New Life (Spring 2026)
As it has been my first spring in the Scottish Borders, It has been fascinating to observe the flora here. There were more snowdrops at Marchmont than I think I had seen collectively in my lifetime. As the days got brighter, the birdsong got louder and my steps got lighter. After a much needed winter’s rest, I picked up where I left off with my morning runs. With the light came clarity and new vision. The more closely I observe these fleeting moments, the more I find myself carrying that same attentiveness into the workshop. Each drawing becomes less about recording a flower and more about understanding its character before translating it into metal. Blackbirds, wrens and jackdaws made their homes in the beech and cherry trees by my cottage and under the beech tree I have sat on a rock to watch almost every sunrise since the first days of spring.
The wildflowers have appeared in quicker succession than I can keep pace with. Just as I begin to study one, another emerges. Red campion gives way to red catchfly, and before long, a flower that seemed to fill the hedgerows has vanished until next spring. I think that is one of the greatest gifts of the season: its fleetingness. Beauty asks to be noticed because it never lingers for long. Speaking of fleeting beauties, the butterflies have been as abundant. I have spotted so many species here than I can name. Or perhaps I have been more aware of my surroundings. Along with the bees, they seemed to accompany me on my walks as if trying to tell me secrets I cannot yet understand. I often wonder whether it is the landscape that has changed, or simply my capacity to notice it.
Since moving here I have found myself stopping more, paying close attention and lingering over plants a little longer. Eating from the land has never felt so good. Although I have been foraging for many years, nowhere has it felt quite so effortless as it has here. It began with ramsons behind my cottage followed by pots of nettle, red raspberry leaf, elder flower and wild rose teas. An absolute delight to my senses!
Every walk seemed to end with another page in my sketchbook. Flowers that bloom for only a few weeks demanded to be drawn before they disappeared again, becoming studies that would later find their way into metal. I had been meaning to draw the primulas for weeks, always telling myself I'd do it after returning from RHS Wisley. By the time I came back, they had disappeared from the banks near my cottage. I eventually found a few much deeper in the woods, but it struck me how quickly the season had moved on without me. Since then, I've become less inclined to say, "I'll draw it next week." Spring has taught me that some things ask to be noticed now, because they may not be there tomorrow. Rather than chasing ideas, I have learned to let them reveal themselves over time.
As the season unfolded, the changes weren't confined to the landscape. My practice also entered a new chapter, I received the wonderful news that I had been awarded a place on the Emerging Business Bursary Scheme for Goldsmiths' Fair 2026, a dream come true. In May, I exhibited at the RHS Wisley Craft Fair, and in June I took part in a group exhibition in Edinburgh alongside fellow makers from Marchmont, as well as Bryony Knox and Michael Lloyd, two silversmiths whose work I have admired from afar for a long time.
Back in the workshop, I have been testing new ideas, developing designs and alloying gold. those drawings have become a starting point rather than an end in themselves. They are slowly being translated into silver through chasing, engraving and gold inlay, each piece carrying with it the memory of a season that has already begun to pass. I look forward to sharing Wild Flowers of the Year, my newest collection, at Goldsmiths' Fair later this autumn.
“ A flower that blooms for only a few weeks deserves to be noticed now, not later.”
After such a long winter, it was almost difficult to imagine the landscape changing. Yet it did, as it always does. The bare branches gave way to leaves, the snowdrops to narcissus, and before long the woods were entirely different again. Yonder on the hills, the rhododendrons that once scattered the landscape in shades of pink and purple now have only a few petals hanging on to its stems.
Perhaps that is what this spring has taught me most: that life is constantly moving. There is comfort in knowing the seasons return each year, but there is also a quiet urgency in paying attention while each moment is here. A flower that blooms for only a few weeks deserves to be noticed now, not later. In many ways, that has become the rhythm of my work too. Observing, drawing and making while the season still has something to teach.
