You can pre-order it here!

Writing a book had been one of those goals that was always at the back of my mind. Something I might do. Maybe. Eventually. Still, it felt somewhat unattainable. But then inspiration struck, and I found myself plotting, researching, planning, writing and painting.

I got the idea to write Rocks in late 2023, when I was a few months into my Master’s degree in outdoor environmental education. I’d learnt about other ways to think about the Earth than from a scientific point of view. It gave me the words I needed to describe how I experienced the world. The seed for the book was sown. I knew that I wanted to create something that had:

• tips on how to recognise and identify rocks, and the stories they tell about the Earth

• a more gentle and mindful approach to rock spotting

• a section on our dependance and relationship with rocks

• illustrations

It became clear that it was going to be a guide to rocks. I have always loved encyclopedias and source books that I could learn from in small doses. Dipping in and out as and when I wanted and needed. There is also something nostalgic about them in the digital age. Printed guides encourage us to slow down, take the time to really look and research instead of getting a quick answer from the web. I was also inspired by James Sowerby’s British and Exotic Mineralogy, one of the first fully illustrated guides to rocks and minerals that was published in several volumes between 1802 and 1817. I first saw this book in 2020 while volunteering at the National Museum in Prague. It completely captivated me. In fact, it was one of the reasons I started illustrating rocks in the first place, so paying homage to it through my book felt like a full-circle moment.

As the name suggests, this is a book about rocks. If you open any geology-themed guide book, the majority of the pages is usually taken up by minerals; rocks occupy maybe a third of the book (if you’re lucky). But in real life, we are more likely to come across rocks than perfectly-formed mineral specimens (unless you are in a museum, of course). Dedicating the whole book to them would allow me to go into more detail and introduce you to the Earth stories they tell. I wanted to create something that would be equally at home in the field and on a coffee table – something that even those with little interest in geology might be inclined to pick up and admire: equal parts informative and beautifully designed.

The process

As a book, Rocks is rooted in research and the love of knowledge. When I had the basic idea in my head, I went back to my undergrad lecture notes and textbooks. I pored over them for days, looking for and noting down any interesting bits of information I could find. I do like structure in my work, though, so I also made several spreadsheets to track all the rocks I wanted to include, if I had them in my collection to paint from, or if I needed to find references somewhere else.

At this point, it was still more of a side project, or a challenge. I didn’t know if it would flourish into an actual book. But even if it didn’t, I could use it for my own personal reference. I slowly started writing the rock entries – there was a quiet period in my Master’s during the first months of 2024, so it became a way for me to keep academically (and creatively) busy.

A few months later, I emerged with a somewhat finished manuscript and started thinking about actually publishing it. That meant more research. How do I even publish a book? Which publisher could want it? How do I contact them? Normally, you need a literary agent who pitches your book to publishers, so I reached out to a few. When that didn’t lead anywhere, I decided to send my proposal directly to a publisher who accepted unsolicited submissions. I got a positive response in 30 minutes(!) and suddenly my book idea was getting pitched by my lovely commissioning editor to the publishing team. It took several weeks to get everything in place. I got the confirmation when I was up in Assynt in the northwest Highlands of Scotland doing fieldwork for my dissertation. I spent the whole day without mobile signal and only received the email when I went up a hill in the evening. The sun was setting over Loch Assynt. The pinkish, quartz-rich sandstone (Basal Quartzite; it formed on a beach some 520 million years ago) glistened in the last light of the day. I looked at my phone to check the time. And there it was: an official offer letter to publish the book. It felt right to receive it there and then. I collected a piece of the sandstone and used it as a reference for one of the illustrations (it is on page 80 if you’re interested).

The following months were spent finishing my dissertation (which would go on to influence the book in so many ways) and painting over 200 illustrations. I don’t think I’d ever been so consistent in my illustration practice. I was working towards a deadline, so I knew that I had to paint a rock (or more) every day to make sure I finished them on time. I learnt so much in the process. If you knew the order the rocks were painted in (which is not the order they are in the book), you’d definitely see how much more confident I got with using paint.

After submitting everything in early 2025, it was time for copywriting, editing, designing, more editing and proofreading. Out the other end came a book that is a much better version of itself. The fact that it is now an actual physical object still feels surreal to me.

I wrote this book for those who like rocks but also for those who feel indifferent to them – I hope that it can inspire everyone to pay more attention to the lithic world.

You can pre-order it now from all the usual places – or tell your local independent bookshop that you’d like them to order it for you! I also have signed copies on my website.

Orange Peel Fungus (Aleuria aurantia)

The common name of this fungus comes from their resemblance to (surprise) orange peels! It is easily identifiable by the bright ornage colour, with a whitish, fuzzy underside. They often grow in clusters, like the ones I saw.

Green or Turquoise Elf Cup / Blue Stain (genus Chlorociboria)

I love spotting this fungus, though I have never actually seen their fruiting bodies (which do indeed look like little cups that elves could drink from). They can be found on bits of dead wood; their mycelium colours it a brilliant turquoise green colour (hence the common name Blue Stain). There are two main species in the UK (Turquoise Elf Cup and Green Elf Cup) but they can be only told apart by their spores.

The Streak (Chesias legatella)

This buff or grey-coloured moth has a distinct white streak running down their forewings, which is the origin of their common name. The caterpillars feed on broom and the adults fly from September to October. This one was fighting a spider!

Cowberry (Vaccinium vitis-idaea)

Also known as lingonberry, cowberry is one of the common Vaccinium plants of our upland areas (the other is blaeberry - Vaccinium myrtillus). They can be easily distinguished by their small, glossy, oval leaves and bright red berries. Cowberry spreads through rhizomes, and often forms dense clumps or hummocks atop acidic soils.

Ruby Tiger (Phragmatobia fuliginosa)

Ruby Tiger moths are common on heathlands. The caterpillars feed vigorously in autumn before they pupate hidden in leaf litter to emerge as adults the following year. The adult moths are easily identifiable by their deep brown to red colour; the hairs of the older caterpillars are similarly coloured.

Crimped Gill (Plicatura crispa)

Another wood-rotting fungus species that grows in clusters on fallen branches or dead stumps. The Crimped Gill’s underside is made of distict gill-like wrinkles (they aren’t actually true gills). The upper side has a velvety feel and is brownish in colour, with white edges.

What have you spotted this week?

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Can you have a crush on a colour?

Over time, I slowly added new colours to my palette. Ultramarine. Naples yellow deep. Burnt umber. Cobalt turquoise. Burnt sienna. Suddenly, the (colour) world was my oyster. I started experimenting more and discovering new hues. I learnt about colour theory and became obsessed with colour (an obsession that still hasn’t left me). One day (I think I was browsing a list of colours on Wikipedia – as you do), I stumbled upon the name Payne’s grey. I was intrigued. Who is Payne? Why does this grey belong to them? I went down a rabbit hole and discovered one of my favourite colours in the process.

Payne’s grey is not a pigment of its own. It is a mixture of two (sometimes more) other pigments that create a deep blue-grey hue, often used as an alternative to black. It bears the name of William Payne, an 18th to 19th-century English painter and watercolour tutor. He used it extensively in his landscape paintings to create a sense of depth: pure hues in the foreground and tinted with white in the background to add a sense of distance. Payne likely created it by mixing yellow ochre, crimson lake (like Alizarin crimson) and Prussian blue (or maybe indigo). Other ways to create it included combining lamp black with ultramarine (and sometimes crimson red), or ultramarine with burnt sienna. Today, many paint manufacturers offer pre-mixed tubes of Payne’s grey, and it’s part of coloured pencil and pastel ranges, too. But given the numerous ways it can be mixed, no two brands will be exactly the same.

It’s safe to say I fell in love with Payne’s grey the moment I learnt about it. It has become a staple in my illustrations. One way or another, it always finds a way into my paintings. I have discovered two ways to mix these deep, earthy greys that work for me: perhaps the more traditional ultramarine + burnt sienna, and then ultramarine + burnt umber. The scientific part of my brain loves mixing it. It’s like an experiment where adding too much of one pigment will give the final mix redder or bluer undertones. Not to mention that it is extremely satisfying to mix my own colours.

How I mix Payne’s grey

Ultramarine + burnt sienna

This mix is perfect for painting Scotland’s cloudy skies (or cloudy skies anywhere in the world, I suppose). It’s almost like the depth of Payne’s grey was made to capture the moodiness and heaviness of clouds. I can’t look at the sky anymore without seeing Payne’s grey. There is always a variety of tints: from the deepest greys to light, almost white streaks travelling across the sky. Some clouds are warmer, while others are on the cooler blue side.

Ultramarine + burnt umber

I found this mix produces a very, very dark grey that can be used as a more exciting substitute for black. There is an inky, almost purple richness to it without being too blue like indigo (or ink blue, but that was too obvious). It quickly became my go-to mix for dark igneous rocks like basalt, dolerite and gabbro. On the other hand, more burnt umber in the mix makes a rich, peaty (or maybe dark chocolate?) brown that draws you in.

When using this mix wet-on-wet, the two pigments often separate from each other, which leads to some mesmerising results:

Is there a colour (mix) that you keep coming back to again and again?

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Elephant hawkmoth (Deilephila elpenor)

The name of this moth is a spotting tip in itself – their caterpillars resemble the trunks of elephants! They are green when young and an earthy brown when they mature, with two eye-like spots on either side just behind the head. You can often find them on rosebay willowherb (aka fireweed), one of their most common foodplants.

The adults, on the other hand, are bright pink and green – but they fly at night, so much more difficult to spot.

Vapourer moth (Orgyia antiqua)

The caterpillars of vapourer moths are very distinct, with four yellow-to-brown tufts on their backs, two tufts of black hairs around their head, and one on the back of their body.

Common striped woodlouse (Philoscia muscorum)

Side note – I am obsessed with this photo. Trying to reach the other leaf? Perfection.

This common woodlouse species has a dark head and a dark stripe running down its back, plus brown and tan splodges. They are also very fast when running away!

July highflyer moth (Hydriomena furcata)

This moth species is surprisingly diverse in terms of their wing patterns, ranging from the mossy green I saw, to pale green, brown and even reddish-grey. As their name suggests, they fly in July and August.

Ichneumonid wasp (superfamily Ichneumonoidea)

This family of wasps are parasites – they often lay their eggs in or on other insects, which the young wasp larvae then use as a ready source of food. They usually have quite elongated abdomens (the ‘bum’ parts of their bodies), and the females have a long(ish) ovipositor to lay their eggs.

What have you spotted this week?

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At the same time, there is something ancient and familiar about it. The name for this tree in so many languages can be traced right back to the Proto-Indo-European root word *bhereg- (white, shiny, bright). Birch in English. Bříza in Czech. Bhūrjá in Sanskrit. Björk in Swedish and Icelandic. Бере́за (beréza) in Ukrainian. Birke in German. Its scientific name, Betula, might also sound similar, but its etymology takes us inside the tree itself. This word comes from the Proto-Indo-European root *gʷétu (resin) and came into Latin via the Proto-Celtic *betuyā. Today, it is also preserved in the Scottish Gaelic beither, Irish beith or Welsh bedw.

We walk through the gate. Leaving the open rolling fields behind, we are suddenly in what appears to be a whole different world. Old beeches tower above us and partially shield the muddy path from bright sunlight. Walking is difficult when I need to stop all the time to look at the plants lining their exposed roots. I mentally catalogue them and take a quick picture so as not to slow Owen down too much. Water avens. Maidenhair spleenwort. Herb robert. Germander speedwell. Common twayblade, sanicle, red campion, ribwort plantain, broom, wood avens, creeping buttercup...

Suddenly, we see a gap in the beeches and a trodden path leading through it. We decide to follow it. As we walk through the trees, my arms brush against the silky-soft beech leaves – they are young and still covered in tiny hairs. Up and up we go on a short, steep slope, wild strawberries in bloom lining our steps. The air is buzzing. We come to the top of the hillock and are immediately swallowed by green. Is this what it feels like for small springtails who live in moss clumps? Do they perceive each mossy stalk as a tree? We walk under the canopy of silver birches into a glade. In the middle of it is a weathered concrete platform, half buried in the dusky grey gravel that blankets the paths up here. I want to think of what used to be here but my head keeps gazing upwards into the trees. I stand still.

Thousands of triangular leaves shimmer in the breeze. Every gust of wind shifts and shuffles them, creating random patterns in the mosaic of green. It's like looking through one of those toy kaleidoscopes I had as a kid. The dappled light dances on my face. I close my eyes and let it consume me. The absence of sight forces me to focus in different ways. My ears become more perceptive. Instead of simply hearing, I listen.

shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhsssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhssssshhhhhhhhhhhhssssssssshhhhhhhhhhsssshhhhhhh

ssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhsssssssssshhhhshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhsssssssssssssshhhhhhhsssssshhhhhhsssssssssssssssssssssssshhhssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhsssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhh

sssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhssshhhh

It is not dissimilar to standing near an ocean and hearing waves crash on the shore. After all, the wind is moving the air in waves, too. They are just invisible. Every time moving air touches a leaf, it is interrupted by the sharply serrated margins of the blade; the leaf shape itself thus dictates what sounds I can hear. So do the speed and direction of the wind, the density of the trees and my position. Today, it is a soft, low-frequency whisper. The leaves make the birches sing, and their song can only be heard right here, right now. It will never be the same. A single fallen leaf will reorganise this arboreal orchestra, as will new growth. I relish in the moment. The English language has quite a few words to describe this rustling noise: sough, susurration, psithurism.

Sough (to make a murmuring, rustling sound) is short. Somewhat accordingly, it is derived from the Old Saxon word swôgan, meaning ‘to move with a rushing sound’. Sough stops abruptly. The word feels rushed.

Susurration is the literary equivalent of a soft, indistinct whisper; it comes from the Latin susurrus (whispering, humming, muttering). Indeed, it is like listening to thousands of voices all around me whispering at once. I can't make out any words, but I know that the trees are talking.

Psithurism, from the ancient Greek ψιθυρίζειν (psithyrízein – to whisper), is most often used to describe the sound of rustling leaves (although in its original meaning, the word doesn't necessarily only refer to trees but any kind of whispering). The word itself is somewhat onomatopoeic. You start completely silent, with the unpronounced p. In its absence, it creates the necessary anticipation as air leaves your mouth in a hissing sssss before gradually building up to the peak of the rapid ithur like the crashing of an invisible air-wave. After such a dramatic crescendo, the word fades and slows in a humming ismmm… All is then silent. Could there be a better way to describe what I was hearing?

I recall earlier in the year. At the beginning of March, Owen and I visited a different birch woodland in the Trossachs. All the trees were bare. Not a rustle to be heard. But in their nakedness, the birches revealed the dark garnet-red of their branches. The whole woodland had the appearance of a rusty sea; the undulations of the hillside were waves. That was the first time I noticed this colour richness. I had seen birch forests before, but I don’t think I’d looked.

I wanted to capture this attention to the seasonal changes in the painting below. A few birch trees stand in the foreground. Distinct shapes. A solid presence. The background shifts with the seasons. I deliberately started with the red bareness of winter because that was the first time I know I really noticed birch. The paper-white trunks stand out against the pale blue sky. The leaves grow in spring; it is a rainy and windy day, perhaps, with not much sun. The greens are cold, dark and mysterious. Summer is based on the susurrating birch forest we went to recently. A total envelopment in green. The background is like a bright mosaic in which everything else gets lost. Finally, we move into autumn and its yellow ochre hues. There are still a few greenish patches, but it won’t be long before the leaves cover the forest floor, ready to rot and return the nutrients that the birches drew from the soil with their deep roots. The cycle can begin again. New leaves grow and fresh birch-song fills the forest.

If you’d like to decorate your house with this Birch Year, I turned the painting into a print!

If you want to know more about any of my observations, leave a comment below!

Chicken of the woods (Laetiporus sulphureus)

Parachute (pinwheel) mushrooms (genus Marasmius)

Sessile oak (Quercus petraea)

Veined bonnet (Delicatula integrella)

Hart's-tongue fern (Asplenium scolopendrium)

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Spotting tips

Chicken of the woods

This is a common wood-rotting fungus that hollows out the heartwood of trees like oak, yew or cherry. It is immediately recognisable by its yellow-orange colour and a soft, fleshy surface with many folds.

Parachute (pinwheel) mushrooms

The Marasmius genus contains lots of fungus species, many of which look very similar. Generally speaking, look for tiny mushrooms that look like parachutes (obvious, I know). They grow on a range of substrates, from rotting leaves to wood and the bark of living trees.

Sessile oak

There are two native oaks in the UK: sessile (Quercus petraea) and English or pedunculate (Quercus robur). The best way to distinguish them is to look at the leaves and acorns:

• the leaves of sessile oaks have longer stalks than those of pedunculate / English oaks

• the acorns of sessile oaks grow directly on the branch – they are stalkless (aka sessile); the acorns of pedunculate / English oaks grow on stalks (these are called peduncles, hence pedunculate)

Veined bonnet

This delicate fungus is another wood-rotting species. Look for tiny translucent, almost ethereal mushrooms growing on dead trees.

Hart's-tongue fern

This is an easy spot: hart’s-tongue fern is the only native UK fern which does not have divided leaves. They love damp forest floors and are an ancient woodland indicator species.

If you want to know more about any of my observations, leave a comment below!

Devilla Forest is one of my favourite places to go near(ish) our house. This visit was rich in moth encounters!

Alder moth (Acronicta alni)

Burnet moth (genus Zygaena)

Probably narrow-bordered five-spot burnet (Zygaena lonicerae) freshly emerged from their cocoon!

Wolf’s milk (Lycogala epidendrum)

Buff footman (Eilema depressa)

Ragged-robin (Lychnis flos-cuculi)

Gold-ribbon argent (Argyresthia brockeella)

Slender St John's-wort (Hypericum pulchrum)

Sawfly larva (subfamily Cimbicinae)

Maybe birch sawfly (Cimbex femoratus)

What have you spotted this week?

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Spotting tips

Alder moth

The older caterpillars are very distinct: dark indigo blue with incomplete yellow stripes and a few club-like hairs. Young caterpillars look like bird droppings!

Burnet moth

There are quite a few burnet moths: all of them black with red spots. One has six spots (the six-spot burnet from my last Nature diary), while the others mostly have five.

In Scotland, the narrow-bordered five-spot burnet and the five-spot burnet are most common. They are tricky to distinguish, and the main differences seem to be on their hindwings (which are often hidden):

• narrow-bordered five-spot burnets have more pointed hindwings with a narrower dark band at their edges (hence the name)

Wolf’s milk

One of the many slime moulds: they are not plants, animals nor fungi, but their own group of organisms. They are also notoriously difficult to identify down to a species. Even Wolf’s milk is not just one species but a complex of species.

Wolf’s milk normally:

• grows on dead wood – hence the specific epithet epidendrum: from Greek epi (upon) + déndron (tree)

• grows as little cushion-like blobs; sometimes alone, sometimes clustered; these are the fruiting bodies (called aethalia)

• soft pink or orange and squishy when young, turns dark grey when old

• immature aethalia produce a bright fluid; it turns into powdery spores when mature

Buff footman

There are a few footman moths (named so because their resting position resembles the coats of Victorian-era footmen servants).

Buff footmen:

• are overall quite pale in colour

• their thorax (the bit behind the head) is ochre yellow (it tends to be grey in the common footman)

Ragged-robin

A common perennial wildflower but declining. It grows in boggy and damp areas and flowers May to August. Ragged-robin can be mistaken for red campion (Silene diocia) whose flowers look similar.

How to identify:

• look for delicate pink flowers: they have five petals divided into four strips. The outermost strips tend to be very narrow

• narrow leaves

Gold-ribbon argent

A tiny micromoth (maybe 5 mm long) with a distinct metallic bronze colour and white spots. They tend to rest with their head down and abdomen (the insect bum) in the air.

Slender St John's-wort

There are actually quite a few St John's-worts (Hypericum species). Slender St John's-wort:

• is more spread out: flowers and leaves less densely packed than other species

• has thin stems with no ridges

• no hairs on leaves or stems

• flowers have little black dots around margins (these are glands)

• leaves have a central ridge

Sawfly larva

Sawfly larvae look a lot like moth and butterfly caterpillars. But they tend to be smooth (without any hairs) and almost silky-looking, and wrinkly. I am no expert, so don’t know the exact species: I saw it on birch, so it could be birch sawfly.

When I left high school, I had a very clear plan for my future: finish my undergraduate degree in geology, get a PhD, go into academia and research rocks until I retire.

The first big change came in the first year of uni: Covid happened just as I was about to start the second semester. Instead of going down to the Lake District to look at rocks, I packed my bags, put my things in storage, and flew back to my childhood home in the Czech Republic.

During my two-week-long compulsory quarantine, I turned back to art. I’d always been creative: at primary school, I used to go to an after-school art club (and also do ballet and theatre). Looking back, it may have come as a surprise to some that I decided to study science. But being back home with not much to do during lockdown allowed me to rediscover this part of myself. I picked up a sketchbook and some coloured pencils. Drawing rocks was a way to keep on top of things, a different way to remember everything I’d been taught in my geology intro classes. A big (and unexpected) part of the few field trips we’d done before everything shut down was field sketching. Observational drawing was one of the most important ways to study and understand rocks. I think that it, somehow, reignited my passion for art. I liked the idea of doing art to be a better scientist.

I returned to Edinburgh in August 2020 and settled into my new flat (which, as it turned out, was just down the road from my university halls). The second year of uni was mostly virtual, so I had plenty of time to dedicate to art. I was still drawing rocks and started sharing them on Instagram, too (under the appropriate name Rocks on Paper). I sold a few prints on Etsy as a side hustle.

About a year later, I decided to draw a volcano for each letter of the alphabet every day. And that’s when things started taking off. Some people wanted a poster of them, so I decided to have 20 printed, not thinking they would really sell.

They sold out overnight. I was flabbergasted. More posters printed, more posters posted. I became a regular at my local post office. The idea of making a living as an artist was sown, though it would take some time before I started taking it more seriously – I was still very much a scientist.

II. Geologist and physical geographer

2021. The third year of my undergrad. I transferred to geology & physical geography to have more freedom in my dissertation. It was a gentle shift, but I think it very much influenced my path. I was still getting ready for my future as a researcher. Deep down, though, there must’ve been a part of me that yearned for the arts. I bought my first few tubes of gouache.

As someone who never enjoyed painting, that was a big step. I had tried lots of art supplies – from fineliners to Posca pens to alcohol markers – but none of them allowed me to draw rocks the way I wanted. It was time to get over my aversion to paints and start from scratch. Using a paintbrush was weird at first. It was all floppy and imprecise. But as I started painting more often, the brush became an extension of my hand. And, crucially, I could mix the exact colour I needed to paint a specific rock. Bingo.

Fast forward to summer 2022 and my dissertation fieldwork on Eyjafjallajökull in Iceland. I was finding evidence of ancient eruptions of lava underneath ice in a place nobody had really mapped before. I totally immersed myself in the volcanic landscape. For a few days, it was my whole world. It was there that the seed of a different career path sprouted.

I was sitting outside the tent one evening, looking at the ice cap and the hills I was studying. I had an idea of how they had formed and what they were made of. But I also started noticing the place as it was then: the plants and fungi that covered the slopes, the birds that nested on the long-cold lava fields. Surely, there was more to knowing the world than just from a strictly geological point of view? How could I specialise in one field when there was so much to know? It was there and then in the red tent, embraced by the green of Eyjafjallajökull, that I knew the future I envisioned for myself was never going to happen. I couldn’t quite put it into words back then. It was a feeling more than a rational thought. Still, I kept holding on to the idea of an academic career for a while. After all, that was what I had been training for, so how could I possibly do something else?

III. Science communicator and educator

In 2023, the investment in gouache started to pay off. I got my first big commission painting minerals for National Museums Scotland. For someone with no proper art background (whatever that is supposed to mean), this was extremely validating. Maybe I could make it as an artist? I started thinking about a career in science communication: my goal then was to use art as a way to teach geology.

I graduated and was going to do a Master’s in science communication, but then another unexpected thing happened. An ad on Google introduced me to the MSc in Outdoor Environmental and Sustainability Education. Maybe that’s where my future was: teaching people about the Earth outdoors using art (I am aware of how extremely niche this is getting). Looking back, I don’t know how I decided on this; there must’ve been something about the degree that sparked my curiosity.

Anyway, I applied, got in and was in for a surprise. The degree was so much more philosophical than I expected. I learnt about concepts like more-than-human nature, kinship and nature connection. A whole new world was introduced to me, a world I never even thought existed when I studied geology. For the first time, I had the words to express how I had felt back on Eyjafjallajökull. I loved it. All these new (to me) ideas started influencing my illustration work.

IV. Illustrator

Everything I’ve learnt contributes to my work. Today, my portfolio is more diverse than ever (it’s not just rocks anymore). I even researched how my science, education and illustration experiences can work together during my MSc dissertation. I have found a way that works for me. Sometimes, I have periods of regret, wishing I’d gone to art school, or studied something else. But then I remember that all my decisions have led me here. As my partner Owen likes to say, everything happens for a reason. And, well, it’s true. I am an illustrator because I was a geologist.

We are often taught that art and science don’t go together. You must choose one or the other. That’s rubbish. These two opposite disciplines have so much in common. They can inspire each other. Embracing them both lets us navigate uncertainty more comfortably, I think. They open up new possibilities.

The defining feature of my career as an illustrator has been that it is not just about art. I work at the intersection of art and science, moving between them and outwith them, finding new connections by not relying on just one source of knowledge. Knowing the Earth and ourselves is better done from multiple points of view.

If you want to know more about any of my observations, leave a comment below!

Harebell (Campanula rotundifolia)

Chimney sweeper (Odezia atrata)

Antler moth (Cerapteryx graminis)

Wild thyme (Thymus praecox)

Small skipper (Cerapteryx graminis)

Six-spot burnet (Zygaena filipendulae)

Spotting tips

Harebell

Harebell looks like a small bluebell (and, in fact, it is often called bluebell in Scotland). The key difference is that harebell has long, thin and trailing stems and just one flower on each stalk, instead of the more typical drooping flowers of bluebells.

Chimney sweeper

A very distinct, day-flying moth. They have very dark brown to black wings with just the tips being white.

Antler moth

Another quite easily recognisable moth: look for the typical antler-shaped markings on their forewings. These moths mainly feed at night, but this one was very active during the day.

Wild thyme

Thyme is a tiny trailing plant. If you notice carpets of purple flowers, look closer for small hairy leaves. Rub them to smell the herby scent of thyme!

Small skipper

There are quite a few skipper butterflies in the UK. The small skipper looks very similar to the Essex skipper (Thymelicus lineola). The best way to distinguish them is to:

• look at their antennae: small skippers have an orange underside of the tips, while the tip undersides of Essex skippers are black

• look at their closed wings: small skippers are buff-coloured, while Essex skippers a bit more orangey

Six-spot burnet

One of our burnet moths: other burnets have only five spots, so if you count six spots per wing, it’s most likely this species.

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It is a rare occasion, I think, when every word you read hits just right. Every choice the author made resonates with you on a deeper level that you can’t really put your finger on. It tickles your brain.

The following books did that for me. They metamorphosed me, if you excuse the geological lingo.

However, if you asked how exactly they changed me, what *the* message that I took away was (or even what the book was about), I would most likely struggle to give you a coherent answer. I know I read them and I know that they taught me things (the many annotations and highlighted sentences can attest to that), but it almost seems like the ideas embedded themselves into my being and skipped the actual learning process. Maybe there was just so much to take in that it all blended into a chaotic alphabet soup. I think it is in part because I picked them up at very specific points in my life. I read Timefulness towards the end of my undergrad degree in geology, when I was deciding that I didn’t want to keep studying rocks. I read Weathering just as I was preparing for my MSc dissertation and finding inspiration for how to approach studying rocks differently. I read The Living Mountain before my first visit to the Cairngorms.

I found meaning in feeling. New mindsets were created because the author’s words connected with me at a much deeper level. Because of this, you won’t find any sort of review or summary for each book in the list below. Nothing I write could simply do the books justice. Instead, I decided to pick a quote that resonated with me – it might resonate with you, too.

So, here they are, in no particular order (also I had a lot of fun illustrating these mini covers):

1. The Living Mountain: A Celebration of the Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland

by Nan Shepherd

(not a book specifically about rocks, but geology plays an important role in it)

2. Weathering: How the earth's deep wisdom can help us endure life's storms

by Ruth Allen

Ruth also writes on Substack

3. Timefulness: How Thinking Like a Geologist Can Help Save the World

by Marcia Bjornerud

4. Underland: A Deep Time Journey

by Robert Macfarlane

5. Footprints: In Search of Future Fossils

by David Farrier

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If you want to know more about any of my observations, leave a comment below!

Common spotted orchid (Dactylorhiza fuchsii)

Tree bumblebee (Bombus hypnorum)

Ringlet (Aphantopus hyperantus)

Nettle clustercup rust fungus (Puccinia urticata)

What nature have you noticed this week? Let me know in the comments!

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How did I identify these?

Common spotted orchid

There are many species of marsh orchids in the UK, though the ones you are most likely to see are the common spotted orchid (Dactylorhiza fuchsii) and the heath spotted orchid (Dactylorhiza maculata). They both have spotted leaves (hence the name) and grow in similar places.

There are two ways to distinguish them:

• common spotted orchid has broader leaves and darker, wider spots

• common spotted orchid has more angular flowers with deeply incised lobes; the lobes of heath spotted orchid are more rounded

Tree bumblebee

The UK has many bumblebees – but this one hasn’t always been here! Tree bumblebees have been naturally spreading from mainland Europe and first made it to the UK around 25 years ago.

These bumblebees are quite distinct:

• about 2 cm long

• hairy, burnt orange thorax (the bit behind the head)

• the abdomen (that’s the “bum”) is mostly black with a white tail

Ringlet

Ringlets are similar to a few other butterfly species like the meadow brown (Maniola jurtina), Scotch argus (Erebia aethiops) and mountain ringlet (Erebia epiphron). They are all browny and small.

How to ID ringlets:

• distinct spots on underwings and forewings, though the number and positions vary between individual butterflies

• the other species usually have some orange on their wings; ringlets can have an orange rim around the rings, but otherwise their wings are mostly completely brown

Nettle clustercup rust fungus

This is quite a common rust fungus that envelops stems and leaves of its host: nettles. It usually causes them to swell and twist. There are many stages in the lifecycle of this fungus: some of them live on nettles, while other live on sedges.

What to look for:

• yellow to red galls on leaves and stems of nettles

• tiny star-like or flower-like cups: these are aecia (singular aecium) or cluster cups, the reproductive structures