Well, the postcard is complete, the exhibition on the High St over; time to collect the pictures and get back in the studio. The Seahouses Festival seemed well-attended, well-received and the weather was good for us folk unable to bolt for cover, in the event of a downpour.

Thank you to everyone who stopped to have a friendly word, took an interest in the paintnig, shared their stories and kept me fed and watered. My only regret is not keeping a visitors book handy, which would have been a good record for the festival organisers.

Hey! I'm going to be painting a giant postcard on the side of the limekilns, Seahouses Harbour this weekend, drop by if you are in the area.

Me? I'm off to find my crampons....

See what happens when I'm away for a few days..?

Pre-London art fair 'do I really know what I'm doing?' doubts are banished, no time to worry about that anymore, wrap those piccies, write that 'to-do' list, lose the the 'to-do' list and write it out again...

He says, 'stop worrying'.

Oh, okay, then, ooh, that's better; wish I'd thought of that. I am, apparently, making a big deal out of the driving- coming from a man that needs sat-nav to find which shelf the pepper grinder's on I think it's a bit rich-

Drop in and see me- stand B5 at Untitled Art Fair Chelsea Old Town Hall- there's a preview on Friday, then open Saturday and Sunday- I can email tickets, info, etc. or google 'untitled art fair' and grap some tickets from the front page of the website.

I'm looking forward to the experience, to showing my work to a new audience, to feeling the London buzz, to too many Costa coffees on the way down, and seeing some lovely folk when I'm there.

Meanwhile,

I've been to a residential course; a regular occurrence; an annual pilgrimage in fact.

Ford Castle is normally packed with school children on geographical field trips; on this occasion it was transported back to a time of princesses- no, further back; to the era of the matriarchy. Goddesses walked the ramparts.

Egyptian (Arabic) dance has transformed, embroidered, informed, dominated the lives of women for years without breaking through into popular culture. Perhaps this is just as well; perhaps the images of 'Carry-On' style chest-wobbling nymphs, or harridons was a clever ruse by the Goddess to keep this delicate bloom of female empowerment protected from the cynical eye of market forces. We don't 'do' labels, Darling, unless you count Eman Zeki, costumier extraordinaire; dancer of a classical tradition, whose aim in life is clothe each client, no matter what age or shape, in a costume that will make her feel beautiful- Goddess-like.

The weekend brings together teachers and students from all over the U.K. and further afield. It is an opportunity to learn: techniques of old, or the latest in Cairo; Folkloric traditions; Belly dance flavoured with latin, with flamenco, hamming it up, or a generous potion of cheese (belly dancers do have a sense of humour!) Not only style and technique; good practise, safe dancing, performance issues; how to stand-

A willing student can be drawn down a road of enlightenment and self- awareness by a pantheon of mentors offering food for the soul. The dance can be an hour a week in the company of women, moving to nice music, blocking out the humdrum world, simple as that, no more, no less, but it will throw challenges a woman can accept and move on, or deny. By coming forward and sharing her dance with her fellows, a dancer shows an aspect of herself, allows herself to be praised, appreciated, admired; accepts these gifts and gives, in return, to the next dancer. The aspect on display might be a comfortable persona dressed for the public, but she might be a long-forgotten, or a forbidden friend who maybe has the audacity to have a mind of her own, or a repution for having an opinion. She may not even have the capacity, yet, to accept deserved praise, or permission to like herself. A student may fall at the first hurdle, to allow herself time to dance.

So, what am I barking on about The Goddess for?Well, she, to me is resident, she holds the keys to the cell, will stand up to the critic, make a gesture to the One, to the authority, the sleeping policeman. I'm not talking about parking on yellow lines or smoking behind the bike sheds, I'm talking about the spectre of body image, of body ownership, of personal responsiblilty which were all issues, mostly unspoken, present in the castle, for this weekend.

An example, just the one, before I go; a class billed as roots of the modern form of dance, the teacher moved to relax her keen and pensive students began her warm up:

'We are here,' she put her hand below her belly button, 'and 'ah' we are home.' She softened her knees slightly, her shoulders back, and down; spine aligned and feet in parallel.

Home; inside, she talks about, being present in the body, secure and centred; she is powerful but not dominant, not great by the weight of a hip belt jangling with the corpses of the vanquished, but comfortable in her own skin, safe in her knowledge, able to love.

From the castle, filled with warmth and humour, sparkling costumes, sweat and tears I return with a few aches and a folder of handouts.

Pah, I feel the magic weakening, the pull of chores and the awful prospect of the weekend suitcase. I'm going to make some notes, and, um, maybe have 40 winks to freshen up before teaching tonight.

A few months ago, a freelance cameraman phoned me to ask if I'd take part in a local film project about the environmental heritage of North Northumberland. Well, I've met Jimmy before, through promotional work for Alnwick Garden, and thought, 'Hey, why not?' There would be, I knew, an opportunity to showcase my painting, and the project sounded worthwhile; a lot of the work included children at a local school and I think it is important to feel good about the area you live in, and feel proud. The media works to convince people that the party's always somewhere else in order to sell ideas. If you feel good about yourself, and where you live, you can take or leave the barrage of advertising angled at pressing the self-doubt buttons. Kids growing up in rural locations can be made to feel they are missing out on a shinier, more sophisticated 'lifestyle' and will be very negative about their patch. Having felt that myself, I'm very happy to see projects that celebrate the area...ANYWAY, off the soapbox, I was on the beach on Thursday afternoon, madly mixing far too much cobalt blue and alizarin crimson, fretting about painting an en plein air oil in front of camera and two programme presenters. I may have chopped every comment with a hideous self-depreciating statement as my Lindisfarne seemed less castle-like and more a table jelly, the sea was so flat it was practically concave, I ran out of 'sand colour' and dropped brush after brush into the sand. What a palaver I made, what a fuss. The idea had been that the couple interviewing me would happen upon me as I was taken by the muse, exchange a few pleasantries and say their goodbyes. This was to be linked with a piece already completed, in my home, featuring some more talk and views of the paintings. It all sounded so easy, so professional; no doubt Jimmy will edit the bumbling (on my part, both Nina and Bob were relaxed and focussed) fool to appear (briefly) cohesive and interesting.

I made reference to using the finished article to light my fire, later, so neurotic was I, by the time the filming ended. Jimmy suggested we raffle the offending (my term) article at the showing of the film, and during Seahouses festival to raise money for a local charity. I stepped back from the painting and the four of us contemplated as a low black cloud hid the last rays of warm spring sun from us. 'It needs distance.' said Bob.

'About three miles?' I thought.

Then I took my s**t-tinted spectacles off. Yes, the painting's fine.

'You need to stop saying such negative things about yourself, you aren't doing yourself any good.' The wise, good-looking, twenty-year-old Nina proffered as we said our goodbyes in the car park.

Thank you, Nina.

I've had an ecclectic bunch of visitors this weekend; artists, tourists, cyclists and a trainee minister, an agreeable chap who stayed for a good hour and enjoyed the exchanges between my guests and I; hearing and contributing to the opinions, the histories and dramas that inevitably unfold when a group of people are thrown together in a different environment (I mean my studio event). He's after a rural placement and his safari of North Northumberland doesn't seemed to have put him off. I gather he'd stayed at Haltwhistle and Kirkwhelpington, too. Something of a Merchant & Ivory costume drama there, I think; modern-thinking Cambridge graduate visiting a rural backwater; I see the train pulling into the tiny station, him alighting in a cloud of steam to be met by a surly taxi driver. He is introduced to the community amidst the tutts of disapproval from the conservative local gentry, superstitious suspicion by the lumpen proletariat. On a lonely hill trek among the sheep- embroidered hills he spies a magnificent ram, horns held aloft, proud gleam in its eye; the beast moves off, stage right to reveal Miss Connie, sweet and pale, shepherdess and only daughter of the infamously fierce hill farmer; Terence Backwithers. Will the two find love in the lonely peaks? Will our young hero find his place in the country? Will the audience nod off before the end of the film? Well, I made it to the end of 'Room With A View' so I don't see why not-
He ( the real Minister-in-Training) was off to commune and roll eggs with the congregation at dawn today, then back on the train to Cambridge- Ah! Northumberland will be a strange dream by tomorrow; perhaps I'm more of a mood for a good TV comedy/sci-fi/drama- a 21st Century cleric is rocked back to 1950's England, he must find a way back to his own time or can he bear to leave the grotesque, yet compelling characters he discovers? Can he abandon Coldplay and live with the raw and plaintif crooning of Buddy Holly? Will the need for Costa coffee keep him looking for a portal in the time and space, or are the heady charms of Miss Willa and her ample stocks of Carnation condensed milk be enough to convert the misplaced Minister to a simpler, less sophisticated life? Has he a role to play in this close-knit, yet narrow-minded community? Will his outlook be an inspiration to his reluctant parish, or will his own field narrow to a mere one-acre strip, in his new, old-fashioned waking dream life?
Tune in after songs of Praise!
I think, maybe not.
He was a nice chap, though ( The real Minister-in-Training, that is.)
The reason he was at the exhibition was his hostess (the wife of Belford's URC minister) had introduced him to a series of people to sample rural Northumberland (read: out from under her feet!).
A real melting pot of folk, a web of cross-referenced associations, strangers, accidental visitors have made it over my threshold this weekend, thanks to all.