Nine Barrows Down and the flow of time

In October last year, I walked on Nine Barrows Down - I'd parked the old Peugeot in a precarious layby, on the road to Studland - the light blue sky above was flawless - a careless, wonderful, radiant sky -

I made my upwards, through Kings Wood - the path climbed up through tall trees shielding the sides of the high chalk ridge - wild garlic covered the ground between the trees - in the proper season, you can see the small white flowers - van Helsing could gather great armfuls of the flowers here, to keep Lucy Westenra's throat safe -

I still could smell traces of the strong, dizzying, scent of the wild garlic - ahead of me, three slim deer jumped upwards through the trees - I could see their delicate heads for only a moment or two -

A very large field, like a small green sea, swept along the base of the ridge - I moved steadily uphill, looking at the sky showing above the high slender trees - bright green moss furred fallen branches -

On top of the ridge, I made my way through some bushes which tore at my jacket, emerging onto a clear roadway of grass, high in the air, running from Corfe Castle to Old Harry -

You could see, on one side, all of the islands and inlets of Poole Harbour - on the other, Swanage Bay and the town - every detail of the land and seascape was very clear, glittering with light -

I turned towards Corfe - in front of me were the barrows - smooth rounded domes of turf - like grounded flying saucers - perfectly shaped - I walked to the summit of one barrow - steps in the turf led me upwards - there was a shallow, circular, depression all around the barrow, like a moat -

I thought about the ancient peoples who had walked along this ridge -I imagined their bronze or iron swords, their rings, their songs - I wondered who had been placed within the barrows -

For a moment, before small thoughts filled my head, I felt the flow of time, pressing against my chest, washing down the ridge to the sea - I could even, for a second, see my place within this invisible flood - I was one of an uncountable multitude -

Surrounded by angels in Swanage, whilst eating fish and chips

I have always enjoyed eating fish and chips -  most of all, on a wind swept beachfront, with a trace of rain in the air - the warmth of the chips in my fingers, the taste of the vinegar, the flakes of fish - all these small things make me feel more alive - 

I think of Peter Falk, in Wings of Desire, rubbing his hands together to make them warm, slurping coffee, talking to Bruno Ganz, who plays the angel, Damiel - telling the angel how wonderful it is to make a line with a pencil, to drink coffee, to be part of humanity, to jump into the river of time - companero, I don't see you, but I know you're there - 

Tessa and I would buy fish and chips in Swanage - we'd stand inside The Fish Plaice - out of the wind, watching the gulls blown into the town - we'd watch the brawny young men behind the counter serve their customers - pony tailed young men would ask for scampi - large young women would ask for a battered sausage -

We'd eat our cod and chips outside, keeping an eye out for the gulls - in the sky, we'd see huge clouds, like it was the end of the world -

Along the seafront was the Sea Breeze Beach Shop, selling lager, beer and cider - skinny boys, huddled in the beach shelters, smoked roll ups - their shaved heads were cowled by grey hoodies -

I'd snarf the my chips and cod like a starving zek - Tessa would squeeze the bright red tomato ketchup from the miserly sachet - we'd grin at each other -

In my head, I was repeating those wonderful lines from the movie - companero, I don't see you, but I  know you're there - 

How many invisible angels, I wondered, were around us, as we stood upon this chilly esplanade?

Getting my blood test results, looking at the sea from Houns-tout Cliff

Just over two years ago, I had an operation to cut out a small portion of my lower bowel - a small scar, shaped like a crescent moon, along with 3 other very small scars, mark the site of the key hole surgery - 

I had been diagnosed as having bowel cancer - I had ignored all of the symptoms in the hope that they might go away - the symptoms just got worse - I was bleeding profusely - I could smell the coppery smell of my blood - 

Anne made me see sense - I had a blood test - CT and MRI scans followed - I had a gastrosopy, colonoscopy and a flexible sigmoidoscopy - I then had the key hole surgery - Mr Quereshi, the grave and empathetic surgeon, saved my life - 

I was fortunate enough not to need chemotherapy or radiotherapy - nor was resort made, as it might have been, to a stoma - I shall always remember the joy of waking up after the operation - every sensation was so fresh and wonderful - 

I am now living with cancer - every sixth months, I must have a blood test - once a year I am passed through the white hoop of the CT scanner - the invisible kingdom inside my skin is surveyed - you are always aware of a dark creature, your own cancer, moving just out of the light -

Jan, the Specialist Nurse, told me today - your blood is fine - I can not describe the sense of relief I felt - before I was called in I could feel my pulse beating madly in my throat -

Four weeks or so before my blood test, I had looked down at the sea from Houns-tout Cliff - shafts of light from the clouds lit up the sea - when I looked closer, I could see the faint grey outline of a ship, scarcely visible, just below the horizon -

I looked for some time at the patches of bright silvery light upon the sea - I thought of the words surprised by joy - I thought of how grace flows where it is least deserved -

Today, when told my good news, I remembered the bright circles of light upon the calm sea - I resolved not to be lazy - I knew that I must not take my life for granted -

This was another reprieve - I resolved to make more use of my talents, to explore as much as I could of the worlds before me - I knew in my heart how deep the sea was, how fleeting was the light -

Thoughts about fog, the day before my blood test results 

When I see things veiled by fog, or mist, I feel as though the familiar world is dissolving - the secret worlds, usually hidden, start to show themselves - familiar streets become pathways to a hidden city - cars driving through banks of fog are craft emerging from another dimension - the headlight beams of the Rav 4 I see in the car park are yellow space rays, piercing my mind -

We live in an old school house, dating from the 1870's - next to our driveway is a church built in 1828 - you can see the gravestones and a box tomb when you sit down for coffee in the conservatory - a kestrel perches on the church tower's crenellations, waiting for mice - moles tunnel under the turf -

A few hundred yards away the River Frome runs through the water meadows - cows are pastured there during the summer - we once saw a man with a basket of eels, collected from a trap placed under the bridge - the slender writhing eels glistened and seethed in the basket -

A large shaggy horse sometimes grazes in the field near the level crossing, our side of the river - I think that he must be lonely, for he always shambles over to see us  when we pass his field - there's often another horse with him -

When the valley is filled with grey fog, the river flows into a blurred dreamy space - I imagine a wooden barge, with white figures upon it, drifting into this particular secret world - the water meadows dissolve into a wash of grey -

The friendly horse looks at me closely from within the fog - I am aware of his concerned gaze - I wonder if he is aware of my fears - of how the ordinary can become the extraordinary with just a word -

I remember how my blood shone in the vials - the skilful nurse placed the glass vials into a plastic bag for the Path Lab - I am aware of my fear like something half hidden in the fog, some beautiful or strange shape starting to show itself -

Dark rooms and a Rocking Horse in Scaplen's Court

By chance, one grey November morning, I came across a passageway leading off Poole Old High Street - I'd walked down there from Falkand Square and the Dolphin Centre - I'd gotten tired of looking at bland outlets - the cheery cries of the Big Issue vendor seemed suddenly to be pitiable - when I saw the vendor's drawn face, I thought that I was looking at a character in Mayhew's London Labour and the London Poor - in WH Smiths, the front pages of the Daily Mail exposed a benefits fraud -

Stepping off the Old High Street, I entered the passageway - smooth paving stones were underfoot - each side of me were walls composed of roughly dressed stone - I emerged into a courtyard, open to the cheerless sky -

I was standing in the heart of an old stone house - now, it seemed, managed by Poole Museums Services - in one dark room, set out as a Victorian Kitchen, a woman dressed up as a witch told stories to a group of small children - I remembered it was the week of Halloween -

I walked through the kitchen, looking at a sinister cauldron, suspended from a hook - I made my way up some stairs, to enter a number of large vaulted rooms - in one, there was a display of stuffed animals, frozen and staring in glass cases - I looked for a long time at a rabbit, which looked as though it might haunt my dreams -

One room was set out as a Victorian classroom - the small desks were heavily ink stained and brightly varnished - there was a blackboard, and a relief map of the British Isles - a black clock with stilled hands was fixed to the walls -

I craned my neck to look upwards, at the web of wooden beams holding up the roof - lead latticed windows  let in pale smudges of light -

In one room, I was transfixed by a rocking horse - it was placed next to a window, prancing upon a scarlet base - the horse's ears pointed forwards like horns - sharp elegant looking hooves pawed at the air -

I thought of the rocking horse in the story by DH Lawrence - I'd imagined the rocking horse in the story to look very much like this one - I imagined the frail boy, rocking back and forth, entranced, hearing the horse whispering to him - I thought of touching the horse's neck, but I was unable to do so -

Pesvner tells me that the house is called Scalpen's Court, and that it dates from 1500 -

St Adhelm's Chapel & 17th Century Graffiti

In February this year, I walked from Renscombe Farm, just beyond Worth Matravers, to visit St Adhelm's Chapel - the day was icy cold - the sky above me was light blue and almost cloudless - I walked along a trackway, skirting frozen puddles - the ice was very thick, like sheets of clouded glass - you could see where tractors had driven over the puddles, splintering the ice -

By the side of the trackway were small leafless trees - their branches were shaped by the wind - a tall slim stone, patterned with lichen, leaned into a tangle of thorns -

On each side of the trackway were fields, some recently ploughed, others left to grass - dry stone walls marked the boundaries of the fields -

I passed a quarry - large pale blocks of stone were piled up below me - a derrick of some kind stood amongst the piles of stone - no one was around -

A dry valley, with a seasonal stream, framed the sea - the horizon of sea and sky was a vague shining blur -

The stone chapel dates from the late 12th Century, and stands on a headland - there are white coastguard cottages and a coast guard look out station nearby - the volunteer look out told me that he was once almost blown off the cliff whilst measuring the wind -

The chapel is a very substantial structure, with what Pesvner calls a pyramid roof - butresses reinforce its thick dark walls - you enter the chapel through a rounded Norman arch -

Inside, narrow pointed windows let in shafts of light - a central pier, like the trunk of a huge stone tree, supports the roof -

There are a few wooden benches - there is a small altar, with its cross caught in beams of light, a modern looking font, made of white stone, with a vase of ivy and dried out flowers -

Carved very deeply in the stone of the central pier, are many initials, names and the dates of years - many of the dates are from the late 17th Century - some are carved with delicate lettering -

When I stood in the chapel, still chilled to the bone, I imagined the carvers standing before me - they believed, I'm fairly sure, in the afterlife and the judgement - I saw their stout coats and their powdered hair - I imagined their lives, like songs, being sung by angels -

I wondered that if I concentrated my mind enough - if I opened my eyes and ears enough -  then I might hear some of their songs, or catch a glimspe of a marvellous wing, scenting the damp stone above me -

East Stoke Level Crossing and Edward Hopper

When I look at the paintings of Edward Hopper, I have always felt that I was looking at a still from a movie - when I stare at those men and women standing in dark streets, by gas stations, or in bare bedrooms - I can sense that something very significant is going to happen - 

I know that what will happen, in the next moment - beyond the time captured by the painting - will be something perhaps strange or terrible - but I have no idea of what will happen - 

It seems to me that there is a dreamlike quality to the movie I am looking at - there is something too intense, too hpyerreal about the light, the colours, the forms of the buildings, the figures, the dark trees - 

I wonder what the men and women in Edward Hopper's paintings are thinking and saying - I wonder what emotions their faces hide - 

Richard once said that the level crossing gates at East Stoke reminded him of an Edward Hopper painting - we lurched down the lane towards the crossing, after drinking too much - you could see the red lamps, set upon the white wooden gates - beyond the gates were the water meadows and the smooth river - 

I took these photographs a few days ago - it was half an hour or so after sun set - there was a thin crescent moon in the darkening blue black sky - the railway lines glimmered with silvery light - 

I thought that any moment, all that I saw would ripple like a curtain - that something momentous might happen - 

Pyschogeography and the alleyways in old Poole

I am very interested in the idea of pyschogeography - it seems to me that if you looked carefully enough, if your senses were sufficiently enhanced, then you would see, in the urban landscape you walked through, images of past times - you would hear lost voices - you would smell forgotten scents - you would become aware of different layers of reality - 

You might become aware of dark stories, of strange coincidences - Walter Benjamin said that to lose oneself in a city is like losing oneself in a forest - signboards and street names ... must speak to the wanderer like a cracking twig under his feet, like the startling call of a bittern in the distance - 

I felt like this, just for ten minutes or so, when I wandered through alleyways in old Poole - I was walking idly back up Poole Old High Street, watching my cheap black umbrella buckle in the drizzly wind - I passed by men smoking, looking at items in an army surplus store - women were wearing grey trackies - 

Suddenly, I saw an alleyway to my left - a sign on its wall told me it was called Bowling Green Alley - its paving stones glistened from the rain - fallen leaves were scattered upon the slate grey stones -

I walked into this narrow corridor between high brick walls - a black wrought iron lampost stood at its junction with another alley - once inside the alleyway, I could hear no noises from the street I'd left - 

The lampost could have been planted in The Lantern Waste - I remembered, quite clearly, seeing the delicate yet unsettling illustration in my copy of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe -

A tunnel, with rounded brick archways, took Bowling Green Alley under the first floor of a silent building - I looked at its shuttered windows and blank doorway - I could be visiting Innsmouth I thought - I listened, very carefully, for any sound - 

I looked down at the paving stones - I could sense the people who'd walked here - their words were woven into the air - I thought of their faces, flickering like leaves in the rain - 

After a what seemed an age, I turned, and walked back to the Old High Street - I looked at my watch - ten minutes had passed - 

Bravo, R's Kitchen!

I suggested to Anne that we visit R's Kitchen - we we were walking back from Poole Museum, at the end of the Old High Street - we'd been beguiled by the 1950's kitchens set up in an upper floor of the museum - the stolid cream gas cookers evoked memories of Shepherd's Pie and watery greens - the 1950's adverts showed smiling women with perms welcoming their husbands back home after work -

Back in the rainy street, we saw R's Kitchen, with its bright green sign - I liked the look of the place, and slid inside - Anne followed - if we'd been beguiled by the contents and fabric of Poole Museum, then now we were doubly charmed -

I'm always in the look out for a cafe where I feel perfectly at home - by this, I mean it has to be a space where I can reflect upon my life, where I can consider, calmly, the bright rags of the world - the cafe can be anywhere -

I found, for example, such a space in  Budapest, to be precise, in Pest, on the eastern side of the  Danube - I looked out of the cafe's windows, at the thick snow falling from the dark skies - we'd swum in the outside pools of the Szechyeni Baths, looking up at the snow flakes -

Here, inside R's Kitchen, I felt just as I had, in Pest, a world away - I was relaxed, part of, yet not part of, the buzzing world -

There were copies of The Guardian to look at - a high ceiling above was decorated with a pleasing frieze - handsome clocks hung from a wall of bare brick - spare, elegant, tables were set out on polished floorboards -

The food was, quite simply, marvellous - all of the ingredients locally sourced - the girls serving you were quirky and charming -

Russell, himself, was enthusiastic and charismatic - he'd moved down from London - he said that a friend had urged him to take up cooking - he'd been training as an accountant - it had taken his family years to accept his change of career -

Whenever I was in Poole after this first visit, I made a point of going to R's Kitchen - I was never disappointed -

I was, therefore, much cast down when Russell told me recently that this was his last week - he would be moving - the place was closing down - the letting agent had given Russell no choice -

- It takes three years to get started, to build up a clientele, Russell told me - but these guys, they just sit in front of a screen - they don't know what's going on - 

Russell said he'd stay down here - I hope he gets another place started - I'd recommend it to anyone, in advance - I'd say - go there!

Bravo, R's Kitchen - Bravo!