… He wasn’t old school, he wasn’t Oxbridge, he was a lad from Tooting and a redbrick university.
1 February 2016
‘Pembrokeshire, home to the wild cliffs of West Wales and castles from the time of Gruffydd ap Llywelyn…’ Deirdre Fairbrother snapped the radio button off. She’d heard too many wonderful Pembrokeshire stories, if it was so wonderful, why didn’t more people live here?
Outside, the morning light, which could often be fickle, was clear and luminous. It shone into her artist’s studio. She liked days like this when she was alone with her oils and canvas with nothing on her agenda except her usual visit to her aged mother later in the afternoon. Loading her horsehair brush with a mixture of chrome yellow and magenta previously stirred on her palette, she touched the canvas again, and again more strongly, before standing back to observe the subtle change in her summer landscape. The season was well past now, but she worked with care at her rediscovered joy. Bit by bit, she was starting to rekindle her original love of painting, which she had foolishly set aside when she and Peter had started their family thirty-six years ago.
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