One of my simple pleasures in life is walking along a beach or the bank of a river or stream, strolling or striding out and just relaxing into those moments and leaving life's problems behind for a brief time. I might even step into the water and wade through the shallows.

My eye is often caught by some pebble or stone or shell and by the end of my walk I'll find I have a pocketful.

Choosing those most appealing (often no rhyme or reason at the time except they please me) I bring them home.

What for? ...Well I'm not entirely sure - a reminder of pleasant places or people? The memories of a holiday/day out? To invoke pleasant feelings when I see them on my windowsill?

Pebbles are just stones, lumps of earth's rock shaped by time, water, ice, wind and fire. Ground under ice sheets. Smoothed by ocean waves tumbling them through sand onto the shore and reclaiming them on the retreat over and over and over.

Weathered by wind and rain on a mountain scree; scratching and scoring and sliding haphazardly across and against each other inching slowly down the slope year in, year out.

Over the years I've brought home smooth pebbles, knobbly stones, sharp flints (and occasionally a rock sized pebble) and though I weed them out occasionally - they go outside into the flower border - I've always got a few around in the house. Nice to run my fingers over or pick up and hold in my hands.

Rock is hugely important; here I can find a cave to take shelter in, a level shelf I can spread a blanket on and sit and admire a view and feel the warm sun. Lean on it for support and build my house upon it. Rock is solid and dependable.

Pebble I can pick up and cradle in my hand; reminder of rock from whence it came... gives me comfort.

If I collect enough pebbles I can make a path...

Ach

A Moodscope member.