Olives

My wife is practicing the flute in the room above my head while I make this post. A year ago, I bought her a handful of lessons and a flute, and I think this ranks up near our assorted children and a time-wasting dog as a positively life-changing event.  It helps, I think, that I set the bar low by learning to play guitar – she surpassed me within months.

On our holiday, I had a purpose.  I knew of a place where the olive trees grow gnarled and twisted among limestone, so that rock, trunk, roots and branches seem sculpted from the same stuff, a setting for scrawny sheep and goats gently clanging their muted off-key bells.

This was the first attempt, in black grey and flesh crayon on brown card.