drawing | autumn {in herne bay, UK, part III}

it was on a late summer's day in 1985, when a farewell comittee consisting of one aunt drove me up the north sea ferry wall in oostend. my trolley took a dip and i hadn't even reached english soil. waving aunty's comments bye-byes, i left belgium. just 24 hours later my new life opened up before me, waking up in a canterbury b&b, planning.

reminding myself briefly of the previous night's downpour, i braved a cloudy sky and a bumpy busride into herne bay, an east kent seaside resort's name exactly the same as my hometown's (bar the bay, we have no sea at home). by the end of a promising day i'd landed myself both a job and a bedsit. the autumn sun had begun to shine brilliantly. i felt as if i'd come home. at last.

this is the second time since the eighties i came back to herne bay. i'd booked a room in a b&b called the priory, which in 1985 was called worth house and functioned then as a youth hostel for up to fifteen problem teenagers, in desperate need of some counseling and loads of tlc, joined by some fifteen staff. i became staff soon after my kitchen trainee days. 

i succombed gladly to many memory flashes in anticipation, and now as i'm back in belgium, memories flood still. i think fondly of cook mary, who patiently taught me how to make an english custard creme. i stirred a milky tea {for sentimental reasons only, because i don't like white} in my single room, bemusedly staring into the overgrown november back garden. if i remember the house lay out correctly i was given j's room. j was no easy chick to handle. how would j be today?

i searched and found back railway station back alley, still overgrown in exactly the same spots! i easily made my way back to both houses i lived in, and lingered in front of them.

i sniffed sea salty air, rotten weeds and broken shells, all seemingly washing ashore aplenty. not a single olfactery detail of the whole area, down to the petrol station's gasses, smelled different. a trip down memory lane can be so profusely repleneshing.

i've let this week's dc theme mingle with my trip and remembered just then i'd drawn an autumn leaf a year back. i decided to recycle that drawingi played about a bit. {a postcard of the ° drawing is available in my shop.}

doesn't this repeat pattern version make you long for a proper bar of chocolate? it does me and i don't know why! ☻ ariane shows us more of autumn. as always, and please do, walk with me, through herne bay, UK. 

let’s hang {+ give away winner} | into the next town {UK, part II}

i don’t think i have ever been anything else but a seeker. as of today i’ll commit head on: i am the seeker. i will most probably always be the seeker. searching being the drive force behind the creative process, i seek. {i’m guessing we all do.}

naturally i also want to find. to do so i’ve been asking myself defining questions. what makes what i do mine? a query happening over and again, many times. a day. yes. i’ll admit to that too: it is tiring. very, very tiring. i think i may hang my queries out to dry.

for now, i drew the give away winner already, hand on my heart; eyes closed. congratulations on the happy occasion, babies. your tiny parcel is leaving on monday, if you send me your postal adress.

now. anyone sending me their snail mail address {woolfenbell[AT]gmail[DOT]com} receives a signed tinyWOOLF postcard {not in the shop} anyway; an early season’s greeting, a sharing, let's say. ♥ can i also thank you all for your best wishes on the opening of my tinyWOOLF shop. feel very welcome. now. let's return to england...

the reason why in the eighties we rode into the next town from our remote seaside stead was to gaze at such shops as waterstone's, boots and WAREHOUSE, to next lose ourselves spending pennies. the tearooms we hung out in were authentical, no chain rubbish. {sorry for the hearsey feeling up there in the image. look closely! that horse is doing a muybridge : all four up in the air at the same time.}

also when i lived in kent i dreamed of getting into canterbury art college. remembering my application days fondly i now realize the lack of a stable mentor {and an impressive portfolio} quickly broke off that ambiguous caprice. it doesn't half raise a smile today.

walking those familar streets many thoughts arose, primarily of the '...if ' kind; the alleys of old felt revived, whilest discovering many new ones; the cathedral's quiet cloisters having remained reassuringly square and free to the public. i used to dream here alot, in the shade. last week i silently shot some images ...

... before fleeing the early evening chill, all of a sudden drawn in by lingering young boys' voices, practicing evensong. as the main cathedral lights were being turned off, the presbytery filled up, leaving everyone inside snug and loyal. before the mass hand-outs reached my seat though, i slipped out again, chasing another blast from the past. for now, all of my canterbury here.

margate, fargate {UK, part I}

back in the eighties we hurried through margate, nobody lived there. to our scrutinous eye, those who did were mad and bored. there was a fairground, which we regarded with the greatest scrutiny. and in summer the louder part of britain came to sprawl on beaches, splash in grey north sea waters, hang shamelessly from said fairground attractions and devour on greasy spoon concoctions. 

still. a dynamic visual arts centre turner contemporary {only just visible on your extreme left} seemingly rose from the northern seas beyond, in the exact spot where ex-resident and famous painter jmw turner stayed. besides local, controversial artist tracey emin, who grew up in margate, there's now plenty of vintage in margate. and splendid refreshment space for the tired and the lonely. cupcake cafe below.
some pastel refurbishments have turned grey housing estate grounds into gallery space, awaiting tourists and art lovers. in margate? in margate! thus i walked, avoided rain, sniffed salty air, dipped an imaginary toe, and slurped enough coffee to keep me going.

one of the reasons i came to margate in the first place was london based artist alex chinneck's installation "from the knees of my nose to the belly of my toes". dig it? it is a well impressive piece of fun art, although for some reason i missed a zip up / zip down button to have the house front move up and down on command. ☻ naturally all else that i saw is also here

drawing | tattoo

i started the drawing on the eurostar train back home last night, and completed it today on another inland train line. the funniest thing happened as i dug up my fountain pen too. can you see it? i kinda like that small spur {image left}.

i find messages in the world of tattoo may be bold, no? words may lie, right? as i passed above tattoo shop in peckham yesterday afternoon {image right}, i thought if anyone can call himself the king of tattoo, then i can call myself queen of hearts for the day, only just using my first name's intial. ready for decal! patrice holds many tattoos in her palm, on her arm, on her heart? errrr, on her face??? 
UK images to follow as soon as possible. not just yet. ♥

here to tell the tale, but then later + giveaway reminder!

tippety toes she goes, earl-eye in da mor-ning. got my backpack packed, pj's down the bottom, my camera real close, tickets safe. my head, it is spinning. i've been counting down, and now the hours will fly. but i will try. my hardest best to recount the tale, of canterbury, herne bay, margate & renegade. must dash. see you on sunday! 

bottom image = giveaway, before tue 12/11/13. 
a tiny booklet & a few trinkets... 
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