Nepal – Annapurna Region (Reblog)

On By Mick CanningIn Annapurna, Himalaya, mountains, Nepal, travel14 Comments

In 1988 I went to Nepal for the first time, travelling by bus from Delhi to Kathmandu. Although the trip took almost 2 days, and the bus was particularly uncomfortable, it was one of the most spectacular journeys I have ever taken, and a most remarkable experience.

And then I trekked the Annapurna circuit, still considered by many to be one of the 10 classic treks of the world. It took 24 days to complete, and from the time we left Ghorka, until the day we walked down into Pokhara, we were travelling entirely on footpaths and saw no vehicles of any description.

Part of the walk is now over a new road, and whilst this is surely welcome to the inhabitants of the region, I suspect that it takes away a little of the magic of the trek.

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Village near Manang (posibly Mungji), on the Marsyandi River, close to the Annapurnas. In many ways, a typical Nepalese mountain village, it is built on man-made terraces, up steeply sloping mountainside, to avoid using any of the precious farmland available in the valley.

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View from Poon Hill. Poon Hill lies a little to the west of Ghorapani on the river Ghora (pani being water), west of the Annapurnas. Sunrise there consequently occurs behind the Annapurna peaks, including the spectacular Machhapuchhare, or ‘fishtail’ peaks. That said, this shot was taken towards the west, looking across the Kali Gandaki valley.

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This is dawn, though. Machhapuchhare and its double peak are shown clearly on the left.

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Mountains and glacial lake from the village of Manang.

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Lower down, the land is heavily terraced, fertile land being at such a premium that every available bit is used. These rice paddies are near the village of Chepe Ghat, on the Marsayandi River.

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Chorten. Chortens, or stupas as they are also commonly known, usually contain relics of saints or priests. The original stupas held relics of the Buddha, such as at the Temple of the Tooth, at Kandy, Sri Lanka.

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Mountains near the village of Muktinath. In the rain-shadow, here, the landscape is that of a high altitude desert.

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Mani stones on the Annapurna trail. Mani stones may be carved, painted or both, and serve a similar function to prayer flags, in that they either have a prayer or mantra carved on them (typically ‘Om Mani Padme Hum’ – from which the name ‘Mani Stone’ comes from – meaning ‘Hail to the jewel in the heart of the lotus’ i.e. The Buddha) or they may have a picture of the Buddha himself. Although they may be encountered singly or in small numbers by shrines or at Gompas, at times they make up huge walls containing many hundreds of stones, some of which may have been there for hundreds of years. These walls, like shrines or any other Buddhist relics encountered here, are passed on the left.

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Houses at Manang.

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The Upper reaches of the Marsayandi, looking down to Manang.

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Snowed in below Thorung La. Not an unusual occurrence. Thorung La is at 5415m (17,700ft). We arrived at our campsite early afternoon with the ground clear of snow and the sun out. This was the scene a couple of hours later, delaying our crossing the pass (‘La’ is Tibetan for ‘Pass’) by 24 hours.

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Crossing Thorung La. On the day we crossed the pass, we left camp just after 4 in the morning, and were down the other side by late afternoon.

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Looking west (and down!) from Thorung La). On this side of the pass there is far less precipitation and the land is noticeably drier. This is looking towards Muktinath.

In Another Lifetime I Could Have Been…(1)

On By Mick CanningIn dreams, music24 Comments

…a folk musician.

There are any number of reasons why I haven’t become one in this lifetime, only one being a lack of any obvious talent. Perhaps if I hadn’t gone abroad when I did, I might have inveigled myself into a group of musicians and played a little more, and a little more regularly. Perhaps if I’d practised more I’d have been a little better! Perhaps if I’d actually learned to read music properly I could have learned more tunes properly. Who knows?

I could play both the guitar and mandolin fairly competently, if nothing more. It has been many years now, though, since I owned either – or a fiddle or a whistle either, come to that, both of which I had pretensions of being able to play, at least a little. I still play a pretty mean air mandolin, though, and my air guitar licks would put Richard Thompson to shame, although so far I’ve had limited success with my Henry Parker air guitarwork – unfortunately he uses a different tuning. I am occasionally tempted to buy another mandolin, or perhaps a guitar, but if I’m realistic I have to admit I would never devote the time to them that would be required. It’s going to remain one of those dreams realised only in my imagination.

But a note for that other lifetime: I’m not one of those folk who have to be the very best at whatever they attempt, otherwise they feel it isn’t worth the effort. I wouldn’t have to be a star, I’d be content to be a session musician, a backing musician. Just to make a living doing something you love is awesome and something not given to many. Or not even to make a living, perhaps, just to make music with others is a delight and I could still be happy with it being a spare time occupation.

So, sticking to going to gigs and listening to CDs this time around.

Old

On By Mick CanningIn poetry, writing18 Comments

God’s bones.

Cold stone skin covering

A hewn wooden ribcage that

Conceals a petrified heart.

A fossilised giant wallowing in a garden

Growing nothing but death.

.

We know we will get old

But it takes you by surprise all the same.

Perhaps we refuse to see the signs –

Unexpected offers of assistance,

A sudden inability to run for the bus and

A need to take more frequent breaks.

We become fragile,

And lose confidence in our abilities.

.

Perhaps we lack courage, but

Must we resort to this?

.

Really, only the young want to live forever.

Oh, the tedium of eternity

Where angels yearn for the peace of annihilation!

We have a choice;

At the end we have a chance to be brave.

At Tunbridge Wells Literary Festival

On By Mick CanningIn books, Exhibitions, Literary festival, Tunbridge Wells30 Comments

Tunbridge Wells now boasts a literary festival. Over four days this year it hosts talks from well-known writers such as Michael Rosen, Michael Parkinson and Sheila Hancock. But not just the big names.

Yesterday was the day local writers could book a table and hawk their wares. It’s been some time since I’ve taken part in one of these, in fact, I’ve only done it once before, I think. When I used to regularly have paintings in exhibitions, I spent a lot of time essentially doing the same thing – chatting to other painters, talking to members of the public who might buy a painting and generally ‘networking’ (I still find that a slightly silly word). Although talking about Making Friends with the Crocodile did have another effect – it reminded me again that I’m beginning to feel I ought to take one final trip to India, sometime.

Anyway, I think I should probably do one of these more often. Did I sell armfuls of books? No, but I sold a few. I had some good conversations with members of the public and other writers, It also seems to have the effect of energising my commitment to writing, which is something that happened to my painting at exhibitions, too. Talking about my books and projects encourages me to focus afresh on them and, basically, get my finger out and get on with it, which can’t be a bad thing.

So, I’d better get on with it.

Ah, Bluebells

On By Mick CanningIn bluebells, flowers, summer28 Comments

At the weekend we went for a walk to look at the bluebells. Nothing else was happening, so it seemed a good opportunity. They always look superb in this wood a couple of miles away from where we live and the sun even came out for a while. I reckon we might just be into Summer, now.

May Day Mayhem

On By Mick CanningIn Beltane, caught by the river, Folk traditions, Jack in the Green, May day, summer, sussex33 Comments

The May Day festival, Beltane, is a survival, or revival, from the Iron Age, celebrated in Celtic communities – Scotland and Ireland particularly – and revived as a full festival in Scotland in the 1980’s by the Beltane Fire Society. Beltane was a fire festival, although nothing of that remains in the festivities carried out in England. Beltane was first mentioned by name in Irish writings from the late 800’s / early 900’s.

The English version of this festival involves cutting flowers and greenery and dancing around a maypole, which things are also carried out during Beltane, celebrating the beginning of Summer which begins on May 1st. When I was a child, dancing around the maypole was the chief, possibly only, activity carried out on May Day. I have a photograph of my brother, my cousin, and myself, dressed up for the May Day Fair at which there was maypole dancing, but no obvious indication of surplus greenery. Past generations in England celebrated May Day with a day of celebrations which while including maypole dancing as an important manifestation of encouraging the fertility of the soil (and the festival-goers!) would also have included plenty of food and drink and general gaiety.

Mayhem, if you like.

This year, I managed two May Day days out.

On Saturday, two days before May Day, I visited Kingston near Lewes, in Sussex, for the Caught by the River Mayday event. Caught by the River describe themselves as an arts/nature/culture clash and you can read all about them here. I have followed them now for several years, and this seems as good a time as any to mention that their coverage of arts, nature, and culture are second to none and if you’re not yet following them, well, you should be.

There was mask-making to begin with, especially to involve the children, the makers encouraged to incorporate flowers and greenery into their masks, and almost inevitably a certain amount of folk-horror found its way into some of these.

Nice, Richard.

This was followed by a promenade around the maypole, after which the activity moved indoors.

There were films, talks, and discussions, subjects including rivers, village life in the early eighteenth century, art, standing stones and the like, and the environment. After which, in the late afternoon, we all promenaded up the hillside to the Gurdy Stone.

This is the Gurdy Stone, a modern standing stone on a hillside overlooking Kingston. Here, Local Psycho (Jem Finer and Jimmy Cauty), held a gathering to encode the music of their Hurdy Gurdy song into the stone “To mark the 50,000 year return of the Green Comet and release of The Hurdy-Gurdy song on Heavenly Recordings.”

Throughout the day, naturally, we all had access to the pub.

And then on Monday, which was May Day, we went down to Hastings. It rather felt as though everyone in South East England must be in the town, either at the Jack in the Green festivities or watching blokes on motorbikes roaring up and down the seafront for no discernible reason. I don’t much like crowds, and some of this was very difficult. But away from the huge horsepower and testosterone nonsense, amongst the Jack in the Green celebrations the atmosphere was brilliant and the large numbers of people perfectly acceptable. Jack in the Green is a manifestation of the spirit of spring, related to the Green Man, a dancing figure covered in greenery.

The festival in Hastings has grown over the years into a large event involving musicians, dancers, Morris sides, huge figures in addition to Jack in the Green such as the Queen of the May, a witch, and others, plus any number of people joining in the procession around the town, all decorated with as much, or as little, greenery and/or flowers as they feel suitable.

There you go, a Morris side.

Followed by a large witch with a cat. Why the witch? I’ve no idea. Why not? I suppose.

And there you have it. Music. Drumming. Greenery. Crowd involvement. Summer is icumen in and winter’s gone away-o.

And there was beer again, of course.

Belief Systems and Rain

On By Mick CanningIn Beliefs, Buddhism, Christianity, natural world, Religion21 Comments

I had a conversation with a blogging friend a few days ago, in the course of which she asked me if I knew why it was that so many Westerners seemed drawn to Eastern beliefs, especially the more ‘esoteric’ ones.

I briefly mentioned the fascination the East has held for Westerners throughout history, and the fact that many in the West have drawn away from traditional religion – specifically Christianity – in the last fifty or sixty years especially, and that leaves a void: when you have been brought up within a belief system, that needs to be replaced by something. The Beatles nudged a whole generation in that direction by visiting the Maharishi in Rishikesh in the 1960’s / 1970’s, and there followed a whole slew of books on the subject, many seeming to want to outdo the others in sheer weirdness. But even before that there had been a lot of interest in both Buddhism and Hinduism from the late Victorian period onward, with a number of popular books available.

I can’t claim to be immune to this, either. I also rejected Christianity long ago, but felt I needed something to take its place despite deciding the concept of gods had no place in my life. The world is a wonderful and incredibly beautiful and fascinating place, all of which is explained perfectly well by science. But I do need something to satisfy the spiritual part of me – a part that, surely, all of us have?

I have read a lot about Buddhism, and for a long while thought of myself as a Buddhist. In a way, I still do, although I can’t entirely buy into the belief sets of any of the three major schools of Buddhism. But I did read Buddhism Without Beliefs by Stephen Batchelor. I can’t remember the details of the book, but that is unimportant, it’s the message of the title in this case. I like Buddhism. I like its core message, which pared down to basics is simply to be kind to everyone and everything. It is the only religion I know that has no need for gods. Oh, sure, they’re there if you want them, but no one is ordering you to have one.

This doesn’t have to be ‘esoteric’ or ‘eastern’, either. It can apply just as well here in the west. And it doesn’t require sacred writings or rituals, I find poetry or a walk in the woods does just as well for me.

I’m listening to the heavy rain as I write this – which is something that seems to happen a lot at the moment, but is something I find particularly soothing. I wonder at the origins of this; is it something primeval, hidden deep in my DNA from the times we lived in caves or rough shelters and we could take comfort from the fact we were snug, and perhaps large sharp-toothed beasts were taking a similar break somewhere and not out looking for early humans to eat? Or is it perhaps just a forgotten memory of a very calming experience I once had, which my subconscious has decided to hang onto for my benefit, but without telling me why? I am aware of a few of the times I’ve experienced it, such as lying in a tent at night hearing the pounding of the rain on the canvas, with a wonderful feeling of warmth and snugness. Then there was another time in the mountains of Spain, coming across an abandoned cottage just as a rainstorm hit and spending the next half an hour or so just sitting on a bench and leaning against the wall, listening to the rain and thinking. I’m sure there must be many more.

In these rainstorms, I feel as though I’m immersed in nature – something that always makes me feel calm and relaxed, and which is but a step from what the Japanese call Forest Bathing. Forest Bathing is essentially taking a walk in woodland, using all your senses to connect with that environment. This reminds me strongly of meditation, especially meditation as I learned it in a Buddhist environment, which is where I’m going with all this rambling. If I have an actual religion now, it has to be nature. A belief in nature as something important, beneficial and precious. I wouldn’t ‘worship’ nature – ‘worship’, for me, has connotations of supplicants on bended knees with hands clasped together intoning religious dogma and praying, but I do have strong feelings of respect and admiration for nature, which I suppose you could call the same thing.

It just seems a pity that more people don’t seem able to accord it the same respect.

In All Weathers

On By Mick CanningIn South Downs Way, sussex, walking53 Comments

We’ve been on the South Downs again.

That’s why you haven’t heard from me for a while. Here’re a few pictures.

We began walking from Amberley this time, and on the first day the weather was pretty meh. It was either raining or starting to rain or just deciding when to rain. But, as always, the Downs looked fantastic. This view reminded me of a Roland Hilder painting:

But it got steadily wetter throughout the day. We took a very welcome break in the Frankland Arms in Washington and if I was writing a pub review it would get five stars – especially as it served Harvey’s Old Ale. But I only allowed myself one of those, as we still had some serious mileage to do. And it was, as noted, getting wetter. We approached Chanctonbury Ring:

And as we began the descent from the top, the saddest part of the journey. We walked among a large number of ash trees, all of which were dead or dying from Ash Dieback disease. It looked like a picture of the Somme.

The next day was dull, but at least it was dry. We walked past the Devil’s Dyke which I never seem to be able to get a good picture of, no matter which angle I take it at. The Devil’s Dyke is so-called because for some reason the Devil wanted to destroy Sussex, and got talking to Saint Dunstan and asked him the best way to do it. Why he did that I can’t imagine. Never ask a saint for advice if you’re the Devil. It won’t end well. Anyway, Saint D suggested he dig a channel through the South Downs and flood it. Right, thought Old Nick, and set to work. Saint D let him toil away for a few hours and then caused all the cocks in Sussex to crow. Thinking it was morning, Old Nick threw down his shovel, twirled his moustaches and hissed ‘Curses, foiled again!’

Alternatively, it might have been caused by melt-water during the ice age, but why spoil a good legend?

And the best weather? During our rest day in Lewes. And, oh look! There’s the Harvey’s Brewery! What a good rest day.

The following day was dull again as we left Lewes, and by now quite a sharp wind was blowing – into our faces too, unfortunately. But we had a pretty decent day and passed this church in Southease, one of only two (I think) in England with a round tower outside of Norfolk. The other is in nearby Lewes.

The final day began sunny but again with a sharp and unkind wind. We left Alfriston with its church on the edge of the village by the river and headed towards the coast. On the South Downs away to our right we passed a white horse carved into the chalk.

Soon we were up onto the Downs again, for the final walk into Eastbourne over the Seven Sisters and Beachy Head. I tend to forget how tiring this leg can be, going continually uphill then downhill for the best part of six miles. For some reason, although we could see the Belle Tout lighthouse in the distance, it never seemed to get any nearer. Once I could do this leg of the walk easily, but…getting a little older…

An always fantastic view, though. Here we’re looking back across the Seven Sisters towards Seaford Head.

After all that, we could do with a holiday.

A Quiet Place

On By Mick CanningIn Buddhism, hermits, Philosophy, retreat49 Comments

Hermits have long gone out of fashion, which is rather a shame. At one time I think I might have viewed it as a good career choice. It had its perks; accommodation was provided, usually in the form of a rude hut (that’s rude as in rudimentary, of course, not because there were obscene drawings on the walls. Although heaven knows what the hut’s occupant might have been driven to in the long winter months…) or a romantically ruined building, food was generally provided, although I suspect that within the job description for a hermit it would have been set out that nourishment came in the form of gruel and acorns rather than an a la carte menu, and people generally left you alone to get on with hermitty things. The downside, though, was what those hermitty things consisted of. There would have been long hours of prayer and contemplation, and I think even if the weather was crap, the hermit would be expected to be out in it praying and contemplating – probably contemplating a hot meal, a hot bath and a warm bed. The estate’s owners and guests would expect to view you hermitting, which you’d have to put up with whenever that might occur – probably every time you felt least like hermitting. The rude hut probably leaked and had an earth floor and nowhere to light a fire and you’d probably have to dig a hole in the woods every time you needed a crap and if the estate servants were late bringing the gruel or even forgot about it altogether, I doubt you’d be welcome going up to the Big House to complain.

I’ve no idea whether the terms and conditions of employment were ever open to negotiation, but if the position still existed today, I’m sure they would be. Hopefully, the profession would have been unionised and today’s hermit could look forward to comfortable lodgings with regular meals, well out of the way of the noise and hubbub of society.

But I didn’t intend to talk about hermits, it just kind of happened. We’ve finally got some decent weather here, and yesterday I was walking through a village in the sunshine and idly thinking there are two situations in which I reckon I could renounce the world. One is in somewhere like Kathmandu in the Buddhist temples there. I’ve always had such a profound feeling of peace and stillness in these places. Buddhism is the only set of beliefs I’ve ever really been attracted to, although more as a philosophy of life than as a religion. I can’t do religion. The world is beautiful and amazing enough without throwing imaginary beings into the mix. But Buddhism is more about being a better person and looking after the world and everyone and everything in it. I could melt into that environment without too much difficulty. At least for a while.

The other situation, especially on an English summer’s afternoon in the countryside, is to retreat to somewhere remote and live a simple life away from the world as much as is practical. I’ve probably told you that before. That’s where the hermit thoughts came in.

But sadly, as already mentioned, hermits aren’t a thing anymore. Not in this country, at least. There are openings available in various other countries, but I don’t think I’m ready to explore those options. Perhaps I’ll just go for another walk.

He’s Big, He’s Bad, He’s Very, Very, Bad

On By Mick CanningIn Fairy tales, poetry, Red Riding Hood, satire, wolf22 Comments

I wrote this four or five years ago, but having name-checked nursery rhymes, folk songs, folklore and the like over the past few weeks, now seemed like a good time to post it.

The BBW

or He’s big, he’s bad, he’s very, very, bad

That Big Bad Wolf – it now appears

We’ve had it wrong for all these years.

You know the way the story goes

He dresses up in grandma’s clothes

After he’s had her for his lunch

(they make much play of how he’d crunch

Her up and then he’d gulp her down,

Then put on sleeping cap and gown,

Get into bed, pretend to sleep,

I’m sure he never counted sheep!)

Then in comes young Red Riding Hood,

Who travels blithely through the wood,

So innocent – without a care,

Apparently, she’s not aware

It’s full of perils – hungry wolves

Who dress up in old women’s clothes

To name but one – there’s more, no doubt.

But any one would catch her out.

She’s pretty thick, it must be said,

She sees a big bad wolf in bed

Instead of being cross and furious

She stands there looking vaguely curious

Says ‘What big eyes you’ve got today.’

Is that all she can think to say?

Big eyes? Big eyes? Well, what about

The pointed ears, the great long snout,

Did she not have the slightest thought

This might not be the one who ought

To welcome her to Primrose cottage,

That frail old woman in her dotage?

And what about – ah yes, the teeth.

You knew we’d get around to teeth

Before too long – I think you’d say

About the pearlies on display

It would not take much of a guess

To know that they weren’t NHS.

And so back to that gormless youth

Who stands there staring at the wolf

With no great wonder or surprise

Except to say he had BIG EYES!

And now I wonder more and more

If she had seen her gran before.

Now, if it was left up to me

I’d let the wolf have her for tea.

Just eat her up and finish there.

Although that just might be unfair

Perhaps the girl had poor eyesight,

That’s why she never quite took flight.

I hear it now, a low voice quavers,

‘She should have gone to Specsavers!’

But let’s just leave all that for now,

I hinted some way back just how

This story has become perverted,

The happenings have been inverted.

The emphasis on Riding Hood

When actually I think it should

Be focused more upon the roles

The wolf was playing with the clothes.

We’ve never paid it much attention,

Because it only gets a mention

As a ploy to fool the brat.

I think there’s more to it than that.

The clues were there, before our eyes

It isn’t much of a surprise.

The women’s clothes, the wolf, the bed,

The things that story left unsaid.

The true events I’ll tell you now,

A charming little tale of how

A handsome wolf had searched worldwide

For love (or something on the side).

A simple tale in many ways

It tells how he had passed his days.

He’d been with several little pigs,

And tried some other casual gigs,

But nothing seemed to satisfy

He needed something else to try.

He heard how in the Big Wild Wood

The father of Red Riding Hood

A widowed man, still lithe and strong,

Was also searching for someone.

(The woodland folk had seen his chopper

And word was it was quite a whopper!)

His mind made up, he hatched a plan

To win this handsome, big strong man.

You know the rest, or at least some,

A perfumed letter asking him to come.

A rendezvous deep in the woods,

Where he could view some tempting goods

He might find pleasing. The next day

The wolf, now nervous, in bed lay.

He wondered should he have done more,

But then a knock upon the door.

He held his breath, the door swung wide,

The woodman slowly came inside.

Cue clapping hands and smiles and laughter –

They both lived happily ever after!