Meanderings around Wold Newton

From the Village Hall in Wold Newton I usually take the footpath up to the Church, it has the advantage of avoiding walking on the road, you'd be mistaken though, if you imagined that to be the sole reason. Skirting around the edge of a small cottage garden, the gravel path passes through a weary, wooden gate of undetermined age, few remaining if any, can recall a time when it was new. It gives on to a, seemingly out of place, narrow strip of tarmac, less than two feet wide that gently rises across a rolling grassy paddock dotted with sprawling Chestnut trees. Thick boughs droop inverse graceful arcs to within a few feet of the ground, ideal climbing trees, made for the adventurous imagination of small boys and girls unafraid of rough and tumble. A long Nylon rope thrown over a high limb suspends an old car tyre above the ground, still my favourite kind of swing, although I've always preferred a short stout log to a tyre. The hard edges of the tarmac path have been lost, overgrown and softened by the grass as nature, unrelenting, reclaims her own. At its end is a pretty Lych gate, it's attractiveness dramatised by it's elevated position. Unruly Hawthorn hedges extend to each side, screening the Church that lies beyond. A low chain, stretched across the portal, easily stepped over, protects the gate from the  boredom of Horses. Passing beneath the roof, the Churchyard and All Hallows Church are revealed. Small and compact, it is pretty with a rounded Nave that presents itself first to the observer, built on a hillside the ground falls away before it, the rest of the church reclining in a small hollow, the Centuries old graveyard wrapping itself around the back like a plump pillow. Reminded of a small ship from this aspect, the rounded bow endlessly ploughs through a static wave. At the furthest end an unusual, short round bell tower with a squat round roof barely manages to peep above the main roof. This Churchyard haven is maintained to an almost perfect combination of trimmed grass and just the right amount of neglect. Gravestones of various shapes and sizes, some ornate and others simple with inscriptions rain worn to illegibility, lean at crooked angles amongst tangles of nettles and briars. Bright splashes of bouquet colour catch the eye, symbolising homage and special memories of loved ones passed. Some days a raucous choir of Rooks accompany visitors from the tall stand of conifers at the back of the Churchyard, restless sentinels keeping a watchful vigil. It is a peaceful oasis of tranquility well worth a half hour of anybodies time, on a sunny day take sandwiches and a flask and lose yourself in its unhurried calm.
Today, though, I walked along the road to admire the houses I usually miss by walking through the Churchyard. The sun was shining brightly and warmly, cotton wool clouds drifted lazily across a wide Blue sky. Within a few yards I came to a junction, the road joining from the right by which I had arrived a few minutes earlier. A spreading Sycamore grows on the near corner, large but not yet fully mature, beneath it's shady canopy a low metal fence encloses a tall, elegant cross, unusually slender being made of stone, it stands raised on a small Dias. Although I have driven past it a number of times I have not noticed it before, being obscured by the shade and my being more concerned with watching for traffic. I paused for a moment to admire it, amused at only now discovering it, the stone Dias was mostly hidden beneath a damp and slowly decomposing mound of fallen leaves its inscription unreadable.  A Range Rover approached, I recognised it as one that had followed me into the village, passing me slowly as I pulled off the road to park, it had then passed me again, a few minutes later, going the other way as I was putting my Boots on. Now it slowed as it drew close, new and very shiny its paint glittered in the sunlight, it made almost no noise but a low hum accompanying the steady electric progress of the passenger window as it descended. Stopping alongside a softly round lady wearing a cool white blouse had a warm face and pleasant smile, politely she enquired if I knew the whereabouts of the Church.
 I smiled "Indeed I do"
Having set them on the right course I continued, aware of and slightly surprised by the faint but none the less discernible warmth I felt, the satisfaction that occurs being able to assist somebody even in a small and simple way; that and the sunshine, Blue sky, warm wind and the promise of the walk stretched before me.
The road turns sharply to the left skirting the boundary of a large modern farm yard, ignoring the turn the footpath goes straight ahead dodging around a metal tube that bars the entrance to the field beyond. In the cold, wet, winter months this part of the path is gaunt and unappealing, a straggling Hawthorn bush to the left stands guard with unconcealed, spiky unfriendliness, slippery mud sucks at the feet as the path crosses the ploughed field, walking is difficult, feet skate about on the slick surface and the clinging mud adheres to boots, layer upon layer, until they are huge, heavy, hard to control "Clodhoppers". Now, in July, Summer has transformed it into a verdant invitation, bounded by rich green Hogweed, the creamy flowers replaced by russet seed heads, and Nettles in abundance amongst Docks and waving long grasses. This wild confusion of headland plants is soon replaced by the monoculture of Wheat, the monotony is none the less pleasing, there is a reassuring comfort in the uniformity, in the huge blocks of symmetry, the muted softening of the landscape and the wide swathes of colour. The hard scratchy heads, fully formed and changing to the rich Gold of ripeness stood stiff and erect on stalks still green. The path as though daunted by the wide exposure of the fields expansive centre veered suddenly to the right skirting an abandoned Chalk quarry as it climbed a small hill. Despite being an unusual building material, owing to its softness and lack of durability, there are one or two houses in the village built, at least in part, of Chalk, perhaps this was the origin of the stone. It is now used as a dumping ground for rubble, rotting timber and organic farm waste. It is bounded by an impenetrable knot of Purple flowered Thistles, a rambling plant with delicate soft green leaves and bright yellow flowers weaves itself with impunity amongst the vicious spines. Wild Honey Bees, Hover flies and a host of Butterflies, attracted to the blooms swarm busily beneath the high hot sun. The edge of the path is a tangled mat of trampled corn stalks, a safe haven for a Fieldmouse that disappeared amongst the stems after scurrying recklessly across the path in front of me. I ponder, as I walk, a Kestrel or Fox would have mercilessly punished such a careless lapse of prudence. The path turns sharp left above the Quarry and leaving it behind skirts below an unkempt, ancient, Hawthorn hedge, invasive Elder growing through it at intervals. Wild Oats thriving in the narrow margin between path and Wheatfield dance in the playful  breeze that obligingly blows several degrees off the hot suns intensity.
From my now slightly elevated position I look out across the fields; It's High Summer and nature has reached its zenith, everywhere there are a myriad shades of green. Trees are thick with foliage, in the distance grouped together into woods, billowing shapes and subtle hues are a tireless fascination to the beholder. Countless miles of hedgerows mark out the fields and the Summer Sun spills gold into them. Isolated trees dot the landscape, mostly Ash; what would the English countryside be without them, truly majestic trees with space in their irregular shapes for the birds and the wind to gently hush through them. Tarmac ribbons weave a historic story of communication, a lone cyclist clad in eyecatching white and crimson toils uphill, I feel his effort. Above, the wide blue sky is a tangled cobweb of thin wispy cloud, as the heat of the sun shimmers in the throbbing air it seems impossible that they should be made of ice.
As a white winged Butterfly flitters around my feet, I am surprised to meet another  walker, though I don't know why I should be, its a lovely part of the country on a lovely day; its just that I usually have all this to myself. Wheat gives way to a rich, deep green Beet, the parallel ruts of Tractor wheels cut through the lush growth like surgical scars revealing the dark earth beneath. The wind becomes audible, a low roar as I pass beneath a row of trees, the Hedge having dribbled to an end, a low mound marks the line where the hedge once stood, punctuated by the short row of trees, first a sticky Sycamore then several straggling Ash, it's pleasantly cool beneath their rustling shade. Descending a little, the path meets a farm track at right angles, a field of Barley beyond. In contrast to the  stiff, hard, ears of Wheat the Barley appears like  a soft, fuzzy cloud, its slowly bronzing surface animated by the restless wind. It is ripening unevenly and I see scattered patches of green as my eye follows the wind smoothed waves playing across the field rolling out to the mature wood beyond. Turning sharp right, I follow the stony track for a few yards, there are Oats growing in the adjacent field, an uncommon crop in this part of the country.
A shiny, rich, glittering blackness, catches my eye, a gem in the hedgerow amongst palest pink flowers and hard red berries, the succulence of fat, juicy Brambles a nearly irresistible part of natures wondrous gift. A joyous bounty for all to share, but not without a toll, savage, green, Barbs, hooked, needle sharp, snag at the tender flesh of the hasty and the unwary, to extract a price in Blood. Oh, but if only her demands were but that simple; in return for her favour, Nature commands more for herself; much more. She prepares at this time of year  to give up her sweet rewards for Bird and Beast alike to share, so great will be her abundance there will be a surfeit, an excess of consumption. All that walks or crawls and all that slithers, or slides, all creatures that soar or fly will gorge until sated. Much will rot on the bough, or enrich the soil, some, will burst forth into new life. Giving up these gifts along with the many others filling the year, the spectacular sunsets and soft rains, a lovers melting smile, long summer days and velvet night skies filled with twinkling stars, a babies laugh, moon shadows, restless seas and storm; what gifts, but at what price. It seems not even a trifling, in the first age, so small as to be of no consideration, we pay it no heed and as time goes by we barely notice, an insignificant cost not at all unreasonable. As years pass, accumulating in our past like fallen leaves, we eventually come to realise what price, and in that same moment it's significance, a price dearer than any other. Natures' demand, is to take back the most precious of all the gifts she ever bestowed upon any of us. She demands nothing less, than our time. With each gift, with each season, with each harvest, she takes from us, she takes it every second, day by day and year by year. In so doing she slowly takes from us all that we have come to treasure, all those we have come to hold dearest to our hearts. She gives, and she takes, until we are left with nothing more than our memories and with nothing left to give; she takes those too.
The stony cart track swings sharply to the left pressing up against a field of Rape stubble. A few short months ago a blinding vision of brilliant yellow light, a wondrous flood of cheer, brighter than sunshine and radiant with joy. Raw brown soil weeps from weals that stripe the razored stalks, deep wounding gouges. A field bruised, tender and sore, reflecting sorrow and betrayal, the very Earth abused. Rooks seemingly subdued by the affront flop defeatedly amongst the barren stalks. The ground rises in a rolling swell to my right as I walk, it meets the horizon unbounded, exaggerating its nakedness and emphasising its vulnerability while marking a clear and distinct end to the terrestrial. The sky beyond is a vague, slate blue, confusion of washed out clouds, innumerable subtle variations of blue and grey blended together. A single rank of billowing white Cumulus riding like a wave breaking before them into the clear Blue overhead.
The thin, pining call of a bird of prey cuts the summer air, the sound full of wildness and solitude. I scan the wide sky but see nothing in the emptiness. Then large square wings beat with slow determined strokes, the fluid tips like slender fingers rake the air as it climbs from the wood. As graceful as a skater, in wide circles it soars, with apparent effortlessness, steadily further from the wood. I watch the Buzzards unhurried progress, its sharp call, once more slicing the wind, is answered by a second. Emerging from the wood, to join its mate, the two drift languidly, on the skys boundless paths, across the gilded landscape. 
Before reaching the edge of the wood the path dips briefly through a hot, sun soaked hollow, overlooked by an ancient Hawthorn hedge. The suns withering heat is leaden against my chest in this windless place, a stifling breathless air, suffocates dryly in my throat and mouth. The suns radiation vibrates into me, even naked skin feels over dressed. I climb quickly and thankfully back into the cooling wind and skirt the edge of the wood, dwarfed beneath tall Willows and aged Sycamores. The path a mosaic of contemporary fossils, a recent record of rugged walking boots, of Mountain Bike tyres and animal tracks, baked iron hard by this summers breezes and hot sun into the winters soft oozing mud. At that time of year this part of the path is always wet and slippery. A spreading Elder crowds into the path, its creamy plates of fusty scented flowers have now been replaced by clumps of immature berries, small, hard and green, standing stiffly on striking magenta stems. Shivering dessicated brown seedheads quiver on top of dead bony stalks of Hogweed, waiting  for wind and animals to scatter them abroad. Thistles, once tall, proud and fierce, wilt feebly, grey white down spews sickly from shriveled flower heads while attentive white Butterfly Doulas ease their passing with grace. Turning a corner a thriving Blackthorn hedge fifteen feet high with ne'ry a Sloe upon it bounds the track on its left hand side, tiny pink Ipomia flowers growing beneath. The rising ground allows a long view along the valley back towards the village. This is not Wilderness, or even near wilderness, this is a manufactured landscape, not a single square inch of the wide vastness has not been moulded and shaped by man, every part of it, carved and crafted to his convenience. Nor is it a leisurely land, it's no nonsense, tireless, hardworking countryside, pushed hard to produce. Yet for all that it is not without beauty, not without pretty corners. It's a rolling patchwork of golden, ripening fields, tinged with hints of green, stitched together by lush green hedges and punctuated by ancient and noble trees. Quiet and unvisited copses amuse roving winds on the crests of the gentle hills and straggling woods clogging the valleys, peep weathered red roof tops through the thick green boughs. I search for detail in the hugeness, over the years hedgerows have been torn up and dykes filled in to make fields larger, more suited to bigger machines. Machines, almost in-comprehensively powerful, capable of doing in one hour, work that would have previously taken ten men a week. Yet the driver of the modern tractor still leads the plough to the field over the same age worn tracks, long established centuries ago by the heavy horse led by generations of his forefathers in their performance of the same task. And although long years have passed, he too, from the Tractors air conditioned cab, still keeps a cautious eye skyward and prays for settled weather. Working to the same ancient rhythms, at Harvest time his day starts early and finishes late. I move on, the path is nearing the crest of the hill, but before it does it dips once more through a small, shallow, tree filled hollow popular with Horse riders. I think about how much things have changed and yet remained the same, it occurs to me that the scene I have just been musing over has changed little in essence for several centuries. The path climbs up through the trees by a steep slope usually slippery with mud even now in the leafy shade of the trees it is still a little damp and sticky.
 What of those bygone people did they ever walk these roads as I do now, in the same frivolous manner, for no other reason than the simple pleasure of it. A working mans duties a hundred years or more ago would be more onerous than mine today and his free time significantly less. Nonetheless a young man would undoubtedly find the time, perhaps on a Sunday after Church, to walk out at the side of a young girl who had caught his eye and captured his Heart and together they would seek out these quiet places. Or maybe a couple long committed to one another would escape, for a short time the joyless shackles of their obligations, briefly to the fields, to the Blackthorn Hedges and the Dog Roses, finding peace by the Elder and the pretty pink Ipomia. Pausing to admire that same view, in that same place, standing side by side, solid, immersed reassuringly in the pool of each others presence, strong together, feeling the sun on their faces. With easy, long learned familiarity and unspoken affection their hands seek out one another, his closes softly around hers, with the wind sensuous on their skin they reaffirm their connection with the Earth and with each other.
The path emerges almost on the crest of the hill, wide views open wider still, to the north east chunks of Cumulus dully reflect the light melting slowly into a washed out fog of blue grey cloud the edge a watery veil of shredded Cirrus. Tiny beneath the huge sky I skirt the fields edge, the sun is warm and the shadows deep, the horizon falls away as I advance and sky gives way to water, the Humber estuary and the North sea. Ghostly ships wait mistily for the pilot.
I think about the permanence of things in this disposable, impermanent world, about the constant change, the perpetual evolution, without which things couldn't remain the same. Despite the confusion of technology and the way it shrinks and polarises the world, pushing at the extremes, despite its distractions (for that is surely all it is), its implied haste and imposed urgency, lovers will still continue to pause for long, long hours among soft golden Barley fields amid green Hedgerows. Recklessly adrift on uncharted seas of breathless whispers and shy blushes, a swimming affection of soft kisses and clumsiness. To walk on slow ancient paths and to see with clarity the simple beauty of the Ipomia flower, of Butterflies and wild Oats, of bronzed seed heads and purple Blackberries. It has always been this way. There is comfort in knowing some things will never change.
Grimsby town appears like a grey smudge on the carpet of countryside laid out below my feet, landmarks rise from the indistinct haze, The haunting Gothic of the dock tower, stylish, slightly top heavy, slender and tastefully elegant, a wonderfully extravagant and practical monument to wealth, power and progress. To the east the taller more utilitarian chimney of Tioxide with it bright white parsons collar, less of a monument and more of an unapologetic, vulgar, snub. Two fingers raised to delicate sensibilities, a curt nod to hard profit. Nearer and older than either, nestled amidst embracing trees, the white cap and six sails of Waltham windmill. Over a hundred years separates these enduring and distinctive landmarks each one representing a different age of industrial technology, ironically they have something else in common, all share the same fate, each one idle now, standing silently redundant.
 On the panoramic crest of the hill the field has been harvested, then ploughed, then harrowed and then rolled, its a dramatic barren brown landscape, uniform and weedless, occasional white chalk stones sit incongruously, like ice age erratics, on its gently curving surface, it looks empty, it looks sterile, it looks like a bruise. Beyond, by contrast, a wood like a billowing cloud of rich deep greens blending subtly into livid limes, appears to be in a mid explosion of life, studded dramatically with the vibrancy of Copper Beeches the colour so intense almost purple. A thin ribbon of Feverfew lines the paths edge. The noise of traffic from the busy A18 can be heard now.
The hill rolls beneath my wandering feet and I descend the back side of it, turning sharp right through a ragged gap in the hedgerow beneath a thick limbed Sycamore with cracked and gnarly bark, I arrive in a Bean field. A swell of land rises gently on my right while to the left the path is bordered by a wide mature Hawthorn hedge. It's a sheltered place here, without wind, a sore, raw heat beats down, drooping purple flowered plants, self set reminders of last years crop, wilt by the side of the shimmering field courted by sleepy Red Admirals and fat, drowsy Bumble Bees, sticky limbed they cling languidly to the inverted flower heads. The hard heat reverberates thickly from the ground turning the air to syrup, pooling into sheltered places like this, viscous like oil it stifles sound and makes movement sluggish. I feel warm beads of perspiration trickle damply down my spine beneath the waistband of my trousers. The dreary drone of traffic throbs disturbingly in my head, vibrating through the leaden air, an unwelcome intrusion into the otherwise silence, like a dull veneer. It overlays an odd quiet, not the soporific, restful kind, that calms and soothes, this resembles a bereavement, an uncomfortable vacuum of sound, an uneasy void with all the noise sucked out, except for the traffic. The absence of Bird song seem particularly striking and being denied it, I immediately crave it. Memories of Skylarks flood back to me, of picnics with motorcycle coats spread on the ground in lieu of blankets, of a biscuit tin filled with soft, yielding sandwiches cut like doorsteps from fresh baked bread and rich home made fruit cake, which I knew instinctively to be the best in the world. In that world I hear, once more, chattering voices, the soft, insistent roar of the Primus stove boiling water for tea, my mother's voice gently harrying order from chaos and my fathers appreciation of her capability; and Skylarks. With all the food eaten and the tea made my Mother would lay back, a rock, perhaps for a pillow, her hands folded behind her head. With closed eyes contentment would settle on her face. "Hush" she would say in a soft voice, settling into the scented embrace of grasses and sedges, of sweet herbs and wildflowers, drawing out the last syllable "listen; to the Skylarks". Their warbling song tumbled out the sky at the speed of sound, a rising and falling confusion of notes, bursting with energy, whilst the language of the communication may be a mystery the urgency of their message is obvious. Skylarks, the humble and  wonderful accompaniment to so many good times, picnics and great walks, wide skies and open spaces, and people. The wearying sound of traffic is no substitute. As if in response to my thoughts a Greenfinch alights on a nearby Hawthorn and begins to sing a chattering song, attempting to fill the void. Maybe, I wonder, it's just how hard you wish. Some distance away, another replies, not as articulate as Skylarks, but immensely welcome.
In time I Arrive at Hawerby Hall farm, a jam of old and modern buildings wedged tightly together. An aged red brick cart shed, by the side of the path, is divided by Bull Nosed brick columns into four bays beneath an ugly but practical new sheet metal roof. In the dry space sit two aging farm carts, their paint work faded and chalky. Tall, Iron shod wheels with slender wooden spokes radiating from the bulbous wooden hubs reflect slick pre-industrial revolution technology. There is grace in their form, the curved lines of the sides, sweeping up to the raised ends, reminiscent of ancient galleons. Narrow pinstripes and flowing Copperplate sign writing adds a faded elegance to these once hard working utility vehicles. Moored alongside, a neat trap is partly obscured beneath a corner of a casually discarded canvas sheet, a different kind of vehicle altogether, sleek and light, thin wheeled and delicate, an object of gaiety and pleasure. The dusty buttoned leather upholstery is cracked with age and the colour has been lost beneath many layers of dirt and yet it still suggests good manners, with a faint whiff of decadence. Surrounded by a raft of old bits of timber, a random assortment of crumbling bricks, rotting roof tiles, corroding lumps of scrap metal, decades of washed up junk and deep layers of accumulated dust, its vacant, spindly curved shafts with brass rings oxidised to black, stand inelegantly propped on a rusty, slowly decaying drum of cattle drench.
Next door an enormous barn as big as an aircraft Hangar filters a low hum through  its closed doors. I stand for a moment and am struck by the thought that these two buildings, so radically contrasting in appearance are not nearly so different as they may at first seem. Their purpose is the same, to provide functional storage combined with durability and at a reasonable price, this practical objective has never changed. What has changed, is the technology, the knowledge and materials, easily available, to build larger structures.
Crossing the road I watch, vague amidst the haze, the far away, slowly turning wind turbines at Mablethorpe gently stirring the mist. Diagonally across a small stubble field the path gains the verge on the far side, turning half left it follows a green ribbon of grass pinched between empty fields, in silent patience, awaiting the return of the plough. A broad Horse Chestnut tree, spiky fruits hanging down from the boughs, stands on the corner of the carefully manicured gardens of the Old Rectory. The path, neatly mown lawn grass, now dips steeply alongside the garden fence, turning a sharp left into a mown grassy hollow that continues downhill, giving glimpses of the perfectly maintained house and its pretty Orangery. Meeting the drive I walk a little way along to take another look at the crumbling St Margarets Church. De-consecrated some years ago and now disused, it has become a sad and melancholic ruin. The sprawling canopies of competing Sycamore and Ash grapple for space above its sagging roof, punctured with ragged holes, inadequately patched with rotting canvas tarpaulins. As the surrounding country side, in the summer months, takes its ease this lonely place remains neglected, never getting to bathe in warm sunlight so thick is the foliage, no warm wind penetrates the brooding arbor, a deep carpet of slowly decaying leaves, cold and wet, keep the place damp and cool, filling the air with the musky smell of corruption. Leaning gravestones are thickly encrusted with soft fat cushions of moss their inscriptions lost a long age ago. Once dignified and sombre, a tomb of smooth white stone lies cracked and split, slowly succumbing to the thick contorted tendrils of Ivy forcing a way from within the sarcophagus, snaking gnarly limbs over the surface, in a constricting and crushing embrace intent on pulling all down into the soft consuming earth. The delicate Iron fence, still mostly intact, that encloses it, has detail all but invisible beneath festering, ochreous concretions of corrosion. A thick barrier of tall Nettles stand guard, detering closer investigation. I breathe in the smell and feel the air, heavy with sadness, press against me. I shudder and turn away.
Beyond the church is Hawerby Hall where in a previous life I swept the chimneys on a number of occasions. Originally built for the Harneis family in the eighteenth century, it has seen mixed fortunes having passed through a number of hands, it was, at one time, converted to a Hotel which didn't fair well. Then after a number of years of dereliction the current owners bought it and renovated it, making it their family home. I seldom met the man of the house but on the few occasions I did he was both pleasant and interesting, having a keen interest in sailing. It was his wife who invariably engaged me, she was confident, capable and smart, her assuredness of her place in the world was impressive. It was she who one day told me of a story attached to the house.
A good number of years ago it had belonged to a farmer who laboured under the firm belief that fate had not dealt him a winning hand. His life, he felt, was unreasonably hard and his days were long and filled with fruitless toil. Sunshine seldom ventured above his horizon. Alcohol became an increasing comfort to him and as time went by he became ever more morose and sour. He lived there with his wife, who over the years became the target and focus of his anger. At first he simply directed his tirades at the world towards her, then he came to blame her. Becoming increasing abusive, until one day, he beat her. He was sorry afterwards and swore it would never happen again and it didn't, for a time. Over the ensuing years his bitterness grew, as did his meaness and his habit of violence, he beat her again, unhappily but predictably, it became regular. She kind of got used to it.
One day, full of unexplained fury and venom, his bitterness with the world at a feverish intensity, he beat her savagely. The fierce red rage coursed through his body, through muscle and sinew, rolling his fists into Iron hard balls. He lashed out in frustration, hatred of the world pounding his fists into her yielding body. A crushing blow full in her face lifted her off her feet propelling her across the room. He was crazed with spite, with his voice he roared out his complaint, laced with invective and profanity, with his body he hurled his malice across the room tied to the objects with in it, which smashed and splintered against the walls. Barely conscious she rolled onto her hands and knees, terror urged her towards the partly open kitchen door, towards escape.
He kicked her viciously in the ribs as, falteringly, she crawled across the room, lifting her once more from the floor, crushing the air from her lungs with a guttural grunt of pain. Creeping through the door into the kitchen, she made her self small on the floor by the huge pine table. As huge wet sobs wracked her body, she tried to shrink herself smaller still, on her knees on the cold stone floor she pressed her chest tighter to her thighs her hands tucked under her chin. She closed her eyes tightly and wished she could shrink smaller, smaller than she was now, smaller than anything she knew, small enough to slip into one of the cracks in the floor between the stone flags, so small she could disappear, small enough to be invisible. She could hear his rage, his cursing, his destruction. She blocked it out, she closed her ears and shut out the sound. She remained there cowed. Bloodied. Broken.
On rare occasions she'd sneak out of the house, when he was at work, she went to the small church nearby, she never told him and as far as she knew he never knew. She would sit in its peaceful coolness, quiet and still, she didn't question, she just listened, not once had she ever asked for pity, nor for mercy or for relief; sometimes she had closed her eyes and silently asked for strength; for patience and for the courage to endure.
Her hand gripped the edge of the kitchen table, she had scrubbed its worn pine top earlier that morning, fleetingly the thought, fully formed, flickered for the briefest moment into her consciousness, why did she keep doing that. She hauled herself shakily to her feet, leaning for a moment on the solid table her head bowed. She thought of the small church, its coolness and its quiet. She wondered about her place in the world and her purpose in it. She wiped the back of her hand across her nose it was smeared with tears, with snot and blood. she straightened her back, pain stabbed viciously through her, she closed her eyes tightly her fingers went lightly to her ribs, two were broken. She drew in her breath, more tears squeezed from her wet eyes. In that moment she made a decision, whatever the worlds design, and whatever her role in its great plan, it needed, she decided, no more of her pain. She smoothed her hands gently down her crumpled front, worn and stained she hadn't had a new dress in so many years. Having made a decision she then made a vow. Opening her eyes, she raised her head and lifted her chin, no man, she swore, would ever beat her again.
Walking slowly and a little unsteadily over to the dresser to where it made a corner with the wall by the back door, she picked up the Shotgun that was propped there. His Shotgun. She opened the dresser drawer took out two cartridges and slid them smoothly into the bores, then closed the breach. Again she closed her eyes and drew in her breath, standing for a moment, she held on to it, gathering her resolve. She let the breath escape, slowly, then with a calm and more grace and dignity than could be imagined possible in the circumstance, she walked across the kitchen, head high, she pushed open the door and faced him.
With some of his anger spent he was sat in a chair, the same chair where, of habit, he usually sat, the same chair where she knew he would be sat, even before she pushed open the door. The gun, heavy in her hands, wavered unknowingly around the room. He raised his eyes as she entered. Although she knew how, she had never fired a gun before, she had seen him do it many times and years ago he had tried to show her how. He'd been different then, more patient, he'd laughed when she told him she didn't like guns. She remembered, he used to laugh a lot then. At first he thought he was imagining things, it couldn't be true, surely it wasn't possible, he looked twice. The gun felt clumsy, awkward in her hands, she wasn't accustomed to its weight. She didn't like guns she remembered again. Remembering, she tried to think of the last time she'd heard him laugh. She looked straight at him, taking in the details, his hands on the arms of the chair, she watched, detached, as his knuckles whitened. The gun was too heavy, she felt so tired, her fingers ached as they pressed against the triggers. She hurt, not so much from his blows, they hurt too, but there was a worse pain, an intense dull ache deep in her chest. She could see the muscles in his arms tense, his feet moving, preparing to take his weight. She thought  how she would like to lie down, to sleep, never wake up. She saw in him, a coiled spring, about to be released.
A wave of pain from her ribs washed over her, her left eye stung, it was starting to swell and close, nausea rose from her stomach, she tasted blood in her mouth. A thin sinew in the left side of his face clenched and twitched, like a worm beneath the skin, just in front of his ear. She saw the blind, unfathomable fury flare, once again, red in his eyes. The wavering muzzle became purposeful, as he started to rise, as the spring, started to uncoil, she discharged both barrels into his chest, as she watched his eyes, before he had time to get out of the chair.
Lifes plan revealed to her, friends she didn't know she had, who vouched for her good character, to her passivity and gentleness and the wickedness of her husband . It provided her with friends, some of the most prominent she had never met, they showed kindness and understanding, among them a judge who was both sympathetic and compassionate. As is common with these kind of stories the details are very sketchy, it is said that many rallied to her defence, that she was persuaded to enter a plea of insanity and after spending a little under three years in a mental institution she was released. Cured. Whatever ultimately became of her after that is not remembered, though a part of her story did endure, it was said that she remained true to the vow that she had made on that fateful day and thence forward until the day she died no man ever beat her again.
After following another stony path alongside another mature Hawthorn and Blackthorn hedge the path climbs over a gentle rise and heads for a narrow sprawling wood that stretches in both directions ahead of me. At the boundary of the wood a thin path that I have often taken weaves into the trees over a soft mulch of mouldering leaves. It's cool and shady and in the spring is pretty with Aconites and Bluebells. It soon slithers sharply down a bank skirting the edge of a small, ancient Chalk quarry, little more now, than a steep sided depression to emerge alongside some stables in a paddock usually occupied by several Shetland Ponies.
Looking up at the sky I see it has changed once more, the thin Horse tails of hazy Cirrus have drifted away, billowing white Cumulus builds soaring edifices over the river, there is more blue sky deep, rich and clear. I choose, to stay high, the way stretches ahead of me, a wide grassy track that follows the edge of the wood enjoying the cool welcome shade of the heavy drooping boughs of Beech, Ash, Oak and the invasive Sycamore. There are too many Sycamore in my opinion although if the Ash population is decimated, as predicted, by the recently arrived disease to which it is vulnerable I may yet end up being grateful for their presence. A thick dense border of Nettles lines the tracks edge hemming in the trees. On the other side a rising hump of warm golden Wheat meets the cool blue sky. A staccato of poles strung together by transmission lines march across the field, spoiling the vista just a little, but there is too much beauty here to be marred by such a thing
The path takes a graceful curve beneath the sighing trees, the sound of traffic dies behind me as I progress. Rooks call gratingly from the tree tops. The Sycamores give way to delightful, spreading Beech trees, their shape bold and confident, then ragged Ash an enigmatic mix of clothed and naked limbs, of half life and half death. A Sweet Chestnut ripens its spiny fruits in the days warmth alongside a tall and bare  trunk, a slender, silent, standing sentinel of the woods, clinging to dignity as decay slowly consumes it, riddled with the holes of woodpeckers.
I come, further on, to a Beech tree, magnificent and huge, standing tall, its ghostly  bark a pale contrast to the livid lime green of its oval leaves. A massive limb lies broken on the soft ground beneath it, on a crunchy bed of crisp brown leaves, swathed in a tangle of brambles and nettles. Several feet up, twice the height of a man, a cavernous hole scars the trees wide trunk. A winters gale passed this way, crashing through the trees, roaring with fury, mercilessly looking for weakness and finding it in this first formed limb, savagely ripping it from living tree, casually discarding the huge fractured bulk where it fell at the trees foot without care nor compassion, already wreaking devastation elsewhere. I can see jagged splinters of wood standing like sharp daggers inside the hole, the silvery bark curls a tender caress over the inflamed edges, soothing its severity. A cascade of Bracket Fungus growing one edge resembles a falling tear. This deep scar will never disappear, the wound is too big and too deep. The tree, in life will heal over the wound, given time, but its mark will always remain. It will forever carry the scar, a permanent, ever present reminder of what it once lost. Yet in life, even with its loss so apparent, its stature is not diminished, its grace remains effortless and its beauty constant; can any of us ever hope for as much.
A little further and the path descends a tiered grassy bank to the shallow valley floor  passing through a gate by a muddy cattle pond, pleasantly shaded by the drooping branches of a Horse Chestnut. A dancing cloud of Mosquitoes, like a shiver, trembles above the thick water. The other side of the valley is livestock pasture but it is empty today and the grass is long. The path, laid flat, betrays a cautious line easily followed beneath the high stacked round bales of the farmyard vibrating in the fierce sun on the valleys lip. The wind sets off a percussion in my ears to the accompaniment of buzzing flies. Quietly the valley simmers in the heat. 
Through a gate, pastural gives way once more to arable and a field of peas, warm, fat pods heavy on the wilting tangle of plants remind me that although it's almost two o clock I haven't got round to breakfast yet. I scoop up a delicious handful, savouring the satisfying pop of the pods and the clean, fresh sweetness.
Approaching the final part of the walk into an enchanting wood of mature Beech and Ash trees lying before me, the silence is pierced suddenly by a birds insistent call, an alarm, a strident warning for caution. I look up and see two hawks defiantly circling overhead, too far distant to identify. I enter the wood, it is immediately cool, the sound of the wind dominates, a hard packed dirt path stalks between the stout grey trunks, sidling by a bossy Elder bush. A carpet of Nettles covers the narrow valley floor squeezed tightly between steep chalk banks. Dusty shafts of sunlight sift through the verdant foliage spilling rippling pools of soft light onto Ground Elder and blankets of shrivelling bronze Beech leaves. There is a reverence in this towering arboreal cathedral, quiet but for the winds gentle hymn in the tree tops, it a place that inclines you to lower your voice, to talk in a hushed whisper. Animal tracks cut across the path in places, their course evident through the sparse undergrowth, damp patches of soft mud sit in shallow scrapes holding a host of flies in a hypnotic spell, Black birds, unseen but heard, search through the rustling leaf litter.
Small heaps of stark white Chalk marking the entrance to animal excavations, Badgers perhaps, is muted by a wash of green lichen growing on the exposed stone, a subtle compliment to the drifts of ochreous Beech leaves.
 I pass the fallen tree where I sat with Kim when she was poorly, clusters of bright red Arum berries grow nearby, she was unable to walk further than this point, a poignant place of memories for me, just a short distance from the road.
A yellow dog runs up to me barking aggressively, I bend to stroke it and it turns submissive. I notice a small snail with a yellow shell a black stripe following the whorl of its shell, it is sitting fully extended in the centre of a Nettle leaf. It feels like something weird is happening.
Birdsong collides with my consciousness, I am surprised by its suddeness. I'm reminded of times when I would be out walking with Kim. Giving my attention to something, Kim would run a few steps in front of me and turn, pushing her hands into my chest as she walked backwards, a broad smile on her lips, playfulness spilling out of her face, "hey what about me" she'd say. It always made me laugh, I'd wrap my arms around her and give her a love. The birdsong now lodged into my consciousness in the same insistent way. People who ought to know better and with nothing better to do with the too much time they have on their hands have asked me, on occasions, if I believe in God. I side step around the end of a tree laid across the path and arrive at the road, turning right to head back into the village. They ask me, do I believe in fate, that the events of life are perhaps pre-ordained. A moorhen, startled, Red billed and neck extended, dashes across the road on spindly backward bending legs slipping through the gap in a picket fence seeking the sanctuary of the large ornamental pond in the neat gardens of the Grange. I don't believe, I answer; in anything like that. I pass the crumbling Chalk barn that has been under repair for years the stagnant scaffold rusted red with inactivity. I believe in dreams, I believe in I don't know, I believe in; not believing. Cows, mildly distracted, raise their lowered heads to watch me pass with studied indifference, relentless wet jaws continuing their rhythmic grinding. When I'm asked if these occurrences are a sign, I'm cautious of answering, of admitting. I watch the cows watching me, watching them. If I admit to it; then I have to believe in something; yet I'm past the point of believing it coincidence. I see my van on the road ahead where I left it. Are these signs? I wonder. I think, I think they are. I can't handle this shit, What confuses me is, what do they mean.
I think I need to go for a walk now.

 

 

MOOR MEMORIES

 

Saturday 23rd August 2014


High Egton Moor today is purple, it smells of Honey and I can see the Sea from here.
Walking through it's quiet solitude, my feet anchored in the geography, to the seldom visited though clear paths, my thoughts adrift in the rolling moors of my mind. It's a way of recharging depleted batteries, of clearing out the mental clutter, re-establishing a spiritual connection with the real world, astringing my soul, so I may once more face the tedium, the tiresome responsibilities and obligations of the coming days. Yet negative thoughts were creeping into my meditation, a venom, spreading like a stain, poisoning my space. No more than a little while elapses before I check it, this is not the way I mean to spend my time.
 "Fill your soul with good thoughts" I tell myself; saying the words out loud to increase their power. A few more paces then Kim presses into my thoughts with a clear presence and unexpected suddenness. I hesitate, mid stride, raise my head and look around. A few short paces ahead, at the side of the path, a boulder stands, flat topped and oddly bleached white. Sheep having sheltered in its lee, have worn a border around it, a narrow strip of cropped Heather and Grass. It has a slightly incongruous presence, a distinct isolation; sitting in the landscape, yet not of it. It seems absurd to pretend that Kim should force her way to the fore of my mind and such a prospect, a perfect invitation to sit, should coincidentally present itself in that same moment. It is apparent that I should pause a while and as I approach the serendipity is reinforced as I notice the stone is shaped like a heart.
I Rest upon it, beneath an infinite sky where a melee of Clouds jostle for space and yet there are breaks amid the confusion, azure patches show through the rents, particularly to the East where a lovely pastel blue sits above the deep indigo sea. There's peace here.
" I love you Kim".
That still means something, to me at least.
 I talk to Kim out loud, not something I usually do, I try to articulate something.
 " It feels like a long time." I begin, yet that's not it, " Its not so much a feeling of a long time since I saw you, which of course it is, since I held you in my arms, or since I kissed your lips." " No, it's more a feeling of a long road ahead of me; such a long way to go." I surveyed the empty moor, my eyes searching across the wide, shallow fold of valley that lay before me. In the vastness spread before me I search for a sign of another person anywhere. "With such a heavy burden." "No; it's not so heavy, it's just a long way to carry it."   I pause, considering the landscape, the impression was one far from emptiness.The Moor is actually full; full of sound, the rising warble of Grouse calling, the droning of Bees as they drift past, the soothing harmony of breeze softly hushing through Grass and Heather, I listen to the constant bleating of far off Sheep and hear the sound of the wind in my ears. "Yes, that's it, it's not so much a feeling of a long time,  it's a feeling of long way." "And I've travelled so little of it".
Somewhere from this cloud filled sky the sun breaks through, it shines down upon me, I feel its warmth, caught in a sunbeam. And yet it is that gentle warmth, that sensuous caress on my naked skin, that makes me feel cold.
 "Forgive me Kim." " I don't yet know how to be strong."
Now as always, choked inside of me, tangled thoughts and feelings, thick like tar in hot sun, unexpressed and suffocating for release, press heavily on my Heart, clogging in my Throat like a sob that won't come out. There's nobody I can share it with, people don't understand. I sigh, knowing this is not true, people do understand, but they can't walk the path for me, they're patient and sympathetic, but I've got to live each day, the pain is mine, it's personal. They may understand but they don't feel my pain, they can't share it, they can't take it away. As much as they may want to help, it is for me to endure, for me alone to endure. It's my path.
I sit, taking in the views, the gently rolling hills washed over by a sea of purple heather, the isolated stone houses with red Pantiled roofs, the enduring Farmsteads, mans endless optimism made tangible, the promise of the wide sky.
And if it becomes unendurable, what then?
Thunder rumbles out of the western sky, warning me it's time to move on.

Saying all the wrong things.


I've just read a  recent post by Anne Lamott, a "desperately trying to keep it together" post trying to address issues thrown up by the recent death of Robin Williams. I like Annes writing a lot, I like the way she writes, her ability to articulate feelings that  I share but can't pin down myself. The simple and unpretentious  love that comes through in her writing, she cares, it's not something she tries at, she just can't not care. There is no doubt she is one of the nice people, that help make this a better world.
Yesterday, my journey took me through Beauvais, in France, where I enjoyed a pleasant lunch sat on a bench in warm sunshine in the town square. Overlooked at one end by a large and imposing stone building, its ornate stones mellow with age to the colour of honey, the square is bordered on its other sides by modern department stores with a scattering of interesting Bookshops, chic Cafes with tables spilled onto the pavement and  dingy Tabacs with cluttered windows. A pleasant wind teased the plumes of a fountain that played into a pool that reflected the shape of the space. As though riding on the crest of this tireless wave a handsome and noble looking peasant woman cast in bronze swept away all before her, her long skirts frozen into an flowing swirl around her as she prepared another sweeping stroke of the lethal two handed cleaver she fiercely wielded. Representing the revolution she was both beautiful and frightening, I paused before her a few moments to admire her courage and dignity, before I move on. Fifty yards away a man slouched on the pavement outside a  bookshop that was having its front repainted. Olive skinned, he wasn't a young man, at least my age or likely a little older. He leaned against the wall heavily, resting on the haunch of his right leg that was folded flat on the pavement the ankle hooked behind his left foot, his left leg crooked upright with his left arm resting on top of his raised knee. He was half turned facing us as we approached. I walked with my Grandson enjoying his company, our mood was light, I didn't notice the man him until I was almost on top of him, his eyes flickered up to mine for the briefest moment then away. A walking stick leaned against the wall next to him, he didn't look well, unfit, overweight, his face sallow and puffy.  I'd passed him by the time I stopped, he didn't turn. I felt his pain in the pit of my stomach.  I removed two, two Euro coins from my wallet, all the change I had. In the moment that our eyes met I saw not pain or hunger, not frustration or even despair, but defeat. If that's all it had been it would have been okay, but it wasn't; it was more than that, it was defeat and acceptance and resignation, it was minute by minute, it was hour by hour, it was day by dreary, fucking day. He was beyond beaten, he didn't speak he just sat with his arm resting wearily on his knee, his palm upturned. I turned back and pressed the coins into his hand. I couldn't bring myself to look into his eyes a second time, As I walked away I heard him thanking me with a soft, sincere voice, I looked at my grandson, forced a smile and carried on the conversation we were having. It cut to my heart. There was a time some years ago when I wouldn't have bothered, but I learned something, now I try to give, I don't judge. I doubt the money will make any difference, maybe he will buy food, maybe he will buy alcohol or drugs or maybe he will put it in the bank along with the other tens of thousands of Euros he has. ( I really don't believe the latter.) So what will it achieve, is it really about me, so I can feel self righteous and good about myself. If anything, what I would hope, is that for a moment, even if it only lasts a second or two, he can see a little bright in his darkness.
So what's to say Anne? I greatly admire your faith, it is truly wonderful and it must be a great comfort to you, in honesty I envy it.  To be received into Gods tender love when we die is a thought so beautiful it makes my heart ache, to be also welcomed by our Mothers love, is more wondrous than I can imagine. Am I being presumptuous that all those departed who have ever been dear to me will also receive me with love. With this kind of faith when faced with the choice some short years ago to follow the dearest person I have ever known, I would not have hesitated. Alas, I do not share such a faith. ( If you imagine I am mocking you, it is not only me to whom you do an injustice). I don't have a friend of the cloth to guide and enlighten me and yet I can already imagine  them telling me it's not quite like that. You see, there's always a catch. So what then is the alternative? Can it really be that  this life is the highest manifestation of Gods love?
Maybe there's no order to it, maybe it doesn't make sense, maybe it's not meant to, some people get a crap deal, that's just how it is, there's no fairness, there's just every day and all we can do is wearily hold out our hand and see what, if anything, ends up in it.
 And so we live with the Abyss, we stare into it every day, I've lived with it for what seems  a long time now. Tomorrow, for me, the sun will come up, of that I'm sure, it is not the only thing I am sure of. I don't pretend to know where we came from or what it's all about but I know at the end there will be the Abyss, Oblivion, it is inevitable and inescapable. I don't think it's such a scary place, it holds an odd fascination and Oblivion is kind of soft and fuzzy at it's edges; warm, not unfriendly. I have to ask why shouldn't we choose the time?

          

NEW DAWN, NEW DAY, NEW YEAR

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

                                                                                                                   

New dawn, new day, new year, I got my act together for a change and did my pack up last night, so this morning I was up early had breakfast and was off. The sun was still some way off rising but it wasn't dark outside, a beautiful, silvery, three quarter moon shone brightly from a clear, star filled sky, casting moon shadows all over the garden. It was a bit nippy at just two degrees but there wasn't much frost about. The roads were quiet and I made good progress, most people still sleeping off last nights revelry. As I approached Fimber three Pheasants were in the middle of the road, I slowed down but just when I thought they were clear one decided the other side of the road was more attractive and ran back in front of the car, I'm afraid he didn't make it. This was not a good start and I was not at all happy. I have been watching the weather for the last week and it looked like today was going to be a good day up on the North Yorkshire Moors. I drove up the hill from Fimber towards North Grimston, I could see the Sun climbing magnificently above the horizon, a huge fiery red ball filling the rear view mirror as it rose into a clear blue sky. I crested the hill and the moors were spread out before me, a pale Blue grey with White frosting the colours gradually changed as my gaze rose higher to Bluey Pink, then Magenta, a washed out Buff colour then pale Blue which increased in intensity until overhead it was deep Azure, what a show. I parked up in the middle of Kirbymoorside, donned my boots and pack and headed East, I got as far as the loo's on the other side of the road then stopped, it's an age thing. Picking my way through the streets of Kirbymoorside trying to follow the poorly marked path was a bit tricky but soon I was climbing over a stile into a field, leaving the houses behind me. The field was crunchy with frost and the sun was still low in the sky, it was straight easy going so I got out my phone and texted a Happy new year message to friends. By the time I had finished my right hand was frozen and I'd blundered through several large puddles and a couple of swampy sections. I put the phone away and started to take more notice of my surroundings, I dropped down into a shallow grassy valley, a small copse on my right, I noticed a path coming out of the trees that looked interesting, as I climbed the hill on the other side I saw a farmer with a quad bike stopped to open a field gate, I headed over to him. The two Black Labrador's that accompanied him, saw me and barking loudly, came hurtling towards me, full speed downhill, their coats shone like gloss paint and they were bursting with health and vitality, they were the finest dogs I have seen for some time, I gave them a big fuss which they accepted with enthusiasm. The farmer came over to me, so I walked to meet him, "Am I going the right way?" I greeted him. "No your not" he replied, not unfriendly. He pointed out the right way to me then wishing me a Happy new year he called his dogs and we went in different directions. My route turned out on to a road for a short section, passing Kirkdale cave on my right, an old friend of mine Neil Hannan a man I used to go caving with once dived a sump in this cave, swimming through the flooded section into some undiscovered passage beyond. An act requiring a very level head and a huge amount of courage. I turned right onto a footpath following a small river, the Hodge beck on my left hand side, the path followed the river bank easily for a short distance, then it climbed the steep and muddy valley side and twisted it's way through the trees, I slipped and slid, skated and skidded but managed somehow to stay upright. On the other side of the river the flat valley bottom was grassland a hundred feet wide and still white with frost, the sun was unable to reach it because of the trees on the far side casting their long shadows across it. Just a narrow strip of the far river bank was bathed in sunshine, it was cold in the woods and quiet except for the babbling river, Kim and I have walked this way on several occasions, the last time I remember was really hot. We crossed the river, hopped over the fence, hid behind a large thorn bush and sunbathed in total isolation removing more clothes than was entirely decent. I disturbed three Deer on the track ahead of me there was another a little higher up the bank, they had heard the Bear bell I have on my pack and it sent them scurrying, I watched their fluffy white tails bound along the trail and into the woods. Soon I came to Hold Caldron an old water mill which has been converted in to a fine looking house, it looked frosty, the sun not quite having reached it yet, smoke drifted up from the chimney, a imperceptible breeze very gently folded the smoke first to the right then to the left, shafts of sunlight penetrated the trees nearby turning the frost to a hundred thousand dewdrop jewels that glistened brightly. Just past the mill the path turned uphill once more, this time heading for the top of the bank, the screech of a Buzzard, or maybe a Red Kite could be heard down the valley. I passed a half eaten Pheasant carcass the breast meat still soft wet and pink, a part eaten Fox meal perhaps, funny it should be left like that. The haunting screech of the birds came closer, I looked to the sky but the canopy of trees overhead restricted my view, a little further on the trees opened out and I had a clear slot of sky above me. Two Red Kites soared above me, turning and wheeling effortlessly, I was in the shade, but these Birds were in full sunshine which shone a pale silver on their undersides, the black tail and wing-tips contrasting sharply. They spiralled overhead, masters of the sky their piercing screech eerily breaking the silence, they drifted away, magnificent and just a little sinister. I reached the top of the hill and broke out of the frigid trees into sunshine. The path followed the edge of a field planted with winter wheat, much less advanced than in the field behind my house, a score of Rooks clucked irritably leaving their perch in a small stand of young Sycamores just ahead, hanging on the wind before turning to flap lazily away, joining dozens of others in a wood a little further away. The path turned out on to a road which I followed into the village of Fadmoor, ordinarily I do not like to walk on the road but I had little choice here. As I have been walking, I have been receiving replies to the Happy new year text that I had sent earlier, I had also heard from a very old friend who I haven't seen or spoken to for over thirty years, so this road walking did nothing to reduce my spirits, buoyed up from an intoxicating mix of beautiful natural surroundings, sunshine, fresh air and Bonhomie. On through Fadmoor following the road to Gillamoor which was as uneventful as you'd expect from road walking other than finding a two pound piece in the middle of the road. When I reached the church at Gillamoor a Friend rang to pass on new year greetings, I sat on a bench and chatted for a few minutes, he was just about to set off on his own walk, along the shores of Ullswater. I dropped down a step bank picking up a farm track and following it to another converted mill, the path went round the back of the building, over a footbridge crossing the river Dove then climbing steeply through pasture to a farm called Grouse hall. The land around here turned out to be mostly bog and as I tried to pick my way through I found myself ankle deep in mush on several occasions. I reached another footbridge then climbed steeply and gratefully to drier ground. I was out on open moorland now and the path was an attractive greensward through autumnal golden bracken, dessicated and brittle now, sheep keep the path closely cropped making the walking easy as it skirted the foot of a steep sided hill known as The Nab. The path started to descend in to Hutton le Hole, it squeezed between two hedges and it became obvious this was an old pack horse trail, it cut down deeply into the ground and of course became a natural drain. It was now no longer a case of trying to find the driest way but trying to find the shallowest, the last two hundred yards were completely flooded, I managed to slip through the hedge and squeeze along between the hedge and the fence of the adjoining field. Hutton le hole and lunch on a bench in the sunshine, I like it here at this time of year it's much nicer than full summer. Hutton le hole is a very, very pretty village and for me that's it's fault, it's just too neat and pretty, it could do with a patch of nettles, a tumble down barn and an overgrown rickety gate to nowhere. The wind has been slowly increasing since early morning and now I have stopped I have to put my windproof jacket on. I leave Hutton le hole by another pack horse trail this one washed clean down to the bedrock by floods, cresting another hill the track becomes an old byway skirting fields and woods, it is popular with horse riders so is a little cut up but still passable, it not the worst path I've been on today. Suddenly the path stops at the edge of a ploughed field, I stop and swear to myself, it cuts right across this field, it's wet, soft and incredibly muddy, but at least it is downhill. I set off and within yards my feet have turned to huge Clodhoppers the size of footballs, they are so big and heavy I have real difficulty controlling them. As I get further down the hill it gets wetter and large puddles appear, I try to dodge round them with feet I can barely control. When I get to the other side the mud is so sticky I can't get it off, eventually I arrive at a road and stamp my feet furiously, it dislodges some but not much, but at least I can walk comfortably now. The sun is getting low in the sky again as I start the last leg back into Kirbymoorside, I think about Kim as I slip and slide through the last of the fields and out on to Swineherd road, I miss her. I pass a skate park that Jack would really like, I must bring him sometime. HAPPY NEW YEAR TO EVERYBODY.

84. 
    

June 2014

                                  CAN A ROCK REMAIN ON A BEACH UNCHANGED?

A short distance from where I live, four, maybe five miles by road, less as the Crow flies, there is a section of Public Footpath I like to walk when I don't have time to travel further afield. I slip away when I feel the need to escape from the melee, from the confusion of everyday life, when I need a moment of calm, a little quiet, some time to catch my breath, to count to ten; to think. It follows the south bank of the River Humber on top of the flood defences, wide enough to drive a car on, it's bounded on one side by a three feet high concrete wall.  To the south is a patchwork of  wide open fields, fertile and low lying,  reclaimed from salt marshes many years ago, each one traced into the landscape by straggling hedgerows and dykes. To the north, the other side of the wall, is the mile wide waters of the Humber estuary, Brackish and tidal, part river, part sea. I find myself here often. When I arrived a few days ago the weather was mixed,  it was early morning, the air was fresh and damp, there was little wind and it was pleasantly warm. Looking up, yawning gulfs of alluring blue sky showed between tottering Popcorn Clouds towering  two miles high or more, their immensity making  them appear solid and static, the reality was, of course, somewhat different, constantly moving, their shape was ever changing. The flawless purity of their whiteness, reflecting the newly risen sun, made their brilliance too searingly intense to look upon for anything other than a brief moment. We have skies here; the landscape may be flat, lacking the majestic splendour of mountains or the loveliness of rolling downs, views may be limited and plain but we have skies. Wonderful skies.  We have colossal, soaring skies stretched ridiculously wide, and some days filled with drama so stunning it will stop you in your  tracks, still your lips and fill your heart with wonder. You just have to look up. Smiling I stretched out my stride, feeling muscles not long awakened, loosen and lengthen. The morning air smelled sweet and clean, as I filled my lungs blood started to move, it felt good. My mind wandered.

As we have grown older we have settled into our lives, we have moulded that little bit of world closest to us, to our own shape, and in turn, have been shaped by that same small piece of world; much like a Rock on a Beach. Whilst there may be similarities in, not only, our appearance but also in our thinking, we are, nonetheless, significantly different from our younger selves. The rough edges, the intense fire in our being, the high ideals, the unwillingness to compromise, the "why the Hell not" mostly smoothed out, made much softer, easier to live with.

I cast my gaze over the water, it was flat and smooth, barely a ripple disturbed the calm surface. In common with large rivers all over the world it has many moods, some times it is rough and wild, I've seen waves six feet high and crowned with raging white foam. At such times the  turbulent water is brown with silt, dirty and unappealing. Today though it was gentler, more serene, seductive even, it reflected the blue of the sky, it looked more Caribbean than North sea. The expansive, glutinous mud Beaches that would instantly swallow to the knees anyone foolish enough to venture into them, were mostly covered by the still rising tide.The water was high but it would be another three quarters of an hour before it peaked. In places, above the mud, are patches of shingle, rounded pebbles blended together with pieces of broken brick, remnants of the many brick and tile yards that used to line the bank. The brick is only distinguishable by its colour being equally smoothed and rounded by the patient water action. Above that, higher still, is the foot of the man made raised bank that holds back the waters and prevents the fields beyond from inundation. Its side is clad in a protective armour of football sized chunks of Slag, carried there from the Steel making town of Scunthorpe, not many miles distant, spewed out of its Fiery Blast furnaces. Coated in a binding tar, its porous grey surface has been exposed in places, hard and resistant, its sponge like appearance shows little sign of erosion.

Can a Rock remain on a Beach unchanged?

To some extent the answer to that question will depend on what sort of rock it is and how long it resides there, but ultimately the answer surely has to be no; doesn't it? The constant action by the waves will undoubtedly change its appearance and yet does it not remain fundamentally the same, at its core? Perhaps its more of a question of how we define it, with its altered exterior it becomes less distinct from the countless other rocks on the beach. Its distinctiveness and to some extent its usefulness is gauged by its external attributes. In the first instance, at least, it is more likely to be judged by its external physicality rather than its unexpressed internal qualities.

And so what am I to believe. I know a man if pressed, in conversation, will rail strongly against the injustice of misogyny, all the while he treats his wife little better than a slave. While another talks of experience broadening the mind, he works at the same place, at the same job he undertook when he first left school forty years ago and has no plans to move.   A man, who in his lunch break, will, if steered in the right direction, talk of "giving peace a chance", he is hard working and conscientious, at the right time he will cut short idle chatter, return to his desk and diligently resume his work, he makes bombs. What I hear is   a wearied passion in peoples  voices and I see resignation in their actions.

Skylarks, no more than tiny, hard to see specks in the sky were singing, their warbling, frenetic song floated down to me, the melody rising and falling. There's a reliability about Skylarks, having returned for the summer they sing almost constantly, filling the air with a seemingly  endless tumble of notes for hour after hour. I paused to listen while looking to the east, back to where I had come from. I could see the distant slender towers of the Humber bridge.  A large grey cloud, black bellied blotted out the view beyond, draped limply beneath, betraying its malevolence, the tell tale streaky, grey shadow of rain being flung to Earth. It was heading north towards Brough, South Cave and beyond, places that were at the moment enjoying bright sunshine. I considered it for a few seconds, its course would leave me unmolested. Turning to the west, I noticed the breeze had grown a little stronger, ahead I could see the elegant monolithic Dock Tower at Grimsby, standing tall, silhouetted against the sky, it too would very soon fall under the damp influence of yet another roving rain shower. I turned my eyes to the mouth of the river, out to the open sea, where the water meets the sky, a place of inspiration, inviting and full of promise, hinting at adventure and the vaguely Known. Shafts of sunshine slashed through the clouds and bounced glittering light off the waters surface. I stood for long minutes, staring, feeling the breeze on the side of my face,  it looked like hope to me, escape, "don't loose faith" it said.

We wanted, when we were younger, to change the world, but it seemed like we were somehow, on the outside. It felt like we didn't belong, it felt like we didn't have the tools,   the opportunity, or the influence. It wasn't our world, it belonged to others, an older generation. We just didn't have the power. Time has moved on, as it does, and now being older, things are different. This is is my world now, it belongs to my generation; no really; we do actually own it, most of it anyway. When wild eyed youths look in from the outside, as we once did, what they see now, is us. Its our world and we must surely have the power. So, this is it, our chance, if we; don't change it now, how will it ever change.

The river is busy this morning, the North Sea Ferry is making its daily return from Zeebrugge to its home berth in Hulls King George dock, it tall shape looks dignified as it steams through a patch of bright sunshine making its white superstructure gleam cheerfully.  Following, a half mile behind, having passed her sister ship Pauline, sometime during the night and somewhere out in the North sea, Yasmine a CLdN, roll on roll off ferry is heading for one of the berths on the Jetty at Killingholme. Behind her the Stena Transporter,  is also making for one of the Killingholme Berths. Two tugs are making their way downriver while a battered red Coaster, keeping to the deep water channel on the North side of the river, is heading for one of the Trent wharves. At Immingham an Iron Ore carrier is docking. there are two other ships making their way into the river too far distant to identify and whilst a pilot makes its way towards the mouth, the dredger manouveres into position.

 Still I hear the talk from tired old men, vaguely resembling the fiery young boys I used to know. Their talk is of long gone times as though they were just yesterday; I can understand that, it does feel a lot like only yesterday. Dreamy voices are hinting, "those were the days" and although  it may feel like those "really were" the days, they were not, these are the days. Today is the day. In my heart as well as in my head I know, without looking in to the future, today is, without any doubt, the very  best day there is likely to be, for a long time, to begin to make the change. There is a problem though, those of us who can actually make a difference are lost in a hazy world of nostalgia that we have somehow come to believe was better than today.  Of course It wasn't and while we did nothing to change anything by fooling ourselves that we  didn't have the power, that it lay with others, we vainly consoled ourselves that it wasn't of our making,  this shit wasn't our fault. So we spent our energy elsewhere, distracted, mostly having a good time. Now, we tell ourselves we are too old, that sort of thing, we say, waving a hand vaguely ,it's a young mans job, it requires somebody with drive and energy. Besides, this world may not be perfect but we've got used to it, we've got used to each other, we've knocked off our rough edges and learned how to avoid the teeth.

Lost in silent thought, I failed to see a Deer grazing on the bank side. A Doe, startled,  crashed down the steep bank, leaping the dyke at the base easily and with little effort  bounded sleekly away across the field flashing her white rump as a warning. Twenty yards further she stopped and turned, with ears twitching she sniffed the air, head raised cautiously. Hesitant she was unsure, she has nothing to fear from me. She stood her ground, watching me pass.

The thing is, it takes all of us, young and old. This world is being changed and not for the better, its being changed by the radicalisation of our unguided youth and I'm not just talking about ethnic minorities. Yet that's just a part of the story, the same old  part where we blame somebody else and bleat limply that it's not our fault. The greater part of the story is its dangerous combination with the complacency of our elders, of my peers;  me.

The tall, decaying, brick chimney of the old brick works, aged and crumbling but still delicate and elegant, marks the point where the walk changes its mood from agrarian to commerce and industry. The old kilns have become makeshift storage sheds, while the flooded clay   pit a fishing pond, a haven for birds and a sanctuary for peace. A short distance past here is a huge car park filled with brand new, imported cars, as yet unregistered. This gives way to stacked containers and lorry trailers, beyond two relatively new gas fired power stations and the many chimneys and flare stacks of the refineries of Conoco and Lindsey oil  provide the backdrop to a scene reminiscent of Tolkiens Mordor. Further along the bank, past the jetty, is the Coal import terminal, LPG export terminal, the Iron Ore terminal and the Oil terminal where the gigantic Super Tankers berth to discharge their huge cargo of crude oil for the refineries to process. I pass the collapsed and rotting Sea Plane jetty, a forlorn relic of World War ll. Recently whilst talking to a friend, a man who has lived around here all his life, he told me about how as a young boy he and his friends used to walk from Stallingborough across open fields to go fishing off this jetty. It stood in lonely isolation,  there was no industry, just fields, surrounded by dykes and windswept hedgerows where nesting birds  sang their songs into the undisturbed solitude, a scene hard to imagine now. Cormorants stand on the broken stumps of the jetty  with crooked wings spread, Shell Ducks and occasional Greylag Geese alongside. A single rusty metal pole still supports a swinging tangle of ancient telephone wires. Its neglect increases its melancholy.

I feel I should say something at this point, not just this point in this narrative but this point  in my life too. I'm saying it for myself but who knows, maybe for some of my contempories also and with as much genuine passion (no really) as the next man.

The thing is I dislike the way I walk!

The reason I dislike it, is because it doesn't match the way I talk.

There is something I've noticed today though, I noticed it yesterday too, my life feels just a tiny bit different. It feels a little like something that I haven't felt for many years, like I'm evolving, growing almost. I ought to say its exciting but the truth is it's not, it's disconcerting, not to mention scary. I am reminded of the dilemma faced by a smoker who is trying to give up, a part of him just wants light another smoke, carry on as normal. Yet another part doesn't want to, for the greater good. It's much like that, a part of me wanting to just carry on as before. Looking back however, I simply don't want to do that anymore. The truth is, I can't do it anymore, my world having recently changed is no longer the same as it once was. There are obstacles in the way, some real and some perceived, I'm unsure of my  ability to tell the difference. Nonetheless I welcome this change, this growth, I want to  stir myself, to lift my feet from the mud, I no longer want to be settled, passive. I want to grow jagged edges, so beware. I'm tired of being pulled back and forth by the waves, being  moulded by the world, rather I desire to mould myself, into somebody that more closely resembles a person I can admire.

Can a Rock remain on a Beach unchanged?

I reached the jetty stopping to watch Yasmine back into her berth. A shaft of sunshine spilled through a chink in the cloud drama overhead, I stood in the sunbeam as though it were a spotlight. The Skylarks were still singing, I turned and started to head for home. There was rain on the river ahead of me,but the sun still shone where the water meets the sky.

April 18th 2014.
Good Friday.


AN ISLAND IN A SEA OF SUNSHINE

Driving along a narrow, winding road, hugging the Trent Bank on our right hand side while flat as a billiard table fields lay to our left. Open and exposed, they presented an expansive and sprawling vista unimpeded by neither hedge nor fence. Naked trees punctuated the scene like stark exclamation marks, basking in the warming sunshine preparing for summers verdant cloak to soften their outline. Overhead the Sun, in a massively wide blue sky, was just beginning its steady descent towards the horizon, quite high as yet and warm still, but the working day was drawing to a close and elastic shadows were lengthening. The uneven road, an ancient route squeezed between river and field, bumped and bucked playfully, forcing us to drive slowly, which we were only too happy to do, savouring every joyful moment of this beautiful sunny, late afternoon. The sun streamed brightly through the windscreen filling us with its warmth, allowing us to drive with the windows down, letting the sweetly fragrant spring air flood in, invigorating and cleansing us, finally banishing the last of winters stuffiness. The undulating ribbon of broken and patched Tarmac meandered gently, drifting away from the bank, a small, white, single story cottage appeared on our right, neat and compact, a short distance from the road. A rough, dirt drive left the road at an acute angle, quickly arriving at a wooden five bar gate. Leaning on the gate a man and a woman looked out across the fields the bright sun on their backs. Perhaps in their late Forties maybe early Fifties, she had shoulder length Chestnut hair, tied back loosely, the work of the day causing  it to spill free from its insecure restraint. She wore a denim shirt open at the neck, she looked healthy and glowed the way one does after a day of satisfying labour, doing something you like. Her arms rested on top of the gate her hands clasped before her, looking at a spot twenty feet in front  she listened, a relaxed smile sat easily on her face. He stood to her right, lean and a just little shorter than she, half turned towards her his short cropped hair shone grey in the sun. His stance was almost identical to hers, but he leaned slightly in her direction, his face animated with good humour, as we approached we could see his lips forming the words that held her attention. A small neatly tended garden clung to all sides of that pretty cottage and beyond that, wide acres of blossoming, yellow flowered Oilseed Rape completely surrounded them. A tiny island, adrift in a dazzling sea of Sunshine. There is absolutely nothing, nor any combination of things; no amount of stuff in the whole of this world, that is equal in wealth to five seconds, of leaning on that gate, at the end of a day such as this, with your squeeze by your side, just chewing the fat. That scene, briefly seen, beautiful in its timeless simplicity caught in my throat, I looked across at the old man sat beside me, he saw it too. He didn't say so, but I knew, I could see it in his face. In his eyes I could see he wanted to say, but he daren't, he too saw that beauty and it stirred memories not deeply concealed, he wanted to speak, just to say that it was a nice image, but he remained silent. You see, no matter how hard he tried to keep his voice controlled and even, the short sentence would have started falteringly and ended in wet sobs. His eyes met mine for a brief moment; I knew; he knew I knew, he turned his head away, silently and looked out the window. We bounced along the road, talked about the weather, how things have changed since he was a boy, he used to know this land around here, but now he forgets. Shortly after we arrived in Gainsborough meeting my brother and his wife accompanied by their son and his fiancée, where we enjoyed a very convivial Fish and chip supper. As we drove home that brief moment came up again, he wanted to talk about it, his eyes filled with tears and sadness. It's a hard road and long, it's not going to get any better, confused and bewildered he's not handling it very well. Love and light to him, for what it's worth.

 9th August2013



FONTAINEBLEAU BOULDERING



After a long day on the road we arrived at a camp site just outside of Milly de foret, 70 km south of Paris in the Forest of Fontainebleau. The site called "Musardiere" is a rag tag collection of tatty caravans some looking as though they have been here for many years and are slowly being reclaimed by nature, set amongst tall Oak and Birch trees. The sun filters through the green canopy of leaves, shafts of light dappling the sandy forest floor with luminescent patches that dance as the trees sway in the light wind. There are many climbers camped amongst the trees, tents of all shapes, sizes and colour scattered here and there, Bouldering mats leaning drunkenly against tree trunks, whilst many slack lines span between them like spider webs. The place has a nice laid back ambiance to it, the sounds of laughter and music drift on the warm air. It reminds me some what, of the infamous camp 4 in Yosemite.

In the morning we walked down the road for three quarters of a mile then cut into the woods following a sandy track that wound through the trees. We soon heard the sound of voices and very quickly came upon the first of the famous Sandstone boulders in an area known as the "Gorges au Chat". We picked a way through scrub and trees into a maze formed by the ten to fifteen feet high boulders as an intricate network of paths twisted it way amongst them. We soon identified some of the problems, musing about how hard they looked. We selected a couple of promising looking routes and donned our boots, we immediately learned a sharp lesson, the routes here are incredibly hard. Massively explosive moves on really sloping hand holds, whilst feet scrabble and flail looking for grip on tiny holds that have been polished to a high sheen by countless scores of feet leads to smooth rounded tops which leave you belly flopping inelegantly, gasping for breath from the exertion.
We had a day of this, it's a wonderful place and the bouldering is truly fantastic but bloody 'ard. When we left we had shredded finger tips and aching arms weak with fatigue.
Back at the campsite we jumped into the fabulous swimming pool which is without doubt the main attraction of this site, it was heaven.

The following day we did the same cutting into the woods at a different place we wandered through pretty forest for an hour, slightly lost but enjoying the relaxing walk and especially the peace. Sandy paths curled through the trees and around overgrown boulders, as yet undeveloped by boulderers, the air was fresh and clean, gossamer threads strung across the path glinted brightly in the sunshine, easy to avoid whilst unseen ones snagged across our faces. A rustle in the carpet of dead leaves on the soft forest floor betrayed the secret movements of a snake which writhed yoga like under a rotting branch to stay hidden from curious eyes. Eventually we ended up at a different area known as "Canche" it was equally as hard as the day before but more popular so the holds were even more polished and even more slippery. Muscles still not recovered from yesterday initially protested at the effort but after a while we settled into the groove. Jack and Rick soon burned out and I ended up bouldering alone. I stopped to share a sandwich with Rick and a rather neatly trimmed dog that instantly became my best friend, at least while the sandwich lasted. I found a new reserve of energy and hauled, balanced and pressed my way up another half dozen problems, the last of which was desperately hard and one I was sure I was going to fall off. I did managed to stay on but was completely spent by now, so we gathered our stuff together and walked back to the site chatting about what a good trip it's been. Another dip in the pool was followed by a very nice Tea prepared by Maggie.
With a heavy heart we will begin the journey home tomorrow. We have had a Fab time. It'll be good to see Colette and Steve and maybe next year we can persuade them to come with us and indulge in a little insanity, it's good for the soul.