The forecast today was for gusty south-westerlies, strengthening and then bringing rain. These winds drag Antarctic cold onto the exposed places of the East Coast. I dug out my stepson's jacket, packed the thermos, and headed out to Sponge Bay. 

As usual, turning onto the Sponge Bay road invited a shift into mindfulness. No paradise ducks on the blue container. I always look for them now. Black and white cows grazing the hills, the crooked winding of a fence-line, and the grey sky ahead. Just before I turned the car into the carpark I noticed a group of magpies, seven of them, spread out but within a few square metres of each other. I can't remember seeing them in such a group before - one or two, certainly, but never a group.

My friend was there ahead of me, the hatchback of her car open, her heavy oilskin coat on already, pulling on her warm hat. We agreed it was freezing. We walked over to the side of the bay looking back towards Gisborne. As we stepped onto the grass I noticed a male paradise duck, sitting very still, a few metres away. It looked as if it had been carved out of wood and painted, a decoy rather than the real thing.

It's rare, in my experience, to see a paradise duck on its own. They are usually in pairs - male and female - or in very large flocks. We tried to skirt around it so as not to disturb it, but it stood up fairly quickly. Its right leg was damaged. A ball of sadness turned over in my body. Was this why it was alone? We kept on walking. It settled back down on the grass.

Despite the greyness over the bay, there were flickers of sunlight on the hills that form the sides of the basin surrounding Gisborne city. Tuamotu Island looked dark.

I decided to sit in the car to sketch. It was just too cold to sit outside. As you can see from the photograph above, Mahia Peninsula was not visible, nor was the continuation of hills that can usually be seen meeting the sea along the coast south of Young Nick's Head. We were expecting rain any minute.

As I walked back, the duck lifted itself into the sky, its hurt leg dangling beneath it. 

South-westerlies always bring rain. Ahead of the rain, the sky was heavily overcast. There were no shadows on the Sponge Bay headland. The contrast between sky, headland and sea was reduced to a narrow range of tones. I did three thumbnails - the first the geometric shapes, the second to play with the composition and the third to explore the tones.

The dotted lines show the thumbnail divided into a 'rule of thirds' grid. This grid can be used to guide the distribution of objects along its lines. For example, in the photograph above, I have placed the horizon on the lower horizontal line, and in the sketch below, I have done the same. The intersections can be used to place points of interest. In the photograph I have placed Tuamotu Island on the intersection, and in the sketch, the end of the headland on the same intersection. I think our brains look for patterns. If we place the horizon line halfway up the page, then our brain cuts the scene in two. This is not a restful thing to look at. The shapes interact with the frame which encloses them.

I wanted this sketch to be about the sky which was constantly changing in the high wind. The light on the sea was also constantly changing, with lines of brightness shooting across it.

When my friend sat in my car to have her cuppa with me, she suggested we drive a little further north of Sponge Bay for our next sketching trip, just for a change. So for now, we say goodbye to Sponge Bay.

Just before I turned into the road that goes down to Sponge Bay this morning, I was thinking about the Mindfulness Workshop I went to last Friday. The workshop was run by Tim Mapel from Hawkes Bay. Mindfulness is the practice of being in the moment, rather than thinking about things that have happened in the past or imagining things that might happen in the future. I realised that when I am sketching or painting, I am in the moment for the most part - totally focused on the work at hand. There is something refreshing about doing this - something restful. 

The moment I turned the corner onto Sponge Bay Road, I felt my attention start to focus on what I was seeing. I looked to see if the paradise ducks were sitting on the blue container, but they weren't there. There were large flocks of little chaffinches swirling over the road a few weeks back, but there were only magpies on the road today. They each flew off just at the moment my car would have run them over.

The wind was very strong - a westerly, tending north-westerly. I knew I wouldn't be sitting out on my deckchair to sketch. I took the camera and climbed up the hill behind the carpark to take some pictures.  I had to hang onto the tussock grass at one stage as the wind gusts threatened to lift me off the hill. This photo shows the carpark and the bay. 

I sat in the car to sketch. Because the year is turning towards summer, the light on the tops of the headland in the distance are just touched with sunlight. It will be interesting to see the difference in the light on this headland as the longest day (21st December) comes around. 

I started with thumbnails - the first two to play with composition, and the last the tones:

Unlike last week, I worked my own way - outlining the sketch (this time on brown Canson Mi Tientes) with a neutral raw umber colour. I began with the clouds and sky, then sketched in the headland, and finally the sea. I wish I could sketch with my sunglasses on as they are slightly orange tinted, and polaroid - the colours are so much more intense when I look through them. But they distort the colours of the pastel sticks, so I would have to put them on and take them off a hundred times. 

Here's the finished sketch:

On the way home, I stopped at my friend John Darkin's for a cuppa and a look at his blog. I love his writing - he writes for the Guardian Weekly, and also for our local paper, the Gisborne Herald. He's funny, and very clever. 

Before I went out to Sponge Bay this morning, I was reading an article in The Pastel Journal written by Richard McKinley about plein air painting - a field guide. He suggested doing three thumbnails before beginning sketching - the first a composition, the second an exploration of tones, and the third a notan sketch. I hadn't tried a notan sketch before, so thought I might do this. Notan is a Japanese word which means "value as design". A notan sketch is done in black and white only which helps you see your composition as an abstract. Tones lighter than the mid-point are left white, and tones darker done in black.
Here is a photo of the bay this morning, looking towards Tuamotu Island and beyond it Young Nick's Head:

I decided to bring my focus in to the bottom of the near cliff and try to capture the waves. Here are the thumbnails I did this morning. I didn't have a black pencil, so used dark blue for the notan thumbnail.

Richard McKinley also suggested beginning the sketch itself with blocks of broad colours which you smear into the page. This forms an underpainting. The idea is to then add details and highlights. I tried this, but didn't like it very much - for one thing the underpainting covered the paper, and I like to leave some showing. It was also a bit messy! I had pastel all over my hands. It didn't matter, of course, because it was such a joy just being there.

There was a strong north-westerly wind making flying icing-sugar of the foam of the breakers.

My friend and I sat and had our hot drinks together, warming up in the car, out of the wind. We watched the shadows of the clouds race across the bay. She said to me "how on earth are we supposed to capture that?!"