Journal
Walking by Loch Lomond in Midwinter
The loch is high, swallowing the beaches completely, and what little light there is in midwinter gets caught and held in the still water.
Old oaks line the shore, their trunks patterned with moss and lichen in the same way bracken and heather patch the hills beyond - holly grows thick beneath them, a remnant of an industrial past when oak bark tanned leather and holly wood was carved into fine-grained blocks for printing textiles.
A single tree stands stranded in the water, its reflection doubling it against the grey.
In the forest - Drymen winter walk
A walk in the forestry above Drymen on the winter solstice, though it feels more like autumn with bracken still rust-coloured and gorse blooming yellow against the dark pines.
Wet moss glows emerald on old tumbledown walls, and lichen hangs from branches like the forest’s own winter decorations, shining pale in the soft light.
The sun sets by half past three, turning the path gold before darkness comes.
Flooding in the fields, Callander, Scotland
A narrow weather system stretched from Cuba to the Scottish Highlands last week, dropping enough rain in 48 hours to turn this valley into something unrecognisable. The carpark signs poke above what’s now a temporary loch, field boundaries dissolve into open water, and mist hovers just above the surface - that peculiar effect you get when cold air meets warmer water.
The streams are running fast, carrying lichen-covered alder branches downstream, but if you look closely at what’s still standing, you can see the catkins already forming, tight and waiting. Even in flood, even in December, the trees know spring is coming. The water will recede, the fields will reappear, but for now everything’s suspended - neither fully winter nor quite preparing for what comes next.
A December Walk by Loch Lomond
In summer this path is crowded with visitors walking single file, but in December it’s deserted and peaceful - just soft mist, oak leaves floating in the water, pale reeds, dripping moss, and lichen covering the stepping stones.
Get these weekly glimpses delivered every Friday, along with thoughts on seasonal making, natural dyeing, and what I’m noticing. This is the kind of work we do in The Studio - slow, seasonal making where paying attention matters as much as the finished thing.
You can get my Friday letters here
Bundle dyeing yarn: a November experiment
The yarn waits bundled with gathered leaves while frost writes temporary stories along the hedgerows and November light shifts from copper to rose-gold across the valley.
Everything transforms in its own time: raw materials and fleeting moments both becoming something we can hold onto.
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