Travelling on the Causeway Rambler to Portrush in March feels like stepping into a colder, braver version of the world. The landscape rolls past in muted colours - brown fields, pale sky, cattle standing in groups for warmth.

When I arrived at Portrush, the harbour looked like a sheet of brushed metal. Gulls swooped overhead. A shag perched on a buoy, wings spread wide. 

A woman stopped to chat and told me she takes the Rambler “whenever I need a horizon big enough to straighten my head.” I knew exactly what she meant. 

Children in thick scarves and wool hats shuffled past on the pier. Surfers, unbelievably cheerful in the cold, laughed as they headed for the water. A man with a thermos told me about the storms that had hit the coast the week before. 

I painted quickly; January light doesn’t hang around.
The edges of everything felt sharper - the air, the colours, the conversations. 

On the journey back, the bus window framed cliffs, dunes and flickering golden grass like a rolling art exhibition. Some places wake you up simply by being themselves. 

Knowing the way home was already mapped let me stay present with the light.