Orchards
Over a 2 year period Richard visited a traditional cider orchard on a hillside near his home, fascinated by the gnarled trees and their seasonal transformations.
Exerts from his outdoor diary:
SPRING
Glorious day, chill wind. An orange tip butterfly has just passed by, and a garden warbler is singing somewhere overhead. I settle beside a tree frothing with white and pink blossom, two balls of mistletoe protruding from the top.
SUMMER
Midsummer Day, and the afternoon sun flits in and out between scudding clouds. I make two watercolour studies of sunlight filtering through the tree canopies. I find this the most difficult time of year to paint outside – it’s the overwhelming greenness of everything.
AUTUMN
The sun is warming me after a frosty start. A robin is flying from branch to branch, studying me from every angle, and apples are falling every few minutes, the air heavy with their scent. There are now more apples on the ground than on the trees.
WINTER
10am and it is still only -11°C. The powdering of snow has a crust of sparkling ice, and crystals are clinging to all the twigs of the trees, turning them into an intricate, magical pattern of white. I lie down on the snow to gaze at the complex interleaving of iced branches above me.
Exerts from his outdoor diary:
SPRING
Glorious day, chill wind. An orange tip butterfly has just passed by, and a garden warbler is singing somewhere overhead. I settle beside a tree frothing with white and pink blossom, two balls of mistletoe protruding from the top.
SUMMER
Midsummer Day, and the afternoon sun flits in and out between scudding clouds. I make two watercolour studies of sunlight filtering through the tree canopies. I find this the most difficult time of year to paint outside – it’s the overwhelming greenness of everything.
AUTUMN
The sun is warming me after a frosty start. A robin is flying from branch to branch, studying me from every angle, and apples are falling every few minutes, the air heavy with their scent. There are now more apples on the ground than on the trees.
WINTER
10am and it is still only -11°C. The powdering of snow has a crust of sparkling ice, and crystals are clinging to all the twigs of the trees, turning them into an intricate, magical pattern of white. I lie down on the snow to gaze at the complex interleaving of iced branches above me.
