Leaves crackle under foot, and beams of light stream down from the canopy above as we amble towards another one of his favourite spots. Mud squelches and sighs, birdsong ribbons with the breeze, (Titanium) white clouds glance off the creek. We veer off track, and weave our way through the brush. Crouching, he comes to a halt in front of some bramble and I pull up beside him.
Gently, he places one hand on my shoulder and carefully peels the branches apart with the other. “Shoot, would you look at that rascal.” he says, as Peapod the Squirrel’s head pokes out from his shirt pocket. “That happy little mountain over there.”
Whenever I stick on Bob Ross, it feels like I’ve scraped the mud off my boots, hung up my coat and stepped into his quaint log cabin nestled in the woods. We’re going to relax and paint what we’ve just seen, perhaps have a glass of red and some stew afterwards. No matter who you are, what your situation, he’s just happy to share your company and it’s this, I think, which makes him special.
