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.