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Sunday, June 28, 2015

Winter Dawn amongst the Ponderosas

(Take Note: for those of you who have signed up to be notified by email of new postings to this blog, you have been receiving not just a notification, but an actual copy of the new blog posting as the email.  As this does not show the images of the paintings in the best possible light, you should click on the title of the latest blog posting at the top of the post, and not the title of the painting itself; this will open up the actual blog itself, and you may then enjoy the paintings at their best.)

C1593
"Winter Dawn amongst the Ponderosas"
(near Hole-in-the-Ground, Oregon High Desert)
Oil Sketch on Ampersand Gesso Panel
with additional coat of Rublev Lead Oil Ground
4" x 6"


The stars were out most of the night, and I watched the Dawn-light on the Ponderosas while having breakfast, and imprinting the light conditions in my mind.  I then painted the scene while that lighting was fresh in my mind.  The radio weather reported Winter storm warning until Noon the next day for the North Cascades … just what do they mean by the North Cascades?  I’m assuming that means at least as far south as the Willamette Pass.  The high point of the Willamette Pass is not much higher than my present altitude, so I reckon I will go that way back to the Valley.  It is interesting to realize that the Santiam Pass over the Cascade Range, north of Bend, Oregon, is also about the same altitude as I am now, but that I would be descending about 1500’ or more before I got there and have to regain that altitude to climb over the Pass, whereas going via the Willamette Pass there is no real change in altitude from here to there.  But that was yet to come.  Snow flurries now and again throughout the day, but not amounting to much, although flurries fell while preparing supper, but that seems to be de rigueur on this journey.  

I awoke the next morning to an inch of beautiful powdery snow on the SUV, and light snow falling throughout breakfast.  As I drove west towards La Pine the snow fell more heavily, continuing to fall as I visited an old friend where lives my other old friend, Tweetie, the finest, friendliest Lovebird in the whole wide world.  It’s been two years since I last had seen Tweetie, and by the way he kept looking at me, I knew enough time had passed that he wasn’t quite sure who I was anymore, even though he had been my bosom buddy for seven years … well, he is a bird, and his brain isn’t that large … either that or he was just being standoff-ish (I know … I don’t write, I don’t phone, and years pass between visits!). 

Upon leaving La Pine I drove south on Hwy 97 to Crescent, Oregon, where I cut over to Hwy 58 via 15 miles or so on Forest Road 1351, the snow increasing all the way; but it was beautiful; pine and fir limbs drooping towards the ground with the weight of the snow.  Once over the Willamette Pass and on the downward slope, I kept a football field’s length between me and the next vehicle and kept a weather eye on the big semi-trailer behind me, who seemed to be keeping a decent distance between us as well; I always worry about the guy behind me on snowy or icy roads.  A couple miles on the descent the traffic ahead came to an halt, and it did take me much of the distance I had left to safely and slowly come to a halt behind the car in front, and then I watched the truck behind slowly do the same …phew!  We were all halted for about 40 minutes or so, and I never did find out what caused the delay.  I turned the engine off and just sat back, ate lunch, and enjoyed the soft snowfall.  We were at the Salt Creek Falls turnoff, and I should have gone over there and parked, and seen the falls in Winter, and had I known we were to be halted for that long I would have done, but I knew I had to back to town with plenty of time to unload a lot of gear into my storage unit, before it closed.  It had taken roughly twice as long to come thus far through the snowfall than it would have under normal conditions, and … would there be snow in the valley?  That question was soon answered to the negative, for by 2000’ in altitude the snow had turned to drizzly rain, and by 1000’ it had all but disappeared from the ground.  Another 30 miles or so brought me out of the mountains and onto dry roads and bright late afternoon sunshine, with no clue that 50 miles east was a different snow covered world … until you looked that direction; miles away and high on the forested slopes you could discern the Winter Wonderland up there bathed in the brilliant sunshine and with the tops lost in the snowy cloud.  I enjoyed that view as I drove up the center of the wide Willamette Valley until it widened further and the Cascades receded further away.  And so I the Winter’s sojourn in the wild was over and the New Year soon to begin.  I have a lengthy double commission on which to continue painting.

Imprimatura: Venetian Red.

The Pigments used were:  Rublev Blue Ridge Yellow Ochre, Italian Burnt Sienna, with Winsor & Newton Cobalt & French Ultramarine Blues, Venetian Red, and Cremnitz White.

Friday, June 26, 2015

On to Summer Lake and Hole in the Ground

(Take Note: for those of you who have signed up to be notified by email of new postings to this blog, you have been receiving not just a notification, but an actual copy of the new blog posting as the email.  As this does not show the images of the paintings in the best possible light, you should click on the title of the latest blog posting at the top of the post, and not the title of the painting itself; this will open up the actual blog itself, and you may then enjoy the paintings at their best.)

Coldest night thus far; down to around 0º F; toastie in my sleeping bags, however.  Because I was going to be driving soon, I wore my Sorel boots, but because I remained sedentary during my breakfast, my toes felt the cold; Sorels are best when active, and soon warmed up when I walked around taking photographs.  I retraced my path back down the Chewaukan River to Paisley, stopping to take photographs, inspecting tracks in the snow, and observing the odd bit of wildlife now and again; 2 deer, a startled coyote who dashed off up the slope with his very bushy tale waving behind, and several hawks.  I took care on the road as it was covered in old snow compacted to ice, and I made it down past the snow line without incident. 

Slush-Ice on the Chewaukan

On the Chewaukan

Chewaukan Pewter

I slowly drove around Paisley, before heading north on Hwy 31 to Summer Lake, with Winter Ridge looming 3000’ above along its entire western side.  Winter Ridge or Rim is another one of these fault escarpments that are to be found in this part of the Oregon High Desert.  These to features were named by the Fremont Expedition in the 1840’s.  The exploration party was struggling through along the heights of Winter Rim, when they came to the edge and saw the lake below, snow free.  I expect the names came readily to mind.  I drove about a mile up a forest road to an overlook at the south end of the lake and had lunch, and studied the vista, from Winter Rim to my left around the basin of Summer Lake and to the hills east of the lake, which included Diablo Peak, which I now saw from a different direction than seen during my lunch stop on the previous day.

Chewaukan Landscape

Valley of the Chewaukan

After this I slowly drove up the western side of Summer Lake and stopped at the Nature Reserve for a few minutes.  The circular drive was closed, but you were allowed to drive into the reserve on a day pass, and it probably would have been OK to spend the night in one of the campgrounds there.  Mostly it was duck hunters going into the reserve at this time of the year.  I filed away this information for future reference, and proceeded on my way.

Winter Rim and Summer Lake

Winter Rim and Summer Lake #2

I climbed out of the Summer Lake basin, passing Silver Lake (dry lake bed at present), and eventually passed the road to Fort Rock and Christmas Valley.  I checked out the entrance to several forest roads, but they were all closed from December 1st – March 31st to give the area’s wildlife a bit of a respite.  Eventually I found that the road to Hole-in-the-Ground (yes an actual place-name) was open, although snow covered, and I proceeded up about half a mile to spend the night in a clearing found there.  Hole in the Ground is a volcanic maar, about a mile across.  I camped there back in 2010 on Easter weekend.  Coyote deer and elk tracks in abundance in the clearing.  Tomorrow I shall see if I can squeeze out one last painting before heading back to civilization, just before the New Year.

Campsite on the Road to Hole-in-the-Ground





Friday, June 19, 2015

On to Paisley & the Chewaukan River

(Take Note: for those of you who have signed up to be notified by email of new postings to this blog, you have been receiving not just a notification, but an actual copy of the new blog posting as the email.  As this does not show the images of the paintings in the best possible light, you should click on the title of the latest blog posting at the top of the post, and not the title of the painting itself; this will open up the actual blog itself, and you may then enjoy the paintings at their best.)

The day after Christmas; Boxing Day in England; and overcast, as it had been all night, and I headed out as I thought I needed to be back in civilization by the 30th; wrongly as it turned out, and most unfortunate as I could have squeezed out a few more days in the wild to include the New Year.  Be that as it may I left the CCC Hut Campground, home for the past few days and part of the Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge, and slowly crossed Warner Valley on a county road, between the dry lakes, stopping to take photographs now and then, and to study the map and identify distant features, eventually meeting the Hogback Road at a T-junction.

Floor of the Warner Valley
(Looking South with Hart Mountain on the left)

Hart Mountain from the West across the Warner Valley
(the CCC Hut Campground is at the base of the Mountain
below the dark diagonal slash at the center of the face of the mountainside)

Here one may turn south for Plush or north for Hwy 395, twenty miles away.  I turned for Hwy 395, and proceeded up between the Coyote Hills, to the south and on my left, and the Rabbit Hills north and on my right, seeing them close to, after having studied them from afar all week.  Seen from this road there are rocky buttes that rear up from the northern aspect of the Coyote Hills that look like they should be called the Coyote’s Teeth; whether they are or not, I do not know, but they should be.  A couple of miles before the junction with Hwy 395, there is a good view of Juniper Mountain and the northern extension of the Abert Rim; this latter is a fault escarpment, with its rim facing west and the plateau sloping east towards the now distant Coyote & Rabbit Hills, and the Warner Valley beyond.

The Coyote Hills from the Hogback Road
(a couple of the buttes I have called the Coyote's Teeth can be seen)

The Rabbit Hills
(Hart Mountain is beyond and across the Warner Valley from this view)


Juniper Mountain and the Northern Extension of the Abert Rim
(from the Hogback Road a couple miles before the Hwy 395 Junction)

From here I drove north for four miles to check out a rest area for future reference.  It had water pumps there, similar to the one at the CCC Hut Campground, but whether they were turned off for the Winter or just frozen, I do not know.  I retraced my path past the Hogback Road and dropped down towards Lake Abert, but before arriving I turned right onto another county road that would eventually take me to Paisley on Hwy 31.  If the road became to iffy, I could always come back to Hwy 395, but as a county road, I thought it would be OK; I wouldn’t take chances after my experience of the Mudfest of several weeks before; it was not as good a road as the Hogback Road, but was no real problem, partly because it was frozen for the first two-thirds of the drive, when I stopped to have lunch at a view north past the east edge of Wildcat Mountain, and Diablo Peak just poking its head up beyond, and with St. Patricks and Sheepshead Mountains a bit to their right.   It was turning out to be a photo-recon day; these days are too short to drive very far, stopping to take photos, and expect to get a painting in as well.

Lake Abert & the Abert Rim
(the latter on the left)

Abert Lake Homestead with the Abert Rim beyond

Wildcat Mountain
(with Diablo Peak just poking up beyond
and with St. Patrick's and Sheepshead Mountains a bit to their right;
here I had lunch)

Paisley, named after the town in Scotland, looks to be a pleasant village (hot in Summer, I expect), about the size of Lake Nebagamon, in northern Wisconsin, where I spent my first three years of grade school.  I topped up with petrol, and decided to check out the Chewaukan River, which flows through town.  I meandered up the river valley (county road 33), taking photos, and eventually decided to turn around about 10 miles up, the now icy and snowy road.  A few hundred yards back down the road I decided to spend the night at the Jones Crossing Campground, which although officially closed, was only closed as far as amenities were concerned.  Many tracks in the 3” of snow covering the ground … deer, coyotes, and what may have been cougar tracks; these latter were along the road where I had turned around.  I kept my bear spray canister close to hand while strolling around and preparing supper.  Studying the map I see that I’m now about 30, maybe 40, miles from the site of the now infamous Mudfest, but over some desperate and snowy roads, over the escarpment and mountains.

On the Chewaukan River #1

On the Chewaukan River #2










Sunday, June 14, 2015

Christmas Day Snow Showers in the High Desert

(Take Note: for those of you who have signed up to be notified by email of new postings to this blog, you have been receiving not just a notification, but an actual copy of the new blog posting as the email.  As this does not show the images of the paintings in the best possible light, you should click on the title of the latest blog posting at the top of the post, and not the title of the painting itself; this will open up the actual blog itself, and you may then enjoy the paintings at their best.)

C1592
"Christmas Day Snow on the Rabbit Hills"
(Warner Valley, Oregon High Desert)
Oil Sketch on Centurian Oil Primed Linen Panel
4" x 6"


(Take further Note: the images and incidents herein occurred in December 2014.)

An hour after I fell asleep last night I awoke and found the stars had clouded over; so it remained the rest of the night, but I arose to a thick dusting of snow that had fallen sometime during the night when I wasn’t looking.  Coyotes had come by after the snow had fallen to inspect my campsite; they probably do it every night.  The morning was stupendous, with sun breaking through wonderful cloud formations all across the landscape, and with occasional snow showers passing by, sometimes on me; such an interesting day of cloud watching.  I painted the same view as yesterday, but with the new snowfall.    

Having been here a few days now, I keep wondering what it would be like to see those dry lake beds down on the valley floor, filled with water and tons of wildfowl.  Will I ever see it or has global warming tipped the scales as far as the Warner Valley is concerned.  Mankind has much to answer for.

Coyotes yipping to the West while I prepared my Christmas dinner, on my one burner stove, of smoked Salmon, mushrooms, carrots corn, onions, peppers, olives broccoli, and cous-cous in a pesto sauce, with corn tortillas, since Lakeview had no pita at the Safeway.  It takes about 20 minutes to get all the ingredients ready and only 7 or 8 minutes to cook.  Most of my camp meals are similar in timing.  Could have used a drop of wine to wash it down with, but didn’t even think about it when I was preparing for this sojourn in the wilds.  Got a better look at Venus tonight while nursing my after dinner hot chocolate, and Mercury is over there somewhere, not far away, but I haven’t spotted it yet (I did a few days later), and I watched the Moon again until it set at 21:03.  I hadn’t expected to see any traffic on the road today, but three cars and a pickup truck passed earlier in the day, and as I prepared my dinner, an camper pickup  steamed into the campground and set up for the night a few sites away … and so to bed after a beautiful day of interesting weather.

Imprimatura: Venetian Red.

The Pigments used were:  Rublev Blue Ridge Yellow Ochre, Italian Burnt Sienna, with Winsor & Newton Cobalt & Cerulean Blues, Venetian Red, and Cremnitz White.

Friday, June 12, 2015

Christmas Eve in the High Desert

(Take Note: for those of you who have signed up to be notified by email of new postings to this blog, you have been receiving not just a notification, but an actual copy of the new blog posting as the email.  As this does not show the images of the paintings in the best possible light, you should click on the title of the latest blog posting at the top of the post, and not the title of the painting itself; this will open up the actual blog itself, and you may then enjoy the paintings at their best.)

C1591
"Last Sun-break over the Rabbit Hills before the Approaching Storm "
(Warner Valley, Oregon High Desert)
Oil Sketch on Centurian Oil Primed Linen Panel
with an additional coat of Rublev Lead Primer
4" x 6"


We now continue with the journal entry for Christmas Eve, carrying on from the last entry upon returning from my supplies run to Lakeview (here).  Cloud began to come in from the southwest late in the day, but the stars did come out, and the crescent Moon, and while eating supper I watched it set, disappearing behind the Coyote Hills at 18:43.  Throughout the night the bands of cloud thickened and the wind arose, and by Christmas Eve morning there was only the odd wan sucker hole allowing a bit of sun to shine through here and there, and what appeared to be the occasional shower passing in the far distance; but it didn’t feel like rain just yet … when would it arrive.  And then during breakfast a few larger sun-breaks appeared and so a few hundred yards from the CCC Hut Campground I made a quick pencil sketch of view seen in the above Oil Sketch, and then returned to more level ground to paint the Oil Sketch from the driver’s seat; the view of the Rabbit Hills remained the same for reference, but the foreground was referenced from the pencil sketch.  It was a good thing I had done the drawing, since within the hour the rain swept in obscuring the distance at times; the lighting depicted was as it had been just after breakfast.  The rain became snow by 15:00 … a dusting, really, with more on the upper slopes of Hart Mountain, behind me … and although the wind slackened off during the day, there were some gusty periods, as the temperature dropped from the relative warmth of the morning.  The waxing crescent Moon broke through while drinking my after supper coffee, and I watched it until it set at 19:54; Christmas Eve in the High Desert … and tomorrow Christmas Day … maybe more snow!

Imprimatura: Venetian Red.

The Pigments used were:  Rublev Blue Ridge Yellow Ochre, Italian Burnt Sienna, with Winsor & Newton Cobalt Blue & Cremnitz White.

Sunday, June 7, 2015

The Coos Art Museum 22nd Annual Maritime Exhibition

(Take Note: for those of you who have signed up to be notified by email of new postings to this blog, you have been receiving not just a notification, but an actual copy of the new blog posting as the email.  As this does not show the images of the paintings in the best possible light, you should click on the title of the latest blog posting at the top of the post, and not the title of the painting itself; this will open up the actual blog itself, and you may then enjoy the paintings at their best.)

The following paintings have been accepted into the
Coos Art Museum 22nd Annual Maritime Exhibit (2015), and are for sale.
Exhibition dates are from July 11, 2015 to September 26, 2015

The first two paintings are of coast at Bandon, Oregon, and the third painting is located at Devil's Elbow State Park, below Heceta Head Lighthouse, Oregon.

CAM ID#: 0108
“Smoldering November Evening”
Oil on Ampersand Gesso Panel
with additional Coat of Rublev Lead Oil Ground
Painting Size 8” x 10”
$500 Framed

The above painting was done using a quick pencil sketch in my small pocket sketchbook as reference.


CAM ID#: 0109
“Sunshine & Sea Mist”
Oil on Canvas Panel
with additional Coat of Rublev Lead Oil Ground
Painting Size 9” x 12”
$600 Frame


CAM ID#: 0110
“First Light at Storm’s End”
Oil on Ampersand Gesso Panel
with additional Coat of Rublev Lead Oil Ground
Painting Size 3½” x 9¼”
$350 Framed
[SOLD during the Exhibition]


These paintings are for sale.  If you do not live in the area and need the painting shipped to you, please add $25 per painting for shipping and packing charges in the USA; for elsewhere, please email me and I shall make enquiries at the Post Office. 

If you do purchase a painting, please be aware that they must remain in the exhibition until the end of the show, and the Artist will ship them shortly thereafter, which will be early October. 

Should you wish to purchase any of these paintings please contact the following, and have the CAM ID# and the Title of the painting ready:

Archi Davenport
Coos Art Museum
235 Anderson Avenue
Coos Bay
OR

Tel: (541) 267-3901
Hours: Tues - Fri: 10 am to 4 pm
Saturday: 1 pm to 4 pm
CLOSED Sun-Mon and all major holidays
Admission: $5, $2 for students, seniors, free to Members of CAM.

Friday, June 5, 2015

The Passing of Old Friends

C1343
“Evening Glow over Minnis Bay”
(Isle of Thanet)
Watercolour
11” x 23½”

I am feeling a bit subdued this week; I received word that one of my good friends passed away last Wednesday morning.  There are people who are acquaintances that you know enough to greet on the street and maybe even have a conversation with, about say the weather or some such thing.  Then there are those acquaintances who you know well enough to have more consequential conversations with, have a cup of tea with, or have an occasional beer with in the pub, and these people you can call friends.  Then there are those friends to whom you gravitate more naturally, and with whom your more consequential conversations may be even deeper, and these people become Friends. Then there are those Friends with whom you can bare your soul to; who don’t judge you, nor you them (but if you do, you accept them, warts and all, for who they are … you give them the benefit of the doubt … and they you, because of shared history); from whom you feel you can ask for a bit of help if necessary, and with whom you might share dinners, a few beers after the pub has closed, perhaps play practical jokes on or with, and at times argue with, with no hard feelings; these Friends become your Mates.  Mate … now there’s a word; mate, from matelot (pronunciation: matlˈōmatˈlō), as in shipmate; in Britain (and Australia) this is how you understand the word, and how I have come to understand the word, having lived over there for 34 years (23 in North Cornwall); not as my fellow Yanks, who think of the word as wife & lover.  A Brit would say, “I’m goin’ down the pub ta ’ave a few bevies with me mates,” probably to his wife as he headed out the door, whereas a Yank might say (to his mates in the British sense of the word), “I’m going home to my mate (meaning wife or lover); can’t stay with you jokers all night!” except that I’ve rarely heard the word used in America in any sense of the word; two nations divided by a common language; I use the British sense hereafter.

Sharon died last week.  She was a mate of mine (in the British sense), and the mate (in both the British & American sense) of my mate Clive; they were together for over 30 good years.  I lived in Boscastle, North Cornwall in those days and been there for a couple of years when Sharon moved into the village, and took a job for a time as a barmaid in the Wellington Hotel; I might have seen her there first, but the first time we met was when I came striding swiftly up the hill from the house in the harbour, where I lived at the time, to the Spar grocery shop, passing Sharon on the way.  “Oi!” she called out when I was a few yards past, “In that shirt and your hair I thought you were my husband, but you’re too tall.”  I was wearing a red and black woolen lumberjack shirt at the time.  I’m sure I said something inconsequential and proceeded on to my grocery shopping, as Sharon was new in the village and I had learned by this time not to waste much time with newbies until they had weathered a Cornish Winter, since newbies were wont to disappear back to wherever they had come from within the first few months of their flight to Cornwall.  Within a year, however, her husband had returned to London, and Sharon remained, and she and Clive had become an item remaining so to the end. 

Sharon became my landlady, when I had to leave the house in the harbour and I moved into the ground floor of her 300 year old slate cottage  (with walls a yard thick), after she had been in the village for a year or so, weathering the Cornish Winter just fine, and she needed a paying tenant.  By that time she came with Clive & I to her first Padstow May Day (my third), singing old songs in the Red Lion, as we did for 20 more (before I returned to the States); attended Roughtor’s infamous party at his thatched cottage the previous November, where I fell asleep in the huge old fireplace awaking in the morning to discover blood all over my face from a miniscule cut from a tiny glass shard lodged in my forehead (easily removed … those ‘ead wounds don’t ‘alf bleed, Guv’nor); and been to a 21st birthday party at the local asylum mental institution in Bodmin for one of the male nurses there, whose sister we had picked up hitch-hiking on the way to Padstow May Day.  Sharon always chuckled while telling the story of how we had arrived back in Boscastle about Noon (after we had breakfasted and played pool in a trucker’s café after the all night Bodmin asylum party), whereupon Clive parked next to a stone wall, thus forcing me to crawl from the passenger side to exit the vehicle through the driver’s door on my hands and knees.  I was weary and the situation had struck me as ludicrous, just coming back from an all-nighter at the asylum and all, and so as I crawled out on my hands and knees, I gave my best Jimmy Saville yodel (the Brits will know what I mean), and cried out, “Wot a party!” in my best London accent, just as two old dears came walking past from the grocer’s, looking disgusted.  “Oh Steve!” she would say, “You should have seen their faces!” (One needs to be disgraceful on occasion to keep a semblance of humility … and humanity).  That might have been when I knew she was a mate.  The next two Christmases I went upstairs for dinner, along with Smiley Rick, and I believe Roughtor (pronounced: Row [as in ow!] tore) was in attendance for at least one (if not both) of those as well. 

After that Sharon and Clive moved on down to Padstow, first opening up a pottery shop, and two years later changing that into a bistro, at which time Sharon needed to sell her Boscastle cottage to finance the change, and thus no longer was my landlady. I then bought my flat, sadly not in Boscastle, but 4 miles south of Padstow, but I did have those two mates not far away and many more memorable times were to be had over the years.  I remember her telling me one day that one of their serving maids at the bistro  had addressed her as Shaz (Sharon shortened,  much as the name Barry is often shortened to Baz or Bazza).  “I was mortified,” she said, “I’m a Sharon, not a Shaz.”  “Quite right,” I replied, “You’re not a Shaz; but perhaps Shazza … Shazza … hmmmmmm … perhaps not.”  I hear her laughter still.   

I last saw them seven years ago in 2008; briefly … 3 hours or so of an evening, my time in Cornwall being limited to just a couple of days.  Sharon was studying something or other, she had studied bookkeeping not long before I returned to the States, but I believe this was more like History; I know she was very interested in Egyptian History and had always said she would like to study that more seriously; whether it was that or not I don’t know … I would like to think it was.  Sharon had suffered early with arthritis, but she handled it well, so much so we rarely were aware of it.  I don’t know how much that might have been a part of her recent infirmities, as what little I know has come to me via me mate Pete up in London, Sharon & Clive not being writers, other than the annual Christmas Card until recently; but mates are mates whether or not you keep in close contact … that’s part of what makes up being a mate … although one would like to hear more about what they are up to, nevertheless when you do meet up again, you easily catch up and continue where you left off … because you’re mates. 

Pete said “there was a long litany of problems none of which are relevant now, thank God.  She's gone back to being the intelligent woman with a great sense of humour that we know and love.”  In that Pete is so right.  I could say that the World is now a poorer place with her passing, but the World cares not for any of us; however, for those of us who knew her, and especially her mates, her daughter Morwenna, and family, it is a much poorer place, her wit and her laughter will be sorely missed … that is all that any of us can expect, or hope for … to be remembered by those who cared about us in life.  Sharon was too young to leave us, being nine or so years younger than me, but then anytime is too young for the leaving, to someone who once said to friends on the Isle of Skye (I was 22 at the time), “I’m so ornery … I’m going to live forever.” … being older now, perhaps I won’t … I’m still ornery, though, so there is yet hope.  The spot where Clive will be placing her ashes is a wonderful place … for myself it is one of the finest views in all of Cornwall, looking from Trevalga Village over the fields and cliffs past the fjord of Boscastle, and on to Lundy Island.  Farewell old mate; I will come and visit when I am able.

In the title to this posting I said old friends, and so I shall give a mention to a good friend, Helen, who passed away last November.  I only knew her for maybe 12 or 15 years or so; she was partner to my old mate, John, who I have known since my earliest days in Boscastle, and their door was always open to me; she made a mean roast pork or a roast salmon dinner, followed by port and cheese in front of a good fire, of an evening, while it might be storming outside their residence on the edge of Dartmoor (think, Hound of the Baskervilles).

When I returned to from the desert at the beginning of the year (see my recent blog postings), I found an email from Jane, the wife of another good friend Roger; I had written to them last Summer to let them know of the beginnings of this blog, and perchance they had added a computer to their home since I had last seen them in 2007, I believe.  They had recently been making plans for their lives now that their two girls had flown the nest and Jane was taking an early retirement.  Sadly, not to be for Jane was writing to tell me that he had suffered a massive heart attack two years before, and was no longer with us.  Roger was a good friend, and would undoubtedly been a mate, if we had lived in the same village or close by, and thus met up more than the two or three times a year that we did, while I still lived in Cornwall, usually at exhibitions or if I had time to pop in for a cup of tea as I was passing by Bude (their town), delivering paintings to one or other of my galleries.  I was always happy to see them, and would have liked to have seen them more often, but 40 miles in Cornwall is long ways.  I worked in a gift shop in Boscastle for my first few Summers in Cornwall, and in ’83, the first Summer I had some of my paintings in the shop, they walked in and engaged me in conversation about them; I will always be indebted to Roger and Jane for introducing me to one of my best galleries, Gallerie Marin; I first placed my work there the following year.

I have a cold anger in my heart for the greed on Wall Street that threw the world into the economic crisis back in 2008, and the recession that followed, and which has prevented me from being able to visit old friends and old mates in England ever since.  These three I will not see again, but all live on in my heart … Sharon, Helen and Roger … and all as I knew them best … fare thee well.