Eating seasonally is something that I've written about many times before, and I have been advocating this way of cooking for many years. So when I come across businesses that have similar values, it's lovely to be able to share them with others. The chefs at Colwall Park Hotel and The Malvern in Worcestershire not only choose seasonal products, they go one step further and choose to forage for ingredients in the local area. Keep an eye out in the journal over the next few weeks as we'll be featuring a recipe for honey roasted chestnuts, and hawthorn berry jelly. In the mean time, Head Chef Steve Rimmer shares a bit more about the ethos behind his food choices...

At The Malvern restaurant we create a lot of our dishes based on seasonal products, not only is it economical but eating seasonally has health benefits too; foods in season contain the nutrients, minerals and trace elements that our bodies need at particular times of year. For example we will use Worcester wild garlic & asparagus between March and May when it’s just come into season and is at its peak, whilst the Herefordshire berries are very delicious from July to October.

When we come to seasons my favourites have to be Autumn and Winter. This is the time of year I like cooking heartier food such as slow cooked blade of Herefordshire beef with balsamic shallots, roast root vegetables and a rich red wine sauce. The Autumn Winter vegetables such as parsnips, sweet potatoes, and butternut squash are great and go well as purées with fish, meat and vegetarian dishes. You will always find beetroot on the menu as that’s one of my favourite ingredients to use and I love to put it with goats cheese. Give it a go this season!

If you'd like the chance to experience seasonal food at its finest, the lovely folk at Colwall Park are offering you the chance to win a 1 night stay including dinner and breakfast for 2 people. The Malvern Hills surrounding the hotel provide the perfect opportunity to wander in the countryside and escape the norm for a short time. And if you're worried about leaving your four-legged friend at home there's no need - the hotel is dog friendly, with a 'paw wash' station and even doggie ale in the bar! 

For your chance to win, just head over to our crowdfunding campaign for Creative Countryside magazine and select the 'Seasonal Package' (£35), which includes a printed copy of issue 1, an enamel mug, organic dark chocolate and tea and a recycled cotton check blanket. There are only 35 of these packages available, so it could easily be you that wins the stay! 

I did it! I finally clicked launch, and it's all systems go! The crowdfunding campaign for Creative Countryside magazine is now live and waiting for your pre-order. 

If you want a bit more info, here are the highlights of what we're offering...

• For just £7 you can get a copy of the magazine. It's all about slow, seasonal living, and as it's the autumn edition ('gather') you can expect apples, hedgehogs, festivals, rain, fire, adventures and much more.
   
• If you've got green fingers opt for the £15 package that includes the magazine, a wooden seed dibber, a notebook and a herb mix Seedball (these are genius!) - limited number available. 
   
• Our mini seasonal package (£20) includes an organic beauty balm from Magic Organic Apothecary, mini beeswax candles and a copy of the magazine. 
   
• Go one step further and get the bigger seasonal package (£35) - you'll receive a recycled check blanket, organic tea and chocolate, an enamel mug, the magazine, AND you could win an overnight stay plus dinner and breakfast for 2! - limited number available. 

There are also discounts for bulk buying copies of the magazine (to share with friends, perhaps?) and if you're feeling splash with cash go for the handmade package that includes 2 incredible wooden candlesticks (made with no electricity!), a handcrafted stoneware bowl plus beeswax candles.

ONE LAST THING! 

If you know anyone else who might like the magazine, I'd be incredibly grateful if you could share the campaign on social media. Just use this link - https://igg.me/at/creativecountryside/x/16185632 - or use any of the share buttons on the campaign page. Thank you so much.

Today's Creatives in the Countryside are Honey and Karen from Will Work For Food, a creative partnership working to elevate the importance of sustainability, ethically produced food for a healthy, happy life.

Nicola: Will Work For Food is such a unique concept. Tell us where the idea came from. And how you use your creativity to support farmers and homesteaders?

Karen: Honey and I had been working together for several years on commercial projects. And we both shared a personal passion for sustainable agriculture. As well as small scale farming and food in general.

We started visiting a few farmers, talking to, and photographing them in their element.  We were blown away by how passionate, determined and hard working they were.  We knew we had to work in this area in some way.  We both had grand dreams of becoming farmers ourselves.  But the more time we spent with them, the more we realized neither of us was cut out for it!  Instead we decided to use our creative skills to work with farmers who farm in a sustainable and ethical way, in the hope of contributing to their success.

We began to notice a common element amongst the farmers. While they were incredible at growing food, they had little knowledge on how to market what they did. We knew the majority of farmers wouldn't have the money to pay for our services. So we came up with the idea of working for food, or at least taking part payment for our services in food, to make it more affordable. And so Will Work For Food was born.

It's grown and changed quite a bit since those early days. And we’re even more focused on contributing to the success of many small-scale farmers. 

We do this by photographing them. Sharing their story with a large audience. Helping to promote them.  And teaching them how to promote themselves to the right audience.

What do you love most about the work that you do?

We both come alive when we’re visiting with these farmers, it gives us such a high. 

There’s not much else we’d rather be doing. We feel privileged that these people welcome us into their lives and share their stories with us.  We learn so much by spending a day with them.

We both feel strongly that our food system in this country is broken.  In the words of Dan Barber, ‘in the rush to industrialise farming, we’ve lost the understanding, implicit since the beginning of agriculture, that food is a process, a web of relationships, not an individual ingredient or commodity’.  We want our work to contribute to helping people care about where their food comes from and how it is grown.  If we can do that, we feel like our contribution was valuable.

The Collins Farm

Even before starting Will Work For Food you were both living a simpler, more conscious life. Can you tell me how these journeys have changed your lives?

For me the catalyst was a combination of having young children and my own health issues. It's the same for a lot of people. Before that I was on the treadmill of life. Finishing school.  Working hard at University. Travelling. Getting a good job. Working crazy, long hours. Buying an expensive house and the best of everything. Then one day I 'woke up' and realised none of that mattered.

We are both concerned about the kind of world our children are going to inherit. It doesn't take a genius to know that the future our children face is going to be full of immense challenges. A rapidly growing population.  Rising sea levels.  Depleted natural resources.  And corporations and governments willing to sacrifice the health of the people and the planet, just to increase their bottom line.

We both joke that living a conscious life is like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. The more you learn, the more you, well, learn. And the more you learn, the more you care.

It's why sharing stories is a powerful way to inspire change. Once you know something, you can’t not know it.  The majority of people do care.  But they’ve fallen into a place of apathy.  And a bit of laziness too.  Sure, it’s a lot easier to buy your vegetables from the supermarket.  But what impact is your action having on the world?

How many chemical fertilisers were used to grow that food? How much of these were washed into waterways, killing marine and plant life? How much soil was destroyed and can never be used again?  And how much pollution was produced delivering these vegetables to the supermarket?

Jervoise Organic Meat

You both have children, so I’d love to know how you are guiding them to live a ‘free-range’ life.

This is one of the most important things to us. We want to raise our children to be future earth warriors and change makers. We want to ensure that they have every opportunity to learn about how to make the world a better place. That they’re aware of how their actions impact other people, animals and the earth. And we want them to be resilient. To know how to be self-sufficient, and to have the best possible chance at a healthy, happy life.

Sharing the message of sustainability and ethically produced food is the core of the work you do. For people who are unsure where to start on a similar journey, what is one thing you would suggest?

The most important and powerful thing anyone can do is to educate themselves. And to take responsibility for the food on their plate, and that of their children.

Ask questions. Don’t believe the marketing hype. Find out who grew your food and how it was grown.  It’s not just about whether your food choices contribute to the destruction of the environment.  But also about eating food with a high, nutritional content.  If the soil your food is grown in is full of chemicals, pesticides and depleted nutrients, how dense are the nutrients in your food going to be?

People seem to have forgotten that healthy earth = healthy people. One cannot survive without the other. And we cannot continue to go through life without a care for the impact of our lives on this planet.

 You can find Will Work For Food on Instagram. Visit their website here.

If you'd like your creative business to be featured in a similar post on Creative Countryside, get in touch by emailing Nicola (hello@nicolajudkins.com) or Eleanor (contact@creativecountryside.com). There is no payment involved; we just like to showcase creative talent whenever we can!

There is something magical about a handmade item. It’s almost as if all the love, time and thoughts that went into bringing it into being can be felt when you hold onto it. Things that have been made by small independent creatives, artists and designers tell a story, and if you listen closely you will hear that story.

The further I have gone on my own handmade story, starting with my market stall at the age of 17, the more I have come to truly understand why you just can’t beat something that has been handled and made by the same pair of hands from start to finish. When I read older stories, such as Little House on the Prairie, I notice how content these people are with a small number of possessions, and I wonder when I walk past row after row of plastic and fast fashion at the store if the ability to have a gazillion outfits and bucketloads of knick-knacks has contributed to our feeling of happiness at all. I’m not sure it has.

In the age of mindfulness and getting back to a simpler yet more grateful way of existence, I believe the little cottage industries, the makers, the doers and the dreamers have their part to play. Aside from the often superior quality of a handmade item - which is most likely to become a family heirloom, not a contribution to the tip when it wears out after a year - creators not only give us a more colourful world, they make communities when their work is being supported, loved and admired. Certainly it may cost you more, of course it will. People need to eat and live after all. We all do.

I believe the social and community benefits are much higher when you support a local maker, or a maker anywhere. On a local level, the money you spend will go back into your area which means the other small businesses will flourish in turn. This can help create jobs, futures for your children. The ongoing effect can be quite huge, a ripple in the pond so to speak. When you choose to buy handmade, you are also helping to create a world that celebrates individuality.

If you stop for a moment and think about it, art and creativity are such a vital part of society. In an increasingly negative and often scary world, the beautiful act of creating something good, something amazing gives back, produces a smile. Creativity is the opposite of destruction. One gives while the other takes. I don’t feel that buying handmade should become a religious activity - where you do it solely because you see the benefits and feel the need to contribute. It should be more than that. You should really love what you are choosing to buy. You should love it and treasure it. The maker poured their love and creativity into what they made, it is your duty to love it too.

I have recently reached the point myself where if someone is quibbling over a price or seems to have an overall negative mindset towards one of my items, I would rather they didn’t buy it. A piece of my soul goes into each item I make, the transaction is one I would like to look upon with joy. I don’t want to feel undervalued and under appreciated. When that happens, handmade is no different to a mass made item. The customer isn’t caring about it enough to take it home to love, they are just seeing it as another must-have item. Something to post on instagram or boost their social status. The ability for a maker to only create such a small portion of items in comparison to mass-produced items means that handmade is special, it is unique and we should preserve that. It was never made to be in competition with the local supermarket or department store. It’s not about that at all.

One day, I wondered about the waste created by the mass market. I stopped and looked around at all the ‘stuff’ around me. The two dozen clothing stores. The dollar shops filled with replicas of more expensive counterparts. The stacks of two dollar stationary. Stuff. Loads of it. Where could it possibly all go? It was researching production for my own clothing business that opened my eyes to why the fashion industry is called the rag trade. So much of what we see in stores goes to landfill. It’s thrown away. Prior to this, the environmental impacts on creating so much cheap clothing so quickly are huge. It’s the hidden cost of the ten dollar tee shirt.

I live in the countryside. The natural environment inspires me. Flowers make me so darn happy. The birdsong fills my heart. I would rather see animals roaming grassy landscapes than locked in feedlots and sheds - the meat market’s version of mass production. The need to accumulate and to have just for the sake of having is actually affecting the environment and our beautiful world. The welfare of people and animals are at stake. Behind the gloss and glamour of all that stuff, are too often choked rivers, ravished forests, piles of rubbish and people working for less an hour than it would cost you to buy a cup of tea. And all to just have ‘stuff.’ Stuff you have to work long hours to buy and then spend cleaning. Most of the time, it’s all the cheap little purchases we make that tip the budget. You’ll notice that the bigger, more expensive items you buy less of aren’t actually the things that are breaking the bank!

There are many, many positive effects of buying from a small creative business. You should give, and you will receive in return. Not just a beautiful new dress, not just a doll or a bag or a birthday card. You will see the world change around you. You might not buy as many physical items, but you will be buying so much more. You will be supporting a local family, who will support other local families. You’ll be saying no to the waste, pollution and cheap products whose inability to last well will over time cost you hundreds more than the more expensive handmade item. Where the only person winning is the bigger company - you lose out because the quality is zip, and the workers lose out because the manufacturing has been moved to a part of the world where the living standards would be less than acceptable in your neck of the woods. So if you stopped and asked me “why should I buy handmade instead of a mainstream item?” I would answer, “Because why shouldn’t you?”

Soul, essence, inner being, whatever you want to call it, put it in an environment particularly one filled with nature and watch it flourish and thrive. Put it in that environment on a regular basis and watch it change for the better. Watch your mind feel clearer, feel your shoulders relax, let the feeling of calm drift over you, carrying you in a bubble of clarity, nothing else matters at this time - everything else can wait - it’s your soul’s time to reconnect with the bigger picture.

It’s so easy to get caught up with material nags. The pressures that we feel from work, our families and what’s going on in the news - it seems to consume us so much so we kind of lose who we are. We become disconnected, disillusioned and our desires are dampened by the day to day stresses.

I often think about our senses. My inner knowing reminds me that my ears weren’t meant for listening to noise pollutants such as gossip and bad news. Instead it was given to me to hear shrieks, and laughs, as friends and I paddle on St Andrew’s cold emerald harbour.

© Funky Ellas Travel

My eyes weren’t meant to see scenes of chaos and destruction. Instead they were meant to see the rare wonders of nature including the the Lomond Hills or the impressive structures man built with bare hands, like the Falklands Estate.

My touch wasn’t meant for hard, cold, concrete walls and pavements. Instead it was meant to feel the smooth mahogany structures of the Cambo Boat or to be caressed by archways filled with roses, wild grass that tickles and teases at the Cambo Estate gardens, or how about feeling the craggy rocks and silky sand on bare feet as I wander along the Fife coastal path?

My tastebuds weren’t made for artificial flavourings or for general convenience to fill a gap,  but instead were meant to experience freshly picked salads and ethically home-cooked foods from a place that cares about your tastebuds like Pillars of Hercules.

My nose, it prefers smells of sweet homemade pastries, open fires and success.   Much like at an afternoon tea with Lindores Abbey distillery which is soon to be opening after 18 years of vision and two years of bringing that smell of success to life.

And then there’s my intuition,  a sense I pay much more attention to nowadays, which guides my soul back to the environments in which it thrives. I won't and can't even consider suppressing, ignoring or trying to convince it otherwise. Life’s long and beautiful but it’s too short to be doing anything other than what it truly deserves to do: thrive. 

Disclaimer: thank you to Welcome to Fife for having me over to experience a wee bit of Scottish bliss!  All walking miles clocked up, splashes in the North Sea and fudge donuts consumed were all mine! ;)

As they rose, the cities fell

the churches, schools and tower blocks

lost in the dark beneath the swell.

Screeching seabirds breaking the still

of this new silent place, skimming the spray of the swirling waves.

As they rose, cities fell.

In cavernous abyss, dark things dwell,

watching sunlight glitter on the surface.

Barnacles claim old towns, barely recognisable,

Lost in the dark, beneath the swell.

Across the perpetual water, fogs dispel.

The winds – the old gods, exercise their volatile tempers, 

as they rose, the cities fell.

Sometimes, you can see jutting, when the when the ocean’s dark moods quell,      

rusting pylons,  power lines, summits of skyscrapers - skeletons from an old world

lost in the dark, beneath the swell.

Seals bask unhindered, on the shores of desert archipelagos

no detritus on the soft shores but weed and shell 

as they rose, the cities fell.

There were a people once, mariners with stories to tell,

Frantic fleeting lives –  corpses now

Lost in the dark beneath the swell

The tides are wild

The were callous

As they rose, the cities fell

Lost in the dark, beneath the swell.

This villanelle was inspired by the fabled lost lands of Lyonesse. Maybe you, like me, wandered the harbour streets of Cornwall and noticed more than one or two boats with this name bobbing gently in the bay. It wasn’t actually till I was in my teen years that I came across the legend of Lyonesse - It was at the Gorsedh Cornish cultural festival where they did a story telling and I found myself fascinated and plunged into this watery doomed world off the coast of Cornwall and Scilly.

In a similar vein to Atlantis, the story of Lyonesse links back to sunken cities and the stories are often set around the Arthurian times. Some sources say that the Lyonesse was the kingdom of Tristan’s father (of Tristan & Iseult) and others link back to celtic mythology. It was believed that Lyonesse was a beautiful kingdom of spires, woodlands and castles… indeed St Michael’s mount - a very real castle perched on an island accessible at low tide, just off the coast of Marazion has very mysterious origins surrounding it. It’s Cornish name. “Karrek Loos y’n Koos” translates as ‘Grey Rock in the Wood’ which suggests that the mount was once surrounded by forest and some rumours claim that at lowest neap tides, the salt faded remains of a very ancient forest might be glanced. But despite the many curious stories surrounding this alluring kingdom, they all share the same grim end; that the land was doomed. It is thought that perhaps the people of the kingdom committed some terrible act and angered the gods to bring about such an end, but it is not known for sure.

Each of the stories tell that in one night, the entire land was sunken beneath a dark maelstrom that brought a single giant wave. And so it became lost and the people perished.

Some believe that there may be truth in this legend - the archipelago which lays around 30 miles away off the Cornish coast has bronze age remains of settlements, as well as other celtic settlements which once were above sea level but are now submerged upon the flooding of penzance bay over time… these could have inspired stories from early fishermen about lost cities, growing to become the mystical lands of Lyonesse as the centuries passed.

One thing is for sure, and that is that the end of the land holds a very real and vibrant sense of mystery and enchantment. If you stand at Landsend at sunset, and watch the day sink behind the stark rocks of Enys Dodnan sea arch, you will witness the moon rise over the coast on the other side and feel the very real power and magic that these parts retain… maybe you’ll even be gazing over the flooded lands of a lost ancient kingdom. Maybe, just maybe, on a quiet and still autumn’s evening, you’ll hear the bells of the ancient cathedral of Lyonesse, just as legend says.

Growing up in a rural setting by the coast, I was dubious about moving to the city. Although I adored the pastoral landscape, I was curious about the change and knew I had a chance of finding work there. Admittedly Bath isn’t London, but sooner or later it became easy to adapt to the urbanised habits of a city-dweller, though I have never lost my desire for the outdoors. Any chance I get to ramble in the country, or drive towards the coast, I grasp firmly with both hands. But am I happy in the city? The truthful answer is both yes and no.

Having found myself working tirelessly between two jobs and juggling a master's degree, I relish the idea of going back to basics living more than ever before. Despite my childhood desires I had never been camping before, so my partner and I packed his tent into the car and set off for Pembrokeshire.

Over a long weekend, we went without electronics, our camera proving the exception. Dinner consisted of a boil-in-a-bag meal, cooked over our camp stove and we ate outside under the stars. I couldn’t help but smile as we boiled water by the road-side, boots muddied by the mountain bog. Driving to get lost, scaling hillsides in the mist, the back-to-basics lifestyle had caught me by the hips and dragged me into my own reckless means of survival. I found a warm sense of comfort in hauling back to the simple things.

A key activity on our trip was to uncover the fabled resting place of King Arthur in the heart of the Preseli Mountains. Bedd Arthur is said to be found towards the end of The Golden Road, a historic tradepath across the backbone of the hills. Like all good road-trips it didn’t quite go according to plan, but then that was part and parcel of the beauty of the thing. We were quick to learn there were no signposts for the route and were hindered by a wide-spread mist. After several false starts, we managed to pick up the trail and clambered to top of Foel Eyer. From here we should have been treated to views across the Irish Sea and up the coast to Cardigan Bay, but instead we were rewarded only by undulating hills of verdant green, pinned down by threatening clouds. Whilst it was a little disappointing it was also rather magical, providing a mystical backdrop to my own Arthurian quest.

I’d hoped the trek would give guidance as to the direction we needed to take, which it did, but we were still far from Arthur’s burial site, and the weather was worsening. We were forced to put the journey on hold and head for the coast instead. We did, however, pick up the path from the end of the route the next morning, when the skies were clearing and I was adamant that I would find the long-awaited spot I was after. We launched into formidable bogland, seeing no other way to approach the summit. For many this would be a nightmare, but while it wasn’t ideal, wandering across the marshes, clambering over jagged rocks, I worried very little about anything other than potential tick bites. I was happy existing amongst the grassland scrub, tested by the elements.

Throughout my weekend escape, I embraced both the difficulties and achievements gained from overcoming them. Daring to grace the cliff-edge in St. David’s, provoking fear and excitement in equal measure. Meanwhile, the loss of a morning in bad weather meant reaching Bedd Arthur the following day felt all the more rewarding. Existing without modern distraction was liberating and bestowed a sense of calm. In honesty there was almost a void of feeling when I decided to live by the moment; it was as if all routine and expectation had been stripped away and left a sense of stillness in its wake.

Simply existing in nature, not watching the clock, was the most humbling feeling. I felt free to roam the grassland plains, graze my hands on the bluestone. My brain drew inspiration at passing ships around tiny islands as I scurried along in trepidation. Veins pumping, my heart beating fast, only the cry of a seagull could pierce the once silent void. The ground released aromas, dried grass and fragrant coastal flower. It is hard to put into words the way nature made me feel outrageously alive.

Despite my recharging weekend in nature, I can’t say wholeheartedly that I am a full-blown country girl. There is a sense of vitality in the cosmopolitan city, but it can be a feeling that dries after time and I think I will always require the boost that rural living offers. In the same manner, I don’t believe I will live in the city forever either. I often dream of a coastal cottage hideaway, but while I’m young and willing to chase my ideal career, I may reside elsewhere. Mother Nature is remarkable and as long as I’m in love with her. It doesn’t matter where I live, so long as I hark back to her when and where I can.

Today's Creative in the Countryside is Lucy from The Whispering Wild, a needle sculptor creating creatures with a tale to tell and a song in their heart.

Nicola: I’d love for you to start by telling us about yourself, your business and what drew you to the work you do?

Lucy: I must admit I find this question quite difficult to answer. My unconfident self always shies away at any question involving me. Over the past few years I have learnt that it’s much easier to tell you about myself via a story, so here we go.

‘I was a child that dreamt amongst the leaves and ached to feed my bare warm toes in cool mud. Nature was my ever-generous treasure chest. Gifting me sweet finds of nibbled nuts and pearlescent shells. I would store them for quiet admiration in used matchboxes and discarded film cases.

My struggles through my young life were always softened by the blackbirds’ song. Nature ran deep in my veins and I loved it whole-heartedly.  As I grew up my confidence retreated, hiding itself beneath a fortress of brambles in my soul.  I was constantly wandering my place, never fitting in.  I daydreamed about frosty morning fields for most of my teenage years.

After applying myself to jobs that never felt right, I realised my release was to come home and create the wonders I had seen.  Could I turn this passion into something that feeds me, as nature had done for my soul for all those years?  I worried that, with no formal training, I would dissolve into the background.  But once more Nature was there to reassure me she is my college of wild.  So I began, and with it the brambles that for so long encased my confidence began to flower.  So that is how I find myself sat here, in a shed under the willow tree with needle, wool and a shelf full of treasures. 

Tell us about the process of your work and where you draw your inspiration?

It is hard to pinpoint where my creations begin. The idea is hazy at first. Almost like a remembered dream. Or those sudden moments of realisation and déjà vu. I adore this part. It is the excitement and joining up of dots. That will be why I keep seeing herons. Or it's the ‘I knew this object would want to become something’. There is some part of me that knows, before my brain, what I’m going to create.

I tend to scribble or sketch ideas that come to me at all times of the day and night. It means my overused and well-thumbed journal is never far from my side.  I would say ninety percent of my ideas stay as just hat, and remain as a note in the margins.  But ten percent stick and start evolving. 

I used to find this frustrating, especially when I felt I had a brilliant idea. But this is one of many lessons I have learnt about myself. Never push it! Allow the flow and trust what comes, and what goes. Where the idea travels next is rarely within my control.

For many years I tried to be strict and stick to one medium. But I discovered that, like everything in this glorious world, individuality is a gift. My sculptures are a mix of wools, embroidery, silk, naturally dyed materials and found objects.  It can take anything from one day to six weeks to complete a piece.  Which gives them plenty of time to tell me their story.

As you can see I don’t have much say in what appears, which is why I feel like an imposter.  Creating a beautiful sculpture from an unknown origin of my brain or soul is a contract of trust I made long ago. 

My inspiration, muse, my all and everything is nature. It is safe to say I am in love with it.  From the cuteness of a cub, to the rich bones of a decaying creature.  There is hardly any part of a day I’m not thinking about nature, and no night passes without me dreaming of it.  I am overwhelmed by the magnificence of nature and how she shows herself. 

What does your workspace look like and what do you love most about it?

I live in a very unassuming, very ordinary ex council home in Somerset. When we moved here I realised I needed my own dedicated space. Money and space are tight so I needed to think outside of the box.

One day my husband and I were erecting a small shed we had moved from our previous home. A light bulb moment happened. Within 24 hours the 8x10 shed was insulated, painted, heated and had electricity.

I have been in this DIY studio under the twisted willow for two years now. Part of me would love a specially built space, but I do love how close I feel to the elements.  In summer the doors are wide open and the blackbird nearly comes inside to find cake crumbs.  The bees have no issue inviting themselves in.  Winter arrives and gloves are a must.  I get a childlike joy when the rain hits the roof.  Although it does disturb my Siamese cat from his peaceful sleep.

I know you love to tell the story behind each of your creations through your writing as well.  What is the best part of sharing these stories with others?

Telling the story is the most important part for me. I feel that without a story there is no life.  We all have a story and our creatures too.  So why would artwork be any different?

I would say it surprised me to know there were stories behind the pieces. But since a child I have looked for meaning in everything. At a very young age I was reading books about astrology and earth magic. I loved feeling connected to something I felt I understood.

There are countless depths and meanings in each sculpture. That all tangle together like the wool itself. I do have a crippling lack of self-confidence. Which sometimes makes it hard to share these tales that are often raw and close to my heart.

The only way I have found the ability share is through the support and kindness of my followers (aka friends!) on social media. Their understanding is a great comfort to me.  And the real treasure is that some feel, in turn, they can share their own tales with me.  It helps me more than they will ever know.  And I truly love them for it.

You donate some of your profits to the Butterfly Conservation Trust.  Can you tell us a little more about this?

Recently I have put into action a plan to donate money to charities through the sale of others and my artwork.  It has always been a dream of mine to give something back to the natural world that gifts me so much.  Sadly many artists find it difficult to make a living through their work.  And I am no exception.

I had been waiting for those magical numbers that meant I had the ability to donate.  But after hearing shocking statistics about the decline of one of our most precious habitats, the meadow, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.  

Nature cannot wait until next month or even tomorrow, it needs us now! The statistic that took my breath away was this.  Since WW2 we have lost 97% of our wildflower meadows.  So I am creating four watercolour images of butterflies to be turned into prints and cards. 

I’m also running an online auction of butterfly, bee and moth inspired art.  Kindly donated by some of my favourite artists from around the world.  The auction will take place on the 6th of August 2017 on Instagram, on the page @giftthemwings.  Profits will be split between The Somerset Wildlife Trusts meadows project, and The Butterfly Conservation Trust.  I also hope to hold an exhibition next year inspired by the winged works of art that pollinate our planet.   

What message do you want to share with others through the work you do and the life that you live?

Good question! My life can be pretty complicated at times so I don’t claim to have much advice. If my creations make people think about the environment, that's the greatest gift I could ask for.

 You can find Lucy on Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. Visit her website here.

If you'd like your creative business to be featured in a similar post on Creative Countryside, get in touch by emailing Nicola (hello@nicolajudkins.com) or Eleanor (contact@creativecountryside.com). There is no payment involved; we just like to showcase creative talent whenever we can!

This spring, something was different. I’ve been noticing the elder tree more this year. The sight of it makes me smile and on many occasions I’ve had to stop mid-step when hit by its summery scent and look around for its source. A little bit like hearing your name being called out, turning around and recognising a friend in the crowd. People who work with plants will often start to humanise them, saying things like ‘see which plant speaks to you’ or referring to them as ‘an old friend’. I raised my eyebrow to that before. Not anymore. A few years ago it was hawthorn. I could smell its almond-like, sweet almost nauseating smell from a mile away. This year the elder seems to be befriending me.

I don’t remember my first encounter with the elder tree. Do you? It is such an ingrained part of our landscape and our summers! And lately elderflower picking has become almost a ritual for seasonal living. Indeed I found a saying that the English summer begins with elderflower and ends with elderberries. I know my summer is incomplete without lemonade, Pimms and elderflower cordial! It probably isn't the case anymore (although it would be wonderful if it was), but I’m sure there was a time when every adult could have recognised the elder tree from making pop-guns and whistles from its hollow stems as a child. I remember too having the most refreshing and delicious drink ever in Switzerland many years ago. When I enquired if those tiny five-petal flowers floating in the punch bowl were elderflowers, my host was super secretive of her family recipe. But regardless of my unproven suspicions, I fell in love with them from then on. 

So this spring as I began noticing elderflowers more, my curious mind began to enquire the history and folklore of Sambucus Nigra. Over the years, I had got to know elder better from a herbal medicine, a culinary and a foraging perspective and began regarding it with reverence. After all it was once called ‘the poor man’s medicine chest’ on account of its healing benefits for a wide range of ailments, from bronchitis to rheumatic pains, migraines, flu etc. The berries are very high in Vitamin C and studies have proven that elderberry extract inhibited the H1N1 virus (swine flu) in vitro and was effective against H5N1 virus (bird flu). I actually heard a story that during the autumn of the bird flu when the herbalists went looking for elderberries encouraged by its antiviral properties they found almost none. After much speculation and debate, a seven year old remarked that of course the birds have been medicating themselves, thus preventing its spread! Other than the flowers and the berries, its bark, leaves and even the roots were once used medicinally. The berries were also used as dyes producing violet, lilac and black colour.

I therefore found myself frowning at the sinister reputation it seems to have acquired. It is rumoured to be the tree that Judas hung himself off (amongst other contenders) and also whose wood was used for the crucifix. Making a child’s cradle with elder wood is said to bring ill luck. One reference specifies the baby will be pinched black and blue by the spiteful elder mother who lived in the wood. Witches were said to be able to transform into elder trees too; in Ireland they seem to be riding elder staffs instead of brooms. To burn elder wood brought death and disaster and was believed to ‘raise the devil’.  There is a record from 1850 of a parishioner saying, ‘...we look carefully through the faggots before we burn them, for fear that there should be any of this (elder) wood in them.’

But travel back further in time and the story is quite different. The name is derived perhaps from the Anglo-Saxon ‘Aeld’ meaning fire as the hollow stems were used to blow air into the flames. In Denmark, it was known as ‘Hyldemor’ – Elder Mother, the crone aspect of the feminine trinity, who is said to dwell in the tree. One was not allowed to cut a branch without permission lest you anger the Lady.

‘Lady Elder, give me some of thy wood and I will give you some of mine when I become a tree.’

In Ireland the tree is associated with the Faery realms. Sitting under an elder tree on Midsummer’s Eve (or Samhain in Scotland), one might be graced with the sight of the Faery King and Queen (conspicuous amounts of elderflower wine may have been recommended beforehand!). And in the Celtic Ogham calendar, the elder tree rules the 13th month (approx Nov 25 – Dec 21).

It then started to occur to me how the elder might have started to gain a bad reputation during spread of Christianity. It suddenly makes sense how the crone, the Mother, becomes a witch - its association with the 13th moon might make it automatically unlucky. And is it so hard to see how its link to the otherworld of faeries becomes a link to the underworld of the devil?

There are some superstitions, however, which make sense. Stay with me on this one. We now know that the leaves and bark are full of cyanogenic glucosides and volatile neurotoxic alkaloids: sambugrine and conicine. This could explain the basis of at least two of the superstitions, of never sleeping under the elder tree and of never burning its wood. I can see how a person might feel at least unwell having smelt the narcotic scent laced with cyanide compounds in their sleep, all night. Another might feel a more hallucinogenic effect and might see the faery king after all!  And if its wood was burnt indoors I imagine it would make the occupants feel rather faint or nauseous for the same reasons. It makes for a poor fuel with a small flame and little heat, and if any stems made their way into the fire, due to their hollow structure, they would spit angrily (like an angry witch or the devil one might say). 

So I take its ill reputation with a pinch of salt and feel glad that it still plays a part in our lives and our seasons. I think of the birds that might be eating the berries to combat their illness. I think of its medicinal virtues that are available to us if only we know them. Thanks to J.K Rowling, I think of the most powerful wand ever made. I always ask permission or give thanks, hoping to keep some quirky traditions alive. And just for rumour, I might even seek and sit under an elder tree on Midsummer Eve. Now that the elderflowers are almost gone, I look at the trees soon to be laden with delicious berries hoping that my syrup attempts will be more successful than my cordials.

Trees have long been entwined with storytelling. Not only do they provide the perfect backrest when reading a good book, their history and mythology has also inspired works of fiction for thousands of years. In her book, Gossip from the Forest, Sara Maitland suggests that the mysterious secrets and silences, gifts and perils of the forests were both the background and the source of fairytales; Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, The Seven Dwarves. 

Trees are also seen to be sacred, with healing powers. In The Sacred Tree (a small but beautiful book that focuses on 13 native trees of the British Isles and their corresponding 13 moons and place on the wheel of the year's cycle), Glennie Kindred suggests ways to communicate with tree spirits, as well as exploring the spiritual and healing qualities each tree has to teach us. The book is full of wonderful line drawings and includes how to grow and plant trees, too.

The Woodland Trust seeks to continue this deserved reverence, and is currently urging tree lovers to stump up nominations to become the next Tree of the Year. The Brimmon Oak in Wales narrowly missed out on being crowned the 2017 European Tree of the Year and the Woodland Trust is hoping to go one step better next time around. People are asked to nominate a tree ‘with a story’; this could be a link to a historical figure or event, a tree at the heart of a community or one which is just well loved. Winning trees will benefit from a tree care award of up to £1,000 thanks to support from players of People’s Postcode Lottery. This can be used for arboricultural surveys or other maintenance, interpretation or even to support a community event in celebration of the tree.

Inspired by the celebration of trees, we'll be featuring our own stories in the journal over the next few months. First up is Mugdha from Kindred + Wild, as she takes on the elder in next week's post. I'd love to hear from you if you've got a tree story to tell. It could be a specific tree, or a whole species. It could be associated with literature and tales of your childhood, or maybe you just pass it each morning on your way to work? Get in touch by emailing contact@creativecountryside.com. If you'd like to nominate a tree for Tree of the Year, you have until the end of July to take part, and can find out more here. 

Today I'm introducing the work of Oska Von Ruhland, a creative writing graduate from Cardiff who's written about merfolk. Enjoy...

They used to wash up on the beach occasionally. It wasn’t very common and there was always a spectacle when they did. Usually the Marine Rescue Squad would show up and pull them back into the sea. MRS had these huge net things, and cars that could drive into the water, so that they didn’t have to touch them. They always looked confused to be there, and it wasn’t like you could talk to them to tell them the way the tide works. Sea creatures don’t understand why going near the shallows is a bad idea.

            It hasn’t happened for a few years. I almost miss them.

            I have to walk along the cliffs to get home. Every now and then I glance down at the golden sands where the sunset shimmers on the waves and turns the deep dark blue sea into a dancing fire. I used to use this time to remember those days. And then one day, I didn't have to remember any more.

            One of them had washed up high on the sand, thrashing its tail everywhere with its mouth agape. It was gasping and trying to scrabble back to the water. I zig-zagged down the steep path towards the beach and it stared at me with its wide yellow eyes. I had no clue what I was supposed to do. It looked like it had been there a while; its skin was dry and crusty with dirt and the more it moved the more tired it looked. The MRS would take too long to arrive. I tried to get my arms around it to move it, but it started to screech and waved around more. I hated it when they did that.

            “It’s okay, don’t be scared,” I tried to tell it.

            There’s no safe place to grab them from. The tail moves around too much and everything else is spikes or teeth. I had my arms around its middle and its webbed spines jabbed my stomach as it wriggled. I wasn’t expecting it to be so cold, or for its scales to be so smooth along its belly. I also wasn’t expecting the strong salty, fishy stink that filled my nostrils when I held it close.

            Suddenly a thought occurred to me and I said, “Wait here, I have an idea.”

            I got up in a rush and ran around the beach until I found a lost bucket. I filled it with sea water and ran back, then upturned the bucket over the wriggling creature. It flinched in surprise and stilled as the cool liquid spread over it.

            “There, now you won’t dry out,” I said. It seemed happy.

            As the water washed away all the sand and dirt, I saw the true colour of its scales. It was aqua blue with a white belly. Purple stripes ran all along its body, along its jaws and all the way down its tail. Its fins were nearly see-through with thick blue spines, and the tuft of hair on its head was a mix of pale yellow and green. It had a broad, flat nose and a beautifully decorated brow over huge golden eyes.

            I crouched down next to it and asked, “What’s your name?”

            It didn’t answer me. Instead it parted its thin lips and grinned with all its pointy teeth.

            I was disappointed, even though I knew they couldn’t talk. At least it was calm now, and wasn’t flailing everywhere. I began to pat at the sand, trying to make it as smooth and flat as possible. When I had done what I could do, I filled the bucket up again and poured it over the sand, making it smooth and slippery.

            I grabbed the sea creature’s tail and it struggled for a moment, but then saw that I was pulling it towards the sea. The fins were rubbery and twitched a little under my touch .It was lighter than I thought it would be. The slippery sand made it easy to get to the tide foam. It slid easily across the wet sand like a snake on ice.

            As soon as it was in the water it wriggled out of my grasp and jerked its tail once, shooting forwards before vanishing into the dark watery abyss. I was alone again.

            When I finally got home, I made sure to call the MRS about what happened. They set up nets over the next few days all along the coast designed to keep the larger sea creatures from washing up onto the shore. It was set so deep and far back that even if they did swim up to the nets, we wouldn’t see them. Still, it didn’t stop me from looking down at the beach every time I walked home.

After that, I never saw any of the Merfolk ever again.

You can mark the progress of the seasons, and indeed the farming year, simply by the appearance of the fields. Here in the Pennines we don’t have much by way of arable farming so the welcome sight of autumn stubble isn’t something to be anticipated on nature’s calendar. But my garden gate opens straight into a meadow, which is indeed a lovely thing. In winter we have sheep poking their noses through the bars, trying to reach the tantalising flower borders. In spring the lambs arrive. But not this year. Instead, the lambs are in another field and we have a hay meadow. The grass is already waist-high in parts (there’s an unmarked path right through the middle so we often wander up to the hills this way).

It was whilst looking out of the kitchen window and beyond the gate, watching these long grasses rippling mesmerically in the wind, that I started thinking about summers past. As children we’d make little nests in the meadows, lying down and watching the grass and buttercups waving above us. The simple pleasure to be had from looking back at the path you’d made (even more satisfying when the grass is wet). Sitting on an upturned bucket in mucky jodhpurs making flower crowns.

In this landlocked valley the rippling of long grasses in the breeze is our alternative to sand dunes. A graphite-grey sky with bleached stems below, as far as the eye can see, is one of my favourite late-summer sights. I find it so evocative – to stand in the middle of it all is as close as I’ll ever get to a meditative state.

It isn’t just about grass, of course. Although these in themselves are fascinating; slow down, get up close and notice the sheer variety of form and colour. Meadows, like the moors above, are an intricate tapestry of plants and flowers. At this time of year we have buttercups, clover, sorrel, cuckoo flowers and vetch to name but a few. And all punctuated with fleshier clumps of dock, nettle and thistle.

But what about those of us who live in more urban areas? Where do we go in search of the great unmown?

Many parks and public green spaces are neatly lawned. Sometimes they’ll have wilder fringes if you stray from the tarmac. Go and explore the further reaches (worthwhile, as the outer edges are often much quieter too). A place I visit often is the churchyard in our village. Over half of it is gloriously wild, left to its own devices to grow and set seed. It’s filled with dancing buttercups and sedges, much of the ground being quite marshy underfoot, as well as red clover, purple wild orchids and Bistort. There are even some rogue forget-me-nots in there, apt for a place where people have been laid to rest over the centuries.

Now is the time to go out and find a wildflower meadow, or at least a little piece of one in an unlikely place. There are few things as truly magical as walking waist-deep through tall grass. Children love it too. And be sure to sit (or even better, lie) down and watch the sky from a secret little space, surrounded by nodding flowers and busy insects.