Brought forth by the confused and aimless autumnal winds that spent their days lazing about on the soft meadows that grew atop the white cliffs – conceived as the leaves began to turn, bursting into colour before shrivelling into brittle husks of the dry earth; he was an accident, an incidental consequence of inevitability. The three-pounder with a hole in the heart was incubated for two months before being released to a village nestled against the Kent coast. Learning to read by the tender age of nine and stringing full coherent sentences together by the age of ten – he was a prodigious child with haybale hair and linguine legs. Once described by his primary school football coach as “The iron man of the team… (Not Marvel)”, he was the most adept wheelbarrow at the school sports day, as his almost weightless arms effortlessly galloped over the grinning grass.
He spent swathes of his youth ploughing up and down a public swimming pool and getting knocked about by harbour waves in the summer – he likes water but even more he likes dogs, puddles, and trees. These are now the tenants by which he lives his life. He also is rather fond of resonator guitars, melodies, and fine fettled cake; as well as spicy food and drink that tantalises and permeates one’s taste buds.
After bouncing around different countries and various forest types he found his way back to the ancestral grove (Clan Fraser) in the Scottish Highlands where he walked the land to understand the culture of land use and woodland management better. Now he continues to walk and study woodland with his loyal Virginian bear at his side.