In the sacred city of Varanasi, also called Banaras, we visited silk weavers and embroiderers creating exquisite fabrics for Indian weddings.
Celebrating the perfect way with lights, music and nibbles on the Narmada River in India.
My youngest aunt traveled to India at the age of two in 1929. She and her mother joined her father, a mining engineer. There followed four years as a child of the British Raj. Returning to England in 1933 she joined her sisters at boarding school and did not see her parents again for several years. This is her account of her life in India as a small child.
In the holy city of Varanasi in India, those goats most favoured by their humans are dressed to protect them from the winter chill.
Leaving my frozen valley I went down to Porthcurno to look at sunlit winter waves. Strewn on the sand and tossed in the foam were roses. Who consigned them to the waves and why I do not know. They were an incongruous but beautiful addition to the afternoon.
Fulfilling a long held ambition, I visited the Huangshan Mountains in China when the Magnolias were in flower. The inspiration for traditional Chinese landscape painting, we experienced the clouds wrapping around us, then drifting away to reveal layer upon layer of sculpted rocks hung with pine trees. This ephemeral experience of shifting forms continued as we walked; and remains a haunting memory of perfect beauty.
A near perfect garden bonfire on a quiet December morning with crisp leaves and crackling flames.
From design to finished artwork, this video takes you through the creation of the commissioned collage 'Anna and the Foxes' which explores the natural beauty of the West Side of San Juan Island in Washington State.
At the age of 84 my mother spoke of her life in Cornwall, of her gardens and her art. I grew up with this richness of influences.
My mother, reflecting in old age on her young life in Cornwall and the experiences that formed her as artist and gardener. Summers in Sennen Cove and gardens her mother created. Tracing her innate creativity through the making of dollshouses, shared by a father she hardly knew. With the passing of generations oral history is so swiftly lost. This is a fragment from the past; part of family's history recorded on a summer's day in a garden full of flowers.