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The Brecon Beacons National Park

As a child I was once commended for an essay based on Greek Mythology I’d written in green ink for a school competition. I was called to the Headmaster’s office and given a gold star and a vote of encouragement from the kindly Mr Thomas. As I was more interested…


The ghost of a memory

Photo courtesy Nikhil Mitra, Unsplash

What kind of memory is that? my mind says to me as I try to remember a long-ago camping trip. The memory, the one about pissing on the Boy Scouts’ fire, has been conflated with an earlier time when I’d gone fishing over the mountain…


That which we cannot see.

“That which we cannot see”. Multiple self portrait. Oil on gessoed linen. © Simon Goss MA 2019

I recently painted a self portrait for my wife’s birthday. While considering the composition and clumsily trying to set up a pair of mirrors in my studio, it occurred to me that I am more than a little unfamiliar with the back of my head…


A brush with reality.

Marsh Road, Llanrhydian, Gower, Wales.

In the past year I have begun to paint landscapes, “au plein air”. I have never been a huge fan of the genre, in part perhaps, because I grew up in a beautiful part of the world, surrounded by a constantly changing landscape of drama and beauty. I therefore didn’t…


His grandfather swore by them. His grandmother would boil a brace of them in a large, scratched and battered, stainless steel saucepan for hours to render down the gelatinous feet and release the tender, melting meat. She served them with white cabbage to make as colourless and unappetising a meal…


We all have to cut the lawn (if we have one, obviously). I take a fair bit of pride in mine, feeding and weeding it in the spring and cutting it regularly from then on into late autumn. …


In a dreamlike state, I imagine myself falling through time and space, tumbling down from way up in the stratosphere. Earth rises up fast to meet me as I drop, and the period I’m falling into is revealed as I get closer. The sky is relatively clear with just the…


It was a nagging, wheedling cry. Insistent and needy, reaching down from the little blue boxroom, magnified by the hallway and into the living room where she sat, quietly knitting.

The sound gnawed at a part of her mind that was struggling to resist. And she was having such horrible…

Simon Goss

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