Hello! I live around the corner. I visit the Cemetery several times a week. I watch the trees change through the seasons. I seek the oldest gravestones; I wonder about the people who rest here. I come here with small groups to explore the nature. I listen to the birdsong. I try, and usually fail, to identify the mushrooms. I come here to escape when the cabin fever hits. I bring my children here: we play hide and seek, tell stories, make up songs, climb trees. I come here to escape the family. I go home with pockets full of fallen cones, leaves, seedpods.
I arrange cones and leaves and sticks into ‘nature doodles’.
Sometimes I draw, I write.
I dream that eventually I’ll make a book about this place that holds such magic for me and means so much to so many people, each in different ways.
And, I wonder about you – about all the other people who come here. Those who I see, and greet, others who pass through or pause here at completely different times. So, every day for the month of February, as a pledge to myself for ‘Fun-a-Day’, I am placing a question under a tree. If it catches your eye; if it has some kind of resonance for you or it captures your imagination, perhaps you’ll leave an answer. I hope you’ll leave an answer.
Perhaps you’ll leave your name, too. Perhaps it will surface in that book that I dream about. Perhaps not.
To be honest, I’m a little bit terrified! I’m afraid of all the things that might happen – I might upset people with insensitive questions in a space where they go for deep and personal moments. Perhaps I’ll get in trouble for ‘littering’ the Cemetery, though I’ll be back to collect everything I leave here. I’m worried that no-one will see my notes – or worse, that people will see them and no-one will reply, which feels quite likely. But, as I so often find myself saying, if I don’t try, then I’ll keep wondering. Perhaps, just perhaps, someone will enjoy the playful connection with a place that we love. Perhaps just perhaps, they’ll notice something they haven’t seen before. Perhaps it will make someone smile. Even, perhaps, someone will reach out to me and new adventures will begin, initiated by a mere question..
If I don’t try, I’ll never know
Whatever happens, I’ll be sharing my adventures alongside many others in a community exhibition at Positive Light Projects, Sidwell Street, Exeter, on 21 and 22 March 2026 – come see!
One Saturday a few weeks back, I walked from the centre of Chichester to West Wittering Beach, along a canal tow path and the Salterns Way. Alone and in control of my own pace, I found myself documenting my journey as I walked, through voice recordings and ‘Doodles’ that evolved as the day unfolded.
This is a narrative – primarily a transcription – of that very special day.
Flint
Flint. So many different patterns and ways of working with flint. In neat rows. In mortar. In old walls and new walls. Gaps plugged with tiny shreds and shards. I wonder if the walls are original? And then I wonder what I mean by that … How old does ‘original’ have to be? 100 years? 200 years? 1000? I guess ‘original’ means that flint was used because it was available. Used for a pragmatic purpose and quality driven reason, rather than a kind of nostalgia, drawing on the past with the heritage consciousness that we have now. I guess that’s what I mean by ‘original’.
And then the canal basin. Remote controlled boats chasing each other round. Then kayaks with children balanced precariously on top. Then walkers with dogs. Walkers without dogs. A runner.
And finally, almost no-one.
Sedge
The elation of walking at my own pace. Of walking a distance. Of a destination – hazy, optional, but driving me forward. Resisting the temptation to stop and speak to every plant or bird, to identify the unfamiliar.
The surprising vibrancy of Purple Loosestrife against the greens and greys of this flat weather day. Eating Haws as I go. The glossy glow of Honeysuckle berries. And – is it Stinking Iris? Bursting out in its triads, from below.
I wondered if I could twist cord as I walk. I picked some Sedge, to see if I could twist it fresh.
I can’t.
So … perhaps I could plait it.
I could.
And I love the seeds of this season, so I began to insert into my braid the story of my day, the things I see, the things I spot. The Hogweed seeds which are just so beautiful and so iconic, though we hate it so much, earlier in the year.
A Heron. And a Kingfisher. Reeds – I had to look them up. Common Reed: I loathe the word ‘common’. Australis. I’m curious about how the words ‘Australis’ and ‘Australia’ are related when it seems to mean ‘common’ in plantlore.
Willow Trees, Bulrushes, Bedstraws. Ragwort.
Moorhens, and Coots. And the water, at first mysteriously, bluey green, now completely transparent.
Could I weave my whole story as I walk. But why, and what would I do with it?
And then I realise … it’s a kind of walking Doodle. I’ve never done that before, to Doodle as I move … I wonder how that would work.
Bindweed
Chichester Marina: A sea of concrete and more boats than I have ever seen in one place.
I turned to three strands of Bindweed gathered by the canal and plaited them, ready for part two. Fiddly, plaiting with Bindweed, leaves getting in the way.
More Reeds, more Hawthorn.
Less confidence in my orientation, a kind of slight unease – a road that took me away from the water and down lanes between houses. Houses so big, so perfect, it makes me uncomfortable, the kind of – it’s not even flamboyance – the comfort of wealth.
Did the most un-wild wee ever and lost my Oak leaf with its Spangle Galls. Part of the story. Flowers, country lanes. A purple meadow flower, I don’t know what it is – maybe Chicory? Teasels, all having lost their heads. The curl of the leaves on Teasel reminds me of William Morris – an elegant, paisley curve. Adding those into my story gave me a real structural satisfaction.
I’m slower now. My hips feel the ache and I have a consciousness of time. I’m going too slowly – distracted: I can’t keep the focus for that long, as I add to the growing danglies hanging from my belt. And then suddenly I found a tree with an abundance of Silk and Spangle Galls … so excited!
And it’s time for lunch.
Field Mushrooms. Well, I looked them up: Field or Horse Mushrooms, or Yellow Stainers. Though I don’t think they’re that cos I tried the colour test. Hedge Agrimony, which I love. Finally, some blackberries still good to eat. Adrienne talked about Devil’s Spit and she’s not wrong – the flavour is gone. Still, Autumn is here, still. Some kind of Wort, I don’t know what it was. And a purple-tinged Daisy. I think I’ve seen things like that in gardens too – New York Asters, maybe. And the vibrant copper of Dock. I’ll add that to my walking story.
Grass
Leaving Itchenor through the village. I tried to plait together some Cocks Foot grasses, but they were having none of it, snap snap snap, so I turned to other grasses, and wove myself something that became a fragile wreath, a spiral.
It felt apt to be using grass, walking along by field after field, agriculture all tired at this time of year. But also, paths splitting field from hedgerow.
Continuous nibbling of Haws.
Already the sense of accomplishment that I will complete this journey.
The last, flat lands through the village towards the beach. Everything here is manicured and curated: Perfect lawns, draping Willows. Walnut trees. Not a blade of grass out of place beneath them. It’s a strange world, balancing artifice and nature.
But at last, I’m here. Sand and dunes, sand and dunes. And the sun came out.
Flint
And here again – it’s flint, amidst the sand. Flint!
I came from flint; finished with flint. I think I’ll never look at flint in the same way again.
I wrapped my Doodles onto a piece of wood on the beach, completing the journey. A kind of relief to let go of these things that I’d been carrying all the way.
And now I drift my way along the beach to the very end, and round.
Scallop shells. And the flattest sea with the deepest, deep reflections. Clouds mirrored far beneath the surface. Sanderlings, or Dunlins – I had to look them up. Hag stones. I added one, and a whelk, to the top of my Doodle.
I pledged to spend at least ten minutes a day of February 2025 in Higher Cemetery, Heavitree. It’s a place of wonder for me and, having recently completed a year-long project, I wanted to immerse myself in freedom, experimentation and playfulness, unshackled by goals or outcomes.
3 On my run, there and back. Green Woodpecker. Celandine. Searching for the Witch Hazel – soon it’ll be in flower and then I’ll find it. It’s there somewhere but I can’t remember where. Walking along next to the graves of sleeping children. Winter-Rose, born sleeping just this last October. Sun on my skin. Gathering pieces to make a fascinator.
To begin with, it seemed that a new avenue opened up every day. I’d thought I might draw some of the trees; Nature Doodle; chart the arrival of Spring; make cord, ink, weavings … and I did. I did all of these things, fleedingly, as though greeting old friends, one after the other. The glory of permission to embrace my fickle attention span.
15 With G, across to Polsoe Bridge, and back again afterwards. In by the Yews, out down the wall by the Ashes. – Can you not talk to me cos I’m going to play with my imaginary friends? ………………………….. – Is the Cemetery your special place? – Yes, I think so. Where’s your special place? – The Donkey Sanctuary. ………………………….. – Are these graves new? – Newish. They’re war graves. – But the war graves are on the other side. – Yes, that’s true. Now I wonder. We’ll have to find out.
Actually, what really opened up for me, was relationships. As a daily practice, I couldn’t often manage much time in the Cemetery alone. But with either of my children, I could pass hours. G and I told a story, wrote a song. A and I discovered a forgotten tale, a heartbreaking tragedy.
9 A broken grave in the rubble mountain. Archaeologists with sticks and Cyrpess brush. “In memory of George Youldon who fell asleep in Jesus Oct … 1981” Their tragedy unfolding beneath our fingertips “Also of Mary Ann who died Oct … 1891. Children of Samuel and Mary Ann Youlden” Slowly emerging shock; lump in my throat; time offering distance. Archaeology revealing a story, A mystery to be uncovered. “Aged 4 years. Aged 2 years … months” Why? WHY?
I wondered about the Lady in the Lodge; I talked to strangers, sought answers to questions from friends and neighbours who each know the Cemetery in a different way. Brought a Creative Nature Bimble here. I came at dawn, at dusk, in the dark – looked at the stars. And ultimately pulled Frankie into a deep and mesmerising search for the story of the Youlgen children, whose gravestone A and I uncovered in the early days.
16 10 minutes in the dark, drawing the trees
And the entire project was everything I thought it might be, and more, and yet it was only a beginning …
25 Morning run. Outbound – running: – A Green Woodpecker – Two men walking together, deep in conversation. I wish that wasn’t so unusual. – Catherine Rees, Councillor. I always recognise her AFTER I’ve said hello. Homebound – walking: – Stopped to photograph all the Silver Birches in the bottom corner. Looping round and round and round. The whole Cemetery is too much. For now. – We never mention Pigeons or Magpies, do we?
In Higher Cemetery is a personal project – an artist residency, if you like: an ongoing relationship to explore the wild, urban place around the corner from my home. You can’t put time frames on such a project but … I have given myself three years to begin with!
The Nature Doodles Project 