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.
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.
I dug these out the other day, while we were having a bit of a tidy-up. I must have done these a good fifteen years ago, possibly more. They are all created by chopping up some of my photographs (nowadays we’d just crop them on the computer!) and mounting them on card. I’d originally thought to make a couple of tryptychs, but then began playing around to see what I might end up with. Then I put them in a drawer and forgot about them.
I think I might have another go with the tryptychs, especially. I have a couple of ideas…
Linked by colour and subject matter
Insects photographed in Oman
Skies and…things that aren’t skies…
The land and the sky
‘A rose, chopped up in pieces, would probably smell like something or other. Maybe.’ – Shakespeare.
Flowers…yellow…green…
From the Annapurna Circuit, Nepal…
At last, the weather has got milder and it wasn’t raining so we thought ‘let’s go!’ Nothing outrageous, just seven or eight miles around Kent, in no hurry, looking for signs of Spring. So, have a browse through a few visual notes with me…
It looks very cloudy, but the clouds were thin and we got quite a lot of sunshine.
With birdsong thrown in for free! For some reason, WordPress won’t let me load this video directly, but is happy to load it from Twitter. *shrugs*
The celandines are out.
And a few early primroses.
We passed a magnificent oak
And some rather nice fungi on the end of this log
And, a poem. You may have read this before, as I’ve posted it before, but I’ve put up again because I rather think it just encapsulates how I feel when I go out walking.
If I could just wave a wand,
I would wander the world.
With my notebook in hand,
And a bag on my back.
.
I would sleep under hedges,
In hotels and haylofts.
Drink beers under trees,
And eat cheese on the moor.
.
I’d watch clouds over hilltops,
And boats on the ocean.
Shapes and shadows at sunset,
A moon with a view.
,
And I’d write trivial poems
Of snowfall and sunlight,
Birds singing at dawn
And the sounds of a stream.
,
There’s the lure of a skyline,
And skylarks above me,
Wine and woodsmoke my welcome,
At the end of the day.
,
To travel, to journey,
There’s magic in wandering
Over moorland and downland,
Through woods and through fields.
,
The world’s full of wonders
All waiting for wanderers.
Let me follow these paths
For as long as I can.
We’ve had rain recently, and everywhere was muddy again. Much more like I would expect February to be. The ground had dried out quite a lot over January, but the soil was still saturated just beneath the surface and it doesn’t take much for it to turn back to thick, claggy, mud. But the weather was better than had been forecast; and as I set out the sun was glinting on the stubble fields and in the shadows there was just the faintest blue hint of frost. It felt so Spring-like. Everything was suddenly green and growing.
Soon, I was much too warm in all my layers. Mornings like this inevitably remind me of other favourite walks; long walks on sunny, clear days. I walked through a valley which was filled with birdsong – blackbirds, robins, blue tits, the demented cackle of a green woodpecker, and the determined drumming of a greater spotted one. In the future I will probably take walks that remind me of this one.
I must sometimes be a frustrating person to walk with – I like to stop frequently and just look around me. Absorb the landscape. The air smells fresh, now, but without the over-sharp coldness that stings the nostrils. Even though it is too early to smell flowers in the air, there is something on the breeze…Something evocative, much like the scent of woodsmoke causes me to instantly think of trekking in Nepal, or campfires closer to home in Sussex.
Suddenly there is a kestrel overhead…I never seem to get those shots of foxes or buzzards and don’t know whether I’m just too slow or if everyone else just walks along with their cameras in their hands, ready to take that photo.
At least flowers and trees tend to keep still. I do find my camera can be an unwanted distraction, though. If I am walking along looking for something to photograph, I feel I’m not really seeing the landscape around me. I’m just searching for a subject. For that reason, I often don’t take a camera with me on walks.
The first peacock, in fact the first butterfly of any kind I’ve seen this year. But talking of green woodpeckers and kestrels, I think there is a case for replacing all their somewhat dull modern names with the ones they used to have in the past: the green woodpecker was the yaffle, named for its wonderful manic call, the kestrel used to be called the windhover – how wonderful is that? And in the seventeenth century it was actually commonly known as the windf*cker. Perhaps the prudish Victorians banished that name the same as they changed the perfectly named white arse to the bland (and meaningless) wheatear.
I think we should reclaim the names; they add extra interest to a long walk.
Last night I dreamed I sank into the depths of some great ocean.
I went down, right down to the bottom of the sea and
There I saw a wooden chest.
And then a mermaid appeared and smiled, and indicated
That I should open it.
But having done as she had asked,
I thought at first I had made a mistake,
For I beheld countless stars shining in the depths of the chest,
Which appeared to be as large and as wide as the sky.
And even as I thought this, those stars rose up and surrounded me
And then, dismayed, I saw them floating up until they reached
The surface of the sea,
Where they were taken by the tides and currents
And swept away to every corner of the Earth.
***
When I awoke, I felt sad for the loss of those stars.
But then I realised it had been a dream, and
I fell asleep again and dreamed I laboured down a mine.
And I was hot and weary and grimy as I crawled
Through low passages, searching for precious stones.
It was tiresome work but finally,
Rounding a corner, I saw a distant glow and
As I drew near, I saw a gem that shone amidst the darkness.
I found then I carried pick and hammer, and
Any number of chisels, so I set to work.
After much labour I held the gemstone in my palm and
The light from this treasure seemed to flow out from my hand,
And illuminate every corner of the mine.
This gladdened my heart, but one appeared who I had been dreading,
Although I had not known it until that very moment,
And they took the jewel from my hand and disappeared,
I knew not where.
***
And so again I awoke and then
I slept a third time – troubled sleep! – this time
I dreamed I walked on crowded streets
And watched the many who surrounded me
And listened to their talk.
These were the conversations carried on
By every man and woman who had ever lived,
Or ever would.
But after time their speech became confusing;
I could no longer distinguish any words, and then
The world fell silent, although they still spoke,
And still I watched and found that I could see their speech,
And all their conversations floated on the breeze
Before me,
For their speech was made of stars and gemstones,
Mingled now with flowers and with ash.
Mingled now with night soil and with butterflies.
And I was content with that, and now slept deeply.
Yesterday, I went for a bit of a walk. The oppressive humidity of the previous day had lessened, fortunately, and it was an overcast morning with a cool breeze.
Just the way I like it.
I decided to take the train a few stops down the line, where I could get out at one of those stations that bears the name of a village a mile or so away but stands on its own in the middle of the countryside. The nearest building (other than the station itself) is a farm. Hopefully I could have a day’s gentle walking with nothing more demanding around me than birds, insects, trees and wildflowers.
I really, really, needed to do that.
It seemed a good start at the station. A good omen. While waiting for my train to draw in, my eye was drawn to a single large, white, bindweed flower in the tangle of brambles and vines and bushes, trees and garden plants escaped and gone native that serves as a barrier behind the platform.
Most gardeners hate bindweed. I suppose we do, really. Once it gets into the garden it grows at a ridiculously rapid rate and strangles any other plants in its way. And even pulling it up doesn’t get rid of it. It just regenerates. I tell you, come the end of days it will just be scorpions, cockroaches and bindweed left.
But this flower looked lovely. The largest, pure white, bindweed flowers often remind me of the calla lily, only a calla lily that is not so…let’s say…excited. One of my favourite artists is Georgia O’Keeffe. I’ve probably told you that before. But O’Keeffe was particularly known for painting large flower paintings, many of them more than a little ‘suggestive’. And the calla lily was one of her favourites. I’d show you one of hers but, you know, copyright and all that. I’ll leave you to look it up if you wish to.
So, here’s the bindweed flower.
Anyway, I got on my train and later I got off at the correct station and began walking along the footpath and got shouted at by some sheep.
Really, there’s no other way to describe it. On one side of the footpath were a couple of dozen sheep in a field where the grass had been cropped very short and there seemed to be very little left for them to eat. As soon as they saw me, they came rushing over to the fence bleating loudly. Obviously demanding to be re-housed in the field on the other side of the footpath.
In that field, thick lush grass was being munched by a couple of dozen quite contented sheep. I didn’t hear a (Bo) peep out of them.
‘Really sorry,’ I told them. ‘I can’t help you.’ I walked on feeling oddly guilty.
But I got over it.
For the rest of the morning I walked slowly through fields and along lanes, stopping frequently to look at flowers and insects and, really, just enjoying being where I was.
Bridge over the railway
I was just beginning to think it must be lunchtime when my path took me through a field of long grass.
This field lay between a stream I had just crossed, and a wood where I was heading. The wood stood a little higher than the surrounding fields, and the long grass of the field I was to cross was thick and green. The breeze caught the top of the grass, so it waved like the sea or a large lake and as I began to wade through it, it really did feel as though I waded through water.
And there was the drag of the grass against my legs, and the top of the grass sparkled a little in the breeze, just as wavelets would. And there was also the sense that I was not quite sure what I might suddenly step upon. Just to complete the illusion, there were also some lovely blue damselflies darting around.
Then I finally stepped ashore at the edge of the wood, walked up a slight sandy slope that might have been a beach, and sat down to eat my sandwich.
Now, I have to tell you that this was the best sandwich in the world, and I won’t brook any disagreement. Thick wholemeal bread, cheese, several large slices of raw onion, and several thick slices of tomato. Perhaps it was my mood, and the setting, but it was damned good.
And then it was time to explore the wood.
I was writing a haiku yesterday, and decided to go the extra mile with it. Traditionally in Japan these poems were sometimes written in the form of tanka, which are essentially poems of five lines rather than three, with a syllable count of 5/7/5/7/7.
They could also be written as linked verse, with one or two poets writing haiku, and others supplying the two remaining lines between each haiku.
I’ve gone down the linked verse route, and also given myself the remit that each verse (of two or three lines) must contain a word or sentiment linking it to those either side – something that was also commonly done.
Yesterday was cold and miserable, hence the results.
It’s my first attempt – please don’t be too harsh!
The flowers have gone.
Crumbling stems standing askew,
In waterlogged soil.
Outlined against the grey sky,
Old willows by the stream.
Ten thousand leaves are
All that remain of autumn.
Wistful nostalgia.
Memories of warmer days,
Are all but forgotten now.
Wrapped up warm and snug,
Watching the grey willows weep.
Hands in my pockets.
Leaves fall slowly through the air,
Onto silent black waters.
Now a gust of wind
Swirls leaves around and around.
Racing each other.
Shifting clouds race overhead,
Sudden drizzle on the breeze.
Spiteful winter day,
Grasses shiver in the wind.
Low sunlight dazzles.
Walking in meditation,
Clouds unexpectedly clear.
Sudden bright sunshine
Reminds me the cold Winter,
Will change into Spring.
It’s October.
That must mean it’s autumn. It certainly feels like it, now. So here’s a little poem for when the days are drawing in and it’s becoming colder and darker outside.
Keep watch at the window in the Westering light,
On the distant hill in the approaching night,
Under darkling clouds, over dew-touched heath,
Where the flowers of summer are now touched by death,
I’ll be coming home in the fading light.
Keep watch at the window in the fading light,
You’ll see me walking when the moon is bright,
My shadow before me coming down the hill,
My breath opaque in the air now chill,
I’ll be coming home in the last of the light.
Keep watch at the window in the last of the light,
When I’m weary you’ll see me come into sight,
Drawn by the firelight and the thought of wine,
By the thought of you; so glad you’re mine!
I’m home now, let’s shut out the night.
Part Four – from 30 years ago.
On the western side of Thorung La, the climate is much drier and in places the scenery is very much that of a desert landscape.
As you descend, though, you soon come across settled areas where meltwater from the snows and glaciers higher up enable vegetation to grow.
Mani stones plus a fine set of argali horns on top of a wall in Kagbeni. The argali are the wild sheep of the Himalaya.
In Tukuche, at 2590m – less than half the altitude of Thorung la, which we had crossed just two days before.
It was in places like this, that we really felt we could be in another century. Buildings of stone and beautifully carved wood, ponies for transport, no wheeled vehicles, and the two fellows to the right of the picture are busy crushing lengths of bamboo to a fibrous pulp, ready to make into paper.
It was in places like these, actually, that I felt I could just leave the world behind and spend the rest of my life. Yes, totally impractical, I know, but…
We came for the high peaks, but the mountains lower down have a breathtaking beauty of their own.
Sunrise on Poon Hill is a treat most trekkers ensure they don’t miss. Unrivalled mountain views, and in the spring the massed flowers of the rhododendron forests.
Ah, yes. Did I just mention the rhododendron forests?
Photos just don’t seem to do them justice.
And then a few days later it was over, and we were back in Kathmandu…
…and that is a different kind of wonderful…
Mick Canning 