Russian Stout at The Leopold ...

Richard has a fervent desire to quaff Russian Stout - it is, he says, robust - there are chocolate, coffee undertones - it's a nostalgic thing for me, having been to Russia - 

I recall Richard's twenty hour coach trip from Moscow to Rostov on Don - 

My experiences of Russia are in the winter - all the time I languished in Volgadonsk - 

So, now, we're in The Leopold, in Albert Road - 

Earlier, we'd walked upon Southsea beach - I thought of Turner when I gazed at the sky - 

We saw Spike, with his wild hair - 

I'm now sipping the dark subtle stout - Phil will be here in a moment - 

It's 5.3 Richard says - 

Later we'll walk to The Square Tower - 

Outside, its dark -  Phil's just arrived - 

17.50

30 November 2014

The Leopold

Albert Road

Southsea

The Whistler windows ...

I had long wanted to revisit the church at Moreton - I had gazed, spellbound, at the wonderful engraved windows, with their depictions of swirling stars, a chi-rho formed by vapour trails, two delicate hares - 

I had admired the weathervane, read Philip Tregonwell's memorial, hesitated to walk upon the glowing encaustic tiles -  

Now, late one October morning, I stood again before the Galaxy Window - 

Penny and I had been walking in Moreton Plantation - we could smell the damp earth - above us were shapely tawny leaves, outlined against the sky - shadows deepened under pine trees - we crossed the narrow bridge which spanned the river - 

When we saw the dark jewel of the church, we knew we had to go inside - 

We gazed at the magical glass - each image entered into my soul - 

 

There was Judas, in The Forgiveness Window, the rope around his neck - the silver coins falling from his hand became flowers when they touched the ground - 

12.30

21 November 2014

St Nicholas Church

Moreton

The crossing into darkness ...

There are now automatic barriers guarding the level crossing at East Stoke - a CCTV camera relays images to a control room in Basingstoke - 

Once we had to wait for Big Bob to open the crossing gates by hand - he drove a black Mitsubishi Warrior - 

If the fancy took him, Bob would take his time to emerge from the crossing keepers' hut - he told me once that he played cricket for a village team - I could imagine him, knocking the ball for six, sinking pints of Old Thumper after the match - 

One of Bob's colleagues was a birder - he'd scan the sky over the water meadows with silver binoculars - he had the lean sensitive face of a scholar - I'd talk to him sometimes on summer evenings - we might see bats, flickering black darts, or even a barn owl, with its terrible gaze - 

Then there was Stroma, who created a secret garden behind the keepers' hut - she'd chaff old Mr Matcham, with his shock of white hair and mischievous boyish smile - 

Now the hut is gone, and with it the crossing keepers - 

One night in October, I left the house, to stand by the barriers - they were down - ferocious light illuminated the rails - 

If I crossed over, I thought, I would enter a place that was unknown to me - shadows would cluster around me - I would smell smoke - I would walk upon ashes -  

October 

2014

The railway crossing

East Stoke 

The Isle of Purbeck

The tide turning at Langstone ...

Last Friday, I took my dad for a run in the red Peugeot - I helped him into the car - I felt the delicate weight of his body - it was as though, at any moment, he might break into tiny feathery pieces - 

We stopped first at Langstone - we walked along the foreshore, past The Ship Inn - diners were still eating scampi inside the themed bar - 

The high tide was on the turn - gulls settled upon a glistening causeway - white yachts were moored further out - I gazed out over the still pale blue water - I could hear my dad's uneven footsteps close behind me - 

We could have one in The Royal Oak my dad said hopefully - 

16.00

24 November 2014

The foreshore

Langstone

At The King's Arms, walkers robed for a while in history ...

The landlord of The King's Arms was lean and spare - he sported a Zapata moustache - he  smiled wryly at his walkers, handing them pints of Pennine Pale - 

The pub sign depicted, as it had to, King Edward I - the grizzled Plantaganet was wearing chain mail - his crown was pale gold - 

I was wearing my Edge of Empire tee shirt - in the left hand pocket of my brown corduroy jacket was my note book, a hive of words - 

We saw the London Finns again - they planned to take six days to complete the trail - they were eating sea trout - 

Alyson told a story about a friend of hers who'd taken a Finnish woman out for a drink - 

He had a beer - he asked her what she wanted - she said a bottle of Martini - 

I imagined glassy sirens drinking Findlandia vodka in an ice hotel - 

The landlord handed me the black book from behind the bar - 

Most of them complain about sunburn or aching legs he said - 

But I found the thoughts of the walkers recorded here to be full of joy and wonderment - they had completed their journey - they had been robed for a while in history - 

Penny and I read the words of Debbie from Minnesota - 

Debbie's mother had been a GI bride - she'd hoped to scatter her mother's ashes upon some numinous crag - 

I lost mum she wrote somewhere behind a bush in Newcastle - if anyone finds my mum, pour her into the Tyne - 

I stayed in the pub for a while after my three companions had left - 

A wave of woozy joy flowed over me - I got lost on my back to The Old Rectory - 

These moments, I thought, will stay with me, prized jewels in my memory hoard -

22.45

July 15 2014

The King's Arms

Bowness on Solway 

Note

The second largest fort on the Wall, Maia, was in Bowness on Solway. 

At The Old Rectory, Bowness on Solway ...

My gracious room in The Old Rectory brimmed with warm sunlight - through my window, I could see pine trees, outlined against a pale blue sky - the soft white bed promised soothing dreams - 

As I wallowed in the deep scalding bath, wreathed in steam, melancholy possessed me - our journey was ended - this would be the last evening we gathered together after the day's walking - 

Earlier, we had made our way through the village, past the King's Arms, down silent dreaming streets, away from the shore of the firth - a ruinous stone house had dark windows - I imagined entering its empty rooms, filled with shadows and whispering voices - we passed a churchyard, full of lichened gravestones, carved with old names - 

Downstairs, there was a large warm lounge, with a fleet of leather sofas and armchairs drawn up before a wood burning stove - two sleek dogs licked my hand, one after the other - a cat narrowed its yellowy green eyes in a snug corner - an antique telephone adorned a wall - 

We'd sat outside, in the garden, drinking tea, talking about primary schools - 

Bring out the Unsteads! Alyson proclaimed, laughing - 

We all remembered those colourful history books, with their simple certainties - 

I walked around the garden, dodging bold hens - some storm damaged pines had been felled - I heard again the ancient song of seabirds - 

Nervy youths were unfolding maps - tough oldsters were recalling their adventures on the Wall - 

I bought a tee shirt saying Walk The Edge of Empire - 

We agreed to meet in The King's Arms for a farewell dinner - 

16.30

15 Julu 2014

The Old Rectory

Bowness on Solway 

My mum and dad look at Anne's family photographs ...

Yesterday afternoon, Anne showed my parents some of her family's old photo albums -

She thought that this might divert them for half an hour or so - time hangs heavy in the brightly lit lounge - 

There was Place House, near Portscatho - there were Anne's mum and dad, stepping into the wedding car - there I was, in my blue Next suit, smiling an apparatchik's smile - 

Anne's parents died young - but there, in the tiny pictures, they're still alive, smiling, on holiday, building boats, counting a baby's toes -  

My mum and dad look at the tender images - outside, the long evening draws nearer - 

11.56

November 24 2014

The lounge

Staunton Road

Havant 

Watching Aladdin ...

By half past seven, Corfe Castle Village Hall was full - Double Act was performing Aladdin - Peter was a splendid Genie of the Lamp, with his red beard and glittering headdress - 

There was mulled wine in the interval - Widow Twanky wore the highest heels I've ever seen - with her blue beehive, she towered above the Emperor - 

Aladdin and the princess sang sweet duets - Abanazar sneered and schemed - he had long wicked fingernails and rolled his eyes - 

He frightened the children this afternoon Penny said - 

Wishy Washy scampered like a nervy hare all over the stage - the executioner brandished his scimitar - the Genie of the Ring swayed her hips like a diva -  

We all clapped and cheered and booed on cue - emboldened dads drummed their feet upon the staging - 

By ten o'clock, Aladdin had won his bride, as I knew he must - 

Tonight, I thought, I'll dream I'm in Old Pekin - genies will bring me treasure - a princess in a silk cheongsam will take my hand - 

21.00

November 22 2014

Corfe Castle Village Hall

Corfe Castle 

Isle of Purbeck

The Thai Vista ...

I got up early, to walk down Roman Road to Bethnal Green tube - I'd meet up with Anne, Sophie and Paul later - 

I imagined them having breakfast, Paul reading reviews, Anne and Sophie lolling in their pyjamas upon the vast blue sofa - 

We'd stayed the night in the flat overlooking the Regent's Canal - I'd been tempted to drink green tea - I'd slept well, dreaming of living a roguish life in a narrow boat - in my dream, I'd lazed in a smoky cabin lined with books and rare bottles - 

A questing minicab went by - I caught a glimpse of the slender Somali at the wheel - I gazed at the wild graffiti spray painted upon the metal shutters of Roman Grocers - a young father held his wide eyed son's hand - 

I imagined eating a green curry in the Thai Vista, reeling in there after midnight - 

I'd hear the carolling of police sirens - above the clouds, jets would circle the sleepless capital - a slim woman  would serve me my khao soi - 

09.15

November 16 2014

Roman Road

Bethnal Green

The place where T E Lawrence was fatally injured ...

Walking towards Clouds Hill, I thought of the moment that Lawrence was flung from the Brough Superior, Boanerges, his slender body broken upon the road -

Water dripped from sad firs - we could hear the sinister growling of tanks - 

There - there's the stone Penny said - 

We stopped to read the words on the pale memorial - T E Lawrence was fatally injured near this place May 13 1935 - 

I stared at the grassy bank, now covered with fallen leaves - a soft rain fell - 

I imagined the stillness of twisted limbs, the splintered bone - all that bright strange life ended here - 

11.45

November 21 2014

Near Clouds Hill 

Window shopping for fishing rods in Trinity Lane ...

I have often considered taking up fishing - I see myself idling on the bank of a lazy meander, my line slack, scribbling memories in my moleskine - 

So far, I've only once gone fishing - we'd rented a country house near Sissinghurst - lime trees shaded bright lawns - there were mysterious attics - 

We cast our lines into a lake haunted by dragon flies - I admired their zigzagging flight over the water lilies - 

We threw back the small fish we caught  - it darted away with a flick of its tail, diving downwards into its still cool world - 

I paused, therefore, outside Purbeck Angling, window fishing for rods - I admired the fishing hats and glinting reels - 

Next summer, I thought, I would sit upon the stone fisherman's bench, with my net and line, listening to the river - 

I would steal across the water meadows, just after noon, sun burnt and wearing faded canvas shoes - 

I would weave myself a circlet of reeds - the river bank would be my empire - kingfishers would fly above my head - 

14.50

November 20 2014

The Old School House

East Stoke

The Isle of Purbeck 

The end of the trail ...

As we followed the course of the Wall, over kestrel haunted crags and across ancient landscapes, our journey became a pilgrimage, perhaps the first of many - 

We'd walked along the banks of the Tyne, under noble bridges - we'd watched swallows circle a lonely house - we'd stood before the three altars of a temple, under a darkening sky - 

We'd shared stories in warm farmhouses about ghosts, dogs and eccentric headmistresses - 

Each day, we'd learned something new about each other - 

Pele towers had hoarded memories of reivers and the songs of richly robed captains - 

With each step we took, the stones beneath our feet told us new secrets - 

We heard sad prayers in the air over The Heavenfield - 

Now we were at the end of the trail, standing inside a wooden pavilion, on the southern shore of the widening firth - 

A rose with dark red blooms scented the air - steps led downwards through banks of herbs - 

A Finnish woman, living in London, smiling her icy smile, said shall I take your picture? - 

Penny then laughed let's do a selfie she said - 

There were are, in the I phone picture, smiling and proud - 

In my note book I wrote 4.20, I feel absurdly elated - 

The bright sunshine made the silent village even more dreamlike - 


16.20
July 15 2014

Bowness on Solway

Bowness on Solway and the sadness of photographs ...

We stopped to take photographs of each other outside Bowness on Solway - 

We were now very near the end of our journey - soon we would be writing our words in the black book kept behind the bar at the King's Arms - 

My heart was already racing - I was dizzy with memory -  

I thought of the song by The Kinks, People take pictures of each other - I could hear Ray Davies, singing inside my head - 

When I look at my picture, I thought, I would remember every aspect of this moment - 

The sadness of photographs threatened to overwhelm me - 

15.45

15 November 2014

Outside Bowness on Solway 

At Coffee 7, Forest Gate ...

I'm sitting in Coffee 7, Forest Gate, about to eat a slice of lemon and poppy seed cake - through the steamed up window, I see Saif's Hairdressers and Soul Trim Barbers - 

Upstairs there are Yoga Flow classes - there are startling paintings of musicians and starlets on the walls - 

A waitress is saying we've got Abigail in - 

We've just walked across Wanstead Flats - 

Invisible footballers were still playing on the many football pitches - a dog walker zipped up his blue cagoule - 

In the distance, I could see a cluster of pristine towers - 

Nearly bare trees lined roads of quiet terraced villas - the pavements were strewn with wet leaves - 

11.00

November 17 2014

Coffee 7

Forest Gate

Dad Dancing ...

Watching Dad Dancing, my eyes brimmed with tears - 

There, before me, were dads dancing with their daughters - their dances were brave and tender - 

I sat, a few feet away from Sophie, remembering the moments she was born - I heard her draw her first breath, breathing in the air of her new world - 

I thought of Tessa, born at home this time, in the bed I still sleep in - she'd been cradled by Sophie, who was dressed in a nurse's uniform - I'd held her precious weight against my heart - 

I then thought of my parents, each day now more insubstantial, dissolving into glimmering shadows - 

I gazed down at the dancers - they were dancing for all of us, I knew, even for me - 

20.00

November 15 2014

Battersea Arts Centre

London