Thinking about the London Underground

Whenever I'm in London, I use the Underground - I've now discovered London buses, thanks to Jay, but tube trains were my first love -

I used to travel on the Northern Line when I was a student - I would watch the darkness of the tunnels fly past the windows of the carriage - I could smell the electricity seething in the live rail - I would look up at the tube map, marvelling at its complexity - the notes for my latest essay would simmer in my satchel - I could see pale shadows ducking off the platform at Highgate -

I can remember, further back, my mum and dad taking me on the tube, along with my brother - we were on a family holiday to London - I was fascinated by the movement of the escalators - I used to jump off the last step - I had a horror of being mangled by those implacable steel treads -

How deep they seemed to delve, too - I imagined myself being carried down to strange temples far below the streets -

Last year, I stood upon the platform of Manor House tube, on the Piccadilly Line - when I was moving downwards on the shiny escalator, my thoughts turned to how I'd felt, travelling on the tube, those earlier days -

There'd been the sensation of movement, the carriage rocking on the electric sea - the brilliantly lit platforms giving way to darkness - the silent people sitting opposite me -

There'd been feelings of excitement and loneliness - of wondering who I would love -

Down on the platform of Manor House tube, I saw this grating, with its stylized tree, three doves, the gate between two pillars - perhaps it was a reminder that happiness comes unlooked for, like a caress in the dark -

Buying Numquam at Adelphi Books

I have always loved going into bookshops - I have a passion for books, as I once did for False Bay Pinotage - our house contains a rich hoard of volumes, some second hand and foxed, others are as new -

If I had my way, The Old School House would be crammed full of books - Lord Sepulchrave might be tempted to perch upon the mantelpiece - Anne, however, keeps a close eye on me -

The first bookshop I ever went into was Miles Bookshop, in Gosport - I was around ten or eleven years old - Mr Miles was a gentle, scholarly, figure - I bought an Observer's Book of Birds -

Since then, I have browsed in second hand bookshops in cathedral cities - I have snatched up bright breeze blocks of novels in airports - hipsters have sold me books about pyschogeography in Bethnal Green -

I can remember, in Winchester, Russell buying me a pocket edition of the poems of Coleridge - when I open the book, it seems still wreathed in cigarette smoke - I am not sure what book Jay bought - later, we reeled out of the Cathedral Close, falling into Russell's Triumph Herald - we drove back, I think, to Gosport, to listen to Peaches en Regalia - 

Adelphi Books is in Southsea - it is a tiny glass fronted shop, with zig zag pathways between perilous stacks of books - the sign outside says Crime Fiction Specialists - large general stock - I always come here whenever I'm in Southsea -

The books appear to be in marvellous disorder - but when Richard challenged the genial proprietor, he was presented with The Ragged Trousered Philanthropist within three minutes -

I found a copy of Lawrence Durrell's Numquam - it wasn't far from a pile of Sci Fi pulps with scary covers - I bought the book, and stood outside the shop, waiting for Richard -

I glanced at a page at random - there was a character called Benedicta saying kiss me -

Richard emerged from the shop - he told me that when you'd read Ragged Trousered Philanthropist, you were supposed to hand it on -

I wondered how you might judge the worth of a book - perhaps it was a case of  the author, in some sense, having a truth to tell - 

The Hole in the Wall, Southsea, early evening drinking

Whenever I go to see Richard, we start the evening with a few drinks in The Hole in the Wall - Richard scrutinizes the potent ales on offer - asking for tasters, sipping the dizzying offerings like a pirate - frowning, then smiling, asking for two pints of Dark Arts -

We try to sit in the snug, behind the bar, under faded sepia photographs of Victorian worthies - there's just enough room for a rough wooden table - we lift our straight glasses, talk about Manila, writing poetry and False Bay Pinotage - you are apart from the louche boozing crowd in front of the bar -

You can see the beer casks, like depth charges on the deck of a destroyer - a stilled fan hangs from the yellowy brown ceiling - sprays of dried hops are suspended overhead - when I see them, I always think of sad sexy times in Kent -

When you go to the bar, you have to ease your way through the crowd - students, slim figures with their sheen of promise - gaffers with beards and anecdotes - middle aged women with their jackets and thin wrists - middle aged men with their closely cropped rugs - all joshing, drinking, flirting, story telling -

Richard said that this was a place for washed up boys - later, we might snarf sea bass at the American  Bar - hear jazz at Rosie's - once, we had early morning whiskeys at Maggie and Ed's - I read there a wonderful poem by Maggie, called The Art of Detachment - I can remember my eyes filling with tears whilst I was reading it -

Low tide, West Worthing, Blackpool and mermaids

Last November, we stayed a few nights with Anne's sister, Sally, and her partner, Richard - as always, we were received with lavish hospitality - bumpers were drunk, wonderfully peppery dishes were placed before us, stories told - I reeled upstairs to bed -

I especially liked hearing about about the darts - the excitement of the crowd, the precious flight of the arrows caught on the screens - the cheery boozing - beyond the arena - the spectacle of Blackpool - the esplanade, with the innumerable hen parties and stag parties - the boys dressed up as chickens - the girls squeezed into Lycra, whatever their size -

Sally said - it was worse than Beirut away from the beach - I imagined icy skies over boarded up shops - near wrecks parked in front of a Poundland -

But Sally said how friendly and approachable the northern people were - she could talk to them easily and unaffectedly - I vowed to drive to the north when I could -

After breakfast, we went for a stroll upon the beach - the tide was out - large tracts of sand stretched out before us - I thought I might be able to walk out half way to France -

The sky above was a flawless, freezing, blue - we tucked our hands into our pockets - our faces became red with wind burn -

I stared at the glistening sand - delicate patterns had been left by the waves and tide - I wondered what they might mean - wooden groynes, their posts green and feathery with seaweed, divided up the beach - shallow pools of seawater reflected the white terraced mansions on the esplanade -

We walked for an hour or so, within the confines of this watery shining world - I felt that I might hear, at any moment, the music of secret songs - perhaps there were mermaids, just out of sight, combing their yellow hair - I might not ever find my way back to the dry world -

Kite Surfers off Old Harry

I have always wondered what it would be like to be fearless, to leap upon a brave horse, to climb without ropes up a dizzying cliff - I hated all sports as a boy - I was nervous when I shivered inside the changing rooms at school -

Worlds later, I have lost all my self consciousness - you could not be shy when you were in the Endoscopy Suite - I saw startling sights whilst I waited for the nurse to fit my cannula - I never could work out how to securely fasten the ties of my flimsy gown -

I have learned to ride - I have fooled about with a surf board - I've had to strip off my wet suit on a freezing beach - I've swum naked off Jane and Ken's yacht in the Sea of Marmara -

But, I think, to go Kite Surfing - that would be a real test of skill and nerve - I saw this Kite Surfer off Middle Beach, one dazzling and icy November afternoon -

I saw the dark sail first, a taut crescent in the bright air - a few hundred yards away from the chalk stacks of Old Harry - it was low tide, and you could see a small cave, piercing the first stack -

Then I saw a fan of spray, made by the zig zagging surf board - then the figure of the kite surfer, slim and tensed upon the board - tugging invisible wires, directing the sail -

I stood upon the ribbed sand, with Anne, looking at the progress of the kite surfer across the bay - I could imagine, just, how it might feel - your skin stung with salt - your body like that of a swooping bird - all clever thought gone, save that of how best to race over the white horses,how to capture the capricious winds -

Christmas at One, The Old Brewery

We spent last Christmas with Tessa, at One, The Old Brewery - I welcomed the chance to explore this former late Victorian pub - Richard said that it had been called The Nelson - now it was a shared house, with a louche, care free, ambience - 

The boiler had stopped working a few days before we arrived - we pulled on thick oily jumpers and padded trousers to keep warm - the tip of my nose was pinched and icy when I woke up on Christmas Day - I shaved with cold water, not wanting to look like a grizzled oldster - 

A pool table had been set up in the old beer cellars - you could see the ramps used to roll down the barrels - you could still smell the scent of beer in the chill air - I thought of all of the potent ales, porters and stouts that had been stored here - ghosts drifted up the wrought iron spiral staircase - 

A tall Christmas tree blazed with blue and white tinsel in what had been one of the bars - there were comfortable sofas for lolling - we got the boiler working - one of the landlord's mates tinkered with it as gingerly as though it was a ticking bomb - we had a jolly time - boozing in moderation and telling stories - 

Richard was there - so was Charlie - Charlie plays electric guitar - his new band is called Borderline Pornography - we sipped his formidable vodka - 

Richard has written some spare, beautiful, poetry - I especially liked the  poem about Dar es Salaam - I could hear in, my head, the brass fans whirring above his head in a sultry room - 

Tessa smiled her brilliant smile - Sophie spoke her wise words - Anne, as always, was fearless and kind -  

On Christmas Day we opened our presents - we ate a feast of chicken and roast potatoes fit for a gang of tipsy bravos - 

I thought of the closing pages of A Christmas Carol - I wanted to hear bells ring out over the roof tops of Southsea - I wanted my mum and dad to be young again - 

Finding The Harpstone, Steeple

I went searching for The Harpstone this February of rain and gales - the river meadows near our house were flooded - grey icy water swept over the lane - Will, our Postman, was unable to drive his van through the flood water - we had a small leak in the roof over the new room - a burly roofer, together with his nimble lad, fixed it one afternoon - the roofer said he was looking forward to get off the tools - then the boy would  go up the ladder -

I made tea for the two of them - the roofer had three sugars in his mug - the boy drank his tea in the van - the roofer leaned forward, resting his elbows upon the table in the conservatory - he's not my son, but he may  as well be he said -

Whilst it rained and rained, I spent many happy hours looking at Julian Cope's Modern Antiquarian - I made log fires, and listened to Marianne Faithfull growling softly Broken English - 

I decided to seek out The Harpstone - it is a menhir - erected thousands of years ago - there were pictures of it, together with directions of how to find it -

So, when it at last stopped raining, I drove towards Kimmeridge - I parked the red Peugeot in a small disused quarry - a sinewy woman emerged from a camper van parked there -

I narrowed my eyes over the map - climbed over precarious stiles - slithered down sodden slopes - my boots and trousers were soon plastered with mud - I could see a gracious house, built of grey stone, beyond a tangled copse of leafless trees -

I kept close to the sides of a large field, with three trees in its centre - the long wet grass rippled beneath my feet - I saw a hare - I saw its long delicate ears - then it vanished - I looked away for a second, and it had gone -

Then - I glimpsed The Harpstone - it was almost hidden - a thick thorn hedge grew all around it - a new barbed wire fence ran in front of it -

I skulked down the field, climbed over a gate, and wormed my way inside the thorn hedge - I was able to creep along a stream bed - my coat was torn by the thorns -

I stood next to the menhir - thick green moss covered large parts of its surface - deep grooves ran through it - there were circular depressions worn by time or man - bright stains of lichens marked it - I stared at the stone for a long time - I could not bring myself to touch it -

Flying to Turkey

Every year, I hope to spend a month or so in Turkey - although a yabanci, I have been made to feel welcome in the village - I wake up, on my first day, before dawn, hearing  the crackle of speakers in the minaret, before the early morning cry for prayer - I can hear cockerels crowing lustily in the gardens below my house -

I get quickly dressed, and sit on the terrace with a coffee - I look down at the village, with its street of shops, workshops and tea gardens - berbers establishments the size of cupboards - the butchers shop with the strangely shaped joints of meat hanging from hooks in the window - gaffers driving venerable tractors - old ladies bent over double - I think - later, I will walk up to see Jane and Ken - I will swim in their pool - I will wait for the swallows - 

But flying out to Turkey is part of the fun - I love airports - I gaze fondly at the destination screens - if I had my way, I'd spend all my time, jumping on and off jets - Anne, of course, realizes this -

I'll spend the night before the flight in a hotel near Gatwick Airport - the place is like a Sci Fi transit camp - I'll drink a pint of iced Guinness - next morning, I'll sip cappuccino in an airport cafe, looking out at the beautiful jets -

When the jet races down the runway, just before it rises up into the chill air, I can feel my heart lurch in my chest with joy and terror -

In the air, I look out at fleets of clouds - at mountains far below, with their snow and cruel ridges - at coastlines, with  winding estuaries - once, I saw a mist over northern France, a thin white skin hiding valleys and towns -

Alain de Botton says the clouds usher in tranquility - below them, he says are the sites of our terrors and our griefs - 

If truth be told, I've gone off him a bit, now I know about his trust fund - but he's right, I think - in a jet, I'm removed from all cares - I'm like Damiel, in Wings of Desire - I long to live in colour -

Flying into Dalaman, I see Kocegyz, at the head of its gentle lake - a young woman in the seat next to me takes my photograph - I'm smiling, a little guardedly - the jet banks over arid mountains - I can see rows of orange trees - then we're landing, braking, engines in reverse thrust - a curvy stewardess tells a passenger sit down - 

When I get of the jet, I can feel the heat of the air - I am no longer living under washed out skies - everything I see is drenched with colour -

St Nicholas Church, Studland, by twilight

One evening, I went for a walk with Penny along Middle Beach - I was calmed by the still sea - the sky was a darkening blue, suffused with the afterglow of an April sunset - I stared at the delicate washes of colour - I thought how an artist might sit here, with fine brushes, to paint this scene - but how could one capture such tender hues?

Yachts were anchored in the bay - we could see their white hulls and bare masts - the trees overlooking the beach were dark against the sky - the damp sand was firm to walk on - some teenagers drank from cans around a barbecue - someone had scored a cartoon picture of a little girl with her dog into the damp sand - I thought about all of the people who had walked upon this beach during the daytime - all that was left of them was the marks they had made in the sand -

The beach curved before us, stretching in a crescent towards Bramble Bay, and the narrow entrance to Poole Harbour - there was a fierce current there, scouring a deep channel for the cross channel ferries -

I felt the darkness come down from above me - one last outpouring of light from the fallen sun lit up the sky behind the dunes - I saw, for a few moments, a contrail, reaching up to the heavens - I thought it marked the flight upwards of a curious angel -

Leaving the beach, we walked through the graveyard of St Nicholas Church - we'd seen a young rabbit, frozen with terror, in a field of bluebells - the church, says Pevsner, is "one of the dozen or so most complete Norman village churches" - excavations, however, reveal pre-conquest origins - narrow arched windows pierce thick walls of dark stone - inside are poignant memorial tablets -

There was some sort of service going on - lights glowed within the church - two rooks flew over the tower - I thought I heard music - or did I imagine this? -

I felt, suddenly, full of a sweet sadness - I went quickly back with Penny to the Peugeot, and we drove away, through the waiting night -