Magic is in the air. Ogres prowl. The Witch is feeling an itch. Cupid is with the Armorer practicing with her bow. The Captain has lost his horse. The Goatherd has lost his shirt.
The camera - wielded with precision and art by the exceptional Simon Vickery - is rolling.
Often it rains. Sometimes it hails. The sun shines, the trees sigh, and the wind blows sharp. We win some days, and we lose some. Trucks clog the road. There are divers in the lake. The Sheep bleats, bewildered at the show. We laugh and gnash our teeth. Cauldrons of tea disappear past shivering lips.
A thousand frames a second burn through the lens and re-ignite a familiar flame in an uncountable host of hearts. We plunge into a never ending dream. We are young again, for an instant, and the beauty of it steals the fresh Scots air from our lungs.
The story breaks through the wintry pall like a tender bud on the Witch’s bower. A sweet and wild song dances on the wind and we twirl and twirl and twirl trying to catch it our ears so we can sing it one day to the world. We play. We toil. We break for sandwiches, and marvel at the secret life of puppets. We ponder the mysterious nature of Star light.