"The Dorset Queen" sails from Wareham ...

One of my favoured Wareham haunts is the Quay - this paved space adjoins the river, just before the bridge, with its three shallow arches - yachts tie up here in the summer - they motor up the winding river, half hidden by man high rushes - downstream are the shallow lagoons and wooded islets of Poole Harbour -

Opposite is a wide grassy bank, with wetlands and water meadows beyond - last winter, there were floods - you could see swans, gathered in moody gangs, guarding the submerged pastures - sea gulls whirled down from the leaden sky -

But the July afternoon Anne and I were there, the sky was a dazzling blue - I was brown from the sun - we'd heard the jet stream had moved southwards - perhaps now we were living within a sci fi novel - we might see jewelled lizards, basking outside Saint Martins on the Walls -

Families, with rugs and labradors, were camped upon the scorched grass - chubby young boys, like glistening seals, threw themselves into the warm river - slim girls sunbathed - young men brooded  - couples canoodled -

A pleasure boat from Poole, the Dorset Queen, was moored to the Quay - its passengers were drinking cappuccinos in The Granary, or supping dark ale in The Quay Inn - a few braved the insolent sea gulls whilst they snarfed hot vinegary chips -

Later, we watched the boat spring off the Quay - the bravo at the helm was very skillful - he spun the hull around, to face downstream - his crewman coiled the warps upon the tremulous deck - I saw a tanned aunt take photographs with her digital camera -

The Dorset Queen made its way down to the harbour, its wake churning the rushes - if I half closed my eyes, I thought, I would see men in boaters, women clutching parasols -

Angels in Roman Road ...

From time to time, I have a desire to walk louche streets, to exchange the gentle pavements of Wareham for those bordered with shuttered off licenses and 24 hour convenience stores - I want stroll past hooded, shuffling, figures rather than contented retirees - I want to see pit bulls, gleaming torpedoes with teeth, not placid labradors -

I have always had this hankering to don a disguise, to become invisible, to steal through different worlds - I can remember Annick taking me to club full of bikers - she said they were Hells Angels - I'm not so sure - there was a huge spider, made out of beer can ring pulls, hanging from the ceiling - the dive was full of smoke - the juke box played heavy metal music -

I was astonished when the bearded man pushing the juke box buttons, having glanced in my direction, put on Magnolia by J J Cale - how did he know that song was so precious to me? - Annick smiled - he knows what music you are - 

So, when I walk down Roman Road, to see Sophie and Paul, I feel as though I'm on the border of a different world - there's the Singh Super Market - the Plaza London Hotel - Global Kebab - Bangle and Carat - 

Early one New Year's Eve, we went into the Singh Supermarket - the slender young man behind the counter was handing out pizza to his friends - he pointed to a slightly older, broader, youth - this is my brother - he has come to see us from Dacca - we are having a party! - 

At that moment, I wanted to throw away my green tweed jacket - I thought of all the worlds one could imagine or enter - I let my eyes sweep over the scene before me - the thin brown fingers holding a slice of pizza - the racks of chilled beers - the avalanches of tortilla chips - the nervous, sinewy, necks - the CC TV monitor over the till - the darkness falling outside the brilliantly lit interior -

My heart lurched - every casual word I heard seemed full of deep significance - every figure inside the shop an angel encountered unaware -

Watching the Red Arrows, thinking again ...

Yesterday, we all went to Swanage, to watch the Red Arrows - Sophie and Tessa were with us for the weekend - Sophie told us stories about Detroit - she and Paul had met many charismatic activists in that awesome, splintered, cityscape - I imagined them, driving between shattered towers, skirting urban prairies -

We got the steam train from Corfe Castle - we feared being trapped in a net of shiny cars in Swanage - Sophie and Tessa were invited onto the foot plate - the young train driver turned away an earnest steam railway fan - only room for two - 

After a little while, Sophie and Tessa returned, laughing and smelling of smoke - it was very Victorian - very hot - Sophie's words made me think of Len, hurling coal into the white hot fire box - 

Swanage was full of people - a vast murmuring excited crowd - the beaches, the streets, the hill above the pier - all were thronged with dads in flip flops, young women in tiny shorts, kids shrilling whistles, mums heaving push chairs, bearded prophets in wheel chairs - 

We meet up with Penny and Cherry - Anne and Penny made short work of a crossword - I ate an ice cream cone - rain fell from the gentle clouds - 

Then, we heard cheering - over the hill behind us - surely only just above the Victorian roof tops - flew the jets - beautiful, violent, elegant darts - they tore through the air - they soared up into the sky - they skimmed over the grass of Nine Barrows Down - plumes of blue or red smoke trailed behind their glinting tail fins - 

The noise of the jet engines swept like windmill blades over the bay - we craned our necks to watch the jets flying inverted over our vulnerable heads - I could see the pilots, like dark angels, within their murderous wonderful craft - 

I was surprised at my reaction to this bravura display - I felt full of excitement and wonder - later, I thought  how dark eyed children, in torn garments, might cry out in terror when they heard such sounds, or saw such shapes - 

The kindness of donkeys ...

I have always had an affinity for donkeys - my heart is eased when I think of their gentle natures, their stoicism, their questing muzzles -

I used to tell Sophie and Tessa stories about the Donkey Squad - there was The Chief, with his broad hooves - Bill, the bold tabby cat - narrow eyed spiteful Henry, with his pointed hooves - Antony the Ant, who was always black hoofed when he tried to join the Squad - the King of the Gypsy Gulls with his brave lads -

I read The Wisdom of Donkeys with delight - I sighed happily over the image of Dionysus and Hephaestus, sitting on their donkeys - the brays of their grey chargers terrified the savage giants the Gods had come to fight -

It was with delight, therefore, that, at last, I visited the Donkey Sanctuary at Sidmouth with Anne and Tessa - I had never seen so many donkeys - there they were - shambling, lolling, galloping, joshing each other, staring into space -

I stroked the warm hides of the donkeys who came up to me - I looked into their dark, knowledgeable, eyes - I watched their long ears quivering, snaring every sound -

I thought of Old Benjamin, calling out to Boxer - my eyes filled with tears - but the donkey before me surely sensed my distress - he leaned forward, nuzzling my chest, calm and wise -

Sailing between battleships, becoming awake ...

Last weekend, Anne and I went to Port Solent - we were learning all about flotilla sailing - the marina was straight out of JG Ballard, with its yachts and waterside apartments -

There were six of us on the yacht, all with varying degrees of sailing experience - Roy, our teacher, worked us hard - we practised parking the boat, springing off pontoons, carrying out power turns, picking up mooring buoys, gybing, tacking -

The harbour was full of vessels - there were power boats, ferries, dinghies, yachts, police boats and warships - there were even sea going kayaks - young men drove their jet skis like Somali pirates -

At one point, we each, in turn, spun the yacht around between moth balled cruisers and frigates - the high sides of the ships towered above us - you could see stilled radar antennae, enormous anchors - the silent hulls still radiated a sense of menace -

Anne turned the wheel as though she was a slender operative in Metropolis - I half expected to see steam wreathing her arms -

Roy asked me to bear away - as I did so, I looked up, to see the white sail, taut and shapely in the wind - I was alert and joyous - I felt alive, every nerve tingling -

I thought - I must always stay awake, like this - every part of me is awake - 

Cerne Abbas and the eel ...

The week before my colonoscopy, I'd visited Wareham Library - my spirits are always soothed when I walk past the book stacks there - I glance, smiling like Damiel, at the large print romances, the biographies, the Wallender paperbacks - I am calmed by the gentle voice of the librarians -

But that special morning, when I was more aware than ever of my body's beautiful fragility, I caught sight of a book which gave me pause - it was for sale, too, amongst maps of pub walks, in the Tourist Information section -

I picked up the slim volume - The Old Straight Tracks of Wessex - I forgot all about the jollop I'd have to gulp down, the gown I'd have to wear - I thought, instead, of the mysterious countryside, the alignments of standing stones and henges -

When I'd been given the all clear for five years by Mr Mehta, I resolved to buy this book, to explore the ancient sites it described -

I first visited the Cerne Abbas Ley - I drove there on the first of July - it was very close - the air was like a silky liquid - through the windows of the red Peugeot, I could see the slopes of Giant's Hill - I turned off the car sounds system - I'd been listening to Mid Air - 

There was the Giant - I stared at his magnificent outline - sheep were grazing all over him - I followed the route shown in the book - I had to almost crawl up the steep slopes of the hill - I lay down upon my stomach, looking up at the stalks of grass - butterflies swirled around my head -

I followed the ley line through a field of green wheat - dark lines of trees were outlined against the sky - I looked out for UFOs -

I saw no lights in the sky, but I felt as though, almost any moment, the still landscape would dissolve - I remembered how Arthur Machen would walk through the woods at twilight, half closing his eyes, seeing white people emerge from the shadows -

I made my way, at last, to Saint Augustine's Well - I looked down  into the water - leaves floated upon the surface, like tiny crumpled wings - I read a notice that said an eel, three foot long, had been found there, coiled up in the cool shadowy depths -

I thought of the eel, perhaps holding its tail within its small wicked mouth, unmoving and sleek, like a hidden truth, or a secret as yet unshared -

The Crossword Gang ...

Yesterday, after going to the gym, I decided to have a latte in the Salt Pig - whilst I was on one of the walking machines, I'd watched Homes under the Hammer - there, upon the small screen set into the control panel, were the doll like figures of the show's presenters - I was getting better at lipreading what they were saying - I did my best not to gaze at the beautiful Amazons exercising upon the sleek cross trainers -

Soon I was walking up North Street, past the Red Lion - the pub used to be a louche hangout for Wareham youth - now it was a soulless shell, with bland prints hung on its once cider soaked walls - 

Inside the Salt Pig, I could see the Crossword Gang - they were always there, it seemed, around mid morning - 

The burly man was peering over the shoulder of a woman at another table - he spoke in a commanding voice - it's Greenland, that one's Greenland - she scribbled the word in at 16 across - later, I heard him say that he'd lived in Hong Kong - 

The Daily Mails littered the tables - the burly man's wife sipped her tea, peering at her crossword clues - a young man with a gentle face fiddled with his I Pad - the dark haired waitress, who could have featured in a luscious painting by Peter Lely, thanked him for fixing her lap top - 

At the back of the Salt Pig, in the room next to the open kitchen, another member of the Gang sat with his cappuccino and crossword - he kept himself to himself, and wore a white baseball cap - I imagined him waking up every morning, jamming the hat upon his cropped rug -

I sat with my decaff latte, with my copy of The Independent before me - glancing at my I Phone, I saw that Richard was in Konya - I remembered the women there, dressed in black, with their shining eyes - 

I found myself glancing at the crossword in my paper - my dad had once composed crosswords for the Parish Magazine - now he put down his pen, leaving his Times crossword empty of clever words - 

Returning home, holding on to marvels ...

It was our last morning in Split - Ivo arrived a few minutes early, surprising us as we were getting ready - I'd just zipped up my black grip, cramming in my white collarless shirts - Anne folded her clothes with spooky precision and grace - sometimes I thought she'd fold me away, arranging my body so that it vanished -

Ivo led us through the network of alleyways which were now familiar to us - we passed the huge graffito depicting a Hadjuk  fan, cigarette dangling from his mouth like a monstrous clarinet - we passed the man with the swollen neck, sitting upon his bench, even now, before seven in the morning -

We sank into Ivo's car, preparing ourselves for his inspired driving - I tried to avoid showing my anxiety - we were soon accelerating towards the airport, zig zagging through the crazed early morning traffic - we passed the high rises on the outskirts of the city - their windows were like glittering semaphore flags - I wondered what messages they were signalling, and to whom -

Inevitably, Ivo took both of his hands off the quivering steering wheel - he rummaged around, and passed Anne a small plastic egg - she opened it up, pressing upon its central seam - inside were some exquisite silver earrings - when she wore them she would become a beautiful disordered gypsy - is gift - my friend made it for you - 

Soon we were in the jet, flying above the clouds - below me were the islands, with their mysterious shapes - I remembered how we'd sailed amongst them - I imagined the white yachts, racing over the turquoise channels -

I longed to feel, once more, how I'd felt upon the deck of Indian Wizard - the wonderful sensation conjured out of joy and fear, as our yacht heeled over, spray gushing along the silver stanchions -

How marvellous life was at such times - but every moment, I told myself, had within it a secret door to marvels -