Wild & Moor Creative Retreat

13/07/2026

…the walnut. A metaphor for life?

Back in the depths of winter, my friend Jane was worried that her walnut tree was dying.

“It looks so sad…” she said.

It certainly did. Nature seemed to have reclaimed it. The branches were covered in lichen, with no outward sign of life at all.

But appearances can be wonderfully deceptive.

The walnut is an ancient tree, thought to have been brought from Greece to Rome around 100 BC. It can live for more than 300 years. The Greeks called it the Royal Nut, a name that reflected its importance, and many of the myths and superstitions surrounding it can be traced back to ancient Greece.

When the shell is removed, the walnut bears an uncanny resemblance to the human brain. This inspired the old Doctrine of Signatures — the belief that plants resembling parts of the body could be used to heal those very parts. While modern science has moved beyond those ideas, there is something rather lovely about the connection.

And then… watch what happens.

By March, the colours begin to shift. Tiny buds appear where only bare branches had been. By May, the tree is quietly alive with both male and female flowers, growing together on the same tree. Botanists call this monoecious.

Even then, nature has another remarkable lesson to teach us. The male flowers release their pollen before the female flowers on the same tree are ready to receive it. Instead, the wind carries that pollen—sometimes for many miles—to another walnut tree, ensuring the next generation can flourish.

What extraordinary wisdom is woven into something we so often pass without noticing.

By autumn, the Royal Nut will once again provide food, nourishing oil and, for many of us, treasured Christmas decorations.

From what looked like lifeless branches in winter comes abundance.

The walnut reminds us that growth is rarely absent—it is often simply unseen. Beneath the surface, life is preparing for its next season.

Nature doesn’t hurry. It doesn’t strive to become something different. It simply responds to light, warmth and time.

Perhaps there’s a lesson in that for all of us.

If you'd like to slow down, look more closely at nature and learn the beautiful art of botanical painting, I'd love to welcome you to one of my beginner-friendly workshops.

Dates are available throughout August and September, with small group sessions (or private groups of 2 or more) designed for complete beginners.

Book your place via Airbnb Experiences - https://www.airbnb.co.uk/rp/judithr8168?p=recommendations&product=experience&listing_id=6894078&s=67&unique_share_id=dea2278e-37c3-43b1-81fe-672decbbc338

I hope to paint with you soon.

15/06/2026

Having just returned from a glorious week of sunshine in the Lake District, I felt inspired to write something about the awesome power of the mountains, and how Wordsworth found much of his religious and spiritual belief in the natural landscape.

“_The sentiment of Being, spread o’er all that moves, and all that seemeth still, and human knowledge.” _
Wordsworth:Prelude

That landscape is no less awesome now. A few hundred years on, I couldn’t agree more.

However, having returned to a very different landscape on a wet and windy Sunday on Bodmin moor, I take Wordsworth and add some.

The wind literally took my breath away, the Wild Moor at its best. ‘Witches knickers’ flapping on the wire sheep fence. Birds scrabbling to get purchase on the wind. Sheep ducking behind moorland granite walls. Wild ponies racing in the wind, to see if they can- and my small family straining against the powers of nature.

Feeling the magnetic pull of the earth and the wind comes the repeated realisation of our insignificance in that awesome landscape.
Pitying those at sea, we returned to our cosy cottage and inviting studio for cups of tea and comfort.
Slightly battered, the garden blossoms and thrives again. Foxgloves , lilies, and a giant echium - which has appeared from nowhere but is most welcome.
The acer is perfect for climbing, and the palms are alive.
My giant tree ferns take pride of place.
I love this place. It feeds my soul, and, as Wordsworth said, “From nature doth emotion come and moods of calmness equally are nature’s gift. This is her glory.”

27/04/2026

May is always my favourite month. This green place never ceases to amaze me. The iridescent shimmer of new leaves, hedgerows bursting with bluebells, campion and stitchwort… it’s as if the sky itself has been repainted, colour-washed in the bluest of blues. The scene shifters have done a heavenly job.

Last week, walking the boundaries of my little world, I came across what looked like a dead tree—an ancient walnut. Its lower branches were cloaked in moss and lichen, with no obvious sign of life.

I snapped a small piece from a broken branch to study the lichen more closely—the strange, almost alien colours of tiny lifeforms living within it. Intricate, complex, and unexpectedly beautiful.

Then, higher up the tree… a bud. Brown, not grey. Bulbous, gnarled—but full of quiet promise. I brought it home to paint, and to see what might happen next.

Day by day, I’ve watched as light and warmth have worked their magic. Now here it is—an extraordinary little life form, shifting in colour, growing stronger, gently unfolding into its next incarnation. I’ll keep watching to see where it leads.

Perhaps there’s a human parallel here. We’re all part of this natural cycle of change. Our own seasons, our own stages. The lichens, the lumps, the imperfect bits—they’re all part of the story. I’ve certainly had my share… and I suspect there’s more to come.

If you’d like to pause, reflect, and reconnect with your own sense of growth and renewal, come and spend some time immersed in this beautiful place. It has a way of putting everything gently back into perspective.

27/02/2026

Spring is coming to the moor. Winter here can feel long and dark. Bleak skies. Bare branches. Endless Rain...

And yet — however cold the season, nature always finds a way.

From rotting leaf matter comes nourishment. From decay comes growth. The ancient and the new sit side by side here — granite tors that have witnessed centuries, watching quietly as snowdrops push through frozen ground, daffodils lift their heads, and frogspawn gathers in the pond.

Primroses are opening. Camellias are looking stunning. Bluebells are on their way.

In our rare temperate rainforest microclimate, delicate plant life thrives in clean air — lichens, mosses, and ferns that have endured for generations. The cycle is inevitable. Reliable. Ancient.

The ancients knew it when they raised the stone circles across these lands — there is powerful energy in paying attention to the turning of the seasons.

Spring reminds us that renewal doesn’t shout. It emerges quietly. Shoots pushing through. Promise returning.

And if we slow down enough, we can find deep joy in simply noticing.

If you’d like a safe, nurturing space to mindfully focus on your own spring — using art as a gentle tool for reflection and growth — have a look at my upcoming workshops.

I would love to share this healing space with you.

24/01/2026

Why Learn With Me?
Botanical art is far more than painting flowers.
It is a practice of attention — and, for many, a quiet return to themselves.
When we learn to observe a leaf, a petal, a stem — properly, patiently — something begins to change. We slow down. We breathe differently. Our mind settles. We start to notice beauty again, not in a rushed or superficial way, but in detail. In truth.
And that is where the real learning begins.
I have always believed that creativity is not a talent you either have or you don’t. It is something you grow. It deepens through curiosity, repetition, and kindness towards yourself — the very foundations of a growth mindset and lifelong learning.
My own life has been shaped by those principles.
I was born into a generation that inherited the best intentions of post-war Britain — education, opportunity, and community. We were given strong foundations, and we were taught that learning was not only for the young, but for life.
Proud of my Cornish ancestry, I came to live and work here in the early 1970s. With a degree in English Literature, a horse, and an ever-growing collection of animals and children, I began what I now recognise as my Cornish life. The beauty of this place inspired me then — to write, to paint, to observe — and it still does.
Working in a rural school, I was confronted by levels of poverty and deprivation that shocked me. It became immediately clear that children in distress cannot learn. When we are anxious, frightened, or overwhelmed — stuck in fight or flight — growth becomes almost impossible. Learning requires safety, trust, and care.
That understanding shaped my entire career.
I dedicated my working life to helping people learn and thrive, not by pushing them harder, but by creating the conditions where progress could happen: patience, encouragement, and a belief that capability is something we develop, not something we are simply born with.
In retirement, I have returned to what has always restored me — nature, creativity, and the quiet healing found in paying attention. Botanical art brings all three together. It is grounding, calming, and deeply satisfying. And best of all, it is accessible. You do not have to be “an artist” to begin — you simply have to be willing to look closely.
If you are seeking a place to recentre, to refocus, to learn gently and without pressure, I would love to welcome you.
Come and spend time in my Cornish world.
Let the sea air and the seasons slow you down.
Learn the foundations of botanical drawing and painting in a way that builds confidence, skill, and calm — one step at a time.
Whether you are returning to creativity after many years, or beginning for the first time, this is your invitation to start again — with support, warmth, and no expectation of perfection.
If you feel ready to step into a slower rhythm and make space for your own growth, message me to reserve a place on the next Wild & Moor Creative Retreat.

14/01/2026

Why Botanical art? Because in learning to truly observe a living thing, we learn how to be still again.

Botanical art is not simply flower painting.
It is an attempt to capture the essence of a living organism in its truest, natural form.
It is science — plus something more.
A photograph can record accuracy. It can capture structure, colour, and form. But it cannot fully hold the beauty, the character, or the quiet individuality of a plant. That is where the artistry lives — in careful observation, accurate drawing, and the thoughtful use of colour, light, and shade.
These are skills that can be learned.
That is one of the great joys of botanical art — it is real, grounded, and accessible.
At its heart, botanical art is also a mindful practice. It asks us to slow down, to notice every detail of something living and beautiful. In doing so, we become present. Being immersed in nature — often described as forest bathing or green healing — is known to calm the nervous system, restore focus, and support emotional wellbeing. Botanical art gently brings that experience indoors, allowing us to reconnect with nature even in stillness.
Historically, botanical art was essential. The earliest explorers and plant hunters had no cameras. Specimens could not always be preserved, so discoveries were recorded through drawing and painting. Botanical drawings made during Charles Darwin’s travels are still held in the Bodleian Library in Oxford. Today, King Charles III continues this tradition, commissioning botanical artists to document species while they still exist, aware of the fragility of our natural world.
Painting botanically is an ancient and respected skill — and it is still alive.
If you can observe and respect a flower, a leaf, or a tree, you can do it too.
I was fortunate to meet Mally Francis at a local spring flower show, where she was exhibiting her work. She invited me to join her classes, and the rest is history. Much of what I teach is inspired by Mally, who sadly passed away some years ago. Her legacy lives on through her work and through those she taught. She was a master, a mentor, and a friend — and I hope, in my own small way, to honour that legacy.

Rosemarius officinalis, by me, 2014

06/01/2026

As the Year of the Snake slithers away, I welcome the Year of the Horse — my spirit animal — a symbol of strength, compassion, and empathy.
2025 tested me in ways I never expected: my beliefs, my standards, my relationships, even my sense of mortality.

One thing has become undeniably clear — we only come this way once.
Life is precious beyond belief, and the only thing that truly endures is love. To love and be loved must be our endeavour.

An easy first step — and one I invite you to take with me — is to learn to love nature.

Through the eyes of an artist, we can slow down and notice the detail of the turning seasons. We can relearn gratitude for what is gifted to us every day. As we step into the challenges of 2026, I know I must open myself to the new and the unknown, and welcome the change I am inviting.

This is not just a place to be creative.
It is a place to recuperate from life’s hardships.
To rest.
To restore.
To remember how to be still.

I have travelled widely and seen some truly beautiful places in the world. But for me, Cornwall has it all — and this corner of the county in particular feels magical.

The ancients knew it. They understood the inexplicable energy of the ley lines that run through my cottage, the village, and the nearby stone circles. The power of the coastal waves. The ancient, steady presence of the tors.

These energies are quiet but powerful — and they sustain me every single day.

07/12/2025

07/12/2025

Some pics of the accommodation, your private lounge and en-suite.