Bunhill Fields ...

Recently, I visited Bunhill Fields - I was loitering in Islington, the day after Jay and Bridget's joint party - I'd bopped joyously with Sophie and Rosie during the party, relishing the Lea Valley Delta sound of King Toadfish and the All Weather Riders - Jay was on keyboards, wearing a snappy trilby -

The party was held in an old waterworks - splendid twisting pipes coiled above us - Sophie approved - this is the coolest space - 

Leaving with Sophie and Rosie, I'd met Paul from Penrith - I unwisely returned to the party, boozing shamelessly -

The midnight tube journey was a weird adventure - I saw extraordinary beings - the immense city was an arena for fearful activity -

The next morning, I wandered the pavements, northwards up City Road - it was then that I saw Bunhill Fields -

I passed through the gates, walking under dark trees, still dripping rainwater - closely packed graves were marked by worn gravestones - one slender stone was inscribed with flowing script, the letters trailing fantastic curlicues - at the top of the stone was a delicate allegorical carving -

I stared at cherubs and skulls - spirits flickered in the watery air - there was a paved area, in the heart of the burial ground - I saw the tomb of John Bunyan - I remembered reading Pilgrim's Progress as a boy - there, on the side of the tomb, was Christian, with his burden - how many times had I seen around me aspects of the City of Destruction? -

Then I saw William Blake's gravestone - also remembering Catherine Sophia, his wife - my spirits lifted - I thought of them, naked in their garden, surrounded by angels -

I thought Defoe's obelisk out of place in the company of these two prophets - but I still had a great affection for the inky scribbler -

A scarecrow in The Cafe in the Crypt ...

Whenever I'm in London, I head for Saint Martin in the Fields - as I cross over the Strand, into Trafalgar Square, I admire its severe beauty -

I pass by the happy gangs of Chinese tourists, the circling red buses, to stand under the portico - beneath my feet are smooth stone slabs - I can see Nelson's Column, the facade of the National Gallery -

Sometimes, I am diverted by impromptu street theatre - once I saw a thin young man squeeze his body through an unstrung tennis racket - I may pause by the fountains - I wonder if in some other, younger, world the tritons might leap into the icy pools, singing wild songs -

But, always, I turn from the Square, to visit the church - I go down into the Cafe in the Crypt - my dad used to take me here - later, we'd go to look at Seurat's Bathers at Asnieres - this was one of my dad's favourite paintings -

We'd sit, under the brick arches of the Crypt, planning our day out - I'd stare excitedly at my A to Z - sometimes we'd catch a glimpse of a grey scarecrow in the passage leading to the lavatories -

I never see a homeless man here now - I see, instead, elegant women with splendid cheekbones, young couples with glossy faces, courtly men in tweed jackets -

But last weekend, I saw a file of homeless men in the churchyard of Saint Giles in the Fields - they were gulping soup from out of small polystyrene cups - they were hidden away behind the railings - they spoke softly to each other - I half expected to see them led away, to some terrible place -

I saw a wretched creature outside Old Street Tube - he was hunched up, against the wall - his fingers were like blackened twigs -

I felt ashamed of myself as I passed him by, heading for Hoxton Square - soon I would be snarfing a calamari salad in the Ruby Cafe Bar, looking forward for a party - I resolved to do more than just be a vessel for shame ...

Walking along the Regents Canal ...

Sophie and Paul's shared flat overlooks the Regents Canal - you can loll upon a huge sofa in the living room, looking out at the tow path - louche narrow boats form an exotic community - the calm shining water of the canal is bordered by sleek apartments, mysterious warehouses and atmospheric pubs, torn remnants of a former world -

One Sunday morning, in late April, I stood upon the canal side terrace - trees cast tremulous reflections - in the distance, I could see the towers of Canary Wharf - the night before, they'd looked like brilliantly lit temples, beautiful and heartless -

I saw thin pencils of smoke, rising up from the tin chimneys of the narrow boats - Anne called me inside, to snarf bacon and peppery scrambled eggs - Sophie told us about immersive theatre - I wished I could have experienced The Masque of the Red Death - what wonderful, terrifying, room would I have chosen? -

Later, we raced dangerously along the towpath on Boris Bikes - we passed a floating book shop - word on the water - I imagined browsing through the volumes, the deck rocking beneath my feet -

I stared at the huge exciting skeletons of two gasometers - they were like the ribs of burned out airships -

Skillful speeding cyclists overtook us - we wobbled round dawdling family groups - splendid amazons in lycra ran along the tow path, weaving through gaffers enjoying the sunshine -

We stopped for cappuccinos at a laid back towpath cafe - a drawling siren served us - slender young men studied their i phones - girls smouldered behind their sunglasses - there was luscious pink blossom on the trees - a white jet appeared in the sky like a promise of happiness -

The archer recalls Agincourt ...

I visited Corfe Castle this week, with Will, and his two children, Bruna and Benni - the car park opposite the castle was full of people carriers - the weird weather, with its sci fi heat waves, had attracted many visitors to Purbeck - when I went for a swim at Studland, I'd never seen so many people upon Middle Beach - they lay, basking, upon the sand, becoming brown and sleek in the strange sunlight - 

A medieval village had been set up within the grounds of the castle - white pavilions were tethered to the warm turf - men, women and children were in costume - the women wore long green kirtles -  the men swaggered about in stained linen shirts with knives tucked into their boots -

In one canvas booth, a slender apothecary showed leeches to shrinking children - bunches of potent herbs were arranged next to horoscopes - there was a shrivelled mouse as a charm -

A grizzled tough explained the principles of archery and combat - he plucked out his knife from his boot - this is my knife - this is how I deal with a fallen knight - a crowd of excitable boys watched as he plunged it through the eye socket of a helm - there, straight into his brain - if you cut his throat, you'd have to wash his clothes before you sold them - 

It became clear that this man knew his history - he spoke of the Agincourt Rolls - how archers might be knighted - we were all fascinated by his story about William Jauderell - 

But, most of all, he loved demonstrating history - he invited brawny dads to draw his long bow - they were unable to shift the bowstring more than a few inches -

I pitied those gilded lords, encased in their armour, riding knee to knee - I heard, in my reverie, the hissing sigh of steel tipped arrows -

It took a Purbeck ice cream to restore my spirits -

The Lagonda at Creech Grange ...

I once had a shameful passion for the novels of Denis Wheatley - I read them avidly, delighting in their elaborate, lurid, plots - the covers of my Arrow paperbacks depicted saturnine caddish heroes, despatching Nazis - bathyspheres were circled by sharks - haunted abbeys were illuminated by feverish moonlight - helpless virgins were offered to the Devil -

I was about twelve or thirteen when I first discovered Gregory Sallust, the Duke de Richleau and the rest of the louche, dangerous, gang -

The Duke drove a Hispano-Suiza - in my dreams, I, too, hurtled through the night in this glamorous beast - the glaring beams of my headlights disrupted abject covens -

Later, after my Wheatley Years, I still retained a secret love of sleek land ships - I had begged a lift in a Morgan, but it was not enough to assuage that hidden desire -

I was overjoyed, therefore, to see a Lagonda, parked in front of Creech Grange - there was a Country Day bring held in the grounds of the house - alpacas were being shorn - amiable donkeys carried small children to the artificial lake - there was a statue of an anguished young man in the conservatory -

But, there, on the driveway, was a Lagonda - it had red leather seats, a steering wheel large enough for the helm of a racing yacht - the bonnet was thrown back, revealing the potent engine - it was like looking at a sleeping powerful animal -

The black mud guards glittered in the sunlight - the white coachwork was flawless - there was an Oxford Book of Narrative Verse resting upon the back seat -

Perhaps, I thought, a brave scholar, out of a lost Denis Wheatley novel, was going to jump into this beautiful vehicle - he would be wearing a blue jacket, with a Moleskine tucked into one pocket - he would turn to wave goodbye to a slender woman standing at an opened window -

The church at Melcombe Bingham ...

This Tuesday, I went for a walk with Penny to Melcombe Bingham - we drove to Ansty in Penny's Micra - we saw dark woods, silent villages, immense fields, full of unharvested wheat -

I kept a look out for crop circles - I'd read, fascinated, John Michell's Flying Saucer Vision - I wondered if I might see arcane symbols, marked out in these somehow slightly sinister fields -

Penny drove with daredevil skill down narrow, twisting, lanes - high hedges bordered the lanes, with passing places grudgingly inset into the hawthorn and bramble -

Ansty turned out not to be a single settlement, but many - a Brigadoon or Sargasso Sea  of Anstys - Lower Ansty, Higher Ansty, Ansty Cross - but Penny was unerring in finding where we should go for our walk -

We parked near a noble village hall, once the original Hall and Woodhouse Brewery - I remembered wistfully how I'd loved draining glasses of Golden Champion -

We set off, heading across pasture with sleepy cows and innocent, jaunty, calves - we climbed over stiles set in venerable hedgerows - we walked down a hollow way, set between high banks, thick with ferns and docks - the branches of ancient oaks and ash and beech met over our heads -

We passed the site of Melcombe Horsey, abandoned as a result of the Black Death - sad mounds and furrows in the grass cast passing shadows -

The church at Melcombe Bingham was beautiful and spare - inside, I looked at the monuments to members of the Bingham family - many had died young, the span of their foreshortened lives recorded in elegant lettering -

I spent some time staring at the memorial to Thomas Bingham - deare Child - he died before his first birthday in November 1710 - his parents, Richard and Philadelphia Bingham expressed the wish that his dust may never be disturbed - 

Leaving the church, I noticed that there was a stuffed owl, with yellow glaring eyes, perched up near the roof of the nave - the sight of this bird lifted my spirits -

 Outside the church, I looked up to see a delicate weather vane - vague clouds swirled over the sky -