Last night I drank a whisky and made a model. I was listening to music and grief has numbed me for six months, but music strips that away. A folk singer told her lost mother what it was like without her, and for a little while, I could feel again. And it hurt. My whole body felt it.

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Cockpit stone circle is a scheduled monument. There is archaeology under the surface, and there is peat that doesn't need disturbing. I'm never one to follow a pointless rule. Whatever your belief system, this is illegal for really good reasons.

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Im a little scared of winter this year. It comes with grief at my heels. Dark and cold to wrap around it. But its coming.

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The first rain in months. That deep earth smell. And tonight, the whisper of autumn.

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Hello, John Holmes. I came to see you, today. Not at your grave, deep in Shap loam, but here, at your home as the waters shrank. I stood on the cobbles of the path you walked. Stopped at the midden and tried to find a sherd that felt like yours. I watched the sun set with you, over Harter Fell.

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