Walking to Highwood ...

When Penny comes round with her book of cryptic crosswords, we often go for a walk down the lane before tea and crumpets - 

Before I lace up my boots, or slip my bare feet into canvas shoes, I put by the jar of home made plum jam - 

Two weeks ago, we walked to Highwood - it was late afternoon - the sun was low in the Autumn sky - 

Anne and Penny strode on ahead of me - I dawdled behind - I watched them become small dark figures under the tall trees - horses grazed in velvet fields - 

We looked out for deer near the tennis courts of a silent house - 

Sometimes we had seen them there at twilight, half hidden in the growing dark, graceful nervous shapes -

Now though the gardens were empty save for shadows - 

Earlier I had looked up through the hedgerows at the clouds - 

Leaves were starting to fall - the last swallows were leaving - 

16.30

October 2014

Highwood 

Isle of Purbeck

The Highland Laddie ...

A week or so ago, Penny gave me a photocopy of one of Julia's sketches - 

I put down my crumpet, upon which I'd spread glistening dollops of plum jam - 

There I was, depicted on the page, scribbling, still drinking coffee -

I remembered at once our amusement at the name of the pub - 

The Highland Laddie - that looks good - I wonder if there's a highland laddie inside Alyson had said - 

Send Alyson in - she'll sniff him out Penny grinned - 

I said I'd go up to the landlord and say - three highland laddies please - for God's sake don't delay! 

Upon her sketch, Julia wrote - voice of urgency here - 

Sketch drawn by Julia 

Outside The Highland Laddie Inn

Glasson

13.40

15 July 2014

At the Alexandros Greek Restaurant ...

The taxi driver had little good to say of the Alexandros Greek Restaurant - 

The wine was corked he said, gripping the steering wheel of his Skoda - Barnsley slop - 

The four of us were on our way back to Boustead Hill, after our second night in the Courtfield Guest House - 

I'd grown fond of my attic room high above the Carlisle streets -

Now though, our journey was coming to an end - waves of elation, then of sadness, flowed through my heart - 

The walking's really come on the driver was saying - time was when the farmers didn't like walkers - I'd walk an extra five miles to avoid a bull - now they know the walkers bring in a line of money - 

But by then I was no longer listening - dimly I heard Alyson protesting that the restaurant was fine - I was recalling every poignant detail of our evening together there - 

We'd set off in the northern twilight, along Warwick Road, at ease in each other's company, laughing, sharing stories - 

I'd drunk Mythos Beer and ordered Kotopoulo Souvlaki - Alyson had poured out the bumpers of Rioja - 

The place was warm and crowded - there were pictures of temples and ivy crowned nymphs on the walls - Greek music was playing - 

In my notebook I later wrote we got quite merry - there was wistful talk of smashing plates - 

When we left the restaurant, Alyson and Julia danced out of the door - 

Penny said - soon we'll be going our separate ways - 

She spoke as true as ever - I imagined us all, in our different houses, apart when we had once been together - 

10.00

15 July 2014

In a taxi, approaching Boustead Hill

Collecting pine cones ...

A few weeks ago, strong winds, remnants of Hurricane Gonzalo, swept across Purbeck - in our attic, the bats hunkered down, spiders spun their gluey nets - I lay in bed, dreaming of immense kites soaring up to the clouds - 

The next morning, I tipped the wood ash from the fire onto the ash pile - I thought of Bernie O'Shea, shaking his head - that's a poor fire he'd sighed - the next parish was in America - 

We'd been staying in a cottage, not far from Adrigole, a few miles away from Macgillycuddy's Reeks - 

Bernie's wife had died some years before - I spoke to her in a dream he said - but I got cut off - 

Pine cones were scattered all over the churchyard - 

Later, I lingered near the box tomb, picking up the fallen pine cones, torn from high branches by the winds -

Tonight I'll light the fire - I'll read Molotov's Magic Lantern warmed by hissing Apple logs - the pine cones will smoulder, then burst into flames - 

16.30

October 26 2014

The churchyard of St Mary the Virgin

East Stoke

 

The piano in the Meridien Centre

This morning, I went with my mum to Waitrose - she wanted to buy some New Forest ice cream - 

We walked down West Street, past a terraced house decorated with a Union Jack - 

Her son died out there my mum said - 

A man wearing a cowboy hat waved at us from behind his front window - we often saw him when we passed this way - 

In the Meridien Centre, just before Wilkos, we saw a piano -

On the lid of the piano were the words please play me - 

We paused for a few moments, under the silver escalators - 

This would be a lovely place for a concert my mum said - 

Women in jeggings smoked e cigarettes in Boswells - 

As we entered  Wilkos, I looked back at the piano -

I thought I heard music, just for a moment - but the keys were still hidden, the piano unplayed - 

11.30

27 October 2014

 

Outside Wilkos

The Meridien Centre

Havant

Meeting Tess at Heathrow ...

Yesterday, we drove to Heathrow to meet Tessa, whose flight touched down just after eight in the morning - 

When we arrived at the airport it was still dark - 

Immense lorries with glaring headlamps had haunted the motorways - flyovers were illuminated by orange light - thick set men gathered around transit vans in lay bys - a fox's eyes were cruel yellow jewels - 

We entered the pristine Alphaville of Terminal Two just after six - 

In Caffe Nero, I looked up to see what time it was in Sydney - 

I felt the thrill of strange names flow through my veins - 

A Chinese girl sipped an iced coffee - the screens flickered overhead - 

Then, soon after eight thirty, there she was - Tessa, striding towards us, smiling, crowned with adventures, gifting us with her laughter - 

 

08.45

October 25 2014

Terminal Two

Heathrow 

Elegies for March ...

I wrote this poem in 2008 after spending the weekend with my parents - Anne and Tessa were with me - 

I first met Volkan in the summer of 1996 - I'm honoured that I can call him my friend -

Elegies for March

Once there was a boy who believed there must be heaven
He saw Jesus on the playground
He held a magic coin hidden in his hand 
Every song must never end

I

In my parents' sparkling house
I see two walking sticks, propped up in a corner 

Beneath a shelf with two shells placed there
Catching the ribbons of sirens' songs

One walking stick belonged to my gran
The other is my mum's
I remember what my mum said 
Let her live until I'm forty - there's their walking sticks
One lumpier than the other, both brown and shiny

My gran died when I was eighteen
I heard the thump of her tiny body on the carpet
My mum crying out

She and her sisters washed her body
They laid her out in the bed I slept in

I saw her lying there, her face smooth like a girl's
All the lines on her face were washed away

She lay there as though she was in pool of clear water
Just below the surface

There's a tiny photograph of her, in the Milkmaid biscuit tin
She's with my mum, in the spidery wheelchair
They're smiling - my mum's written wagons roll on the back of the photograph

I'm in the picture, too, smiling and sun burnt
Pushing the wheelchair along the military road
The ditches under the thorn bushes are full of rainwater
Bright ghosts are swirling in the air

II

My mum says that the pills make a difference
But they won't work forever

She's careful walking on the pavement, as though it's a heaving sea
Gaffers with weird hair greet my dad when we walk to Waitrose
Tessa says he looks like Vladek, from Maus
That tiny vulnerable head

III

I saw a photograph of myself with my brother Nick 

We're wearing khaki shorts, standing upon a stone balcony in Malta

I was just thirteen 

That night there was a violent summer storm
The bells in the churches rung
They said it was the end of the world
The thunder was like the walls of Heaven falling
The lightning was the whips of grief

I saw the black rain fall on the splintered shutters
The courtyards lit with yellow light

IV

Thinking of my mum
I remember Volkan, gentle and kind under a different sky

Volkan's mum died of cancer
The operation was too late

The night before the funeral, the men of the village stayed in one house, the women in another

That night, her body was washed, wrapped in white
They told stories about her life

I washed her hair
I cut her nails 

She was carried upon the shoulders of the men
The women followed behind
Going up the hill to the stony cemetery outside the village

Volkan told me about the two angels and Paradise

V

My dad moves forward across the carpet
He says when you go the house seems empty 

His words like Volkan's twist my heart

Once there was a boy who believed there must be Heaven
I see him before me now
He reaches out to touch my hand


March 15 2008

Watching The Great Beauty ...

"This is how it always ends. With death. But first there was life, hidden behind the blah, blah, blah. It's all settled beneath the chitter chatter and the noise, silence and sentiment, emotion and fear. The haggard, inconstant, splashes of beauty. And then the wretched squalor and miserable humanity. All buried under the cover of the embarrassment of being in the world, blah, blah, blah. Beyond there is what lies beyond. And I don't deal with what lies beyond. Therefore ... Let this novel begin. After all ... It's just a trick. Yes, it's just a trick"

Jep Gambardella

I'd wanted to watch The Great Beauty as soon as I read the review in The Guardian -

I'd gazed at the photograph of Jep Gambardella, smoking a cigarette in a dangerous nightclub - 

I was haunted by the words of the critic summing up the film - a sensual overload of richness and sadness and strangeness - 

When I saw the film, it surpassed all of my expectations - 

I was was no longer a former apparatchik in a gentle town - 

I was walking through marble galleries at night, past sumptuous treasures, a Caravaggio, a Guercino, a bust of Augustus - 

I was walking past a convent at dawn, watching the nuns pick oranges - 

I was adored at wild parties, dancing the train - 

A beautiful woman lay naked beside me, under the high ceiling of an austere apartment - 

I remembered my first love, and how she had turned away from me - 

I wept whilst supporting a shining coffin upon my shoulder -

I ravished by melancholy, drinking wine in a baroque palace - 

I knew that I was getting old - I knew that I should only do the things I wanted to do - 

I felt the shame of not using my talents - 

I saw a giraffe vanish amidst some noble ruins - 

I heard music that made my heart ache - 

It was a film I never wanted to end - 

22.30

October 22 2014

The Rex 

Wareham

Edward I gazes across the car park towards Scotland ...

The Greyhound Inn was closed - it was a Monday - we looked through the windows at the empty bar - I had a sudden craving for a pint of Pennine Pale - 

I pictured myself lifting the longed for glass - I'd be listening, perhaps, to one of Julia's stories - I wanted to hear more about Kathmandu -

I turned away disappointed - we carried on walking, skirting a car park -

A mighty thewed figure gazed over the car roofs towards Scotland - there he was, cast in bronze, the Hammer of the Scots, raising his torso slicing sword, his cruel blank gaze sweeping through the air - 

Outside the Greyhound Inn

Burgh-By-Sands

15.00

14 July 2014

Note

The statue is supposed to mark the spot where Edward I died from dysentery while waiting to cross the Solway Firth on 7 July 1307

Watching Terrence Fisher's Dracula ...

Last night, I watched Terence Fisher's Dracula - I have a shameful passion for Hammer House of Horror flicks - I can remember watching The Devil Rides Out when I was a teenager, sneaking into The Ritz Cinema with a packet of Players Number 6 in my pocket -

I had a ziggurat of Dennis Wheatley Arrow paperbacks beside my narrow bed  - I'd imagine beautiful vampire women sashaying down Bramber Road - I'd stare into the darkness, racked by delicious terrors - 

All this came back to me, as I watched Peter Cushing play van Helsing, staking a writhing temptress, grappling with the Count in a gothic chamber - 

I took no notice of the preposterous castle, the absurd dialogue, Michael Gough's weirdness - 

I was, once again, that wide eyed boy, devouring the occult adventures of the Duke de Richleau, haunted by the beauty of Lucy Westenra, listening for footsteps on the stairs -

22.30

October 20 2014

The Old School House

East Stoke

Remembering my Grandad, William Bradey ...

Inside the pale blue Milady's biscuit tin, behind the sideboard, there's a photograph of my dad's parents - 

My grandad's name was William - he was a Blacksmith in Portsmouth Dockyard - he was a fire watcher during the Second World War, scanning night skies for the heavily laden bombers,  tracing their paths over the narrow terraces of Stamshaw and Rudmore -  

My dad said that there were always magazines and books in the house, The Listener, The New Statesman, a clutch of H G Wells -

There was a Gasometer at the end of Town View - men and boys would gamble under the coal berth gantries on the foreshore - on a wall was painted God Save The King -

I can remember that my Grandad had a soft, calm, voice - when I saw him, he was always kind and gentle - I can remember the warm dark house, my Uncle Dennis about to play football with a local league - 

I feel very sad that I did not do enough to get to know my Grandad, or to speak with him - I was a skinny nervy boy, too shy to get close to him - 

But looking at the photograph, I try my best to heap together precious memories, to hear once again his welcome - 

12.29

October 20 2014

Staunton Road

Havant

My dad's stopped painting and compiling crosswords ...

There was a time when my dad painted watercolours - he also composed crosswords for the parish magazine - 

Above the flat screen Sony Bravia, there's a watercolour of Corfe Castle, and in the hallway, two of the Royal Yacht - 

My dad worked in the Drawing Office in Portsmouth Dockyard after he left the Navy - he'd take the ferry every day from Gosport to Portsmouth - 

Once I'd passed my driving test, I would meet him at Holy Trinity Church in the Vauxhall Viva, taking him home after work - my chain smoking instructor taught me how to drive in a crumpled Hillman Hunter - 

My dad's stopped painting now - he's put to one side his Oxford Compact Thesaurus - 

He takes out four library books every week, usually hard boiled tec yarns, featuring lean PIs with troubled pasts - 

Sometimes, though, he'll look up from his armchair - he'll recite perfectly Auden's  As I walked out  one evening, down Bristol Street - 

His eyes will glisten with tears - my heart will ache - 

21.50

October 19 2014

My mum and dad's house

Staunton Road

Havant

Sunday afternoon at Studland ...

I walked barefoot along the beach, holding my canvas shoes - I felt the chill sand beneath my feet - from time to time shining waves washed over my toes - 

Bleached driftwood had been cast up by the sea - pelts of seaweed glistened in the pale October sunlight - a cataraman with white sails headed out towards the Solent - 

The water in the bay was a pale steely blue - one or two gulls flew inland, over the trees - already leaves were falling - 

I wondered if my dark red portillos marked me out as an oldster - 

This morning I'd gone to the gym - I saw a grizzled salt braving the Lat Machine - a nymph on the Running Machine was dreaming of Actaeon - 

Splashing through the waves, I thought of Coleridge - perhaps in The Middle Beach Cafe, I'd be transfixed by a glittering eye - 

15.57

October 18 2014

Middle Beach

Studland Bay

Studland

Note

Portillos are trousers, in primary colours, as worn by Michael Portillo 

At the Rosemount Cottage Tea Room ...

Once inside the Rosemount Cottage Tea Room, we peeled off our glistening cagoules - I shook rain drops from my hair - 

The low ceilinged parlour was warm after the numbing rain - we'd just left St Michael's Church -

I remembered the pale flowers in a vase, the smell of the stone, the numbers of the hymns, 683, 258, 368 and 56 - 

In my notebook, I'd written I feel a sense of utter stillness and silence - 

Now I could smell lavender, lilies and beeswax polish - Northern tea brimmed in big black teapots - delicate plates were heaped with lemon drizzle cake - 

We gossiped and laughed - Julia showed us her sketches - Alyson said she's made me look like a grumbling shepherd with his Special Brew -

A glass case contained a Roman shoe - there was a bust of a young woman on the mantelpiece of a tiled fireplace - her eyes were closed, her expression serene and still -

Who was she, I wondered - why were her eyes closed? - I should have asked the courtly man who bought us tea and cake, but something stilled my tongue - 

14.25

14 July 2014

W

Rosemount Cottage Tea Room

Burgh-By-Sands

Buying a Pirate's costume ...

We've been invited to a Fancy Dress Party this Friday - 

I dressed up once as Sir Percy Blakeney on New Year's Eve - I wore one of Anne's white foppish blouses, jodhpurs and riding boots - Anne went as the Holly and the Ivy - she wore green stockings -

The pub had a lock in - a wild eyed girl kissed me -  

But we're going as pirates this Friday - 

The fancy dress shop was a louche treasure house of costumes - I especially admired the trappings of the zombie nurse - 

Anne bought a splendid black bicorne with a scarlet feather -

Anne suggested I try on the Buccaneer's Bounty outfit - 

I changed in the back room of the shop - there I was, in the mirror, barefoot, in stripy trousers, grasping a plastic cutlass - 

For a moment, I closed my eyes, imagining myself on a heaving deck, wreathed in smoke, scorched by a tropic sun - 

There were gold rings on my fingers - I could hear the huzzas of my murderous crew - 

13.00

October 13 2014

The Costume Shop 

Parkstone Road 

Poole

Memorial tablets and lives remembered in St Michael's, Burgh-By-Sands ...

Crossing a wide field, just outside Burgh-By-Sands, we came upon some ancient trees - we walked for a while under their gnarled twisting branches - wind stirred the tangled grass - 

We'd been following the line of the Wall and the Vallum - it was late morning, starting to rain - it got suddenly colder - raindrops shone on my blue cagoule - 

We took shelter inside St Michael's church - the interior was dimly lit - there were small stained glass windows, one of which depicted a grim king - 

I read the memorial tablets upon the walls - I thought of the lives they commemorated with their careful carving - 

There was the physician, with his wife - I saw their tall gentle figures -

In remembrance of Thomas Rigg, MD FRCS, son of Thomas Rigg, and Elizabeth Stuart his wife, of Boustead Hill, Burgh-By-Sands, born August 11 1842, died December 2 1915 - He ministered faithfully to the sick of this parish and district for 45 years - 

There was the golden youth, killed in France -

To the beloved memory of Robert Mayson Calvert, 2nd Lieut 17 Manchester Regiment, Hastings Exhibitioner at Queens College Oxford - youngest son of Robert Calvert of Burgh-By-Sands, born 1 March 1896, killed in action in Trones Wood, France, 9 July 1916 during the Battle of the Somme - 

A passageway led to the base of a pele tower - strange animals were carved into the stone - when reivers burned farms, villagers would take shelter here, enfolded by strong walls - 

In the churchyard, gravestones were inscribed with delicate flowing scripts - 

It was now raining heavily, an icy downpour, chilling our bodies - 

13.00

14 July 2014

St Michael's Church

Burgh-By-Sands

Note

St Michael's is built on the site of Aballava, a Roman Fort, which was garrisoned by Moorish Auxiliaries 

Sitting inside the porch of St Mary's Church, Beaumont ...

Our path to Beaumont took us past a field of maize - the dark green plants were higher than my head - I lingered there for a while, whilst my companions walked on - 

I was drawn into the field, brushing against the thick creaking stems - chill leaves touched my face - I felt that something terrifying yet wonderful was about to happen - 

Later, we saw two swans in a weed choked pond - a hollow was brimming with Forget-Me-Nots -

We sat inside the porch of St Mary's Church - a man with a scarlet face told us that the church was built of stone from the Wall - the path you're walking on is on the Wall he said - 

The gravestones in the churchyard were tilting lichened shards - one read In memory of William Norman of Beaumont - He died May 20 1780 aged 74 years - Also of Margaret his wife she died 1752 aged 52 years - 

The interior of the church was full of light - the walls were white - 

From the churchyard, I could see the mountains beyond the Solway Firth - clouds filled the sky -

10.55

July 14 204

St Mary's Church

Beaumont

Note 

The church was built in 1296 on the site of a turret on Hadrian's Wall