Gentle wonders in Winterbourne Came ...

Seeking Winterbourne Farrington, I found gentle wonders in St Peter's church - 

I'd crossed a stone bridge over still water - a small lake reflected leafless trees - 

Earlier I'd driven past the long sinister reef of Maiden Castle - I remembered walking upon the sharp ramparts overlooking the narrow valley -

I thought of John Cowper Powys and of his brother Lleweyn, wearing his green coat - 

I walked into the silent park - horses grazed in bright fields - wild garlic scented the air - there was a walled garden - 

A winding path led me to the church - slender angels stood in the windows - their wings cast glowing spangles of light upon the altar steps - 

Two gentle figures lay upon a tomb chest, their hands clasped in prayer - a winged young woman, arms outstretched, danced amidst ornate foliage - 

I read the long memorial of the colonel who had witnessed the retreat of the French from Moscow -  

Four people came into the church, all older than me, carrying walking sticks - one of them told me - a vicar here knew Thomas Hardy - 

Snowdrops grew in the churchyard - mossy tombs listed into the grass - 

A noble house overlooked the church - I glimpsed its austere shape through dark trees -  

12.00

February 7 2015

St Peter's Church

Came Park

Winterbourne Came

Whitcombe, the forgiving dead ...

Beyond the church was the site of the lost village - sheep grazed where once hearths had warmed unlettered souls - I traced the shadows cast by the holloway - I imagined wind chapped fingers clasping the mane of a gentle horse -

Inside the church, I stepped upon a carpet of early March sunlight - the nave and chancel brimmed with prayer - 

I gazed at the wall painting of St Christopher - I felt the weight of my own precious burden - 

Walking round the small churchyard, I read the names and dates of the forgiving dead - 

One stone marked the grave of a boy who was drowned - Thomas Atkinson Crow drowned June 24 1889 Aged 14 Jesu mercy - 

11.30

February 6 2015

Whitcombe

Dorset 

Low tide at Lulworth Cove, a still pool of time ...

I'm sitting cross legged upon white pebbles - it's just before noon - gentle waves are breaking upon sand uncovered by the falling tide - 

Water from a fast flowing stream is coursing over the pebbles - dark rocks glisten with broad ribbons of kelp -

A lean fisherman and a brawny girl are hauling a dinghy up the beach - two dogs are running swiftly over the sand - 

Bright sunlight warms me - a brave sun hangs in the sky - gulls have settled upon the water near the mouth of the cove - small fishing boats are moored offshore - 

High chalk cliffs encircle the cove - today, there's no wind, the pale blue sea is calm - 

I sit here, in a still pool of time, my watch stopped, my mind quiet - 

12.05

March 5 2015

The pebble beach

Lulworth Cove

 

The sand dunes ...

I lay on my back amongst the sand dunes, looking up at the sky - I held a shell cast up by the sea - one side of the shell was as smooth as glass, the other, rough under my finger tips, greyish blue in colour - 

I saw shapes move within the clouds - the wind stirred the fine sand - 

I'd followed a winding path over the dunes, through dark heather and marram grass - the beach was deserted, a curving airstrip of pale yellow sand - 

Near the shore, a stand of slender leafless trees cast a fine web of shadow - 

I sat up - I could hear faint voices -  

I remembered reading The Woman in the Dunes - I imagined lying in a dark hole in the dunes, sand trickling over my body, a feverish hand stroking my face - 

12.00

March 4 2015

Knoll Beach

Studland 

Isle of Purbeck

William Dunford and an eddy of time ...

One February morning, in the parish church of Winterbourne Abbas, I came across William Dunford's memorial - 

We'd been walking the ridgeway - now we were on our way back to Martinstown - 

Winged gargoyles crouched at the top of the church tower - there was a lichened angel guarding the doorway - the Bible on the lectern was open at the book of Ezra - as always, I looked for strange names - 

Phineas, Azariah, Eleazar, Abishua - these names could be the names of angels, glimpsed in a scrying glass - 

Underfoot was smooth shining stone - 

I read the words of William's memorial - he'd sung sturdy hymns in the gallery, in sunlight and by candlelight - 

I looked at the framed pencil sketch depicting members of the church band - 

An eddy of time, caught under the roof, still carried their brave music - 

11.45

18 February 2015

St Mary's Church

Winterbourne Abbas

Kingston Lacey, lime trees, vines, shades ...

This morning, we went to Kingston Lacy - the house was still closed to visitors - blinds masked the windows - I imagined the shades of louche aristos moving through the high ceilinged rooms - their footsteps would be whispers of dust upon the marble stairs - 

We walked for an hour or so in the gardens - I admired a stone bench with lichened beasts for arm rests - gravel pathways led us through a parterre to an avenue of lime trees, leafless now under a chill sky - 

There were pale clouds of snowdrops - swirls of daffodils were just coming into flower - gardeners were burning coppiced branches - wood smoke hung in the air like incense - 

We saw the remnants of ancient vines in the vinery - they looked like dark severed limbs - 

Rhubarb forcers were like terracotta bell jars - 

I resolved to return in the summer - I'd linger then, in the Spanish Room - I'd look out for the shade of William Bankes, returned at last from languorous exile - 

12.30

March 2 2015

Kingston Lacy

Wolf Hall and windblown apples ...

I started reading Wolf Hall the week before my operation for bowel cancer - I sat under the apple tree, looking up after every other page at the delicate leaves and lichened branches - 

Anne stroked my newly cut hair before we drove to the hospital - the hospital car park was like a dark palace - 

Last Wednesday, I watched Mark Rylance playing Cromwell - he moved through ornate ante rooms like a watchful pike, devouring golden carp - 

Monstrous Norfolk bellowed slaughter - gorgeous gentlemen bared their necks - 

A swordsman made a windblown apple of a young woman's head - 

I thought of how Cromwell ended his letter from The Tower - mercy mercy mercy - 

12.15

1 March 2015

Staunton Road

Havant