Sunday 27 April 2014

Arran's Standing Stones



Wind whips grassy waves

Skylark trails spirals of song

Tall stones slice the sun



The sky darkens over the mountains to the north, but to our left, in the east, the sea sparkles. A strong wind buffets us as we tramp over the coarse tussocks of marsh grass.  Oliver’s small hand is warm in mine; he pushes his face into his coat, retreating from the cold.  William runs ahead, excited by the sense of discovery. The grass ripples in a golden ocean, William’s red coat billows like a spinnaker.  Our ears ache with the incessant wind.



We startle a skylark, and it explodes into indignant song, climbing in jerky, breathless bursts high into the vivid blue sky.   We reach the first stone circle and crouch behind the largest stones, taking a moment’s rest from the wind’s onslaught. Concentric rings of rounded grey boulders nestle in the rough grass, with gaps here and there like missing teeth.



Respite over, we continue across the exposed curve of the moor towards the standing stones.  They punctuate the land, slicing through the grass and reaching towards the sky. Crisp shadows spring out where they meet the earth.



The little hand slips from mine and the boys run together, stumbling as their feet catch in the bracken. They reach the stones and their excited cries carry back to us on the wind. They run between the stones, flattening their bodies against them, pressing palms and cheeks into their pitted flanks.



‘Why are they here?’ they ask.



The wind whips our hair into our faces. The clouds hang heavy over the mountains. The skylarks sing regardless into the blue sky. The stones stand on the moor, defying four millennia.  



They are the question, and the answer.

Sunday 20 April 2014

A Walk

I stand under the petrol station canopy, watching the rain as it bounces off the already deep puddles and wonder if the walk was such a good idea after all.
Planning it in the dry and warmth of the kitchen, maps laid out across the table, it had seemed straightforward. Catch the train, get off, walk, find somewhere to stay - a short break without any planning really.
But I'd forgotten to allow for the rain - and I call myself a walker!
I finish the last mouthful of BLT sandwich, my gourmet lunch, courtesy of the garage shop. I take off my rucksack and reach in for my waterproof trousers. Balancing on one booted foot, the other comes to a halt, halfway through its journey down the trouser leg. I almost topple, but manage to force my foot through to freedom. The second foot is no easier. I'm sweating and tell myself for the umpteenth time to take my boots off before going through this performance.
Mission completed, I rest against some bags of barbecue charcoal and get my breath. Gloves on, hat on, complete with earflaps, I set off through the forecourt mini-lake and reach the safety of the pavement. I hear a bus struggling up the hill behind me and instinctively stick out a hand. I'm in luck, there's a stop close by and the bus waits for me.
As we make slow, roundabout, progress through the mist and the murk, I begin to overheat and only then remember to take off my gloves, hat and jacket. The trousers are staying on, no matter how warm it gets. Gradually the rain eases before, miraculously, stopping. I press the bell and step off the bus into the dry. I pinpoint the village on my still soggy map, cross the road, find the waymarker and I'm off.
The sun begins to ease through the clouds as I pass the gas plant and head for the sea. The lighthouse stands alone, retired and a little the worse for wear. The weather's now hot and in tee-shirt and waterproof trousers, I walk miles along the desterted beach, amused by the signs which tell me the sand dunes are unstable cliffs, to be avoided. There's a sound of oyster catchers and far out across the bay the sight of the slowly turning blades of the windfarm.
Hours later I'm peering through the fading evening light at the 'vacancies' sign of a B and B. The downpour has re-started and I stand in rain-slicked clothes, and ear-flapped hat, water dripping from my bearded chin, waiting for someone to answer the door. Eventually it opens and a large man wearing a buttoned waistcoat underneath a green cardigan, eyes me apprehensively. Whatever guest test he's setting, I don't pass muster. He tells me that unfortunately he has only a family suite available, that I'll have to try elsewhere. But when a casual question, as I'm departing, elicits the crucial information that I'm walking the Welsh Coastal Path, a single room suddenly materialises.He tells me it's quite a challenge, all 870 miles of it. I nod and agree.
The Taj Mahal is brightly lit and as I re-hydrate with Indian lager and put another forkful of potato and spinach curry in my mouth, I study the map and plan the second - and final - day of my epic walk.

Monday 14 April 2014

An African Night


Just for a moment, take some time out from writing, or thinking about writing, or reading about writing, or avoiding writing and let me take you somewhere else.  For a few seconds, let me whisk you away to the depths of.....

An African Night

The dense black sky holds you tightly in its grip.  It tempts you with effervescent stars, beckoning you to faraway galaxies.

As you gaze up at worlds which are long dead, the sounds resonating here below remind you of life on the edge.  The distant throaty, rumbling roar of a male lion proclaiming his territory.  The whoop whoop of snorting zebra, uneasy at the presence of predators.  The honking sound of hippos emerging from their jacuzzi to take a midnight stroll and check out their favourite eating places.  The small pond, quiet and peaceful during the day, now allowing its population of frogs to raise their voices in a chorus of amphibian passion, their love songs filling the air.

The hubbub of sounds that lets you know that this is no ordinary night.  This is an African night.  It is bursting at the seams with life.  You cannot see any of it under the inkiness of the moonless sky, but you can hear it everywhere.  You are reminded how microscopic you are in this wonderful place, this birthplace of humanity, this land boiling with delights.  This Africa.



Monday 7 April 2014

The North-South Divide



I read in the paper about a North-South divide in house prices. The divide is not new, but over time it takes different forms. I grew up in a North-South divide household in a London suburb. My father was a displaced, domino-playing Yorkshireman. My mother was a committed southerner, and hated it when we traveled too far north. She associated the North with grime and poverty. I loved the trips to Bradford when I visited my grandparents because it was a completely different world, one where I struggled to understand what people were saying; a world which provided a sharp contrast, visually, with my modern, suburban surroundings.




PARADISE LOST

Down at the bottom of the Northern Line
Is a thirties estate where the weather is fine.
Dad gets the tube at seven thirty

And Mum stays at home so that nothing gets dirty.

Mock Tudor houses have lawns and wooden fences
The streets are lined with blossom trees, the parks have bins and benches.
The gutter sparrows cheep all day, the ash cans clash and crunch
The rag and bone man’s carthorse has a nose bag for his lunch.

Out of school I roam the park, would we see the flasher?
And splodge along the River Wandle looking for some treasure.
I know I live in paradise, I’ve been up North you see
Where everything is black with soot, and you go outside to pee.

My sister, tall and grown up, she says we live in Mordor
And eating greens at Sunday lunch is a form of torture.
There’s a scene, I go upstairs, the box room of the house
And listen to the radio with Georgy Girl, my mouse.

My sister has a boyfriend, disapproved by mother,
They only go out to the stock cars if she takes her brother.
I have to go to keep the peace, I sit all quiet and squirm
But secretly it is good fun to watch them crash and burn.

She wants to leave, she hates this place, she calls me ‘ugly toad’.
I want to marry Zena Marsh and live just down the road.
My sister lived in Mordor whilst I lived in heaven.
Sister dear was sweet sixteen and I was just eleven.