As I step where no loud thoughts are found,
A narrow path, soft, winding through
A sea of hush and dusky blue.
The light is low, a golden thread
That weaves through branches overhead,
It spills in pools on moss and tree,
Then gently fades to memory.
I walk between the bluebells there,
Their velvet glow like whispered prayer,
Each fragile bloom bows low and deep,
As if the woods themselves still sleep.
And oh—the scent… so soft, so sweet,
It rises warm beneath my feet,
A drifting calm, both faint and true,
Like something old I almost knew.
It wraps around my chest, my breath,
A quiet balm for ache and depth,
As though the air has learned to hold
The stories never fully told.
The evening light grows thin and pale,
A silver hush, a cooling veil,
And in that glow, the world feels wide—
Yet all I need is here inside.
No rush, no past, no pressing sound,
Just sacred steps on yielding ground,
The day lets go, the night draws near,
And something shifts, so calm, so clear.
I do not speak—I simply be,
With earth and root and bending tree,
And in the bluebells’ gentle sway,
I feel myself drift far away…
Not lost—but found in quiet grace,
Held in this tender, fleeting place,
Where scent and light and spirit blend—
And I am whole, without an end.

Good evening my lovely readers,

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a people pleaser.

It comes naturally to me. I feel things deeply, and because of that, I find it really hard to say no. I want to be kind. I want to help. And more often than not, I’ve found myself saying “yes” with a smile, while inside I’m quietly saying, “No… I’m sorry, I can’t.”

I often wonder why it feels so difficult to say no. Why does it carry this fear of rejection, as if by putting ourselves first we might somehow lose our place with others? I do think it goes back to childhood—those early feelings of wanting to be accepted, to be good enough, to not disappoint.

But surely it’s okay to say, “I’m sorry, I can’t help this time,” or “That just doesn’t work for me.”

Helping people does bring me real joy. There’s something meaningful about being there for someone, and I do believe it’s a gift. But there are also times when life feels heavy, when I’m tired, when I need space. And in those moments, I should be able to say no without feeling guilty.

That’s something I’m only just learning.

It isn’t selfish to hold something back for myself. It’s necessary. I need time to think, to breathe, to create—to just be in my own head without feeling like I should be doing something for someone else.

Because guilt has a way of creeping in, and I’ve realised it’s one of the quickest ways to lose my creativity, add pressure to that, and it becomes even harder. As an artist and designer, I need to feel free. Not rushed, not weighed down—just free to be me.

And it’s taken me until now, at 60, to really start saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t,” or “No, that won’t suit me,” without that fear sitting behind it. To feel okay in my own decisions. To know my worth. To be a bit braver about who I am.

Looking back, I can see how much of my life has been shaped by trying to please my parents—trying to avoid criticism, trying not to feel rejected. There are so many moments I can think of where I didn’t speak up, where I wasn’t honest, where I didn’t say, “I’m not happy,” or simply, “No.”

But I’m learning now.

Learning that I can still be kind without always saying yes. That I can set boundaries without feeling like I’m letting people down. And that saying no doesn’t make me a bad person—it simply means I’m finally listening to myself.

I came here at twenty-three, a young girl really, walking through the door with all my life ahead of me. I never imagined I would still be here all these years later. It was only meant to be temporary—just a rented place, a stepping stone, somewhere to begin. I didn’t arrive with grand plans or a sense of permanence. Just a quiet hope of building something for myself.

But life has a way of settling where it feels right.

Back then, the cottage wasn’t charming the way people imagine now. It was tired. A little forgotten. If I’m honest… a bit derelict. The kind of place others might have walked away from. But it was all I could afford, and somehow, I saw something in it—something worth saving.

There wasn’t money to throw at it. No grand renovations, no quick transformations. Just small, careful changes. A tin of paint here, a repaired hinge there. Making do. Mending. Learning as I went. Every improvement came from time, effort, and a determination to make it feel like home without spending what I didn’t have.

I didn’t just decorate this cottage—I rescued it.

And in a quiet way, it rescued me too.

Somewhere along the years, without me even noticing, this cottage stopped being “just for now” and became everything. And now, to stand here and say I own it… it feels like closing a circle I didn’t even realise I had begun. From borrowed walls to something that is truly mine—it carries a kind of pride that runs deep and steady.

The cottage has seen me through every version of myself. I walked through its door all those years ago with a different heart, different hopes, not knowing how deeply its roots would tangle with my own. Now, I couldn’t separate us even if I tried. My heart and soul are stitched into these walls.

There are fingerprints of life everywhere. In the worn edges of the stairs, softened by years of footsteps. In the way the doors don’t quite close the same anymore. In the light that falls through the windows and warms the room—unchanged, yet always different—marking time in the quietest, most faithful way.

This house has heard everything. Laughter that filled the rooms so fully it seemed to spill out into the garden. Tears that fell quietly when the world felt too heavy. The ordinary days too—the ones no one ever writes about—but somehow those are the ones that matter most. The kettle boiling, the washing on the line, the hum of a life being lived without ceremony.

It’s not just a cottage anymore. It’s a keeper of memories. A witness to growth, to love, to moments that felt small at the time but now feel like everything.

Every corner carries something of me and those I love. Every room holds a piece of the people who have passed through, who have stayed, who have shaped what “home” means. You don’t live somewhere for thirty five years without leaving your mark—but more than that, it leaves its mark on you.

And that’s the truth of it.

This isn’t just where I live.
This is where my life happened.

When you don’t just throw something away, you’re almost invited to look at it differently—to ask what else this could be? A worn piece of fabric becomes a cushion; a tired chair becomes a project; old wardrobe panels become wall lights, creating art; a simple fix turns into something quietly beautiful. It stretches your imagination in ways that buying something new never quite can.

There’s a kind of freedom in it, too. You’re not chasing perfection—you’re creating something personal. Something imperfect, but full of character. And that’s where creativity really lives, in those little decisions, those moments of “I’ll try this and see what happens.”

And when you’re not spending a lot of money on something new, it somehow feels less final. There’s space for it to evolve again. You can change it, rework it, turn it into something else entirely, without that fear of “ruining” it. It becomes part of an ongoing story rather than a finished product sitting still. And that, in itself, keeps your creativity flowing.

It’s good for the soul as well, in a way that’s hard to explain until you feel it. Sitting down to mend something, hands busy, mind calmer… it becomes almost meditative. The world slows down for a while. You’re not rushing, not comparing, not consuming—you’re simply being. And that quiet space is where so much healing happens.

Over time, it changes you. You grow more patient, more resourceful, more appreciative. You start to see value where you once might have seen rubbish. You learn that not everything needs to be perfect to be worthy, and that lesson gently seeps into how you see yourself, too.

Making do and mending isn’t just about things—it’s a way of life that’s good for the soul. One that’s creative, grounded, and a little more gentle with the world… and with yourself.

What have you upcycled or reinvented lately?

Our quiet choices, small and kind,

Are planting seeds we leave behind.

A gentle word, a helping hand,

A hope we barely understand,

Like tiny seeds beneath the ground,

They wait where patient roots are found.

Some seeds will sleep for many years,

Through changing days and passing tears,

Yet deep below the silent earth

They gather strength and shape their worth.

Then one gentle day, without a sound,

Green shoots of joy rise from the ground,

A child’s bright laugh, a grandchild’s smile,

Sweet blossoms growing all the while.

And looking back, we slowly see

The garden life has grown for me

From every hope and loving deed

Came flowers from a simple seed.

So plant your kindness as you go,

Give time and care to help it grow,

For life’s true beauty is surely found,

From planting seeds in the ground.

stands an old grandfather clock. Its tall wooden case leans slightly with age, and its face is softened by years of careful winding. No one rushes it. No one asks it to do more than it has always done.

The sound fills the room in the quiet hours of the morning, when the kettle has not yet boiled, and the world outside is still shrouded in mist.

For years, I hardly noticed it. Life was busy then—children to raise, meals to cook, gardens to tend, worries to carry, and people to please. The clock ticked through it all, steady and patient, never rushing me, never scolding me. It simply kept time.

It watched birthdays come and go. Summers bloom and fade. Children grow taller. It listened to laughter in the kitchen and quiet tears when no one else could see. But clocks have a way of waiting for the moment when we are finally ready to listen.

Now the house is quieter, and in the early morning when the light creeps gently through the windows, I hear it clearly. Each tick feels like a soft tap on the shoulder.

Are you paying attention now?

The old clock seems to be saying something I never understood before.

That time is not just passing — it is asking something of us.

It asks us to notice the daffodils when they appear in spring.

To take the longer walk with the dog instead of the shorter one.

To write the words sitting quietly in our hearts.

To care for ourselves the way we once cared for everyone else.

For years, my time belonged to other people, and I gave it gladly. That was my chapter then.

But now this chapter is different.

Now the clock reminds me that these hours are still mine to fill. Not with rushing, but with meaning. Not with noise, but with the small, beautiful things that make a life feel full.

If the old clock could speak, it would not just tell the story of hours and days.

It would tell the story of the life of children born, of families growing, of laughter in abundance, of caring hands and patient hearts.

It would tell of the seasons that shape us.

And perhaps that is what the clock is quietly reminding me each day as its pendulum swings gently back and forth in the corner of the room. That every tick holds a moment. Every tock holds a memory.

And when you look back across the years, you realise those small moments were never small at all.

They were the story of a lifetime.

Much Love,

Is anyone interested?

I sit here wondering if anyone is interested in reading about my daily comings and goings and what people will possibly find interesting in my life, then I remember how totally drawn I am to watching people talk about their homes, gardens, and hobbies, and suddenly I realise I am one of those people, so why not share it with you all?

Its time..

So last year I turned 60 and thought it’s time to share my life, so here I am making a start on Substack!

Let’s have a laugh along the way.

Each week im hoping to write or podcast about life’s ups and downs, discussing funny subjects and hopefully some helpful ones along the way, having some laughs as we go, and not take life too seriously. Im a passionate homemaker, as I was a stay-at-home mum, which made me learn many skills, from sewing my own soft furnishings, upholstery, decorating, and how to create a beautiful garden on a budget, which I will share with you as we go. You will also meet my lovely little Cairn terrier, who thinks he deserves a spot in the limelight! My constant companion and joy.

So why not join me?

on this new adventure…

Im an artist, homemaker, wife, and mother of 35 years, and now at the age of 60, im ready to share all my “wisdom” [hahahahaha] with you lucky people! Im hoping to connect with some lovely like-minded people to share in my joy of homemaking, gardening, crafting, artwork, and general chitchat. I love nothing more than having a good natter, as a lot of my time is spent at home now my children have flown the nest.

So if you think this is something you would like to join in, I would love to meet you. Tell me where you're from, and what you're interested in, and if you have a substack as I will bob over and follow.