Chantellion is sitting in front of her loom with her back to the central hearth, where a pile of glowing embers barely give enough light to see. Her woollen cloak covers her long greying hair and is open at the front allowing her bare arms to protrude. Hunched forward uncomfortably on a low, wooden, three-legged stool,she lets her fingers run down the fine threads stretched horizontally in neat, evenly spaced rows across the frame, lingering on each one as if to test it’s quality. At her feet in what seems a haphazard pattern, stand large skeins of coloured rough yarn. Varying in size and hue she has placed each one carefully within reach of her outstretched fingers knowing which to choose even in the gloom. She is alone and sits rocking back and forth to a slow rhythm only she can hear, whilst humming almost imperceptibly a low tune that her own mother taught her. Long gone are the days when Chantellion was considered to have a sweet singing voice and she knows that if she raised her voice she herself would be disappointed at the change wrought by the years of sitting in smoke filled rooms. Memories of her younger self appear in her mind and she smiles, satisfied that with these memories will come others and she will be ready to pick up the threads ready to start weaving her picture stories. This is how her family’s traditional tales are told. Not by word of mouth around the blazing fire in the evening where they may suffer distortion by exaggeration and faded memory. This only leads to arguments and ill feeling. Through her loom the tales she tells in woven pictures can be read by all and know the truth. This is her task, as chronicler, entrusted to her, like her mother and grandmother before and soon will be entrusted to her own daughter for that is their way.