A beautifully created nature collage using materials found on a walk to illustrate that walk and the Fens. From Lesley Allen, the creator: My version of Holme Fen – re-created by debris found on the woodland floor at Holme Fen. The toadstools are acorn cups …
A Linocut printmaker from Ramsey, Vivien has been inspired by Fenland Fauna (and a beautiful Giraffe!) and has produced these during lockdown.
Pheasant hand coloured Linoprint
“I love the vibrancy watercolour brings to this handsome fellow.”
Vivien tells us:
“I am a Linocut printmaker from Ramsey Cambridgeshire. I take my inspiration from nature, I especially enjoy carving birds from the fenland landscape. I have found printing a welcome focus and distraction during lockdown. I love the crispness the media offers and combining this with the introduction of colour through hand colouring with watercolours and printing on marbled papers brings another dimension to the subjects.
I am excited to see where each new lino takes me. I have an idea in mind of the final look but I also let them evolve as I carve.”
By local author Diane Calton Smith.
‘In The Wash’ is a Fenland History set in the time of King John. The loss of his baggage train in the Wash in 1216 has become interwoven with local legend and we have no way of knowing any more what really happened. There are too many theories and there is too little evidence.
see more on her page here
We decided to add the book to the map as a nod to the river being a part of the town, but also a part of the wider history of the area. The river Nene goes out to the Wash.
“These were all taken at various points during lockdown. I live in Guyhirn so a lot are of the surrounding area around the village, as for a long time we weren’t really allowed to go elsewhere! The exceptions being of 2 from King’s Lynn one from Hunstanton and one from Wolferton.”
(see our other photography categories to complete the set of Neill’s work)
Here, there is clarity. A raw, persistent
truth – a cold disparity – hidden beneath
these tessellating fields. Fields stitched
by ditches to a muddy canvas. An after-
thought, a lost and lonely landmass.
Marshes marred by the harshness of
weather-worn trees. Each movement
of their aching limbs born of necessity.
That seasickness, which rises when
tracing that unaltered horizon, will
never fade. It is the price we pay to
come and stare into the eyes of gods,
to see ourselves, scratched and scattered
across unending skies and be reminded
just how much it mattered. The paling
moonlight dies, submerged and sinking,
but never fully sunk. No dampened way
of thinking, drunk on every part of these
wild and weary, sun-smeared fens. I’ll walk
each lonesome plough line, now as then.