chief carer for Her yesterday and odd times would jump into Her arms and put paws round Her neck to comfort.

Elmo is mischief and balance and fun and run and chase up a tree and bounce.

Max is quiet dark dignity lurking.

And Nadolig, the next door cat is now getting six dinners a day and looking good, if a bit ragged around the ears from fighting and dancing and living a high life of a wandering lothario.

We do not grieve for Kiffer because we know where he has gone, though his passing was too soon.

Oh, And She, well, She has a headache and feels sick but says it is only the menopaws and shruggs and scowls. Nothing to worry about.

And She wonders, how many cats have lived and died in this house, how many in this village? Mr Griffiths alone has had about 7. Here in Her lifetime are Comfrey and Arthur and Bird and Kiffer. How many mousers and fireside companions who curled round the necks of women and small children, who snoozed in warm sunshine and chased after rats, how many have lived here. She wonders. We know.

A very sad day

I sing in praise of Kiffer the Bold whose life was short but full.

Who would walk in the wild without fear.

Who could lay out a line of rats and almost label them so that all would know that these were the rats that Kiffer had taken.

Who was big and warm and welcoming.

Who would sit on a lap with a weight like a dog.

Who would wrap paws around your leg when he was hungry and politely bite to demand that you hurry for a cat has business to be about.

Who would sometimes decide that your dinner was his dinner and try and climb on your plate.

Whose eyes were like amber jewels so bright.
Whose whiskers were long and straight.

Whose fur was a blush of strawberry roan.

Who could smile with the secret smile of a cat.

Who could raise a smile from the saddest of people.

Who lay beside the puppy when she was sleeping and whispered stories of giant cats into her dreaming ears to teach her manners.

Who walked with his head on one side almost as if the world looked better that way.

Whose miaow had the curious croak of the corncrake's cry, as if he had stolen the voice of a bird.

Who was loved.

Kiffer moved on from this life this morning after a brief illness. Yesterday evening he came for food with all the other cats then curled on a cushion underneath the table, quiet. He did not seem to suffer any pain and right to the last his glorious cat eyes were bright and shining. In his last moments he stretched a small stretch and breathed his last breath and moved peacefully on to whatever adventures await a cat. 

And I am sad.

An old picture of the Kiffercat in his beautiful prime

Elmo balances in trees, rock and gateways.

Up the hill. Clouds lowered, dark sky bruises. The green lane to the high hill top was a tunnel of flowers and trees.

And at the top the clouds came down from the sky to walk with us.

She thought that we should go back so we turned to walk through the fields and long grass and I did balancing on water dripping gates that sang rain songs.

The grass was long and the green made out ginger fur shine like the sun and the water pulled our coats to dark points. Clover flowers waited for sunshine and bees.

 

Warm thanks on a cold sunny day

She was out in the garden today taking photos of blue sky and flowers and thinking of work when She heard voices. Glyn had come home for the day yesterday, to stay overnight for the first time in months. And She had been worried because Nadolig had been away for a few days. We knew Glyn was coming, so sent word out across the field, and the birds and the butterflies, moths and lizards, all carried the word to Nadolig to come home.

Sure enough, She went round to say hi, and there was the pied cat, stratched out in the cold sun.

And Glyn asked that She send out a message to all those who had sent cards, and drawings and paintings to him. He wanted to say a very warm thank you, for these have kept him going through dark days. And we say thank you too, kind thoughts and gift from strangers have touched and warmed all of our heart.

We hope that next week Glyn will be back to stay. We hope so. The village is not the same without him.

Elmo's day.

Went walking. Hot day. Lay in a shadey spot.

Back home, chilled out with a few friends.

Dragon's nest.

Up the hill in the sunshine, cold in the wind on a bright day in May, Elmo went walking, and climbing, for, in a tangle of twigs in a wind blown tree he found a nest.

On reflection though, careful consideration of the size of the nest, Elmo decided that it probably belonged to a dragon not a bird. And it wasn't that Elmo was afraid, because Elmo's don't get scared, he said. It was more that dragons are sacred to cats. So he paid short homage to the twig pile, and descended once more to the green, that set off his beautiful fire coloured coat. ( Fire, he said, to honour the dragon flames for it would seem, according to Elmo, that ginger cats are sacred to dragons too)

So, after a short but perfect balancing act it was time to take Her back to Her studio. She is painting cats.