Free The Cold Light of Mourning by Elizabeth J. Duncan Page A

timelessness. It had been what it was for centuries, and yet, somehow, depending on the season, the weather and even the time of day, it was constantly renewing itself. She had never tired of it or taken it for granted.
    But if the magnificent, constantly changing views had attracted and held her, it was the welcoming warmth of the Welsh people she had come to love.
    She had been sketching and painting in the area for so long that a few years ago, when her greatest challenge became finding fresh ways to look at familiar scenes, she had started the Stretch and Sketch club and invited other local artists, with varying degrees of expertise and enthusiasm, to join. The members rambled and painted together and turned to one another for support and suggestions.
    “Have you been up to Ffridd Uchaf,” one artist would ask another. “The leaves are phenomenal in the pasture at the moment. You should try to get up there before the rain brings them down.”
    The group invited a guest speaker to join them every other month or so at a breakfast meeting held in the small meeting room of the Red Dragon Hotel. A favourite speaker had been a botanist from nearby Bodnant Gardens who described in great detail the secret lives of plants. Another time, a representative from an artists’ supply company who recognized a target-rich audience when he saw one, had cheerfully driven a few miles out of his way to demonstrate the benefits of his company’s new and improved lines of papers and paints.
    As she trudged along, the day’s crowded thoughts gradually fell away, leaving her mind free to focus on the painting to come and as she entered the woods, with its sun-dappled canopy of leaves, she felt energized and refreshed by the soft squelching of leaves underfoot and the summery sound of birdsong. Before long, she reached a clearing with a view of the river and in the distance, a neighbouring village. She paused for a moment to take in the boundless blue of the sky, embellished with a smattering of fluffy clouds. She unpacked her gear, set up her stool, unfolded her easel, and put up a piece of rough watercolour paper. The afternoon sun slanted down the valley and as the subtleties of light and shadow changed from minute to minute, she gazed at the scenery through her homemade viewfinder. After choosing a small group of grazing sheep as her focal point, she began a quick sketch of the sheep and the trees and hills that surrounded them.
    She enjoyed the feeling that painting outdoors, or en plein air, always brought—that she was where she belonged, doing what she was meant to be doing. She reached down and swirled her sable brush in a little jar of water, and then opened her travelling palette case. She eyed the cobalt blue, and once more looked up at the sky. Within minutes she was lost in her work, the whispering brushstrokes gradually laying down the view in front of her.
    By three-thirty, Emyr, David, and Robbie Llewellyn were dressed and ready to leave for the church. They made their way downstairs and through the house, past Gwennie who stood at the entrance to the kitchen. When they reached the parking lot at the back of the house, they all turned toward David’s BMW.
    “I think we should take the Range Rover, Emyr,” David said, gesturing at the Hall’s utility vehicle. “I’m having a bit of trouble with mine; I think the alternator’s going. We’ll be better off in yours. Don’t want mine giving up the ghost in the middle of the High Street.”
    Emyr and Robbie stopped.
    “Okay, David, but the Rover isn’t as clean as it should have been. There’s a lot of mud and spatter on it. Still, does it matter?”
    “Well, look, Emyr, let’s do it this way. We’ll take the Rover, but I’ll drive.” He motioned to Robbie. “Hop in the back.”
    When everyone was settled, David put the car in gear and they set off down the long driveway on their silent journey to the church.
    A short time later they pulled up in front of St.