It usually starts with a flicker—a flash of colour in a garden I’m passing, the way morning light hits a windowsill, or a half-remembered dream that lingers into breakfast. Inspiration doesn’t often arrive with a grand announcement. For me, it sneaks in gently, asking to be noticed.

Some days, it’s rooted in nature: the curl of a fern, the bold confidence of a sunflower, or the hush of a misty coastline. Other times, it’s a memory—of childhood holidays, days trips, or conversations with a friend. Little moments, half-glimpsed and deeply felt, that quietly ask to be turned into ink and carved into lino.

I’ve learned to trust these sparks. To gather them like treasures. Because behind every print I make, there’s a story—stitched together from colour, curiosity, and the beautiful, ordinary magic of everyday life.

There’s something quietly magical about carving into Lino. It’s slow, tactile, and wonderfully imperfect. Every gouge is deliberate, every mark a decision you can't undo—and I love that.

I didn’t set out to become a printmaker. But over time, I realised I was craving something more grounded—something that pulled me out of screens and into my senses. Linocut offered that pause. It invited me to work with my hands again, to make a mess, to celebrate process over perfection.

I chose linocut because it gave me space to slow down, to play with colour and form in a way that felt joyful and honest. There’s a kind of magic in peeling back that first print, not knowing exactly what you’ll get. It’s a little like life—messy, surprising, and full of happy accidents.

Now, each print I create tells a story—of a place, a memory, a dream. It’s a way of capturing joy in layers of ink and paper, and sharing a moment of stillness in a fast-moving world.

Lino reduction print has become my favourite way to work over the last few years. When I explain it to people, it blows their mind how I can work this backwards process out as I go but it’s that uncertainty that is part of the appeal for me.

With this piece I really wanted to work more instinctively than I have in the past so I only traced off the sky, trunk outlines and bracken.

Towards the end of 2023, I was working away on a new print and now it’s time to tell you the story of how it came to life.

Tumbling is a celebration of the wild waves of the North Sea. I went to stay in Beadnell and we were greeted with Storm Babet. Some people may see this as a time to hide away and stay cosy but I’m not one of those people. Instead I collected my sketchbook and watercolours and headed out to explore.