The ceramic bowl on my kitchen shelf still holds the faint scent of woodsmoke from the kiln in St Ives where I spent three winters learning to centre clay before the wheel would even listen. My father visited once, stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, and said nothing — just nodded at the lopsided mug I'd made him, the one he still uses for his evening tea. I've never told him it was the first thing I ever made that didn't feel like an assignment.