Angelika's magical garden ...

Yesterday, we saw Angelika, sculpting in her magical garden - she was using a clawed chisel - 

Angelika told us that she could see the figures she would free from the stone - 

I liked her sculpture of a child eating an apple and reading - 

When I was young, Angelika said, I would go into the cellar of our house - there were apples in boxes there - I would pick up some apples and I would have a book to read - these were my favourite things - 

I walked along the paths snaking around the garden, lingering in ferny arbours, brushing against fragrant shrubs - 

There was a pergola, fashioned out of bleached fallen branches - 

Passionate stone heads rose out of vivid greenery - 

I lost myself in this wonderful space -

I imagined myself carving the ancient stone - 

Sometimes it takes years to make said Angelika - 

Bertie surveys the valley like a grave proconsul ...

When I first saw Bertie, he was only a few weeks old - he looked like a tiny crumpled fragment of chamois leather - 

Ken was trying to train him - but the distractions of a new warm world were hard to overcome - 

Bertie was darting about, losing himself amongst the orange trees, snuffing the air, overwhelmed by wonderful mysterious scents - I'd burst out laughing - 

Now here he was, in the front passenger seat of the mighty Kia, surveying the valley like a grave proconsul - 

I patted Bertie's strong back, aware of his calm gaze, overcome suddenly by a sense of strange pity and awe - 

Jane's sketch books ...

Jane's studio is in the Guest House - there, in a room with a marble floor, she sits before her easel, painting in bright oils or subtle pastels - 

Art books lie heaped on tables - I gazed, spellbound, at some watercolours by Samuel Palmer - 

One morning, after breakfast, Jane showed me her sketch books -

You must know what to leave out she said - 

The restaurant on the way to Akbuk, the patron and his reveries ...

On our way to Akbuk, we stopped for chai and Nescafes - I was wearing a straw trilby - 

It was late morning - traffic had been sparse along the clifftop road - I'd once seen a horse with a wooden saddle here, tethered to a bleached tree - 

The vines overhead shaded us from the sun - we stood upon the terrace, gazing down upon the turquoise sea - 

Two small boys with shaven heads watched us from the kitchen -

They were two of the patron's six children - 

Terraced fields led down to a pristine cove - a woman stood amongst rows of peppers, holding a glinting sickle - 

There was no sound but that of our voices - 

Having served us, the patron returned to his reveries -  

A hornet settled upon the sleeping television - 

Jane sketching ...

Yesterday morning, Jane sketched me whilst I sat upon the terrace - inside the marble house, a fountain cooled the shadowy atrium - 

I gazed at the heartfelt words in my notebook - 

I knew that soon I must return to my own house - 

I put the notebook down, and gazed at Jane's drawing - 

There I was, a web of nerves and bone, a  flickering shadow in the May sunlight - 

The air smelt of figs - birds were singing their passionate songs - 

Taking coffee on Kafadar at Iskelesi ...

This morning we drove to Iskelesi for breakfast - we sat on the terrace of the boutek otel Fileka, eating glistening garlicky olives, spooning luscious silky dollops of strawberry jam onto warm village bread - 

The turquoise sea was only a few yards away - boats were moored to small pontoons 

Two Amazons swam off the pier - I saw them, later, basking in the sun - 

Fir trees clung to the craggy shore - the old customs house had thick stone walls - sea urchins were visible beneath the waves - 

Later, we drank coffee on board Kafadar -

Ken and Jane had sailed this trIm wooden boat from Bodrun to this mooring - 

Anne and Jane sunbathed upon the cabin roof - 

I felt happy smelling the warm wood, hearing the water slapping against the hull - 

Ken started up the engine - the deck quivered beneath my bare feet - I imagined midnight passages across the bay, swimming in the forgiving sea - 

Iskelesi 

2.00

May 25 2014

Chai with the beekeepers from Konya ...

We stopped in the village on our way back from Akbuk for bread and tomatoes  - 

I watched pale cocoons of dough being placed in the wood fired oven - a tin box contained wafer thin kurus - 

In the greengrocers, I found Anne and Jane  drinking chai - I was welcomed inside - Ken joined us a few moments later -

The greengrocer and his wife had just driven back to Karabortlen from Konya -

I recalled how I'd driven there with Ken - we'd crossed a scorched plateau - salt lakes had reflected the April sun - apple trees were beflagged with blossom - we'd gazed at a vast lake, ringed by mountains - 

He says Konya is better for bees, because there are more flowers Jane said - 

The greengrocer looked at me - 

He says he remembers you - you are a good man - 

I sipped my chai - 

He has two hundred bee hives - tomorrow they will drive to Konya with the bee hives - they have not slept yet - 

I relaxed upon the sofa inside the shop - I remembered my sojourn above the village as the hermit of Karabortlen - 

I'd just had my first brush with mortality - time was like a bright ribbon, wrapped around my face - 

 

The beach at Akbuk ...

Today we drove to Akbuk - the cliff top road took us through pines, high above the turquoise sea - 

We stopped for Nescafes in a cafe overlooking a sparkling cove - an intricate web of vines shaded us from the sun - the vine tendrils were like delicate corkscrews - 

At Akbuk, fishing boats were moored to ramshackle piers of sun bleached wood. - 

Huge clouds rose above the mountains - 

We swam in the sea, far out into the bay - the clouds cleared - tiny fish darted around our toes -  

We lay on the warm pebbly beach - our eyes were closed - my heart danced within my chest -  

When we got up, small pebbles were stuck to our backs and legs - 

It was as though we had been decorated with smouldering gems - 

Inside the dolmus ...

Anne and I boarded the dolmus near the Jandarma - Jane told the driver we were her relatives, and where we wished to go - Anne heard the word abla -

In the tea garden, shaded by a mulberry tree, old men read newspapers or played cards - 

Strange meats hung from hooks in the butcher's shop opposite - 

The courteous driver of the dolmus knitted his dark brow when we asked how much the fare was - 

Women in brown trousers and white head scarves got on board - 

Soon we set off, driving through the village to Akyaka - 

I clasped the small satchel Marylyn had given me - 

I heard mysterious words in Turkish - 

En route to Akyaka

Dolmus

22 May 2014

 

Shopping in Karabortlen ...

This morning, we bought peaches, appricots, a melon and a sack of Omo in Karabortlen - 

Earlier, I'd watched women picking up bales of straw in the field next to the mukhtar's garden - Pasha brooded in his red kennel -

In the village street, I admired the deep storm drains - I'd watched them being constructed two years ago - 

There was now an ATM next to the Jandarma - 

The lady in the second green grocers could not resist trying to overcharge Jane for the peaches and the melon - 

Jane smilingly re-weighed the peaches and the melon - 

I looked up, to see a Spiderman balloon - the diffident superhero gazed at me with his strangely shaped eyes - 

Karabortlen

Village street

12.45

21 May 2914

Basking ...

We went by dolmus to Akyaka - I scrawled aperçus in the Big Blue - 

I'm basking in the sun, above the turquoise bay - 

Boys are diving off the rocks - they surface next to their tender girls, snatching a salty kiss - 

The bright sails of the the kit surfers are like the wings of mythical birds - 

I can feel the hot sun burning my neck - 

When the boys dive into the water, they whoop like heroes - 

3.08

Akyaka

May 20 2014

 

Marmaris, birthdays and mermaids ...

It was Ken's birthday today - we drove to Marmaris in the mighty Kia - 

Before we left, I dipped my hand into the pool - I traced the flight of a swallow across the flawless sky - 

In Marmaris, we saw shirtless yabancis - a white cruise ship was in port - 

We all had lunch at Cafe Yoda - Ken and Jane's friends swopped stories about Doctor Bagi - we had all had treatments in Kerala - 

I admired the slender mermaid in her fountain - 

Later, we sat in Pineapple, gazing down upon the sleek yachts - 

Ken said that birthdays came around too quickly - 

Marmaris

3.00

May 19 2014

Mugla Old Town and the gladiators ...

Jane led us through the white washed alleyways of Mugla's Old Town - we climbed higher and higher - ancient stone houses were warmed by the sun - vines tumbled over courtyard walls - sinister dogs guarded the higher steps -

We passed a mosque, built in the 14th Century - I saw a rack of shoes and sandals outside its entrance - the crumbling minaret rose above dark cypresses - 

Jane sketched the silent labyrinth - we made our way downwards to the new town, past tiny shops - old men sipped chai - caged birds sang - 

We saw a remembrance feast being prepared - three men played wild lamenting music -

In the museum, we saw the brutal memorials of gladiators - one was called Khrysopteros - 

Later we met up with Jane and feasted upon lentil soup - 

I remembered seeing the carving of a serene face - 

Mugla Old Town

2.00

May 18 2014

Swimming at Akyaka ...

The Big Blue overlooked the town beach - we sipped our cappuccinos, watching the kite surfers - one was whirled into the air for many yards by the wind - waves splashed over the heads of larking boys - olive skinned girls ran hand in hand through the shallows - 

Wooded hills, thick with pine, enclosed the bay - opulent clouds moved across the sky - a formidable cliff rose high above the raffish seaside town - a bravo rode by on a red Harley Davidson - 

The turquoise sea drew me to it - I changed quickly into my swimming costume - I skipped over the soft smooth sand, skirting feverish games of football, eager for the zinging waves - 

Soon I was swimming, lost in the moment, no longer thinking, only feeling -

Akyaka Town Beach

1.00

17 May 2014

Waking up to greet the stone crocodile ...

When I draw back the curtains of the blue bedroom, I can see the garden, with its arbours for reading or idling sweetly - there's the early morning sky still full of my dreams -

I feel calm and happy - soon, I'll walk through a grove of orange trees - I'll greet the stone crocodile by the side of the pool - I'll pay my respects to the grave bulldog, Bertie - I'll stroke gentle Hammi's delicate muzzle - 

I'll dwell intensely in every second - I'll carry my heart like a fragile gift -

Driving to my parents ...

I'm now in the red Peugeot - Anne's driving - we're on our way to stay the night with my parents - 

Tomorrow, we're driving to the airport - I'm nervous about the e tickets - 

Anne's talking about the Bedroom Tax - soon we'll be seeing my mum's new cooker - 

In the hallway, my dad's displayed the crests of the ships he served on - 

More and more, though, the house is becoming filled with a chill mist - 

Soon, perhaps, I'll not be able to see my parents - their small figures will be hidden completely by the mist - 

M27

3.26

14 May 2014

A sudden hailstorm and three witches ...

Yesterday afternoon, there was a hailstorm - we were sitting in the conservatory - icy pearls fell from black clouds - 

I was taken aback by the suddenness and violence of the storm - it appeared from nowhere - 

A frigid wind blew up - the hailstones were sent whirling through the darkening air - apple blossoms were torn from tender branches - 

I watched the pine trees sway in the wind - hailstones bounced off the lichened box tomb, glistened amongst the grass - 

When the storm ended, as suddenly as it had begun, I went outside into the garden - I picked up a sphere of ice, and let it melt upon my tongue - 

Later, I saw that some hailstones had fallen down the chimney - I saw where they'd melted on the hearth - 

I pictured three witches, riding their sieve off Winspit, calling up the wind - they were garlanded with foam - they were singing wild songs -

Duck eggs and free range eggs in The Salt Pig ...

This morning, in The Salt Pig, I was reading Robert Fisk's column in The Independent, energised by his waspish disdain of British legal hypocrisies - 

I vowed that I must read his The Great War for Civilization: The conquest of the Middle East - 

I must have missed the crossword gang - they were not at their usual table, murmuring over clues - they'd taken their Daily Mail with them, too - 

I'd called in for a cappuccino, after a stint in the gym - I've surprised myself by going to the gym at least twice a week for the last year or so - 

I slyly weigh myself every day on our new scales - perhaps that's a little excessive - 

I'd watched The Jeremy Kyle show whilst on the running machine - I lip read his taunts - I remembered how Haruki Murakami would go running - 

I'd discretely admired the shapely Amazons on the cross trainers - 

But a vague sense of anxiety now seized me - what intricate conspiracies were taking place inside my body?

Then I saw a basket containing duck eggs and free range hen eggs - 

I picked up a duck egg, glorying in its shape and weight - I held it against my cheek - 

I suddenly felt happier - whatever happened, every moment was full of wonder - 

Pete and Maire talk about The Yellow Shop ...

Pete leaned against the archway in the kitchen, looking more like Serge Gainsbourg than ever - he'd asked for chilled white wine to drink - his voice was very gentle and beguiling - 

As I gulped down my own bumper, I wondered what it must be like to be so charming - I'd always been shy, blushing when girls spoke to me, tongue tied and too thin - though, perhaps, that too, was not without a certain charm - 

Pete was telling us about his customers in The Yellow Shop - 

There's Simon - he's very camp - he'll borrow small sums of money, for a loaf and some milk - 

One of Pete's customers killed someone - there's a woman who says Jesus got her pregnant - 

Maire then says there's Bill - he looks normal - he has out of the body experiences - he sees himself, leaving his body, and he goes off, and does things - then he comes back - he sees auras around people, clear as day -

Pete smiles - we then sit down to dinner - Pete talks about one of his brothers moving to Indiana - Maire talks about Ireland - I've only one aunt left there now - 

Icy rain sweeps across the valley - I admire Maire's beautiful auburn hair - she smokes a cigarette - 

The bluebells ...

Every year, I look out for the snow drops in the church yard - when I first see them, a vague tender sadness fills my heart - 

I'm aware of the slow ageless dance of the world - 

Later, there are daffodils - Max mows carefully around them - we place the brave swaggering yellow flowers in bright vases - 

Pink blossoms appear on the venerable apple tree - new leaves are like delicate flags -

Then there are the blue bells - 

Last weekend, we were walking down Brenscombe Hill, following the path through beech and birch trees -

There, between the trees, were shimmering pools of blue bells - each flower glowed with light - pure - unearthly - 

I felt the heat of my soul, burning within my nest of bones - 

The Ear, and the carpenter's dad ...

A few weeks ago, I went to an audiologist - Anne had got fed up with me, cupping my left ear like a grizzled ancient, mishearing her, or, more often, not hearing her at all - 

The verdict was that my left ear showed a significant hearing loss - today, my doctor, Mark Williams, referred me to a consultant - 

There is a remote chance that there's a tumour growing on the auditory nerve - Doctor Williams used that word, remote, to Anne when she rang him later - 

I sat in the red Peugeot, outside Wareham Health Centre, feeling icy spears enter my heart - 

The carpenter's dad cheered me up, though, that afternoon - 

My dad had been in the army he said - when I was 17 he said this house isn't big enough for the two of us - one of us will have to go - it's you - I've packed your bags - 

I went off with a mate - he was on the run from the Navy - we went to Birmingham - 

I've had my runs of bad luck - you've just got to get up, and get on - I've chopped my fingers off this hand - they put them back on - I've got a full set - 

I made him a cup of tea with two sugars - 

Listening to him, aware of his battered insouciant grin, I felt quite restored - 

But I'm still thinking of that word, remote -

Horton Tower, recalling Gormenghast, a folly from which to watch hounds ...

When I first glimpsed Horton Tower, it evoked all my youthful imaginings of Gormenghast - 

I'd read Mervyn Peake's gorgeous feverish trilogy in my early twenties - I'd seen myself, inevitably, as Steerpike - I'd also admired the noble Muzzlehatch -

In my dreams, I ventured across savage roofscapes - I dined with Doctor Prunesquallor - I found wonders in ancient labyrinths - I saw Fuschia, with her yellow scarf and her sullen mouth - 

Mervyn Peake seemed to have been as haunted and tragic as his characters - I think that Anne once met Maeve Gilmore - 

Penny and I walked up a sodden field, full of sheep and their doomed lambs, towards the tower - it started to rain -

We climbed over a wire fence to look in vain for a door to enter - the tower rose up into the sky, high above us, massive and strange - I craned my neck to look up at its dark windows - vegetation covered turret roofs and cornices -

We stood for some time, held by the mystery of the tower - 

We learned later that it was a folly, built for Humphrey Sturt, to serve as an observatory, and as a place from which to watch his hounds - 

Note

Humphrey Sturt, 1725 - 1786, Lord of Horton Manor, MP for the County of Dorset, 1754 - 1784