I must have waited at this bus stop a thousand times, watching the seasons turn a little every day, Our mother would walk up with us and when it was very cold, we would slip under the fold of her soft camel-beige coat, clinging to her legs and the scent of her soap until we could hear the strain of the bus's motor as it started up the hill towards us. We were still morning slow, condensation spiders were still scuttling up the single-glaze panes of our bedroom windows, egg shells still cooling on blue melamine saucers under yellow filament bulb and our breath streamed in clouds from our nostrils and lips where we stood, waiting.
It's virtually impossible to convey by photograph what it's like to be in a bluebell dell: Purple-blue hues that make your eyes almost buzz with intensity unfurling above the forest floor as far as you can see in all directions, their perfume hanging like evening mists over shimmering stalks; the sound of woodland creatures building homes, the welcome warmth of a setting sun. A brief moment of wonder, a much welcomed moment of tranquility,
creating tales of things and other places