Fire glow, stifling hot air. The fire subjugates and the glass submits. In 40 degree heat with a sweat covered brow, the glass blower blows like a pump into the very heart of the glass blob and with a thousand year old method, a glass mug is born!  Soft as dough it submits to the master’s design and with a deft practised flick of

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the tongs, a handle appears like a cute perky nose.

A soul is blown into each clear glass vessel; it comes to life and dances when grandma’s camomile tea pours over it. When you hold the cup, this soul starts to speak. About the rainbow that quenches the heavens after steamy summer rain. About a land where home baked bread has a sweet and sour taste and where folk work with high tech solutions. And about the glass blower who reads books about travelling around the world and dreams of someday doing the same.