Nobody that I know really understood what I meant when I said that I was going on a course to learn abstract calligraphy. It is very hard to describe.

Even I was unsure what I was letting myself in for when I booked to go to Tuscany for a week's workshop on the meeting of eastern and western calligraphic styles with Monica Dengo and Satsuki Hatsushima, from Italy and Japan respectively.

Ten days before I was due to set off I got a severe case of cold feet. I was worried by the programme notes that described a visit to view handwriting styles in medieval manuscripts at the local Sansepolcro archive. It sounded deadly serious, and far removed from what I had in mind from my knowledge of Monica's work.

I almost cancelled, but fortunately had my mind put at ease by a fellow photographer who happened to be doing the workshop 2 weeks ahead of me.

In order to get there I passed through Florence. I have never been to Florence, so decided to to take two days to explore the city before catching my train eastwards to Arezzo, and then Sansepolcro.

I knew Florence has a reputation for being busy. I had not realised how busy. I found myself heading away from the city centre, across the river, to the Boboli Gardens for a bit of peace and quiet. I found the strangest of lemons in the lemon garden.

I also found some beautiful roses with a perfect backdrop of washed blue paint. I was happy.

Obviously, there is a lot of very important art to see in Florence. On day two, having walked my legs off, I summoned the energy to face the Uffizi Gallery. I know practically nothing about Renaissance art. Michelangelo and  Botticelli were the only names that I really knew; two spectacularly famous artists, that I had never really appreciated other than when reading, many years ago, 'The Agony and the Ecstasy', the 1961 biographical novel about Michelangelo, written by Irving Stone.

I still remember vividly the story describing Michelangelo, as a boy, being given a large block of marble and chipping away at it from the outside in to create a figure.  I find this extraordinary; to have a vision of the outcome and be able to gradually work to achieve it by a process of removal rather than by addition as in so many other forms of art.

I found the art works in the Uffizi Gallery vibrant and beautiful, and was glad that I went as I can't see myself returning to a city where it is difficult to negotiate the streets due to the crowds.

Onwards then, to the real reason for my trip.

To Sansepolcro, a peaceful, walled, 11th century commune, with cobbled streets and some more famous art. This time by Pierro della Francesca. Another famous artist that I had never heard of, who lived and died in Sansepolcro.

To the arts centre where I found a room beautifully laid out ready for 16 participants, with walls to die for in pastel shades of plaster and paint.

And so began seven days of joy.

Exhausting and intense, but filled with laughter , experimentation and production.

We made marks in the traditional Japanese way, in a traditional western italic style, and then blended the two in many different ways.

Between lessons I feasted on peaches, tomatoes, mozarella and meatballs. Mascarpone and cantucci. Japanese snacks and plenty of herbal tea.

We made marks to different soundtracks.

I looked at the outcomes and knew that my family would think I was mad.

They were expecting traditional calligraphy.

The medieval manuscripts were old and fancy, and unlike those in the UK, I was surprised  that we were allowed to touch them. This was said to be because the content of these ancient ledgers was of no great historic significance.

I  looked at them for a while, and then wandered off to look at the walls downstairs.

What I hadn't realised from reading my daily programme was how exciting the next visit would be. A visit to the Burri museum a few miles away in Cita di Castello.

Well, not really a museum. More of an extraordinary modern art collection housed in an old tobacco drying warehouse. The work of just one local artist; Alberto Burri. I had never heard of him. Ignorance is my specialty.

Correctly named as the  Fondazione Palazzo Albizzini Collezione Burri » Ex Seccatoi del Tabacco, the building was vast. The art was dramatic and themed by colour.

I soaked it all up. Black, black and gold, multicoloured ; each in vast rooms that eventually became overwhelming, but which definitely impacted my work later in the week. The simplicity appealed immensely.

As the week progressed our tables became stacked with a multitude of papers covered in ink. Different papers, different tools. Many different styles and looks.

I was happiest with my marks made with a feather.

I also spent a long time experimenting with ways to write the word mountain as an ideogram, using western letters but in a Japanese style.

Meanwhile, Satsuki wrote the word 'mountain' with a very large brush in Japanese style onto brown paper, working on the floor.

I think my family would understand this a bit better.

By the end of the week we had turned some of our many papers and writings into hand made books. This was a challenge in such a short space of time.

Normally my books are the product of many hours thinking and experimenting. Some take months to make. The books I made in Sansepolcro were different, in that they were not created with any important message to convey. What they did do was to convey my own personal take on the ideas that we had assimilated during the week.

And what does all this have to do with being an 'outdoor' photographer? Obviously not much...... but......

It is a fine example of the pleasure to be had by jumping out of a particular creative 'box' into a new one; of the joy of trying new things, and of learning new techniques that feed new ideas. It is also a way to meet a wonderful bunch of people from all around the world.

The adventure was also a reminder that cold feet are normal when stepping out of one's comfort zone, and to just 'do it' anyway. Son would have told me that if I had asked.....

And when son asks me whether I have become less fit for our upcoming alpine adventure during my week of messing around with ink on paper, I can tell him that whilst having so much fun I also found time to do a little workout every day in my rooftop apartment. Just don't tell the landlady that I used the bedspread as my yoga mat.

Despite not being 'up' a mountain I felt on top of the world.

And finally, don't tell ANYONE that I never made it to see the artworks by Piero della Francesca in the Civic Museum. They would be truly shocked......

I did find a wonderful vegetable garden on the city wall though. The artichokes were spectacular!

​What is it about mountains that draws us?

Both I, and my children can't get enough of them. My daughter has emigrated to western Canada, where every weekend is spent in the mountains. Son has created a lifestyle that allows him to live surrounded by majestic peaks wherever he chooses, be it in Canada or the Alps. I am happy for them both.

I have not quite achieved this, although it still remains a dream. Ever since I spent time as  a student in the highlands of Scotland I have dreamed of living in such an environment. I blame falling in love with my other half (OH) for a change of plan, settling for a life down south, and coping with this compromise by visiting the mountains whenever possible. It is not a coincidence that I choose to spend my holidays in cold remote places such as Iceland and the Scottish highlands. It is in these places that my heart fills up. The first trip that I took after one of the covid lockdowns and a 14 day quarantine in Vancouver was a road trip to the Rockies with my son.

Why are some of us drawn to mountains, while others are happiest on a beach, gazing at the sea?

I asked Google, and Google said it was because I am an introvert. No surprises there.

I asked chatGPT about the psychology of mountains with reference to artists, and it churned out several paragraphs within a few seconds about the sublime; something I have thought about on many occasions. 

But what is the sublime? And how do we know when we have found it?

Mountain imagery is a metaphor for personal growth and transformation, inspiring us to overcome hurdles and reach for new heights in our lives.

Mountains also remind us our past. Our ancestors would have relied on mountains for  fresh water, game, and shelter, making them an essential part of everyday existence.

​Today mountains continue to evoke a deep-seated sense of connection to the natural world. It would not be an understatement to admit that several members of my recent hiking trip in Scotland got absurdly excited to see stags on the mountainside; so much more excited than they would have been if they had seen them in a local park down south where they also thrive. For me, the excitement was greater for encountering multiple puddles filled with toad spawn on the path, way up on the hillside. A sign of how fragile the balance of nature is, for toads to lay their eggs in such a seemingly inhospitable  spot.

Mountains require one to face one's limitations. I have been trying to get fitter ready for hikes in a variety of mountains over the course of this year. You will find me standing on one leg as I wait for a train ( working my gluteal muscles)  and doing press-ups before I soak in the bath at night. I spend half of my week feeling exhausted in response to my feeble efforts to get 'mountain ready'!

​Son takes this to new levels; setting himself challenges beyond that which he feels comfortable to achieve. Living in the mountains he finds himself surrounded by individuals setting themselves really tough challenges; running up mountains, long distance trail runs and alpine hikes from hut to hut; generally pushing themselves to the limit. Way beyond what most people would consider possible. Not to mention cycling from Chamonix to Khatmandu, as two of his friends have recently embarked on. 

With the ever changing political situation, this feels like an immense challenge.

​I, though, will just be happy to complete a week of hiking without painful knees; something that happens on the Scottish hills with the incredibly rough paths and endless twisting and turning on the long descents after the exhilaration of the peak. 

When I get back home I crave the mountains. I walk on the beach and realise that although the sea and sky are calming and refreshing, I feel at my best when a mountain is looming before me. enveloping me.  I feel unsettled.

So much so that I turn to my photographs and write some words.......starting with a line from my favourite poem by Raymond Carver -  'Late Fragment".

.And did you get what you wanted from this life?

To stumble cloudwards
tramping tangled grasses and twisted heather
squelching by bog's edge
as you wind 
 upwards 
between tumbling granite boulders
laced with myriad geographies of jade green and grey.
Territories and oceans, continents and seas
marked by cities of citrus and white.

Eyes cry out against the bitter easterlies;
boundaries blur
the heart beats faster
and faster still.

Scanning the skyline for peaks and ridges
watching them rise into view
Sharp edged, imposing, 
dark and forbidding.
Later,
snow and cloud softened
sun tipped and golden
as one with the sky.

untouchable
inhospitable
indestructible

extraordinary
magnificent
life affirming.

Mountain.







​

And once that is done, I start planning my next mountain adventure.

​Next stop, Chamonix.....

​And if you would like to read more about the psychology of mountains and the people who are drawn to conquer them, then I recommend this book by Robert Macfarlane 'Mountains of the Mind'.
​

These images were taken on a walking holiday in Spean Bridge with 'Distant Hills Guest House'. 

A nicer place and kinder people would be hard to find.