Walking in China Town, whispering into a hollow tree

I've always had an idea of China in my head - I see, in my mind's eye, fleets of high decked junks, anchored in exotic harbours - cranes fly over flooded fields - pagodas are outlined against a pale moon - subtle courtiers kowtow before a dowager empress - 

I hear David Bowie's China Girl - I used to listen to this, again and again, on the juke box in The White House - this small pub, hidden in dark countryside, was almost always nearly empty - there would only be five or so patrons there on a good night - the land lord, with his large pale face, would regard us all with sorrowful and knowing eyes - heart ache filled the air - 

I was taken in by the spectacle of the Cultural Revolution - I thumbed through my little red book - I subscribed to People's Daily - 

Later, I learned of the cruelty, the corruption, visited upon this immense ancient land - now I see glossy skyscrapers, expressionless apparatchiks -

I walked with Sophie down Newport Court - paper lanterns hung above our heads, like tiny planets - beautiful silk jackets were displayed on racks before brightly lit shops - crowds of round eyes went back and forth - 

I thought of In the mood for love - perhaps I would see a lonely journalist, eating noodles - perhaps, this time, he would embrace his soul mate - 

Perhaps I, too, would whisper my secrets into a hollow tree - 

Sunsets over Holingbury, seeing the end of the world

Last May, we spent a weekend with Paul and Claire - Paul is Anne's younger brother - he is a slim and quirky, working in the building trade - he is a gifted craftsman in wood - I relish Paul's bizarre sense of humour, his wicked word play -

Claire is tall and quiet - she has long shining hair - she writes poetry - when we stayed in her house, she was working as a primary school teacher in Ditchling -

Claire's heart was more in her poetry than in her teaching - the new deputy was getting the school ready for OFSTED - the joy of inspiring children was being subverted by the requirement to evidence it -

One of the governors of the school had told Claire that he was an airline pilot - I got the impression that Ditchling was a beautiful village, enmeshed in nets of snobbery and privilege -

We sat in Claire's kitchen, with its yellow walls, its shelves of books, vases of dazzling daffodils, bare floorboards - Paul poured out bumpers of red - he said, smiling - I'm opening another bottle, without apology - 

I suddenly glanced out of the window - it looked as though the world was ending - huge red clouds covered the sky - bands of fire rippled above the black line of the Downs - I thought of the vast canvas by John Martin - perhaps, any moment, I would hear the sound of terrible, wonderful, trumpets -

Zarin and her mother, Karabortlen and The Hermitage 

Last year, I woke up to find myself in a small village house in Turkey - it was early September - from my terrace, I could smell wood smoke - I could hear the call to prayer - I felt relaxed and happy -

Steve and Enis were my hosts - they were very kind and thoughtful, looking after me, introducing me to my neighbours - they were all tolerant of the shy yabanci, with his smattering of Turkish words -

There's Zarin - she lives in the house above mine - she hopes to marry a soldier, or, better, a commandant in the jandarma - Zarin has glossy brown skin and jet black hair - her mother, in her seventies, is as delicate and wiry as a small bird - Zarin knows a few words of English - she tells me - I am looking after mummy - 

We would have coffee with Zarin and mummy - we would sit outside their single storey house, in the yard of dried earth - there are olive trees and fruit trees - a stone oven is situated outside the house - there is a terrace, as smooth as glass - we sit on white plastic chairs -

We drink marvellous coffee out of tiny cups - behind mummy, I can catch a glimpse of a room, furnished only with a carpet, and cushions arranged against the walls - there is a full moon hanging in the sky - Merlin the cat arrives, with his tiger's tail -

Zarin asks me if I know about Mustafa Kemal - I say I know only a little about him - Mummy waves a thin stick about - she has a tinkling, silvery, voice -

In the garden there are courgettes, chili peppers, peppers and tomatoes - during the day time, hens scratch about the yard - a cockerel swaggers about - one of mummy's hands has three nerveless fingers -

I drink my coffee, with its rich powerful taste - I look at Zarin's dazzling smile -

I call my small house the Hermitage -  

I tell Jane and Ken - I am the Hermit of Karabortlen - 

Mist upon Creech Arch, the Lady Door and strangeness

In early May, I found myself walking to Creech Arch - I'd parked the red Peugeot by a view point, overlooking Kimmeridge - there were a few other cars parked there, stilled beasts, dripping with mist - it was impossible to admire the prospect of the magical sea, the secretive farmhouses, the lonely sweeping fields - icy vapour rolled inland - all was silent, vague, mysterious -

I stood upon the chalk ridge - bare trees were half choked with ivy - I saw a field lapped by sea mist - purple wild flowers grew feverishly beside the pathway -

The Arch appeared, quite suddenly, out of the chill blankness - I stared at its damp lichened masonry - through the archway I could glimpse a hidden country -

I thought of the Lady Door, of the House Portico - what strange destinations would she uncover, if she stood here, now, within this arch?

I turned, to look seawards - as I did so, the sea mist lifted - I could see the line of the hill overlooking Kimmeridge Bay - I could see, little by little, the strangeness leave the land -

The American Bar, a magician's nephew and Rumi 

When I was a headteacher, it was wonderful to drive to Southsea, to forget about trajectories - I would leave school on Friday, still wearing my suit - on arrival at Richard's, I would discard the pin stripe of an apparatchik -

Richard might be crafting the final lines of a delicate poem - Rocky, the cat, would perch upon a pile of lesson plans - light would filter through the curtains of the bay window -

Away from Albert Road, we would head for Old Portsmouth - rowdy kebab joints would give way to serene villas - stained glass fanlights would glow like jewels in the twilight - the air would ripple with memory -

Looking up at the attic window of a narrow house, I would wonder what mystery it shielded - perhaps a shock haired magician was handing his nephew a magic ring -

Fishing boats were moored within the Inner Camber - rope and gear were piled up on quayside - the Spinnaker Tower reared up, like a setting for a Sci Fi novel - there was a large mural of Rowlandson's Portsmouth Point decorating the wall of the Bridge Tavern -

The American Bar is full of louche characters - well preserved women slink past men wearing loafers - charming girls serve us sea bass and False Bay Pinotage -

Richard tells me about his latest travels - with each bumper of Pinotage, I can feel scales fall from my skin - the names of foreign cities thrill me - Cape Town, Venice, Istanbul, Seville -

We talk about Rumi - I saw his tomb in the Mevlana - what you seek is seeking you - 

The British Telecom Tower, silver space ships of memory

When I was a student at University College, I would often visit friends in Ramsey Hall, in Maple Street - I would wear my leather jacket and suede shoes - I only had to shave once or twice a week - I was a nervy, crazy, innocent,  boy -

I'd studied for my A Levels in a newly built comp - my history teacher suggested I go to University College - he'd gone there, too - he would wind his long legs around each other - we'd sit, in a small classroom, scribbling notes, grappling with exciting ideas - nationalism, sturm und drang, revolution - I was sometimes distracted by the sight of the long legs of one of the girls - she would sprawl upon her chair, toying with her biro -

My hall of residence was International Hall, just off Russell Square - we'd all cram in the television room to cheer on Captain Kirk in Star Trek -

But Ramsay Hall was overlooked by the British Telecom Tower - this silver space ship pierced the sky - I would look up at its mysterious galleries -

When we came back from the History freshers' weekend in Bushy Park, I called in to see my chum from the comp - we sat in his overheated room - we spoke of our fellow undergraduates - one gentle young man had  sat right in front of the speakers, his mane of hair covering his face - he was listening to Piper at the Gates of Dawn - a weaselly boy was still wearing his Eton tie -

Whenever I'm in London, I look out for the Telecom Tower - it reminds me of those delicate days - I wonder what happened to them all - what fates befell those slim boys and lovely girls -

I know that one of my faults is never to look back - my role model for a while was Desmond Thane - yet, recently, I found myself in Maple Street - I glanced up, to see a jet flying across a flawless sky -

I resolved to harvest my memory - I would find my leather coat - I would wear it again - I would breath the same exciting air -

Buccaneros at La Floridita, Havana

When we were in Havana, Anne and I visited La Floridita - Hemmingway had boozed there - a man in a faded red jacket beckoned us inside - the bar was dimly lit - a salsa band played catchy, magical, sexy music - there were guitars, drums, the swaying hips of girls -

The bar staff made mojitos like magicians - they spun the bright cocktail shakers as though they were possessed - they scooped up great handfuls of crushed ice - they gathered up fragrant heaps of bright green mint - they poured out the Havana Club from deadly bottles - the cold world was far away -

There was a life size bronze statue of Hemmingway, lolling against the bar - he was smiling -

At the far end of the bar was a large circular dining room, all set out in faded red velvet - it had a melancholy air - it was deserted, full of shadows -

The facilities of La Floridita were rudimentary - I made use of the green paper napkins left unguarded upon the bar -

After two Buccaneros, we left the bar - my head was spinning - we walked out into a balmy twilight -

Portsmouth Point, savouring every second of time gifted you 

I spent two happy years researching the history of Portsmouth in the 1830's - I pored over the shipping news in Mottley's Telegraph and Portsmouth Gazette - I breathed in the sharp spicy scent exuded by fragile documents - I marvelled at the detail of the large scale maps of Portsea - I murmured the names of streets and alleys like a conjuration - Broad Street, Oyster Street, Golden Lion Lane, Half Moon Street, Messum's Court, also known as Squeeze Gut Alley -

Portsmouth Record Office and the old library were havens for me - I scribbled notes, felt the soft touch of time upon my skin - I met two girls who meant so much to me, there amongst the bound copies of local newspapers, the calm local histories -

One June, I walked with Richard across Southsea Common - we talked of Geoff, who'd had an attic room in his parents' elegant Georgian villa - when I knew Geoff, he had a droopy moustache and wore a leather flying jacket - he'd hitch hiked to Dharamsala - I'd read Geoff's journals, written in thick note books, delicate handwriting covering pages and pages of coarse paper -

We looked out at Spithead - the sea forts looked like huge stone flying saucers - yachts raced by - white horses glinted in the generous sunshine -

We walked along the old walls, glanced up at a copper weathervane - it was placed on top of a white tower - the sky behind it was a marvellous heart stopping blue -

The beautiful houses lining Broad Street were silent - secrets collected under high ceilings - we each had a pint of Guerilla Gold - the Spice Island was thronged with ghosts as well as with slender girls -

We watched a sailing barge motor slowly towards the harbour mouth - I savoured every every second of time that was gifted me -

Remembering the Condor Ferry, thinking of sailing in foreign seas

The prospect of seeing the English shore slip away from the deck of a vessel is dear to my heart - I'm infatuated by jets, I must admit - their white shapes piercing the upper air, the lines of their contrails, never fail to delight - but ships were always my first love -

I think of Byron, sailing to the continent, to exile and immortal fame - Scrope Davies, escaping his creditors, hiding out in Ostend - James Joyce, ending up in Trieste, the capital of nowhere -

We once got the night mail from London to Dublin - Anne and Richard were my late night fellow travellers - we drank Guinness on the boat, and blinked in the early morning sun - Bernie O'Shea helped us make a fire out of peat - there were horrific scenes inside The Blue Loo - the landlord danced on top of his bar - in Castledown Bearhaven, we thought, were surely the worst lavatories in the world - Anne sang bravely in a bar in Macgillycuddy's Reeks -

One October, I was walking on the beach at Studland - a grey sky pressed down upon an icy sea - Richard sat upon the fine white sand, in the lee of the dunes - marram grass rattled in the wind -

Suddenly, I heard a subdued roar - the great white dart of the Condor Ferry was moving into the open sea - mighty engines expelled dark fumes as the craft started to pick up speed -

I remembered racing to St Malo on this ferry - I had looked out at Old Harry - we raced past high chalk cliffs - I had been whisked away from a land of Tesco in moments - I remember chuckling with glee as we crossed the Channel - I would have been happy circling the watery globe -

Richard told me of crossings made in hazardous ferries under tropical skies - I had a sudden wish to feel a wooden deck beneath feet, moving slightly from side to side in a turquoise sea -

St Catherine's Chapel, thinking of going on pilgrimage

Last Saturday, I knew that I had to stand inside St Catherine's Chapel - this strange dark structure, located upon its bare grassy hill, had long haunted my thoughts - increasingly the thought of going on a pilgrimage is growing within my mind -

I am not sure yet when or where I shall go, but I have a desire to visit numinous sites - I want to feel my soul infused with the spirit of all the visible and invisible worlds -

The legend of the saint seemed to me to be both cruel and exotic - I imagined the beautiful young woman, martyred in Alexandria - her head struck off, her neck issuing milk, her body carried by angels to Mount Sinai -

Chapels to St Catherine within the British Isles were built upon the edges of cliffs, or upon hilltops - often upon the sites of pre Christian temples -

So it was at Abbotsbury - I parked the red Peugeot near the church of St Nicholas - I had been listening to The Next Day - David Bowie's songs confronted the dark bravely and passionately - I felt that he was singing directly to me -

From the wild tangled graveyard, I could see the chapel on its hilltop - the lynchets were clearly evident, highlighted by bands of shadow - they were known locally as the Chapel Rings - looking at the patterns of light and dark green, I thought of Troy Town mazes -  

I passed by the shell of the abbey - I slithered through deep mud, past a huge tree with bare anguished branches - I climbed rapidly up the hill, to stand in front of the chapel - I could see the village below me - the  turbulent sky was full of cloud -

The colossal stone walls of the chapel, four feet thick, rose up before me - I pushed open a venerable wooden door - inside, I stood in a bare high space - two walkers ate their sandwiches - a keen eyed dog was marvellously alert - a privileged family spoke in low voices - the greyhound with the family barked repeatedly -

The family left - the walkers showed me prayers, written on slips of paper - the tender spills were placed in cracks between the blocks of stone - I read the poignant message left on a photograph, curling up in a niche in the wall - I looked at the light, streaming in through the windows, illuminating the sides of a locked door -

I felt myself move out of the flow of time - I could feel my heart beat, the thoughts in my head flowing like icy water -

I thought of the question - what must I do to be saved?

Outside the chapel, I looked towards the sea - the clouds were floodlit with sudden sunlight - the sea was like shining silk -