We set up a camera and discovered our co-inhabitants and I recalled a strange urban fox encounter from years ago.
Once I lay awake, terrified by snuffling in the hedge outside, my fear fuelled by the horror books I consumed.
I, too, have been digging in the ground, rummaging through history and my genealogy, finding sustenance.
If I asked you to draw a map of your home-town from memory, what would you draw?
Mid-1960s, when I was conceived, he was a bad boy—slicked-back hair, winkle-picker shoes, motorbike, music, girls, pot.
The welcoming began, women calling, voices strong and beautiful. I didn’t understand the words but it washed over me, somehow familiar.
It’s a long way away from Bluff Harbour, this island I’ve come to see. It’s dawn and we’ve already been motoring since midnight.
The words of this song seemed to speak so truthfully about the core challenge of this relationship.
I’m stitching a sampler, stitching Elizabeth’s, and my, story into a format that would have been deeply familiar to her.