I feel, when leaving for the airport, that I am in a film made by Wim Wenders - 

Just over two weeks ago, I drove to Gatwick Airport - as I drove along the motorway, overtaking petrol tankers, I turned up the volume of my car CD player - I listened, intently, to David Bowie singing Love Is Lost - I heard, as though it was meant for me, the lyric - The voice of youth, the hour of dread -

I became full, that moment, with wild excitement and sadness - I could see myself, in a movie, one made by Wim Wenders -

There I was, driving fast, listening to music - the beautiful white jets waited for me upon the runways - if I looked up, I could see my pale face reflected in the rear view mirror -

There was no sign in that face of the secrets my mind contained, nor of the fears that haunted it -

For the moment, I was a figure in a film, moving quickly across a landscape of flyovers and shopping malls -

In the next scene, I would be looking out of the cabin window in a jet - my heart would be soothed by the pure lines of a tail fin - my fears would be lost in the bright smile of the woman who talked to me throughout the flight -

At Dalaman, she said - I would have given you a lift - you would have thought - who is this crazy woman ?

On Monday 29 April 2013, Deo volente, I fly to Turkey -

I scrawled those words into my moleskine two weeks ago - On Monday 29 April 2013, Deo volente, I fly to Turkey - 

Ever since my bowel cancer was diagnosed, three years ago, I've stopped making use of Letts Diaries - I'd bought my first Letts Diary when I was aged eighteen - now I blush when I read my pretentious entries -

Yet the diaries reveal, like dim lights, the vague outline of the person I once was - I am sure that my eyes would fill with tears if I saw myself, as I was then -

I decided to switch to the moleskines because they looked like explorer's notebooks - they were the sort of notebooks which might be found in a tent, buried deep in snow - their pages would be like icy razors -

I had to write short entries, living for each day, in the journey I was now to make -

I'm still on this journey - so, when the date came near to my flight, I wrote those words - like a mariner might write, in his log, as his ship sailed closer to the edge of the world -

Beachcombing in Worbarrow Bay

One of my secret dreams is to become a beachcomber - I see myself, idling on some warm shore - my bare feet sink into fine yellow sand - the delicate fronds of tamarisk trees are stirred by gentle air - I can smell the scent of lemons -

I would think such tempting thoughts whilst I dodged icy raindrops, sidling into a conference room - colleagues with white rugs might ask me about the school's numbers - women with neat bobs would hand me a shiny agenda - but my mind would be far away -

Now, though, I think beachcombing is possible anywhere - I can search for wonders in louche streets in Bournemouth, on my way to the dentists - there will be exotic characters emerging from internet cafes, or from out of tattoo parlours - there is no need to board a jet -

Last June, I walked with Anne upon the beach at Worbarrow Bay - choppy waves broke upon the coarse, gravelly, sand - chalk cliffs gleamed when bathed by intermittent sunlight - banks of bluish grey cloud moved across the sky - I looked up, wondering what shapes I would see, forming in the clouds -

We heard the waves, splintering upon the sand - bright foam marked the semi circle of the bay - windswept grass half covered the broken stone walls of fishermen's cottages - beyond the bay, at the head of the Gwyle, was the beautiful shattered village -

Upon the shore, we found a plastic fishing crate from Brixham - we wondered what cuttlefish pool meant - we kicked at tangled coils of tarred rope, wrapped round with blackened seaweed - we found a flag, saying Apnea St Malo - Anne picked up a curious blue container -

Further along the bay, a fisherman stood like a slender statue - his line reached out into the turbulent sea -

We sat, out of the wind, upon a patch of white sand - behind us were worn stones - our thoughts were confined to the movement of the sea, the taste of the salty air, the sand blown upon our skin -

Looking at a steam train from East Hill, Corfe Castle, with Penny, a cure for melancholy

Last Saturday, I walked upon East Hill with Penny - we went up the easy way, along the path from Challow Farm - we skirted a newly tilled field - the soil was ready for late planting - the last time we'd come this way, the field was a sullen quagmire - there'd been weeks of rain -

My spirits lifted when I stood upon the high chalk ridge - I looked out across the lagoons and creeks of Poole Harbour - I could see a trim yacht with red sails - I thought of Theseus, forgetting to change his sails -

Sheep picked at the short grass - cows sprawled in the warm sunlight - between East Hill and West Hill, you could see the torn walls of the castle, the shards of towers -

Then I heard a whistle - I saw a long plume of white smoke - it was a steam train, with five green carriages, gathering speed - I felt like whooping for joy -

The engine was jet black - it pulled its carriages swiftly away from my sight, through quiet fields, past old farm houses with thick stone walls - soon, seagulls would swoop above its smoke stack - waves would splash upon fine yellow sand -

I longed to be on the foot plate, perhaps with Len - Len would be expertly hurling coals, exactly where they were needed, into the fire box - he would be using a narrow shovel - he had to keep a keen eye upon fire, steam and water - 

The secrets of steam were subtle and tricksy - but Len was mastering this new craft - when we spoke of the railway in The Salt Pig, his enthusiasm was catching - what would it be like, to adjust the regulator, to feel the engine quivering with steam, to hear its wheels pounding upon the rails?

How could you be sad, or anxious, whilst you were beguiled by steam?

Turner knew a thing or two, I thought -

Watching Swallows in Jane's Garden 

I wrote this poem some months after my return from Turkey two years ago - I had spent a month in a small village house in Karabortlen - I would often walk past olive and orange groves, along the old Ulla Road, to see Jane and Ken - within their garden, I would always be happy and calm - 

I loved watching the swallows sip water from the pool - the warm wind would blow through the pines - later, a bright yellow moon would rise over the mountains - 

Deo volente - in a few days time I'll be there again - returning for a CT scan and colonoscopy in England a few weeks later -

During such times, the beauty of the world is overwhelming - but its fragility and transience is very obvious  to me -

I will start, as I did before, to compartmentalise time -

Jane tells me the swallows come every year -
They fly over the sea to this valley in the mountains -
Dark crescents in the late summer sky,
Falling through the shining air -

Their wings touch the sand in Africa,
Glow with the light of falling stars -

They are dusted with yellow pine pollen,
Resin scents their feathers -

Jane shows me their nests -
Neat shells of dried mud, in a ribbon of shadow -

I see the blue sky over the terracotta roof tiles -
Small lizards steal up the whitewashed walls -

The marble terrace gives way to the still garden -
A tortoise rests beneath  orange trees,
Bright geranium flowers brush against my skin -

The sun burns the back of my neck -
I can smell squashed figs, taste their sweet juices -

In the midday heat, I feel like a figure in a Greek frieze -
Ageless and clean, scoured by the sunlight -

But I remember the panic I felt,
Half way up the mountain, in the firebreak -
Cypress trees like dark torches in the valley,
The white stones burning in the river bed -

I thought I'd see, any moment,
The invisible creatures sleeping in the shade of the lichened rocks -

I thought they would wake, sleek and shapely,
That they would tear me to pieces -

Later that day, just before sunset,
When the cliffs were coloured red,
The swallows dived down from the falling sun -
Dancing in the air -

I stood in the pool, the water up to my neck -
I raised my head to see the swallows -
Dark crescents in the sky,
Swooping down to the garden -

My heart opened when I saw them fly -
Circling the pool, avoiding the red dragonflies,
Artless and beautiful -

Scooping up the water in their opened beaks,
Flying almost up to me, then swerving away just in time -
Flying up to the sky in the darkening air -

My fears and secrets blew away -
My dark clothes were heaped by the side of the pool -

I knew I could fly away with those sweet spirits if I wished to -
Up into their magical sky, beyond the moon -

Beggars on Jubilee Bridge

I'm always amazed by seeing beggars in London - within this splendid city, with its glass ziggurats, there are so many desperate people -

I have seen beggars abroad - in Naples, silent men kneeled, their heads bowed, in the chaotic streets - beautiful palazzos shaded wretched creatures - they held out their hands for a few worn coins -

In Taroudant, I saw boys, crippled with polio, dragging themselves past The Cocktail Paradise - their legs were withered - they begged all day for one or two dirham -

My friend Andy, who works for BP Amoco, saw beggars when he was in Luanda - they were crawling over a vast rubbish dump - Andy was looking out of the tinted window of a conference room - Total executives were poring over their clever numbers - later, Andy went to Moscow - I'm not sure if he saw any snow drops there -

I'd always imagined England to be a kindly place - yet here, in its capital, on my way to the National Portrait Gallery, I saw Big Issue sellers on every corner, by every tube station exit - the crowds swirled around them - I saw only a few people buy the magazine -

On Jubilee Bridge, I came across a man all huddled up - you could not see his face - there was a guitar placed upon his frowsty lap - he held a biro tube against one string, as though he'd pluck it - in front of him was a small round basket - inside the basket, there was a scrap of paper, with the word thank you written upon it -

I reached forward, and dropped a pound coin into the basket - a few yards away, a group of musicians played wild trumpets - they looked as though they were Serbs -

The musicians narrowed their eyes at the passers by - one man continued to play - he closed his eyes as he played - the music was wild and passionate -

Later, I saw Man Ray's wonderful photographs - I fell in love with Lee Miller - but leaving the gallery, I had to walk past a Big Issue seller - he just stood there - no one spoke to him - a woman examined the bright pictures upon her I Phone - in two days time, Baroness Thatcher would have a ceremonial funeral costing ten million pounds -

 I felt at once cowardly and full of a helpless anger - how had it all come to this?

Snarfing a curry on The South Bank, remembering The New Bengal 

Soon after I discovered beer, I made my first acquaintance with curry - together with Jay and Russell, I stumbled into the louche shadowy interior of The New Bengal - the waiters were clad in neat dark suits, white shirts and narrow ties - lamps cast a subdued reddish light - Matthew, Russell's English Sheepdog, a noble creature, waited for us in the Triumph Herald -

The other late night patrons of the New Bengal either lolled or sat bolt upright upon their chairs - they were mostly young men - they could have been bravos in Marlowe's Deptford - their eyes narrowed when they saw us -

We breezed in, clearly drunk, arguing about Coleridge - the bravos relaxed when we ordered lagers and meat tindaloos -

I'd never eaten a curry before - our order was given by Russell - my taste buds were duly incinerated by the dish - but I was hooked - I became a lover of curry -

I continued going to The New Bengal for a number of years - I'm sure Russell once took a frozen chicken from out of the freezer at back - he tucked the icy rugby ball of meat under his velvet jacket - the calm waiters were always exquisitely courteous -

I have since come to appreciate that curry is a subtle dish - I went on a curry cooking course in Alexandra Palace - I became a Spice Monkey -

Recently, I snarfed a delicious Mauritian curry on The South Bank - I was loitering in The Alchemy Food Village - the South Bank was hosting the Alchemy Festival - 

The curry simmered and rippled in a huge pan, as big as a dustbin lid - chunks of lime floated upon the potent contents -

I was cheerily warned about the mango paste - it's very intense - I turned it down - I ate my curry in the open air - spring had at last turned up -

I looked around me at my fellow diners - most of them were creatives - I scooped up my wonderful curry, looking forward to meeting Jay, Sophie and Paul -

Vikings in Corfe Castle

I have always had a fascination for Vikings - for their voyages, their art, their sagas, their impact upon the Anglo Saxon Kingdoms -

It all started, I'm sure, when I saw Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas in The Vikings - I watched the film on my mum and dad's TV - the mad technicolour gave me a headache - but the savage antics of the Viking warriors kept me riveted to the screen -

I especially liked the scene where Erik was chained down, to await drowning by the rising tide - Odin listened to his prayer, and a strong wind turned back the sea - Erik was played by Tony Curtis -

Kirk Douglas played Erik's one eyed half brother, Einar - Einar spent most of his time sneering, downing horns of mead and slaying effete Northumbrians -

Perhaps inevitably, Ernest Borgnine played the part of a Viking warlord - I can remember him, laughing, jumping into a pit of wolves -

Later, I read The Battle of Maldon - I discovered the Anglo Saxon Chronicle - I stood upon the shore of Lindisfarne - the icy salty air blew over the ruins of the abbey - I imagined the viking fleet, sailing over the North Sea -

Last May, I went to Corfe Castle with Anne and Penny - there was a Viking Festival taking place within the grounds of the Castle -

A tented encampment had been set up - Viking warriors milled about in chain mail, wielding swords and axes -

I knew that these warriors were only pretending - the young man with the splintered shield would go back to Carphone Warehouse on Monday - but there was still something terrifying, something truly dreadful, about these figures - perhaps it was a portion of some deep memory -

I remembered that gentle Wareham had been torched by Viking armies -

I watched a mock battle - a palisade was stormed - I heard the sound of swords upon mail, the shouts of armed men - I saw arrows darken the air - axe blades cut down green boys -

I saw myself, in another time, frozen with fear, watching a dragon prowed boat, swooping up our river -