My parents

loved me fiercely and fervently with a feast of experiences and creative nurturing. My father was a teacher and a photographer of nature and believer in beauty. He would often head out in the dead of night armed only with his makeshift shelter and trusty camera to take photos of foxes and deer.

By day he snapped birds, butterflies and three of his favourite people; me, my mother and little brother.

I got my own camera at the age of 5. “That's where I learned to observe and watch. I took photographs, drew, painted and wrote all the time. I could escape into the forest and my very own world, where the animals were my friends. I spent so much time with my dog, the rabbits, a tame magpie and a jackdaw. My father had 100 owls… I’m not kidding. I still love drawing flowers, butterflies and birds.”

My mother was a speech therapist and a free spirit. She was my guiding light when it came to travel, treasures and crafts. She took me with her on her travels to far-flung places, exhibitions and cultural activities. I was inspired and hooked. I dried flowers, sewed textiles, made jams and collected keepsakes. I knitted my own pullovers (and by the age of 15 I had filled my wardrobe with 20 self-made items of clothing). The piles of 1950s and '60s magazines in my mother's attic provided another source of raw material.