Older than liverspots.


Sometimes you glimpse another time in an unexpected place. On the dripping rock foundation of a fake castle, glorifying a fictitious romantic past I spotted liverworts: very flat; very green and really very old.
These simple and strange life forms predate all vascular plants by millions of years, have no internal means of transporting food and survive on the whim of a raindrop. Flat and granular against the rock, they glisten in their encasing film of water, surviving all human attempts at immortality,  to out live us all in a single sheet of slime.




Ruskin’s Rock.

I braved the wind and rain of the weekend to walk in the woods. Black wood peckers drummed on tall trees, leaves whirled yellow sparks and my favourite rock nestled in the embrace of old roots.

I love the complexity of this rock, the shattered up turned layers of brown thrown against the smooth white Jurassic limestone, held hard in the gnarled pine roots.

John Ruskin loved rocks and drew them meticulously. He taught a generation to observe and to reverence them in nature and in the structures we made from them and the ruins time returned them to.

CD88770C-F984-4161-8547-8AC4DBCC8673ruskin rock