Blue Light, Frozen Oak, and the start of Loveday & Skip.
The woods were quiet when I arrived. Before anyone else arrived, before movement and purpose, there was only quiet.
Heading out on the last day of the year
There is a specific kind of cold that you only get on the very last day of the year. It’s not the damp, miserable cold of November; it’s sharp, bright, and somehow cleaner.
I left Loveday early this morning. The canal was still sleeping, the water frozen into a jagged mirror that cracked quietly against the steel hull as I moved around. Wrapped in every layer I owned, I stepped off the gunwales and headed for the woods, leaving the stove glowing behind me.
Loving the light
The light was incredible. You know that deep, low “winter blue” that makes everything look slightly high-definition? It was hanging between the trees, tracing the edges of the fallen oak leaves and the bare branches in silver.
I arrived at the meeting spot before anyone else—before the voices, the movement, and the purpose of the workshop began. There was just this heavy, beautiful silence. I stood there for a moment, just breathing it in (and trying to wiggle my toes to keep the circulation going!).
It felt like a fitting way to say goodbye to the old year: standing still, in the woods, waiting for something new to begin.
The “In-Between” Moments
I have always been drawn to these “liminal” spaces—the bits in between. The time between Christmas and New Year. The space between the water (my home) and the woods (Stewart’s home).
On this particular morning, the woods felt like they were holding their breath. I took my camera out, desperate to capture the texture of it all. The frosted paths that looked like they’d been dusted with icing sugar, the crunch of the frozen ground under my boots, and the way the acorns were outlined in white.
It was a reminder that you don’t always need to be making something to be creative. Sometimes, you just need to stand in the cold and look at a leaf.
The Gathering: Oak, Water, Time
Coats zipping up, the clink of thermos flasks being opened, and the soft murmur of greetings. Our host, Katie (from the wonderful art_shiftingstates), appeared and welcomed us.
We gathered with a shared intention: to make ink from oak.
There is something quietly radical about this. While the rest of the world was rushing around preparing for New Year’s Eve parties or queuing for sales, we were standing in the mud, preparing to crush oak galls.
There are no shortcuts with this. You can’t microwave it. You just have to trust a process that has been used for centuries. As the ink slowly darkened in our jars (which I’ll write about more in the next post!), the conversation started to flow. Curiosity, laughter, and that specific look of amazement when the chemistry actually works.
Wait, who are “Loveday and Skip”?
Since this is the first post on the blog, and you might be wondering about the name above the door, I should probably introduce the cast of characters.
Loveday is the boat. She is my narrowboat, my floating home, and the place where the water side of our life happens. She keeps me moving, keeps me cold in winter and hot in summer, and connects me to the slow rhythm of the canal.
Skip is the crow. Yes, a real crow. He is Stewart’s shadow/pet/sidekick. While I am on the water, Stewart is usually found in the woods or at the wagon, often with Skip hopping around the anvil or stealing shiny offcuts of silver.
So, Loveday and Skip is the meeting of those two worlds:
- Water & Air
- Boat & Wagon
- The drifting canal & the wild woods