Where I work...

My cottage is old. It’s damp. But that’s fine. Because old cottages are meant to be.
Its foundations are deep and its walls unashamedly bumpy.

Its nature is such that you have to pass through one room to get to another. And my desk is found in the room in the middle; a thoroughfare for cats, dogs and people.

This is good. It means I stay in touch with the comings and goings of every day. That helps me keep a sense of perspective and balance.

My desk is full of things I’ve collected. Things that I like to see. It’s an eclectic mix; a bit like the cottage really. There’s a round, sliver box with mice on, some labradorites that flash blue and green, family pictures, pens, fir cones, a white owl, and a postcard print of Psyche opening the Golden Box. Bad idea. But I suppose, in the end, curiosity gets the better of us all.

This place where I sit, and think, and write, is a window on the changing seasons. Nestled into the hill with hills on all sides, you can’t help but notice the passing of time in the grassy banks and in the trees. In the spring, the hazel catkins appear before the last winter frosts have melted. In the summer, wild flowers engulf the lane, eventually giving way to the earthy tones of autumn when squirrels raid those hazel trees for nuts. The prologue to winter usually plays out with me charging the car up one of the hills the moment the first snowflake drifts past my window. Park in the village at the top of the hill, or stay here at your peril. Snow, though pretty, means you might be in for a while!

Finally, my study wouldn’t be the same without Dylan being there. Ever hopeful that I’ll pause my work for a biscuit.

My desk. Full of the things I love and the place where I love to write stories. But better a place to be by far when the house is full of comings and goings, and snow is perhaps, not falling…