Winter solstice is upon us once again here in the northern hemisphere.  It's time for the waning days of the Holly king to dutifully hand over to the waxing Oak, readying the coming of the light.

It's been six months since the blazing summer solstice. Six months since I have been silenced after receiving two of the most incredible birthday gifts.

For as long as I can remember writing music has become a way of reflection. An exploration into how and why I think or feel a certain way. Some songs spill out as if they were already there and I just happened to walk straight into them. Then there are songs that call out to the universe from within. Songs that in that moment must be written and then thrown out into the world from the tangles of the human condition.

Many years ago I sat down with a friend to write a song around the symbolism of a river. He had posed the idea to me after several years studying Buddhist principles. We'd often meet to drink coffee, dive through his extensive Frank Zappa vinyl and talk about his studies. This particular afternoon had been spent ruminating around one simple aspect of his 'no-self' study that he had summed up to me in one sentence.

"A river is always a river, but it is never the same." 

Long before I had felt the warm sand under my feet I called to the fire, before the deep forest sleep and the soothing turquoise waters I had , quite unwittingly, set a prophetic intention and found myself at a bridge.

Home had appeared one day beyond the mangrove, far away from the cold hills and valleys of Derbyshire where I first learned to grow my roots of place. Struck by the soul of a kind new friend and forged by distant hearts, on that day home had become a place not to leave but to carry.

I climbed these gritstone boulders and traced these Parmelia saxatilis lichens for years growing up in the Peak District in Derbyshire. Familiarity grows deep roots when you spend that much time in a place.

It had been eight years since I'd stepped foot on the island of Nusa Lembanogan off the east coast of Bali in Indonesia. A whole life had seemingly passed before me in that time as I ventured out into the dim early morning light.

It's Sunday, I love Sundays... This morning I woke up thinking about writing music and the engagement of listening.

In all the excitement of recording my new album ( announcements to follow soon I promise ) some part of me quietly acknowledged that it has been 10 years since I recorded Hold on to the rhythm....

It was just after the millennium had rolled through and we were all still here. The world hadn't ended, despite the warnings of computer systems malfunctioning worldwide. It would be another 12 years before such paranoia would strike again and for the moment life had returned to normal.

I had been living in Wales for a few years playing with my band Little Gaia. We had trodden the coast road for many months playing bars, surf clubs, and festivals.

"...and I find myself knowing the things that I knew. Which is is all that you can do on this side of the blue.." Joanna Newsom

I have often found myself saying that you rarely learn things just once.  It is not entirely true of course as some things are so profound that they stay with you from the moment you experience them.  It is just such an experience, along with the return of life's usual routines, that drew me to write this blog post. At the very least it serves as a reminder for me to recall the lessons I had learned through this period of my life; lessons and truths that helped me recover from a painful operation and something I'm determined never to forget.

I have always loved music. At least I don’t ever remember feeling any other way about it. Before the awkwardness; before the emotional fire storm of teenage hormones and battles with confidence; before I had even realised there was something to rebel against, I knew music...