The Dream

I had this dream when I was young –

It’s with me still – it will never leave –

Inside a moonlit temple, I saw a shining boy –

He stood inside a mirror,

Time flowed down its glass –

The moon was in the sky above me,
I could see its frozen seas –

In dim archways, shadowy girls were statues,

Pointing to the secret worlds –

A bead of blood was a jewel on my skin –

The bright green brambles had pierced me,

Letting the dreams come in –

I flew up like a bird from my innocent bed,

Bare skinned in the icy light –

I flew over the narrow town like a secret unsaid

I saw the roads where I would live my life –

Every door opened upon a nest of care –

Every hedge was made of silvered glass

A song then filled the spellbound night,

Gathered from all the years –

Summoned shapes flew past the stars –

A voice like velvet came into my head,

Very low and sweet,

Show that which is hidden –

Time is the simplest thing she said 

Getting my hair cut

I've always felt nervy when I decide to get a hair cut - I'm never been able to say exactly how I want my hair to be cut - there were times when I decided just to go for a Number Three cut - I thought I then looked like a fearless Soviet tank commander - I could see the photograph in Red Star - I would be pictured looking out of the turret of my T34 - my squadron would have just liberated one of those beautiful doomed cities in Poland - members of my family were not so sure -

I decided, therefore, to go for a milder look - I wanted to look like a sensitive apparatchik - I knew that I did not want to be shamed by a shaggy rug - nor did I wish, in certain lights, to look like a contract killer -

When I was a skinny boy, living in Malta, I had fierce crew cuts - back home in England, I would go once a month, to the gents' barbers almost opposite our house in Palmyra Road - Mr Lambourne wore a white coat, and handled the sharp pointy scissors with fascinating precision -

Time always seemed to go weird when Mr Lambourne gossiped with his adult customers - I would stare at the packets of razor blades and the tubs of Brylcreem - copies of the Daily Express would tell you why you had to vote conservative -

I found this barbers tucked away off old Poole High Street - I felt guilty slipping inside there - my usual place for a haircut is Paul's in Wareham - it's like a gentleman's club - Paul can tell you an anecdote about anything - from the problem of there being too many Vespas in Sorrento - to the folly of landscaping a roundabout outside Wareham with a replica of a Saxon Sword -

The bucket and spade tree at Lulworth Cove

I've looked at this tree - decorated with kids' buckets and spades - every time I walk back up from the cove at Luworth - each year there are more of these poignant fruits suspended from the branches -

I guess that the buckets and spades are picked up from the beach, a few hundred yards away - there's a scrap of gritty sand just beyond the slipway - they must have been left behind by families leaving for their Renault Picassos or Rav 4s - ready for the drive home -

The bucket and spade tree is in the back garden of one of the old  Coast Guard cottages - you can see what looks like rhubarb growing there - there's a neat framework for runner beans and a line of water buts - white flowers cluster near a post - a bright green web of weeds is evidently spreading over the dark soil - netting covers some obscure plants -

I wonder why these yellow, blue and and red buckets and spades are hung here - they look like votive offerings - tokens of happy afternoons and vanished times -

Walking round Lulworth Cove

It is very difficult to walk on the sliding, glistening, pebbles that make up the steeply shelving beach of Lulworth Cove - ribs of white rock are exposed from time to time among the pebbles - waves surge over small boulders, fringed with green beards of seaweed - high cliffs encircle the sides of the cove - there are sections of cliff with sheer faces of chalk - a single tree overlooks the cove from the cliff -  a delicate dark green lozenge against the blue of the sky -

The day I walked here, there were groups of young students, wearing white hard hats, studying the geology of the cove - I remembered Sophie telling me about the Lulworth Crumple - perhaps that evocative term had been used by their tutor, who I could see at the back of the group -

Beyond the mouth of the cove, I could see the blue grey misty outline of the Isle of Portland - like a vague dreamy country - there were powerful waves breaking over the rocks at the sides of the cove's mouth - I could see lines of foam beyond, with spray thrown into the air by the wind -

A tangle of blue nylon rope had been cast up upon the beach - broad ribbons of seaweed, gleaming yellowy brown, caught my eye - there were curious indentations marking their surfaces, arranged in regular patterns -

The sea inside the cove was very choppy, in constant motion - the air was salty and stung my face - I could see no sea birds, no gulls or shags -

I walked round the cove, to the wooden steps which climb upwards towards Little Bindon - where there is a tiny chapel, a remnant of the Cistercian Abbey once there from 1149 to 1172 -

Beached fishing boats at Lulworth Cove

I've always liked looking at small fishing boats - especially scruffy tough looking boats, with heaped torn webs of nets on their foredecks - marineros with oily hands lounging in the cockpit - diesel fumes hanging in the air -

I've seen such boats in a number of places - at Portree, under a sky the colour of slate, the fishing boats were jostled by an icy gale - all the weather you could experience in one day was happening - fragile sunshine, sleet, rain - piles of brightly coloured fish crates were stacked up on the stones - Sandy Denny was singing Si tu dois partir on the juke box in the pier cafe at Uig - at Akyaka, grannies mended the nets, the ship's cat slept on the sun bleached deck of one boat - the water beyond the river was warm and turquoise -

Here, just up from Lulworth Cove, the fishing boats are beached - their hulls now motionless - rusty propellors are now still and visible to your gaze - visitors to the cove walk past the fishing boats - one boat is beached right next to the front gardens of the Coastguard Cottages - it's a day with blue sky and sunshine -

A hundred yards away is the beach of the cove - there's a small concrete slipway - a winch - and then, even within the cove, the sea is turbulent and heaving - white horses glittering in the bright sunlight - two boys were swept off the rocks at the mouth of the cove in a storm - the father of one of the drowned boys talked about that night to us, to me and Anne -

Cottages at Lulworth Cove

I remember once reading a short story by Edith Nesbit - it was in an anthology called The Supernatural Omnibus, edited by Montague Summers - the story was called Man-Size in Marble - when I read it the for first time I was overcome by dread - a feeling of helpless pity and sorrow washed over me - 

The cottages just up from Lulworth Cove remind me of the one in the story - screened by trees, with their gardens glimpsed through glossy leaves - they appear to be places where you can be calm and happy -

A stream flows through the garden of one of the cottages - its clear cold water runs into the cove, running over the pebbles in a bright foaming ribbon - 

Tessa had keyboard lessons in Spring Cottage - the rooms were dark and shadowy - the woman giving the lesson was slender - I thought she was often edgy - perhaps, unlike Laura in the story, she knew about the shape that would arrive when it grew dark -

Hambury Tout

Walking to Lulworth Cove, I glance up - to see a dark green hill to my right - shaped like a shallow dome - the bare turf is free of trees - its summit is outlined against the sky - short, springy, grass covers the chalk underneath - there are gorse bushes, I think, near the top - faint traces of pathways climb upwards, over what seems to be a bank, encircling the hill -

I stop, to look more closely - standing by a tangle of brambles - my view of the hill is framed by dark green leaves and writhing stems, the sharp thorns like tiny shark fins - I can just make out the shape of a tumulus - a burial mound - on the summit -

Some chieftain, or lord, was laid there with his gold rings and sword under the turf, within the chalk and flints - banners tore in the wind - songs were sung, words spoken -

On the OS Explorer Map for Purbeck and South Dorset, the tumulus is marked by the symbol of a star -

The Blue Pool

I drove the red Peugeot up a narrow road - it was lined with old oak trees, ferns shading ditches brimming with peaty water - just wide enough for one car - a tree surgeon was lopping branches with brutal grace - the sky above was bright blue, with scattered cloud - I parked in a clearing, set about with trees -

Although there were many other cars parked nearby, once inside the woods, I saw very few people - I walked along curving paths, between tall pines - high sandy ridges overlooked the pool - I stood there, under the pines, looking down at the water - it reflected perfectly the trees growing near the shore, and the clouds above - but when I looked again, it was like blue frosted glass

A little distance away, was a far smaller pool, very still and dark, with large pale green lily pads - this looked like a mirror to me, reflecting shadows -

I then thought of the wood between the worlds - which world, I wondered, would you enter if you passed through this pool -

A wall covered with ivy and brambles

I have always loved the mystery of walls - walking by them, imagining what might be behind the bricks or cement -

I can remember walking past walls in Highgate - kicking my way through piles of fallen leaves - walking up from Archway Road, past Suicide Bridge - back from University College, with my head full of words - I looked up at ivy covered bricks, seeing the tops of bare trees, showing beyond the wall, swaying in the wind - I raced past reefs of dark green laurel by wrought iron gates, with shadowy drives beyond - tall Victorian villas, with windows yellow with light in the growing dark -

I avoided the wall of Highgate Cemetery, the wild part of the cemetery, with the avenue of broken catacombs - I would kick the dry brown leaves, move as quickly as I could to the streets full of living people - in my bag were history books - say, the English Historical Review, or Christopher Hill's The World Turned Upside Down - in my heart, a wish for excitement and knowledge -

This wall is to be found in Wareham - near the West Walls - part of the defences for the town commanded by Alfred the Great - violent battles were fought here against the Danes -

After Monmouth's Rebellion, five poor duped rebels were hanged, drawn and quartered here, during the Bloody Assizes - on the grassy bank, just across what is now a car park -

The ivy and the brambles reach down over the pale bricks and stone - I think there must be a wild garden behind the wall - I think - I must get to know more about pyschogeography 

Cappuccinos in The Salt Pig

The Salt Pig is a fairly new establishment for sleepy Wareham - (although the town is wakening up with a new Sainsburys and sleek people in four wheel drives) - an eatery supplementing The Granary by the river, with its views of the river meadows and trim ferry boats in summer, up from Poole - the Black Bear, a coaching inn, dating from the 18th century, with its dark maze of rooms and corridors, its heady scent of serious ale - even Nellie Crumb, with its bay window and huge stone fireplace - 

It is a pleasure, nonetheless, to sit here - in the said Salt Pig - secure in my white rug and pension, reading The Independent like a world statesman, sipping cappuccino - especially so with friends or family -

I can touch the flagstones underfoot - marvel at the glistening fish in the window, coiled on crushed ice which looks like outsized salt crystals - 

I can snarf big meals of roast lamb or beef, all of the ingredients - meat, cabbage, potatoes, swede, onions - locally sourced - look up at the blackboard, with its map of the Isle of Purbeck, with the names of villages and places that were once just indifferent names on a map for me - 

I can see, too, looking out of the window, all the characters of the town I am now familiar with, having left the world of meetings, trajectories and action plans - 

I can feel a new life starting for me here - yet I know my heart will continue to be rent with indignation at the dreary cruelty and malice of the world - 

Yachts racing

We look out, over the dark blue sea - near the horizon are yachts, their white spinnakers swollen with salty breezes - in a regatta, racing each other, I guess - moving over the waves silently and remote from us - tiny dark figures, hardly discernible, control their courses -

The sun glitters upon the nets of foam left by waves upon the beach - green and brown ribbons of seaweed mark the edge of the dry sand - a few smooth pebbles are cast up to glisten upon the margins of sea and sand -

Behind the yachts, and the line of sea, is a faint outline of Bournemouth and its shoreline, adjoining Hengistbury Head -

We walk along the beach, looking at the distant yachts - moving over the blue sea - glimpsed as through a mirror - beautiful visitants - skimming through the air and water - soon to dissolve into movements of light and shadow -

Runners at Studland

We're sitting with mugs of coffee or tea, overlooking Middle Beach at Studland - looking out at the icy sea - at the chalk stacks of Old Harry - the spare shapes of yachts with bare masts -

We rest our tray upon a rough wooden table - our shoes damp with salt water and speckled with sand - warming hands upon the mugs - my arabic scarf is wrapped round my neck

Then - along the sweeping line of sand, backed by dunes, spiky with marram grass - moving past the dark tangled strands of seaweed, cast up on the beach - under the vague grey sky - there's a winding procession of runners - two or three abreast - all running - their feet rasping upon the sand - men and women, running - mostly in silence - though some are laughing - on and on, past us, below upon the beach - running past us - seemingly coming from nowhere, and then running to where we can no longer see them -

We think that it may be a cancer run - but I think of that bird, in the dead of winter - flying from darkness, across the lighted hall, then out into darkness again - I like to think the bird may have been a blackbird, fearless and with a bright yellow beak, making the journey we are all making -

Rainbows over East Stoke 

Anne and Penny are battling through a clever crossword - raindrops are pattering upon the conservatory roof - when we look up - we see a wonderful double rainbow - bands of colour in the glowing, troubled, sky - yellows, indigos, reds - a magic shining sign in the sky - above the church, framed by the higher branches of the firs -

I can see vivid slices of sky - huge purplish black clouds moving swiftly from one side of the sky to the other - the garden, the lawns, the gravestones, the last beautiful red rags of dog roses - all transformed - all magical with hidden purpose -

I imagine my skin starts to shine, that I can see, at last, the secret worlds -