I’m on my way back to my little nook next to the eco village in Pembrokeshire. It’s my first visit back since the exhibition of 'Where the Red Kite Flies' came and went at The Courtyard in Hereford and I’m feeling a whole mixture of things. 

There is relief, relief that it all came together and went well. There is also that inevitable feeling of deflation. Despite the fact that I have more exhibitions lined up for the series during the year, there is still a sadness that the first one is over, with all the lead up, all the preparations, all the excitement and nerves of showing the work that has been such a huge part of my life for the past two years. 

It’s funny how triggering normal questions , asked in a supportive manner, can be. Before the exhibition it was "How is the project going?" and “How is the preparation for the exhibition going?” triggering stress, panic, a flurry of insecurities about just how well it is going ("Are the photos any good?"). Then it was “How is the exhibition going?” followed by “How did the exhibition go?” I am left with a feeling of not knowing what the right way to answer this should be. Saying "Good" is such an underwhelming and boring reply.

I often feel like other people would be more prepared to answer these types of questions, my responses always sound inadequate. I also have a tendency to point out all the things that didn’t go as planned. This might be a little rebellion against “I’m fine thanks” but I still don’t like it. I think something in me wants to tell the WHOLE truth, my version of what I perceive as the whole truth. So I end up rambling and finish feeling deflated and frustrated with myself and the listener looks a bit confused and doesn't know quite how to respond.  

So, as I’m sat here typing away on my own, I’m going to practise saying how the exhibition went. It went really well (thank you). 

The Courtyard has such a brilliant gallery space, with loads of natural light streaming in. And it's large, vast even, with a white walled gallery room, walls outside the gallery room and another whole open plan space. It felt quite intimidating at first, wondering if my work would fill the walls sufficiently. But it all came together and the 43 photographs lined the walls and made it my largest exhibition to date. There was also a gallery space set aside for the kids' artwork but I think that's for a future post as I have a lot to say about that talented bunch.

Opening night was lovely, with 8 of the 19 'kids' involved in the project being in attendance, some of their parents, as well as friends and photography buddies that had made the journey to Hereford from Liverpool, Cardiff and Colwyn Bay. 

One of my favourite moments comes at the end of the second day of installing the exhibition. It is around 5pm and I am adjusting the hanging plates on the back of my frames so they hang flatter. A small girl, aged around four, starts to take an interest, walking slowly past me on the glass floor that surrounds the gallery walls. I say hi but this is too much too soon and it sends her scuttling off. A minute goes by and she has returned and, after a few more careful and deliberate strolls past me, takes to sitting a couple of feet away from me and watching me.  I work away on the frames for some time while we sat in silence, feeling slightly unnerved to have this small person staring intently at me but also quite touched that I am deemed interesting enough to watch in such a determined way. Soon her six year old sister comes and joins us. We continue to sit in silence at first but as anyone who has had experience of being around young people knows, once the dam brakes... well, six year olds have a lot to say. I am told that they are waiting for their eldest sister who is currently participating in a dance class at the Courtyard. Whilst they wait for her they continue to watch me and talk and I find out quite a bit about their lives. The six year old has a boyfriend and is going to a school dance with him the next day. They start to pass me things, correctly predicting which tool I will need next. They ask about the pictures "Are they yours? Wow" and marvel at this and the fact that I know the people in the photos (who appear famous to them for the fact that they are in photos in frames on a gallery wall.) Both the girls declare the photograph of Matilda and he dog Coco (seen on last month's blog post) as their favourite. The eldest was also very fond of the one of Elfie, above, saying she was very pretty. And then their sister comes out and they instantly disappear. I'm not sure they even said goodbye, this interaction probably feeling a whole lot less remarkable to them than it does to me.

I smile all the way home to Malvern that evening, thinking how great it is to show work in a public venue like the Courtyard, which is not just a gallery but has classes, a theatre and cinema and so much more and how because of this I get to show my work in a space that has such a varied audience. I like this a lot. 

I decided before the exhibition had even begun that I would head to the cabin once it was over for a couple of weeks of proper down time. Also, knowing I'd feel a bit deflated it gave me something to look forward to. 

As I prepare for going away, which involves charging multiple battery power banks for off grid life, filling bottles of water, packing cameras ‘just in case’, I feel a sense that I have done well this time. I start a couple of days before, filling the spare room with backpacks and duffel bags of things. I feel like I’ve been less stress-y than normal. But it appears not. Duncan comes into the kitchen where I am filling yet another bottle of water and says “It’s always really stressful when you’re getting ready to go to Wales”. So much for thinking I’d mastered the process. 

The roof box goes back onto the car and gets filled with tote bags of food, a hedge trimmer (I am determined to make a dent in the brambles taking over my land on this visit), artwork to return to the kids and teens goes into the boot, bottles of water placed strategically behind the front seats because I don’t need yet another bottle of water tilting over and spilling over the car. Looking at the state of my car I think that I really must get it cleaned but after this trip where it will accumulate yet more mud.

The journey is a fairly good one, it’s a four hour drive which I know instinctively having done the journey regularly for over ten years. It’s raining, which isn’t great but all the lambs I spot frolicking in the fields more than make up for it. I’m about 30 minutes away from arriving at my destination when a warning light comes up on my dashboard. Uh oh. Hmmm…what does that one mean? I have seen many a warning light in my time but this one is unfamiliar. There are some squiggly lines and an exclamation. I drive on for a bit as I’m on a busy road and take my turning at a roundabout. And then I hear the noise and know what must be happening and pull over into a little side road. Flat tyre. Bummer. And this is when I discover that Minis don’t have spare tyres in the boot, unlike my previously owned cars. I berate myself for not knowing this, for not having found this out sooner, when it isn’t pouring with rain and I am stuck without a clue what to do. But as luck would have it, within 10 minutes a man named Bob stops and pulls over and offers to help. It turns out to be a very bad puncture, the kind that can’t be temporarily fixed by using that goo that is in my boot where I had expected a tyre to be. In the end Bob spends the next hour and a half with me and we end up going to get a temporary fix, a slightly worn tyre from the local tyre shop as they don’t have new ones in stock. He comes back to the car with me and puts it on for me. All in the pouring rain. I thank him but it doesn’t feel enough. I later text him yet another thank you to which he replies “Hi Amanda, no problem, it’s what we do in Pembrokeshire”. 

During my visit I meet up with David and over lunch (tortilla chips and salsa) we chat about the state of the brambles on my land, not being good at spontaneity and then about my exhibition. Three of the teenagers that were part of my project, David, Cosmo and Elfie came to stay the night following the exhibition opening and talking to David I say how Duncan had said how it was actually much easier than he'd thought it would be to have everyone stay (we're a bit out of practice at having guests). David responds to this saying "I think us Lammas kids grew up knowing how to speak to strangers and new people" and I think how true that feels to me. I remember the time, on an early visit before moving here, that I came across a bunch of them and said hello and they all said very warm and friendly hellos back. Walking away I heard the following: 

"I've not met her before."

"I have."

"I have too!"

"I haven't." 

And I'm not quite sure why but I found this unbelievably charming.