A little 2-minute poem about a brief moment. I could probably do better, but I'm tired...
Light through the window to painted walls,
Faces of joy or sorrow through silken shawls,
This unfinished work tells more than its whole;
The loss and the hardship, the troubled soul,
And standing a'sudden by me in the rain,
Is a mournful-eyed girl smiling through pain...
"What beauty can come from a story untold,"
I say, and her arms they begin to unfold,
"I'd say that was true, but he was my Dad,"
Says the bright sombre girl to this naive little lad,
But the hippie inside me knows just what to do,
I give her a hug, and she hugs me too.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Why "Cool Camping" is Evil
As any good lover of the picturesque will tell you, place is important. The fast pace and terrifying briefness of our lives leave us grasping, knuckle-reddened, to the locations of our favourite memories. From the dizzying fumbles of first love in Spring glades, to the hot tears of heartbreak amplified by the staring throng of a street, the map becomes coloured with emotion. And so it is with my attachment to a camp-site on Dartmoor.
For seven years I have been going there to escape my worldly concerns; to flounce about in billowing cotton shirts, accompanied by the strains of a badly-tuned guitar and the erratic crackle of a camp-fire. On one occasion I received a gift of a Paua shell pendant, and have since worn it near-constantly, as a handy reminder of my happy place. I often toy with it, or kiss it, when I'm low, stressed, or just feeling vulnerable. Friends and lovers have come and gone, but Widecombe has always remained, unchanging; true.
Eastern systems of thought teach us to see the world as a constantly shifting thing, and the sands of an estuary provide a trite analogy. Generally I seem to have been able to adopt this philosophy, as a way of helping me to cope with grief elsewhere. But something about that place is different. Beneath the high oak and ash, on the banks of that gently gurgling stream, lay my secret garden. My new rationale never thought to impose itself there, and the Old Religion held sway.
But this week I arrived there with a friend, ready to show her the delights of my Shangri-La, only to find that several unwelcome changes had also arrived. The price increase, though a little irksome, I could live with. The place has always had the feel of a side concern for retired farmers, and the low price and inadequate facilities were part of that backwater charm. But the site also seemed quite busy, which I found more alarming. Worse, however, were the simple laminated signs bearing the bulk of my disappointment: "Sorry, no fires."
Fire has always been a source of fascination for me. The simple combination of a fire, mead, friends and song conjures up an image of archaic, tribal man. I almost believe that we're biologically hard-wired to feel safe and fulfilled around a fire. The mellow yellow light, the mellow burnt marsh-mallows, the flattering fall of light and shade on faces otherwise imperfect... it's enough to make me wax lyrically. I gain so little true pleasure from life that moments such as these are treasured, but the modern world contains worryingly few of them. Was this new no-fire rule part of the much vaunted theory of 'elf'n'safety creep? Or was there a correlation with the number of campers?
Beth informed me that the site had been listed in "Cool Camping", a book for young London trendies off on their jollies, of which I had heard. The rage built up inside, and I began to throw mental spume in the writers' direction. "What sort of irresponsible person values backwater simplicity, writes a book about it, and implores a large readership to go there?" A poor one, is the knowing answer, but it still doesn't suffice. It appears almost callous to treat these hidden gems as though they would stay hidden forever no matter how many people were told of their existence. And so the advertising people come down with their faux tipis, the marketing people and the publishers bring their Establishment-Issue Volkswagens, and the place is ruined forever.
Now before I get too carried away I have to temper this with a caveat: the next site we visited was recommended to Beth in the very same book. It was excellent. Nestled in a beautiful valley on Exmoor, surrounded by the upland heath itself, the whole scene turned blue in the evening from the welcome plumes of, yes... woodsmoke. It was more expensive, but had better facilities. They even sold logs and marsh-mallows. The whole site seemed geared towards the fire, rather than the happy flames being something they only grudgingly put up with. And, crucially for a site for future visits, it is large enough to cope with a much greater influx and not be ruined. The narrow strip of camping fields, following the river, combines a feeling of humane smallness with a hidden, practical reality of space.
But before you get either too worried by my apparent hypocrisy, or too excited at the thought of visiting, I refuse to tell you all where it is. That, dear reader, would not be responsible stewardship of a sacred place.
For seven years I have been going there to escape my worldly concerns; to flounce about in billowing cotton shirts, accompanied by the strains of a badly-tuned guitar and the erratic crackle of a camp-fire. On one occasion I received a gift of a Paua shell pendant, and have since worn it near-constantly, as a handy reminder of my happy place. I often toy with it, or kiss it, when I'm low, stressed, or just feeling vulnerable. Friends and lovers have come and gone, but Widecombe has always remained, unchanging; true.
Eastern systems of thought teach us to see the world as a constantly shifting thing, and the sands of an estuary provide a trite analogy. Generally I seem to have been able to adopt this philosophy, as a way of helping me to cope with grief elsewhere. But something about that place is different. Beneath the high oak and ash, on the banks of that gently gurgling stream, lay my secret garden. My new rationale never thought to impose itself there, and the Old Religion held sway.
But this week I arrived there with a friend, ready to show her the delights of my Shangri-La, only to find that several unwelcome changes had also arrived. The price increase, though a little irksome, I could live with. The place has always had the feel of a side concern for retired farmers, and the low price and inadequate facilities were part of that backwater charm. But the site also seemed quite busy, which I found more alarming. Worse, however, were the simple laminated signs bearing the bulk of my disappointment: "Sorry, no fires."
Fire has always been a source of fascination for me. The simple combination of a fire, mead, friends and song conjures up an image of archaic, tribal man. I almost believe that we're biologically hard-wired to feel safe and fulfilled around a fire. The mellow yellow light, the mellow burnt marsh-mallows, the flattering fall of light and shade on faces otherwise imperfect... it's enough to make me wax lyrically. I gain so little true pleasure from life that moments such as these are treasured, but the modern world contains worryingly few of them. Was this new no-fire rule part of the much vaunted theory of 'elf'n'safety creep? Or was there a correlation with the number of campers?
Beth informed me that the site had been listed in "Cool Camping", a book for young London trendies off on their jollies, of which I had heard. The rage built up inside, and I began to throw mental spume in the writers' direction. "What sort of irresponsible person values backwater simplicity, writes a book about it, and implores a large readership to go there?" A poor one, is the knowing answer, but it still doesn't suffice. It appears almost callous to treat these hidden gems as though they would stay hidden forever no matter how many people were told of their existence. And so the advertising people come down with their faux tipis, the marketing people and the publishers bring their Establishment-Issue Volkswagens, and the place is ruined forever.
Now before I get too carried away I have to temper this with a caveat: the next site we visited was recommended to Beth in the very same book. It was excellent. Nestled in a beautiful valley on Exmoor, surrounded by the upland heath itself, the whole scene turned blue in the evening from the welcome plumes of, yes... woodsmoke. It was more expensive, but had better facilities. They even sold logs and marsh-mallows. The whole site seemed geared towards the fire, rather than the happy flames being something they only grudgingly put up with. And, crucially for a site for future visits, it is large enough to cope with a much greater influx and not be ruined. The narrow strip of camping fields, following the river, combines a feeling of humane smallness with a hidden, practical reality of space.
But before you get either too worried by my apparent hypocrisy, or too excited at the thought of visiting, I refuse to tell you all where it is. That, dear reader, would not be responsible stewardship of a sacred place.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
The Train
oh the thrill of the train,
the speed of the train,
the clitter-clat down the hill of the train,
oh the rush!
the breathless hush,
oh the thrill of the train!
the speed of the train,
the clitter-clat down the hill of the train,
oh the rush!
the breathless hush,
oh the thrill of the train!
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