Bokelskere.no

The day is a bright, bold one. The trees are stirring the air with their branches and ragged white clouds are racing each other across the sky. The sun is blasting everything with color: greens ranging from emerald to sage to lime; even the old brown shreds of bracken are rich with auburn and burnished copper. As I watch from the window the landscape becomes wilder and hillier and sheepier. I feel that simultaneously I am becoming Dannier. And I realize that Exmoor is more than my home. Much more. Exmoor, in a way, is me. It is where I can do my harpmaking and where I can be my absolute self, and those two things are very bound up in each other.