Cycling
I'm finding death though out the countryside here. Each village either has a church or a ruined church with war graves and memorials to the many soldiers lost from these small areas.  The monuments mark home for the fighters lost on foreign land. I stop to read the moss-filled words. A little way from here, the shell of a ruined church has become a memorial to a 15 year old who died in combat at sea.

Chris found a dead deer, and we walked with our shovels to bury it. We were hoping to use it's bones for some artwork or other, but the ground was too hard. We just stood around it helpless, feeling sad.

Returning from a cycle to a ruined castle I pass a dead bird hanging by one toe from a barbed wire fence. Wings spread. At the castle, it is said they poured molten gold coins down a traitors throat after he demanded payment.

I pass the old, ruined house which has apples on a tree and a rusty key in the door. I want to melt down the key for my sculpture. Instead, I make a very bitter apple pie.

I see all this. I am here to make sculpture, to learn about sculpture and (for once) to use materials rather than concept. I want to make a sculpture which is a little bit like a memorial too.
 

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