When I look across Keeper's Marsh down to Throat Copse where the hares and the foxes and the red deer take cover, I am facing due west. It is from this skyline, distant above the canopy, that the weather - massive, sometimes, like all the maddest of the Gods roped together - comes charging in from the Atlantic, some 15 miles off. The hedges bend and the few remaining pines creak and shudder, their stiff limbs helpless against the onslaught. At such times, Nature is merciless and all that lives can only stand its ground and wait. In hours - days sometimes - the rage is spent and the sky is swept clean for my cousins, the buzzards (wheeling and mewing) and the rooks (rascals and likeable every one) and, in season, the heavenly skylarks and the sublime mantra of the yellowhammer. This is North Devon. My wooden studio is in a dip with a 360 degree view of infinity. I'd be a fool if I didn't paint.
Photos of Devon
(click the thumbnails to enlarge the photos)