Weary of all who come with words, words but no language I make my way to the snow-covered island. The untamed has no words. The unwritten pages spread out on every side! I come upon the tracks of deer in the snow. Language but no words.
Crossing over to the Moors..."I've pitched my tent on a small farm at the foot of the moors. I'm lying in a buried stone circle sheltered from the bitter autumnal wind coming from the West. When you cross the threshold from the familiar land of trees and hedgerows to the bleakness of the moors there's a shift in energy. It's strong, spiralling, disobeying and rebellious, air whirling, an energy that feels creative, raw, sacral, rooted yet unbounded and free flowing..."