I like books;
I like 3D objects that have a smell, weight, a taste, a character;
I like texture and colour;
I like boxes and cupboards; and stories about people who live in houses with stairwalls covered in pictures, attics full of family junk, and sheds full of - well - potential!
I like builders' merchants, hardware stores, garden centres and haberdashers, delicatessans, greengrocers, secondhand book shops, junk shops, pet shops, florists, carpet shops.
I like brick and stone and clay and bark and cotton and wool and leather and terracotta and glazed porcelain.
I like the smells of creosote and apples and ink and basil and geraniums and garlic and juniper and wine and bread and soil and eucalyptus and jasmine and roses and chrysanthemums.
I like to walk by the sea;
and rivers, streams and ponds edged with bullrushes, irises and yellow flag lilies;
in woods with leafmould, acorns and beechnuts under foot;
down scruffy paths between lovingly tended allotments planted with fruit bushes, trellises of peas and beans, orderly rows of onions, potatoes and lettuces, and quirky scarecrows improvised from broomhandles, old clothes, car showroom bunting and CDs.
I like to lie in long grass watching beetles beetling and larks rising;
and to sit against a tree trunk and watch the play of light and shadow on the leaves;
or play hide & seek among ferns that curl green overhead.
I like eating blackberries off the bramble and crab apples off the tree.
I like to climb, and just stand, watching and listening to the space of scrubland and moorland as I get my breath back.
I like air that's cool and damp and still, or dry and still, with that silence that a shout or a bleat only amplifies, or cold and crisp, catching your breath in clouds;
and rain that spits, drizzles, spatters, pours, drenches;
and frost on grass stems,
snow on branches,
wind that ruffles and flicks and catches and shoves and tosses and drives and whispers and whimpers and sighs and spooks and roars like a pagan god.
I like haiku, but I'm no good at them.