Opening Times Today

Opening Times Today

Annual Holiday. Please note we are closed until 16th October.

Any orders will be processed then.

Many thanks

Stop Press...

 rydal from loughrigg-reduced001

Brighton Festival Artists' Open Houses.

We are open at weekends throughout May (11 am - 5 pm) as part of the Art in Ditchling Trail.

Come and see a new exhibition - paintings of Mountains and tuck into some coffee and chocolate brownies!


Recent Publications...

rooks hill cover for website 3.3.18 

Rook's Hill - Ghost Tales from a Hidden World

by Rosemary Pavey

Ten stories of life and death to stir the imagination - intriguing, entertaining and beautifully written, Meet 'The Thing' in The Old Rectory, a lethal adversary at chess, a dying painter and two old bats who run a pets' cemetery...

Listen. Draw up a chair. The wind has a tale to tell and you might be surprised to hear what the wind knows.


166 pp Paperback  6"x9"


Up With the Lark

Posted on




Early mornings, as I have discovered to my cost, are one of the perks ‘life on the land’. Farmers of the old school begin their day at sunrise, summer and winter alike, and Michael, my own farming husband, has the additionally disconcerting habit of waking with a sentence fully formed on his lips. Often I am startled from slumber by his observations, delivered at full-volume:

 “We managed to clear that drain yesterday!” he will bellow cheerfully, without  warning, or launch forth about whatever is on his mind:  “Did you ever write to that woman about the footpath?”

In days of old I would put a pillow over my head and feign unconsciousness, till he lurched out to scythe his thistles, or tend the pig, or put the world to rights with one of his campsite visitors. But these days I have adopted a new approach. I wake before him. I wake just as the first birds are finding their voices and – if you can’t beat them, join them! – set off on my own adventures.

 Half past five finds me booted and bonneted, slurping a mouthful of tea, before setting off with camera and sketchbook to explore another footpath on the Downs. It is just about light enough to tell whether the sky is cloudy or not. I detest weather forecasts. They are the great surprise spoilers of the age and the joy of my new regime lies precisely in not knowing where I am going, or whether I shall get a soaking along the way. Maps are also taboo. I may look up where I have been in retrospect, but this project is all about discovery – and making a new mental map of places I have known on paper all my life.

 I was born in Brighton. Each day, after school, came a long trudge home, along the Hollingbury Ridge, or a buffeting the length of Carden Hill and down Coldean Lane, with the beeches of Stanmer’s Great Wood groaning under winter gales, rain stinging in one’s face, or a bloody sun dipping down into the sea while great flocks of starlings winged coastwards from the hills. Out there, where the road turned off to Ditchling, was what we called ‘the country’ -  our weekend sanctuary – and the then unspoilt villages of the Weald. Little did I imagine that I would one day be lucky enough to live at the end of that road and bury myself amongst those fields and hedges. Ditchling is a place to die for. Everybody says it and I have a passionate, protective love for the landscape here. But something, nevertheless, is missing. It is not till I scale the Beacon and recover the wide skies I knew when I was young that I feel wholly alive

 There are hill people and valley people. And I essentially I belong with the hill folk, a term which, by the way, includes the Neolithic ancestors who made the first tracks at Hollingbury, and the buzzards which hunt along the slopes. Each day I add a little more to my mental map and bring back mementos – photographs, scraps of moss and lichen – twigs, feathers – remembering how Constable would collect samples of soil and vegetation to record the colours he had seen.

 Gradually the idea has evolved of putting these experiences down in a visual form, charting the elements which came together uniquely at that time to form a sense of place. And now I have the bit well and truly between the teeth. My house is filling up with lumps of chalk, dried leaves... an owl’s wing, found in a field... I begin to see how the hills fit together - how the micro-climate of each coombe and ridge dictates a different calendar, so the violets which have finished on one hill flank still bloom on another. And the very anthills have their own ecology. Moss on the shady side – wild thyme on the sunny. How small can one go?

 My exhibition date approaches and the work, proliferating like a fractal edge, gets slower and slower. So – with two paintings in two months – it seems hardly possible to speak of an exhibition. And yet this project goes on yielding surprises and I cannot stop.

 My early mornings have given me a new raison d’etre. And I can vouch for the fact that there are larks in abundance, though they seem to sing only when the sun shines. I hope to share some of the sense of delight I have found in their company and invite you to come back to the studio and see what happens throughout the rest of the year...

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Studio News

dumbrells studio 13

Visit the studio


Unit 13,Turner-Dumbrell Workshops, Ditchling.

Open most Saturday mornings 10.30-1.00 and whenever I am working there. ( mornings and afternoons Tues-Fri)

Please feel free to come and browse without obligation.



view from the top of wastwater screes

A new series of paintings exploring the landscape of Mountains.

Ever suffer from mountain-sickness - the longing to take off into wild and inaccessible places?

300 miles from the nearest peak, Rosemary finds a cure by swapping boots for brushes and takes a walk in paint through the wilderness landscapes of her mind.

Exhibition open throughout weekends in May and at other times when possible. Please see opening times for daily information.


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