The smell of woodsmoke on a dank late afternoon, eerie plumes snaking their way across the darkening canal like thoughts I no longer want emptying from my mind.
Wet ropes, cold fingers, old gloves—there is no fashion show needed.
The joy of leaping from deck to towpath, easing our hulk of a home to its mooring. Metal on metal rings through the air as I bash pins in; the delicious weight of mallet in hand.
Looking around at the view — a new view, every day if the fancy takes you — and spying a "sunshine" tree right outside our window.
Being rocked to sleep as a boat passes slowly in the darkening night. Waking to watch the sunshine tree come to life at first light.
The sound of ice cracking around my ears in winter, fish and ducks nibbling at the waterline in spring and summer, the raining down of magical leaves in autumn.
Reflecting in the watery ripples that soothe my mind.
Then there is the shunting, rocking, manouvering - the throwing of ropes, jumping to other boats, ducking to tie up; slipping on mud.
Mud. Mud. Mud.
The smell of a boatyard—heavy, oily, like my dad's workshop—the cheery faces, "just chuck us a fiver mate."
And the peace. Always the peace.
The taking ourselves off to the countryside where we watch the sliver of a moon appear and disappear behind cloud, our gaze stretched across endless fields—from pitch black to orange glow.
But being in that glow if we want. And after the year we have had, perhaps that's the main reason afterall:
A home that moves, so we can be close to loved ones as we need and wish.
Nothing can replace our beautiful Highland hideaway - our yurt in the stone circle. But at least we experienced it, no matter for how short a time. And if there is anything I have learned this year, it's that our time here can be short so we must grasp every opportunity and absorb it with utter delight, yet not be afraid to leap as needed.
So now; now it's back to boats, to living afloat. And trying to write words again that right now feel jarred—lost somewhere in the depths of my mind but somehow, slowly finding their way out, albeit in mixed-up ways.
Grief comes in waves.
Sometimes like needles; fast and painful.
Other times like a blanket; soft and gentle.
And I miss her, my mum.
Yet there is so much more undone.
To face, reason with, and explore.
But for now I simply seek beauty in each step,
Whilst forever missing those words:
“I love you, pet.”
My mum: October 1938 ~ July 2021
I sit on a stone from a long time past, hands cold as my fingers dance up and down the recorder. Dried gorse rages the fire into life and our friends walk from across the way, smiling through the dark to Highland Mary.
The moon glows in her halo of gold—of cold—and looks down knowingly. The pitch black sky stretches out across the glen; wide and open, long, and filled with possibility. But we… we sit in the warm embrace of this circle of trees, this circle of stones; a circle that has called us home.
Juliette de Bairacli Levy (a herbalist and wanderer I greatly admire) once said that wherever she travelled there was always a little corner of land, or a simple home, available to her. Well it seems our joyful (yet unexpected) return to this croft in the Highlands of Scotland, has brought us to a corner where we can now rest our own weary feet a while.
As Juliette also said:
“Every land has its own special rhythm, and unless the traveler takes the time to learn the rhythm, he or she will remain an outsider there always.”
It has been a while since we have felt the pull to root down, but now the feeling is so strong that as I write this my heart feels light and fluttery, yet my feet—grounded. This land is special and I am awed every day as we walk through winter in her embrace. Trees call to me, earth grasps me, and the sky envelopes me. We are still travellers, but here we are, ready to throw down anchor long enough that we may know and learn the rhythms of this Highland space.
We have come to rest a while; the land says so.
And so that means a dwelling, one fit for these nomadic hearts that so long to stay connected with the earth. One befitting this circle of ancient stone and tree, where robins dwell and hearts swell; where all feels drawn from each corner of our life, towards this central point. So we asked,
“But what shall we live in dear circle?”
And she replied, “Why, a house of sticks of course!”
Driving into the Cairngorms on a day of snow and spectacular skies, we visited a man about a yurt and now the course of our life has taken shape and we have never been more glad, more excited, more in tune.
As poems flow this Burns night
As music dances in our circle
We know we have come to rest
Amongst this land and people.
There is a deeper whisper
There is a hidden call,
And if you listen carefully
It says, “Here you are home.”
And so this Highland Glen
And so this Northern sky
Upon and beneath
We will rest a while.
The other day an interview I took part in twelve years ago was brought to my attention. I ended it by saying,
“I don’t fear change; I embrace it. Whatever happens it will always lead to something else and I never want to live my life wondering what would have happened ‘if’ … the day I don’t follow that if, is the day I will feel that I’m not really living.”
Wise words from my younger self, and so we are embracing this unexpected change and throwing ourselves wholeheartedly into log cabin extensions (facilities) and a yurt base, ready for the arrival of our new home in the spring.
Beneath the Wolf Moon
My heart slows
And I stand
Lost in thought,
In darkness mixed with light
Longing to meld with all that is bright.
For us, solstice celebrations started with a four-hour mandala-making session on the beach with friends and ended with poetry around the fire.
The shortest day, the longest night
We stand in awe of nature,
With respect for all so perfectly right.
Into darkness we curl in
Nurturing the light that lies within
Safe in the knowledge sun will come again,
Just as the moon doth wax and wane.
So look around these darkest skies
Trust in how the earth lets go
That life will continue to ebb and flow.
🍂🌲Warmest wishes to friends near and far🍂🌲
Handmade with love for nights such as these.
Messy with sweet chestnuts.
Wine bottles and cups.
Fingers black from peeling those fire-hot shells.
Cheeks rosy, hearts swelled.
The sound of children's laughter.
Trampolining by torchlight, is a thing.
Connections from mind to mind.
Heart to heart.
Around which, we grow.
I reminisce about all the tables we have sat around this year—this year of disconnection, of fear. And I feel thankful for the brave hearts that wonder, that question. I feel thankful for those still willing to share.
Along with my daughter, we have been selling our individual writing projects to raise money for animal sanctuaries.
It's been a great learning experience, particularly for my daughter and so far we have raised more than £100! This has been split into two donations to Hillside Animal Sanctuary and Dean Farm Trust.
You can still support us right here:
Poems for Animals
Click to Purchase
My poems have been featured on the Viva! podcast and also in Vegan Life Magazine and ponder some of the questions and thoughts I have had myself during my 12 year journey from meat eater to vegetarian, and finally vegan. Here are some reviews:
"Wow! Your poems are so powerful, deeply touching and moving and hearing them on audio takes them to another level. If I wasn't vegan already, I would certainly be thinking long and hard about eating the flesh of animals after hearing your words." ~ Jules, @thehippieboat
“I am glad to be able to offer a little support to a good cause while also getting to enjoy some inspired and thoughtful poetry. I loved meeting the adorable duck community in Monsieur Robert and It Started With An Art reminded me strongly of an event in my own childhood. Griffin's work has a strong message encouraging readers to think about their attitudes to all animals. She doesn't hector, however, but uses her poems to present familiar scenarios that resonated with me, twisting the viewpoint to elicit an emotional response and then to illustrate the more humane resolution. If I weren't already vegan, I would certainly have been giving a lot of thought to becoming so as a result of this work.” Stephanie Jane, litflits.blogspot.com
"Those poems. So so powerful. Amazing. Eye opening. I wish everyone would see the truth." ~ Eva
“These poems emanate passion, reality and rawness. The words are brilliantly set out for all to read and digest with references that many turn a blind eye to. The talented way in which the words are put across to the reader are poignant and definitely leave you thinking. Alice is the voice, and has the words that need to be remembered.” Debbie
“Beautiful powerful words by a woman passionate about animal welfare.” Lee-Anne
Fictional Wolf Newspaper (Issue One)
Click to Purchase
Isabella (my daughter) & Milly are 13-year-old friends who created AWOOOO News because they are mad about wolves and thought it would be fun to create lots of stories and 'Wolf Reporters'. This 13-Page Easter Issue is full of stories, interviews, puzzles and fun and is a downloadable PDF Copy.
"Especially at this virus time, animal sanctuaries need help because their open days have been cancelled and these days raise lots of donations. We thought it would be fun to make our newspaper available to other children as well as raise money to help!"
We look up to see the morning mist settled atop the valley as steep-sided pine, eucalyptus and oak-covered hills draw us downwards ~ we feel cocooned, underneath the world ~ we pass the shepherd and his goats, his dog Karillio gambols around with our two ~ we laugh and exchange pleasantries ~ turning a corner in the track, down and down we go until all we can hear is the rushing river ~ the ground is damp, the smell green ~ in the distance we begin to hear children laughing outside the white house with a turquoise-painted balcony ~ our daughter waves goodbye, joining the group for a day of learning together and as we make our way back upwards the sun begins to poke through and the sleepy morning valley opens up to blue skies and endless possibilities.
There is laughter and conversation between people from near, from far, both in physical and also in years. For a while I am silently absorbed in the moment, soaking up every smile, every line of face, every sentence, my face contentedly gleaming in the iridescent late evening light that is of the Highlands at this time of year.
I look around this wooden house with golden windows on every octagonal side and remember other tables we have sat at; other people we have nurtured a connection with, and feel a deep sense of comfort to know that there are pockets of people and place all over who still yearn for the traditional ways of communication; of spending time in a solid kind of honesty, together.
This table of larch – thick and sturdy – has ensured our acceptance into the fold and I run my hand over its smooth surface with gratitude. During the past two months we have shared meals and long conversations about both the trivialities as well as the deeper issues of life. Last night we sat mesmerised as we were introduced to the true meaning of a Ceilidh… not the group dances that take place in halls throughout Scotland, but the smaller, intimate gatherings lit up by song and story.
As we listened intently to the soft tones of Highland voice, my daughter rested on my knee, eyes glistening, bodies stationary – all of us in that deep state of rest that comes with the complete absorption of something magical – I thought: could we stay?
The connections we are making here, the joy we feel from community – of working through the difficulties and learning to accept difference – and the sense of achievement felt from splitting wood or turning compost; I find myself, in many ways, afraid to leave.
I walk through the landscape on a bright morning and soak up the tumbling bird song, babbling brook, brightest gorse, that silent shift of a deer in the undergrowth and trees that have cascaded into spring above the bluebells without my even being able to keep up. I marvel at the four seasons felt in one day and for a moment I think, ‘Alice, please stay’.
But then, as I turn the well-thumbed pages of an old copy of ‘A Croft in the Hills’, Katharine Stewart’s words about an impromptu camping trip to the West coast, to cook on a driftwood fire and sleep in their van, ring out in my heart:
“We loved our small house, every stick and stone of it … yet here we were, completely happy as nomads! We had unearthed an even deeper level of existence.”
and I know that soon we will move on again… to both return to those other people and landscapes we have fallen in love with, as well as to discover more. For we have gypsy blood and for every table we sit around, for every person who captures a piece of our heart, there is still a deep hunger for movement, to be free of all shackles and yet be tied to every . single . place . we come to land with an intensity that can only be achieved by passing through because these moments are held tighter, the experiences kept closer: never taken for granted.
But this Highland place, this glen, these people: I know they have weaved their way into our very beings and I know that this has become another stopping place on our wandering path: a root to our route, and somehow that thought brings me great comfort.
Sometimes there are no photos; only words. Yet in a world that demands to see perfection created through endlessly compelling composition are words, anymore, enough?
Yet, can a photo really show you how the wind felt on my face ~ soft, airy and filled with fine grains of sand ~ as I sat against the grassy cliffs?
Can a photo tell you what I was thinking ~ freedom is to fly; to lose all sense of anything else around you and let this world we have constructed of noise, shopping trollies, bricks and wheels, fall away ~ as I tipped my head back to watch a white seagull soaring against a silent blue sky?
Can a photo really convey the look ~ sincere, compassionate, kind ~ as heartfelt words were shared, or how a hand felt ~ strong, safe, secure ~ within mine?
Can a beautiful photo of a beach, somewhere on the North Yorkshire Coastline, convey how it truly made me feel ~ humbled, centred, calmed, thankful?
There is no photo, there is no trace
for I left everything behind today
to simply lay
in the sand
and let my dreams take shape.
Words on Life
Here I simply share musings on my life of wandering, writing, home-educating & dreaming with my little family. Welcome and do please say hello!
Click here to receive a letter into your inbox with words on my wanderings and news of latest writings. 💚