Looking at birds from a hide at Arne ...

Two years ago, we joined the RSPB - we'd often visited the sanctuary at Arne - you drive along a narrow lane to get there, past woods and heathland - tall thorn hedges line the sides of the  lane - Army helicopters fly low in the sky - they circle over the firing ranges, where tanks prowl through windblown bracken -

Sometimes, at night, inside the Old School House, we hear the sound of heavy guns - it is as though immense wardrobes full of lead are being dropped onto the ground - the windows shake - 

I still know very little about birds - Penny, however, can identify most birds we see - she'll hear a bird singing, lost in the intricate lichened branches of an alder tree - she'll smile - she'll say - that's a thrush or - that's a warbler - 

I look up at the flights of birds against the clouds - I stand there, above the beach at Shipstal Point, like an augur upon the Capitoline Hill - what portents should I be divining from the clever manoevures of these gulls?

Later, we make our way to the hide - we pass by fine boned does, half hidden under knotted oaks - a stag with razor sharp antlers guarded these delicate, quivering, creatures - its splendid, brutal, head swung round to follow us - its eyes were like dark jewels -

Within the hide, we looked out over the pale lagoon - I looked through Penny's binoculars - there, in magical, silent, clarity, were the birds - they were like messengers from another world, each with a different secret - 

The African heads ...

I've just spent the last two days with my mum and dad - I try to see them every three weeks or so - Tessa was there this time with me - she got the train from Fratton to Havant - from the train, you can see rows of terraced houses - seagulls fly over the slate roofs and satellite dishes - each side of the curving track there are narrow gardens, with sheds and wild lawns - I can remember seeing the word Pompey, whitewashed upon a wall -

I drove to Havant in the red Peugeot, along the motorway, overtaking roaring lorries - there was a two mile tailback in the westward lane - families were starting out on their holidays - shiny cars were heading for campsites and beaches - the Daily Express screeched there'd be another heatwave -

Inside my mum and dad's house we watched Ray Milland in Bugles in the Afternoon - yelping Sioux braves circled valiant cavalrymen - a sneering villain got his just deserts -

I looked around the sparkling living room - I saw precious ornaments, arranged carefully upon shelves, photographs, paintings, brave flowers in vases -

There, upon the top of a bookcase, were three African heads, carved out of rich, glossy, wood - my dad had been given these heads by a Ghanaian doctor - it was the day of independence - he had been taken in a graceful pirogue up a wide river - the Royal Navy cruiser was anchored off the coast - he'd drunk whiskey in the doctor's compound, toasting the new country -

When my mum and dad, and Tessa, had gone to bed, I picked up the heads - I ran my fingers over their smooth faces, over their eyes, foreheads and lips - I stared for a long time at their calm faces -

I placed the heads down again, and turned off the light - I left them in darkness -

Later, I dreamed of Africa - I was breathing exotic air - I sat opposite my dad, in the slender craft, splashed by warm seas - he was young again, bright eyed, fearless -

The Claw ...

On Swanage seafront, just opposite the Mowlem Theatre, there's an amusement arcade - glass windows and doors offer views of banks of garish machines - you can see the punters, poised over the greasy controls of, say, the Ducky Splash - or the Crazy Typhoon - inside, the air is warm and oily - near the entrance, a frowning girl climbs onto the dancing machine - she's soon dancing to The Winner takes it all - 

I have always feared to enter such places - perhaps it derives somehow from my boyhood anxieties about fairs - I once went for a ride on a waltzer - I spun in my crimson car like the pilot of a sturmovik -

But this day, I was with Sophie - she had a mind to engage with The Claw - a silver grab dangles over toy donkeys - tiny adorable Eyores -

Sophie led me inside, past the pale boys at the entrance - she got a fistful of coins from the creepy survivalist in the change booth -

The controls governing the movement of The Claw required the precision and dexterity of a key hole surgeon on DMT -

Inevitably, the tips of the grab flickered past, or grazed, the manes of the donkeys - we consoled ourselves with lattes and blueberry muffins -

Ghosts on the Waterloo Train ...

Whenever I have travelled to London, invariably I go by rail - now I shamelessly flourish my senior railcard - I sink into my seat, listening to Chrsyta Bell on my tiny headphones - I buy a latte from the beautiful polska who comes round with the trolley - I crackle the pages of my Independent - the huge fields north of Winchester fly past - I think of all the times I have boarded trains to Waterloo -

When I was a student, I would huddle up close to the steamed up window - I would catch the Waterloo Train from Portsmouth Harbour Station - my bag would be full of newly washed clothes - my latest essay would be full of long sentences and semi colons - 

Approaching London, I would stare out at the brightly lit windows of houses by the side of the railway - the sight of all those illuminated rooms always filled me with sadness - it was as though I was the only person in the world - all those figures I saw around me were just clever shadows - 

I can still recall how I felt, even now - when I cross the station concourse, under the ageless clock, sometimes I think I am wearing a suit of loneliness, my voice unheard, my body made of smoke -

Taffy Evans ...

When I first saw John Mills and his doomed companions in Scott of the Antarctic, I was filled with a deep, aching, sadness - I knew I was watching a film - I knew what was going to happen - but the beautiful cruelty of the tragedy overwhelmed me - I lay upon the carpet, staring up at the small blurry TV screen, transported to a world of terrible whiteness -

I turned to look at my mum and dad - they sipped their tea - I imagined that there were snow drifts in the corners of the cheery lounge - I could hear a blizzard in the hall -

That night, as I hid under my blankets, I dreamed of ice fields, of dark icy skies - I heard, very clearly - I was sure of it - Scott whispering to me - Great God, this is an awful place -

Later, whilst visiting Selborne, I spent hours in the Oates Museum, staring at poignant photographs - I remembered how Oates had left the tent in his stockinged feet -

Then, in Swanage, on a walk with Penny, I came across a tiny stone cottage - the home of Edgar Evans - Taffy Evans - there was a brilliant blue sky above the slate roof - it was late morning, in a sultry July -

I thought of Evans, after his fall on the Beardmore Glacier, his hands uncovered, frostbitten - a wild look in his eyes - 

Once more, I felt that sadness - I was a boy again, longing for a happy ending -

The Black Bear, Wareham ...

For many years, whenever I saw a pub, I was tempted to go inside - I wondered what secrets, or delights, I might find - perhaps there would be a man who might tell me of his time off Cape Horn - or there might be a woman, writing  imagist poetry - I would stare, fascinated, at her long red hair -

When I was sixteen, I hid behind a newspaper to drink my pint of mild - I was as slender as a reed, artless and innocent - 

Later, I would drink Owd Rodger, in a dark bar in Winchester, stumbling out into the sunshine - there were crumpled bits of paper, scrawled over with heartfelt words, stuffed into my pockets - 

With Jay and Russell, I talked about Coleridge and Jim Morrison - Russell wore a stylish velvet jacket - I looked up at the rows of whiskeys with fervent eyes - outside The Village Home, we would climb into the Triumph Herald, seeking adventure - 

Worlds later, I only would drink pomegranate juice - but pubs retained their power to charm - in Wareham, I visit the Black Bear, a former coaching inn, with its long shadowy corridor and strange, tiny, bars - 

The panelling and ceilings of the public bar are still stained brown from the smoke of countless cigarettes, cigars and pipes - there are pale photographs of Victorian gamekeepers on the walls -

I used to come here with Tess - we'd eat massive Thai curries before we saw a film at The Rex - members of the Wareham Photographic Club would be sitting the near the bar - they had large faces and wore blazers -

In my dreams, the bear on top of the porch comes alive - he dances to the music of sad trombones -

Walking along the chalk ridge, from Corfe to Swanage, dreaming semi tropical dreams ...

A few weeks ago, I walked from Corfe Castle to Swanage, with Anne and Penny - within our rucksacks were comforting flasks, swim suits and towels - it was very hot - I'd taken to wearing sunglasses - there was little or no shade upon the chalk ridge - 

This July, I thought, was a time of weird, uncanny, sunshine - it as though we were in a country under enchantment - the cool Purbeck fields and hills were now scorched, feverish, dreamscapes - I half expected to see Vincent van Gogh, searching the sky for crows - 

We climbed up the side of Challow Hill, then walked along the chalk ridge towards the sea - the dazzling sky seemed to be just above our heads - I could see the torn masonry of the Castle, and the ridge beyond it, sweeping in long curve, like a dark wave, to Worbarrow Bay - 

Penny identified birds and flowers - we saw a strange beautiful wand of purple flowers - Penny said it was a type of wild orchid - I looked out at the winding channels of Poole Harbour - I could see tendrils of reed beds - dark trees covered the islands - every so often we passed huge round bales of hay - sheep grazed upon the dry grass - 

The path led us past tumuli and barrows - I stood on top of one of the domes of turf - I picked up a shard of flint - we walked past sinister radio masts - we could see Swanage, with its bay, dotted with yachts - 

We'd put sun screen on our necks and legs - the thought of swimming in the glittering sea spurred me on - we pushed our way through nettles and brambles - my bare legs tingled from the stings - at last we reached the cliffs at the foot of Ballard Down - 

We went down a shady path to the beach - Anne and I scrambled out of our sweaty clothes - we rushed into the sea - I gasped joyfully whilst I swam through the soothing waves - I imagined a semi tropical sea lapping Swanage, the pale nervy townspeople basking upon white sands - brilliant greenery covered the esplanade - glossy creatures were emerging from the water -