The Wanderings
Lanes, hedgerows, and the long way round.
The Wanderings are not separate from the work. They are where it begins. A walk is never just a walk; it is a way of noticing — the colour of mud on a wet lane, the shape of a leaf caught in a gate, the particular blue of a railway bridge on a grey afternoon.
Some walks are short: around the garden before the kettle boils, down to the post box and back, a loop through the orchard when the apple blossom is high. Others are longer, the kind that need a packed sandwich and a sketchbook, and that end with a train home just as the light turns gold.
I bring these walks back with me. A handful of seed pods, a photograph of peeling paint, a scribbled note about the way light fell through a hedge. They settle into the work quietly — a name, a colour, a lining, a feeling — until a garment carries a little of the outside world with it.
There is a rhythm to walking that matches the rhythm of making. Both ask you to slow down. Both reward patience. Both teach you that the thing you were looking for is rarely the thing you find; the real gift is the noticing along the way.
A sketch made on a bench is usually better than one made in a hurry. A fabric found in a market town you did not mean to visit has a story a catalog cannot give. A coat designed after a day of wind and hedgerows tends to fit the body more honestly.
The Wanderings are not a collection of destinations. They are a way of paying attention. And the more I look, the more the work seems to make itself.