In May, Lundy feels alive. Flowers push through cracks in the stone and tumble over the edges of the paths, softening their lines. The valley deepens into green, layered with texture — ferns unfurling, Campion and Vetch forcing their way through the undergrowth.

Millcombe holds birdsong. Chiffchaffs, robins, warblers, goldcrests, and, if you’re lucky, firecrests — their calls threading through the trees.

In May on Lundy, you can easily imagine the valley as it once was. This was when Millcombe belonged to the Heaven family. The paths feel well-worn in a different way, as though they remember daily walks taken long before now.

I follow the smaller paths as they wind through the valley. Along the way, I connect — quietly — with those who have walked here before me. Sheltered from the wind, it feels held. Benches appear unexpectedly, tucked away, inviting you to stop. To sit. Notice how much has changed in just a few months. It goes from the wassail in January to this fullness of May.

Sitting and weaving, the rhythm feels familiar. Threading yarn through warp like walking these paths — slowly, deliberately. Choosing colours as I go: pinks, purples, yellows held within the green.

I hang the finished weave from a piece of driftwood, its surface worn smooth by the sea. In it, the connection between land and water feels complete. The valley and the shoreline meet in one small object.

The valley finds its way into the weave, just as the paths find their way into me.