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Look at the bark of a redwood, and you see moss. If you peer beneath the bits and pieces of the moss, you'll see toads, small insects, a whole host of life that prospers in that miniature environment. A lumberman will look at a forest and see so many board feet of lumber. I see a living city.
I'm part wood nymph. I require mountains and warm, dense patches of moss to thrive.
There's something about the Pacific Northwest, the scale of it, and the fact that not so long ago people came here and died getting here, and then died the first winter they were here. There's this breathtaking beauty, just a little bit of moss on the tree, just this little thread of danger, and the sinister. And I really like that.
I love The Inn at Palmetto Bluff, an Auberge Property in Bluffton, South Carolina. It's a spectacular corner of the world, with massive old trees lined with Spanish moss, and alligators swimming in the river.
Savannah is amazing with the town squares and the hanging moss and the French Colonial houses. It's brutally romantic.
My parents, Mary Agnes Smith and Rowland Smith, both had to work since their early teens, she in the holiday boarding house of her mother and he in his father's market garden in Marton Moss, a village on the south side of Blackpool, just north of Saint Anne's-on-Sea.
There is only going to be one Kate Moss. Kate is an icon.
If I had been around when Rubens was painting, I would have been revered as a fabulous model. Kate Moss? Well, she would have been the paintbrush.
I'm a big fan of Kate Moss's style - no-one nails boho meets hippy chic like she does.
Whether I sound like Sammy or not is purely coincidence. You have got to hand it to him, he sings his ass off. There is no moss on that stone.