Somewhere between Dawlish and Teignmouth, two towns on the Devon coastline, after being submerged in the blackness of a cliff tunnel, suddenly to the left side of the track appears a marsh land of seaweed and black gulls that fades out into a seemingly infinite stretch of white water. To the right of the train is a wilderness of storm-broken trees and red stone. This perfect moment of sea and land is experienced for no more than 30 seconds, although in memory the ultimate beauty and rhythm of the moment makes it last a few eternities. There is just time enough to catch your breath before the train enters a hole in the cliff and blackness envelopes the carriage once more.

The first time this happened to me was in the February of the year 2000. I was 17 years old. The exact same month the year before, I had left home and family with a fire in my head, in pursuit of communicating my music to the world with a violin in one hand and a suitcase in the other. At some point after this grand departure I had found my songs and voice were not yet confident enough to be publicly announced, so a chaotic band seemed to form around me and my best friend Fanny.

Out of boredom for our surroundings we performed and poked our frustrated, funny fingers at London's then soulless crust. It was fun at the start, turning up at fancy parties and dirty venues with blacked out teeth and a CD of white noise, rolling around on the floor shouting over Gabba beats and Enya samples, laughing at the confused and offended faces. But too often our humour and absurdity was mistaken for arrogance which more than regularly incited violence. At the launch party for some glam rock photo book, our show turned into a full on fight that had us thrown out, battered and bruised on the streets of Mayfair covered in what smelt very grossly unlike water or alcohol.

So then I find myself on a night train travelling down to Devon in pursuit of quiet and a straighter road down which to walk, to look at taking a degree in composition in a little music school in the middle of the forest. Then staring out the window across a new, uncharted landscape, the line between wakefulness and dream vanished. The train journey became the start of a new wealth of stories and melodies. I recall seeing the fog hover spirit-like over the sea, and remember two birds circling silently, shadows against a dark night sky. As ghosts of Thomas Hardy heroines flickered past my window I remember realising how frivolous my battle with the city seemed, and now was time to bring beauty back in season for myself and those who would listen. I dreamt of a then impossible migration to a small cottage on the edge of a cliff, bridling a fleet of birds down to the end of England. I returned home with a new song, 'Teignmouth' that would stay secret until the recording of the second album in a small basement, sat in front of a Grand Piano in the sweaty summer of 2004.

On the journey back from looking at the school I decided the city was where I must return to and communicate tooth and nail with all the bones and organs of my body, to work up the bravery to sing of the joys as well the sorrows. The next few years were spent putting together my first album, 'Lycanthropy', which was released in July of 2003. That record became a collection of the songs from my teenage years, chronicling my various pubescent dramas and disasters. The train journey would not come into apparition until after 'Lycanthropy'. During this long time of pregnancy I would embark on further explorations of the West Country, three more times along that magic train track. Each time filling up my pockets with songs that by the time of the final pilgrimage to Penzance in the Winter of 2003, the songs solidified themselves in a record called 'Wind in the Wires'.

So, this has been the story of the conception of the second album. The third can be shared once the time is come and the work completed, but until 'Wind in the Wires' comes in February, I wish you all a warm hibernation."

-Patrick Wolf