tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70576049270351764412023-12-31T06:58:56.273+11:00Paying Ready AttentionThoughts On The Natural WorldStewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.comBlogger146125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-8111257613716828492019-01-31T19:10:00.001+11:002019-02-01T10:28:08.215+11:00Uncertainty.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Public transport is an eavesdropper’s paradise. Disconnected conversations float along train platforms and down the aisle of trams; past coffee hungry commuters and seat searching straphangers. Some are fragments of conversations between two present people, some are one sided fragments shouted into smartphones. </div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">Platform One, Mont Albert Station.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">“Where are you? You said you would be here by eight.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">(Inaudible phone noises)<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">“Well, that’s a real shame, but you said you would be here by eight!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">(Inaudible phone noises)<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">I look at my watch. It’s a minute past eight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">Tram Route 109, Whitehorse Road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">“I hate this new weather app.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">“Why?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">“What the @#%^ does ‘10% chance of rain’ mean? I just want to know if it’s going to rain or not!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">We live in uncertain times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglWCUOMc2D0VKF5EFRpGblzo0UOxHjVrVZrW_pnBurgvfTx9qRA63lk_niIOYYXILgxRPDKIsjG2LnHULiFtyvOvLyohq6Uj2g6t734sK4U1Y63AvKxQIISw5oaBrY1gWfTBlaZCiNWUva/s1600/On+the+Beach-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglWCUOMc2D0VKF5EFRpGblzo0UOxHjVrVZrW_pnBurgvfTx9qRA63lk_niIOYYXILgxRPDKIsjG2LnHULiFtyvOvLyohq6Uj2g6t734sK4U1Y63AvKxQIISw5oaBrY1gWfTBlaZCiNWUva/s640/On+the+Beach-2.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">At low tide a strip of rocks bends from the shore, away from the beach and out towards deeper water. In places the rocks are slick with weed, in others rough with barnacles and mussels. A pair of oystercatchers works the wave-line, happy to keep some water between them and me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">This is fishing at it’s simplest. Rod and reel. Hook and line. No modern sophistication or complexity. The bait provides the weight, and flickers silver as it drifts down through the water. I lift the rod tip and quickly bring the bait back to the surface, from where it starts to fall again. The line is plucked from my fingers and I have a fish. Sometimes it is as simple as this. The fish is a wrasse, unpopular in many minds, but robust in its protest; slow and powerful. I slip a net under the fish, remove the hook and set it back on its way. Within a few minutes this happens again, but this time the fish protests in a different fashion. Fast movements, with headshakes and splashy surface action. It’s an Australian Salmon, named from its streamlined shape rather than taxonomy. Some people say they make good fish cakes, but this one goes free from the inverted net with a powerful tail flick. Two more wrasse follow, but then something different happens. A different kind of bite, a different kind of fight. A flathead – perfectly named – comes to shore. This is a wonderful eating fish, the flesh light and sweet. But as ever I let it go. Catch and release is the way I started and it’s the way I choose to carry on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">In less than an hour I have caught half a dozen fish of three species. All caught in the same way, on the same bait, from the same stretch of water. It’s a good start to the day and completely unexpected. These are wild fish on a wild and beautiful coast. I don’t know what will come next; I don’t really know if there will be a next. And all the better for that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes it’s good to live in uncertain times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKZoddhmQXRlptbZxG05rl0H9rwM6vBWbAz-AxiCHQiVrvASiN9bZVutL21MsbhDWW6rzJBrbGKp0pZxlg6vcUCh7wACJKfqSi9FGb4mU10krwDu53VF45_fjp87cULFWoNsTvd_CP_il/s1600/ham+wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKZoddhmQXRlptbZxG05rl0H9rwM6vBWbAz-AxiCHQiVrvASiN9bZVutL21MsbhDWW6rzJBrbGKp0pZxlg6vcUCh7wACJKfqSi9FGb4mU10krwDu53VF45_fjp87cULFWoNsTvd_CP_il/s640/ham+wall.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">It’s dull and overcast, but mild. The forecast speaks of heavy rain later in the day. Surprisingly heavy rain. It’s probably a typical summer day in Somerset. The type of day that I have erased from my memory, so that childhood summers come back as long, warm and dry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">As we pull into the car park at Ham Wall, a few fat raindrops splash onto the windscreen. The rain has arrived early, but does not stay long. Later in the afternoon it comes as predicted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">Jackdaws pick at the edges of the grassy banks which run down to the gravel car park. A pair of Mute Swans glide overhead to land on unseen water. Dragonflies flicker the contours of the vegetation’s edge with bright colours and fast wings. Reed Buntings call in the background and Coots and Moorhens cackle in the distance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">When I was a kid, the noise of machinery and the mooing of dairy cows would have been added to this soundscape, as would have been a chorus of concern that these wetlands were dying. The future of the Somerset Levels did not look healthy, there were too many conflicts and too few compromises. Bitterns and otters were scarce to the point of extinction, Lapwings and Snipe – once common – were becoming rare. Nobody really knew what was happening to the beetles and spiders. Drainage and peat extraction were causing the Levels to dry out. As the water retreated, so did the wildlife. And as the peaty soil dried, the fragile ecology and friable archaeology of the past turned to dust. Ancient wooden tracks and buildings, which had been buried for thousands of years disappeared with frightening rapidity. A blanket of uniformity was smothering diversity. Birds and bees, orchids and otters were all in decline, taking shelter in scattered nature reserves and untouched corners. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">My mother always called this area of the world ‘the Back Streets of Wells’ – which makes some sense, but not a lot. The area, maybe even the whole county, centres on Glastonbury, with its ruined Abbey and famous Tor. From this landscape of water mists and ruins, rises the myth of Arthur, the English King, who in the hour of the country’s need, will return. A casual glance at the news would suggest he is long overdue, but a differing form of return, real and tangible, has come to the Levels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">For all the activity and life around the car park, these things are not why I am here. I like them, but I’m here for a different reason – I’m here to find a ghost. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">People claim that they see ghosts. People even publish photographs of them. I have never managed to do either. People claim that they see Bearded Tits. People even publish photographs of Bearded Tits. I have never managed to do either. But it’s not for the want of trying. I consider them ghosts, mystical creatures that live on the edge of observation, creatures that continue to elude me. Creatures I really want to see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">Despite my mother’s best and frequent efforts, I am not superstitious: I don’t really believe in luck as a measurable quality that some people have in abundance and others lack. But Bearded Tits really do push me towards this kind of belief. I have arrived at places minutes after they disappeared, left minutes before they arrive and generally been told “they were here yesterday/ this morning / last night” so often that it becomes predictable (and to my ever supportive family, mildly amusing!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">There are Bearded Tits at Ham Wall in numbers as close to abundance as it ever gets. And their behaviour and habits are as close to predictable as it gets. And (of course) I failed to see any. A warden in the hide saw one when I was sat less than 10 feet away – he could have been in on the joke that the universe seems to play on me with this bird. But I doubt it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">By the time we left Ham Walls we had had really good views of a wide range of species – including Bitterns, which are genuinely ghost like in their ability to hide and appear. But no Bearded Tits. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">And the question I ask is this: would I rather have had a poor view of this species, a glimpse that is technically a view, or a sighting, but nothing more than a shadow, or would I rather keep hoping and planning, knowing that nothing is certain, knowing that wild creatures are uncertain and that at some time in the future I’ll try again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">With luck, I’ll be back to try again in later in the year. But nothing is certain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">I’m teaching in a car park or layby of some sort. There are piles of gravel at one end and desks at the other. The gravel is between the desks and me. I only recognise one of the students. An old dead tree hangs over the desks where the students are sitting. Branches at odd angles, trunk bare of bark. A large black bird flies towards the tree and I know two things with absolute certainty. One, the bird is a Raven. Two, that if that Raven alights on the tree, the tree will topple and fall onto the desks of the students.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">The Raven lands. The tree falls. This is not good. I know I must act. I scramble through the gravel, which turns into a street, ruined by war or disaster. Tree roots and rubble hinder my feet. I have to climb, as I cannot run. There are children, dusty faced, looking to me for help. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">I’m yelling “Phone 999”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">By the time I reach the desks, the ambulance has come and gone, taking the students with it. The mother of the student I recognise stands waiting, and asks why I took so long. I have no answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">For a few moments I am sure this is real. But it’s not. It’s just the product of sleep time neural connections, where part of my brain seems convinced I am still in England. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">I am uncertain what this means.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">A few months before we left for New Zealand the plates of the Earth shifted and the ground shook. A swarm of earthquakes ripped along fault-lines, near the coastal town of Kaikoura. The town is famous for the wildlife, especially the whales, that are abundant there. The earthquake centered on The Kekerengu Fault, which moved 10 meters, while dozens of other lines of weakness opened in the Earth. In the space of two minutes, coastal Kaikoura moved 1 meter to the northeast and almost a meter into the air. Geology more normally works in distances of millimetres and times spans of thousands of years. Change like this is unexpected and profound. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">The week before we went to New Zealand a huge swirl of hot dry air moved out of central Australia and drifted more or less west and south into the Tasman sea. Here, in the ocean between Australia and New Zealand it evaporated huge amounts of water. The air, hot and dry when it left Australia, soon become cooler and much, much wetter. The air was carrying the sea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">Such a volume of water cannot be held indefinitely by the air. Eventually, when temperature or altitude intervenes, the water will have to be released. The ‘eventually’ occurred when the air and its oceanic load was forced up and over the southern alps of NZ. The rain that poured from the sky was like nothing that had been seen in many, many years – maybe even ever. It fell in torrents that washed away roads and pushed rivers from their normal course. It fell and fell and fell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">And into this land of earthquakes and the rain I brought my family for a summer holiday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">We had planned to watch whales from Kaikoura, but the harbour was closed, elevated above sea level. We had planned to travel over the Southern Alps – the spine of South Island – but landslides and floods closed the roads.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">Geology and meteorology made a mockery of our closely planned trip. We were forced to go elsewhere until the floods receded and the roads reopened. The coincident timing of all of these events – earthquake, flood and holiday – was just that, a coincidence. Maybe you can plan for the unexpected, but such preparation is so often unrewarded that it is neglected. We expect things to go as planned. And when the cocoon of predictability is pierced by the natural processes of uncertainty, we feel robbed, rather than included in the Earth’s grand processes. We admire the views of mountains and rivers, but seem upset when the very processes that form them stand on the toes of our plans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">The very act of planning seems to set in stone an expectation of the nature of the things that will be. Uncertainty and its brother, change, are the handiwork of an uncertain world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">We would do well to listen, to observe and to act accordingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">We live in uncertain times – we should make the most of them.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-83864576745660660602018-02-24T12:16:00.000+11:002019-01-31T19:15:16.312+11:00Green<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">There are times when all I remember of my
dreams is the colour green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither
detail nor narrative survives my awakening, but a colour does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even that is not entirely true, for no
single colour represents the green of my dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would not be able to stand in front of the
walls of colour swatches, beloved by paint manufacturers and often raided by my
daughter, and say, ‘That one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s the
green from my dreams’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not the
livid lime green of Ash trees, spring fresh, growing on grey northern
limestone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not the sheened English
Racing Green of ivy, inch-by-inch destroying my fence, or smothering a
building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not the smoky blue-green
of Gum trees, fire prone and sweating oils in the summer sun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The dream green feels calm, but not
passive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s alive and moving, but so
far it’s never been frightening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other
things do wake me in fright, spiders mainly or loud voices in darkened rooms;
but not colours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The green is neither a
distinct memory nor an unspoken wish, but it feels like both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it’s leaflight rather than
sunlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it’s the reflected
light of a million woodland walks. Or long summer afternoons, doing nothing in
fields busy with crickets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the
ghost of dampened moss, clinging in mist to the dwarf forests, high on Mt.
Gower. It might even come from kelp, thrown on to the beach by wind and waves,
adding a flavour of brown to the green, and bringing with it a hint of
uncertainty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Wherever it comes from, it’s the unused
fraction of sunlight, cast aside by photosynthesis and reflected back into the
world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reflected back towards me, where
I take it in and think of it as I sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">From sea level, looking upwards, the clouds
look still and unmoving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The clouds sit
atop the mountain like a cap, worn from habit, in most weathers, on most
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From inside the cloud, the
experience is different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It rushes past
you, with an energy that confounds the vision of stillness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tiny droplets of water hurry past and collide
with all that is solid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The windward
side of my jacket gathers a sheen of water, and any gust of wind strong enough
to move the head high branches around me sends a shiver of tree-rain down to
the ground. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">From the ground back up to the branches
there is little but green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Water loving
moss coats almost everything with softness, branches and boulders blur into the
background, their edges hidden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here the
green hides both shape and form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
only exception is the thin, muddy path that winds a brown track between
boulders and trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To the left and
right of the path fingers of green creep in, but seem to be kept at bay by the
feet of walker bound for the summit for Mount Gower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">If you keep moving it’s warm enough,
especially if you are walking up hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But as soon as you stop, the wind pulls the warmth away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s best not to stop. Loose rucksack straps
and the waist pulls of my jacket flap nosily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When you stop moving, snow piles against the sides of your boots, so
that after a few minutes they are buried and invisible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The landscape is the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up slopes and downslopes are disguised by the
movement of the snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The three of us
are brightly coloured specks in a flattened landscape that has lost its shape
to white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In only a few places does the
form of the land break through the winter coat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In these places, strands of grass and fragments of heather give the eye
a reference point that pulls the land from whiteness into shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Down the now visible slope the shape of a
Ptarmigan appears as it knocks snow from a plant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later in the day a shape looms from the snow,
small, rounded, indistinct – it shape shifts as we approach, changing in my
mind from one thing to another. I see a Mountain Hare, I see Snow Buntings, I
see……I don’t know what I see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the
final few yards it becomes no more than a few stems and leaves, twitching and
moving in the ever-present wind. I can’t see how I ever thought it was anything
else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The landscape resolves from these few
scraps: pulled from the white by the presence of just one colour. Here the
landscape takes form and shape only through the presence of green.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">In most places movement is an
addition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s something that comes from
outside and makes things different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
windy woodland is so very different from its calm day cousin as to make them
almost not relatives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind holds the
branches and drags them around, making the stems twist to shapes unintended by
the slow growth of wood and the response to sunlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Small branches are wind tossed, like a doll
or unfortunate rabbit shaken by a dog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Meadows are different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the grass is long movement is normal,
the stems become a land sea, with waves rhythms and sheltered bays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although the dull crump of a waves breaking
is missing, the rushing of the grass makes a noise not dissimilar to
waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But once the grass is cut, the
movement is gone, as is the sound. All that is left is the bright smell of mowing
and open skies above.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">But in some places the movement is part and
parcel of the place, and its absence becomes noted when it is gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Underwater there is always movement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tides and currents pluck at the fronds of
seaweeds to form a chorus line of green movement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shapes are uncertain and, just like the
medium, fluid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The green only becomes
still and shapeless when it is abandoned by the tide or cast ashore by the
conspiracy of current and wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In both
cases the seaweeds, the algae, become flat and lifeless, with stipe too weak
and frond too broad to stand upright and face the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they lie flat for want of water, they may
be rescued by the sea’s return at the turning of the tide, or they may accumulate
at the strand line, awaiting decomposition or a higher tide. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Floating on the surface of Coles Bay,
looking down through sparkle clear water, the seaweeds dance below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Long lines wave, short ones pulse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each species seems to take the rhythm of the
water and make it their own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fish,
brown, silver and striped, move between the food rich opportunity of the
movement and the safety of the solid rocks that hold the dancers in place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The movement of the seaweeds produces an area
of uncertainty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">At the waters edge the granite stones form
a steep wall, beyond which is land and dry air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In a few places, maybe due to some crystalline difference or weakness in
the rock, a faint platform will form, covered in shallow water and inviting to
sit on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this point, at low tide, you
can sit with your backside on solid ground, your head and chest in the air and
your legs and feet in the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A kind
of environmental triple point, where many things are possible. Behind the fold
of my knee is a line of vivid green, limp and alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I call it sea lettuce, and that may even be
its name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looks like old party wrap,
or a line of the tissue paper from unwanted Christmas cracker hats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is remarkably green, lurid really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And at the time I see it, it marks the
boundary between air, land and sea, but manages to be part of all three.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">It dawns on me, as I sit there with
water-cooled feet and a sun-warmed head, that this spread of green and the life
it provides, is a symbol of life on Earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>From space, we may hold fast to the blue planet, but it’s the green that
gives it life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I still dream of green.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">And in that half moment between dream and
awakening there is still the possibility that the green will continue, that the
world outside will mimic the world within.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">On some days it happens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On most days it does not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I am unsure if this is a problem or an
opportunity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-64027783170064250012017-10-06T20:15:00.001+11:002017-10-06T20:16:30.999+11:00It's been a long, long time.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHqUbgwcTb6TIc7wJeAMm9UIgzQKWAj73dL1_s2l9q2NQR0KeMuPwyJrkP0uiasabqJpup5YJOpFO1pPPdE3KvKEHaoakcMkjf6CCKoqJZOg2P55p4bPtMYNyFg5KDoUxQM7p_9Q8-L9cY/s1600/india.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="1200" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHqUbgwcTb6TIc7wJeAMm9UIgzQKWAj73dL1_s2l9q2NQR0KeMuPwyJrkP0uiasabqJpup5YJOpFO1pPPdE3KvKEHaoakcMkjf6CCKoqJZOg2P55p4bPtMYNyFg5KDoUxQM7p_9Q8-L9cY/s640/india.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The last time I was here was 26 years ago. I
was in my middle 20s, had only just met the woman who would become my wife and
the mother of our children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was only
the second time I had travelled outside of the British Isles. I had no real
idea of what I was doing and absolutely no idea why I was going to India.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even less idea of what I was going to happen
once I was there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the outside I was there to meet two
friends, one I still have and one I have lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nicky – dark haired then – less so now, Scottish, lives in the Lakes
with a host of children and (in all probability) a decent whiskey waiting in
the cupboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike? Well that’s a
different story. I have no idea where he is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sometimes you pick things up and sometimes you put things down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And sometimes you are put down yourself; put
down by somebody when they see no utility in carrying you further.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turns friendship into an object and
conversation into scripted theatre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
turns friendship into something that left a bad taste in my mouth, and to this
day makes me wonder if it was my fault after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">If outside reasons were clear, then the
inside was clouded with uncertainty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
the time, if I had been asked to explain why I had gone to India I would have
struggled to form an answer that I actually believed. And whatever answer I
managed to create, it would have looked like a landscape viewed through frosted
glass – uncertain and vague.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But maybe,
just maybe, if I could go back and look through those clouds, applying the eye
of a cognitive meteorologist to the weather that was brewing, would I see the
roots of the storm that was to come?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
if I could, would I?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would such
knowledge have undone the collisions, so many collisions, which have led to
this day?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkZqQxlVn0YfRJYe8BzyX8Gq4NlSa-njVc8OteRJGr-THisLgOVulnVkxZmp_oqrh_MDM43ZAM86Icd0U18DQe2e0C0AWB4VcBbiotKxsqv9791BM9RlYm1sKyXLXq37MnXIBsqQhn8fMF/s1600/Street+Food-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="1200" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkZqQxlVn0YfRJYe8BzyX8Gq4NlSa-njVc8OteRJGr-THisLgOVulnVkxZmp_oqrh_MDM43ZAM86Icd0U18DQe2e0C0AWB4VcBbiotKxsqv9791BM9RlYm1sKyXLXq37MnXIBsqQhn8fMF/s640/Street+Food-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Condensation weeps from the side of my beer
and pools on the table below; Kingfisher in a lime green bottle. Droplets
coalesce to form larger ones that roll down the glass, pulled by their own
gravity towards the fluid circle forming between the bottle and the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dozens of collisions that, in the end, form
the same shape no matter the order of the events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inevitable simplicity from complication.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A trickle down of cause and effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems like a metaphor for the primacy of
the past, or the inescapable consequence of history.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Further introspection is curtailed by the
arrival of a second bottle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole
process of condensation begins again and I try to put away the memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Far too much has changed in 26 years for the experiences
of today to be ruled only by chapters from the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look around for distraction and find it
overhead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Kites circle in the darkening sky, adults with
forked tails, youngsters with square ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pigeons, unfazed or oblivious, clatter from the concrete cliffs that
form the back of the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few small
bats flutter by. Crickets chirrup from the ornamental plants and a fat moon
shines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s cold in a way I find welcoming,
and I’m glad to be wearing a fleece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An
evening this crisp does not deserve to be muddied by the past. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I run my fingers through the condensation
on the table and head off to bed. No circles anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgimP3c4vZGM2u2QLskmEA3EjVFKSA79VfSSX9XPx17A6xOLi74NeTGcn5yEdtu71dl8IN5Tx97Uq9E3Koz1GdpiJMJvq9RP_jQVcujyxDUrbuuWbAimCrNcCC_F0CRCQ5dxnNlaRJimj_s/s1600/Street+Food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="1200" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgimP3c4vZGM2u2QLskmEA3EjVFKSA79VfSSX9XPx17A6xOLi74NeTGcn5yEdtu71dl8IN5Tx97Uq9E3Koz1GdpiJMJvq9RP_jQVcujyxDUrbuuWbAimCrNcCC_F0CRCQ5dxnNlaRJimj_s/s640/Street+Food.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Next morning somebody walks past my breakfast
table carrying a rather wonderful looking creation:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a pancake of some kind, so large that it
hangs over both sides of a dinner plate, folded in half to conceal a filling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately the owner of the pancake sits at
a table close enough to mine to allow for a more detailed, if a little covert, observation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few discreet enquiries identify the
delicacy as a masala dosa, and a few more point me in the direction of where I
can get one. Thin almost crisp batter, a mild – but not meek – vegetable
filling and a somewhat more frisky sauce combine to make breakfast heaven. This
really could be love at first bite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Leaving the hotel after breakfast I pass through
the layers of security put in place to keep the outside outside, and to protect
anything on the inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guards with a
military manner and moustaches to match, resplendent in red jackets and
headgear stand in the doorway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Metal
detectors scan bags and jackets, and by the gate, men – always men – in
camouflage uniforms run mirrors under incoming cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems like a porous barrier to those of
serious malintent at best, and distinctly one way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder how easy it would be to smuggle
cutlery or a desk lamp out of the hotel, should I have a mind to do so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But whatever the efficacy of these measures
their presence does mark a boundary of some kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s tempting to see this as some form of border
between the real India of the streets and the stage-managed India of the
uniformed guards and calm hotel interior. (And to be honest, writing this means
I probably thought that).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But on
reflection that’s not the case:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the
street and the hotel are an aspect of a complex whole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>India is not just the poverty porn of beggars
in the street and neither is it just the world of the immaculate Indian guests
in the hotel, looking so much sharper than the slightly down at heels and jet
lagged internationals that share the buffets and bars. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The street outside the hotel is owned, more
or less, by a group of black dogs that are so similar to each other, that they
must be family. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They seem to live in an
unfinished multi-story building that occupies a prime corner of real estate
just up the road from the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
dogs seem not to be the only tenants in their unmade home, as some of the
floors have been walled off with boxes and collections of wood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dogs look healthy and happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the human faces that watch from
behind the unplanned walls do not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
an unsettling combination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The morning walk to work, from hotel to an
office in Connaught Place, is as eye opening as a strong breakfast coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The staff in the hotel lobby seem shocked at
our choice of transport, and seem convinced that we will become lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turns out that they are only partially wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The term ‘street’ really does not sum up
the experience of walking on these thoroughfares.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A range of other activities are added to the
familiar functions of western streets: bathroom and toilet, shopping centre and
local store and possibly the most obvious, take away food outlet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fresh fruit and fried food stalls pop up on
most junctions and street corners, selling all manner of delicious looking –
but potentially gastrically ruinous – foodstuffs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside of the office in which I worked a
family fried aromatic potatoes and what looked like cheese sandwiches. The
potatoes seemed to be popular with the passing trade, the sandwiches less
so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a good game trying to
identify what the foods actually are; donuts turn out to be fried cheese,
curries become some form of dessert. The street is an assault on the senses, a
potpourri of stimuli – not always fragrant – far removed from the controlled
and sterile corridors of malls and supermarkets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But the sensory overload is just a matter
of degree; a significantly more intense and diverse version of markets and
streets at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is really
different is the way in which the street vendors are mind readers, with an
unflinching confidence in their own abilities, and a startling willingness to
share their insights with you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They know
that you shoes need to be polished, your ear wax removed and your phone case
replaced, even before the thought has entered your mind and the notion as been
dismissed as frivolous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That your shoes
are suede, your ear canals sterile and phone case cutting edge, is of no concern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They know what you need and you, foolish
person that you are, do not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRrNPY3rJ1AHwHhhx5SloW5GKd6-LnVK54AnoabtzbpHZ7ieA8yg4dEwy_7Hlc-AxkeOsUroGj2hh8WJYEP0xz6E3LRZL83qvNTJU4xMSWDmpgbfKg3Z3VtcEr6XPec7JjPN-3NrckVXmq/s1600/Street+Scenes-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="1200" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRrNPY3rJ1AHwHhhx5SloW5GKd6-LnVK54AnoabtzbpHZ7ieA8yg4dEwy_7Hlc-AxkeOsUroGj2hh8WJYEP0xz6E3LRZL83qvNTJU4xMSWDmpgbfKg3Z3VtcEr6XPec7JjPN-3NrckVXmq/s640/Street+Scenes-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The morning walk to work, and the afternoon
return, becomes a ritual of missed business opportunities and awoken memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shape of the streets in Connaught Place
is familiar from my last journey to India, but at no time do I recognise
anything specific. There are fewer bikes and no cows, and most of the cars are
shiny and new – although they almost all carry dents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The jelly mould shaped Hindustan Ambassador – a car of classic of Indian
design and longevity – is now almost absent; the few you see are parked in side
streets or decked in bright paint. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A simple part of this daily journey out and
back makes the whole experience of being in India seem different from similar
journeys 25 years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smells and
many of the sights are more or less the same, and the presence of child beggars
just as morally confusing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you give –
and in doing so, risk validating the parents’ choice to send the child onto the
street (assuming that it was a choice in the first place), or do you ignore the
weight of cash in your pocket and try to harden your heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">These dilemmas are no easier to solve than
they were 25 years ago – but one change of circumstance does oil the wheels of
my conscience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time, I am here to
work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last time I was here to
watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In Old Delhi the chaos – energy if you like
– is more familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Road junctions clog
with cars, bikes and pedestrians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact
the idea of “pedestrians” and “cars” seems artificial as designations: the two
merge on roads, pavements and parks to a degree unthinkable in well ordered
Melbourne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All you have is traffic, some
mechanical, some human and some a combination of both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The traffic flows and stops, flows and stops
and from this broth of chaos some form of partial, fleeting order seems to
form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pavement supermarkets offer
all you seem to need, although vendors of electrical goods seem to outnumber
the sellers of food.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">For a sequence of just a few days I get up
and go to work almost as usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
tasks in the office are much the same – long-winded examinations of single
sentences, the excision of excess and addition of clarity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ambiguity is to be avoided, simplicity celebrated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A departure from my office normality arrives
in fine china cups, with a saucer and two biscuits; not every hour on the hour
– but close. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rather like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the evenings I retreat to the area by
the pool and end the day with a cold beer or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each night the condensation flows down the
sides of the bottle to pool on the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And each night I wonder what my family are doing and what stories I am
missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is ever such.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the weekend, with time away from the
office, I start to build a story of my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The road from Delhi to Agra is surprisingly
empty, and traffic speeds shockingly high.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These two facts may be connected. It’s not a near death experience, but
even with the lack of traffic I can feel the weight of mortality on my
shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Burst tyres and chunks of
metal decorate the side of the road and pedestrians seem oblivious to danger as
the wander from one side of the expressway to another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s early in the morning and it’s all a bit
much to take in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sun sneaks over the
horizon to the left and a few strands of mist hang where the cool air of night
lingers into the passing dawn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Tall chimneys, some coughing smoke, stud
the fields by the side of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
around them, soldierly rows of bricks stretch into the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The land surface and the clay below have been
gouged away, so that the chimneys and their furnaces sit atop little islands of
high ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Electrical pylons march
over the landscapes, capping their own little islands as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a strange landscape, with rural and
industrial elements side by side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cattle
wander on the lowered land, and in a few places leafy crops grow beneath the
chimneys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this what the early stages
of the industrial revolution looked like, where two economies battled for
ownership of land and the people? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the
journey back to Delhi in the evening, when the Sun has crossed the freeway and
it is setting, the sky is stained orange by the smoke and even in the car I
could smell the tang of burning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it
is a battle between the bricks and the crops, then it seems that the crops are
on the losing side. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSn8EHrj9Z-vaEhurQQp3BNnzh_YVa7EcflmPh7W7kvOv5DApgUJlaIA2GSy36N5CCf1RCnkwXD38wToKB2Ksvvm7iKPM9U87LYqgfc_cIAxpGQuzt84Ea0KZljndPPQ-FfQHWgiLicKFD/s1600/Returning+Home-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="726" data-original-width="1600" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSn8EHrj9Z-vaEhurQQp3BNnzh_YVa7EcflmPh7W7kvOv5DApgUJlaIA2GSy36N5CCf1RCnkwXD38wToKB2Ksvvm7iKPM9U87LYqgfc_cIAxpGQuzt84Ea0KZljndPPQ-FfQHWgiLicKFD/s640/Returning+Home-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Agra is shrouded in a kind of silence. The
streets are more or less empty of people, and most shops are closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently there is an election in progress,
and as a result the people are elsewhere, maybe in queues, waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It feels and looks very strange – emptiness
in a land of crowds and bustle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">While the people are away it seems that the
other residents of Agra come out to play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thin cats with matted fur and half-mast tails, roam wall tops: dogs
lounge in doorways and under cars: a horse, skeletal and seemingly close to
death, slumps against a building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And by
the gutter, in piles of rubbish, spotted piglets rootle for food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The last two – the horse and the pigs – call
out for pictures, but I would have to have asked the driver of the car to pull
over while I take tourist snaps of things best left unseen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My pictures would not have improved the state
of sanitation nor animal care in India, and maybe I would have just shown
myself to be just another seeking of poverty porn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was deeply uncomfortable and equally
conflicted by my desire to take pictures of these scenes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not a journalist and the reach and
probable impact of my pictures (and presumably these words as well) is limited
to say the least. I sat in the car, confused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are days when photographing birds is a far easier choice.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Within a few minutes, and less than a
couple of kilometres from the pigs and the horse stands the Taj Mahal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first time that I saw this building, all
those years ago, I thought it looked small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Today, with that in mind I am surprised by how big it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I compose picture through archways and from
behind trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of these images will
have been made dozens, hundreds of times before, and my versions will not alter
anything at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So why the
difference?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I really should have
photographed the horses and the pigs, and not bothered with the Taj Mahal? I
know that India is supposed to mess with parts of your body, but what I was
finding here was that my head was more upset than my gut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUC4W4KHpuhPe74comlG4MFATpLzU8IljR23HkD-7mllCwrYpLbbEs1gBQbeee5bWSklEyCeEPm-lZPTAFmncPQ8MZONr6GtJR2sVSC_K_FsL6IcZcRIr0swOBowvs8vEJsO5KpAbGaMOd/s1600/Taj+Mahal-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="801" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUC4W4KHpuhPe74comlG4MFATpLzU8IljR23HkD-7mllCwrYpLbbEs1gBQbeee5bWSklEyCeEPm-lZPTAFmncPQ8MZONr6GtJR2sVSC_K_FsL6IcZcRIr0swOBowvs8vEJsO5KpAbGaMOd/s640/Taj+Mahal-2.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The Taj Mahal was so clear and bright, that
it seemed to flush away any of the uncertainty associated with the chaos of the
street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took pictures of people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took pictures of trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took pictures of parrots eating
flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And all this seemed fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I also know it felt pointless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So, maybe, after all of my thoughts to the
contrary I really was there just to watch.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-51427906474899277892017-02-20T18:10:00.000+11:002017-02-20T18:10:22.455+11:00In a big country.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
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Everything is big these days. Big meals.
Big games. Big news. Big
risks. Bigger promises, backed by bigger
lies. And today’s big is much bigger
than yesterday’s, and will be much smaller than tomorrow’s. Yesterday’s big TV will be tomorrow’s phone
screen. Everything is so big, and hence
so uniformly forgettable, that when you come face to face with things of
genuinely enormous magnitude it takes you by surprise.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Four and half hours out of Melbourne
airport and I’m still in Australia. For
much of that time the view down from the window has shown nothing but red soil
and rock pocked hills running off into the distance. The flight path to Darwin takes you over
Australia’s red centre, over lands that are some of the most thinly populated
in the world. For the most part, over landscapes
not riven by the familiar comfort of road or rail. The straight and narrow of human transport is
missing – instead the land is broken only by lines of stone and the transitions
of geology and climate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A flight across the heart of Australia,
from southern Melbourne to northern Darwin, gives you more than enough time to
think about the real meaning of the word ‘big’. Four hours and more of flying
gives a sense of scale that is often missing in the simple facts and figures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But in this case, the facts and figures are
almost enough by themselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If the Northern Territory, with Darwin as
its capital, sat alone as a country it would be the 20<sup>th</sup> largest in
the world. Larger than France. Larger than Germany. Almost six times larger than the United
Kingdom. Countries that stride the
world stage with a confidence disproportional to their size would slip easily
into the coat pockets of the Northern Territory – assuming it even got cold
enough there to need a coat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">You don’t ever really get a feel for how
crowded a place is until you go somewhere essentially empty. About 240,000 people live in the Northern
Territory, with more than half of these people living in Darwin. Reading in the UK, Geelong in Australia and
Glendale in Arizona have the about the same population as the entire NT. The part of Somerset in which I was born also
has a similar population, packed into are area 1/380,000<sup>th </sup>of the
size of the NT – and it never struck me as crowded! Such numbers, such disparities of scale, are
almost beyond comprehension. I was born
into a place of classic rural Englishness, small woodlands, streams that
flooded in winter but ran all year thanks to regular rain and fields of almost
incandescent greenness. There were
always villages and people just over the hill, or waiting in the valley
bottoms. There were four seasons, which changed with a kind of fluid
predictability. Sun in summer, dull rain
and sometimes snow in the winter. Spring
with a riot of new green and migrant birds.
Autumn with leaf colours, conkers and the first touches of frost. You were never far from rain. The seasons behaved themselves and made
sense. They mirrored the stories in books and on the TV.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But around Darwin there are only really two
seasons - a wet one and a dry one. Talk of spring or winter is little more than
an attempt to force a round southern peg into a northern square hole. I arrive well into the dry. Temperatures in the early morning are cool, but
by the afternoon it’s an energetic version of warm. You need a hat, but not for warmth. Cool
water is better than hot chocolate – although tea in the morning is still
welcome. This is not winter in any way that makes sense. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I fidget in my seat, watching the land from
the air, my book lodged in the seat pocket, ignored. I cannot settle. Too many thoughts. Too much anticipation. Ideas roll around my head, like marbles on a
table or stones on a wave washed beach.
Only when these ideas collide does anything new form. Ideas as impacts and sand; percussive and shifting.
Long distance adventures and the
wonderful smallness of home. Summer in
January. Seasons as rainfall. Fire as a maker creator not a destroyer. A land
that has been walked on and known for 60,000 years or maybe longer, making a
mockery of the idea of emptiness or wilderness.
A place beloved of myth makers and interveners. A place that, for much of the time, is
ignored and for many (myself included) remains essentially unknown. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This is a different kind of north. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lOqoJxNa_uQVUSnb-YEDwjSEg4HCGQXFpLH0mFcImWwoJesiLs8GVaTc9ldVbBbBD__Ub5e5oM9F2J11RzPWc80k9t8KUbsIjOfpWCnRhxB7X-G0Ms2q1TdPYpZb-zNkxyvS7qhBFObv/s1600/In+a+big+country-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lOqoJxNa_uQVUSnb-YEDwjSEg4HCGQXFpLH0mFcImWwoJesiLs8GVaTc9ldVbBbBD__Ub5e5oM9F2J11RzPWc80k9t8KUbsIjOfpWCnRhxB7X-G0Ms2q1TdPYpZb-zNkxyvS7qhBFObv/s640/In+a+big+country-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the first evening in Darwin I walk in a
park by the water. A long hem of green stitched
between the city and the sea. The path wanders, meanders even, through benched
viewpoints and flowering trees. The
piles of clothes and football themed bags stacked under the benches speak of
something I cannot see. Directly
opposite my hotel is a War Memorial, simultaneously saying that we will
remember, and reminding us not to forget.
Blank stonewalls wait on either side of the memorial for more names to
be added: virgin pasture where the ambitions of old men can be sown with the
blood of the young. A couple sit on the
steps, eating takeaway from cardboard cartons.
The air smells of cigarette smoke, beer and fried food. I don’t know if this is disrespect or the
kind of freedom that was hoped for by the names engraved on the walls around
them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The evening is warm and the sea adds salt
to the mix. Below the bushes, off to the
side of the path, in the dust and the weeds, a family of Double Barred Finches
beg for food and squabble in a feathery heap.
Orange-footed Scrubfowl mine beneath the larger trees. With pointed heads and fast moving feet they
search for food in the mulch. Dig and
look, dig and look. As the light fades
small groups of people begin to gather under trees, loose groups that talk in a
language I can’t follow. Bright lights
flare in cupped hand and the sea breeze pushing flame and smoke away from their
dark faces. This is a vision of
Australia that I rarely see. My leafy
suburban home is a world away from here.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR75wiFYolQ3ToaqKZ22yElUd5bULdaMwaryG77AjaF61PyCwoeoHn-PPbI2y8EQEj4zqKR9QWQVybz3-QHv7U84y2ZzhZQNa8omHPB1guqo6ojO8iBbfidGuhtDylH_qlF-7PqLPPef40/s1600/Orange-footed+Scrubfowl-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR75wiFYolQ3ToaqKZ22yElUd5bULdaMwaryG77AjaF61PyCwoeoHn-PPbI2y8EQEj4zqKR9QWQVybz3-QHv7U84y2ZzhZQNa8omHPB1guqo6ojO8iBbfidGuhtDylH_qlF-7PqLPPef40/s640/Orange-footed+Scrubfowl-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the dark before the next dawn, I walk
back out through the gates of my hotel.
The groups of people are still there, some sleeping, some standing by
the sea wall - silhouettes cast against the pale of the sea sky. I can’t help but wonder how many times this
scene has played itself out. And it
surprises me still that in my life time the original people of Australia were
still excluded from any formal census.
We can protect, even explain, the actions of those who came before us by
saying that ‘things were different then’.
But the lack of humanity needed to dismiss people as being no more than
part of the fauna of the continent defies belief. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I find such thoughts, such observations,
hard to bear. They weigh me down when
they occur – I have no idea how the people who carry the real consequences of
such things manage to do so. Some statistics would suggest that they do not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The line of light between sea and sky has
widened a little, though the streets are dark away from the pools of
lamplight. In the fig trees that flank
the road birds squabble and bats talk.
Walking back towards the light of the hotel gate I hope the day will
bring clarity of thought – or at least the stillness in which new things can grow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A brightly lit four-wheel drive wagon pulls
up, the pale hull of a boat following like a metal tail. Fishing rods waggle over the stern of the
boat, like antennae or whiskers. The
wagon is cleaner than any fishing vehicle I have ever seen; no smell of bait,
no half eaten lunches or abandoned coffee cups. No scatter of hook packets or
boxes of lead weights. It’s shocking really. But it does give everyone more legroom, and
you don’t have to drive with the windows open.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUSwwZiFGXZUS825Y0ux4Ks1xIILuuxtNycq40IICROTCnoHRlWMIX6F5eImSwrtzsW91E4Pu97IasOcHF6WwbwaN2AOhbgHtQrb5vDUCc3y5-Zkm_T6bBxgOtW_ISnTppLvDQFetwN3To/s1600/In+a+big+country-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUSwwZiFGXZUS825Y0ux4Ks1xIILuuxtNycq40IICROTCnoHRlWMIX6F5eImSwrtzsW91E4Pu97IasOcHF6WwbwaN2AOhbgHtQrb5vDUCc3y5-Zkm_T6bBxgOtW_ISnTppLvDQFetwN3To/s640/In+a+big+country-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Soon the road opens into the kind of
straightness that signifies open spaces and far-flung places. A few roadside wallabies hop away from the
lights of the wagon and an owl, otherwise unidentified, drifts through the
beams. Away from the sea the night seems to have crept back, so that it is darker
than before and the line between sky and land fades to ambiguity. The headlights drown out the stars and we
drive in a bubble of light in the darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Up ahead, a pale glow reveals itself as a
truck stop where we pull in to buy functional coffee and ugly but delicious bacon
rolls. Putting the coffee in a cup holder in the wagon it feels like a small
desecration. We turn left from the
bitumen road onto one of gravel and dust.
The wheels clatter chunk over bumps and the coffee in the cup vibrates
in sympathy. By the time we reach the
water I can see clear arches of dirt on the windscreen where the wipers have
caused an otherwise unseen change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As the boat is readied, I walk down to the
jetty where other craft are tied up. A large dragonfly, not yet sun warmed,
perches on a branch that reaches down to grab my hat. In the distance a flock of Magpie Geese take
wing; hundreds of birds, maybe more, like smoke on the horizon. There is a faint chill in the air; like a
memory of something that has yet to happen.
Wisps of smoky vapour lift from the water and disappear into nothingness
in the air. A communication between the
two great oceans of water – the liquid and the gas. Blocky boats, drawn from the simplest parts
of both house and boat hold fast to moorings, ungainly, their sides wrapped in
two forms of water. A state change where
things become new, but stay the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPQnWLJ2_C4v9dtgTHn5lUofgqqCraasoHUIPc_zN3W63BOfOFPxfv36FzSUFOGfAe8Z-NETz2KIUJ0mJZhMRClOIjhJM2YWKyBYrGfgH4T7jdWY0mY_jtwxra2Fn_o1mxUV6YDbI-YyL/s1600/Corroboree+Billabong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPQnWLJ2_C4v9dtgTHn5lUofgqqCraasoHUIPc_zN3W63BOfOFPxfv36FzSUFOGfAe8Z-NETz2KIUJ0mJZhMRClOIjhJM2YWKyBYrGfgH4T7jdWY0mY_jtwxra2Fn_o1mxUV6YDbI-YyL/s640/Corroboree+Billabong.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If water had a memory, what would be its
dream state? Would it hark back to the crystalline order of ice? The disorder of liquid water in which all
things are found? Would it long for the space filling capacity of gas, where it
could be everywhere at all times, and still be absent? And what of me? Would I also hark back to some time past or
does the dream state lie ahead? How long
would I have to wait here to find the answers to the questions?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I realise that somebody is calling my
name. The cascade of thoughts breaks off
and I walk away from the jetty and towards our boat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">For me, fishing is about silence and
repetition – the cast and recast, and the quiet observation are hypnotic,
therapeutic. So it comes as a
disappointment that today we will be trolling for fish. A lure is towed behind the boat,
concentrating on fishy looking areas; it is not the most energetic way to
fish. I have heard this method likened
to looking for a lost golf ball with a lawn mower – you just drive about,
backwards and forwards, until you collide with your target. This may be unfair – and the need to flick
the rod tip every 10 seconds or so does add a sense of rhythm, but it feels
very passive. Two fish come to the boat,
neither to me and a third is lost. The
sky lightens to full blue and I continue to troll. No more fish come to the hook and we seem not
to be able to try anything different – maybe there is no need, maybe the fish
really are not in the mood, maybe it’s just me and my confused thoughts putting
the fish off the feed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We are fishing in </span><span lang="EN-US">Corroboree Billabong</span><span lang="EN-GB">, an off-shoot of the Mary River.
We meet no more fish and but many crocodiles. The first is disappointing, the second
predictable, as these waters hold more crocodiles than anywhere else in the whole of
Australia. They rise from the riverbed – logs come to
life – and swim off through the clear water.
They thrash away from the surface of weed beds, disturbed by the boat
and they bask in the sun on muddy banks – solar panels with teeth. If find myself valuing the stability and
space of the boat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7XbIYXaVkfc0xyTp8hFf2oHEEMOHVuYZSwxdT81fWfXl6UHWz_ER3W03yfugxHK-jOJrnASaqu0_6cVJboF9T9m-D14g8FLPobLAiCm7V1FZI_4xGO5GnVsNmScrEJlfFwfB1ONAQXvD/s1600/Corroboree+Billabong-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7XbIYXaVkfc0xyTp8hFf2oHEEMOHVuYZSwxdT81fWfXl6UHWz_ER3W03yfugxHK-jOJrnASaqu0_6cVJboF9T9m-D14g8FLPobLAiCm7V1FZI_4xGO5GnVsNmScrEJlfFwfB1ONAQXvD/s640/Corroboree+Billabong-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If the fishing is slow then the wildlife is
more than compensation. As the waters of
last season’s rain run out and off to the sea the wildlife of the top end
gathers around the shrinking waterholes and falling rivers. There still seems to be plenty of water in
the Billabong, but the level is the best part of three metres lower than its
peak. At high water this is an inland
sea of fresh water – spreading landscape wide as far as the eye can see. It would surely be a thing to witness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Dragonflies are now thick over the lily
patches, flycatchers flash past and Rainbow Bee-eaters hunt from flowered
watch-posts. The hunter becomes the
hunted as a bee-eater catches a large dragonfly and subdues it by smashing it,
hard and often, onto a branch. The
diversity is remarkable, the food webs uncertain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxCfWt3WIZm5gQXLig6pEvhWhCpc4BHQYC9aYTLU4jmEIp8hbg7PTOQMHOiFeOW4uLa-15vdm6AomN2KNAA51RgrsH_xOOrGVGcRqyHcy10RL4kNXlsMjXJv4Ki7p9DHdixRQj-SWPqWc/s1600/Rainbow+Bee-eater_-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxCfWt3WIZm5gQXLig6pEvhWhCpc4BHQYC9aYTLU4jmEIp8hbg7PTOQMHOiFeOW4uLa-15vdm6AomN2KNAA51RgrsH_xOOrGVGcRqyHcy10RL4kNXlsMjXJv4Ki7p9DHdixRQj-SWPqWc/s640/Rainbow+Bee-eater_-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We eat lunch sat in the boat, tied below a
tree, shaded by the branches and the number of Kites that sit on them; a
congregation of birds of prey, hoping to share some part of our lunch. In the water Sooty Grunter snatch slowly
sinking pieces of bread, but ignore our lures.
Lunch spot fish educated beyond the tricks of my amateur hour
castings. Out-foxed by a fish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We keep trolling and the fish keep staying
away. Sea Eagles wait, also unfulfilled,
for a fish to show itself. High in the
trees the eagles have the best view of the water and we have the best view of
them. I assume that in the long run the eagles will always out-fish the
people. Kingfishers do the same. Nature is waving at me and laughing; it has a
valid point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Eventually the fishing comes to an end –
one last troll, one last hope for collision, but nothing happens. The fish have won, and I have seen more than
enough to keep me happy: the dawn mist alone made the early start
worthwhile. All else is a bonus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I return to my hotel fishless but
happy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the grass across the road there are
still groups of people who I do not know how to reach. Some small part of the happiness drains
away. It’s a different kind of north
and it needs a different kind of response.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-13418569202574567782016-10-26T19:19:00.002+11:002016-10-26T19:59:34.298+11:00Waders and wet meadows.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfTC-Girdgl9RiN5EdaQEB1bAXEzCXFgt2IXRK5II0g7Xr1lwXOAxzDFyz9G-UV48KjNSwQiN1YoF2-k1iLE5pzXrEnID4Fc8Hx4Nzqnvt2VitBWI2PXh0sGoAkLxA2KgBLLXufyYn7uK/s1600/Waders+and+Wet+Meadows-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfTC-Girdgl9RiN5EdaQEB1bAXEzCXFgt2IXRK5II0g7Xr1lwXOAxzDFyz9G-UV48KjNSwQiN1YoF2-k1iLE5pzXrEnID4Fc8Hx4Nzqnvt2VitBWI2PXh0sGoAkLxA2KgBLLXufyYn7uK/s640/Waders+and+Wet+Meadows-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I woke to the sound of gulls fighting over
a fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Possibly both herring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lay still and let the sounds of the day
come to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Swallows chittered softly
somewhere and house sparrows chattered to each other from the bushes in the
garden below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a sharp rhythmic
pinging sound as a rope slapped against a flagpole that proudly flew the flag
of Orkney.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bright sun leaked around the
edges of the blinds, even though it was only just gone 5 o’clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, the tilt of the Earth brings early
mornings and late evenings; there is no midnight sun, but the days of summer
are long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Compared to the tram bustle
and traffic drone of Melbourne, such sounds are a lullaby and I quickly fall
back into sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strangely, even the
morning sounds of a place I have never visited before sound more familiar than
the soundscape I have awoken to for more than 20 years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That may explain why my return to sleep was so
rapid, so predictable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A couple of hours later I wake for
real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gulls have gone, but the slap,
slap, slap of the rope against the flagpole remains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A breeze of varying strength will be my
companion for the next few days; an Orkney weather constant I am told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect that I can also hear the whispered
conversations of the local people, saying that the sunny weather will not last,
cannot last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it does.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">After breakfast we go in search of
birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mainland of Orkney does not
have the abundance of wildlife of some places, but what it does have is a way
of taking you back in time, to when plenty was a given, and rarity was not the
new normal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a place where you
expect, rather than just hope, to see things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s a place where fields hold birds and flowers as well as grass and
cows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a place where the edges are
soft and uncertain, where diversity thrives in the absence of the ruler’s edge
and the laser’s guide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Field corners and
fence posts hold surprises; owls fly unexpected over the road and flocks of
eider, hidden by the edge of the shore, take flight on wings that whistle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hear the creaking call of a corncrake, a
bird that winters in Africa and breeds in the long summer days of
Scotland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a bird ill-suited to
modernity, a bird that needs long grass and untidy corners in which to thrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Empathy may be impossible, the mind of the
bird an unknown, but I think I know how it feels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It is undoubtedly an illusion, but heading
to the southern islands of Orkney feels as if you are going down hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To the north, there are tall cliffs that are
home to Fulmar and Guillemot, and a few Puffin; the people’s favourite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rock Doves, the wild first fathers of the
urban pigeon, live in fear of Peregrine and you are never far from the sound of
wave on stone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Atop of Marwick Head a
monument to Kitchener overlooks the cold waters where he died, his boat hit by
a mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s both a strange and an
appropriate place to commemorate World War One’s poster boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The long shadow of war reaches even to these
cliffs, which seem to be haunted by more than just gulls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The road south from the hotel takes us over
a Churchill Barrier, another intrusion from the world of war into these cold
waters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The great natural harbour of Scarpa
Flow is surrounded by Orcadian Islands, and the water the flowed between these
islands could have brought submarines to attack the great fleet sitting at
anchor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the ways were blocked, first
with sunken ships and then, more lastingly, with barriers of stone and
concrete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ships are fading with
time, tumbling down to rust and broken beams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the barriers are still there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Where they once brought protection they now bring changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Currents that flowed for thousands of years stopped
in a geological heartbeat and sand that was once washed away formed new beaches
on old rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Built by Italian prisoners of
war, the barriers produced a landscape that looks more Mediterranean than
Scottish, although my experience of both is weak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the strand line Ringed Plovers search for
food in short rushed journeys, pausing to watch us watching it, pausing between
tiny morsels of food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their stop start
motion seems never ending, a life full of searching and uncertainty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dog bursts from the sand dunes, all
flailing ears and disjointed limbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
is too much for the plovers, which take flight with sharp, ringing calls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind, ever present, pushes the birds
inland, over the dunes, out of sight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The owner of the dog appears though a gap
in the dunes and the Plovers never come back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The dog runs in the waves and bites the water in excitement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The owner takes a different approach and sits
at the dune edge and watches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sea
brings more sand to the beach and the wind takes some away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our footprints fill behind us, while the sand
to our front is smooth and unbroken. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
wind keeps blowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">All hints of morning cloud have been
shifted away by the wind, and the sky is deep blue and vast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sea smells and sounds fill the air. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the far end of the beach the laughter and
happy screams of cold-water swimmers add the only human sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overhead, Little Terns screech protests at
the dog and his owner, both of whom seem oblivious to the presence of the
birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The terns are as tiny as their
name suggests, but their voices are much louder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are flashy flyers with rolls and steep,
wing bending turns and dives. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plastic
replicas, convincingly coloured, but unconvincingly still, sit on empty nests,
presumably to encourage more authentic breeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The real terns are too fast and too tiny for
pictures – and I suspect that the letter of the law prevents too close an
approach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are bird for wonder and
watching; there is little need for anything else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the hills beyond the edge of the island,
a little further south, the view opens to show the line of the Barrier back
towards the Mainland island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The block
ship sticks from the water, broken teeth, jagged with rust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s only later that I find out that these
sunken ships failed in their last task – to protect the great ships of war that
sat vulnerable at anchor in Scarpa Flow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>834 men paid with their lives for that failure when the Royal Oak was
sunk by a submarine in the autumn of 1939.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the bright sun, with the wind pushing land waves of tall grass towards
us, it is hard to believe that so much death and horror could come to a place
so far from the centre of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Orkney
has been many things to many people, but a vision of the islands as charnel
house and slaughter field is hard to conjure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Such things should be remembered by those who would lead us back to the
Little Europe of the past that killed its young and its best with little thought
or consequence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The wind keeps blowing, but it seems people
do not hear the words it carries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdFDfOHxy2kwyYsOvoR7_M8JcaSo71hSIHUaeAwTx8dHsAwiHuAXsfVtgHcQhvVCzcuetKEhNq5_T4sqvenQ-DQCSsInkPixMOwiiO0EzLExmnR6StKoilLIrk50TPYPAX8Prbud5mCbjv/s1600/Waders+and+Wet+Meadows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdFDfOHxy2kwyYsOvoR7_M8JcaSo71hSIHUaeAwTx8dHsAwiHuAXsfVtgHcQhvVCzcuetKEhNq5_T4sqvenQ-DQCSsInkPixMOwiiO0EzLExmnR6StKoilLIrk50TPYPAX8Prbud5mCbjv/s640/Waders+and+Wet+Meadows.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Down by the coast a grey farmhouse sits,
four square and firm in the lea of a small slope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its windows are small and the porch over the
door large.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is testament to the
real weather of these islands, and the possibility that bright sun and blue
skies are far from the norm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Out to sea
a boat passes with high kicked spray. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fishing and farming. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the field across the road a Curlew sounds
its bubbling call. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hint of the old
ways in a new age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Land and sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sky and sound. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The past in the present, with history in the
rear view mirror as we drive away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Heading south, looking for waders and wet meadows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A maze of roads covers the southern end of
South Ronaldsay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roads meet and depart
from each other for reasons which may have made sense once, but now that reason
seems to have been lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Navigation
seems both pointless and futile; all roads lead nowhere and end up, eventually,
back at the same place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ring roads and
farm bypasses with white lines replaced by a median strip of grasses and
weeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the folds of the land yellow
flowers bloom and sway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every field
seems flanked by roads and pathways, ghosts from a time when each patch of land
had a different name and a well-known purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Calving fields, lambing fields, fields that offered shelter when the
wind was from the east and fields fresh with the promise of early spring feed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People have tilled and toiled here for so
long that each and every inch of the land is known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only old places hold such a network of
knowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is the strange feeling
that the roads are looking after you, guiding you back to a place that you know
– it’s a small place, a place where you may not know where you are, but in
which you never feel lost.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On a fence post a Redshank tells the world
that this is his patch and that intruders will be dealt with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Down in the mud and the long grass there must
be a nest, or huddled young ones, as dependent on the adults as the adults are
on these wet pastures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be complete
both need the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the way things
are supposed to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Curlew with a
field running chick displays to lead us away, predators that we must be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few Lapwings feed in the mud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew up calling this bird a </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">peewit, a name that seems to have
slipped from usage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The name and the
places in which they breed, both pushed back into memory, recalled only by the
old and those of us who do not always accept that modernity is the same as
progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmtefNGRzLvULsVk4-oNf6QOt5gDKZxPQnoTi2FYzWsRx_veVbCU8nDDaNYXpg_CugW8ZCZsz3ohrvkW_PkJh4-D3ruj_F_WqdluxlXRDBlC5QTeXypooQjJRqIKSofQhRfhErMYmbtuu/s1600/Curlew-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmtefNGRzLvULsVk4-oNf6QOt5gDKZxPQnoTi2FYzWsRx_veVbCU8nDDaNYXpg_CugW8ZCZsz3ohrvkW_PkJh4-D3ruj_F_WqdluxlXRDBlC5QTeXypooQjJRqIKSofQhRfhErMYmbtuu/s640/Curlew-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Down by the
shore we sit in the shelter of a stone bank, thrown by winter storms and high
tides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Behind the bank a small church,
built of rough cut stone, and haunted by the calls of Swallows, stands without
a village or congregation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The building
is old, deconsecrated and for sale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
running water, except that which falls from the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No electricity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just four low walls and a sturdy roof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the UK prepares for isolation and America
embraces lunacy, it seems the perfect place to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A place that, for a while at least, seems
free from the constraints of idiocy and the constriction of possibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A family of Eider swims by the shore and a
seal bobs in the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The air is clear
and the sky open and fresh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish my
family could see this place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1T6WTT_v6wBfsg_Sk-n7838nxN3KM5l9gpAKCuR5YZSuXIR7CqdwKwT4N7YKpyj4o4AMySo0MmiV9BWHMOPbXl7tRb08RDZpl32vDP4rN17vOahby7JSR7VOHArbPEp4nIXBsNJ5V-bwO/s1600/Burwick+Church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1T6WTT_v6wBfsg_Sk-n7838nxN3KM5l9gpAKCuR5YZSuXIR7CqdwKwT4N7YKpyj4o4AMySo0MmiV9BWHMOPbXl7tRb08RDZpl32vDP4rN17vOahby7JSR7VOHArbPEp4nIXBsNJ5V-bwO/s640/Burwick+Church.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A few hours
later I drop my bag on to the floor of my hotel room in Glasgow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My coat smells of salt air and sunshine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As the day
fades I hope the waders of Orkney survive the short summer night and wonder
what it would be like to return in the winter, with its daylight famine and
stormy darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Barrow and
beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Storm and stones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waders and wet meadows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes the impact of place does not depend
on the duration of the visit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect
some places will linger longer than others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">By the time
I am fully gone, I know I want to go back.</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-51558649751990942502016-09-08T20:15:00.001+10:002016-09-08T20:15:32.105+10:00An Offshore Account<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXh9IHC98bHJYAGMbtS45bEF12pkuOsrKo_eHW93FU53UzPWDXFyL-CW5OfO0nn1F8YpdMfkXFAeGLjT-fIya2wtbhz7rLweKudZERX3pJd9hwJH7N2bSi4vNNr2HLRcqDLRru5xkJxmGo/s1600/Offshore+account-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXh9IHC98bHJYAGMbtS45bEF12pkuOsrKo_eHW93FU53UzPWDXFyL-CW5OfO0nn1F8YpdMfkXFAeGLjT-fIya2wtbhz7rLweKudZERX3pJd9hwJH7N2bSi4vNNr2HLRcqDLRru5xkJxmGo/s640/Offshore+account-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I don’t like to be late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I don’t like to be lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find both states deeply unsettling,
breaking, as they do, the temporal and spatial maps we hold fast to in our
heads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So, if I manage to be late or lost, my
brain does little intracranial loops and tends to get a bit cross.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But crossness in the face of your own
stupidity is a waste of time and energy – you need to save crossness for things
that are important. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I started to feel just a tad uneasy when I
could not find my flight in the departure board, so I checked and double-checked,
but no, it was not there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked up to
the check in desk (which was suspiciously quiet) and asked:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Where do I go for this flight?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Aberdeen” came the reply.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I let that sink in for a while – looked at
my ticket and felt pretty stupid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
I was, in Glasgow airport, looking at a ticket to Orkney from Aberdeen
airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A mere 3 hours away by road –
and the flight was departing in 90 minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Lost and late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well maybe not lost, given that I was where I
thought I ought to have been, but where I ought to have been was somewhere
else. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Shit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I produced my credit card, booked on to the
next flight – which was at 10 am the next morning – and spent a not
insubstantial sum patching up the errors of my ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went back to my hotel, ate some cheese, drank
some wine and went to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the end,
it was the only option I had.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The next morning I was neither late nor
lost, turning up at the correct airport, the correct time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Glasgow continued to outshine itself, with a
clear sky morning promising fair weather to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At just past nine in the morning, I was
shocked to see a tall woman in a sky blue ball gown walking down a grey concrete
walkway by the rush hour busy road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
whole scene was strange beyond experience, like a mirage brought on by the heat
and repeat viewing of The Matrix. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Either a very early start or a late
finish” I suggested to the driver who agreed, but pointed out that we were
passing a University and that there was some form of graduation at this time of
year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They like to get dressed up,
especially the lasses,” he added in a way that suggested he knew what he was
talking about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never judge a book by its
cover.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Much as the night before had been a (self-inflicted)
stuff-up of massive proportion, there was an up side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking the later flight would mean I would be
on the same plane as my brother, who being older and (so he says) so much wiser
than me, had actually arrived at the right airport at the right time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">For many people a trip with your brother
may not be that remarkable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we
aren’t that sort of family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a round
figure we had not really lived together, at the same address, for 30 years, and
the number of holidays we had taken together at any time, without other family
being present, was precisely zero.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much
later, in the long evening twilight of an Orkney over a pint, we would realise
that it would be probably the first time we had ever slept in the same room
together. This really was a long way from adjacent rooms in a damp and failing
cottage in Somerset.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQDzO0F_QDQE4fitncDFWGfWwYUDPzWbnMmaKVjXwRTO5mzbI2u7nuk5cA6LwtI0fOyo457cY7zKHkPSUzeZvA1W6faICcnVDSasbyLm7rxWpbTMY-fjaOSRxkcqPqR1b9LfgceVr1hhcR/s1600/Offshore+account-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQDzO0F_QDQE4fitncDFWGfWwYUDPzWbnMmaKVjXwRTO5mzbI2u7nuk5cA6LwtI0fOyo457cY7zKHkPSUzeZvA1W6faICcnVDSasbyLm7rxWpbTMY-fjaOSRxkcqPqR1b9LfgceVr1hhcR/s640/Offshore+account-7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The dozen of islands that form Orkney are
scattered across the sea about 30 miles beyond the northern tip of
Scotland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The number of islands depends
on the state of the tide and the shape of the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To the west there is nothing but water until
you reach Canada, to the east lies Norway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The islands spread over three sheets of the Landranger map series, that
classic of mapping with the bright red cover that weathers down to trademark pale
pink with use.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1:50,000 scale, perfect
for almost all things, wonderful in its detail and miraculous in completion. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much can be learned from the close observation
of these maps; old names, out of place today, pass on a history that can be
read and understood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Viking names;
farming names; field names.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Names from a
time when each place had a special role and purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Names that would tell you if there was water
underfoot, or peat for winter fires. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Summer places, winter places, places where
eagles nested and seals gave birth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
land made the words and the words we gave shaped our understanding the the land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These maps may well be one of the finest, but
least appreciated, accomplishments of human endeavour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">With a little practice, and a shot of
imagination, you can use maps like these to build a picture of a world you
cannot see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can see ahead of
yourself and over the next hill. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
flow-lines of contours allow you to build the shape of the land in your own
head, they allow you to predict things you have not seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the hands of an expert, this skill can
become close to miraculous, and even I can manage some crude approximation of
this skill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These maps allow for a kind
of spatially creative magic that builds the shape of the land within your own head
– the maps do not show the reality of the land, they are a 2D cypher of a 3D
planet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By definition they cannot be accurate,
the world is not Cartesian, but the map is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They are a wondrous tool for the creation of a mental illusion, which
often bears a striking resemblance to the real world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But when you start to look, and maybe think
a bit, the maps show more that just the relative locations of objects and the
shape of the land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They also contain an
archaeology of the people who made them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The maps I grew up with contained symbols for Post Offices and public
phone boxes, both of which were of far more significance than they are
today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their inclusion says something
about the society that existed within the landscape in which they were
found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the removal of these from the
maps tells us something about how the world around us has changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The symbol at a road junction which said
‘here is a device with which you can talk to the world’ has become as redundant
as the device itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Equally, on the 30
year old maps that sit on my shelves, you can find the location of both pubs
and churches (with or without a tower).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These were included as places of both community and connection, where people
filled themselves with one form of spirit or another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder how long these symbols will retain
their utility as we abandon community and connection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm94oCJ96mc6vdG88vbncTVdgYE1B3PG-avX2aNUua4CIuTEYGU5XRYYMiKC8SfdPrPmdQI-o7kEmOUSmalRpChuC3itdCIuDTgMF5YiQ93ZiYLtBrMJ6cmoyuBA_lZ0yPipeGCT-XWTAy/s1600/Offshore+account.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm94oCJ96mc6vdG88vbncTVdgYE1B3PG-avX2aNUua4CIuTEYGU5XRYYMiKC8SfdPrPmdQI-o7kEmOUSmalRpChuC3itdCIuDTgMF5YiQ93ZiYLtBrMJ6cmoyuBA_lZ0yPipeGCT-XWTAy/s640/Offshore+account.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">For maps to be able to work their wondrous
magic they need to be based on meticulous observation and measurements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hundreds of distances and angles, forming
triangles that march over the landscape in a remarkable trigonometry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maps are based in the human observation of
the world as it actually is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may
declare the world flat, and assign it four corners, but the measurements say
something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The measurements are not
biased by politics, cant or religion. Additional lines can be added to the maps
after wars and agreements, but the triangles and measurements remain unchanged:
political maps are a human invention laid over the top of the shape of the
land.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Today, we take maps and their technological
surrogates for granted – we have come to rely on them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maps plot our journeys forward, both in time
and space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we think that we clever
beyond measure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But when you stand in the landscape of
Orkney, you are challenged to think again about the measure of our achievement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Possibly more than anywhere else on Earth,
Orkney gives us a view into the landscape of the past and the way that early
people mapped and predicted their world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you stand in the centre of the Stones of
Stenness and come to see that the stones line up with specific events – solar
and lunar – you cannot help but be amazed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How was this done?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did the
engineers of the Stone Age create these great maps of the sky and the
future?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stone circles that speak of both
direction and time, crafted by hand, pulled from the Earth by a people we have
the temerity to call primitive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The landscape of Orkney is rich in human
symbols and measurement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bumps and
barrows, henges and hill top circles are the result of measurement and observation
just as meticulous as those used by our modern mapmakers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stones align with each other, with hilltops
and with solstice sunrises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Precisely
what these alignments meant to the life of the people who built them we may
never know, but the intact Stone Age landscape of the Orkneys suggest a degree
of sophistication that was never communicated to me at school. The laughable
New Age nonsense of Druids or the conspiracy of Alien Intervention devalues the
simple fact that these structures are remarkable. But one thing is entirely
clear; the Stones of Orkney are based on the observation of the world as it is
– or was 4000 years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Far too many of
the stones align with the events of space for their placements to be luck.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipnW_qSDT2hyphenhyphenpxQucJ0J07k34ODK0saSxu_-615H6p1BR3KXtW1FYfBbFLPvVPPCNGhz4bf3ym-5QwEiudgSuXLD6UT_3B4kky25-7qPNgtGK8ctS-EGLiuxinqat_1dWCeR8hT9XlWLsg/s1600/Offshore+account-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipnW_qSDT2hyphenhyphenpxQucJ0J07k34ODK0saSxu_-615H6p1BR3KXtW1FYfBbFLPvVPPCNGhz4bf3ym-5QwEiudgSuXLD6UT_3B4kky25-7qPNgtGK8ctS-EGLiuxinqat_1dWCeR8hT9XlWLsg/s640/Offshore+account-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The light that shines down the entrance
tunnel of Maeshowe on the winter solstice meant to do so, and the Barrow was
built by people who wanted that to happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We don’t know why, but we do they achieved it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
yet it seems we are still not fully ready to give the people who build these
structure from the cooperative Orkney stone the full credit they deserve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">While we were stood within the circle of Stones
of Stenness we were told in no uncertain terms that the shape of the stones
themselves had no meaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This seems
fair enough after you have seen the broken stones at the Ring of Brodga where a
recent (ish) lightning strike felled one of the monoliths – but as a general statement
it seems to be a rather sweeping one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The care with which both the location of the stone circles and the
stones within them suggests (at least to me) that ‘any old stone’ would not
have been chosen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would Capability Brown
have designed the sweeping aspects of his landscapes and then said ‘just stick
a big rock up there’ to finish off?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don’t think so. And neither, I suspect, would the builders of the circles on
Orkney. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At Skara Brae an even more remarkable
expression of the care these Stone Age Orkadians took in the use of stone
comes, not from a grand monument, but from domestic furniture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1850 a Stone Age village started to
reappear from the sand dunes after a winter storm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a village that is still recognisable
as such today. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The round houses have
beds made from the flat stones and ‘fish tanks’ that were lined with clay where
bait or lobsters could be kept fresh and alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But most remarkably, some of the houses have storage cupboards –
side-boards if you like – with a wide flat top and shelves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people think these may have been used in
some form of ritual manner, but others suggest that they were simply storage
units.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact if you copied the layout
of this stone furniture, gave it a strange, vaguely Nordic name you, could sell
it in Ikea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are grindstones next
to at least one of these ‘cupboards’ and many of the houses have ‘box gutter’
plumbing to take away all the foul things a family can produce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many, many people live today in houses that
have less amenities than these. And in case you missed what I was saying there
– these Stone Age houses had a form of plumbing, built of stone stabs that
still functions today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5P5JtQgSrVJeCQuquKqU6ecMSYNyQwj1Vvr17VKM9aXPI0sUyEM9R2Gvb2TUQaczGeCWbp3EhPhjda5a3F9vyrSv_DxDw_EqVPmMHiLceK63WYJJwPNyovyzfSF6AByfZCpm09w2pLHs/s1600/Offshore+account-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5P5JtQgSrVJeCQuquKqU6ecMSYNyQwj1Vvr17VKM9aXPI0sUyEM9R2Gvb2TUQaczGeCWbp3EhPhjda5a3F9vyrSv_DxDw_EqVPmMHiLceK63WYJJwPNyovyzfSF6AByfZCpm09w2pLHs/s640/Offshore+account-8.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It takes almost no imagination to see how
families could live in these houses, gathered around the central fire and
eating meals of grilled sea-bass and shell fish. And when you bring this to mind, the idea that
the same people, sophisticated and recognisable, would just say ‘F**k it, just
use any old stone,’ in their circles and monuments, seems even more far-fetched.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlALzHWpGaEhvvrih90ByM7pUuU78xTJcn9ETd4e4zLZCC_npno7wqyEZtq2GsW2RIICmfUq9wu_5z3IwI0aYvepiYOC8HKuek93D-d1Je2gZE6S1rc0h3O1Lif1j0sR4piP5hL565gxJx/s1600/Offshore+account-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlALzHWpGaEhvvrih90ByM7pUuU78xTJcn9ETd4e4zLZCC_npno7wqyEZtq2GsW2RIICmfUq9wu_5z3IwI0aYvepiYOC8HKuek93D-d1Je2gZE6S1rc0h3O1Lif1j0sR4piP5hL565gxJx/s640/Offshore+account-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And where did all this kind of thinking
start – well, it started right here: when I found a benchmark cut into one of
the stones of the Ring of Brodga.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
benchmark is a sign that a mapmaker has been here and determined the height
above sea level – it’s a fixed point around which the information of the
cartographer flows, and from which maps are drawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A modern symbol on a Stone-Age monument,
thousands of years apart in their creation, but linked by the common purpose of
their manufacture – to help people navigate the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">People have lived and found their way on
Orkney for thousands of years, and for a few days I was glad to join them.</span> </div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-5873287921212001862016-08-01T17:40:00.003+10:002016-08-01T17:40:34.754+10:00Bonny on Clyde <div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVJrj0hMYFmYx0uOgl6gPmahPp0ZOrEbvRfhIUEpDybsS0vm0IuQ-U18HJaioaah9QI5dxV_UjJg10oKPyj3pXPgJofa-1GzItfTIovIKSKAx2MdDrDYBk_DJE9TPJnH9nw7UR1_hq3e5/s1600/Glasgow-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVJrj0hMYFmYx0uOgl6gPmahPp0ZOrEbvRfhIUEpDybsS0vm0IuQ-U18HJaioaah9QI5dxV_UjJg10oKPyj3pXPgJofa-1GzItfTIovIKSKAx2MdDrDYBk_DJE9TPJnH9nw7UR1_hq3e5/s640/Glasgow-6.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
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It was mid-morning as the plane banked for
one last time and settled down to its long approach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Small clusters of houses, woods with arterial
bike tracks and capillary branches, fields with horses gathered in anticipation
round feed stalls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each growing bigger
in the plane window by the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each
adding to a patchwork<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>countryside
typical of a city edge.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB">Greens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Browns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Off-white buildings
flanked by regulation lawns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A football
pitch, where dozen of kids chased a ball: ebbing and flowing, a school of
little fish. Factories and shopping centres.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Normally the houses seem to go on for ages
and ages, as if the whole land is swamped in urban sprawl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this is different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just over there are hills, and beyond those,
more hills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect – maybe imagine –
the glitter of water, spreading wide and long in valleys still rebounding from
the loss of ice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This is not London with its gentle, rounded
hills, this is Glasgow with its views to the highlands and its hints of
lochs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is Scotland. This is not homecoming, but
a form of out-going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A journey to a
place that is, once again, embracing its difference and finding that this difference
is good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When you travel for business, but don’t
travel Business, there are few better things to see the your name written on a
board, where a friendly face offers help and guidance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And above all else, offers an easier journey
to your hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPaznXcKr2TDP3sdH0rWjIMFV-a-QDyPfszniN8mczBfk6rwEXAKo6rNcfSI6jHYyL8MbtLztQ6EE5bTunjc_Wxb_CiByQrq7CgeHp9V8SSJAtGTbCLAoYrqm99kZrGLo-y6pwX-NTP9G/s1600/Glasgow-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPaznXcKr2TDP3sdH0rWjIMFV-a-QDyPfszniN8mczBfk6rwEXAKo6rNcfSI6jHYyL8MbtLztQ6EE5bTunjc_Wxb_CiByQrq7CgeHp9V8SSJAtGTbCLAoYrqm99kZrGLo-y6pwX-NTP9G/s640/Glasgow-8.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Whoever said it was better to travel than
arrive, never went through the long night of Economy on the way to Dubai, or
the endless daylight beyond it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I knew what to expect in Glasgow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grim rundown old place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ghosts of industry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A place that once built ships but did not
anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A place to be before I went
somewhere else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had seen the pictures
on the TV in the 1980s, so what more was there to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had the clear-eyed benefit of belief
without the baggage of evidence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew
what to expect, and expected to see what I knew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Maybe I should have taken the weather as a
sign; clear blue skies unending.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Early
summer warmth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Swallows rushing past
leaf rich trees, a magpie calling from a windowsill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The taxi driver laughed at the weather and
said it would be raining soon, as was right and proper for June.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He mocked the weather forecasters for
suggesting the sun would shine and shine and shine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that the rain would stay away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jackdaws pecked at scraps on the side of
the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gulls swirled over the
Clyde.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the sun kept shining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two bright and shiny buildings sat by the
river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Armadillo and The Space
Ship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver slowed for me to get a
better view. If the Armadillo – really the</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Clyde Auditorium – had uncurled and walked off I would not have been
surprised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But then it
struck me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The buildings were bright and
shiny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were apartments being built,
and the sun was still shining.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The taxi
turned right onto a down slope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A church
of fine red stone stood across the far end of the road, and on both sides tall
buildings of the same red rose up from the wide pavements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In George Square, a large public space, tall
statues and neat grass were studded with pigeons and people eating an early
lunch or a late breakfast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The taxi
stopped outside an old industrial looking kind of building; the doors to the
inside were wonderfully designed of old wood and new steel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reception was staffed by a sane collection of
blue eyed eastern European and authentic locals with poetry in their
accent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was offered a tea, for which I
was thankful, and when it arrived, it was in a mug; “The cups are too small for
a decent cup” I was told and I found myself in total agreement with the
sentiment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But
something was not working; something was remarkably and deeply wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was not the Glasgow that I knew existed.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This had to be somewhere else - maybe
Edinburgh with its festival cool, or Aberdeen with its….. whatever Aberdeen
has.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This could not be Glasgow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What I saw
and what I knew were clashing in a way, which compounded by jet lag, brought my
confusion to almost fatal levels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
in that political dream state of the current age where knowledge is unhindered
by experience, and certainty never challenged by evidence. Opinion, being far
more important than the mere empiricism of measurement, meant that what I was
seeing must be wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shook my head
and went in search of my room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The outside
of the room’s single window was deeply speckled with dust and dirt, breaking
the view in to a broken patchwork that hid the details of the buildings and
courtyards behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nearest rooftop sprouted
a small tree and a few tiles were missing, slid off by winter storms or pushed
off by the growing Ash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond that
building was the back of a pub, where wide wooden tables were laid out with
glasses and plates of food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was
more of a vision of the truth that I knew to be true, and feeling slightly
superior I took a shower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMdcpLHbl4OZwmuVlA4zs3RStVMbLdySEqrCmp9UXVdjoWrcQs3YNdaasLOTup_RAvCjAt0OHA9N7wtSFfOp2DQmEjD78zrSX2tjvpzFsQfQGTyf_ixL88lHEeP4lYhokIsiIyg_xDEgDf/s1600/Glasgow-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMdcpLHbl4OZwmuVlA4zs3RStVMbLdySEqrCmp9UXVdjoWrcQs3YNdaasLOTup_RAvCjAt0OHA9N7wtSFfOp2DQmEjD78zrSX2tjvpzFsQfQGTyf_ixL88lHEeP4lYhokIsiIyg_xDEgDf/s640/Glasgow-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">An hour
later I was back in George Square, where more people had gathered to soak up
the sun and meet with friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the
outside wall of the Guilds Hall a metal plaque held a set of standard measures
– one foot, two feet, a yard – and the back of a war memorial recalled the
number of people from Glasgow who had died 100 or so years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Measurement and numbers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Facts and figures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think this may have been some form of sign as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I picked a
sunny spot – and there were plenty to choose from – and tried to let the
daylight reset my biological clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tour
parties came and went. People took selfies and flashed peace signs at family
cameras as they stood in front of the War Memorial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kids climbed on the feet of the imperial
lions that guarded the flanks of the memorial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Adults walked past the ‘please do not enter’ signs to get a better shot
of the catalogue of the dead, a digital memory, lest we forget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find such things disquieting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At the
other end of the square, away from the Lions and the cross of remembrance, a
group of workmen, striking in bright orange, eat lunch below a statue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nobody seems keen to be photographed in
front of them, preferring the memory of the past, to a vision of
modernity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it’s the spirit of the
age. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I walk away
from the square, following my nose, looking for the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of the buildings are grand in a way
that I find surprising.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Elegant, if a
little time worn, and red.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Intricate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The detail speaks of a history I do not know about, when the profits of
industry must have stayed in the city rather than disappearing off shore in the
digital brown paper bags of modern banking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifcg3TICQcMM80DzlxSY3Z3aodLlrl8YHUe3uqTxNTUn-K-b250z1BqRdIg8rxWXF2dBzBnn5qw9enhq1jzpNhyphenhyphenoZjEDwtxt3by62RIpw5eWgYxukWpQtslIMg_IhgsNIhSrTEI7VnkJFp/s1600/Glasgow-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifcg3TICQcMM80DzlxSY3Z3aodLlrl8YHUe3uqTxNTUn-K-b250z1BqRdIg8rxWXF2dBzBnn5qw9enhq1jzpNhyphenhyphenoZjEDwtxt3by62RIpw5eWgYxukWpQtslIMg_IhgsNIhSrTEI7VnkJFp/s640/Glasgow-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I find the
river more by Zen than navigation, walking down unfamiliar roads, hoping that
my foreignness does not show too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Clyde is wide and brown, overstepped by bridge after bridge and
often hidden behind high walls and cut off by fences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least in the sections I saw, Glasgow still
seems to look to its warm red stone, than the flow of its river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are more buildings here in need of care
than in the city center.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nobody seems to
be stopping for lunch. Gulls gather and fight over unseen scraps, mallard spin
in circle eddies by the shore. The sun keeps shining. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I talk to a
street-sweeper who bemoans that senseless violence of the bottle smashers;
people who throw their empties at walls rather than place them in the bin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“They could
leave on the ground for all I care ” he says, “I’d pick ‘em up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But once they are all smashed – the bottles
that is! – they cut my bags and take ages to clean up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Arseholes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">This was my
first, and certainly not my last, encounter with a kind of conversation humor
that was as refreshing as it was unexpected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m a serial conversation starter – and here, for once, I seemed to fit
in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRoOZHsqvnGNrlm1h7xNLTC-I2CnDnk8iTCyz9FM0DGy07TdDpayCW85mutvBd27AHehV9EjLZKxjibn06Xk0ovRH7JN3xeQ18AOf84coao_PIGzAq8xXCvwVfbxvm5lZwnhw5UE0FMwFi/s1600/Glasgow-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRoOZHsqvnGNrlm1h7xNLTC-I2CnDnk8iTCyz9FM0DGy07TdDpayCW85mutvBd27AHehV9EjLZKxjibn06Xk0ovRH7JN3xeQ18AOf84coao_PIGzAq8xXCvwVfbxvm5lZwnhw5UE0FMwFi/s640/Glasgow-7.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
sunlight had not yet woven its magic on my biological clock and my eyes were
closing despite the hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had landed
in Glasgow in full possession of a Fox News kind of certainty – one that was
firmly rooted in a world where fact and fiction are indistinguishable, and all
you need to know is that your own beliefs render things to be true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a kind of Magical Thinking that
surprised me when I saw it for what it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Knowing most of what I knew of Glasgow was wrong, and wondering what was
true, I turned my back on the river and walked back towards the center of
things. </span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-7825336403547793212016-06-19T18:34:00.002+10:002016-06-19T18:34:24.627+10:00On the edge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOo0XSiV-ymYgTvwADRcNT-0aGJ0B6F0EM1XFOryIwdcoP4xY7JJaMnijZywVFRwEEeWPfh5nEEsFiRZJcSrX60A-GzJZx9tq5f6LRFe7fpDPpJMmZpznXYqHF5nTrw8OHGQxKO5Bx7rS2/s1600/On+the+edge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOo0XSiV-ymYgTvwADRcNT-0aGJ0B6F0EM1XFOryIwdcoP4xY7JJaMnijZywVFRwEEeWPfh5nEEsFiRZJcSrX60A-GzJZx9tq5f6LRFe7fpDPpJMmZpznXYqHF5nTrw8OHGQxKO5Bx7rS2/s640/On+the+edge.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The two kids on the railway platform were
almost certainly brothers, and the lady, sitting on the painted bench watching
them fence with stick swords, was almost certainly their mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a certain swashbuckling joy to the
swipes and thrusts of their swords that would sometimes find their mark, but
mostly just cut through thin air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of
the brothers, the younger one if size is a marker of age, took a couple of neat
sideways steps, over the yellow markers, to avoid the artful thrust of his
brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The mother, suddenly animated, jumped to
her feet and said:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Stay away from the
edge. It’s dangerous”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy, as if
pursued by demons, fled from the danger and found sanctuary waiting just a few
meters away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Edges are bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you stray over them you die.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the radio, the commentator was whipping
himself into a kind of frenzy, as a team that the pundits had said would win
were ground down and beaten, by an unfancied, but youthful opposition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He summed up the situation thus:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“They don’t have that edge anymore, they
just don’t have that passion!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">They’ve lost it, and they’re going to keep
losing until they get it back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Having an edge is good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without one you are destined to be an also
ran, a seat warmer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuWPXPlf-ghSsUtgzpRzlWmxoJC13nvSr4uNRYrtF9nnbwv0t0xXNfMWaN4iyO0f1BCGSStTN3qkfx-HY62dDsIZMw5oKteqyUKCmW5Oa-nRuxLLSeRggVYh7KfWZIFBrIJp06dtPWzGh7/s1600/On+the+edge-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuWPXPlf-ghSsUtgzpRzlWmxoJC13nvSr4uNRYrtF9nnbwv0t0xXNfMWaN4iyO0f1BCGSStTN3qkfx-HY62dDsIZMw5oKteqyUKCmW5Oa-nRuxLLSeRggVYh7KfWZIFBrIJp06dtPWzGh7/s640/On+the+edge-7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Most of the trees had lost their leaves in
the storms of the last few weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Piles
of paper brown leaves lined the edges of the pavements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only the true Australian trees – gums –
retained their foliage, ever blue-greens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the underpass water trickled down the walls, dark lines on pale
paint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a smell of cigarette
smoke, but no sign of the smoker – an old smell, a familiar smell; student
bars, walking up behind my father as he fished and passed the time with another
cigarette. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The platform on the station warns me about the
gap, but they really mean the edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Morning dulled workers and a few school age passengers generally respect
the prohibition on edge walking, but a few risk takers stand way too close as
the train arrives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m surprised that
they are not arrested, or at least warned by the watchful eye of the CCTV
police in the control room somewhere distant and warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The train doors open with a hiss and let us
pass into the safety of the carriage, leaving the yellow spotted edge
behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Beyond the edge of the tracks, out past the
broken stones and rusting signal works, a line of nature has found a
roothold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A narrow strip of trees and
brambles, garden escapees and natives; blending to make something new,
something different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These line edges
hold birds that would otherwise have been driven away from the sweeps of inch
perfect lawns and slug free vegetable patches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These strips, with one edge facing the train and one edge facing the
flanking houses, are the new wilds of suburbia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They represent ecological possibility in a realm of manicured
certainty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On this day, just after eight
in the morning, a trio of Black Cockatoos rise from the trees as the train
passes, yellow tails bright in the morning light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their wings seem longer than their bodies, so
that they look offset, uneven; but they also seem to float with wing beats too
slow to hold such a large bird aloft. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are without question wonderful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter how good a day I have in the office
(and how good can it really be?), the day may have already peaked in the vision
of these birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This morning the rail
edge dwellers make the trip worthwhile, breaking the solid edges of suburbia
with a hint of the wild and the possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I move to the backward facing seats so that I can keep watching the
birds as they move away from me – temporal and spatial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had not moved seats the birds would have
quickly moved over the edge of my observation and I would have lost them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small move makes the connection last
longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small move makes the day
better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small move extends the edge of
my experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At work I sit in a workspace with a window,
a rare luxury in an office space that seems not to favour the distraction of
the real world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trains come and go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People walk past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may be distracted but I am connected, out
over the windowsill to the weather and the clouds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I can hear the whisper of
conversation leaking from the never-private workspaces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Things that are not suitable for public
consumption; gossip or maybe discontent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The edges of such spaces are permeable, care needs to be taken so that
the things that were best kept private do not pass into the public.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mind the gap. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0A7qtry4ig8397avhWgM4YVPHHtgPFsCbWc2Ku_xcVaaMgCehIDmF3dDNcX1LD1MVFuhphj5MowBSdnLWkMZYXInPNnTVmXYwzeQKmbzOpcAbeQAicCt7eiFiRePjP08-mSHd1HPFbWB/s1600/On+the+edge-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0A7qtry4ig8397avhWgM4YVPHHtgPFsCbWc2Ku_xcVaaMgCehIDmF3dDNcX1LD1MVFuhphj5MowBSdnLWkMZYXInPNnTVmXYwzeQKmbzOpcAbeQAicCt7eiFiRePjP08-mSHd1HPFbWB/s640/On+the+edge-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The view from the widescreen windows flows
down over paddocks, crisped to brown by warm weather and a lack of rain, towards
the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few stumpy trees, twisted and
old, hang on in folds where a little moisture may linger when all else is
dry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This truly is an edge land – where
land meets sea, where European faming assumptions butt up against the reality
of a land unlike anywhere else on Earth and where now, the urban edges out the
rural.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Curlewis is a small, essentially anonymous,
little part of Victoria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a child, my
wife knew it as a farming area, where dairy farmers kept cows on sparse
grasslands that had never before felt the heavy feet of cattle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today the cows have gone, replaced by
boutique vineyards, and many of the paddocks are studded with identikit houses,
or the marker flags that plot their progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are empty streets, strangely lined with streetlights that contain
not a single house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They feel like a
zone of transition between the rural and the urban, and seem to contain the
least attractive elements of both places; broken fences and weed lines,
abandoned building supplies slowly falling back into the Earth from where they
came.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There seems to be neither life nor
community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSF1Qx38YaqqhsCbiVOPAEkw2jkr1IRXyLr1QaVqNCTJHJyTH1szlEP9g1qK0vKJt0dxX7cY8E2bWzhiNhWn6as1zOVrdlhj0kHmFyO0shyphenhyphenSNDt4fpff1dWO6Oqx-ptfev2Zf1eoBaHASx/s1600/On+the+edge-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSF1Qx38YaqqhsCbiVOPAEkw2jkr1IRXyLr1QaVqNCTJHJyTH1szlEP9g1qK0vKJt0dxX7cY8E2bWzhiNhWn6as1zOVrdlhj0kHmFyO0shyphenhyphenSNDt4fpff1dWO6Oqx-ptfev2Zf1eoBaHASx/s640/On+the+edge-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This is the place where the unintended
edges of government policy clash with each other and fail to form a whole;
edges remain distinct and gaps arise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
see houses but no schools, I see a supermarket but little else and I see houses
with garages, but streets without bus stops, as if the assumption of car
ownership is both a given and a long term option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a small gap between two housing blocks
three ute loads of workers are taking down some form of agricultural holding
pen. Maybe it was intended for sheep, maybe cattle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s clear that it is not intended for
suburbia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And later in the week when it
is gone, almost all signs of farming have been removed from a place that was
probably sold on the basis of advertisements rich with rural with images.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small flock of magpies – maybe six –
gather on a newly made driveway and only fly off at the approach of a small,
but enthusiastic dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Around the corner,
a few rabbits nibble the grass down to the level of the soil, and there are
signs asking you to drive slowly because of the dust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I feel a terrible sense of snobbery, but I
would not want to live there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that
is a feeling made from a position that I never imagined I would have, based on
the fact that I have (remarkably) moved away from the edge of poverty to one of
(greater) security.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would it be
like to still in a position where heating and hot water are not assured, the
origin of the next meal uncertain, and where rainy nights were passed to the
sound of water dripping on the ceiling above my bed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How would I feel about these edge lands
then?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would these smart little
houses look like to me then? What dreams would I dream in houses surrounded by these
dust dry paddocks and haunted by the ghosts of agriculture lost?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Edges that we step over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Edges that we avoid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Edges that we embrace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Temporal and spatial.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">They are unavoidable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTm9W-z5RGomFpMFQ3gPmnnlQxCD85XLPpnSc5_BaFrDaovwPGsva4EZIIc4gbfmm3peoOPIGkjzyyAq__qe8iHddCW6TOYxJET0m_cxjsv3oHgMcCkWF0adhyphenhyphen4m2NfkKh7pfU3FPXyzV/s1600/On+the+edge-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTm9W-z5RGomFpMFQ3gPmnnlQxCD85XLPpnSc5_BaFrDaovwPGsva4EZIIc4gbfmm3peoOPIGkjzyyAq__qe8iHddCW6TOYxJET0m_cxjsv3oHgMcCkWF0adhyphenhyphen4m2NfkKh7pfU3FPXyzV/s640/On+the+edge-3.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-39121278358586215822016-05-10T20:22:00.002+10:002016-05-10T20:22:57.615+10:00A Tale of Two Summits: Part 2<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">It
had the worst of views</span></i><span lang="EN-GB">; it had the best of views.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUsYa8FnVE2Q2eUy83-byb7JwmH9-hQe-L0CB4chlHZvVfeb-HupvCJBIRD-Z28ft3PxhHGKah0eQfoNn67zy3D-1mnq0tGv-fjIXJVq2QuVVxwdk2OSa1NSyWMorYWfP-0cmkCMpp74fn/s1600/A+Tale+of+TS+2-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUsYa8FnVE2Q2eUy83-byb7JwmH9-hQe-L0CB4chlHZvVfeb-HupvCJBIRD-Z28ft3PxhHGKah0eQfoNn67zy3D-1mnq0tGv-fjIXJVq2QuVVxwdk2OSa1NSyWMorYWfP-0cmkCMpp74fn/s640/A+Tale+of+TS+2-7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Along with the relative silence, it was the
sense of speed that I found surprising.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Things – bushes, houses, trees, pedestrians – flashed past on both sides
of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The distant rapidly became
the close, and the near retreated with remarkable haste.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People smiled as I passed them and some
children laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">My kids laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So did my wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, if the truth were told, so did I.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As a kid you miss out on all kinds of
things for all kinds of reasons – financial, emotional, physical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And sometimes you can’t explain an absence at
all really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bike riding falls into that
category for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere along the
line of childhood and adolescence I missed the part where you learn to ride a
bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And having failed to do so at the
appropriate time, I have never taken up the opportunity any other time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I became a committed pedestrian and public
transport user, until (also later than most) I got behind the wheel of a
car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still walk a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still ride the tram and train with a kind
of familiarity that only comes with long use.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But on Lord Howe I finally started riding a
bike – well sort of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The four of us
walked into Wilson’s Hire and asked for three bikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man behind the counter – who may or may
not have been Mr. Wilson – looked surprised at this mismatch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Only three?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Yes, only three.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t ride a bike.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Really? Why not learn here’ he said,
waving a hand vaguely at the gravel driveway where we were all standing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Because the three people in the world I
don’t want to watch me learning to ride a bike are here’ I said waving my hands
less vaguely at my family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘What I need
is a mountain trike’, I continued, full of confidence that such a thing did not
exist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘I’ll pop round the back and get you one –
red or blue?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Ugh…….blue’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Five minutes or so later we were all
underway; three bicycles and one tricycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I developed an immediate affection for my trike, with its rear mounted
basket, rather dapper bell and its reassuring stability. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When, later in the week I spotted the red
version, I admit that I resented its intrusion onto my little patch of
eccentricity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I’m going to be an
adult on a trike, the least I can be is unique!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The airport is a focal point for Lord Howe
Island – apart from a few ship borne visitors it is both the entry and exit
point to the island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The point of
arrival and departure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of times
each day a twin engine plane drops low over the lagoon – raising the heads of
locals and visitors alike – to land on the runway which stretches across the
narrowest, and flattest part of the island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The longest straight stretch of road on the island runs parallel to the
landing strip, producing the only thing for miles that resembles a dual
carriageway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Families gather on the wide
grassy strip that separates the road from the runway to watch the planes
land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kids – full of youthful exuberance
– race the plane on their bikes and fail to beat it to the finish line. One
adult on a trike considerers doing the same, but thinks better of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later that night he realises he should have
at least tried.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We pull off the road and park the bikes and
hang the helmets on the handle bars. No locks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No security devices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lord Howe is that kind
of place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Safe. The local police must
either be thankful or very bored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A broad red arrow points the way, across a
footwash station and up towards the edge of the forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hanging onto an invisible dimple on the arrow
is the shell of a cicada, shed one last time as nymph becomes adult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rhythmic throb of the adults drones from
the bushes and fills the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It feels
strange to be dominated by the chat-up lines of an insect the size of my thumbnail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buff-banded rails dash about in the long
grass, looking for food and generally panicking in a small-brained way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The combination of open fields with a small
pond wrapping around the heel of the slope and the woodland on the hill
reminded me of Somerset – maybe it’s the smallness of the landscape in front of
me. Maybe it’s wishful thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The path up the hill winds around damp
flushes where grass grows to an emerald green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A makeshift stile marks where the path enters the woodland. A few meters
into the woodland and the world seems to have changed – outside the trees, even
in the fields, the air smelled of the sea and the fact that this island was
land was confirmed best by the soles of my feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the woods the smell of the sea faded away,
and the turn of the path, and the rise of the land, meant that all you could
see were the trees and the path ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On an island so small, in an ocean so big, it seemed strange to feel as
if we had a woodland world, an endless forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The path wound round trees and followed odd sloping terraces that seemed
to run counter to the form of the hill below it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moss and short soft herbs wrapped around
fallen branches and tree stumps. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the
woodland itself there were few birds, but above the green ceiling you could
sometimes hear the call of terns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
walked uphill slowly, responding to the slow nature of the afternoon and the
indirect way of the path.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It had been warm outside the trees, but
inside the trees the woodland smelled of damp and cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some ways it smelled like the houses I
would visit as a child with my mother; houses left behind by the carnage of the
First World War, the houses of widows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Houses that seemed to have been forever abandoned by the summer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a smell of death in those houses –
both premature and waiting – but under the trees, the cold and damp gave rise to
a riot of life and abundance rather than a premonition of death. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There were very few birds in the
undergrowth around us, and most calls were distant and unclear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The silence and the growth were wonderful,
old and renewing, familiar and novel all at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a few places patches of sunlight
brightened the woodland floor, and in others a deeper darkness seemed to
encourage the growth of mushrooms and strange fungi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The path levelled off and took us along the
top of ridge, there was sun through the trees on both sides of the path and
little above us by the sky and few thin branches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the first time in a while there was a
breeze to move the leaves and wick away the sweat that still managed to form
despite the cool of the leaves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There was one small short, steep slope
before we reached the top of Intermediate Hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The top is crowned by a rather incongruous shiny metal viewing platform
– a gift to the island from Dick Smith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While this structure does not improve the view of the summit, it does
improve the view from the summit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By
lifting you up above the canopy of trees the whole of Lord Howe Island comes
into view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a view that I was
prevented from seeing on my trip up Mt. Gower by clouds and rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a view I had wanted to see for a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The view to the south was dominated by the
two major hills of the island – Mt. Gower the larger of the two, where I had
previously spent a day falling over, and Mt Lidgbird, the path which only takes
you about half way to the summit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
path ends at a nick in the skyline know as Goat House Cave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought it would be a walk for another day,
but it turns out it will need to be a walk for another visit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">To the north the island swings around in a
gentle arc and the land rises again to form the hills of Malabar Point, where
Tropic Birds court and the sea makes floating boats seem to fly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only a few small buildings are visible from
this remarkable point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids eat their
apples and play with their cameras, selfies without a hint of
self-consciousness. Welcome Swallows, themselves a recent addition to the fauna
of the island, flash overhead - hunting invisible insects, airborne
plankton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Away to the southeast the unnatural
looking stack of Balls Pyramid sits on the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Distant and perfect, like a kid’s drawing of
a mountain, it harbours giant stick-insects, once thought to be extinct, but
now being helped to take back the places that they have lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This whole scene is a magical landscape,
which if presented in CGI would raise eyebrows of disbelief. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The few metal steps of the platform lift
the viewer from a woodland world to a place that is once more an island,
dominated by the sea and utterly surrounded. Up here, above the forest floor
the air smells of salt, the wind is fresh and cooling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The kids can hear afternoon tea calling to them
from the hotel in the distance and the prospect of more walking, albeit downhill,
is has no chance of competing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we
part company, Sal and the kids back to the bikes by the way we all came, while
I complete the loop around Intermediate Hill, back to the bikes by a different
route.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As soon as I leave the top of the hill the
path changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The uphill sections were
wide and well trodden, but the downhill section was far narrower, with ferns
and branches pushing out from the bushes, blocking the path in a half-hearted kind
of way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a rapid return to a
woodland world after the ozone waft of the air on the summit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This section of the path seems far less
walked than the uphill, with most people seeming to take the up and back
approach rather than the longer, round the houses journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But soon, it seems I am not alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">For all that people talk of ‘bird
watching’, bird listening is just as productive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From under the bushes on the left hand side
of the path I can hear the rustling and shifting of leaves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sit down and wait, feeling the cool air and
damp soil all around me, hearing the small noises and mysteries moving closer
towards me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Despite all that I had read, and all that I
had seen on my walk up Mt. Gower, I still did not believe that birds would
simply walk out of the undergrowth to come and see me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this is what happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small brown head with a curved beak emerges
from the darkness to my left and pauses, head tilted to one side;
inquisitive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems to decide that I
am of little interest and withdraws back into the shadows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember what I had read, and click my
fingers to get its attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The birds
whole body seems to stiffen, crystallise, at the sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes a low grunting noise, and from
behind it comes a similar reply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
second and then a third bird move into view, shifting between feeding and
watching as they approach me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And approach me they do, it’s not as if they
are just walking towards me, unaware of my presence. They are checking me out
as I am them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first bird, maybe the
boldest, moves onto the path, just an arm’s stretch away, pecks at the ground
and them starts to peck at my boots.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This is a bird that until about 300 years
ago no human had seen and that 30 years ago looked like it would become extinct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet here it is picking at the small
pieces of dirt that cling to the side of my boot, and uttering small grunting
noises that may or may not be of disapproval.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Such events call into question the nature of the idea ‘natural’; this
island was found by chance and this bird reduced to near extinction and then
brought back to the land of the living by the hand of man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not the history of a natural place or
an untouched paradise – but all around me the nature of Lord Howe seems to tell
a different story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The birds circle around behind me, and
gather in noisy excitement as one finds a choice morsel in the leaf
litter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These birds carry no rings or
bands on their legs, meaning that (as yet) they have not been trapped and
catalogued, added to the data base of one of the world’s best conservation
success stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I wonder if my own family are still up at
the lookout tower, for they would surely have liked this feathered family as
well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finding that my boots hold nothing
of interest the birds start to ignore me, and move off into the bushes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect that I am smiling like a lunatic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I brush the dirt from my shorts and check
the pictures on my camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The path
leads steeply down hill, so I take my time, listening for the rustle of leaves,
watching for unexpected movement. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja05wuKAgTHawOGTElJMERtDWJNjNeKfVB45Cy_PXeF7vF0W8KqP6CLjR2J8Y-Ry5tnYBJDKpFYJp_ng0cpALXHOSnwO587-2cQw8PPSj9yVBPPMTvWUaR75nr0fH9KCILktvxfTKoE8Go/s1600/A+Tale+of+TS+2-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja05wuKAgTHawOGTElJMERtDWJNjNeKfVB45Cy_PXeF7vF0W8KqP6CLjR2J8Y-Ry5tnYBJDKpFYJp_ng0cpALXHOSnwO587-2cQw8PPSj9yVBPPMTvWUaR75nr0fH9KCILktvxfTKoE8Go/s640/A+Tale+of+TS+2-8.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-4745335416721196602016-03-08T21:59:00.000+11:002016-03-08T21:59:23.806+11:00A tale of two summits: Part 1<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
It had the worst of views; <i>it had the best of views.</i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6lPK0exxtt65CEF7S2ZX3ZBjrEP403UJ5DWPzlbS_bPqMRqJ8fPEal3bFkgdw1H5EQp7c-bPkUVlCYHmVcOh0Nrg8yiqN2PUbYhUR3tV4mrNvf93_6AaOvbMz0KBT3mQ5tKqZDrezmVx/s1600/Mt+Gower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6lPK0exxtt65CEF7S2ZX3ZBjrEP403UJ5DWPzlbS_bPqMRqJ8fPEal3bFkgdw1H5EQp7c-bPkUVlCYHmVcOh0Nrg8yiqN2PUbYhUR3tV4mrNvf93_6AaOvbMz0KBT3mQ5tKqZDrezmVx/s640/Mt+Gower.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB">It had rained overnight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Each gust of wind brought down a clatter of
drops on the roof and set palm fronds scratching at the window frames.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cool air fell into the room from the open
window, smelling of novelty and the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A book, open to the second chapter, lay on the side of the bed where Sal
would normally be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pages soft and
informal, without the new-page crispness that a book of that age would normally
retain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe, at some time in the
darkness, a form of island life has soaked into the pages, making the book feel
more at home than me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were no
children eager for space or fidgeting for closeness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no cat, stamping about,
sharp-clawed and busy-tailed, awaiting the departure of humans before settling
in for a long day of sloth and idleness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I picked up my own watch from an unfamiliar bedside table, just in time to
see the hands click over to 5.30 am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Soft light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wave sounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the other corner of the room, a recently
mended rucksack rested on a small plastic chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mended seam pushing outwards like pursed
lips, the belt strap swaying in a slight, but otherwise unseen, draft. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A new jacket, unworn outside of a shop,
covered the top of the bag, but I knew what was inside it:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a spare hat, a spare jumper and my
lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many times had I packed those
things into a bag?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many times had I
woken with the prospect of a day’s walk keen in my mind?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Some things were strange and new, some were
familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was no family. There
was no conversation to fill the morning quiet or to share the
anticipation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside, somewhere behind
my room, a currawong called with a voice that was recognisable but clearly
different to the birds at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
though I knew I did not need to do it, I checked that I had put my lunch in my
bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As ever, I make tea and toast; but
the passage of a ritual only half observed feels stranger than its
absence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A knock on the door tells me I am late for
my lift to the base of Mt. Gower. I would have sworn he said 6.30.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grab my bag, thankful that I know what is
in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tea and toast sit unfinished,
a walk awaits, not yet begun.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A small van waits at the entrance to
Somerset and as I get in I offer apologies for my lateness; most people don’t
seem to notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most people seem to be asleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The journey to the south end of the island
takes no more than ten minutes and the van remains rather quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The walk we are all going on should take us
to the top of Mt. Gower, the highest point on the island and the end point of a
walk described in both glowing and horrific terms on a number of web sites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘The best and hardest day walk in Australia’,
‘A walk not to be tried if you are the slightest bit overweight or unfit’
‘Frighteningly steep, with sections that are low grade rock climbing rather
than walking’, ‘Bloody hard, but worth it’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe that explains the silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe people are quiet because they had to wait for some crazy man with
a strange accent to get on the bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
an even money bet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbPxtscwE19s_CPtoLBCcpybPliKKBCKd8Q2DK1xB0yuCzfsVxNxcosn-WOtnd7PaWtO2ltkFP93eqap0ExSPgHn8jCshkJeKy43Qp3C787DomWQuuHJ-oGy4EoS0KB5dHQ1ZsRqrZdcRD/s1600/A+wet+day+on+Mt.+Gower-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbPxtscwE19s_CPtoLBCcpybPliKKBCKd8Q2DK1xB0yuCzfsVxNxcosn-WOtnd7PaWtO2ltkFP93eqap0ExSPgHn8jCshkJeKy43Qp3C787DomWQuuHJ-oGy4EoS0KB5dHQ1ZsRqrZdcRD/s640/A+wet+day+on+Mt.+Gower-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As we approach the end of the road, two birds
run across the road and gather themselves on the verge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They run rather than fly not through choice,
but because they have lost that most bird-like quality; flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One is about the size of a small chicken, the
other rather smaller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I could have
stopped the bus and got out, I think I would have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The birds were Woodhens, an adult and a
chick, a bird found nowhere else in the world other than Lord Howe, and not
that long ago it looked like it would not be found on Lord Howe for much longer
either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a strange sensation to look
at just two birds and know that you are seeing almost 1% of the whole world population.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You would think that a bird so rare and so
restricted would have generated a bit of excitement in the bus – but not
so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You would have also thought that a
bird so rare and so restricted would have been remarkable to look at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that was not the case either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rarity is splendid in its own way, and people
often conflate rarity with beauty; but the Woodhen is never going to win any
contests for its plumage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The Woodhen is almost uniformly brown, with
a few darker bands in the wings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its
down turned beak gives it a comical, quizzical kind of look.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nearest it gets to colour are the red
irises of its eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not that long ago
this bird was nearly extinct, with the surviving 30 or so birds living on the cloudy,
uppermost reaches of Mt. Gower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up there
they were safe from the clumsy feral pigs and inept dogs that roamed the lower
slopes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cats, exercising the kind of
slothful choice for which they are renowned, never bothered to move too far
from the hands that feed them, did not make it up there either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in this tiny patch of upland on an
already tiny island, the Woodhen hung on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Public educator that I am I point out the
Woodhens to the other people on the bus, but once again nobody seems to be all
that interested.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I reckon that they are
all thinking about the walk ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
years of working at a desk, I’m trying not to think about it at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A loop in the road, where the dirt surface
doubles back on itself, marks the end of the ride and the start of the
walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People are parking bikes and
signing the “if I die, I promise not to sue you” forms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jack, our guide, was confidently telling us
that the weather would improve, and that the clouds that Mt. Gower wore like a
cap would soon burn off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was sure
this would be the case and annoyed if it was not as he had left his raincoat on
the kitchen table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned up the
collar on my jacket and pulled on a pale bucket hat of older provenance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Newish boots and newer ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An old rucksack and old preparations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was keen to get going, still new to the idea
of guided walks, rather than independent ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was hard not to notice that most of the other people in the group
seemed to have forgotten their jackets as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As is often the case, I felt like I stood
out from the crowd for the wrong reasons; self-consciously aware of the things
I carried and other people seemed to lack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As was less often the case in the past, but is more common now, I chose
silence as a sensible way forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
the end of a flat grassy track a wooden sign blocks the way, warning walkers
not to proceed beyond this point without a guide. Warning signs are common, but
this one gave the walk ahead some form of special status of difficulty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another Woodhen rushed across the path
oblivious to its illegality. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It stopped just on the edge of the path and
watched us with its red flash eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
clicked my fingers and it turned its head in my direction and took two small
steps forward. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in that instance you
could see why this bird had almost become extinct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Woodhens are flightless, inquisitive and
tasty, and while I only have primary data on the first two of these, the third
is well recorded in the literature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
people first settled on Lord Howe in 1834 the Woodhens quite literally walked
up to them to see what was going on and were bundled into waiting pots and
ovens by the hungry settlers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you
evolve on an island that has essentially no predators, an inquisitive nature
and a willingness to defend your patch against novelty are probably a good
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But once an animal arrives, armed
with sticks and guns and bearing a tradition of roast dinners on Sunday, such
behaviour becomes a liability. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Beyond the sign the path arcs down towards
the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Loud waves rush up between the
rounded stones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spickle specks of rain
fall from the lowered grey sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mt Gower
is as invisible as it was before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Island
weather lore seems to have failed our guide. Little Island has been left high
and dry by a falling tide, surrounded by a sea of stones, anchored to the
island by fragments of land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hop from
stone to stone, hoping for a firm foothold and a safe landing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The beach narrows to nothing and the forest
comes down to meet the sea. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We head uphill,
steeply, on a muddy path draped with a helpful rope, spliced in places, held
firm by long tide knots, green with algae.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The mud is slippery underfoot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The pace is slow enough for even my desk bound legs.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At the top of the slope we gather to collect
helmets; not to protect us should we fall, but to shelter us from things that
drop from above. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To our left, the tall
cliffs of Mount Lidgbird disappear into the clouds and form the side of the
path; the rock-face just an arm and fingertip away. Water drips from long tails
of moss, trickles in dark streaks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon
the land to the right drops away steeply too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The path – called The Low Road – runs as a ledge between two kinds of
steepness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rope reappears, rather
out of reach and with no means of connection. I can’t help wonder if it is more
window dressing than useful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To my right
I look down to the sea, and notice white birds drifting near the waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost anywhere else, with the sea and the
cliffs, these birds would have been gulls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But not here, not on this island of singular strangeness and wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These birds are Red-Tailed Tropicbirds; all
white except for the red tail that, reduced to a few thin filaments, double the
bird’s length.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From a distance the bird
looks a little misshapen, short bodied and long winged, with a laboured rather
than graceful flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A solitary bird
glides close by, trailing its naming tail behind it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two brand new birds in the space of an hour;
it’s been a while since that has happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The bird drifts away, and I concentrate on the path ahead, well aware
that the sea is far below and the path narrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">After a short while people start to talk to
each other, conversations rippling back and forth between groups of
walkers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most are couples, some are
threes, there is only one other single, but he has dashed into the distance,
oblivious of the requests of our guide to stay together as a group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other people look slightly stunned by the steepness
of the ground, and the width of the path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I can’t help but think that some people have not done enough reading
about this walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this point, thinking
I am doing rather well, I fall over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
in any life threatening kind of way, but more in comedic style, complete with
flailing arms and curses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pride most
literally coming before the fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
rather annoying occurrence continues for the rest of the day, especially on the
way back down, and I come to believe that I have mistakenly placed skis or
roller skates on my feet rather than boots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Despite my best intentions it’s hard to concentrate on the world around
you when your feet are covered in butter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Beyond the end of Mt. Lidgbird the path
turns inland and heads uphill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
relatively level Low Road gives way to a path that steepens in front of
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disappointingly, we also enter a
layer of cloud that will be our companion for the rest of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are rumours of views, but they remain
just that – rumours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I manage to go for
about an hour without falling over, which is a relief, while a number of other
people give up entirely and return the way we have come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect more people would do the same if we
could actually see what lies in front of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The cloud around us reduces the world to a grey sphere of vision,
flanked by misty trees and whale backed rocks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When we stop to wait for the slower moving members of the group, they
appear with the kind of suddenness that would be worthy of surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up ahead people disappear into the cloudy
mist like they have been swallowed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
the best of times striking off the path is a course fraught with risk, and this
is not the best of times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The path is
narrow, but thankfully clear, and ropes that hang down rock steps and muddy
slopes offer more than one type of security.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Somewhere out in the mist a currawong calls and then appears to check on
the noisy (and in my case, clumsy) visitors into his world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There are more rock steps and short climbs
and at each one the number in the group declines as people give up, or are told
in no uncertain terms to turn back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a
dry day, with clear skies, these short climbs would have added much to the
journey, but clad in my butter-boots I have to concentrate.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Once more the steepness of the ground
increases and we finally start up the slopes of Mt. Gower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The path shrinks down to a single file hollow
way and the vegetation changes to wonderful dwarf woodland – a Mist
Forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even when hindered by fog and
rain you can see that the canopy of this woodland is no more than an arm’s
length above your head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each branch and
twig is covered in a green sward of moss and lichen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s tempting to reach out and touch each and
every branch, to feel the soft swaddled blankets. The light is double filtered
and green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If green had a smell, this
would be the place to sense it. This is a water world made solid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a place to make any walk – and any
number of stumbles – worthwhile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fingers
of foggy rain point through the branches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Beyond the thin strip of path there is no evidence of footfall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No scuff marks or erosion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fallen branches lie more than half buried in
the deep moss. Leaves rot down to skeleton ghosts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could spend hours here, lost in the detail,
searching for patterns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I resent the
presence of a schedule that keeps us moving when the place demands stillness
and time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without family, I would rather
be here alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The end of our journey to the top comes
with a rush, as Mt. Gower flattens to a wide plateau near its summit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With nothing above but cloud, you can almost
see the air and feel the mist as it is pushed around on winds born of the sea far
below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We gather in a clearing to eat
lunch. Sandwiches, chocolate, fruit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most
people stand, only a few sit. It would be a perfect place for a coffee and an Eccles
cakes, but my flask was in Melbourne and the cakes half a world away.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As we eat, two Woodhens emerge from the
bushes and start scouting around our feet for crumbs and scraps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each bird has a collection of ornithological
bling around their legs, marking them as known birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When the total number of Woodhens in the
world had fallen to about 30, action was taken to save the species from
extinction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The feral cats, pigs and
dogs that roamed the island were removed – which is a polite way of saying
killed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cats were banned from the
island, and dogs were strictly controlled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And just as importantly, pairs of birds were trapped and taken into
captivity, where they were encouraged to breed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Luckily, the birds cooperate, having behaviours closer to teenagers than
to Giant Pandas, and soon there were lots of little Woodhens rushing about in
chicken wire pens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon these were
released back into a safer wild than their parents had known and they
thrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The number of Woodhens now
stands at over 300 and the future looks better than it did for </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Gallirallus sylvestris</span></i><span lang="EN-GB">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As I am photographing the birds an English
couple ask me what they are – and I tell them the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They express surprise that they had not heard
this story before, and I supress my surprise as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coming
to Lord Howe and climbing Mt. Gower without knowing this story seems like going
to Stonehenge, but only knowing that each stone weights 25 tons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems to reduce a wonderful narrative to
nothing but the clothing of a physical challenge and a statement of arithmetic –
the hardest day walk in Australia, with little acknowledgement of the story the
mountain holds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The Woodhens keep pecking for food, exchanging
glances with each other and their human caterers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard not to see them as an old couple,
tolerant of the regular interruptions to their daily routines of preening and
grub hunting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">By the time I have taken my photographs
most people have already started walking back down the path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no option but to follow, even though
I’d rather just stay and watch the birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="EN-GB">I tell Jack that I’ll catch up in a couple
of minutes, and despite my regular slips and stumbles, he seems happy to leave
me at the summit to my own devices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
saw a sign recently that said ‘It’s not that I don’t like people, it’s just
that I prefer it when they are not there’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- and in truth I could have been wearing it for those few minutes I
spent alone at the top of Mt. Gower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As ever the walk back down the hill seems
faster than the walk up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At one point I
fall over while standing still – my feet just seem to shoot out from underneath
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My well of tolerance almost runs dry
at this point; it’s easy to blame the boots, although culpability probably lies
elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">By the time we reach the flat lands of the coast
my hat is soaked to saturation point, by a rain that never did burn off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I walk slowly and steadily the drips of
water hang on the brim and eventually split and divide, populating my eye line
with lenses of water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I walk quickly
and clumsily the drips flutter along brim until they fall to the grass at my
feet, and disappear from view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Hanging on and falling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lack of a view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tomorrow I suspect my legs will be
sore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the truth is, I really don’t
mind at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLYZQIEDvrCrnPFWO8izE8WEuTYQSLNWp-vwE7el7_U61ly5eveCCN8e9Dy91VcA3n-bY917GvVNjtVLVKgXo5Y0TQ_9DmKXkQYzSZSLzwqcFIMytU5tqPKbVRbbfroFETPvWxjxRYh2FD/s1600/Mt+Gower-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLYZQIEDvrCrnPFWO8izE8WEuTYQSLNWp-vwE7el7_U61ly5eveCCN8e9Dy91VcA3n-bY917GvVNjtVLVKgXo5Y0TQ_9DmKXkQYzSZSLzwqcFIMytU5tqPKbVRbbfroFETPvWxjxRYh2FD/s640/Mt+Gower-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-55673254820396829212016-01-28T20:06:00.002+11:002017-03-15T19:21:03.499+11:00A speck in the ocean.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwz-Q7T3gUU4wgf8u8FneyGrIom27TOOkVmtkJgYqahKmNUc78A-4tREk9_wDMoTj34vgg4f-4-k5J183klw8kyFcDg89x39reS-FBomo1AECn31Pr0XSXIsdrzzFOxDsuJbu6lHoyJAx/s1600/A+speck+in+the+ocean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwz-Q7T3gUU4wgf8u8FneyGrIom27TOOkVmtkJgYqahKmNUc78A-4tREk9_wDMoTj34vgg4f-4-k5J183klw8kyFcDg89x39reS-FBomo1AECn31Pr0XSXIsdrzzFOxDsuJbu6lHoyJAx/s640/A+speck+in+the+ocean.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As a kid, holidays meant a series of day
trips that started and ended at our brown front door, the one with the loose
brass handle and the glass that rattled in the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any overnight trips meant camping with the
Scouts, returning home smelling of wood smoke and needing a bath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Not that long ago flying was still a
novelty for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It signified something different,
an adventure. It meant that I was no longer tied to the routines of childhood
holidays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That was until I started to fly for
work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two, or sometimes three, trips a
year, interstate mainly, but with the occasional long haul thrown in, soon robs
flying of its novelty and thrill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Work
travel is more work that travel, and with a young family waiting at home, I was more likely to
feel I was in a lonely place than in a Lonely Planet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This may sound like whingeing, but an early
flight to Sydney followed by meetings and a night in a noisy hotel is travel
robbed of the slightest possibility of adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fly enough, without ever having the chance
to fly at the pointy end, to know what to expect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spending a few hours in the cupboard under
our stairs would probably be just as comfortable and would certainly have
better wine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But sometimes, a destination, and the
months of anticipation that go with it, can cut through this familiarity and
promise something new.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The plane is tiny, with real propellers and
(disconcertingly) chipped paint on the engine cowlings. The flight will be one on a human scale, not
the industrial monstrosities of modern, bulk carrier flights. Jets seem to fly with a method akin to magic:
just a chest sinking burst of acceleration and a few mechanical clunks and
vibrations, and that’s it. But prop
planes feel different. You can see the source
of effort and energy that will pull you into the air. You can see the blades spin up to full speed,
passing from the merely blurred to the invisible. And from the vantage of a window seat you can
see small trails of cloud being formed at the base of the propeller disc as the
fabric of the air is torn apart by the passage of the blades. This is flight by brute force, visible and
clear. This is flying to rebirth adventure.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We head northwest, away from Sydney and out
into the Pacific. Soon we are in a water world, on the edge of the world’s
largest ocean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As ever, I wonder at the
possibility of whales and search for details to comprehend the surface of the
sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there is just water, and wind
driven waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flight is always a matter
of trust – in physics, in the skill of the crew and in the function of the
technology packed into the airframe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On
this trip, in a tiny plane, in search of just a speck of land in a huge ocean,
I feel the necessity of trust more than normal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I seem to be the only passenger travelling
by myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are couples and
extended families, there are very few kids and I am the only single.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This does not aid conversation, but does bring
a great sense of clarity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Kate, have you done the flight thingy”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Which thing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“The plane phone flight safety thing”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“You mean wifi?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“No that other thing”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Itunes?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The safety setting thing”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Oh, that one – yes I’ve done that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I’m not sure if I need to”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Maybe you should”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Can you do it for me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“OK”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I embrace the consolation of solitude and relax
into the noisy silence of the engine’s drone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUptOahzQ3ckZ5WWljt_vuhKGBIeoWy0ZHLt9_W1wsIG0JFpdSKSW_C1_6sezld_Dn5xZ_s7YdEkQHoT3Bx47lNBoaUIV5V18wwU_xB9RiNELTEd3OSg59hE9mUHvYHn2F8wBNQ2M26L6/s1600/A+speck+in+the+ocean-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUptOahzQ3ckZ5WWljt_vuhKGBIeoWy0ZHLt9_W1wsIG0JFpdSKSW_C1_6sezld_Dn5xZ_s7YdEkQHoT3Bx47lNBoaUIV5V18wwU_xB9RiNELTEd3OSg59hE9mUHvYHn2F8wBNQ2M26L6/s640/A+speck+in+the+ocean-11.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Lord Howe Island covers just less than 15
km<sup>2</sup>, smaller than most hobby farms. At its widest it reaches 2km,
and is less than 11km from north to south. It sits about 600km out into the
Pacific.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is, by any definition, small
and remote. The idea that this plane will find and land on this speck of rock
is akin to a fly discovering a leaf in a swimming pool. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Then, out past the wingtip, land appears; a
small sweep of green rising up into a pair of blocky mountains at its southern
end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few smaller hills stud the middle
ground, only for the land to rise again at the north. The outline is wholly asymmetrical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A curved line of surf off to the east marks
the outer edge of a reef that forms a protected lagoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond the western shores there is nothing
but ocean and the passage of waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The tone of the engine changes as we start
to descend towards the island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It feels
like we are landing on water rather than solid ground, and beneath the wing
tips there is nothing but sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the
plane passes over the coral reef the water changes from a wind peaked green to
a shocking clarity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even through the
windows of the plane I can begin to see huge heads of coral that almost reach
the surface water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can see deep holes,
darker in colour, but still clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can
see sweeps of colours that grow clearer as the plane sinks lower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I can still see nowhere to land.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Beyond the right wingtip the two southern
mountains loom high above us, but we are still over water. The plane can be no
more than tens of meters above the ocean when the runway appears, so close that
it’s shocking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So close it’s a relief. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The engine tone changes again – increasing to
a higher whine that borders on desperation – as soon as the wheels touch the
ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flying may be hard, but stopping
seems harder. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The plane slows to a halt outside what
appears to be a three-bedroom house, with a small garden, white picket fence
and a loyalty proving flag pole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
in fact the airport building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a
delay (it really is an airport!) before the plane’s door opens and I strike up
a conversation with the cabin steward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Nice place to have to come to on a daily
basis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you ever get to stay?” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I’ve never been bothered” he replies, “not
much to do, not enough shopping for me. Too quiet at night as well.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s clear that while he may work for an
airline by day, he does not moonlight for the tourist board in his spare time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His response seems akin to complaining about
the wildlife in Africa being ‘too black and white’, ‘too fierce’ and ‘too tall’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I occupy myself with a previously unknown,
but now vital, repacking task with my hand luggage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the door finally opens the steward seems
to take a step backward, away from the possibility of nature, and back to the
security of the mini-bar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Just inside the picket fence a group of
staff from the island’s hotels and guesthouses wait to collect their new
guests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am quickly assigned to the
right person and pointed in the direction of the baggage claim area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is no fancy carousel, but just the back
of a flat bed trailer, heaped with brightly coloured bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find a patch of familiar purple and extract
my bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the older passengers
find this rather too hard, and for a while I become a volunteer baggage
handler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m glad that I don’t do this
for a living.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once I have fulfilled my
community service obligation, I head for the van labelled “Somerset”, not out
of any sense of home county nostalgia, but because that’s what my accommodation
is called. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Out on the grassy fringes of the runway I
can see Golden Plover and Buff-Banded Rail. Overhead I can see dark capped terns,
with wings that flash white in the sunlight – Sooty Terns. The air smells of
rich salt and damp growth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am, to say
the least, excited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been planning
and talking about this trip for months, much to the frustration of my long
suffering family! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Over the part of the island known as the
“Central Business District”, pure white terns are flying and landing in the branches
of Norfolk Pines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are White Terns,
one of the birds I have come all this way to see – and there they are outside
the window of the van, even before I have been shown to my room or unpacked a
bag. The CBD contains just a Post Office, a restaurant, two small shops and a
phone to make free local calls. The sea in the lagoon is as clear from the
shore as it was from the air, sparkle bright and inviting after a few hours of
cramped sitting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The beach is narrow but
picture book golden, flanked at one end by darker rocks and the other by a long
sweep of forest that seems to come down to meet the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The few boats that sit at anchor in the
lagoon weathervane into symmetry under the influence of a cool breeze. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are no gulls. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Divers, fresh from the ocean, wade ashore from
a silver hulled boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everywhere I look
there is novelty and beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I settle into my room at Somerset,
unpacking cameras and shirts, wide brimmed hats and tripod.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The room possesses a greater sense of utility
than beauty, but I intend to do little more than sleep here, so this is
fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fill two water bottles and put
them in the fridge, along with two large bars of dark chocolate, brought from
the mainland to guard against shortage and the inflation of island prices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within 20 minutes I am walking away from
Somerset (this seems to be a recurring theme in my life) towards Ned’s
Beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLcjcXmteXXW1KcNqp_kxpcwxhPiibFCuu6YRJidhc3xwzVnqXfYNkdQJz-MLuLfGPWWgT6TMJeI_DOv06zbqSQQcFmUOVsO2ujQ59YaWJMW3wy3oyvX1dIelV5Gzn7H98o5-MX-IcxZ1j/s1600/A+speck+in+the+ocean-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLcjcXmteXXW1KcNqp_kxpcwxhPiibFCuu6YRJidhc3xwzVnqXfYNkdQJz-MLuLfGPWWgT6TMJeI_DOv06zbqSQQcFmUOVsO2ujQ59YaWJMW3wy3oyvX1dIelV5Gzn7H98o5-MX-IcxZ1j/s640/A+speck+in+the+ocean-9.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Within minutes an energetic Emerald Ground
Dove and a stationary Buff-banded Rail have delayed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dove proves hard to frame, but the rail
sits still by the side of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Despite an island-wide speed limit of 25 km per hour I think a car has
hit the rail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even with its eyes closed
the small bird manages to look stunned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A few head-shakes help the bird regain its usual poise and after a few
pecks and feather adjustments it rushes across the road to the sanctuary of a
hedge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cannot help but note that it
does not look both ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The road to Ned’s Beach is marked by a
clear sign and festooned with large spiders – Golden Orb Webs, with strands of
web as thick as guitar strings and bodies the size and colour of pale grapes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sign says “Give Way”, which seems more
than reasonable in the circumstances. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The road to the beach passes through bare
soil woodland, riddled with burrows, speckled with birdlime. Another road sign
warns of “Mutton Birds on Road” – and there are a few flattened carcasses
to show that not everyone pays attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Beyond the trees, grassy areas open on both sides of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The right opens to picnic tables and
barbeques, the left through sand dunes to the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sweep of the beach consists of classically
golden yellow sand, with only a handful of people in sight, and they are all at
the far end of the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small group
– adults and children – stand in the surf at the same end, squealing with
delight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect I know why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is too much to see, but what distracts
me most is the air full of birds at the other, quieter, end of the beach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3hYzuAQAw2T95dQ_28wUVsoSBpwAPI9VL3hpUFO0WrnCSTdVBhAiA1KSK_2gtyHkgz0MjLct-c6UAH_szKpq3EivwgeMu9Kr0F5Q1bzNFOvwMPbVbQvPxCA9WZJBdacNbAsCE1iC_-0WT/s1600/A+speck+in+the+ocean-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3hYzuAQAw2T95dQ_28wUVsoSBpwAPI9VL3hpUFO0WrnCSTdVBhAiA1KSK_2gtyHkgz0MjLct-c6UAH_szKpq3EivwgeMu9Kr0F5Q1bzNFOvwMPbVbQvPxCA9WZJBdacNbAsCE1iC_-0WT/s640/A+speck+in+the+ocean-3.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I focus on the birds in the air and almost
stand on one on the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stand
still and look around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dunes are
full of Sooty Terns, black and white with a bandit eye mask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are small chicks hiding in the coarse
grasses that pop from the sand, and overhead there are adult birds screaming in
protest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting on the grass seems to
dull the anxiety of the adults in the air above me. Soon some sense of calm descends
as the birds realise I am just another harmless visitor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life around me returns to normal, as the
birds ignore me and I stare at them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It can give you an interesting perspective
on life, being ignored by all the hectic activity around you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The birds have better things to do than be
concerned by a strange figure who as moved from sitting on the ground to lying
down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ever hungry chicks walk from
cover and hunt the sky for their parents, who return, now and then, with small
silver fish or a crop full of protein rich sludge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fish look the more appetising option,
although the chicks don’t seem to care. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdJQENfJMFTCS_b-xhmRW7XzbaoROx2rsTaHJezxYaWk5sfd9bkIVwjCuI74ZG4HBXNqx3LDcx6fDVkfeT_nUuXgAVqLLk_q9pt2DRn3SJcRkdKy9tskOEANKbyIqlRcR9l65L4c6WIuR/s1600/A+speck+in+the+ocean-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdJQENfJMFTCS_b-xhmRW7XzbaoROx2rsTaHJezxYaWk5sfd9bkIVwjCuI74ZG4HBXNqx3LDcx6fDVkfeT_nUuXgAVqLLk_q9pt2DRn3SJcRkdKy9tskOEANKbyIqlRcR9l65L4c6WIuR/s640/A+speck+in+the+ocean-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s hard to believe that less than an hour
ago I was on a plane, breathing recycled air, impatient with anticipation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An hour ago I had only seen Sooty Terns as a
rather distant white shape, and now they surround me in their hundreds, maybe
thousands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each wing flick, each beak
snap is now revealed in pin sharp clarity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It seems futile to think that such life can be rendered comprehensible
or captured in a single frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems
distracting to think of shutter speeds and apertures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The abundance seems overwhelming;
simultaneously remarkable and unbelievable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To have come so far to see so much, in a place so small.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQez1FkuzICAI_IkS41tQZ_3UYypKME160sAaI3rQSckoPSx5rR3jIGWDSXEx1jd4C8E2J1NTVhV4FgAYNkoOCN6_SaCxStsKDg7GWfFfIIPYLVCG0S1d_QGXyd0XRUq59JdiD2GWeEMZ6/s1600/A+speck+in+the+ocean-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQez1FkuzICAI_IkS41tQZ_3UYypKME160sAaI3rQSckoPSx5rR3jIGWDSXEx1jd4C8E2J1NTVhV4FgAYNkoOCN6_SaCxStsKDg7GWfFfIIPYLVCG0S1d_QGXyd0XRUq59JdiD2GWeEMZ6/s640/A+speck+in+the+ocean-7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And I know this is just the start of
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the other end of the beach
another world awaits under the water. Brightly coloured fish swim through the
surf and shimmer in the sunlit waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Coral heads poke through the surface, and distant grey waders flicker
from rock to rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I have just over a week to here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is best I make the most of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwpCpth8FEBYrkFcAmvdfCus49WNj1pLcTIqg92h_mY31Mt_kxKhaJxLxZ04vJRA0sOvIimQTWGXqajizGRLzzgveCy1XJ7ED0r3mkVzyju2h-3FjspSwTrgDUHw7g8ROtAGxmrxKMsed/s1600/A+speck+in+the+ocean-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwpCpth8FEBYrkFcAmvdfCus49WNj1pLcTIqg92h_mY31Mt_kxKhaJxLxZ04vJRA0sOvIimQTWGXqajizGRLzzgveCy1XJ7ED0r3mkVzyju2h-3FjspSwTrgDUHw7g8ROtAGxmrxKMsed/s640/A+speck+in+the+ocean-8.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-67417301326530896232015-11-28T17:55:00.004+11:002016-04-21T20:06:10.743+10:00July (1) - Morning<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28UAXjivZebsFpU1h2_oWr7T4TvNrkTg6l-ETYSLei6XLgCWZ8HvSlH0BH4bzFKyZjJ_vYvmAyi8nqhUyZyGzIEp3udvhfudtuRt8VSI2uaQLWJTh0InddjuOnsH-VdYj3VjtC75nbXNY/s1600/Swanton+Morley-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28UAXjivZebsFpU1h2_oWr7T4TvNrkTg6l-ETYSLei6XLgCWZ8HvSlH0BH4bzFKyZjJ_vYvmAyi8nqhUyZyGzIEp3udvhfudtuRt8VSI2uaQLWJTh0InddjuOnsH-VdYj3VjtC75nbXNY/s640/Swanton+Morley-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB">It was almost a year to the day since I had
last stood under a Norfolk sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I
stepped out of the farmhouse it was not yet mid-summer, though the day was
forecast to be hot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The night before I
had been lulled into sleep by the sound of Swallows twittering in the long
dusk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This morning, despite the early
hour, they were up before me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They sat
on power lines and fence posts, and darted in and out of the buildings that
surrounded the farmhouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a straw
topped yard black and white cows – White Park Cattle <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– rustled and pushed their slick wet noses
through the fence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the trees down across the lawn, Wood
Pigeons looped through their repeating call, over and over, again and
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond the trees a faint vapour
of mist rose from the river. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Black
Bird sang from the chimney pot, and off to the side a Tawny Owl watched from
the top of a five bar gate before it flew from sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the distance I could hear the caw of Rooks
and the chack of Jackdaws. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed
that all the extras from central casting had arrived this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was nostalgia and memory at a level that
was almost painful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is what I dream
of when my night time subconscious takes me somewhere greener than my everyday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond all other things, this I what I had
once assumed most mornings would be like, but life did not take me down that
path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some days this feels like exile,
most days it feels like adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today
it feels like homecoming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The early morning has a special kind of
charm, especially when you have chosen to see it, and nothing but your own will
has lifted you from under the sheets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
work time obligation, no financial need, just your own private wants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my case I was going to fish for tench.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I was in no hurry to shut the car door on
this picture perfect morning, and as I drove away I resented the exclusion that
turns the world into more TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
crackle of gravel under the tyres sounded loud and out of place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None the less, the rabbits browsing on the
verges ignored my vehicle and me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe
they were aware that they had survived the challenges of the night, and free
from the fear of natural predators refused to flee from a metal one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">This time of day is wonderfully
special.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The everyday business of the
daylight has yet to drive away the hidden world of the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Predators return to nests or burrows, and their
prey emerges from the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What ever
the day will bring is still unmade and all that awaits is possibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many people have this time of chance taken
from them by some belief in fate or destiny?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How many people have the ‘fierce possibility of now’ stripped from their
day before it has even begun?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a day
full of such unknown possibility, how can I not smile?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The roads and the sky are empty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few strands of clouds, stolen from above,
lie in the hedge bottoms and gather in otherwise hidden folds in the
fields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even at this hour the sky is
beginning to take on the harsh blue of a hot day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few young pheasants, empty-headed targets
that they are, run along the road in front of me, refusing to fly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually they leave the road under the bars
of a gate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect the escape may only
be temporary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I arrive at the lake and begin the familiar
process of setting up a fishing rod.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Threading the line through each ring, and pulling down on the line to
check I have not missed any.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I attach a
classic red-topped float and tie on a hook that looks tiny after days spent on
the sea and in the surf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The processes
of checking the depth and setting the float come back immediately despite
sitting unused for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bait is
close to hand and the rod set with the far end on a rest and the butt on my
knee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To my left, willows give some
shade and behind me taller trees, alders, hide me from the skyline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s as if I have never stopped fishing like
this, although the truth of the matter is that it’s 30 years since I fished as
much as I could.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB">Embrough, Priddy, Longleat, Woodland Park,
sometimes further afield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fishing for
tench, carp, roach and bream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More often
than not, catching perch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or maybe fishing
the Avon if I could get a lift with a friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My father did not like river fishing, too much movement, too far to
walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I fished for barble or chub
without him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I would struggle to the water’s edge,
carrying dozens of things I never used, but would take great care to make sure the
half a dozen things I really needed were close at hand. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bait for the hook and coffee for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bait squirming in round, green boxes,
with white lids; the coffee in two flasks, blue and yellow, both with a black
cup lid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They may not have been
Thermoses, but all flasks are called that brand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bait and flasks probably both came from
the small hardware shop in Westfield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
lunch would have been a mix of pies and sausage rolls, bought each week on a
standing order from a shop in Midsomer Norton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>People smile at that name, and associate it with murder – but there are
days when I would kill for one of those beef pies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The float twitches and slides away, too
fast and positive for the hoped for tench, and a few seconds later a smallish
roach is being slipped back into the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It may not be kind, but the least I can do is make it rapid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I catch a few more roach before my mind is
drawn away by a sharp sound in the air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">A group of terns, cloud white in the blue sky,
are dashing over the water, beaks pointed down in search mode, looking for
fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they spot a target they seem
to keep flying a few meters, with the beak tracking backwards so that it ends
up tucked under the bird’s body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this
point the tern pulls into a steep climb and flies back in a vertical circle to
dive down into the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all happens
in a few seconds and is wonderful to watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Most times the tern emerges with a tiny sliver of silver, destined to be
fed to an egg fat female or a protein hungry chick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a perfect example of the distractibility
that meant I never had any chance of being in the 10% that catches 90% of the
fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">To my right a mouse, or maybe a vole to
judge by the flat face that emerges from the grass, eyes up a stray grain of
corn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a moment when all thought
of fish leaves me and I hold to as much stillness as I can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mouse moves forward in two short bursts, seeming
to travel from one place to another without ever being in the space in between.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it is just my eye that causes it to
stop, the observer effect of quantum science made solid by a Norfolk lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the yellow grain held fast between its
teeth, it turns tail and vanishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Out towards the middle of the lake a Great Crested Grebe is fishing for roach too. Its partner carries striped young on its back and takes the little silver fish offered to it with unhurried ease.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">A
Moorhen appears on my left and panics at my presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No amount of stillness is enough for some
species.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The sites and sounds of this picture
perfect and totally ordinary English morning are so familiar that I could
believe I have never stopped living in them; but it’s almost half a lifetime
since they were routine for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
experience is pure nostalgia. The birdcalls and the smell of leaves and grass
drying from their dewy dampness in the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The routine of casting and scattering bait on the water. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The convenience of gear placed close at hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">But above all else it’s the stillness that
I feel and remember.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A stillness that is
internal more than external.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A stillness
that for a long, long time I had lost, and could not re-find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A stillness I thought I would never get
back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a time when all that
went on inside my head was loud and shouted, and all that emerged was the
same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a noise so loud I could not
hear people telling me to stop shouting, a noise so loud that I did not know I
was shouting in the first place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
an internal din that drowned out everything around me so that all I had was
noise and to make myself heard anywhere I had to shout louder still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like screaming into a hurricane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was carrying a whole age of anger with me
all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it robbed me of any
chance of stillness or silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">It would have been easier, but far more
damaging, if I had not been able to remember what stillness felt like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I could remember it and I could not get
it back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew that there had been
times of stillness in the past, and I knew that there had been things that I had
done that had brought me stillness – and fishing was one of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in the noisiest times the inevitable
hitches of fishing did not bring resigned sighs and a slow solution, rather
they brought more noise – and an anger directed at a world that was not
responsible for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was ill in a
way that was frightening and familiar. As a child I had seen what electricity
and drugs could do to somebody in the name of a cure. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that vision was only slightly less
frightening than the vision of a future in which the noise consumed me and I
was nothing but anger and volume.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
needed to stand still and let the things that filled me with terrifying noise
pass by, so that they could move into a future that did not include me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed space and silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed the kind of silence that can come on
a morning filled with bird song and the noise of water, reel and line. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Sometimes it feels like the echoes of that
noise are still there, distant but not gone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The memory of that noise is like the light
from a far-flung star – a sensation that exists in the present, but carries
information from the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while the
information is frightening I need to understand it, so that I can react to its
presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And those reactions include
rituals of silence and stillness that, for me, include the crafting of words
into sentences, the making of pictures and, now and then, a spot of fishing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">It’s not that I have to travel half way
around the world for a ‘spot of fishing’, but on this day so many memories and
old routines fall into place that it’s hard to believe that I ever stopped
doing them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And things that are absent
make for a sense of change and growth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My blue float box, made with little skill and only a little more
enthusiasm in woodwork at school, would have been useful today as it contained
a shop full of floats, held in place by foam and sorted by size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a folding chair with one arm removed,
which would have been kinder on my knees than the ground-hugging version I
borrowed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had boxes, bags and buckets,
all with a purpose, all mostly unused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
loved the organisation and the anticipation, I loved the belief that the bits
and pieces really would help and that a fish of a life time was just a cast
away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I have come to believe that a
day spent fishing where only the fish that you catch matter, is day when an
opportunity has been missed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a day
where a one-eyed focus on rod and reel will have been robbed of the major part
of possibility.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">In the past, the early morning of the
weekend would normally see me in my father’s car, being driven with more
enthusiasm than skill (sorry Bert, but it’s true!) to some watery venue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That we generally arrived intact from these
journeys is remarkable really, for the vehicles were of the vintage that drove
the British car industry into the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My father probably had no option, but buying more than one Austin Maxi
is evidence that you do not learn from your past mistakes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we drove (never using 5<sup>th </sup>gear,
as once it was selected it was impossible to get out of it!) we would wonder
what fraction of the cars on the road were there for the same purpose as
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as another small roach comes to
hand I find myself thinking the same thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How many people are out fishing, right now in the early morning?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And while I am sure that their reasons for
fishing, or the things that they take away, are different to mine, there is a
shared experience, a kind of continuity and community, which creates more than
it takes away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But beyond this is a
richness of language and experience that would be diminished if this community
ceased to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By meres and lakes, ponds
and waters, streams, rivers, canals, cuts, drains, rivers and brooks people
find and maintain a common lexicon that explains and expands our understanding
of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I doubt that anybody would
be fishing for barble in a mere or rudd in a brook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The language of the water extends to its
ecology and nature; in some ways the world and the words are one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we lose the words we lose that understanding
of that part of the world – if water is reduced to a dichotomy of just tap or
bottled, or sparkling or still, everything is diminished and we are all made
smaller for that lose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The world needs more understanding based on
the experience of the real. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We need more
words built from the feeling of wind on your face, or the sharp rattle of
rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We need more days built around the
smell of a changing wind, or the knowledge of whether a winter’s sky will bring
rain or snow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We need more language
constructed through reality of existence and not words constrained by the
edicts of imaginary friends. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fishing
will not save the world, but it may help people to see the value of evidence
and reaction, observation and change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Out in the deeper water large slab-sided
fish roll in the weeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bream are
spawning, responding to day-length and temperature, to have thoughts of spring
on an early summer morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waves of
movement spread through the weeds as one fish after another swirls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The motion is like watching falling cards or
stacked dominoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Out past the fish and
weed, a dark shape, low to the surface, cuts a slick vee through the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every so often the movement stops and the
dark shape disappears under the water, only to reappear a few meters further
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bream ignore it but I
don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is more distraction, more
reason to look away from the red topped float.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The vee approaches an island and the dark shape pulls itself form the
water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I catch a glimpse of a body and
long tail, slick with water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the
distance to the island cannot disguise the call of panic from a Moorhen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The animal is an otter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a kid these predators were a ghost in the
landscape, lost and presumed gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But all kinds of recovery are possible,
internal and external.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this morning
I see both. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I collect my bag and rod and move to a
different swim more thickly set with weeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A few patches of bubbles, needle fine and rapid, suggest that I may have
found some tench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly catch a
bream, empty sided and washed out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
hold it upright in the water for a while before it kicks away, sluggish and
tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The float twitches and dances in
classic fashion; such signs require patience and a degree of restraint – I can
do the first, but the second comes much harder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Eventually – and probably quicker than I would describe – the float
slides under and I feel the slow, but powerful, pull of a tench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not big enough to grace the cover any
magazine, and it’s not bigger than some I have caught in the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bottle green flanks and thick muscular
fins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A red eye and slime, which is warm
and slick to the touch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within a few
minutes it is back in the water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I recast and wonder what will happen next.</span> </div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-23948609656840252192015-10-13T22:28:00.001+11:002015-10-13T22:28:06.514+11:00Water<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span lang="EN-GB">Walk. Pause. Walk. Pause.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sand or sometimes stones; sand much easier,
stone offering a greater promise of variety. The depth grows beyond ankles and
knees; the walk becomes a wade. The involuntary tiptoe as the water reaches
that height; the sharp intake of breath no matter the temperature; the final
lunge plunge to flotation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
hard conformity of concrete floors and the Star Trek whoosh of automatic
doors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A heady chemical brew is replaced
by a fresh air; cool and light. Familiar faces on the pool deck and in the
lanes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The single step over the poolside
edge; under water in a single stride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The routine of a double leg lift that lets the water reach over my head.
<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Spit and wash the glass of the mask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sit or float to pull on the fins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Swim fast to warm up. Blow hard from the
second water shock, pushing choking splashes from the snorkel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Dunk
the goggles in water and shake off the excess drops. Pull the elastic high on my head; float and
push from the wall. Stroke and
kick. Stroke and kick. Blow bubbles and rest your head on the leading
arm. Swim slowly to keep going lap on lap.
Turn at the wall and wonder if I should learn to tumble. More bubbles and a straight dark line. More
bubbles and a straight dark line. If the
time is right the darkness falls and the pool empties. Winter swimming.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The noisy music of breathing and the deep
breath of forced relaxation, retained even through growing experience. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The anticipation of discovery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
repetition of exercise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The anticipation
of completion.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Home</span></i><span lang="EN-GB">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Just out from the edge of the beach a whale
back of orange granite slips out of the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A pair of Pacific Gulls sit atop the rock watching, keeping an eye open
for opportunity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slighter Silver Gulls
flash overhead, seemingly unwilling to land on the whale, unwilling to share a
piece of land with their larger cousins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The first leg is often, but not always,
away from the beach; almost always towards some structure where things can be
found and seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Old boats, broken and
rusting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wooden poles of jetties,
slick to the touch and greened by age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But most often the destination is marked by the presence of stone; reef
edges, steep boulder boundaries and mini mountains, rising from the shifting
sands below, structures that will hold the fluid life of the sea close to
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">While the destination may be fixed in my
mind, the pathways to them can be twisted and slippery. They say you may never
be able to wade in the same river twice, and the same idea applies to the
sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the return journey to the
beach will take you somewhere new, even if the final place is the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Repetition has, at least for me, yet to flow
into familiarity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may recognise the
beach poles and distant buildings, but once in the water, only the general
location remains known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rock caves found
one day seem not be there the next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boundaries
may stay the same but the detail changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The beaches and rock walls of Freycinet are
completely unfamiliar, just the whale back rocks off shore provide any form of
marker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Halfway up the east coast of
Tasmania, this is a place of cool crisp water, clear and yet rich.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next landmass to the east is New Zealand,
and beyond that the west coast of South America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To the south, beyond the southern point of
Tasmania, an Earth girdle belt of ocean cuts off the icy southern pole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Although there are no paths, I follow a
predictable path; along the edge of rocks and through gaps in weed beds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I avoid the open water, with its ripple sand
floor and seeming lack of life. Life clings to the rocks and I follow suit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this still feels like a greater choice than
following the paths that travel on land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Here my choice is based on interest, rather than some choice made by
others, some time in the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could
strike off the path on land – and in many places this would pose no real danger
– but it is not really the done thing. You follow the path, keeping an eye out
for the next guide arrow or paint flash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The interwoven undergrowth – the bush – does not encourage off path
meandering in the same way as is possible in the sheep grazed uplands of the
UK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The presence of snakes is hardly
encouraging either.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But in the water the choice feels so
different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The path exists where I
choose to take it, and in the deeper water it takes on a depth that is not
possible on land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The path becomes three
dimensional through choice, with only the necessity of breathing bringing me
back to the 2D world of the surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
suspect I would enjoy diving greatly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I swim around a corner and a huge ray lifts
from the sandy floor and moves a few meters away, the edges of its body moving
like a shaken blanket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few small
silver fish share the movement and swim away with the ray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Small wrasse rush away from the disturbance
of my presence and now and then squid hang in the water until they reverse out,
jet propelled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t name most of the
fish I see, small or large.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Zebra
stripes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Small rays and sharks, the cousins of the
carpet sized ray.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Once there was an octopus, huge and plastic,
with arms that seemed to reach in and out at the same time, and could spread in
all directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sharing the water with
it was unsettling as it seemed to move towards me and then back away, and then
come forward again, as if it was debating some form of option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that this is basically a sentient
and intelligent snail was, in hindsight, even more unsettling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">From force of habit I keep to the rock
walls and the edges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The abundance can
be startling, the chance encounters remarkable. But for the time being I stay
close to the security of stone, unwilling to enter the open water that lies
further from the shore.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My arms and legs start to feel heavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drag as much air into my lungs as I can. By
this time it never really feels like enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I drop from a four stroke rhythm to three and then down to a two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The line before the wall, a few meters out,
comes as a welcome sight, knowing that I will soon reach the wall, from which I
can push and glide.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Without the background thud of the engine
you can hear the wind and the splash of the water on the side of the boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The waves splashing on the boat make a
strange noise, neither rhythmic nor discordant, but a kind of both that comes
and goes with its own beat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although it
relies on the presence of a boat for its expression, at its heart it’s a wild
sound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The boat drifts with the wind and we catch
the scent of the seals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a smell
that is wild in almost all ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
kids on the boat wrinkle noses and pinch their nostrils with tight fingers.
People move off the end of the boat in pairs, and shuffle off the dive step
into the open water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s best to avoid swimming too close to
the platform on which the seals sleep, lest half a tonne of waking carnivore
slides off and on to your head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the
truth be told, the smell alone is enough to make you keep your distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The platform on which these males loaf is
called, with a certain lack of sensitivity, Chinaman’s Hat because of its
conical roof. The colony is a Man Shed for yet to be and over the hill male
Australian Fur Seals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The once and
future seals are a uniform silky brown, dense furred and whiskery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The old boys all carry scars from past
disputes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have more character than
the youthful wanabees, which I admit may be the view of an old man!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Dropping off the back of the boat, into
water where I cannot see the bottom, feels more like diving than swimming – the
sudden step, the drop that ends in a cold solid softness that wraps around you
and eventually holds you up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those first
few seconds are always a test in my faith in buoyancy, the pull of gravity, the
opposition of displacement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A seal appears in front of me, just a few
feet from my nose, or if I was stupid enough, within arms reach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I keep one eye on the seal and one eye on H
who is swimming with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The seals make
a mockery of any thoughts of my own manoeuvrability, with loops, twists and
turns that would snap the spine of a yoga guru.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I spin, left handed, trying to track the seal with the camera I hold in
my right. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bubbles bleed from the seals
fur as it dives and disappears, leaving behind nothing more that a growing
screen of silver spheres, growing as they reach the surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The seals are at home, and I am merely
comfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I have no guide for exploration but the
ghost of the long gone seal – I swim in a direction that I cannot justify; one
that comes simply from the direction I am pointing. This is discovery by chance
with no compass rose of experience or geology to help me – I may as well be swimming in circles, and
there is a good chance I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No paths,
no markers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only definition comes
from the seals that come to visit me – I become the marker that defines travel
for something else, and when that happens, my own path becomes clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There seems to be no other way to describe
the behaviour of the seals than play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
small male shoots below me and twists vertically to burst through the surface
just in front of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If both of the
animals in this dance were humans, one would be showing off or teasing the
other – and that one would not be me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For all I try, I am bound in many ways to the surface, brief forays
below the surface are the exceptions, not the rule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the seals, their world and the pathways
within it are truly three-dimensional.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But here, in the open water, I can get a brief feel of what such freedom
must feel like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No lane makers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No need to follow the rocky wall to my
left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up and down remain logical, but
left and right are defined by the point of my nose – and as I spin the part of
the world to my left changes and changes in a way that makes nonsense of the
idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a world where all pathways
are possible and location can change, what is the meaning of direction?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I hear a sharp whistle – the signal to
return - and look around to find the boat. Once more direction makes sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>H is only a few feet away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I follow him or did he follow me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We swim back to the boat, and pull ourselves
back on board.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Air, gravity and a sharp
south wind bring me back to my own world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I reach for a towel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">I
swim four more laps, trying to stay smooth in the face of tired arms and heavy
legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pull myself out of the pool and
onto the deck. Air, gravity and the sharp tang of chlorine bring me back to my
own world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I reach for a towel.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The seals circle the boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gulls hang overhead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later dolphins arrive to show us the way
swimming is really done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t help
but smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Water.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Water.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-73534014227924792592015-09-10T19:39:00.000+10:002015-09-10T19:43:00.312+10:00Outside the Wall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I’m not sure when or where I first learnt the word
‘archipelago’, but it was probably in Geography at school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And those wonderful to say syllables would
have tumbled from the lips of one of my teachers in a way that made me know
that there were no archipelagos in Somerset, and that the chances of me ever
seeing one were slim.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geography was an introduction to a world more exotic than
the one I knew of, and one more distant than any I ever expected to
explore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only really remember three
geography teachers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr Goldsmith, who
was just a wee bit too young and fashionable for the rest of the staff at the
former Grammar School.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A female teacher whose
name escapes me, but I suspected was really a PE teacher masquerading as a
geographer; her tendency to wear track suits to class and her unfailing habit
of reading her notes to us from an old black A4 clip file, reinforced my
opinion that she was an imposter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And finally there was Mr. George Rodgers, who within the
school was Geography. In the fine tradition of teachers of this subject he had
a total disregard for the niceties of dress code.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He rejected the classic leather arm patches
on jackets and pullovers, but instead wore his tie on the outside of his solid
colour, vee necked jumpers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he bent
forward over a desk his tie would flop forward like some out of control
trunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(During my years as a teacher I
rarely needed to wear a jumper of any sort, but I wore a single bar, silver tie
clip to keep my tie under control).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>George had a fine collection of roller print maps, which would be inked
into our exercise books with production line precision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I often wonder if in that cupboard at the
back of the geography room, just across from the gym, there are still boxes of
those roller printers un-inked and un-loved, awaiting the tides of educational
fashion to bring them back to life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have no evidence of any sort that George ever used the
word archipelago in class, but I believe he may have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in these days when the necessity for
evidence has diminished, belief may be all I need in this regard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Politics and erosion may have changed the boundaries between
countries and the shapes of the seas and mountains on those roller maps, but in
those representations of the world there was wonder and magic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a suspicion that they set me on the
road away from home and on to a journey that took me to a new land, half a
world away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to see an
archipelago, an isthmus and walk in U shaped valleys, with truncated spurs and
corries, <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">cwms or cirques hidden
above.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to see the maps made
real.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I hold
George at least partially responsible for this, although not in a bad way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I very much doubt that he still teaches, but
if it turns out that he still does I would gladly lend – or even give – him my tie
clip as both a thank you and as a practical aid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">--------<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The sea to
the north of Australia is speckled with islands of all shapes and sizes; a
Jackson Pollock paint flick on an east west arc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indonesia sits at the western end of this
arc, a porous membrane between Australia and the rest of Asia. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a country of islands, some large, some
small, some well-known, others destined to remain obscure; some islands are
peopled by Christians, some by Hindus, but the country is officially Muslim. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the actual number of islands is
contested, and depends on the turn of the tide and the state of the weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect that the population numbers posted
on web sites and printed in books are at the very edge of what could be called
estimates, and are more probably bordering on guesses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isolation and fragmentation leads to
diversity and uncertainty and the only thing I am sure of is that I have never
been here before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Despite its
apparent proximity on the map, the flight stretches on and on, the view from
the window obscured by clouds for most of the trip over Australia, the view
only opening up as we pass over the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The course is an unfailing northwest, the duration stretching out beyond
the normal workday and into a long day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once out over the ocean it’s clear that the Earth is more sea than land,
with only a few green spots breaking up and through the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dozen </span>colours<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> surround each island and few of them are
blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Browns where current and tide kick
up sediments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Green where the seabed
rises towards the surface and plants bask in the shallow water sunlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are dozens of places where the two
combine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In two places there are streaks
of red, maybe where bare rock shows through.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Finally
more substantial land comes into view, and based on the sketchy information
from the seat back screen I take it to be the eastern end of Java.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even from high above the island, you can see
the pockmarks of clearance and the straight lines of boundaries and highways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Close to the coast there are tiny white
specks, with broken waves behind them, fishing in the shallow waters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can see where I want to be, but I know it
will be a while before I arrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
flight will overshoot Jakarta and fly on to Singapore before I repeat the
flight to finally arrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I stretch
my legs in the bright sterile light of Singapore airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I check out the giant goldfish, which my kids
were pleased to name on my last visit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wish I could take a shower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish I had
arrived. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The novelty
of the airport seems to have refreshed my mind, and the final leg of the
journey – back to a city I passed four hours ago – seems less painful than its
outward twin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The city lights shine in
the darkness; the ground rushes to meet us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I arrive, alone, in a strange city and am pleased to see my name on a
board held by a driver as I leave arrivals and enter the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Internet may be a wonderful thing, but
having a colleague arrange a taxi for you is even better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon I am on the way to the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon I will be able to have a shower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But the
soon does not come as quickly as I had anticipated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It quickly
becomes clear that the only thing I do know about Indonesia is that I have
never been there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There really are only
a few ways in which this country penetrates the news cycle in Australia – as a
tourist destination, as an export opportunity (either gained or lost) or as a
country where the military are very fond of peaked caps, gold braid and
epilates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that this is a
developing country seems to fall by the wayside unnoticed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The drive from the airport to the hotels is
the start of a journey towards an understanding beyond the news headlines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Outside of
the airport the atmosphere is thick with cigarette smoke and shouted
conversations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The taxi drivers and
curbside wranglers argue and squabble over fairs and destinations. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But most exchanges end in laughter and a
proffered cigarette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shouting seems to
be a national sport. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of the taxis
have seen better days, but some are as sharp as a new pin, gleaming and
expensive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one I am guided to is
sharp – much more so than the work a day Ford that took me to the airport in
Melbourne, much more than any car I am ever going to own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As we move
into the traffic, the mood outside changes from the organized chaos of the
airport to the absolute chaos of the open road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Within seconds the car is surrounded by hundreds of mopeds ridden by
men, women, children and occasionally whole families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like being inside a swarm of bees, where
each bee is independent of the next, but never the less they never
collide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each and every inch of space is
occupied as soon as it is vacated, and yet there seems to be none of the
testosterone angst that comes with driving at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me the mood seems hectic and relaxed at
the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect this is some
form of contradictory duality produced by being in an air-conditioned car with
a relaxed timetable and nothing else to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Outside it may all be different.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And when I
start to really look outside, I notice that it is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">By the
sides of the roads people are sorting through huge bags of waste plastic and
stowing them with care on bicycles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are shacks below the freeways, backed up against concrete pillars,
roofed with sacks and held firm with blue plastic rope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is hardly a gap between any of these
makeshift homes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In doorways without
doors people cook over small stoves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Piles of rubbish accumulate in the few open spaces that have not been
built on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of these piles are on
fire, leaking thin wisps of dark smoke and a smell of oil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the economy of the poor, the refuge
of edge dwellers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is truly the
margin. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The veneer of wealth spread by
the luxury of the taxi and the swarms of bright new mopeds breaks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t help but wonder what a reversal of
observation would bring – I wonder what the people looking in through the
tinted windows think. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder why these
sights surprise me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The taxi
comes to a stop on a section of elevated road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Only one of the five or so lanes seems to be open and all of the traffic
is being forced into a single, narrow channel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Motorways become the infrastructure of desire, and a source of redoubled
delay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A line of men sit on the road,
covered from head to foot in loose fitting, open weave clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only the circle of their face shows through. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most have damp cigarettes hanging from the
corner of their mouths; from a few small patches of red flare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are removing the painted markings from
the surface of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of them are
chipping the white paint away with small hand-axes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It’s
Dickensian and modern all at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Brutal and harshly economical. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe
it’s a marker we should all be aware of; in a place where it is cheaper to hire
people than use machines, you may not want to drink the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel the weight of the luxury and leather
that surrounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel the filter of the
tinted windows. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel startlingly
privileged and fortunate to be inside looking out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cameras.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Phones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A computer and iPad. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A wallet
stuffed with millions of rupiah. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A taxi
fee that many could live on for who knows how long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever spark, whatever light, lifts the
lifeless stuff of the universe and makes it live, burns as strongly in the men
by the side of the road as it does in me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At times like this I am shockingly grateful that the spark in me was lit
within the damp green fields of Somerset, rather than under clouded Jakarta
skies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not religion or purpose,
God or fate that lit the fire, it was luck (and biology) and in the face of
such poverty, those who mistake luck for talent need to be reminded of the
truth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My thoughts
are clouded by capricious ambiguity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
cannot silence the inner dialogue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fortune, in both ways, sits around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These are not thoughts to be had when you are alone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stare out of the window and think about my
family. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the best I can do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The hotel
is housed behind a tall wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guards at
the gate run mirrors under the car and look in the boot. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could have had a nuclear weapon in my hand
luggage next to me on the back seat, but it went unchecked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even if this boundary was porous, it was
there to put me on the inside and keep other people on the outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were more checks on the way in. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More surety of separation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">If there is
a secret to sleeping in an unfamiliar bed I am yet to learn it; too many hums
and buzzes, maybe too much adrenaline, maybe too few comforting rituals of
conversation and reading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But at least
it means I get to see Jakarta in the early morning light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A kind of pale mustard haze hangs over the
city, turning the windows of the tall buildings yellow bronze and the leaves of
the plant a seasick green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can feel
heat flowing in from the windows, and down below on a flat roof, banks of fans
spin to feed the building’s air conditioners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pigeons and parrots fly between the palm trees in the hotel garden and,
less peacefully, two large fighter jets fly in tight circles overhead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Down in the garden space a group of people
look up from their Tai Chi and watch the planes before they return to their morning
rituals of relaxation and energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I seek
out the kettle and tea bags for similar reasons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The view
from my window is dominated by a large tree and a larger building. The tree is
in a walled garden that formed the back of the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The building is on the other side of a major
road that runs hot with cars and mopeds. It is easy to see which of these would
be most pleasant to explore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The garden
around the tree seems to ring with a kind of deepened silence, a strange
silence that swallows and overwhelms the traffic noise that comes from over the
walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some fracturing of physics makes
the garden quieter than it should be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just as the razor wire on the walls and the guards at the gate make it
more distance from the geography of Indonesia than it should be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The strange silence locks me in, and the
walls keep others out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others who, in
all probability make their livings collecting plastic or chipping paint from
the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A single fallen flower rests
on the leaves of another plant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Statues
emerge from clipped and brushed flowerbeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Large golden fish cruise with tail flicks, slight but firm, through
clean looking water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the big tree a
Coppersmith Barbet calls and calls and calls; repetition like an unoiled
machine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am no pioneer or trail
blazer, but this all feels forced and inauthentic, like the rooms in museums
that claim to take you to the plains of Africa or the desert of Ancient Egypt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I take refuge in the forced necessity of
work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hide from the fact that I am
rich and well (over) fed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not survival
guilt, but it is the embarrassment of the luckily fortunate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I let the rest of the day slide, and wonder
what tomorrow will bring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilX4VgCYvLHN7Aei2pFoDbdpX_Bset7_R9Om5jtnFstu8weWzbxKFKCULPpb-jjPLLrTTVGMJ9EhwNvDnmseKJ_VX34AJIWrYSqmsgDpD41yv_V8_It-nE784LF6tlIX6xlAOWfiFUMpRO/s1600/Outside+the+Wall-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilX4VgCYvLHN7Aei2pFoDbdpX_Bset7_R9Om5jtnFstu8weWzbxKFKCULPpb-jjPLLrTTVGMJ9EhwNvDnmseKJ_VX34AJIWrYSqmsgDpD41yv_V8_It-nE784LF6tlIX6xlAOWfiFUMpRO/s640/Outside+the+Wall-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A phone
call at 4.30 am is normally bad news or a drunk’s mistake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On this morning it is neither.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A somewhat surprised voice from reception
tells me I have a visitor in reception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The voice at the end of the phone becomes even more surprised when I say
that I am expecting the visitor and that I will be down in a minute.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">No natural
light fills my room as I open the curtains and pick up my camera bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Down in the almost empty lobby the full glow
of largely unnecessary lighting makes daylight of the pre-dawn darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My guide awaits me, sitting in an ornate
armchair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Khaleb has a classic long
black pony-tail and wears the slightly battered air of the professional
wildlife guide – tidy enough, but not too tidy; clearly other things are more
important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We pass out through the hotel
gates and out into the main streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
traffic has changed from chaotic to the merely frenetic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s clear that Jakarta truly is a city that
never sleeps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I have no
sense of direction from inside the car, but later I find out that we head west
towards the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once we leave the heart
of the city, the world seems to become stiller and quieter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear a strange noise outside of the car,
and hearing it too, Khaleb asks for the car to pull over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stop outside a small school, the gates
still closed, the grounds empty. A short sharp call echoes around the
buildings, and the shape of a bird forms a silhouette on the roof;a dog barks
and the bird takes flight on long wings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The wings flap in a rapid and pause rhythm, and white patches flash on
the up strokes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know it’s a Nightjar,
but Khaleb adds the name ‘savanna’ to it – it’s the first new bird of the day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bird keeps flying and I keep
watching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in the end it’s time to
go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As we move
further from the city center the buildings become smaller, the roads narrower
and their surface rougher. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We skirt the
airport and a driver brakes hard to avoid a flock of chickens that occupy the
middle of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are small
fires burning outside many of the houses, and thin looking stray cats prowl
around the shadows’ edges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buffalo
wallow in deep mud and a haze of some sort pulls a veil over the sharpness of
the morning light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Water filled ditches
sport solid looking layers of plastic wastes and fractured boxes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are fewer mopeds and more bicycles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We near the coast, but the sea stays out of
view. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lady sits behind a bucket of
small silver and gold fish, offering a fresh breakfast. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask if this is a poor area – which I take to
be a stupid question – and find out that this is a holiday area, popular on the
weekends with families from Jakarta.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
consequences of this break over me like a wave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It makes no sense to me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a
wallet ripe with rupiah, camera binoculars – all trappings of wealth and
discretionary spending which at this time feels indiscrete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We pull the
car over, on a beach of black sand, where cats, with piano key ribs, fight in
the litter for scraps of food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two dogs
chase each other in and out of the surf, while a blue wooden boat cuts through
the same waves to land on the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flowerpeckers
call from the tops of the trees and a kingfisher, blue as the boat, flashes
over the littered ponds that sit behind the beach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8MGgcdEu6AzoTHf6FAaNz_OpbksjTifrRnQNaqxzoDNlw1zRZTUay2DN6hWXh6F1Q09Z2ZsENKWr-4JIR-dsyGXuXPh0SqPTvLpw5zeHovQrK0PYbmq6repoWkT6uMneotDxevGKYUFa/s1600/Outside+the+Wall-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8MGgcdEu6AzoTHf6FAaNz_OpbksjTifrRnQNaqxzoDNlw1zRZTUay2DN6hWXh6F1Q09Z2ZsENKWr-4JIR-dsyGXuXPh0SqPTvLpw5zeHovQrK0PYbmq6repoWkT6uMneotDxevGKYUFa/s640/Outside+the+Wall-2.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I learn to
my embarrassment that the blue boat is for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On the weekends it runs tourists out to the small islands that lie just
off the coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But today, it’s all
mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boat has four crew, one of
whom helps me climb along a bamboo ladder; rough wooden blocks nailed to a pole
that bends under my weight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With hand
gestures and a few short words Khaleb directs the boat to what looks like a row
of dark sticks, emerging from the water a few hundred meters off shore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The engine is noisy; the crew almost
silent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel a kind of guilt and a
kind of relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guilt, that I am so
distant from these people, that I have no words beyond a poor version of hello.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Relief that today, at least some money will
flow their way, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that my wallet will
lighten to the benefit of more than just bankers and laptop financial
wizards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In hindsight the relief is
probably a salve for my guilty conscience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjODlQkhn-KzhmXPCKKk8MWoD3-1mBTmHmUBwJFtgSiEGI3qLCpMspwqitqY-d_p8mzkVQg0FPYNiHJLMHEGD07ZRVevQU6wp7kwrnFNjQZzsoCjFmVQ-vwKXcqW9SnPuKrK5cZfPnQbqDv/s1600/Christmas+Island+Frigatebird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjODlQkhn-KzhmXPCKKk8MWoD3-1mBTmHmUBwJFtgSiEGI3qLCpMspwqitqY-d_p8mzkVQg0FPYNiHJLMHEGD07ZRVevQU6wp7kwrnFNjQZzsoCjFmVQ-vwKXcqW9SnPuKrK5cZfPnQbqDv/s640/Christmas+Island+Frigatebird.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As we move
away from the dark sandy shore the disc of the Sun finally fully breaks from
the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Above the boat the sky,
thickened with a mix of sea mist, cloud and petrol fumes hangs in yellow
sheets, below the water seems syrup thick and empty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fish traps make a case for at least some level
of abundance that I cannot see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other
fishing boats, not commandeered by rich birders tend the nets. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the crew on my blue boat opens a packet
of cigarettes and throws the clear wrapper, underhand and casual, into the
sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At other times, in other places, I
would have said something – but here, it feels wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wrapper scuds away over the surface of
the water, strangely visible in the morning half-light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the fish traps, nets, suspended by dozens
of wooden poles, hang like curtains in the water. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tidal waters flow through and the mesh filters
out the fish, small and silver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the
outer nets most of the poles are topped by Frigate Birds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Under the
watchful eye of Khaleb I start to tell Christmas Island from Lesser, Lesser
from Great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are very few other birds about, a few
cormorants, a scattering of terns and no gulls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I ask where the gulls are and, to my surprise, find out that they do not
occur here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No gulls by the sea?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another marker of ignorance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In a blue
boat, under a dawn yellow sky, on strange oil brown water, I feel
misplaced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can only share words with
Khaleb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turn back to the wonder of the
birds, back to nature on a wooden pole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All morning I feel watched, but not by the birds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When I
return to the shore the anonymity of the car feels like a relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buffalo wallow in the mud by the side of the
road; the lady selling the fish has packed up, leaving empty buckets on a
wooden trellis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMTPdzQc592p7xPcVwEiC31DEvigclthr_NH-O2joqAyiavalpv5KQUKL2sdvkRH_1Z9RHHKo8xMn3o0vId8DOUmusoz6oB9IRni4KqvQ1XrJwjYvTRUFCWaTXu9fuRGGDad_e9xMazChN/s1600/Jakarta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMTPdzQc592p7xPcVwEiC31DEvigclthr_NH-O2joqAyiavalpv5KQUKL2sdvkRH_1Z9RHHKo8xMn3o0vId8DOUmusoz6oB9IRni4KqvQ1XrJwjYvTRUFCWaTXu9fuRGGDad_e9xMazChN/s640/Jakarta.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The car
pulls to a halt by a bridge over of a thin looking river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A man points a gun at the surface of the
water, where fish swirl, feeding on crusts thrown by a small boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A woman, kneeling on concrete steps, washing
clothes; soak and squeeze, soak and squeeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Soapsuds flow away from her and under the bridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A man, deeper in the water brushes his
teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And just down from all of these a
pipe drips foul brown paste into the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Four uses; one problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">On the way
back into the city we stop to explore the park around the national
monument.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The car park is full and the threat
of rain has caused the stallholders and drink sellers to cover their carts in
plastic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The air is heavy with moisture
and fumes, the light still cut with a yellow tone that owes nothing to the Sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are Blue Nuthatches and Fulvous-Breasted
Woodpeckers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From holes in the trees
Coppersmith Barbets survey the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Green pigeons feast on fruit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
seem out of range of my camera.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">On the flat
ground between the trees people are sweeping the leaves away and organizing
their belongings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are not visiting
for pleasure, but setting up for the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I feel like I am walking through stranger’s front rooms, looking at the
pictures they have hung on their walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once more my wallet and camera feel heavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The traffic
in central Jakarta is back to its normal daylong peak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The air in the hotel lobby is cool and dry
and the atmosphere calm and relaxed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have entered a different world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Back in my
room, as I make a cup of tea, I find I am not thinking about the birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think of cats and fish, of the smell of
drains and people fishing with guns.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I drink my
tea and wonder if tomorrow I will be able to make a difference.</span></div>
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Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-18592839388781429322015-07-18T12:08:00.001+10:002015-07-18T12:08:40.855+10:00Stone <div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QJDvr6pYo9C5gf-D-GV_NcWv26-hjTim1wZkrEqAw7J8_k2X-Fss1hAf1DQfXFLVp33UNOIZA6WSnKmvCRav9FPUTKHwd0SmeVCiBJzcu5a9OvzM5o5o_bPwn2x7xvbQ5f4VzuIlAY1G/s1600/Before+and+after-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QJDvr6pYo9C5gf-D-GV_NcWv26-hjTim1wZkrEqAw7J8_k2X-Fss1hAf1DQfXFLVp33UNOIZA6WSnKmvCRav9FPUTKHwd0SmeVCiBJzcu5a9OvzM5o5o_bPwn2x7xvbQ5f4VzuIlAY1G/s640/Before+and+after-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Technically it may have not really been
snow; it was just rain thickened by cold and bolstered by ice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was January in Tasmania and by all common
measures it was summer – and yet there was still frozen water falling from the
sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind that brought the rain was
straight from the southern ocean, cold and heavy with water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It did not knock politely on the window of
the car, or the windows of the small wooden chalet, and request to come in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It found its own way in, through cracks and
worn seals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or failing to gain access it
rattled and banged at anything loose or frail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The car bounced a little on its springs as I wondered what to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was glad I had a hat and wished I had some
gloves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There were three other cars parked near me,
all of them were hire cars. I could see faces inside them, disappointed by the
turn of the weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two of them had
their engines running, presumably for the heating. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There were white horses on Dove Lake and
Cradle Mountain lensed into and out of waves of cloud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was not how it looked on the post cards
and tourist brochures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even in pictures when
the mountain was capped with snow the skies were bright blue and air crisp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today the air was thick with water and the
skies were grey. I could feel my hand cooling as I moved it closer to the car
window to wipe down the condensation. The scene outside the windows of my car
did not contain the mountain of my imagination.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ19zq0BzL_JBbgnyCwJ9cROkQ_yHch6qCJbvf420WkPIF4HFnHZhzeCn8rAk0KJHURoWjrB3q5lYLno10bOOZbSFxlpra41G_4uRlN_tNgTpL9JDPlZ5rcZ_7BSGMPYpK3jB4BvdLEJ7U/s1600/stone-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ19zq0BzL_JBbgnyCwJ9cROkQ_yHch6qCJbvf420WkPIF4HFnHZhzeCn8rAk0KJHURoWjrB3q5lYLno10bOOZbSFxlpra41G_4uRlN_tNgTpL9JDPlZ5rcZ_7BSGMPYpK3jB4BvdLEJ7U/s640/stone-7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">----<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was reading recently about the decline in
wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shift from emotional
reactions – intimate reactions maybe – to those that are based solely on
control and atomised understanding. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Walks and mountains, pathways and rivers are
named and classified in ways that ignore the wonder that is possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Two hours return, medium, with some steep
steps’ seems a more important aspect of a walk than what you can see on the way
and what you might find as you travel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The high point, the end point, of the walk often becomes the only point
and all else is just dull passage to that climax.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As I walk down hill from a high point I am
often asked by people walking in the opposite direction, “How far to go?” – and
I often find myself saying, “You’re about half way there”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But this is wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If you are half way through your journey to
the summit you are probably only a quarter of the way through the journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While the view from the summit may be the
goal of the walk, its primacy seems to rob the rest of the journey of
possibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is the return to the start
only really a from of resetting for the next ascent? Is there no value in the
downhill beyond the thoughts of ice cream / pies and cold / warm drinks? What
about the change of views, which if your walk is a there and back, you had your
back to on the first leg?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What about the
parts of the walk that were deep in shadow in the morning, but are now bathed
in sunlight? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And when we do reach the top what if the
view is obscured by clouds, or hidden by a passing rush of rain?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is there no magic to be found? Is there no
wonder to be seen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And does having a
camera in your hand help or hinder this process?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I know I want to take pictures that look a
little different to the ones on the tourist sites and glossy handouts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this just a quest for novelty, when all
around there is beauty to be seen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
then again, is it possible to see anything but novelty in such a brief visit,
and is the pursuit of anything more, just a vanity born of the desire to build
meaning where none really exists?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Few things are certain in the journeys we
take, but the fact that a view is worth the walk and both coffee and chocolate
taste better at the top of the hill are two things you can rely upon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">All else is speculation, no matter how well
signed the footpath is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">---------<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A strong gust of wind rocked the car and the
horns of Cradle Mountain slid out from behind a bank of cloud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I zipped my jacket as high as it would go,
opened the car door and stepped out into the wind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t the coldest wind I had ever felt,
but it was the coldest in a very long while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could feel the heat leaking out of my fingertips and bleeding away
from the ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stronger gusts of
wind rocked me on to my heels and when I walked with the wind at my back, the
effort of walking was less than the effort of staying upright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind whipped the bushes back and forth;
cloud rush, wave wash, the dash of fallen leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only the stones of the mountains were
still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A wooden bridge buzzed underfoot at the
collision of a stream swollen by overnight rain, and it felt like I was riding
some strange raft through an otherwise still world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed that the speed of my movement was
causing the blur of rush around me, rather than the other way around. The water
was flowing down hill, from high to low, and the air around me was doing the
same thing – from high to low down a pressure slope that was as invisible as
the cold it contained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would have
been easy to roll down both of these slopes and go in search of breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But I decided not to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I shivered and tried to make an image that
caught the movement and held the cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was not entirely successful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My finger
sausaged into inflexibility and I thought about the people who were up on the
high plains behind Cradle Mountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With
the best will in the world, they were probably cold and perplexed about their
choice of recreation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_uU0-7hyBsVt4gOMnhurt9Sw3QI2Ol59X-1KRCxZVYCxPviL6vHp10ximVvD4VT1_wTh6yKIXLCOZgqVxgOWxvba3l4bxBIoNLH2K4D5zqFvUi87jpj6PkW0PdwMIVm_-0NWQ-VB7M0B/s1600/stone-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_uU0-7hyBsVt4gOMnhurt9Sw3QI2Ol59X-1KRCxZVYCxPviL6vHp10ximVvD4VT1_wTh6yKIXLCOZgqVxgOWxvba3l4bxBIoNLH2K4D5zqFvUi87jpj6PkW0PdwMIVm_-0NWQ-VB7M0B/s640/stone-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Beyond the bridge a patch of low bushes and
thick grass lessened the sting of the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A wallaby sat in the middle of this patch resolutely chewing on the thick
grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its fur, dull and grey on the
back, but a pale rusty red around the neck, was still dappled with overnight
rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its whole body contorted and shook
rapidly, like a dog emerging from the sea, and a shower of old rain flew from
its damp fur.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The movement reminded me
of the uncontrolled muscular spasm that comes with sudden cold or an unwelcome
surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The now much stiller wallaby
turned its head towards me, continued to chew its grass and seemed to be asking
what the hell I was doing there, when I had the option to be elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond
the shelter of the bushes the wind regained its bite – but the view up the lake
began to open up and I could see, even if my eyes were watering a little, that
there was still beauty to be found.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At the aptly named Glacier Rock I opened a
gate (whose presence had surprised me) and walked up to the top of a prominent
stone headland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose the gate was
intended to prevent the small and the unshepherded from falling off the far
edge of the rock into uncertainty, but on this day such an accident would have
had to overcome a near gale force wind blowing people back on to the safety of
land. I sat down to take some photographs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was not really an act of artistic composition, more an act of
necessity to stop me from being blown over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But from the viewpoint of grounded
stability I could see that there was a beauty in this landscape that was
present in spite of the cold – or maybe, given the strength of the wind,
because of the cold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As the clouds were pushed across the sky,
patches of changing light would fall and travel over the landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dark light from behind clouds heavy with rain
and the threat of snow, pale light from the thinness between the them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And finally, coloured light as the sunlight
caught the droplets of falling rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
a huge or bright rainbow, but a rainbow none the less, with its earthbound arch
sitting just above an iconic boatshed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It must have lasted for less than 10 seconds, before it was blown away
by the passing of more clouds, but it changed the landscape for the
better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQBVagesFj4JtFdArDIXjBfBu8I_KAIpFsdKt5Vcp5CzGFo2giJxVFFLf2Jl9_KGFWi-tLbqmz3xYX3djkzitz8xn8xBdc3-moDf62LkHHBQpTgxTpAcM4ZB2eg9Z44_gZiQHyf3wxfB7/s1600/Just+a+hint+of+a+rainbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQBVagesFj4JtFdArDIXjBfBu8I_KAIpFsdKt5Vcp5CzGFo2giJxVFFLf2Jl9_KGFWi-tLbqmz3xYX3djkzitz8xn8xBdc3-moDf62LkHHBQpTgxTpAcM4ZB2eg9Z44_gZiQHyf3wxfB7/s640/Just+a+hint+of+a+rainbow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Understandably, there was no mention of the
possibility of rainbows on the sign that said the walk to Glacier Rock would
take about 10 minutes over easy ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But such things show that there may be little correlation between wonder
and effort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Back at the car park the same three cars
were still there, the same two still had their engines running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder if they were waiting for the weather
to improve or the light to become ‘good’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wondered if they had seen the rainbow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wondered if they thought that a 10-minute
walk was not worth the effort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I still wonder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_NegXtNEy5a8Q-7gJtJs1eiwt958I_I36b9yltUNstjpKqdP7w0pN1vd9KgaJ0N8gOpLXWTwaZT76IlyHiuhUWVsSEt3JNmHpkyOZp3RthHIh1pCTsg_DkPhJqpRAyS1tayjEFO2uz5Sd/s1600/stone-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_NegXtNEy5a8Q-7gJtJs1eiwt958I_I36b9yltUNstjpKqdP7w0pN1vd9KgaJ0N8gOpLXWTwaZT76IlyHiuhUWVsSEt3JNmHpkyOZp3RthHIh1pCTsg_DkPhJqpRAyS1tayjEFO2uz5Sd/s640/stone-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">---------<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We had to circle the car park at least
twice, maybe more, before we found a place to leave the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A series of walks radiated away from the
parking bays, some towards the beach, some towards the hills that ran down to
the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People were standing behind
the open boots of sedans and the sloping doors of SUVs and hatchbacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Parents were slathering their children with
sunblock and wondering where the kids had left their hats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boot laces were being retied and adjusted and
sandwiches placed in bags with the kind of care normally reserved for glass
Christmas decorations or your mother’s feelings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We were in the car park below the high
points of the Freycinet National Park, a honey pot indeed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One of the walks that starts and ends at
this car park takes you to top of Mount Amos, the highest knuckle of the
clenched fist row of hills that overlook Coles Bay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By any absolute measure this is not a high
mountain; in fact it may not be a mountain at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what it does possess is a view from the
top that is almost unrivalled in the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But this goes unmentioned in the signs that point away from the car
park.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There are, instead, warnings of slippery
paths, steep slopes and a suggestion that the walk should not attempted if it
has rained recently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth of the
matter is that the walk is in Tasmania, and a prohibition on walking after
recent rain is tantamount to permanent closure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The necessity to point out the need to take a little bit of care on this
path says far more about the disconnection that most people have from the world
than the rigours of the walk itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5wEA_qvANiB2JP3w3ZBOARiCcW-tNdPyDRO3g2shs5Z7IWFuI9ejWY7ZD4yGcr4V1A-524rtb97paIZhsY90WeigzLP8lUHZi0xHONztjnXgPXQ8bo2Ijm0jUQZPTHV_NqY9wE1QQxek/s1600/stone-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5wEA_qvANiB2JP3w3ZBOARiCcW-tNdPyDRO3g2shs5Z7IWFuI9ejWY7ZD4yGcr4V1A-524rtb97paIZhsY90WeigzLP8lUHZi0xHONztjnXgPXQ8bo2Ijm0jUQZPTHV_NqY9wE1QQxek/s640/stone-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Yes, there are steep sections and yes there
were sections that were slippery underfoot – but this is only to be expected on
a climb (walk really) to the top of an impressive looking hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I must admit that the sign at the
bottom of the walk that seems to promise near death experiences, did make for a
good family photograph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the
picture, suitably shod in sensible shoes and boots, we started the walk in the
company of families wearing ballet flats, crocs and Mickey Mouse themed rubber
boots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere between the over zealous warnings
and the seemingly under prepared walkers, there has to be a happy medium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be nice to think that that middle
way is the path I choose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The walk soon starts to pull up hill and my
legs start to pull down hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too many late
nights in the company of fine Australian reds or a peat smoke and winter rain
malts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>P skips ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>H, as befits his age, moves with alternating
bursts of energy and pre-teenage lethargy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the path is more or less fixed, a journey over a crumpled Cartesian
plane where all movement is a variation on or combination of just four directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We reach the top without ever leaving the
surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ground rises with us; we do
not rise above it, altitude being of no consequence here as we remain at ground
level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only at the very top do we gain a
greater feeling of depth in the landscape – with both a journey above and
below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The land sinks away to reveal
Wineglass Bay, and the sky opens above towards whatever mysteries and
imaginings rest beyond the edge of space.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnsGsAFRv0Xx-1ti8iSkTn-Tu-FGZ-NhSUi-JYQtpAsHD7YRAcjJ8s22kSauRQG2o_K4ZFJP49-8w4pHiXm3-8N7V1JOW659CyXT_inJWRjNyHCOUak6CVfqCz1MAzn5gkLrp3PV-TQsE1/s1600/stone-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnsGsAFRv0Xx-1ti8iSkTn-Tu-FGZ-NhSUi-JYQtpAsHD7YRAcjJ8s22kSauRQG2o_K4ZFJP49-8w4pHiXm3-8N7V1JOW659CyXT_inJWRjNyHCOUak6CVfqCz1MAzn5gkLrp3PV-TQsE1/s640/stone-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sandwiches and apples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chocolate. Water, still cool from the morning
tap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People come and go, but we seem to
linger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a summit worthy of
lingering on, possessing a view diminished by an undue haste to leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A walk to a pause.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And a walk to a downhill return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both are as important as the walk to the
top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stone of the mountain does not
change under the pressure of one person’s feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Each individual passage goes unnoticed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the things that you see, and the things that you find may have
greater impact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Such things are not written on signs or printed
in walk guides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know why, but I
wonder why not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVIpoUhUkqAiw7kguy2QZaRB8DxBKJXMaB6Znj0RdvqQmrNhtiGqo8whiRfwyaojPOt-uZfpjQAtbZyV3jtXcnOzu7ZT1TH8iENaDNbr_G3EyfVyGXb0W-R5z5ctNWLCvNBLeF9N2Xc8E/s1600/stone-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVIpoUhUkqAiw7kguy2QZaRB8DxBKJXMaB6Znj0RdvqQmrNhtiGqo8whiRfwyaojPOt-uZfpjQAtbZyV3jtXcnOzu7ZT1TH8iENaDNbr_G3EyfVyGXb0W-R5z5ctNWLCvNBLeF9N2Xc8E/s640/stone-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-971195546892757282015-05-29T13:08:00.002+10:002015-05-29T13:08:48.521+10:00Sympathy for the Devils<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJ30J1b87YULErz46bWG9vSAk363W4YSH69cQ5PPRtAn3orSshaBYD5Q5NSaTPoJel12mhgwNtS33la8rhNsq8ZdU1x8wibl6bqIUR4JXNcTdib-sJHQitZ0qD4yMsmuxpzbYyKKTHJse/s1600/Sympathy+for+the+Devils.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJ30J1b87YULErz46bWG9vSAk363W4YSH69cQ5PPRtAn3orSshaBYD5Q5NSaTPoJel12mhgwNtS33la8rhNsq8ZdU1x8wibl6bqIUR4JXNcTdib-sJHQitZ0qD4yMsmuxpzbYyKKTHJse/s640/Sympathy+for+the+Devils.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="EN-GB">Even when reduced to a mass consumption,
school dinner, kind of experience, travelling by boat should still have a deal
of romance attached to it; maybe even a taste of adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The search for the room and the fist thump
checking of bunks and pillows should add rather than subtract. The view from
the window, rounded at the edges but not really a porthole, should be far more
interesting than the view from a car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There should be places to explore and things to discover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There should be deck quoits and leisurely
strolls before retiring to a cabin for drinks and nibbles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Reality bites as I brush the rice off my
chair to sit and eat my one price, all you can eat dinner. Fear of a rough crossing
and the prospect of becoming reacquainted with my food at a later date takes
the edge of my appetite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people
clearly do not suffer from such apprehension and feel the need to make the most
of the one plate offer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The boat kicks up clouds of mud and silt
from the floor of the bay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Silver gulls
haunt the turbid water, looking for food, fighting for air space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Small shudders pass though the whole boat as
we start to move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The combination of
sensations makes the boat feel like a slightly unstable shopping centre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much as I hate to say it, the whole thing is
vaguely unpleasant and I am pleased to get back to the cabin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We select bunks and I turn in for the night
early.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s clear I need a holiday; something to
sluice away the end of year deadline stress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Something to press the reset button.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sleep fitfully, as if the anticipation of
relaxation is causing stress itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the morning, I can see Tasmania sliding
past the window – the town of Devonport on the Mersey, a kind of mixed metaphor
of colonial history and memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The near
passes quickly, the distant more slowly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My brain suffers from a kind of parallax as well, like it’s running at
two speeds; I can’t put down work yet, even though I want to pick up the
holiday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My head hurts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m pleased to have arrived in Tasmania, and
even more pleased that Sal says she will drive. Under an opening blue sky we
head west. My head is fogged in a way that the view is not; I close my
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly the fog lifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly I unwind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly the holiday clock takes over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a relief. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span lang="EN-GB">Tasmanian Native Hens feed by the side of
the road, running through the vegetation with comic strip energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even my foggy brain can see the humour and
value in these birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Wedge-tailed
Eagle floats over the road, looking for food less active than the Native
Hens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Tasmania such road kill is
never far away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By 10 am we are almost
five hours past breakfast and in need of fuel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The adults select coffee, the kids, biscuits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither helps the five (or is it nine) serves
of veggies a day count.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frankly, I don’t
give a damn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">We are still on the north coast of
Tasmania, the coast that faces the mainland of Australia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are yet to turn south to meet the west
coast, with the cleanest air in the world and views that show the curve of the
Earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Tasmania sits below the southeast corner of
the Australia, hanging like a little goatee beard from a hipster chin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s island off an island status makes it
different from the rest of Australia; making it feel more isolated than its
continental cousin. Bass Strait, windy, storm driven and studded with dozens of
islands, separates Tasmania from the mainland and allows it to exist in ways
that are different from the mainland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Tasmania has a different scale to the rest of Australia – smaller
distances, smaller towns and a landscape that creates grandeur from detail,
rather than intimacy from isolation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These are not bad things. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
bends in the roads and the happenstance discovery of isolated pubs, give the
place a feeling of England, yet the shapes of the trees, the colour of the
leaves and the animals on the sides of the road are resolutely Australian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a place to summon unexpected memories,
misplaced but powerful, as well as a place that presents the new at each corner
twist; a powerful combination of the seemingly familiar and the plainly
new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">As we move further into the day and further
from our drop off point the sights on the side of the road change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Native Hens seem to disappear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The grass becomes longer and the road kill
fresher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disappointingly this is how we
see our first Tasmanian Devil. Heavy set at one end, with sharp pressure point
teeth at the other. A black body, the size of a large cat or a small dog, with
white patches, bloodied in death, curled by the side of the road. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This may just be the loss of one individual,
but it is a loss none the less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all
the greenery, for all the soft and welcoming looking places hidden behind hills
and in the watery necks of valleys Tasmania has become a graveyard, rather than
a sanctuary for the Devils.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">As we drive on I hope it’s not the only one
we see.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Forests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Grass plains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Edges and distant
views unbroken; but also damaged land, hollowed by mining and cut by saw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Open coops, caught with tree stumps and
sometimes piled with the unwanted brash of harvest. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uniform replanting, blue gums maybe, fenced
and restrained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually we step off
the made road and on to the less certain surface of gravel and stones.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The road is pale and crystal rich, made
from the spoil of a local mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
crystals sparkle in the sunlight, dampened by the slight rain that fell before
the Sun came out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stones rattle-tick
onto the wheel arches of the car, and the voice of the tyres changes from the
dull roar of the tarmac to a less predictable, scatter chat, tune.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Small washouts and potholes rattle the car
and bounce the view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The change feels
like a passage to somewhere a little more wild. It feels like you have stepped
off the map of the everyday and into a world of greater possibility and
surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may be an overstatement,
but as we leave the tarmac it feels like the holiday has begun, and all that
went before was just travel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">We head west and south.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the evidence to the contrary it feels
like we are going downhill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We head
towards the sea, but you wont not have known it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The road stays unmade, rough and loose enough
to be thankful that the engine pushes all four wheels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such a reaction may be more a product of
clever advertising than real need, but the rattle snick-snack of gravel on the
car plays on my mind and I am glad of our consumer choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually the road enters woodland, close
grown and damp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some say tigers still
live here – striped, pouched and thick tailed, hiding in the darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My head reaches a different conclusion to
their presence than my heart, but both know we are about to enter the realm of
the Devil.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Even though it’s broad daylight – in a
cloudy sort of way – I keep expecting things to bounce out of the bushes by the
side of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few parrots and
smaller birds, like wind blown leaves, rush across the road, but little else
distracts from the task in hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We head
down hill, past roughly cut road signs and over clatter loose wood plank
bridges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sign, half clothed in moss
and fallen twigs promises we only have 200m to go; and it does not lie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The small village of Corinna – although
that’s not the correct word, but none seems to exist – appears suddenly around
a corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trees step back from the
road to create a small open space, and a single and long abandoned petrol pump
acts as a town marker post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Low slung
buildings, mainly wood with tin roofs and soft red brick chimneys pop from the
grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An old pushbike leans against a
fence, and two fishing rods lean on the bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The road ends at the Pieman River, where a ferry waits for onward
travellers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Corinna probably still
exists because of the ferry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bridge
over the Pieman would encourage you to keep moving, to push on towards the
south-western wilderness, but now there is a reason to stop and stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The river still acts as a temporary barrier,
less formidable than in the past, but a reason to stop none the less. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A man, who from his voice I know to be
Scottish and a lady, who I take to be French, meets us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their status as a couple remains a point of
contention for the length of our stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We are pointed in the direction of our small house with the kind of
relaxed efficiency that acknowledges that five minutes really does not matter
in the scale of a whole day.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">A notice outside the front door warns us
not to leave our boots outside over night, lest they be eaten by the
Devils.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A note by the back door could
have alerted us to the minefield of wallaby droppings beyond and the presence
of sun-worshiping snakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such
information suits my way of thinking far better than the reams of paper
advertising pizza and burgers that you find in the more sterile places of the
world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Devils to the front, snakes to
the rear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Splendid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Corinna only survives because people stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once it was a mining and logging town,
extracting the bones and flesh of the region that is now called The
Tarkine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today the people who stop
probably look for other natural wonders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The Pieman River acts as both a destination
and barrier, and because we stop it becomes the focus of the next few
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we had been able to pass over
the river with little more that a short period of increased caution, we would
have tried to spread our attention far and wide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as it is, we stay put, and use the river
as both an attraction and a conduit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With steep banks coated in tall trees the river gains protection from
most winds, so it lies flat and undisturbed, and shelter can always be found if
the wind does catch the surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">It’s clear that the rain is not far away,
but the morning seems to offer some promise; the afternoon forecast makes me
wish I had an open fire before which I could toast my toes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The scrape of plastic canoes over gravel
sets my teeth on edge – although it’s markedly better than the sound of
aluminium Grummans (oh, the memories!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With the dynamic design of a cheap bathtub, these canoes are wonderfully
stable; the idea family boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We head
down stream, towards the distant sea, a convoy of two – a boy’s boat and a girl’s
boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slight twists of vapour rise from
the water in the chill of the morning air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ducks take flight in fright at the bright coloured boats and the far
carrying voices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">It’s been a while since I paddled a
canoe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon I feel the familiar
discomfort of kneeling with just the edge of the seat providing support.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plant the blade, pull back straight and let
your top hand drop. Twist your fist out and down to turn the blade and the push
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ABC of a J stoke comes back;
surprisingly fluid and smooth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boat moves
forward in a series of regular shallow curves, pushed one way, pulled back the
other by the movement of the blade in the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Straight lines in a canoe seem largely
mythical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little whirlpools of
turbulence form behind the boat – making it seem like the boat is still and the
water moving; only the shifting perspective of the trees clearly shows that we
are making progress.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The water is glassy still and its perfect
surface makes the tiny showers of rain that defy the forecast look more serious
than they really are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Paddle bubbles, formed
by over eager blade strokes, mix with others that rush to the surface from the
deep water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s tempting to think of
fish or the clumsy legs of giant crayfish – but chances are it's just
decomposition and swirling waters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
the fish fantasy is much more enjoyable.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">After a while The Pieman is joined by The
Savage River, and we head up the tributary to look for the wreck of the SS
Croydon; Australia’s largest freshwater wreck – a claim to fame that smacks of
desperation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sank on the 10<sup>th</sup>
of May 1919, a popped hull plate thought to be the cause.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The best part of 100 years has left little
above the surface, but below the tea coloured water you can still see wooden
boards, handrails and open hatches, all furred with silt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A quick sweep of a paddle blade lifts clouds from
the boards and metal, the dead boat rising in the water like a ghost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine the flanks of silver fish brushing
through the sunken boat, the slow rot of wood and rust of steel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A kingfisher flashes down the river, a strike
of electric blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A heron, all stillness
and patience, stands by the water’s edge, awaiting the chance to strike in a
different way. From the low water vantage of a canoe, the world comes to meet
you.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The next day, under gun metal skies, we
tour down the river in a veteran old lady of a boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Built from a fine, honey coloured timber
called Huon Pine, the Arcadia II was build in 1939 and has had a variety of
jobs – today she carries tourists up and down the Pieman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was something reassuring about the
clear and obvious craftsmanship that had gone into this boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While the world sat at the edge of war,
somebody took the care to shape and mould wood so that the handrails on the
steps fitted perfectly into the palm of your hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the mouth of the Pieman was a small
settlement, reachable by land only by a long and rough track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of the vehicles that had made that
journey were sitting in various states of decay around the small houses – some
would say shacks – that were half hidden by the remaining vegetation. The
buildings were often painted in bright colours, blue being very popular, and
were almost universally adorned with found objects and home made signs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only one building seemed to have a resident –
a man, maybe in his 60s, maybe much younger, but just weather beaten, sitting
on a rough wooden bench with large cup of tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He did not return my greeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
suspect that if I had waited long enough I would have heard people playing
banjos. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The beach that overlooked the ocean was
paved in sections by greyed, river washed tree trunks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some looked to have escaped from the grasp of
loggers, with square cut bases still bearing the mark of saw and axe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most were twisted and broken back to a
semblance of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All have been
delivered to the beach but the force of the Pieman and the downhill pull of
flooding water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a place where the
illusion of wilderness was strong – although the presence of beach weeds and
recently abandoned fire sites said otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some wild, but tiny, creature managed to bite me in a dozen or so places
through the legs of my trousers; the bites raised to little red wheals that
itched beyond the measure of their size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the end, only long sea swims, or a pre-dinner whiskey could dull the
irritation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Beyond the beach edge there was nothing and
everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Far enough south to skip the
tip of Africa so they say and then collide with South America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe half a world in a single view, and
maybe a place where you could see the curve of the Earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Crows Nests of coming ships growing into
view before the solid and walked decks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A place to take in the sea air, longer over water than anywhere else on
this watery planet so misnamed as ‘Earth’. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A place to wonder at the wildness that existed
here before rubber boots grew on trees, before the sound of boat motors came
loud on the wind and the before the click of camera shutters became a proxy for
memory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the far bank of the river, high in the
trees, two pale patches resolve into White-bellied sea eagles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My thoughts on the return journey are full of
wildness and wilderness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Full of the
fitful movement of wind blown plants and the slow accumulation of sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That night I dream of an open ocean and a
deepening sea. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimY4DIhwHDBRD481AAU5VOBNTe_CBauJVxejbYW7EhMwoJv0PLAbAb2wOSUa3svsNmKLFU0QqREy5cYc5W8FhfU4VJU1r9Tph3WLuyw-R8s__P8RYD-4zKDKHyeJkI0afapN1epISdDvYT/s1600/Sympathy+for+the+Devils-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimY4DIhwHDBRD481AAU5VOBNTe_CBauJVxejbYW7EhMwoJv0PLAbAb2wOSUa3svsNmKLFU0QqREy5cYc5W8FhfU4VJU1r9Tph3WLuyw-R8s__P8RYD-4zKDKHyeJkI0afapN1epISdDvYT/s640/Sympathy+for+the+Devils-12.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We had hoped to see platypus in the Whyte
River, a tributary of the Pieman, but we were becoming concerned that in a
while we would not be able to see the path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A slowness of travel, or a miscalculation of distance, meant that we
were deep into dusk when the lights of Corinna started to show through the
trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was something of a relief.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The hub of Corinna is the bar, restaurant
and shop that sits just before the road ends and becomes a river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A veranda wraps around two sides of the
building, both with views towards the river, making this a great place to plan
for tomorrow and an even better one for a beer at the end of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally we got to play a few games of quoits,
and the evenings were punctuated by the tick tock of table tennis games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Father and son games, where I now have to
concentrate like never before, as day-by-day H’s head slow creeps past my
shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I return a shot, I notice
movement in the darkness of the car park below.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A patch of darker darkness detaches itself
from the shadows and moves with a rolling gait into the slight light of the
open spaces in front of the ferry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Devil” I call, maybe a little too loud,
dropping the bat as H returns the ball (he claimed the point).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are few places in the world where you
can see Devils and not be in the grip of some form of religious fever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dark shape freezes in the middle of the
car park and seems to be waiting. I raise my camera, more in hope than
anticipation, and hear the focus hunting back and forth, searching for some
form of certainty to lock on to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All it
finds is darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I take a shot anyway.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSfoEjVPDV3eFTjr8NlsKeIQgqKx8DolROb5qoYrY8Ly45BD35WY85Nlh7ptTsJsTBGJBwUAybAROxgbkgKAqyeTqNJagAPkZjC_njQtc9gFo1NhhMXiNsvnNIYrNQrpJ72MoIVsGJYZMV/s1600/Sympathy+for+the+Devils-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSfoEjVPDV3eFTjr8NlsKeIQgqKx8DolROb5qoYrY8Ly45BD35WY85Nlh7ptTsJsTBGJBwUAybAROxgbkgKAqyeTqNJagAPkZjC_njQtc9gFo1NhhMXiNsvnNIYrNQrpJ72MoIVsGJYZMV/s640/Sympathy+for+the+Devils-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The devil, which by its size is a young one,
moves on through the car park, skilfully avoiding the few pools of light that
may have given me some hope of focus, and pauses to sniff the night air. There
is no question that it knows I am there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even if my scent was masked by wood smoke and cooking smells, I know
that I am being observed in the downstream air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The devil enters the dark shadows of the scrubby woodland and
disappears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems to merge into the
darkness rather than leave it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like
a state change, where it went from one form of hidden to another one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you see things like this, it’s not hard
to imagine where tales of shape-shifters and magical animals originate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And across much of this island state a
similar, but far more profound kind of shift is robbing the Tasmanian wild of
its last large carnivore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A facial
cancer, fatal and specific, has spread through the population of Devils like
wildfire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strange in its passage, and
unknown in its origin, it has reduced the Devils to near extinction in many
places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only on the West coast do they
remain even common.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what is
saddening is that we don’t really know if this is due to isolation or due to
some difference in these Western devils that keeps them safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it is just isolation, every day brings a
real threat that whatever barrier keeps the cancer at bay will be breached and
this last stronghold will also fall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now, any of you who have had the misfortune
to deal with cancer may be cocking an inquisitive eyebrow here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How does a cancer spread like this, from
population to population?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s not how
it normally happens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this cancer is
not like most others – it spreads by contact between the Devils.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When a Devil with a tumour bites another,
there is a chance that some of the tumour cells will be transferred to the
healthy one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once in the healthy Devil,
the cancer cells can begin to grow, to gestate like some parasite, until the
tumours that form around the Devils face prevent it from feeding and it starves
to death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even this is not the end of
the strange story of this cancer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The immune system of animals is exquisitely
tuned to the chemical markers of their own cells – the markers of self.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The immune system can detect which cells are
its own, and which are foreign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, if
the cancer cells truly were a parasite, the immune system of the Devils would
detect them and attack them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But by some
other chance of history and genetics Devils posses very little variety in these
chemical markers of self. So, the cancer cells go unchallenged as they are
passed from Devil to Devil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The immune
system is blind to the threat, only finding cells it sees as self; cells that
would normally be safe, cells that are meant to be there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cells that won’t kill them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If this cancer takes the Devils and drives
them to the same fate as the Dodo and Passenger Pigeon, then the wilds of
Tasmania will have lost something unique and special.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the cancer means that Devils can only
survive in zoos and sanctuaries, then they will be diminished and so will we.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As I look into the sundered darkness where
a Devil once stood, I hope they will remain and persist in the wild. But knowing
where our priorities lie it’s not easy to be hopeful, and it’s not hard to have
sympathy for the Devils. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-244689488678601452015-04-11T15:47:00.000+10:002015-04-11T15:47:07.231+10:00I was not born here*<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was not born here.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But I choose to live here.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I am, like all but a few, a transplant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An alien come lately to this land.
Transported by choice and chance from one end of the world to another, arriving
partially formed and full of brave ideas about shape and space and the turning
of the world and the place of the seasons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But most of what I knew when I arrived turned
out to be wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the knowledge I
had gathered had to be unlearned and reshaped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">When I work in my garden, in summer dust or winter
damp, the plants that look old and sick or tired often have pot-bound
roots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tight packed roots that go round
and round within the boundaries of a long gone pot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roots shackled to a ghost. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Old formed, shaped elsewhere, rejecting the call
of new soil, rejecting the chance of novelty and change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are roots that cling to the past, never
making a connection with the world, the soil, in which they now grow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the roots of plants that will never
thrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the roots of a plant that
will often die before its time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The roots I brought with me to Australia had
first grown in the soil of Somerset; damp soil, mild soil, soil that flooded in
winter and rarely dried in summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
roots expanded north where, baffled by soils poisoned by the hand of industry,
they grew sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good luck transplanted
them into the stony, but fertile ground of the Lake District, where more good
luck started my journey to Australia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Roots grow used to their own soil, and take
time to react.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are not fast paced like
leaves that can blow in the wind and take on new patterns and ways of
growing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaves react to surface changes
– the rules of sports, the sizes of drinks at the bar and the name of clothes
you wear to swim – changes that can be swept away with just the stroke of a pen
or the turn of a celebrity’s phrase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roots
live at a different pace, in a deeper place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Roots respond to the slower reality of place and time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They respond to older rhythms, and, in the
form of their growth, they hold a history of where they stand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The pace of modern life encourages us to
grow leaves, but we would be better off tending to the growth of our roots.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Roots need feeding and gain much from the
sugar of daily leaf life – but their domain is that of soil, of water and of space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
give myself some understanding of the place I now was, I went in search of
those same three things.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">First<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I have been in Australia for less than two
weeks, mainly in Melbourne, head spinning and my roots looking backwards into
the security of the past, when I first visit Wilson’s Promontory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are headlights in the rear view mirror
and darkness on the sides of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
do not really know where I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no
sense of where I am going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>North and
South seem reversed, east and west a mystery. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are bright and mobile eyes shining in
the grass and two watchful pairs glittering from a roadside tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">We pull the car over to look; a koala and
fur-clinging baby are wrapped around a twiggy thin trunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is an unlooked for novelty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If ever there was a moment when I step
through the back of the wardrobe and know that I have entered a new land, this
is it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can feel both the uncertainty
and the excitement of the new and (for me) the unknown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New places are shaping around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drive on into the darkness, knowing that
behind me the door has closed on the possibility of unknowing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">There are more eyes in the darkness, more
reasons to stop, but in the end the pressure of arrival overwhelms the instinct
for investigation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drive on in leaf
edged darkness with the brightness of road signs and white lines for guidance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Any arrival at night keeps things
hidden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only a wobbling circle of torch
glow shows the way; only the brightened end of the tent gives up its
secrets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Starlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moonlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Waves crash, solid and distant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I sleep that first night, sounds and smells start to soak into the
soil around my roots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The loft of the
sleeping bag feels warm and familiar; a kind of home, but all else is new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dawn reveals the detail that the night had
hidden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A passing burrow-bound Wombat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The laughing call of a Kookaburra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The startling brightness of Rosellas, waiting
with a well practised eye and a persuasive tilt of the head. A tangled bank of
new diversity now surrounds the tent, last pitched on the open fells of the
English Lakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The morning coffee tastes
the same, but little else does. There is novelty at every turn. I have that kid
in a toyshop feeling of excitement, where everything is new and desirable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pack my bag with far too much gear, still loaded
with the possibility of unforeseen rain or unseasonal frost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My seasons have not adjusted, my expectations
have not adapted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I carry the burden of
unknowing into a summer morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the
end of the day my shoulders feel a pressure caused by that lack of
knowledge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But every dusty step and
every rucksack creak brings a small grain of knowledge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when that knowledge reaches my roots they
begin to change shape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Black shapes in the treetops follow us at a
safe, but inquisitive, distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
other places or other times this may be unsettling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A murder or an unkindness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worse still, a parliament.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this is something far more welcome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With calls like tin whistles and children’s toys,
a group of Yellow Tailed Black Cockatoos seem to be shadowing our passage
through the bush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wonderfully large and impossibly
exotic to eyes raised on eave-stuck sparrows, I cannot help but stand and
watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s impossible not to see human
characteristics in such birds, and it’s perfectly clear how myths and legends
could be built around them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Trees push branches over the paths, casting
welcome shade and softening the sharp edges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The views are concealed by a cloth of blue grey leaves, most noises are
covered by the warm hum of insects and all but the strongest smells are masked
by the vapour of oils leaking from the hot leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a smell of childhood winters, of oils
dripped on pillows or pyjamas, to push back the congestion of winter
colds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are memories from dozens of
years and thousands of miles away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The taproot,
around which change will come, still runs deep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I spend my first Australian camping night at
Refuge Cove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither that remote or that
unusual, it is, none the less, remarkably different from that English fell side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sleep does not come easily as I listen to new
noises and imagine their source.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
is nothing to be afraid of, but there is much to wonder about, and my brain
buzzes at a rate that precludes sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wake the next morning with a dry mouth and a sore right shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tea fixes one and stretching does little for
the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nobody else seems to be awake
as I walk down towards the arc of beach inside the headlands that form the
refuge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Silver gulls sit on the golden
yellow sand, and waves, slight in the early brightling sun, wash up the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My tea is warm but overdrawn, bitter, but
necessary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have never woken in a place
like this before, but I know that it will not be the last time that I do.
Something grows, some connection forms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">From that moment onwards, from that first
morning tea, I will never feel strange calling this place The Prom rather than
by its full name. I have gained a degree of familiarity; we are on first name
terms. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later that morning I leave Refuge
and pass back through Sealer’s, places with abbreviated names, places named in
the same way I named fishing spots and pubs many years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Places that you thought you knew, places
where you knew you could slow down, stand still and grow roots.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Winter<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">If you go in the summer you see one side of
the Prom; if you go in the winter another one is likely to come looking for
you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Summer is all crowded tents and bikes lent
into bushes or left flat on grassy banks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Summer is all teenage romances and the heartbreak of the end of two
weeks at Tidal River.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s an outdoor
cinema, queues at the bathroom blocks and the near constant smell of barbeques.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Winter is empty, with single figures in the
distance, scarf wrapped and gloved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Winter is the company of Sooty Oystercatchers and Hooded Plovers on the
beach. On most days you are glad of a coat and grateful for a hat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">In winter, the wind and rain pluck at door
edges, coat cuffs and zip lines. On winter days the winds are from Antarctica
and the rain is heavy and always cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
it is the time between the rains that makes the difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In winter the air is crystal brittle clear,
the views go on forever. Rain may rattle at the windows, but it washes away the
grit and dust of summer to leave the air as clean as anywhere on Earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each breath, each lung full a tonic for the
hazy days of summers and weeks in a lifeless chill-filtered office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the headlands, even on the beach, it may
be easier to sit than to stand, but it is always easy to breathe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if the rain does not stop, what of
it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The technology that took us to the
Moon also gave us waterproofs and warm clothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The empty paths are calling, and the short
days of winter bring out the animals.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Wombats by the side of the path, a chunky
animal that leaves a remarkable cubic calling card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kangaroos and wallabies, fleet on their large
feet, still flee from disturbance, but pull up much quicker than in
summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With paused, over the shoulder glances
they hold their ground and wait for the fright to pass. Emus stride around,
often in loose groups, peck, peck, pecking at the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without the constant background noise of
summer visitors to drive them away animals appear in a way that gives a hint of
possible past abundance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every winter
bush holds the chance of a discovery or sight in the way that the summer never
has.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On campsites, slow to recover from
the summer suffocation of plastic tent bottoms, Galahs mine for roots and
shoots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slow rhythmical digging, moving forward
a step at a time, normally in company, often quietly talkative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Winter rains after the dry of summer bring
forth growth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To think of this southern
winter in terms of its northern namesake is to miss the point of the
season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This southern winter is
different, lacking the stillness and plant sleep of the north.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where the grass grows it is fresh and
green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kangaroos, wallabies and wombats
gather where the food is good and the living is easy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">About half way along the road from the park
gate to Tidal River is an area of open ground and winter growth grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is an abandoned World War 2 airfield, a
left over from when the Prom was used to train Commandos in arts far more
deadly than camping and nature study.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Today it is home to the kind of wildlife beloved of tourist brochures
and overseas travellers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We call this
area Icon Field – and so do the select band of visitors we have shared it
with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing in wildlife watching is
completely reliable; but Icon Field is as close as it gets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Maybe it’s the contrast with the often-grey
winter skies, or forgotten sunglasses, but when the sun shines in the winter
the beaches are so bright they hurt your eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The light bounces back from sand grains so uniform and perfect that they
squeak underfoot as you walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is almost
impossible not to scuff your feet, so wonderful is the startled sound the beach
makes under footfall. Squeaky Beach indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Winter rain runs down the rounded faces of
the rocks and boulders bringing out the rich golden colours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crystals catch the light and sparkle as the
ever-present wind ripples the sheen of water that covers them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">In winter The Prom is alive in a way the
brutal heat of summer supresses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
open and wild.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not quite free of
human forces and interruption, but it’s very close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From choice, I now go there in the winter.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Fire<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The Prom was not the only place to burn that
year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fire season ran long and hot;
we all awoke, one Sunday morning, to find that whole communities had
disappeared overnight, that so many people had died that even the term
catastrophe did not have the full measure of what happened on the hills just an
hour or so from Melbourne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fire had
taken control of the landscape and reshaped it, just as it may have done in the
past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fire made a mockery of our belief
that somehow we live above the laws of nature, that the natural flow of cause
and effect could be circumvented by technology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It made a mockery of our claims that we understand the land on which we
live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fire landed a hammer blow on
communities that had developed, quite literally, in the line of fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no idea how people could recover from
that kind of loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And visiting the fire
grounds, even to support those who survived, felt dangerously close to a kind
of ghoulish voyeurism.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But visiting the bush was different; the
bush would recover as evolution selected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Seedpods cracked open after the fires had passed and smoke triggered the
release of millions upon millions of seeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fire is as much a part of our ecosystems as wind and rain, and at the
Prom I was able to see the first, baby steps of regrowth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I had watched the fires track over the Prom
from their lightning strike origins in the east towards the sea to the
west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Winds fanned and fed the flames
and fires skipped ahead of the main front, seemingly eager to reach the
sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some places it did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No human lives were lost, and people suffered
no more than inconvenience, stress and the disruption of plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what the fire did do was wipe the slate
clean of years of growth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The slow
process of succession, the tic-toc clock of ecological change, was taken back
to almost zero, and the land would have to recover.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">It was over a month after the fires had died
before I managed to get back to The Prom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Concern over safety, of falling trees and broken paths, had kept the
park closed, but now it was open.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The sea was still sparkle blue, the rocks a
rich gold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sky was still huge out
over the fringes of the Southern Ocean, but much of the land was charcoal black
and ash grey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dense black that sucked
in the light, so that it looked like the land was covered in standing shadows,
and a pale grey that looked as if a mist had settled, solid, on the
ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although the fire fields had
long gone cold, burnt leaves were still falling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bare bones of the land poked through
where the land had been stripped of its softening growth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that the plants had been stripped away,
the full detail of the land showed through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Dozens of hills and sand dunes, distinct but small, lined the road where
before the bush had given an illusion of smoothness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shape and colour of the land was
hauntingly familiar; pockmarked and grey it looked like a black and white –
grey scale really - picture from the Western Front, but with mud replaced by dry
ash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And no matter how hard I looked it
was almost impossible to reconcile the vision with the memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So much had been taken away that the
reference points were all gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when
you did find some place – a turn in the road, or hillside crag – that seemed
familiar, it was just a fragment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
like meeting a work mate unexpectedly at the pub and knowing you know his face,
but not being able to work out from where because all context had been lost and
the face was dissociated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pulling to the
side of the road I got out of the car and the landscape still smelt of smoke
and ash; the scent given off by old bonfire sites and campfires being turned
over before a new fire is lit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even a
few strides through the charcoaled bushes left your legs black scored with the
calligraphy of fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So present were the
ghosts of the fire that the black lines were drawn without me being aware I was
being touched.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lines were now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fire was history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But a new story was being written on me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But just as happens in a war, there are
survivors of even a landscape wide fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gums that had been scorched rather than incinerated were already putting
out new shoots and leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buds
protected by insulated bark or fed from underground stores of food, swelled to produce
new growth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The limbs of trees were
coated with a haze of new leaves, so that they looked fuzzy and ill
defined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the wind fluttered the new
growth, the black of the fire-scarred branches below showed through, so that
the whole limb seemed to ripple in small waves. At ground level, shoots, strong
and green in the abundant light, pushed through the charred soil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everywhere life was awakening from an ash
bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a place that had been described
in the media as ‘destroyed’ there was an abundance of life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">It would seem that I am not the only one who
needs to grow roots in the reality of Australia soil.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Through summer sun and winter rain, through
the acrid smell of old smoke and rush of new growth, my roots expand and
reform.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each step, each season, adds to
the accumulation of experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And with
experience comes knowledge, and the slow shift of assumption and expectation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was not born here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But now I live here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-GB">(* This is a piece I entered for a writing competition, organised by The Nature Conservancy in Australia. Unfortunately, I did not make the final short list of pieces. I have posted it here in its original form - i.e. without images. Let me know what you think)</span></div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-42971859231238131192015-03-27T18:21:00.002+11:002015-03-27T18:21:38.385+11:00Two Kinds of Homecoming<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZmpL_LueHn-iEoVseEQw3p9Y0NPnNLUZzB1mGkJH7IXf4eTTO02XTF-L2YEn4nQk3jY8J4Lbhrw85a9MKuncbYnhjHphb5ce1i01QP-UtbchO5nUs60xStpeET6vDgFBbVcfTpqm_DNNQ/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZmpL_LueHn-iEoVseEQw3p9Y0NPnNLUZzB1mGkJH7IXf4eTTO02XTF-L2YEn4nQk3jY8J4Lbhrw85a9MKuncbYnhjHphb5ce1i01QP-UtbchO5nUs60xStpeET6vDgFBbVcfTpqm_DNNQ/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming-4.jpg" height="294" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Where are you from?’ is a question I am
often asked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The thing that makes people ask this does
not stand out like a sore thumb, it’s more like it stands out like a sore
ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">(I have often been asked ‘What planet are
you from?’ but the reasons for that is entirely different.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I don’t sound like I come from here, and
people, used only to the limited accents they hear on TV, have difficulty
placing me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lacking the nasal inflection
of more long-term residence of this continent marks me out as different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, it’s as plain as the nose on my face
that I have no real deficiency when it comes to the organ needed for ‘nasal
inflection’, but I still can’t get it right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But as time pass I find it harder and
harder to answer that simple, repetitive question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the end of this year I will have lived
longer in Australia than in the county that gave me my accent – Somerset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does 19 years of dwelling, over 35 years ago,
still define where I am from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is the
‘from’ nothing more than a factual accounting of birthplace and the majority of
childhood?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will I remain some form of
outsider until my accent fades and I sound like the people around me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what would happen if in moments of
inattention, or cider induced verbal clumsiness, my Somerset accent pops back
to the surface?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would this verbal
chimera be a better description of where I am from than the older, single
source vintage?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Questions asked in the hypothetical bring
answers in the abstract, and the reality lies untested.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bias. Wishful thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Image making. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Home
is where the heart lies, but if the heart lies, where is home?’</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Fish)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I point the car south, away from the Lakes
and towards Somerset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Minutes turn into
hours, the miles click over, the children chatter; anonymous coffee; jelly
snakes, brought for a walk on the hills but overlooked on the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We pass through the Midlands, which, to me,
are a grey space of unknown places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only
the service stations have any degree of familiarity, with an architecture that
has not worn well over the years and a cheesy spread of franchise food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These grey ribbons of concrete make a mockery
of the idea that it is better to travel than to arrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a gallon of Costa’s coffee the arrival
cannot come soon enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPG_5JUA0aX8CG27Q2Rft_RlNNmFs13mrDq7t1oP9fU2p0fcsO-1lo0oeNeNJXJ0MZpWyK8YFzemJyOBIZ8MFoWhIgPF2TM6_jNPyW4ydbs576Yo-GZUO69lVvdg99zXkI0Zrk7fgaTHkD/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPG_5JUA0aX8CG27Q2Rft_RlNNmFs13mrDq7t1oP9fU2p0fcsO-1lo0oeNeNJXJ0MZpWyK8YFzemJyOBIZ8MFoWhIgPF2TM6_jNPyW4ydbs576Yo-GZUO69lVvdg99zXkI0Zrk7fgaTHkD/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming-5.jpg" height="280" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We pass a sign for Gloucester and I know
that the back of the journey has been broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the past this city marked the northern edge of all I knew, and beyond
must have been the Midlands – which is laughably incorrect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apart from a few day trips in the height of
summer and an annual Scout camp, my world revolved around the edges of northern
Somerset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small place, essentially invisible
to the rest of the world except for straw chewing caricature and songs about
cider and tractors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In an indication
that at least part of me must be rooted in this place, my toes still curl in
pain at the sight and sound of such things on TV; even when the village is
elsewhere, the local idiot (a phenomenon that largely disappeared with the
coming of the railways) seems to be cast from the south west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Even for a person that had such a stay at
home upbringing as I did – mortgage stress and low wages effectively prevented
much in the way of holidays and travel – I was surprised at how many of the
place names on the journey south rang bells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Exits from the motorways would point to places I had never been, but for
which I had constructed some form of mental picture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I approached Somerset that started to
change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The place names were still as
familiar, but what made them different was the memory of place that went with
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Places where I scared myself
witless in a kayak, places where I fished for chub with limited success, but at
least no scarring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And eventually I come
to places that were everyday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Places
where I bought books and underpants (and was embarrassed to find I had selected
them in a range of sizes as well as colours).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Places where people knew what I drank and knew what our weekend bread
order was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Places where people ignored
me because my clothes were unkempt, my shoes were unpolished and our car was
rusty and old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Places where people swore
before pronouncing my surname.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The place
where I grew up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If this place really was home, then it was
a small place indeed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were staying in
an old converted farm house on the outskirts of Shepton Mallet, a town less
than half an hour from where I was born, and I recognised very little of
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The railway bridge on the way into
town was familiar, as was the general location of a second hand shop much visited
by my parents. I knew that there was a fish and chip shop that was much visited
by my brother, and that Babycham, a sparkling perry and the first alcoholic
drink to be advertised in British TV, had been invented and brewed there, but
that was about the sum of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The farmhouse was down a side lane of
surprising narrowness and abundant vegetation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Such road signs as were present were old and ambiguous; this was the
kind of place my Mum would have called ‘the back lanes of…….’ the exact
location of which would have only been known to her and her imagination. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A tractor equipped with a hedge trimmer was
flaying the living flesh from the tops of the leafy borders, producing that
musty smell that only elder makes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
sure that in the background, above the mechanical din and the screams of broken
buds, I could hear the ghosts of hedge layers past weeping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rVdQBlcVMKT_8HfASc0oGhUiwdWCvAc33yZmhSKMVQcICug57qjVwF4YlLt-KGgnoeHSoqvAMR8GXscFcFIx8PqR6S0P4mGrreak0HTajhZ5khyKMSpiLg02sXL3D__tIV6gCjnIuxY2/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rVdQBlcVMKT_8HfASc0oGhUiwdWCvAc33yZmhSKMVQcICug57qjVwF4YlLt-KGgnoeHSoqvAMR8GXscFcFIx8PqR6S0P4mGrreak0HTajhZ5khyKMSpiLg02sXL3D__tIV6gCjnIuxY2/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming-6.jpg" height="438" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">After a brief failing of confidence we
arrived at the farmhouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was built,
as they are in this part of the world, from stones the colour of pale
butter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mortar between the rough-cut
stones was wonderfully imprecise, a patchwork of different blends and varieties
that must catalogue a dozen renovations and restorations. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sticking out from the walls were hooks and
wooden beams whose purposes had long since been forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The buildings formed a square around an
ornate garden, with three sides formed by converted barns and a forth being the
original farmhouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The roofs were
spotted with lichen circles and bundles of moss, the products of clean air and
abundant rain. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Standing outside the
square of buildings you could see that the land fell away in all but one
direction. The only exception was the route taken by the road, which rose away
behind the homestead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In all directions
the overwhelming experience was green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Grass, woodlands, bushes, fields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For eyes used to the muted summer colours of Australia, such intensity
was almost painful. Cones long rested from underuse were firing with machinegun
regularity; for a colour associated with cool and shade it was remarkably
bright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even after the passage of 30
years it felt familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But not everything was the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere down in the valley below the
buildings a buzzard was mewing like a cat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Long drawn out calls that carried clearly through an atmosphere
thickened by the smell of the cut hedge and alive with the buzz of insects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story of the buzzard is one of rare
recovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hunted as vermin, killed by
pesticides and then inadvertently starved when myxomatosis wiped out the
rabbits on which it fed, the buzzard had reached its nadir when I was a
kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a rarity, a bird that was
hanging on (just) in the western reaches of England where much of what passes
for the wild could be found. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing one
was unusual, and a likely highlight of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I grew up, they grew back and are now the most common bird of prey in
the UK – and of course I am now a rarity there myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people now claim that the buzzard has
reached plague levels, which probably shows how far we are from having any understanding
of natural abundance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bird kept
calling and I kept listening, but it never became more than a speck on the
horizon, a mote of wildness drifting over the fields and badly treated
hedgerows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSHvqcLZHPoipYL3tUtYgy9LzyYuFs_0oRgZ_VoqgQhyphenhyphenNGVOO4rG_Nal21N4jQKbRrX6mIXP3LysSzmsxpczJn4IBK1m1GmtJhxH8BAhvRMgqyY3GBej4gvaZMkdhgAu-4PDyENjuaHS_p/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSHvqcLZHPoipYL3tUtYgy9LzyYuFs_0oRgZ_VoqgQhyphenhyphenNGVOO4rG_Nal21N4jQKbRrX6mIXP3LysSzmsxpczJn4IBK1m1GmtJhxH8BAhvRMgqyY3GBej4gvaZMkdhgAu-4PDyENjuaHS_p/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming-7.jpg" height="404" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Below the house were hazel bushes, heavy
with nuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother may have insisted
that they were filberts – I never knew the difference and I have left it 35
years too late to ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A woodpecker – green – yaffles in the
distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later in the week, it, or its
progeny, terrorise the ants in the lawn near the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With heavy beak stabs it pulls back chunks of
grass to find its food. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One step at a
time I move closer, aware of how loud the clack of my camera shutter is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually I push my luck too far and the
bird takes flight, pauses on a wire fence and disappears over a hedge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The whole scene that unfolds before me is
strikingly familiar, but also noticeably strange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It feels like walking into a well-known room,
maybe your bedroom, and finding the wallpaper is still the same, but all the
windows are in different positions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
can see things that you know and think you understand, but sticking their heads
out from deep cover are things that are different and unexpected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know that it’s not memory that is
failing, but reality that has changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But that’s hard to accept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Memory
fixes things in place, crystallises experience into certainty, and allows for
no change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The world turns, but memory
becomes the fixed point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
reassuring and simultaneously disconcerting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At such times you need an anchor to hold
you in place while your head spins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You need family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And luckily I had both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We mix wine with memories and add a dash of
news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We share food at a long table. In
hindsight it seems like a communion to real friends rather than imaginary ones,
a reconnection of things shared and understood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In hindsight it seems that old friends are the best reason to come home.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">For a very long time I used to take the
same walk every evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
constitutional that took me from my front door, through Stratton-on-the-Fosse,
which was only ever called Stratton, and back over fields full of inquisitive
cows to my front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose the
whole walk took about an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Days of
my life probably disappeared in that journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I normally walked on my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now
I was walking the path in reverse; starting in Stratton and heading for my old
front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I was not alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two children and my best friend/wife came
along too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHT72iZE9RQFIoPLP02_QSw2FC3ACPheRHZr_Jtm4iI9OlfhymJUHhdrMVfbXRoMnc74sjDh1afs0E3hWPXnZbC1EDGB4G5o_cd7ijBLJQymo3DrSai6YowIy7ttuqFDsVEJGkH_X2y-sp/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHT72iZE9RQFIoPLP02_QSw2FC3ACPheRHZr_Jtm4iI9OlfhymJUHhdrMVfbXRoMnc74sjDh1afs0E3hWPXnZbC1EDGB4G5o_cd7ijBLJQymo3DrSai6YowIy7ttuqFDsVEJGkH_X2y-sp/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming-2.jpg" height="502" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The village school now sat on the edge of
my old pathway, and even that has changed from the last time I had seen it. I
had returned a few years earlier, just in time to see my father (which sounds
far too formal) before he died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just
before I became an adult orphan, which comes to most of us, but is none the
less a strange place to find yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The top stone stile at the entrance to the Drang, a old pathway between
two roads, and the stone steps below were just as polished as I remembered them
– and I could not help but think of what my contribution had been to this sheen
in a hard surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The path itself was a
little overgrown, with moss and other plants forcing their way through the
surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a handrail along the
wall on the steepest section of the path that had never been there before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the people who still use, or know
about, the path have become old and few and far between.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it’s a through way that has more of a
past than a present or a future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe
it’s path that has more importance in memory than recent use. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Maybe it’s just a path.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There is an extra window, high above the
front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bay windows to the left
hand of the door have been replaced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
patchwork of stones and mortar in the walls is still clear, as is the
difference between the stonework between my house and the one to the left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only it’s not my house anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If ever there was a time and place where
circles collide and pathways intersect it’s here and now; standing outside the
house in which I was born, telling my own children about what was behind each
of the windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brother’s
bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The breakfast-room; where
everything happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lounge; where
nothing happened and the best furniture in the house stood unused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parent’s bedroom; the room into which my
mother would retreat for days on end, blinded by migraine or medical
electricity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A house full of memories,
some which I struggle to recall, and some I wish I could forget.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">To my surprise the front door of the house
is opened by the current owner, understandably concerned about the appearance
of a family seeming to claim ownership of his property.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To my ever-greater surprise he invites us
inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is strange and
unexpected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While the bones of the house
remain the same, much has changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
stairs, which used to twist through half a circle, have changed places, walls
that were made of wood have been replaced by stone and brick and most of the rooms
have changed name and role.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remarkably,
in the back yard the two deep, square form porcelain sinks that we moved from
inside the house to outside are still being used to grow flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the backyard I looked up to see my old
bedroom window, but it was not there, buried by renovation and extension.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe that was for the best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are old oceans in which to swim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hot and cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Spring and summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My birth unremembered, my mother’s death, two
days after a first kiss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
embarrassment of unkempt corners, peeling wallpaper and pervasive damp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I leave I pass on the story of the
‘letter box’ by the door – a window the size and shape of a letterbox that
opened to a small alcove where the mail was sorted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the story I was told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows - it may even be true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But despite the genuine welcome of the new
owners, the experience becomes increasingly strange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The place is too familiar and too
different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a little like the
feeling on waking and being unsure if what you recall is a memory or a dream;
the evidence of your eyes conflicts with the sense of your own
understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was glad to step outside, where the road
curved in the way it always had and the old rail bridge was still in place with
its heavy shape and grey stonewalls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
is strange to think of what has changed and what has remained the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZg4hDcynQV7vZaIK7uiS8Bm6EJ7ZfiXZNc562r9XGS9XhhgANStOCn98aBUFGNtOEyCvtCR6UXEjYj16khxKz6p8jDQE270qX4MlRjue_4-UaxeiNKgBu0u1W3hbB_JcAj5bhP0t9-woP/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZg4hDcynQV7vZaIK7uiS8Bm6EJ7ZfiXZNc562r9XGS9XhhgANStOCn98aBUFGNtOEyCvtCR6UXEjYj16khxKz6p8jDQE270qX4MlRjue_4-UaxeiNKgBu0u1W3hbB_JcAj5bhP0t9-woP/s1600/Two+kinds+of+Homecoming.jpg" height="280" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Away from the village we head towards Wells
and Glastonbury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Old towns that, at
their heart at least, seem to have changed less than I expected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drive over the Mendips, which was where I
spent much of my time as a kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Priddy
Ponds with their easy perch and more elusive rudd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The paths are less worn than I recall and the
weed beds extend closer to the banks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There must be less traffic and more growth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kids stay at home, corralled by society that
disapproves of their inactivity, but is too fearful to let them roam free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The changes wrought by nature seem less
shocking than those brought about by changes in fashion or the capricious
nature of fashion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Priddy, with its splashing fish and bright
bodied dragonflies, seems more like home than the house that has changed for
the better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small hawk, maybe a
Merlin, flashes over the pool and on the horizon Long Barrows connect the
ground to the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here I do not feel
like a guest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here I feel at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Later in the week I pull bags from the back
of a taxi and unlock my front door. Here I do not feel like a guest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here I feel at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As obvious as it may seem, home is a word
richer with meanings and ambiguity than its four letters would suggest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what ever it means, I’m glad to be there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-14991911359321296862015-02-20T21:00:00.004+11:002015-02-20T22:56:19.196+11:00Stone, Wood and Water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinaL6DNVRMYxJ6p80ewq9WphEjZ0_fJepMlqSTl99omY7FGGl_01H4uNYS_FoLEIbiSvRbCdr_G_PjzCg_KJbmirGxapjn0gF5mqU35mtX-kc2t3019yvohWn5rken5gqN22aVFcdui-3u/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinaL6DNVRMYxJ6p80ewq9WphEjZ0_fJepMlqSTl99omY7FGGl_01H4uNYS_FoLEIbiSvRbCdr_G_PjzCg_KJbmirGxapjn0gF5mqU35mtX-kc2t3019yvohWn5rken5gqN22aVFcdui-3u/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-3.jpg" height="256" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">As a kid at school a Welsh music teacher
told me that a good story was like a fish, with a distinct head, middle and
tail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time I thought it was clear
that he had never seen an eel, but in a rare moment of student restraint I said
nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like many other teachers of
his generation, he mistook his ability to declaim without challenge for an
access to the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for all that the prophets of Post-Modernism
would have fainted at such a simple notion of narrative, the vision of that
idea has stuck with me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The idea of the story as a fish is too
simple to apply widely, but if ever there was a single place that held the
head, body and tail of my story it is the Lake District – The Lakes – in the
north western corner of England, just below Scotland. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even then it’s not that simple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of my stories came to an end in the
Lakes, some began and some found the full expression of the middle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I first arrived in The Lakes to participate
in a Leadership Course – the full spectrum of butcher’s paper brainstorm
sessions, introspection and outdoor activity. During those two weeks the Wall
in Berlin fell, but no one felt the need to tell us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was that kind of time: focused on an
inward path that would lead to an outward expression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
course was supposed to send me back to my community empowered as a leader of
some sort, but what it did do was convince me I had to leave it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(A fish tail if ever there was one).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">(07-11-1989:
Lake District: Levers Water, Prison Band, Swirl Howe, Brim Fell, Old Man of
Coniston; dull and overcast with some rain)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I returned to The Lakes ready to wash
dishes and clean carpets for a couple of months before starting to work as a
Volunteer Instructor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I expected to be
there for six months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left four years
later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I arrived I had all my
worldly goods in a couple of bags and one box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I left with a clutch of qualifications that surprised me as much as they
would have surprised my generally critical PE teachers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also left in the company of the person who
is now my wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To this day I still
don’t really know how I managed to do either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I walked, climbed, scrambled and even
paddled a little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I met kids from all
over the UK and showed them some of the landscape that had inspired poet,
artist and tourist brochures; some of them may have even looked at what I was
talking about or listened to what I was saying. Some.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now it was time to show my own kids.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We arrived in the Lakes on a road that runs
under the slopes of Blencathra, a many-headed hill that sits on the northern
edge of the Lakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The small roads and
lanes that run away from the main roads are lined with brambles and old stone walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On one afternoon, many years ago, we
collected blackberries and stashed them in our lunch boxes – later they were
converted into a crumble that has gained near mythic flavour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">(21-04-
1990: Lake District: Scales, Scales Tarn, Sharp Edge, Blencathra, Hart Fell;
with Jo Bailey and Simon Whalley; good weather)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWWjz_8zzSNLtfpNRcZfae5mknz8kS2owYyWIQyZzB9vBW1k8IO5QZDCXmQtAXRXNrWIG3zgKrSCwqOUXS3C2fic9pBsMW1LyQ8By2uU4tmsbHTMySBiIpVqlLtTqV-Gr618ohV5m2TV9I/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWWjz_8zzSNLtfpNRcZfae5mknz8kS2owYyWIQyZzB9vBW1k8IO5QZDCXmQtAXRXNrWIG3zgKrSCwqOUXS3C2fic9pBsMW1LyQ8By2uU4tmsbHTMySBiIpVqlLtTqV-Gr618ohV5m2TV9I/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water.jpg" height="297" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Just visible was Sharp Edge, an angular
ridge that runs upward towards the rounded top of the hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In both summer and winter it’s a good way to
gain height, but today we are looking elsewhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The story of the great blackberry
collection walk has been told before, but once more I find myself telling the
story, this time to the kids in the back of the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a story that has so many strands, food
and company not the least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a story
that because of its very essence is about home and place – the provision of
food, the finding of comfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a
story that, like the blackberries, is rooted into a single place and makes no
sense elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the meaning it
brings is independent of the landscape that made it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If, through a slip of fate, the story is lost
and forgotten, the landscape will remain the same, unchanged by the passing of
a story which it helped shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We add
meaning to landscape, but the landscape remains unchanged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not just some modern, worship of the
individual situation, but an age-old issue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Not that long ago fells like Blencathra and
rocky ridges like Sharp Edge would have been seen as bleak and inhospitable and
the prospect of walking on them for recreation, strange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But our view of the world has changed, and
once where there was emptiness and chill we now find the tonic of wildness and
isolation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the bones of the
landscape have not changed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Below the hump-backed fells lies an even
older example of our need to bring understanding into the landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over 5000 years ago people discovered
something in the landscape here that they found valuable, and within sight of
some of the highest peaks in the Lakes they built what is now called Castlerigg
Stone Circle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t know what its
purpose was, but it is beyond coincidence that a work of such effort would be
placed without thought or care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People
from that distant age were not brute savages with perpetually grazed knuckles,
but modern humans just like us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We spend
hours discussing the placement of glasses on tables and statues in gardens; why
would the builders of Castlerigg been any less careful?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">(01-10-90:
Lake District: Thirlmere Car Park, Helvellyn Gill, Lower Man, Helvellyn, Swirl
Edge; at night with Jason C et al)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i></div>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrDL6OoxjUejmx5FK2FtPAfHy_a9YbXzi8x3LErcaKcHtftDIxgVMI4TUGyzXoCoFmtr3a_PX1C5gCoTl8F-vsrQrZhKtp-HTURX7XBiR4R_Sz9ugtyIXvwisR9Ovtu9mSREgRawDblVS/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrDL6OoxjUejmx5FK2FtPAfHy_a9YbXzi8x3LErcaKcHtftDIxgVMI4TUGyzXoCoFmtr3a_PX1C5gCoTl8F-vsrQrZhKtp-HTURX7XBiR4R_Sz9ugtyIXvwisR9Ovtu9mSREgRawDblVS/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-2.jpg" height="414" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There is a freedom to be had in a visit to
Castlerigg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rituals and ceremonies
that occurred there have been lost, but it was clearly a place to visit; a
place where people – or their leaders at least – came together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And today you can stand within, next to and
even on the stones dependant on mood and your respect for regulation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not like Stonehenge where you can
only stand outside to look in and take it on faith – possibly an appropriate
reaction at such sites – that the stones have not be stolen away in the night
and replaced by concrete and fibreglass replicas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The stones at Castlerigg do not sing at
dawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You cannot strike your fist on the
hard slate surfaces to summon a wizard back from his battles with the
dragon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Druidic rituals of pop
culture are an invention of a romantic age far more modern than the stones
themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But for all that, the stones
have a simple and magnificent presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When you lay a hand upon them it’s the closest you can get to time
travel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You cannot help but think ‘why?’
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The organisation and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>effort needed to drag these stones into this
formation would defeat most well fed modern communities, but 5000 years ago
people thought it was worthwhile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">People eat their lunch, backs rested on the
cool stone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A man and woman, with
separate paint boxes but shared water, paint watercolour landscapes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can smell coffee being poured from a
flask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People are still drawn to the
flat field and its stones in the shadows of the high fells.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Effort. Meaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Landscape. Place and space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fish heads, fish tails and fish middles are
rolled into one and blended into stories that people will take away and
spread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stones stand still, but the
meaning they help people make spreads like ripples on a pond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Back in the lane where we left the car an
ice-cream van has parked, and people fret over the cost of a 99 and suggest
that the flakes are not the best quality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A meadow-brown butterfly works its unsteady way along the hedgerow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere in the distance a cuckoo calls a
few times and then falls silent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
are many things more precious than ice-cream, but not everybody seems to
notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">(08/09
– 04 -1991: Lake District: Lakeside, Grizedale, Coniston, Torver, Blind Tarn
(Bivi) – Buck Pike, Dow Crag, Brim Fell, Swirl Howe, Tilberthwaite, Little
Langdale . Solo)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We head south down one of the valleys that
radiate out from the central core of the lakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Think of pinching a ball of putty with the fingers, so that a cone forms
in the enclosed scape between the digits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The shape the putty takes will be a model of the Lakes – a central high
area, with valleys spread around the edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>First carved by rivers and then enlarged by glaciers, there are almost
as many long valleys in the Lakes as there are numbers on a clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And each valley holds one or more bodies of
water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I use the term ‘bodies of water’
because only one of them is called a lake – the rest are meres, waters and
tarns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is like a private joke that
The Lakes only contains one lake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Memory is such a strange thing; even though
I never lived in the Northern Lakes they seemed so familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Road signs and junctions appeared just as
expected, single trees by the side of the road, which I had never photographed,
but always noticed, were still there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The place was strangely unchanged in many ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the expanse of Australian roads I had
expected the Lakeland ones to push in at the edges, especially where they were
flanked by snaggle-toothed drystone walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This proved not to be the case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
still caught up with (other) tourists who, intimidated by the imminent demise
of their cars’ paintwork, decide to drive along the middle of the road, rather
than keeping to the left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My old
frustration with caravans resurfaced.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITci9TEDqFRq73OA0GMh7MUWdVKiKYqwhHViIYJ6UcZ1mV-vYqUI2Tbv9xAH9DBtZZXv9d2sA3K3NUWLlMP-LnDNDy-aETDqmQnpAcLSENq0SXqPftHgX_U166zFxsPixGPHxyQK1tyQy/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITci9TEDqFRq73OA0GMh7MUWdVKiKYqwhHViIYJ6UcZ1mV-vYqUI2Tbv9xAH9DBtZZXv9d2sA3K3NUWLlMP-LnDNDy-aETDqmQnpAcLSENq0SXqPftHgX_U166zFxsPixGPHxyQK1tyQy/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-9.jpg" height="274" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If my memory of the Northern Lakes was
remarkable for its clarity, my memory of the ground closer to the place I
called home was notable for its ambiguity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could not identify the corner in Hawkshead where Battersby’s Garage
used to be and I had swapped the locations of two of the village pubs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The clash between the certainty of my memory
and the evidence of my own eyes was off-putting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the Kings Arms and the Queens Head can
merge in memory to become one misplaced entity, what other of my memories were
false or constructed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The south Lakes are almost the picture
perfect English countryside; woods, small hidden ponds with rushy edges and the
look of fish, wooden way-marked paths that criss-cross the fields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the distance you can see higher hills,
maybe mountains in the imagination, and certainly so in the winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can choose your own adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are never that far from a pub or a café,
which you can use as a goal in themselves, or as a reward at the end of a
longer day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the best part of five
years I called this part of the world home, and even now, twenty years later,
it would be an unusual week for me not to think of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">(02-05-1991:
Lake District: Rydal, Nab Scar, Heron Pike, Rydal Fell, Great Rigg, Fairfield,
Hart Crag, High Pike, Low Pike, Ambleside, Wilfs. Dull and Overcast although
tea at Wilf’s very nice. Solo)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We collected the keys to our rented house and
drove away from Hawkshead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once we were
back on the narrow roads my memory recovered – the kink in the road where the
last house on the way north pushes out into the road, the old Courthouse by the
bridge where we turned left up the hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If we drove too far we would start to drop down towards Coniston, with
its history and speeding ghosts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, we had detailed directions, which ended with ‘and then turn
right down the rough track marked by the blue wheelie bin and the triangular
back of a road sign’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What this lacked
in formality it made up for in accuracy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Passing through two gates, both held in
place by improvised latches of string and wire, we arrived at the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Built from rough-cut slate blocks the house
was in fact an old water mill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Build in
a formidable L shape the heel of the house was set deep into the ground, so
that all you could see from the track was the roof and the upper floor
room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In its entirety the mill stepped
down through six floors, all but one of which was a single room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A staircase, creaking wood in its upper
sections and foot chilling stone in its lower, spiralled down through the
building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It smelt of the woodland that
surrounded it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the windows open, it
rang to the sound of the stream that flowed past the toe of the L, over a long
unmoving water wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bird feeders hung
outside the windows and I could hear Wood Pigeons in the trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the kitchen the water ran fridge cold from
the tap, and the cistern in the toilet filled at an unmodern and leisurely
rate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although it was summer, the grate
was still full of recent ashes from a coal fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If a small black cat, with an under-chin
white spot, had walked into one of the rooms I would have not been surprised as
this building was hauntingly similar to the house I was born and brought up in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But just to prove that progress was possible this
one had running hot water and a working stove. The longer I stayed there the
greater the sense of familiarity became; the uneven stone floor under foot, the
way the lock on the back door clicked twice as you unlocked it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cat never appeared, but behind the mill
we found evidence of other black and white residents. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The flat stone bridge over the stream had
one section that rocked with a hollow tic-toc that marked your passing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oak trees shaded a vague path and hazels,
already robbed of nuts, hung their soft round leaves at head height. The path
skirted a small, steep sided valley so that the ground dropped away steeply on
the right and rose up to a fence line on the left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was classically English habitat; damp,
green, soft, small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And pouring down
from the fence line, in fan shaped sweeps, was the evidence that we shared
these woodlands with badgers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were half a dozen fans of excavated
soil below the fence line, and moving away from them in many directions were
paths of flattened plants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bottom
wires of the fence line held clumps of stiff hair, and one of the flattened
paths carried on out into the uncut summer meadow beyond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I liberated a few handfuls of peanuts from
the bird feeders and scattered them near the entrances to the sett.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peanuts are essentially Badger crack – a combination
of tastes and textures that they find irresistible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We left the peanuts to do their addictive
best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next morning they were gone;
not a single one remained in sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
piles were replenished in anticipation of the coming evening.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB"></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXP3AK5CfibP7WkLLRMFB8DEkNP61ix77Zu1EMmyZDIQMAndcwwx3CvnHXA8y-aDmW-1yGbzgvmsDpDnSw53dfFbH59TLsZardoumfgAfBxUN9FjN_fOb6o2qfBFDxXAMVacns3ECI5VEG/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXP3AK5CfibP7WkLLRMFB8DEkNP61ix77Zu1EMmyZDIQMAndcwwx3CvnHXA8y-aDmW-1yGbzgvmsDpDnSw53dfFbH59TLsZardoumfgAfBxUN9FjN_fOb6o2qfBFDxXAMVacns3ECI5VEG/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-6.jpg" height="318" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB">At just past dusk we walked out over the
flat-slab stone bridge that spanned the stream behind the mill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The noise of the water, increased by overnight
rain, covered the tic-toc of the wobbling slab. The sett itself was just over a
slight rise, maybe some form of mill archaeology long buried in leaf
litter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever its origin the rise and
the voice of the river allowed us to walk to within a few meters of the setts
unseen and unheard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had briefed the
kids on the need for silence – a fool’s errand if ever there was one – and to
my surprise it seemed to be working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
moved forward a feather step at a time until we could see into the mouth of the
nearest hole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there was our target,
in one of the entrances to the sett hidden below a hazel thicket – just a black
and white shape really – busily hoovering up my offering of peanuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was hard not to laugh; you could hear all
kinds of munching and slorphing noises emerging from the gloom.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">(01-09-1992:
Upper Teesdale; Micro Nav and Nav Practice behind High Force; Loads of rabbits)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This was more a proof of concept sighting
than real badger watching, but it set us up for the nights that followed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was something undoubtedly magical
about having badgers just over the stream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course our presence made little different to the badgers (peanuts
excepted), who, from the size of the sett, had probably been there for many
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it made this a special place
for me; a place that was so rooted in classic Englishness that it bordered on
caricature but for all that it was real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I took a small piece of woodland and let it become all the things I
missed in my new home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It became a
distillation of the things I thought I would do, before my journey took an
unexpected turn and I headed south.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Of course it was none of the things I made
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was just a small patch of
Cumbria, as distinct and different as it was homely and reassuring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But for one week, for me, it became so much
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A few evenings later we were all sat around
the base of an oak tree in the gathering darkness of the evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The midges, tiny biting flies which are
surely the product of the dark side of evolution, were mercifully scarce and
the mosquitoes largely absent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could
hear a badger eating its fix of peanuts, but all we could see was a lumpy form
in the deep shadow of the sett entrance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The badger, presumably having finished its peanut starter dish, emerged
from the shadows and trotted stiff legged up the slope, away from us and
towards the fence line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I assumed it
would disappear into the meadow beyond, but the crashing and rustling up by the
fence suggested otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this point
it became clear that badgers do not have a stealth mode.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The badger was uphill from us and this meant
that every so often a face would appear silhouetted against the relative
lightness of the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A triangular face
with rounded teddy bear ears would look down the slope in our direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure that the badger knew we were there,
somewhere, but it was unable to determine where.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turned its head so that its long snout
pointed off to the left – a perfect silhouette of the long angular face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could just make out the pale markings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was more crashing from above us and I
am convinced that there was more than one animal up there – maybe young ones,
clumsy at the world’s novelty. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
woodland falls quiet, save for the whispered reports of bats from my children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The rocky stone bridge welcomes us back
home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Tawny Owl kricks from somewhere
further down the valley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The back door
clicks shut. I pour a beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Out in the
woodlands the badgers go about their night-time chores. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Early morning sunlight filters through the
trees that shade the mill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Motes of
dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Light beams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cool of a summer morning moves through
the open window and promises clear skies and light winds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I listen to the woodland awake as my family
lies asleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">05-02-1991:
Lake District: Tranearth, Walna Scar Rr, Boulder Valley, Levers Water, Coniston
Fells, Tilberthwaite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overcast, Snow in
afternoon; With Pat Parker)</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtxP4Rx0KAO4EcZVg6aaIDXKwr2lf078Of3DVmvPG3d9vRkDyvERdBfpcMoX_ZAHBFYTfJ_H1aK9vWfbtZvGdtVcVHQEfBLdkAnUWqqaSdcfD-n91hV57XfCHkc0bE2uQhw69hyphenhyphenjfLcZN/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtxP4Rx0KAO4EcZVg6aaIDXKwr2lf078Of3DVmvPG3d9vRkDyvERdBfpcMoX_ZAHBFYTfJ_H1aK9vWfbtZvGdtVcVHQEfBLdkAnUWqqaSdcfD-n91hV57XfCHkc0bE2uQhw69hyphenhyphenjfLcZN/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-5.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Behind the village of Coniston a steep road
runs up and away from the valley floor with its stone edged fields and solid
slate built houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a road to
traumatise drivers used to freeways and city slopes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The very top of the steepest part is marked
by a sharp left hand corner, followed by a right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The very end of the road is marked by a gate
– The Fell Gate – that separates the enclosed lowlands fields from the open
fell beyond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Gate and the wall it
passes through are a clear boundary between two different, but linked worlds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it is also a meeting place where things
long disconnected come together and reconnect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Uplands and lowlands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Summer
pasture and winter shelter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it is a
place where you can arrange to meet friends with the certainty that everybody
knows the place you mean.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
There is a car park of sorts beyond the gates,
which slowly starts to fill. Most of the cars are driven by people I have not
seen for years, and the back seats are filled with children I have never
met.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twenty years have passed since we
all worked for the YMCA (please don’t sing the song) on the shores of
Windermere. Five years, ten years, even twenty years have passed since I last
saw some of these people but the smiles of recognition are ready and real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all used to take other peoples’ children
into the mountains, and now we have met to do the same thing with children of
our own. So many meetings and collisions, so many separations and reunions; so
many story lines that intersected in the past briefly reconnected, at the
Coniston Fell Gate<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
With the exception of a few of the kids we
had all done this walk before, in winter, in summer, rain and sunshine, in
company and on our own; sometimes carrying ropes accompanied by the tambourine
rattle of climbing gear, sometimes carrying little more than a flask of coffee
and pack of Eccles Cakes (Made with Real Butter).<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">(07-02-1993;
Dow Crag Coniston, Giants Crawl, Grade; Diff. Multi Pitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very Wet and incredible slime; Escaped to
Easy Terrace; Epic Day out with Glyn M)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On this day some people brought children
and some brought dogs, some brought both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some brought cameras and walking poles. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everybody brought chocolate. Everybody brought
memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The walk was probably incidental, just an
excuse for slow moving conversations and selective catching up – nobody needs
to hear the bad stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We walk along the
Walna Scar Road, once a thoroughfare between valleys, but now more trod for
pleasure than commerce. I pass the spot where I first met Nick, who in later
years would come to Australia to be at my wedding; the start of a story to say
the least.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We turn right, uphill, towards Goats Water
and Dow Crag where we stop for the ritual of morning tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rock chairs or beds are chosen as suits the
individual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond the water the path
rises steeply and I stop to take pictures and catch my breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the summit – The Old Man of Coniston – the
jokes are predictable and well known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The land falls away in all directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Memories rise from all directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The walk back to the car is too short for all the conversations that
come to mind.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGJBuUaBuavaCLkpafjrlIxSfPvk_A-3McErrer9JEJcQJElywhGJ7D4J9akV2fhn7JDY3upfa32h7N6-dN9c9jG-U0uYKQ-IX9pRH0EbX7uRg2gZ8w7nUyjHwyHJRxSrEYhLlKY8rArNI/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGJBuUaBuavaCLkpafjrlIxSfPvk_A-3McErrer9JEJcQJElywhGJ7D4J9akV2fhn7JDY3upfa32h7N6-dN9c9jG-U0uYKQ-IX9pRH0EbX7uRg2gZ8w7nUyjHwyHJRxSrEYhLlKY8rArNI/s1600/Stone,+Wood+and+Water-4.jpg" height="260" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The Old Man was the first hill in The Lakes
I know I climbed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a while it will
also be the last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Middle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Tail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">(12-07-2014
Lake District: See above)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-25704369036247045502015-01-09T20:12:00.000+11:002015-01-10T12:47:06.003+11:00Coast to Coast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8AVfz-DvkSavQ5A55QwAkhU83YKqKFMJ-HFTxmzXOJWQCwqmag10sTpEBkUkV9TLYZxv1Mk5dQrK6FDVM7KngRm56bgKiXlsO6ICp92hzyM8x6V-3RbvvGGSWTCESMZ4lHjpHGeJMJ_Uj/s1600/Coast+to+Coast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8AVfz-DvkSavQ5A55QwAkhU83YKqKFMJ-HFTxmzXOJWQCwqmag10sTpEBkUkV9TLYZxv1Mk5dQrK6FDVM7KngRm56bgKiXlsO6ICp92hzyM8x6V-3RbvvGGSWTCESMZ4lHjpHGeJMJ_Uj/s1600/Coast+to+Coast.jpg" height="194" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">There were house sparrows bathing in the
dust and barn swallows hawking for insects above our heads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Starlings, with their electric crackle
voices, chattered<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>on the wires. The low hum of bees and
hoverflies spread out from the flowerbeds, and an occasional wasp, yellow
striped and predatory, flashed by. In the distance, the dull roar of waves,
still pushed by yesterday’s winds, added a base background to the noises around
us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The farm buildings stand solid and thick
walled against the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the
windows look south and west, away from the cold fingers of the East wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small herd of cows adopt a similar alignment;
backs to the wind, showing how good design can flow from observation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Classically black and white and wet nosed they
stared over the fence, agricultural but domestic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The soil around the gates is poached to
muddiness by their heavy, lingering feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Beyond a neck stretch and tongue length, a line of taller grass grows,
proof of the old adage correct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gulls
pass overhead and what seems to be a single cloud hangs over the castle in the
distance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">While this is almost Scotland, there is
something classically English about the landscape; soft and well tended,
managed down the years by the changing hand of agriculture and only fought over
in the distant past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The views in all
directions have a kind of ephemeral beauty, which close inspection renders
ordinary; and that is its charm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
beauty of the mundane and the commonplace, stacked layer upon layer, to form
something remarkable and effecting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
are no grand mountains or shockingly deep canyons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sea is more often muddy brown than blue,
and the skies are often clouded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I miss
landscapes like this in a way that is almost tangible; the memory of place and
the understanding of shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The feeling
of shared history and common struggle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While such feelings and understandings do grow for elsewhere, they grow
with geological slowness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all my
efforts, I remain a product of this small island, of these small and delicate
landscapes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The kids seem to notice that I have stopped
packing the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I am staring up
the coast towards Bamburgh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They ask if
I am OK, and I am stuck by the impossibility of an answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young swallows on the barn roof ask different
questions of their own parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slide
a suitcase into its now familiar position in the back of the car and walk back across
the garden and into the house to collect the other bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I check under beds for things that have been
lost, forgotten or left behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I
walk back to the car I suppose I do the same thing again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge64xbwwGFDsG33h_kKXWKiQNMSJibpGYKOPC-vduo2zFPxxLWLzcV6m68whsnzntisz5PdvpDhA_tTIoG9QKqGar2hBBSpIB7MM0ZEvfAoWJ5ughaPFzk7tB3Xt1NaURLVf9oIfy8jYly/s1600/Coast+to+Coast-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge64xbwwGFDsG33h_kKXWKiQNMSJibpGYKOPC-vduo2zFPxxLWLzcV6m68whsnzntisz5PdvpDhA_tTIoG9QKqGar2hBBSpIB7MM0ZEvfAoWJ5ughaPFzk7tB3Xt1NaURLVf9oIfy8jYly/s1600/Coast+to+Coast-2.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We turn inland, south and west, my natural
direction, and drive away from the coast and its terns and puffins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ups and downs, lefts and rights of the
road require a close eye and a light right foot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Past farm gates with more dust cleaned sparrows,
under flocks of rooks and jackdaws, through a strange mist of flies that pitter
pat to their deaths on the windscreen we head towards Rothbury, morning tea and
walk by the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope for Dippers,
but, appropriately enough, I don’t see them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A few trout dimple the surface, but scatter as we skip stones over the
water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The river is called The Coquet, and once,
not that long ago, it was England’s cleanest river. These days the river has
lost this crown as agricultural chemicals have leaked sideways from the fields
into the water; but the water still sparkles, and the disturbed trout are soon
safe and sound, holding in the buffered current caused by the bridge footings, darting
into the swifter water to take their own morning meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many years ago I found Lamprey in this river,
strange jawless, eel-like, fish that writhed in the bottom of a net aimed at
stoneflies and mayflies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Primitive and
old; a compelling link to a younger, cleaner world; the gill slits behind their
head opening and closing as dark holes in the suffocating air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I was younger when I saw them, standing on
the edge of a change that I did not know was coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Standing on the edge of a plunge into waters
deep and cold, the ripples from which would wash back and forth for the best
part of ten years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The ripples have subsided.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder if the lampreys are still there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We walked into town, confident I knew where
I was going, and became lost almost at once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Buildings, which should have been on the left, were on the right and the
river was behind me when it should have been in front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Half remembered memories, pulled from long
ago, were less use than the simple experience of the new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We walked in circles through the town, below
solid buildings, set with small windows and heavyset roofs, built from cut
stone that still held the marks of hammer and iron.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Maybe it’s the use of local stone that does
this, or maybe its that the town has yet to be subjected to a planner’s enthusiasm
for change, but it felt practical, lacking in architectural excess, and
wonderfully rooted in the landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
roads and laneways met at odd angles, pavements mysteriously disappeared from
one side of the street only to reappear on the other and shops and houses were
scattered almost at random.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The town was
small, unpredictable and old, much like the landscape around it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually we collided with an ice cream,
which on such days is a fine substitute for morning tea, and our bearings fixed
we headed back to the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">In the car park I noticed a sign that
warned of sudden flooding in heavy rain – which is hardly a once in a lifetime
event here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered if my thoughts of
rootedness and connection were an illusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Above the river were clouds but no rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Coquet was still safe within its banks as we drove away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSP04AOcP-II5xoi0KUmIhUiwe-LFZPWD8MLjNfxjsmeKXhvYQ4g1t-ohEBbhwE9z2Y5wXkxUQs-2dVX-tTJpGKYyhCo7yTMyPgjR9g11JRqr7O5sm7cdj6qqvVaWSvN378vcY_XLodBAH/s1600/nr.+Hadrians+Wall-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSP04AOcP-II5xoi0KUmIhUiwe-LFZPWD8MLjNfxjsmeKXhvYQ4g1t-ohEBbhwE9z2Y5wXkxUQs-2dVX-tTJpGKYyhCo7yTMyPgjR9g11JRqr7O5sm7cdj6qqvVaWSvN378vcY_XLodBAH/s1600/nr.+Hadrians+Wall-2.jpg" height="322" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">To the south lay the old industrial cites
of Newcastle and Sunderland, and further south still Middlesbrough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Towns sat astride the rivers that flow from
the central high ground of England, east to the North Sea; the Tyne, the Wear,
the Tees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a kid these were distant
places, essentially unknown, apart from their appearance in football results
and legends of coal, iron and steel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I was 19 I left home to study, and spent three years on the Wear,
before moving to the Tyne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the
landscape though which we new drove almost eluded me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was only through the company of others,
other with cars, that I began to find this wonderful, strangely empty
landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was good to be back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the east coast the valley of the Tyne
pushes west up into the higher central ground of England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the west coast, the Solway estuary with
its feeding rivers pushes back east.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
two rivers form a neck that separates the body of England from the head of
Scotland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the winter, geese from the
frozen east and north fly up one valley and down another, heading west, seeking
the warmth of the Atlantic coast, with its muddy estuaries and its Gulf Stream
moderated climate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Such a journey, up one side and down the
other, must have been common for more than geese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And maybe the beaten track of commerce marked
the way for the wall that followed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In about
AD 220 Hadrian decreed that a wall would be built along this path, and in
places – about 1800 years later – it’s still there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The grey stone of Northumbria was taken and
shaped to form a wall between the known of the Roman Empire and the unknown, or
at least poorly controlled, lands to the North.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Myth and school history has it that the wall was built to keep the Scots
out, but it’s just as likely it was built to regulate trade and collect taxes.
I can’t help but wonder if it was also built in response to concerns about
‘northerners coming down here and taking our jobs’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hadrian probably promised to ‘Stop the Picts’
and who knows, he may have.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHP64TvIlC3QHsypnCWi7OqRE0cBdtLEzDuNnc_iLkJBU58CerXgDTMzMjUNqmKycGXhZZKMStS8IaZ_1zCNyfmLtdNaWCqqKkI5TPOi1GROGkbgQ8R26DkkE8tsoyZJkVeRDbxr3pYl6y/s1600/Coast+to+Coast-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHP64TvIlC3QHsypnCWi7OqRE0cBdtLEzDuNnc_iLkJBU58CerXgDTMzMjUNqmKycGXhZZKMStS8IaZ_1zCNyfmLtdNaWCqqKkI5TPOi1GROGkbgQ8R26DkkE8tsoyZJkVeRDbxr3pYl6y/s1600/Coast+to+Coast-3.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Hadrian’s Wall runs through wonderfully
open farm and moorlands, punctuated by regular tourist information signs about
the wall and its history. It’s a land close quartered by Short-Eared Owls and of
cool winds that, even in summer, encourage you to turn your back, as well as
your collar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a place that expands
to the call of the Curlew, soft and sad, where grass is king and the slow march
of woodland is held back by the teeth of sheep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s in places like this that the well-worn
nature of England comes to the fore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While we can no longer call anywhere a wilderness, England is more
garden than Garden of Eden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s probably
not an exaggeration to think of each square foot of land , of each handful of
soil, as offering a source of history and understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A single rook called from the trees in the
car park; unusual in its isolation, maybe the rest of its building, parliament,
clamour or storytelling were elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The collective nouns speak of conversation, or things passed down the
line (along the wall?), of things that should be long lasting and
important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are times when I think
a Parliament of these dark, intelligent birds would serve us all better than
the ones we elect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Housesteads is, according to the well-placed
boards, the most complete Roman fort in England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Viewed from above through the surrogate of
Google Earth you can see its straight walls and its crisp, geometric plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The outer boundary wall turns at well-rounded
right angles and the wall itself flows east and west away from the fort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a wonderful contrast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fort itself, tightly planned, possibly
even built from off the shelf plans, so different to the plastic flow of the Hadrian’s
wall, which buckles and turns in tune with the fall and rise of the land. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Standing on the boarder wall of Housesteads
you can see the Hadrian’s wall walking off in both directions along the Whin
Sill, a strip of hard igneous rock the runs east to west and is last seen as
the islands of the Inner Farnes, with their puffins and singing seals.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s impossible when sanding on these
fallen stones not to imagine what it must have been like to be stationed here,
on the edge of Empire, so far from home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Its hard not to think that the climate, the food, the locals and the
lack of comfort so far from the comforts of Rome were probably constant topics
of conversations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But such imaginings
are probably wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wall now sits in
a modern landscape, shaped by the ebbs and flows of economy, technology and
history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what we see is not what they
saw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that another wall – The
Antonine Wall – sits to the north gives a lie to the edge of Empire myth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Built more of earth than stone, the Antonine
wall succumbs to our fondness for the memory of stone, rather than the memory
of earth and soil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stones may linger,
but it takes more care to find the stories told by the soil on which we depend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But sometimes that truth of a story can be
founds, especially when it is read by those who specialise in finding things
that lie buried. Wooden tablets – about the size of a post card (remember
them?) - have been found buried in wastes below wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thrown away but preserved by soils soaked in
acid and chilled by the same winds than made me flick my collar, the tablets
are some of the oldest known writing in England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And just like post cards they are full of chitchat
– the lack of decent olive oil, a shortage of socks, birthday party
invitations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would only take a
complaint about the lack of a Wi-Fi single to turn them into a Facebook
post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Even though the fort is now nothing but
ruins, there is a complexity to the buildings that rams home the idea that the
people who built these were no less sophisticated than us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it would help the world if we
remembered that about all people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Although we can’t really tell, the trip
away from Housteads takes us down hill, into Cumbria and back down towards the
sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And towards a coastline that has
been greatly changed by the hand of industry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If I knew little about the North East of
England as a kid, I knew even less about the North West, especially its coastal
fringe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hidden behind the beauty of the
Lake District was a hive of industry that went largely unnoticed by most
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Iron, coal and steel were the
pillars of its old economy, and the region has not done well in recent years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The iron industry dominated some parts of
the coastline, with blast furnaces producing steel in abundance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now this industry is gone, leaving behind
some strangely empty fields, a small pond containing carp and roach – although
on the day we visited nobody was fishing – and a beach of remarkable
strangeness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjQvfeEfMY61VAXyaVNLlTVUPA5Y4wJXiMsAGDoFeBRx3Q67cb-QJsSfkMtY24PVIq5VNfIhag-eF2gxb5lJWIzfnegL7QhFLM_uB8mJxCRQXsDz7S7IwbdiUdeMOKmI-PmVCRxRPBbO0/s1600/Iron+Beach-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjQvfeEfMY61VAXyaVNLlTVUPA5Y4wJXiMsAGDoFeBRx3Q67cb-QJsSfkMtY24PVIq5VNfIhag-eF2gxb5lJWIzfnegL7QhFLM_uB8mJxCRQXsDz7S7IwbdiUdeMOKmI-PmVCRxRPBbO0/s1600/Iron+Beach-11.jpg" height="422" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Harrington Beach is as much a product steel
manufacture as it is a product of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>From the car park by the pond you walk along a footpath by an abandoned
railway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The path itself sparkles with
broken glass and is studded with a minefield of dog shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fragments of metal, old fridges and (somewhat
incongruously) an old lobster pot are half hidden, half visible in the long
grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tunnel under the railway is
partially blocked by the exoskeleton of an abandoned tumble dryer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Empty larger tins replace plants as a ground
cover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a place to watch where you
put your feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There were no signs telling you where to go
or what to see.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The beach itself looked normal enough, with
wave-smoothed rocks and pale cliffs – but looks are deceptive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a slightly strange smell in the
air; not the classic seaside odour for decayed seaweed, or the faux perfume of
ozone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not a strong smell, but
it was there just at the back of your nose, like an olfactory whisper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The beach smelt of damp rust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It smelt like the back of the garage in
winter, where you store half-empty paint cans in the optimistic hope that you
may, one day, use their contents to path up the wear on the window frames.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWuG_DuxoWWYtzc2N5O7uMLcY4W76WrHko4aDD9MU9-nnh95j_LRAmoxWlqZLCpcDhXgL1JdFLMFwKD_wWXHdmkXMxh1Z-qfywwQHgG_Sr9FC0HBhDAQVxPKJXMhjv-IzBwvNciucu4uLg/s1600/Iron+Beach-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWuG_DuxoWWYtzc2N5O7uMLcY4W76WrHko4aDD9MU9-nnh95j_LRAmoxWlqZLCpcDhXgL1JdFLMFwKD_wWXHdmkXMxh1Z-qfywwQHgG_Sr9FC0HBhDAQVxPKJXMhjv-IzBwvNciucu4uLg/s1600/Iron+Beach-6.jpg" height="422" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The rocks that cover the beach may not
actually really be rocks at all – and the cliffs are certainly not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole beach is covered in and made from
blast furnace wastes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dark flows of iron
rock seep across the beach and where water pools on them, it turns livid
orange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The perfect combination of
water, oxygen and salt turn the iron to rust and the water to orange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like a classic classroom experiment poured
out over the landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Tens of thousands of tons of white-hot slag
was carried in hoppers from the blast furnaces that once lined the coast and
dumped into the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may have been
out of mind, but I doubt it was out of sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In places the slag build up in layer upon layer to form white cliffs
that look natural enough from a distance, but on close examination contain
layers of bricks and foundry wastes; industrial fossil beds between strata of
igneous wastes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole cliff defines
the classifications of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
places chunks of iron still sit, whole and unblasted, on the beach surrounded
by bricks and mortar set within solid stone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bolts and nuts show through other surfaces, not driven in by force, but
wrapped in a once molten mitten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such
things seem to violate our understanding of solids and liquids.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Such places make you think.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Back at the car I notice a council placard
that warms of fines for fly tipping.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Back on the cold hills of Northumberland
the archaeology of deep past is polished and buffed as a tourist hot spot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here on the coast the archaeology of a still
living community is largely ignored, as the Irish sea slowly removes it from
memory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-586892845540552362014-11-29T20:22:00.000+11:002014-11-29T20:22:56.140+11:00The Hills of Doggerland - a photo essayI've been working in a piece of writing for a competition - hence the lack of words here. I can't publish the competition work until after the end of the judging - so wish me luck and enjoy these pictures of my trip to the Farne Islands - The Hills of Doggerland.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGzL64YH7CZFU4YyNg_aH7_0aYMXPWKwjGBkQUG1W2Fl_KFwiT2raEgebPuu6hiElGKnE8WjzZQeh4DMuUg7EsBSGrx9UXe_a7ZZiaXCPZI8j4HkmCByAR126uj-WuNHat7hr22g4rBEIm/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGzL64YH7CZFU4YyNg_aH7_0aYMXPWKwjGBkQUG1W2Fl_KFwiT2raEgebPuu6hiElGKnE8WjzZQeh4DMuUg7EsBSGrx9UXe_a7ZZiaXCPZI8j4HkmCByAR126uj-WuNHat7hr22g4rBEIm/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-6.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inner Farne</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbovTh165LIorUU31acH1KI3UYOlEDQCcbJQJXm5SOsG-il8CR67qAGFcawU5rOdkp5SXx6b6Kz-QCgJaOrCOw7pLg-kljePOYiOp3jc1fCbTXFVtYOioYw1D3HZJzcCU_DeB5Vx_S5RV8/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbovTh165LIorUU31acH1KI3UYOlEDQCcbJQJXm5SOsG-il8CR67qAGFcawU5rOdkp5SXx6b6Kz-QCgJaOrCOw7pLg-kljePOYiOp3jc1fCbTXFVtYOioYw1D3HZJzcCU_DeB5Vx_S5RV8/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-2.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seahouses</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZap-U8TDfuEamdMUfXvR8-Xt2CDinee_33651AB0DmHoGqslWQVXxMxRcmucXR6OCFcmlwxLYs4SKou-Swn_wFPPnHHP07TfcAvvmGChCLGGJi2Ogpgkg2rdo2QPCz-xSZ5uW8ZS6jJ5/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZap-U8TDfuEamdMUfXvR8-Xt2CDinee_33651AB0DmHoGqslWQVXxMxRcmucXR6OCFcmlwxLYs4SKou-Swn_wFPPnHHP07TfcAvvmGChCLGGJi2Ogpgkg2rdo2QPCz-xSZ5uW8ZS6jJ5/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-3.jpg" height="254" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gulls over a fishing boat</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyeteuqxxK19EB_D1v7wZIHDtLnaW6IzoqhlEhXLntMgMT_J3UMyiErJLuuUKQueyIGCHF-DpWCJ0QMkxZ8x0ETjB801l8O2l9F1LFi-rqU2OHOFy2a601PxdqOKOU6zE1B7MeLjNFnouG/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyeteuqxxK19EB_D1v7wZIHDtLnaW6IzoqhlEhXLntMgMT_J3UMyiErJLuuUKQueyIGCHF-DpWCJ0QMkxZ8x0ETjB801l8O2l9F1LFi-rqU2OHOFy2a601PxdqOKOU6zE1B7MeLjNFnouG/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland.jpg" height="427" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Transport to the Island</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNd_LCtXmbvDTYE3KjOEAgED9Hec-4APqIYHtjTAsBFkxzm-JswwO34K0ocUdJd4GXRzggbs8c2Gl8JrBtqRXTtKZWIsVaWGd3V8scDruYDNNzB61v6azRjDMxiabZpFTOnLUjGKFHtDmJ/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNd_LCtXmbvDTYE3KjOEAgED9Hec-4APqIYHtjTAsBFkxzm-JswwO34K0ocUdJd4GXRzggbs8c2Gl8JrBtqRXTtKZWIsVaWGd3V8scDruYDNNzB61v6azRjDMxiabZpFTOnLUjGKFHtDmJ/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-5.jpg" height="314" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lesser Black Backed Gull</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTS90uX6WRsuXTJlcmaY-AZf5TXJWJMMw6LuT63nXLQ_XqdW4FqlUG-jIeBKopLgf4DGkQbzU0Lh0was_so0uaQJFh4_KNFqIf7Yj3jH7utTWQp2GZXuYpiwIuyOkQ3R1tem8pIpljcEgF/s1600/Arctic+Tern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTS90uX6WRsuXTJlcmaY-AZf5TXJWJMMw6LuT63nXLQ_XqdW4FqlUG-jIeBKopLgf4DGkQbzU0Lh0was_so0uaQJFh4_KNFqIf7Yj3jH7utTWQp2GZXuYpiwIuyOkQ3R1tem8pIpljcEgF/s1600/Arctic+Tern.jpg" height="640" width="472" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Inner Farne (or On Stewart M)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixz32rQYgUVuM8JyXBzRQwSe6vuDexi8-fVzFA4hVDHfYahtxmilnIUvDKRNI7xsqmA_MVdJthTMfP6OvOnXe_034KHfazvrqH1zPP0WWRo4gzk0mzBxbiSg8hCnXdfd08l7i5rWPwoexe/s1600/Puffins-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixz32rQYgUVuM8JyXBzRQwSe6vuDexi8-fVzFA4hVDHfYahtxmilnIUvDKRNI7xsqmA_MVdJthTMfP6OvOnXe_034KHfazvrqH1zPP0WWRo4gzk0mzBxbiSg8hCnXdfd08l7i5rWPwoexe/s1600/Puffins-5.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puffins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR4nWADVdZAk35XdJwdWlvc7DBMD045O9YCVGXEcEqPF_W5ZZr5D7VUVMn4shFoNCkiKhLvM0rKX5GOBXhmGIZC91YNndYNQhpemDJK4fCpsqhq0sTGCbb01KSk4hzGxXUhMl34Pp4DUVn/s1600/Puffins-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR4nWADVdZAk35XdJwdWlvc7DBMD045O9YCVGXEcEqPF_W5ZZr5D7VUVMn4shFoNCkiKhLvM0rKX5GOBXhmGIZC91YNndYNQhpemDJK4fCpsqhq0sTGCbb01KSk4hzGxXUhMl34Pp4DUVn/s1600/Puffins-7.jpg" height="414" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puffins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJ-sFUd9pGDBNLHBM58WlNiBmhIkN5reNxoHL-qBaZSaufu33OaSreX1lDWqkjoDWw2E4V_aZ7n9ukX9eXcx80QF16ifaLhr9x-BjHQzYRQrasYxdtwDdgAUD-wHc3ezU9gF_Cxx3PzZY/s1600/Arctic+Tern-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJ-sFUd9pGDBNLHBM58WlNiBmhIkN5reNxoHL-qBaZSaufu33OaSreX1lDWqkjoDWw2E4V_aZ7n9ukX9eXcx80QF16ifaLhr9x-BjHQzYRQrasYxdtwDdgAUD-wHc3ezU9gF_Cxx3PzZY/s1600/Arctic+Tern-2.jpg" height="450" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arctic Tern</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRgobwEb3xyAlndSRoDoPnoLSD3YGIRHDZnCSOy_74jLKcBidfQKqFCbOEqvBc9Y7b6DKZIHj1s1REOe7Wd__EWgJjEM_o8aIBuyjZeR8BlAR_-QSF2xGJqFbCVZFs_1TZxmo4T6ELFZ5m/s1600/Kittiwake-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRgobwEb3xyAlndSRoDoPnoLSD3YGIRHDZnCSOy_74jLKcBidfQKqFCbOEqvBc9Y7b6DKZIHj1s1REOe7Wd__EWgJjEM_o8aIBuyjZeR8BlAR_-QSF2xGJqFbCVZFs_1TZxmo4T6ELFZ5m/s1600/Kittiwake-2.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kittiwake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj93_yK4g9q-KUxgaxzPBHMcEsBjjrNrfyPES65NGTY3urS8oq812386O72tRlBO3ocjbjpXwkL77owW-DvM5eYHg-Q0McAc9pgYDSS07DvbrdzCpHAUioeJHLuKDYRN32TCM8S2CvCdVtj/s1600/Guillemots-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj93_yK4g9q-KUxgaxzPBHMcEsBjjrNrfyPES65NGTY3urS8oq812386O72tRlBO3ocjbjpXwkL77owW-DvM5eYHg-Q0McAc9pgYDSS07DvbrdzCpHAUioeJHLuKDYRN32TCM8S2CvCdVtj/s1600/Guillemots-5.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guillemot </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnJqTfLCAHuSuyUfp6tbBcUdRZrhMNsTWGm2TTwmvNsGULCA0wniUD1sj99oxyQq2bI5mevy_djLFB4MrHXeOwAtjLu0T__RDsyNIhyajmx-JCwhpcBKNbwL0G-aKUFlaVmaytboSLAyJk/s1600/Razorbill-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnJqTfLCAHuSuyUfp6tbBcUdRZrhMNsTWGm2TTwmvNsGULCA0wniUD1sj99oxyQq2bI5mevy_djLFB4MrHXeOwAtjLu0T__RDsyNIhyajmx-JCwhpcBKNbwL0G-aKUFlaVmaytboSLAyJk/s1600/Razorbill-2.jpg" height="384" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Razorbill</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCld3DqebpoAyqnFZ-cS-7rjsbMMexftk1jZ2bOb-b72K_CyS8RVf7NDeqfu6VedIgnE3sjPO6LGo3iricMfbBmT2T1XK3tWmv3hcdWRt64KFHl_VSYer-5MGBXg0jB438AKU7RE7Z4uDN/s1600/Bridled+Tern-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCld3DqebpoAyqnFZ-cS-7rjsbMMexftk1jZ2bOb-b72K_CyS8RVf7NDeqfu6VedIgnE3sjPO6LGo3iricMfbBmT2T1XK3tWmv3hcdWRt64KFHl_VSYer-5MGBXg0jB438AKU7RE7Z4uDN/s1600/Bridled+Tern-2.jpg" height="416" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bridled Tern</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixs6_jdGY6v_Kx6RaMeSoTJHTSddkbOCrNKyiOWVc-6wphKwgPbY53Fl3SB-_-8XJYqrTkuMPgcHxSDwdX4w-fiTPRk4CqE3bMESFTUIGZBCRenvyumZ9OoCd-r0OP28anKGTfI9Djbdm9/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixs6_jdGY6v_Kx6RaMeSoTJHTSddkbOCrNKyiOWVc-6wphKwgPbY53Fl3SB-_-8XJYqrTkuMPgcHxSDwdX4w-fiTPRk4CqE3bMESFTUIGZBCRenvyumZ9OoCd-r0OP28anKGTfI9Djbdm9/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-7.jpg" height="224" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The journey home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlQ7E_YQTY-ut7BhuiYWeRy2yoKTbwFWQ2IAviLvo9vhcvm9vhHICW33XrmjAKNjoI1e4GlrLnPxUJsHuZRpLdHVBr8JYxsRX3VRs6rX023gQCNCrHq4EJUlZHcH649fspz_g4yxVHwY2/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlQ7E_YQTY-ut7BhuiYWeRy2yoKTbwFWQ2IAviLvo9vhcvm9vhHICW33XrmjAKNjoI1e4GlrLnPxUJsHuZRpLdHVBr8JYxsRX3VRs6rX023gQCNCrHq4EJUlZHcH649fspz_g4yxVHwY2/s1600/Hills+of+Doggerland-8.jpg" height="258" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The journey home II</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This whole set of picture will look much better viewed in slide show mode - so click on one image to be able to see them all in a larger format.<br />
<br />
Normal (wordy) service will resume soon. SMStewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-66142338555423627522014-10-14T21:27:00.002+11:002014-10-15T09:32:31.433+11:00The Hills of Doggerland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2cET_pkRtnsqoHm7hhi7hLfp58txD0kyVLRj0HeOEUScQKsN3_r60FSub7DQJmOIzNgkEogbGIAq9SpWJzl6vm1b228emeNYlrEsk5tyFo66WHvzlYThAvHiqB0636LwHQ0G0fWwxpq_O/s1600/Looking+Back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2cET_pkRtnsqoHm7hhi7hLfp58txD0kyVLRj0HeOEUScQKsN3_r60FSub7DQJmOIzNgkEogbGIAq9SpWJzl6vm1b228emeNYlrEsk5tyFo66WHvzlYThAvHiqB0636LwHQ0G0fWwxpq_O/s1600/Looking+Back.jpg" height="194" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">More things happen at edges than at the
centre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dusk or dawn are better times to
uncover secrets than the harsh hours of midday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Spring and autumn bring out the hidden and the slow in ways that summer
and winter do not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The movement from
problem to solution, that mental cliff edge of creation, is so much more
exciting than the routine of production.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We gravitate towards the coast with its
tide pools and estuaries, with its edges both temporal and spatial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tides
and times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boundaries and borders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for me back in the UK, there is a strong
pull towards the here and the past – that most intractable boundary of all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We headed north towards Northumbria, close
to a political line that would soon be given the chance (rejected) to become
thicker on the map and in doing so create a new edge of sorts. Not really
looking for edges as such, but knowing full well that we would find them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Up the A1, the old Great North Road, the
older Ermine Street, past places I used to live and work, past places I remember.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Past York, where I went from trainee to neophyte
teacher; past Newcastle and Gateshead, where I planted trees, kept an eye on
long suffering badgers and learnt that you can move on from endings that felt
final.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rows of Tyneside flats, that step
up the bank – not the hill – in twinned front door pairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Napier Road, just around from the post
office, seems so long ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A flash of a
pond, Shibdon, where I counted ducks in winter, butterflies in summer and
walked in slow moving circles, speaking to everybody I saw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A better warden of the nature around me than
of the forest between my ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It takes
less than 10 minutes to drive through a world that was all I had for almost
four years. These days, if I speak over that edge, into the memories of that
time, to see if anybody is still there, only one voice comes back to disturb my
own echo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBO2-lU7SXZKLZC32aREUawIJai5rBwcSEvWTFb9mcOBD41m7JfP34hPIru9nRy8XxACn2DNjB8AanVlLwCvb8X8Tq6zdHAy_VODEFz2gvGfpcFZmVwjcndZVjKjlj7A6_ngFXXVfQJsK/s1600/Farne+Islands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBO2-lU7SXZKLZC32aREUawIJai5rBwcSEvWTFb9mcOBD41m7JfP34hPIru9nRy8XxACn2DNjB8AanVlLwCvb8X8Tq6zdHAy_VODEFz2gvGfpcFZmVwjcndZVjKjlj7A6_ngFXXVfQJsK/s1600/Farne+Islands.jpg" height="224" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I keep driving and Newcastle recedes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mind races backwards, and I recall the
shock of the unfamiliar when I came to live here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could not even pronounce the name of the
city correctly – with my syllables too balanced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Locally it’s the “castle” that takes the
precedence, with the “new” sounding as if it’s pronounced on an in breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond the city, away from Quayside and the
seven bridges, the accent softens, but remains distinct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could have lived the rest of my life there
and my speech would have marked me as being other than local, although this is
probably true of most places!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Soon the dense urban view gives way to more
open green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once more into borders and
edges; England falls away and the presence of Scotland grows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is an open land, with long views to
distant hills, befitting one that that has been reived and fought over for
years. A land thick with history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Newcastle may still mean mines and muck in the mind’s eye of many, but
Northumbria beyond it is the wild version of the green and pleasant land
conjured in contrast to the dark mills of industry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a core of a Kingdom long before
England was formed as a union of convenience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Stretching up to Edinburgh and down past York this was a northern
Kingdom, home to a long line of kings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was part of the Viking Danelaw that looked more to Scandinavia than
to the south.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a part of the world
that may look with some jealousy at the 18<sup>th</sup> of September chance
being offered the other northern kingdom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The barn is a modern conversion, but its
small windows still pay due regard to the old chill of winter, when cold winds
push the waves hard onto the shore and huddle the ducks and geese into sheltered
bays and behind rocky headlands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
February and the dark days of March, even the Eider look cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the small balcony you can see Bambrugh
Castle a little way up the coast, its walls catching the late afternoon light,
and the Farne Islands, rough, irregular a little way off the coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Islands, castles and open views in all
directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a landscape that lends
itself to long contemplation and myth making, internal and external.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRKIaW1Q1NUcT1hoIW2av64iGA244IeM61U_ZrwPJJ-Yr90P3gX3buE6wMipntHkzAZ3P0GOG6T5eBA7Y5S1pSetZg0gezaBN3McTr5bH9jKivSf6gYdLIVrVHzWpK9YyU4VXro5vjg91/s1600/Farne+Islands-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRKIaW1Q1NUcT1hoIW2av64iGA244IeM61U_ZrwPJJ-Yr90P3gX3buE6wMipntHkzAZ3P0GOG6T5eBA7Y5S1pSetZg0gezaBN3McTr5bH9jKivSf6gYdLIVrVHzWpK9YyU4VXro5vjg91/s1600/Farne+Islands-2.jpg" height="280" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">My brother and parts of his family are
already settled into the barn when we arrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As ever there is that strange period when reunited families need to find
out what has changed and what has stayed the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kids are the greatest markers of change;
growth, achievement, failure. Some moving through, year-wise, the years of
schooling, others approaching the end of high academic achievement and the
gaining of a formal title.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But above and
beyond that, there is that strange period of time that comes of finding out how
other families do the common day to day tasks, and which one of the old family,
the brother family, still do things like they were done in the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it turns out that neither of us do things
the way they were done in our parents’ house. This is not a small mercy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Like so many other harbours, Seahouses is
wrapped in a thick protective wall, with rough and sea chopped water on the
outside and calm, slightly oil slicked water, on the inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gulls pass from one side to the other – airborne
symbols of the turn of the ocean, of its power and its ability to bring food to
the mouths of the hungry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gulls, all
silver and grey, overlooked by most, encumbered with the unnecessary and clumsy
‘sea’ by all but the most pedantic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglpO_a4-378Jkje2kt9uOAdbErmcodyAvnhuDl52TtSgc6Vn6TvnOERTtNC0b7weFqS_Hxl24kDesrXW66SeALcqAM3jezwYmbKRENO-j6Kzv03bk3OWwzfFbll7DWoYPGe4tPzNeFiVwZ/s1600/Eider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglpO_a4-378Jkje2kt9uOAdbErmcodyAvnhuDl52TtSgc6Vn6TvnOERTtNC0b7weFqS_Hxl24kDesrXW66SeALcqAM3jezwYmbKRENO-j6Kzv03bk3OWwzfFbll7DWoYPGe4tPzNeFiVwZ/s1600/Eider.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Inside the harbour wall female Eider,
chunky sea ducks beloved of cold climate dwellers, shelter their half grown
chicks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From above they are the colour
of old grass and fallen plants, brown and cryptic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That must be the direction from which danger
comes, gulls, skuas and birds of prey that would take the eider chicks to feed
their own offsprings’ hungry mouths. But on the sea they are plain to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The males, presumably with no domestic duties
to attend to, are a conspicuous black and white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately most of the males seem to be
being conspicuous elsewhere and only one comes within camera range.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gulls, ever-present in their shades of white
and grey, follow a boat as it enters the harbour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Black-headed, Herring and Lesser
Black-Backed, all burdened by the general public by the prefix ‘sea’ to gull
and the lack of anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They all
become seagulls and for many, maybe most, that’s the end of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for those of us who think of ourselves as
birders, it’s a marker of ‘the others’ who don’t take it seriously enough, and
as such should not be taken seriously either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But adding sea to gull may be a greater or
more accurate way to capture the sprit of these birds; for it adds to their
name the sense of adventure and place that comes with life on the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are not birds that have mastered the
effortless flight of swallows or hawks; they fly in a workman-like fashion,
making flight look as hard as it almost certainly is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet they remain the masters of their
domain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither storm nor swell can keep
them from the coast, and at all times they look better flying in ragged ranks
behind fishing boats than they do perched on car park roof tops or gathered
around high street chip shops. They are birds of the sea, and the sea would be
diminished without them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“For those in
peril on the sea” would never have been written by or about gulls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We step aboard a broad hipped boat and head
out to sea/see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seahouses is the
stepping off point for trips to the Farne Islands, a rocky extension of igneous
dolerite, looping out into the shallow North Sea before heading back to form
the castle studded headlands of Northumbria. But the people on the boat are
almost certainly not on board to look at the geology, they are there to look at
the birds that live on the cliffs it forms. The number of islands depends on
the state of the tide, and the number of birds on the state of the season. In
winter, the cliffs are all but abandoned, with the birds outnumbered by the
seals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in the spring and early
summer – in the time I am visiting – the cliffs are thronged with thousands of
breeding seabirds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Under the watchful
cannons of Bamburgh Castle many of the boat passengers shelter theirs, although
with one less N, under waterproof coats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The Farne Islands are steep and rocky
today, but in the past that would not have been the case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today they rise out of the sea because they
are harder and more resistant to erosion than the rocks that lie beneath the
cold of the North Sea around them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
the past, when sea levels were lower, these same rocks would have risen as
hills from a grassy plain for exactly the same reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within the stretch of human occupancy, if not
memory, the North Sea was an open grassy plain, stretching from what is now the
British Isles to the rest of Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was an open plain rich with animals so large that they defy the modern vision
of Britain with its depleted fauna.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
it was a plain over which bands of hunters sought out these animals with little
more than barbed antler spears and teamwork. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Today the Farnes are islands in a cold and
cloudy sea. In the past they were the highlands of the plains, they were the
Hills of Doggerland. A lost kingdom, a real Atlantis that sank beneath the
waves of the rising seas, only to remain in the strangely rhythmic, poetic,
listings of the shipping forecast: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Forth,
Tyne, Dogger. Northeast 5 or 6.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rain
then squally showers. Moderate, poor in showers.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Just after mid-night at the beginning or
the end of the day, this litany of prediction goes out to all those on the sea;
and the peril of their journey is determined by its contents and their
reactions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Our boat circles the outer islands, past a lighthouse
long staffed by keepers and their families, the most famous of whom was Grace
Darling – a local hero – who, in the company of her father, plucked five
survivors from the wreck of the Forfarshire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Today the lighthouse is automated, staffed only by computers, which even
in their most cooperative state are unlikely to row a coble out to aid the
distressed and lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the largest
inner island there is the ruin of a church, abandoned by the pious to the
elements, only to be reborn as a temporary home for the wardens that guard the
birds that call the islands home as well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I can’t help but think of the past that
sits on the surface of the rocks, and the past that lies hidden below the
water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When these rocks were hills
rather than uplands, did people gather on the tall crags to watch and
wait?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Were they used as lookouts,
hunting towers, to scan the horizon for herds of animals suitable for the hunt?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did people gather to scan the horizon, a
waiting group of the old, the young, the lame, hoping for the safe return of
family members?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fire by night, smoke by
day; the embryo of future stories; a watchtower and guide post sitting on the
edge of uncertainty. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And is there a link
between these hopeful watchers, the pious monks and today’s green and brown clad
conservationist?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All seem to want to see
into a better future, and all seem to be largely powerless to bring about the
things they wish for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of the three, only
the direct action of the last group is rooted in the nature of the real world;
the actions of the others only lived in the world of hopes and dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63BlRewIGPXrnd8yOwIBT0JqJlrqd0EHDcz7vv5_qgfQK-mMNg38nWt-8qWa2i6_w47K2S-5pYBlPvCB2Y_jwdQuZTgIMlbkqYI_7g1MPUSjbpQ3cFiuH7Z24yBgSqABa5d8KNm7vhEfF/s1600/Puffins-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63BlRewIGPXrnd8yOwIBT0JqJlrqd0EHDcz7vv5_qgfQK-mMNg38nWt-8qWa2i6_w47K2S-5pYBlPvCB2Y_jwdQuZTgIMlbkqYI_7g1MPUSjbpQ3cFiuH7Z24yBgSqABa5d8KNm7vhEfF/s1600/Puffins-7.jpg" height="414" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Even before we step ashore it’s clear that the
Farnes are a special kind of place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
number of birds, in the air and on the cliffs and water, hint at a richness
that has been lost from the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The steep
cliffs and waters support the kind of abundance that was once common. The kind
of abundance that was reported, and disbelieved by many, by those who left the
already damaged forests and fields of Europe in search of new lands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A kind of abundance that we have forgotten is
possible; the kind of abundance that we should seek to rebuild for the sake of
the places themselves, for the sake of the things that live there and for the
sake of the people who will come to see them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The presence of the boat spreads little
waves of panic through the birds on the water – the cliff dwellers remain still
and steadfast, confident in the security of their cliff edge homes. Puffins,
dumpy, pointed football shaped birds, clatter over the surface of the water. A
dozen or more meters between fright and flight. Some abandon the air entirely
and seek shelter by diving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their short
wings, which look woefully short for the thinness of the air seem to fare
better in the thicker medium of water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The wing length of this remarkable little bird is a naturally selected
compromise between the two states of matter through which this bird flies;
liquid and gas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bright summer bill,
the puffin’s comic face paint, is shed in the winter when the birds are no
longer interested in choices of the flesh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But in the days of early summer the birds are at their finest; rainbow
beaks full of sand eels, bright in the sun, with only the faint traces of mud
on their feathers, fresh from their nest burrows, that spoil the show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-KPLLgwiBv5Hjv-p7CXpakdYfj_MCxYLA6Mc9MiWI4a7tTd1pQw5bWOSMvkCcKmTldjyB_ks-SOP47gpFUplzvZkq1zel5c8Jh7EG3u2GWKT2JGy1FkIzs4vmix_XwzZ6IIMc75PpzLnm/s1600/Arctic+Tern-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-KPLLgwiBv5Hjv-p7CXpakdYfj_MCxYLA6Mc9MiWI4a7tTd1pQw5bWOSMvkCcKmTldjyB_ks-SOP47gpFUplzvZkq1zel5c8Jh7EG3u2GWKT2JGy1FkIzs4vmix_XwzZ6IIMc75PpzLnm/s1600/Arctic+Tern-2.jpg" height="450" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We are greeted on the small concrete
quayside of Inner Farne by a man in a battered, guano splattered hat; surely
there have been few more unlikely keepers of possibility than those who take on
the mantle of summer-time hermit for the sake of the birds, for the sake of the
richness of the world and the sake of other peoples’ children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And from the air around us and the grass
below us we are surrounded by the shrieking of birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Arctic Terns are vocal – and physical – in
the protection of the space they call their own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even through the fabric of a much-loved
canvas bucket hat, the impact of their sharp beaks gains my attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People duck and weave to avoid the
sharp-billed protest of the birds as they protect their young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It gives a wonderful sense of wildness to a
place rather robbed of its wilderness by the density of tripods and meter long
telephoto lenses. The birds will soon leave the islands, when summer ends, but
their relentless attacks show who are the visitors and who are the residents,
albeit temporary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In bare grass scrapes,
often by the path side, and sometimes protected by warden-strung ropes, tiny
fluffy chicks ignore the human traffic and beg for food from their parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fish after fish, tiny morsels of silver
protein, are slowly being converted into an airborne wonder – a sea swallow as
they were once called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A remarkable
transubstantiation of the flesh, a knowable mystery that binds us all to a
common biology; fish, birds, men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a
strange union to consider, with a bird perched on your head and the call of
thousands of others ringing in your ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Strange and wonderful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRq5IAakDdlarwT2KR40nadu6nXPvILcz4uPXYPb7nS2MmeA_B2ytKRkoqVRpxINWLQT8sqE1N2OWxQwFwwlva0fUfNDgxpIDgjpdCUqY4TRV03aEytNY5lMyR6ba3nDZMqxmEothBqblQ/s1600/Bridled+Tern-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRq5IAakDdlarwT2KR40nadu6nXPvILcz4uPXYPb7nS2MmeA_B2ytKRkoqVRpxINWLQT8sqE1N2OWxQwFwwlva0fUfNDgxpIDgjpdCUqY4TRV03aEytNY5lMyR6ba3nDZMqxmEothBqblQ/s1600/Bridled+Tern-2.jpg" height="416" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Out past the landing quay the island opens
up into scruffy looking vegetation, speckled with birdlime and undermined by
puffin tunnels and full of birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of
the photographers and keen birders don’t come up into this slightly battered
area because down by the quay is a rarity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s a bridled Tern, a misplaced migrant, possibly from the Caribbean,
and it’s rarely seen in the UK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a
great bird, but it’s a freak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a
footnote on the Farne Islands breeding season of 2014, and little more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The real wonder of the place is in the living
memory of abundance that you can feel as you walk from place to place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPi9N-yUgj94gvD8dUcv7RUtABKGFpUtdXf2TN_ITaf_feWYCHYU6Vg9RYvC5AuGdwBTOgMHEbYiF2Gqk7SC2TRluXrPTIIsvbYMNlGl4zKTxcdTiotM3iadL-vyzWZAhhyQrFiNuSDd_J/s1600/Guillemots-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPi9N-yUgj94gvD8dUcv7RUtABKGFpUtdXf2TN_ITaf_feWYCHYU6Vg9RYvC5AuGdwBTOgMHEbYiF2Gqk7SC2TRluXrPTIIsvbYMNlGl4zKTxcdTiotM3iadL-vyzWZAhhyQrFiNuSDd_J/s1600/Guillemots-6.jpg" height="428" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Flocks of Puffins and Guillemots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Artic and Common Terns in deafening
numbers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Kittiwakes with cliff face nest and puffy young, born from pointed edge-safe eggs. </span>A smaller number of Razorbills.
A single Fulmar sitting alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the
Bridled Tern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The island is alive with
birds, and for a while all those on the island are more alive as well.</span></div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-71147900266570314342014-09-14T19:49:00.000+10:002014-09-15T07:19:04.873+10:00The ones that got away<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMHYkxP55qYrX-oeD79hu8BS6MBi9oQ0gGlQw57HCItamg71Kt4lcClnNs2rgnhap1jsMs07HvUiuKsA1UKfDLXMJu2FGsDJx-bh2XFgMx4WrPVkwraPrEa5F9whYtCA7WTzT_z0rfWb4P/s1600/The+ones+that+got+away-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMHYkxP55qYrX-oeD79hu8BS6MBi9oQ0gGlQw57HCItamg71Kt4lcClnNs2rgnhap1jsMs07HvUiuKsA1UKfDLXMJu2FGsDJx-bh2XFgMx4WrPVkwraPrEa5F9whYtCA7WTzT_z0rfWb4P/s1600/The+ones+that+got+away-8.jpg" height="326" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">London slips away behind us as we head
north and east.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back out through suburbs
served and invented by the tube.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Slow traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Red light disappointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Green light anticipation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Creeping past houses with small gardens and
smart cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Paused before shops with
ghost signs, showing generations of economic change; markers of waves of
migration that has made this place what it is today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">How easy would it be to map the history of
London by looking at the names of shop owners and the brands of the products
they sell? Post war migration, postcolonial economics, suburban decay and
gentrification told through shop fronts and label fonts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We move out past the ring fence of the
M25:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a boundary in both directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many of those inside look beyond the pale
to greener lands – an escape to the country – and how many outside look inwards
towards activity, jobs and mythically lined streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting in stationary traffic brings far more
questions than answers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The spaces between the houses start to grow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fields, long unploughed, ringed with falling
wire fences, back onto new housing estates and dormitory houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tall grass grows beside the fence posts and
the wires sprout occasional plastic bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This hinterland – neither rural nor urban – is strange to travel
through; it looks unloved, yet full of possibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Edgelands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Unofficial Countryside. Places that fail the categorisation of the
worlds they border yet are home and hearth to many both wild and tamed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Few who live on either side of these places pause
within it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a zone of transmission
and transience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a zone often as unobserved
as it is unloved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Horses stand with
their backs to the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Magpies, more
blue than black, and midnight crows find a living here from the wastes of others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pairs of mothers pass an hour pushing their
children in buggies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are passing
through, and they seem to be going elsewhere as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a land of change and transit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We take the road to Norwich. The fields
grow greener.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Small woodlands, once in
the distance, now push at the roadside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We pass the county boundary; Norfolk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I know less of this place than even London, having never been here
before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The England I knew was west and north,
hills and mountains of sorts, the domain of oak, damp with winds and rain from
the Atlantic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This east is
different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flat. Fertile. Fenland. Fast
formed and flood wracked by season. A landscape more made by man than
many.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A landscape that turns around the
far and obvious spires and towers of churches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And a landscape, distorted by six months of growing excitement, which is
home to fish of many species.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Walnut Tree Cottage looked wonderful on the
web, but an address of “</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Main
Road” has me worried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The naming tree
sits to one side of the crunchy gravel drive and is paired with a huge mulberry
tree behind the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The berries are
ready to fall, the nuts await autumn. And it’s almost silent. Sparrow cheeps,
swallow twitters and the rattle of stones scattered by a pup of a dog called
Tudds don’t count.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After about ten
minutes it occurs to me you could probably play family cricket out on the Main
Road and be in little danger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I assume
that this was a Main Road in the days when horsepower ate oats and spent the
night, curry combed and washed, in stable outbuildings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But today it seems just an honorary
title.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We move
from modern car to a 17<sup>th</sup> century house, with welcoming hosts, and most
welcome tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rooms are historically
small, cool in summer, snug against the eastern wind of winter; wooden stair
steps that speak now and then, flags solid and foot polished on the floor, low
ceilings and double filled bookcases with a section of maps and walking
guides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This could have been the house I
was born in, except this one had functional heating, hot water and plumbing
that worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if anything else was
needed to show this was a here and now very different from that then and there,
a splendid breakfast appeared everyday, spread over a table covered with cloth
and furnished with fruit, toast and jam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Our hosts seemed visibly disappointed that we never took up the offer of
a cooked breakfast to line the stomach – and the arteries - against the risks
of the coming day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I concede that may
have been a mistake, but my doctor would have approved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In the warm
dull hours of late afternoon we head north.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Here, with almost mapmaker precision, the coast runs due east/west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Facing out into the North Sea, this is an
area of fierce winter storms and winds made sharp by the shallow, cold water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And surprisingly along this coastal fringe
lie a number of holiday towns. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or at
least towns that in years gone by would have aspired to that title.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Towns that flourished before people fled their
pebble beaches and summer rain for the Spanish Costas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Towns emptied by package deals from Luton airport
and Thomas Cook. Towns with long piers and promenades, both of which allowed
you to walk to nowhere in particular, and having got there, turn around and
walk back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cromer
seems to be a town split in two:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>away
from the sea the streets are straight and wide, meeting at right angles, giving
views of nothing much more than the other side of the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The houses themselves look solid and heavy,
adapted to the cold winter winds, but over built for a warm summer
afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They look like prime
candidates for bed and breakfasts, hanging on against economic downturns and
the tides of fashion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there are few
signs in the windows and none in the four square garden blocks; the streets
look old and tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are no people
to be seen. The streets look closed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Down
towards the sea the character changes; streets meet at odd angles and pubs and
cafes occupy corner blocks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are
more, but not many, people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They look in
shop windows and wonder out loud about the choice of haddock or cod.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later experience suggests that the best
choice would have been neither.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
streets, clean, bright and oddly empty, center on the flint built church, where
rounds are cobbled into straight lines and sharp corners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The graveyard is wild with flowers, bright
and real in a way that the town seems not to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yellows and reds against the grey
stones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life in a place of death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A strange source of possibility for a town
down on its luck, swimming against the tide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The beach
itself is the best part – flint cobbles and crabbing boats, pulled up against
the wall by rusty old tractors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is
old but alive, fading but active.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
pile stones one upon another, tower building in the Goldsworthy style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Large to small, the uneven stacked back to
back to form a kind of stability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One
flint seems to have a worked edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is
this just a fluke caused by the random collision of sea stones – or was it
worked by an old, old hand when the cliffs were hills overlooking grasslands
and the sea was distant? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">If the stone
was a tool, and I think it was, it seems strange to hold in my hand a blade
from the time when all things started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>An artifact from a culture that dealt with change in ways that are not
open to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a town that might be at
the end of its time, I collect a sharp stone that has been tumbled and turned,
edged and held from the distant past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My stone
tower topples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind chills as the
sun sinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s time to leave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cromer faces
great challenges, but somewhere between the growth of its flowers and the roll
of its stone it needs to find a way forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Later in
the week we return to this stretch of coast – and forewarned we decide to avoid
the seaside towns, and head for wilder coasts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At Holcombe a wide expanse of sand sits between pine trees and the
sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the trees shredded cones suggest
a healthy population of squirrels, and on the beach footprints are over written
by hoof marks; the flat sand an inviting walk or an exciting canter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids choose the sea, and I choose a more
inland path. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We synchronize watches,
agree a time and a place to meet and go our separate ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My footpath
wanders along the boundary of the pines and open fields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dark places to my right and open bright
fields to my left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Butterflies seem to
favor the left, where more flowers bloom and the sunlight warms their
wings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On my return journey this pattern
will be reversed, but the outward leg suits my state of mind, and makes me
smile. The pines are not dark enough to be Mirky, but they are uninviting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A path through brambles – for once not a weed
in need of control – allows me to look over the fields and hedges to my left. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A large
brown bird drifts into view from behind one of the hedges. Lazy unconcerned
flaps and long glides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wings held in a
shallow vee above its back, a hunter’s dihedral; a marsh harrier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon a darker bird, with the same flight and
grace, joins it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first bird pairs
and quarters with the second and even I can hear the startled calls of the
small birds they pass over. The dark bird slides from view and its pale
companion keeps hunting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flap and
glide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flap and glide. Slight changes to
the angles of the birds wings sends it twisting down towards some unseen prey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Not so long
ago this would have been a remarkable sight, but this is a bird that is
fighting back against the tides of landscape change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have bought cheap reliable food at the
price of small and ragged places, unkempt corners and the homes of March
Harriers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Riches and security come at a
high price, but have uniform, unblemished apples and out of season fruit been
bought at too great a cost?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Full
stomachs (for many, but never all) sit below minds robbed of the possibility of
chance encounters, wild encounters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hunger
is not ennobling, but neither is the loss of wildness and contact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The harrier reappears from the long grass,
an unidentified ball of fur or feathers gripped in its talons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rough lands near the sea feed two
needs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back on the path White Admirals
rest in the summer sunlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time rushes
past; with the tower bird hide not yet in view, I walk faster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The steps up to the hide are steep, mossy
and a little greasy; the door creaks as it opens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m surprised to find someone else in there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m even more surprised that he seems to be
marking exam papers; I recognise the disappointed sigh as he reads another
answer that seems to miss the point, or was written by somebody who missed the
class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I say “hello”, but he does not
even look up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He must find marking even
harder than I did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A harrier drifts past in the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ducks – mallard – pladge in a pool of shallow
water in front of the hide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My companion
sighs again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few hundred meters away a
deeper pond holds more duck, coot and a lone grey heron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the back of the pond – at the extreme
range for comfortable viewing – are a group of white birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I expect them to be egrets, a bird that has
only become regular in England in the years since I left in the 1990s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me a group of these birds would have been
highlight enough, but even at an uncomfortable distance it’s clear that these
birds are bit egrets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Unconsciously helpful, one of the birds
moves a little closer and holds its head so the bill becomes a silhouette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A long bill that bulges at its end to a round
disk – the birds are spoonbills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
are at least eight birds, possibly more around a corner in a hidden part of the
pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The birds feed in loose groups of
twos and threes, sweeping their spoon bills through the water, taking in the
thick parts of the summer soup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find
the silence of my companion difficult, and I ask if he has seen the
spoonbills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get a single syllable
reply; “yes”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look back to the spoonbills just in time to
see the marsh harrier fly over them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Neither seems to notice the other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Here in one flooded field we have recovery
and expansion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both are caused by human
change. The harrier, the beneficiary of conscious change, the spoonbills
inadvertent, but well understood, change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We plant trees in unfarmed corners and turn off the herbicides in the
headlands of our wheat, because we can see what happens when we do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when politicians look to the skies they
seem to see nothing at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just empty
space and next week’s polls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the seas
creep up, and the storm rains flow down, places like Norfolk become the battleground
of climate change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many acres here and
in other low lying places may have to be abandoned soon as the cost of flood
and tide defences grows and grows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
harriers and spoonbills will do well from this – but what will it really mean
if we give up this land to the sea?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
will it really mean, when we redraw the maps and the people move on?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Further down the coast seals – common and
grey – haul out on sandbanks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never has
a creature looked so much like an inflatable pool toy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They watch us watching them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Terns and oystercatchers tend to the summer
business of parenthood, some chicks still in the nest, some running in the
water and some still inside the hard shell of their eggs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the creeks and small river mouths boats
sit at anchor, clipped to floating buoys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of the boats looks like a strange combination of Ark and Garden
Shed, as if the upper part of the boat has fallen on to the lower by accident. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The next day dawns summer bright and
clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would not have objected to a
few clouds, but the weather was set fair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Daily temperatures make the front page of the papers and people speak of
the long summers from childhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
early, but not painfully so, when I walk out of the front door and flush two
wood pigeons from the Walnut tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fat
and loud winged, the total mass of this species out-weights any other bird in
the UK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the kind of thing I
carry in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That most domestic of
bird, the house sparrow, gathers in noisy groups on the gutters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the trees behind the house, Jackdaws
chack to each other. In the distance, I can hear the rough cough of a tractor
engine starting. Weekend after weekend started like this for me in the past, up
early to go fishing, wondering what, if anything, would happen over the next few
hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">With the expectation of a canvas hat, faded
down to colourlessness by the harsh Australia sun, my wardrobe runs to greens
and browns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An annoyingly bright bag is
slumped against the wall, but I know I could hide that in the bushes if needs
be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the past I would have had a flask
of coffee with me, bitter and dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
something needs to be left behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have been looking forward to this day for almost six months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the day I can go fishing. And it’s
the kind of fishing I understand: long rods, fine lines, small hooks and fresh
water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A car rolls in from the east, with a face I
recognise, but have never seen, behind the wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had spoken to John the day before, as he
battled his way through nettles towards a river, hoping for barbel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a kid I had read the things he wrote, and
wondered what it would be like to catch that many fish; to catch fish that
big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, he is going to help me catch
tench, a fish that had filled many June mornings in the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The inside of the car is full of gear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Criss-cross rods and tackle boxes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dozens of apparently identical yellow plastic
bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buckets of bait, and abandoned paper
bags that once held lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the
kind of scene produced either by an explosion or a month of continuous fishing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thankfully, it is due to fishing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We talk as we drive down country lanes,
finding common ground in nature and fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It wis weird to meet a stranger and to feel comfortable so fast, a
common goal and a shared vocabulary a clear advantage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the back of the car comes the familiar
ticking of rod tips tapping together in response to bumps in the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The flat lands of Norfolk have not always
been as peaceful as they are today – not that long ago they were studded with
air fields that sent forth planes to protect or damage dependent on design.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the runways of the airfields were built
with gravel dug from ground; the ancient spoor or glaciers and rivers, mixed
and poured to bring forth fire and death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And in the flooded holes this left behind a gentler life now
thrives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The edges have been softened by
willow and reed, the shallows are studded with water lilies, classically
awaiting a sitting frog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there are
fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopefully there are a lot of fish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In a wonderful example of the process beloved
of Intelligent Designers, order arises from the chaos in the back of the
car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rods are chosen and strung with
line, hooks are tied and baited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How
many hundreds of times I have done this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I take a rod to the water’s edge and cast, and place the rod on the
rests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tighten the line and wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel a familiar combination of anticipation
and stillness, the first front and centre, the second growing by the
minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People say that fishing is dull,
but these must be those who cannot drive without the radio and have yet to
learn the value of stillness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The line
on the rod flickers upwards, brief and small, and my hand hovers over the
handle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing else happens. It was
probably a fish colliding with the filament line between reel and hook. This is
a time machine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could be 15 again, but
my hair is shorter and my mind clearer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A Kingfisher electric blues across the
water while a family of Great Crested Grebes fish in the shallow water to our
right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are catching no more fish
than we are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the other side of the
water a heron stands motionless, a grey shadow against the green bank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Terns, wonderfully white against the blue sky,
call with sharp, shrill voices and leave the scene with tiny silver fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere a hungry youngster will be
pleased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s probably a good thing my
kids are not relying on me to provide a fish supper. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijGCVoMwZoCa3anEzES5Dpx4Hsb7ZAe-dDv4ijVmH5f0PMq2lrM6OLlpwTYJlcZHlweYPHZERA5i6DlnV7LYAssiwHhBBV50ljY4KKcSyIPtTc6sBfo3ATM8P2-5PzCA87uZh3iH_NGtmR/s1600/The+ones+that+got+away-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijGCVoMwZoCa3anEzES5Dpx4Hsb7ZAe-dDv4ijVmH5f0PMq2lrM6OLlpwTYJlcZHlweYPHZERA5i6DlnV7LYAssiwHhBBV50ljY4KKcSyIPtTc6sBfo3ATM8P2-5PzCA87uZh3iH_NGtmR/s1600/The+ones+that+got+away-2.jpg" height="422" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">After an hour of near complete stillness we
move to another, smaller pond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no
idea what makes a lake a lake and a pond a pond, but I think this is a
pond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Under a willow tree, almost a
fishing cliché, I fish for tench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
thick topped, red float sits in the mosaic reflection of the branches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Patches of tiny bubbles break the surface,
the signature move of my intended catch, and anticipation builds again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Small fish nibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The float twitches and dances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel my hand tighten around the handle of
the rod.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My feet serve as a rest for the
rod.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There remains something special
about fishing with a float. The process is pure memory and deliberate
simplicity. Eventually the float lifts slightly, slides sideways and
disappears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Classic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fish heads for the sanctuary of weeds and
I cup my hand over the reel to slow its escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Much to my surprise this succeeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I feel the fish circle with heavy intent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel the rod spring straight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stored energy of the bent rod launches
the float back towards me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At such times there is a great need to
embrace stillness, and strangely I can.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I have said before that fishing is about more
than just catching fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if ever
this needs to be true it’s as I wind in the slack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little bubbles of slime coat the line where
it rolled over the flanks of the fish. Things happen, most are of no real
consequence, many make us angry; but often there is little justified link
between the cause and the effect. I remember the anger this would have caused
in the past, as if it really mattered. A rage would have boiled up and stopped
me from seeing anything but the straightened rod and the returning float. I
rebait and recast, and once more embrace the stillness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems the natural thing to do. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A large blue dragonfly lands on the tip of the
rod and rubs its eyes clean with its legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s important to be able to see clearly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stare at the float, a little patch of red
in green, but it stays where it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
moment has passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s time to move on
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Around the corner, in a shady part of
another lake, carp can be seen cruising just below the surface, slurping down
floating goodies. A plague fish back home, here they are treated with a reverence
akin to religion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People set up
temporary shrines on the bank side, with beautiful matched sets of parallel
rods and space age bite detectors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Serious carp fishers are a breed apart, a sub-cult of fanatics in an
already fanatical team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to want
to be one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the kind of sensory
perception worthy of a deity, the carp seem to be able to sense the presence of
a hook in the floating goodie attached to my line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All around my bait rubbery, extendable lips engulf
otherwise identical snacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually
my bait is sucked under and I connect with a fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems rather small compared to the fish
round it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems a rather different
shape to the fish around it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turns
out to be some form of hybrid, and John does not even bother to put a net under
it – he holds the line near the back and shakes the fish off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had hoped for more from my first British
fish on the 21<sup>st</sup> century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>John notices my disappointment – but he has a point!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few casts later I actually hook a carp,
which, with a kind of growing predictability, throws the hook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">How can this not feel like defeat? How can
this feel like such a genuinely splendid day, when I am, to all intents and
purposes, failing to do what I wanted to do – which is catch fish. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it pure nostalgia?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it the outlandish green of the vegetation,
the reflections on the water, and the birdcalls in the bushes? Is it that I can
talk about the things that are important, and in doing so come to have a better
understanding of their value?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is it
just that I have a day to myself, to things I want to do – a rare treat for a
parent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is it all of these, mashed
into a day that so far has yielded almost no fish, but a highlights reel of
stories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWInHa1w15L17sjS4dsqauhb4daVen_7tkPLpc2FLIZl2_CUmoQV2KE-R2RsUFQa1hi-0EVNrWW0GSHtzvx_nThWd-l5pjQIz7h3A7gC610R0fWR83GtzREwr8dBHFDMTBRGmQtstY3d8I/s1600/The+ones+that+got+away.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWInHa1w15L17sjS4dsqauhb4daVen_7tkPLpc2FLIZl2_CUmoQV2KE-R2RsUFQa1hi-0EVNrWW0GSHtzvx_nThWd-l5pjQIz7h3A7gC610R0fWR83GtzREwr8dBHFDMTBRGmQtstY3d8I/s1600/The+ones+that+got+away.jpg" height="640" width="410" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The brief disturbance has scattered the
other fish, and I think it’s time for a break and a bite to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mallard pay us a late lunch visit and we talk
of many things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But mainly we talk of people
I only knew through their bylines in the weekly Angling Times or Mail, the
monthly Coarse Fisherman or Angler; it feels like I am being introduced to
ghosts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We leave the lake to the tricky fish and head
towards the River Welland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Once more this is an echo of the places I
used to fish – small and out of the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We scatter a handful of sweetcorn – opened with a butterfly-handled
opener – into two swims and wait a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>John goes in search of crayfish, an American invader that feeds the
Chubb and makes then grow fat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sit
surrounded by tall reeds and flick a simple rig a little down stream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once more I rest the rod on my feet, making a
mockery of the amount of gear I used to carry. The rod tip bounces over once,
and then folds round and I strike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
fish – as yet unseen – heads for the backside vegetation on my side of the
river; if it managed to get any closer in it would have to get out of the river
and climb a tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know who is
more surprised when I slide the net under a large chub – the fish or me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I notice that at some time between the bite
and the net I have stood in the river, and water is running out of my right
boot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems my mind was
elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John returns, and if it’s
possible seems even more delighted than me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The fish – the largest of this species I have ever caught – would push
5lb (maybe!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although it would be at
home on the other side of the country, I am grinning like the Cheshire
Cat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Five minutes later and a similar sized
fish sheds the hook inches from the net.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I am still smiling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The day ends and I return to Walnut Tree
Farm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell tales and spin stories from
the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t stop smiling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In Norwich Cathedral, just a handful of
miles from where I was fishing, there is a famous sculpture of sorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the roof of the cloisters is a Green Man –
a face looking out from behind a wreath of leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many people think these faces are a representation
of an old woodland spirit or sprite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
mischievous face from the green past of belief:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>on still days when I fish, I feel that it may still be out there,
weaving magic and casting spells. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I smile at this thought and smile about the
ones that got away.</span></div>
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Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-91748891752859324562014-08-23T21:43:00.002+10:002014-08-24T00:33:46.862+10:00A kind of homecoming<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1qht7E7_vydpRmF8ZvgRoEUdSgvs-_aUAMbpkrU_HWl6C3ptPsyEGAzc-2Ofkb3M0f5S6k_KBd45_tBw6-rVu0xEasawtdeWFMgksV-ScFUkp6ZpAyveYkCUJThaf63Fca_lvOXcO_9M/s1600/Expensive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1qht7E7_vydpRmF8ZvgRoEUdSgvs-_aUAMbpkrU_HWl6C3ptPsyEGAzc-2Ofkb3M0f5S6k_KBd45_tBw6-rVu0xEasawtdeWFMgksV-ScFUkp6ZpAyveYkCUJThaf63Fca_lvOXcO_9M/s1600/Expensive.jpg" height="244" width="640" /></a></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Destination.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As a kid I would visit London once a
year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaving in the dark of a Friday
evening and returning in the similar gloom of Sunday afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always in the winter, always in a coach
packed to the brim with bags and boy scouts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We would sleep in loose friendship groups on the floor of a large hall
and eat at long shared tables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On
Saturday afternoon, most of the other kids when to watch a game – Arsenal,
Spurs, maybe even Chelsea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those days
Division One was the highest league, and most games were still played on a
Saturday. Later we would play five-a-side deep into the evening in a building,
which for want of money had a roof, but no walls, and as a result was called
The Lid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I joined in under a kind of
resigned sufferance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Given the chance I played solitaire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Card after card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hand after hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, such behaviour would be labelled odd,
and intervention or diagnosis would follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But I did not go to London for the company,
the prospect of a cooked breakfast or the sport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to go to the Museums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>South Kensington for Natural History and
Science, further afield for the Imperial War Museum. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It never occurred to me that I would not go to
London again next year, and it never occurred to me to go anywhere but the
museums. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I would be dropped off at the front door in
the middle of the morning and told to be back there at a set time in the
afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never remember having
company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never remember having a
watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never remember missing the
afternoon pick up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, such treatment
of a child would be labelled odd, and intervention or prosecution would
follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But in the years that followed something
changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And London – but not the
museums – lost its pull. Somewhere along the line London shifted from being a
point of interest, to being a point of departure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to London to catch planes to
elsewhere, and said – with a confidence that was not based on experience – that
I did not really like the place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That it
was too big, too crowded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That it stood
for the things that I did not – money, privilege, power based on might rather
than right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That it was a place that
sought to impose its own will over the rest of a country that did not always
see eye to eye with its values and morals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I went from enraptured wandering to arms
length rejection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now I was going
back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">No amount of seat-back entertainment or
foil wrapped food can soften the impact of 24 hours of economy class
flying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Relaxed kids and good company
help, but you still awake from what passes for sleep and think – Apocalypse Now
like – “Shit, I’m still in seat 48C”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When you try to convince yourself that having only eight hours to go – a
full working day – is a point of celebration, you know that the flight is long
and the destination distant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I flash an
“OK?” question sign at the kids and they reply in kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everybody is too tired to speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everybody just wants to arrive in London.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Capital <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Even when a stranger is holding it up, the
sight of your own name on a board is a welcome relief after a long trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And one of the advantages of not having a
work a day surname is that there is unlikely to be much confusion about whom
the sign is for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlhGFSXHtQqPdo-AeuLwIpFyOhjCY4244oOs64Z3GWDGfSLaqFeo63Ka_OMpjEveH28XIe8sZLbo3IsUNsNHhxgA4IWAN8GzFvoag5Q7vOYj1LH4TvDse3wxBmmncM4EhVXowfZExJit3G/s1600/Hamstead+High+Street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlhGFSXHtQqPdo-AeuLwIpFyOhjCY4244oOs64Z3GWDGfSLaqFeo63Ka_OMpjEveH28XIe8sZLbo3IsUNsNHhxgA4IWAN8GzFvoag5Q7vOYj1LH4TvDse3wxBmmncM4EhVXowfZExJit3G/s1600/Hamstead+High+Street.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In a delightfully short time we are being
driven away from the airport and towards Hampstead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no idea in what direction we are
moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no real idea what time it
is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of the houses by the road look
old and grey, clad in cement wash and decorated with satellite dishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are few green gardens, but the cars parked
outside are new and shiny and expensive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Shopping trollies, stolen and lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The scattered wreckage of take-away meals. London seems to be living up
to my expectations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I know that no city shows its best face
near the airport – but there are few things more comforting than evidence for
your own misconceptions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But then things start to change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bushes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Weedy patches with
butterflies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The untidiness of neglect
morphs into the chaos of the untamed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is a complete surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Urban roads look like country lanes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The first of what would be many, many woodpigeons walks by the roadside,
blue grey with a clergyman’s collar, and a noisy wingclap launch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The green does not last long, and soon we
turn into Hampstead High Street, with its shops and traffic. But just beyond
the shops and pubs, the well polished cars and white errand vans, is something
I did not expect to be there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A green face
in the grey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A heath for health.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A place to explore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But first I need a cup of tea and some time
to stand rather than sit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As ever, we
look in cupboards and under beds, the kids narrowly avoid armed conflict about
who gets which bed; we settle in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a
long time until we can go to sleep, even if my body says otherwise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Its time to go outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The world through the window of the taxi
from the airport had looked both familiar and strange, a confusing sensation of
memory and discovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was a
sensation that was buffered by technology, mediated by the glass and air
con.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now I was outside and
everything came through unfiltered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
sound and sightscape so immediately and remarkably familiar that it was like I
had been here before, even though I was a stranger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Each little sound and sight melded
together. A kind of sensory flow that was as enjoyable as it was
startling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like tuning back in to
a radio station that had been a favourite – the unchanging channel on the car
radio – but one that had slowly faded over the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Faded until all you had left was a kind of
highlights reel of things that could be remembered for what they were, but not
recalled for how they sounded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
were sounds that you knew you had known, but now had to be recalled. In the
past they would have been head front and centre and named with certainty, so
familiar that I would have known and named them without even knowing I was
doing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kind of background check
that concentrates on things that sound misplaced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now everything sounded misplaced, everything
clamoured for my attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
strangely, it sounded quite loud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
times it had the same feeling as that “tip of the tongue” word that you are
sure you know, but just won’t come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
the cheeping of sparrows that had followed me to Australia, but the call of
birds like Blue Tits and Great Tits, which I had not heard for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The complex, silver whistles of warblers,
brief and uncertain at the height of summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had an urge to name the sounds, to call out the bird, but I also felt
restrained by the knowledge that I was not longer sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each call was a dilemma; a point of
uncertainty that reinforced that this was only a kind of homecoming, not a
complete return, and not a visit to somewhere new. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We walked away from the traffic noise of
high street towards the Heath – down roads that met at strange angles and had
names that probably once meant something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The network of streets and lanes was unplanned, but still strangely
logical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cut-throughs between places
made sense, you could get to where you could see along roads that were probably
older than the houses that lined them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The network had been walked by feet long before the words “town” and
“planning” had been morphed together into a kind of urban confusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were street trees that may have been
planted before the country I now live in gained a formal name and a debated
constitution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As I walk off the hard road and on to the
softer soil of the heath I am overwhelmed by green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It felt like a sudden rush of spring, impossibly
swift after the winter of Australia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Long
leafy avenues stretched away from the gates, the light soft and welcoming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The edges of the paths are flecked with moss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the surfaces of the ponds are capped
with duckweed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s green as far as the
eye can see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But how can this be?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am still in London.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can there be places like this in a town I
knew to be nothing but grey and unfriendly?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have been home (if that is what it is) for less than four hours and
already things that I had known have had to be unlearned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Things that I have held to be true have turned
out to be false.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A butterfly waits, spread-winged on a
thistle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A robin, cautious in the
shadows, waits below a green wooden bench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A cormorant fluttering its neck, waits for the cool of the evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I seem not to be the only one taking
stock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A jay shrieks – unmistakable even after all
these years – from an oak tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
nuthatch calls in its explosive pop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
radio station from earlier times tunes and settles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Memory unfolds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I start to find things to show the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids start to find things to show
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still have 28 days to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still have a long time to remember what I
thought I had forgotten. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the darkness below a beech tree a
squirrel moves from stance to stance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rapid, fluid, comical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My kids
stand and stare and, lacking all woodcraft, run after it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The squirrel takes refuge in a tree but is
soon replaced by two more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then a
third.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids move slower, the
squirrels just as fast. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids stand
still and the squirrels remain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
whole family stands and watches, caught in the first day novelty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To many – maybe most – they are just despised
greys, an import that has grown to the status of vermin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they are still squirrels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are still the epitome of
distraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We watch until they leave,
rushing through the fingered undergrowth of hazel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As the squirrels run off, my kids join then, searching of things
un-Australian. I laugh at the connection between the squirrel and me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They are </span>neither old enough to be native nor fleeting
enough to be a visitor, they are a strange combination of both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I begin to understand how that feels. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The descent to the platform of Hampstead
tube station is the longest and deepest in London.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once you are down there a notice tells you
not to take the stairs back up, lest the 15-story climb proves too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t want to come out of the tube in a
box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tiled floors and filigree metal
work speak of a time when there was a concern for both utility and aesthetics;
people may have died of hunger and diseases that today would only cause slight
concern, but the railways looked good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I hum a tune.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Victorian tunnels..... moss oozes from the
pores....dull echoes”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The train arrives
with a rush of air, smelling of oil, stale and warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The faces bluring in the passing windows regain
a recognisable symmetry as the train slows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the cabin people talk to their traveling companions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The single and lonely don’t speak at all;
they arrive at their destination silent and unacknowledged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is little to be seen from the windows except
rippled blackness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I know
it’s not, the tube tunnels could be huge. We slide along, the human cargo in
the barrel a transport syringe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We arrive
at our destination, are tempted by chocolate, and walk towards light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Busker music filters from an unseen part of
the station, people talk on their phones: deals, arrangements, gossip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Few people know we are here; fewer people in
the crowds notice us – just faces in a sea of other faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For reasons that defy logic I expect to meet
somebody I know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">While there
are far fewer pigeons than I had expected, the unfinished corner of Trafalgar
Square is marked with a large blue cockerel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pigeons seem to have been replaced by
crocodile lines of school kids wearing high visibility waistcoats, shepherded
by collie dog teachers, snapping at the heels of stragglers, bags full of
asthma puffers and medical release forms. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a thankless task – criticized as
unadventurous by those who survived the benign neglect of former years and undervalued
by those who have never sat on the hard side of the teacher’s desk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An independent soul in a porkpie hat eats his
apple by a statue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Double-decker buses,
black taxis, unarmed policemen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
know who is seeing more that makes them smile – me or the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a million other people they climb on the
lions and smile for the camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
climb, but I do smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not memory
that I experience, but it feels like it ought to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too many pictures by other people for this to
feel fully new, too many TV shows, too many icons stacked one on top of each
other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To my own surprise I find that I like
London.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wonders never cease.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It is hot
and the flags hang limp, barely moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A large blue fly bothers the nostril of a guard’s horse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Armed police stand by an impressive metal
gate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such a thing would go unnoticed in
some places, but in the UK, machine guns on the street are still the exception
rather than the rule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We walk
along straight streets, past memorials that urge us never to forget, towards
the Houses of Parliament, towards the seat of a government I am glad to no
longer call my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that the
Mother of Parliament’s is content to neglect many of its children. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel uninvolved in the passion that others
feel, but I know full well that the same thing is happening at home, where the
poor do not drive cars and the desperate are sent back out to sea in orange lifeboats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What have we all done to deserve these
people?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At the end
of the road the two great symbols of state watch each other across a busy round
about – the Palace of Westminster and its Abbey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On one side of the road the living control
the day-to-day lives of the nation, and on the other side the dead hold sway
over its myths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many of the great and
the good (or maybe not) have moved from one side to the other and still manage
to control the destiny of the living they have left behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A statue of Churchill, stoop-shouldered and
heavy, looks towards the tower of Big Ben.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A great leader, a powerful man, a man removed from power by the will of
the people, sick of war and wanting a new start; the third part of this legacy
so often overlooked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Round and round the
buses go, different I’m sure, but always looking the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People wait for an election, but the buses still
look the same.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We take
shelter from the sun – who would have thought – in a park near the Queen’s London
house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People in new suits and
uncomfortable looking shoes leave by one gate while people with automatic
weapons guard another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clearly and justifiably
some guests are more welcome than others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A squirrel
rushes from its hiding place in the long grass and seeks shelter in a
sycamore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Comfortable in its ancestral
home, it pauses its run to look at us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The light
stumbles and trips through the leaves of the sycamore tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maple leaves, so similar to the ones above
us, are set below a sheen of flowing water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The dead of Canada – including three troopers that died in a town that
almost bears my name – are remembered in a sloping memorial that some children
play on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure if this is
inadvertent disrespect or an expression of the freedom that sacrifice
brings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m saddened by the thought of
the first, and wonder if this is the best place to celebrate the second. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We seem to
be surrounded by power and memory; a potent mixture for sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The next
day we head for the Museums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If memories
are to be conjured anywhere it will be here, in these often visited
buildings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we enter by the back
door, and nothing looks familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too
many renovations, too much change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
thankfully, no reduction in wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
the opening displays hold me; huge crystals, ancient plants, fossils of animals
so strange and otherworldly. These are traditional displays, static and rich
with labels – where, when, what and why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The building blocks of knowledge and understanding, unadorned with bells
and whistles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My kids stop to look as
well: it must be some kind of inheritance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Brief
exploration leads to places I recall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Huge reptile dolphins, won from the rocks of Dorset by a lady in a
crinoline dress, hang as panels on a corridor wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A statue of Darwin looking out over the main
entrance, where a huge dinosaur stands to challenge the myth of unchanging
creation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole Natural History
Museum really just an inventory of the way one idea can change the way we know
the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An idea that is so simple and
elegant that some people still find it hard to grasp, and campaign to have it
struck from the record.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth should
set us free, even if the heavens may fall as well. In slow moving crowds,
surrounded by dinosaurs, in galleries packed with the unending variety of
insects and in an empty space shared with the bones of humans long gone and
strangely different, the connection between them and us – nature and humanity –
slips away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are human stories on
both sides of the glass in this museum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just wish more people understood why.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In the
museum I meet a fellow blogger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems
strange to recognise a stranger I have never met, but a stranger with whom I
have had many Internet fractured conversations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She knows a good place for tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Always follow local advice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
evening I meet an old school friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
seems strange to instantly recognise a face I have not seen for half a lifetime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>25 years of stories, punctuated with pints
and a bar meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scrabbling to catch up
on things we had missed, scrabbling to restring the bonds that tie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">These are
not the only, nor the least of the strange collisions that make up the days
here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Prejudice against evidence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fiction against fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The present against the past. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We see
towers packed with jewels, guarded by ravens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We straddle the line where the world divides and drink tea below a
copper-bottomed tea clipper. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The days
are warm, and the nights feel hot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dawn
brings slight cool breezes and the screams of swifts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’ve
reached a kind of home and a kind of holiday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Next month seems very far away and that feels good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7057604927035176441.post-31550513858593139902014-07-30T18:44:00.000+10:002014-07-30T18:44:10.222+10:00Around the Island<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjScCF6iDdy5bPTGJ2x24TQnzU-gAR30vkD-b3ZrN5EfX6osCGsvqjUdfZKtLX5QmlqVoXZF_LQ7jemxPfIZlL8Ra_qm-J3KLDd16Y-7H1tSWvmYZMCqP_8JlazZkK4t3i8HCAN9CJTmI6M/s1600/Around+the+Island-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjScCF6iDdy5bPTGJ2x24TQnzU-gAR30vkD-b3ZrN5EfX6osCGsvqjUdfZKtLX5QmlqVoXZF_LQ7jemxPfIZlL8Ra_qm-J3KLDd16Y-7H1tSWvmYZMCqP_8JlazZkK4t3i8HCAN9CJTmI6M/s1600/Around+the+Island-7.jpg" height="422" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Night
Driving</span></i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You could tell it was going to rain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You could smell it in the musty dankness
lifting from the soil.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You could feel it in the heavy touch of the
wind, fast and strong, around the hedges and rough pruned street trees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You could see it in the green tint edges of
the clouds above, sealing in the sky, shutting out the early evening stars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As I reversed the car out and away from the
house, the first heavy drops began to fall. By the time I stopped at the third
set of lights it had become heavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Real
rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Winter rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">All around me the world was full of
mirrors; water sheened surfaces reflecting the light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shop lights on the pavement, broken by
passing figures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Car headlights on the
road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The on off flash of my indicator in
the paint sheen of the car in front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Waiting at the pedestrian crossing a man
balanced a stack of pizza boxes in one hand and held a wine bottle in the
other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He kept his head down, shaking
the rain from his eyes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The passenger
door of the car in front of me opened and a young woman stepped out, slammed
the door in obvious anger, and walked away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It may have just been the rain, but she seemed to be crying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pizza man does not even look up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cars scatter as an ambulance weaves its way
through the traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flashing lights and
reflected sounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Loud and unnerving, the
ambulance passes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somebody’s day is far,
far worse than mine. Pizza man walks across the road. The young woman is
nowhere to be seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heavy rain kicks
up off the road in crater bursts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turn
left. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The next set of lights proves less
eventful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the freeway the rain seems heavier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truck spray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Car spray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tic toc swish of
the windscreen wipers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rumble of
tyres over the changing road surfaces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rain driving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Night Driving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The shapes of the buildings by the road
blur, hard edges become soft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bright
colours become dull.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Scottish voice
sings, and I join in to pass the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
would rather not be night driving in the rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">By the time I reach Phillip Island I am
hungry and ready to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find
something that passes for food and head to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gulls call in the distance and water drips outside the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly the day fades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
<br />
Local Knowledge<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Breakfast arrives quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A simple plate of scrambled eggs, grilled
tomatoes and toast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaf tea from a
pot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Milk in a small white jug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing fancy, but it was all I needed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The road up towards Churchill Island was
closed, but I had a date with a guide at the bridge, marked with an X on a hand
drawn map.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A car drove down the closed
road and pulled up next to mine – I had found my guide, even if I was a few
minutes late.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Back at the bridge we planned the morning,
which I thought was a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First here,
then there and finally back to here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
didn’t really mind – I just wanted to be out and about with somebody who knew
the lay of the land and the turn of a feather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="EN-GB">Every patch of short grass seemed to hold either
a crowd of Purple Swamp Hens or a couple of Cape Barren geese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The geese, grey with delightful darker dots,
cropped down the grass until is was bowling green short.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only the piles of half processed grass –
fluid and rather unpleasant – restricted the playing of improvised games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Males and females of this, one of the world’s
rarer geese, are hard to split but for one thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The female – domestic goddess that she is –
tends the nest with its cargo of eggs, while the male – all patriarchal disdain
and stiff upper neck – walks the boundaries and sees off intruders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that they seem to be the perfect
size for the table may account for their rarity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only recently have their numbers begun to
recover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only recently has the fall of
the feathers across their back, and the splatter of dark spots on their wings,
been considered better than the taste of their meat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This seems to be a good thing. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">After a brief drive along largely empty
roads we arrive at the koala centre – an area of old gum trees and safe
protected grasslands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A space in which
koalas can do what comes naturally without the interruption of dogs or men with
chain saws.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While these charming animals
are so, so watchable, it’s birds I have come to see. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the slightly de-leafed crowns of the trees
honey-eaters and wattle birds call and fly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A family party of Kookaburras gather and laugh on a sunlit branch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the leafy floor Superb Fairy Wrens search
for food and keep an eye on each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A party that argues and squabbles like most human families, the male
bright blue, the females and youngsters dull shades of grey and brown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Evolution has chosen display for one and the
practicality of camouflage for the others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I laugh at the reversal – my wife wears the bright colours, and I think
that blue is flamboyant, and choose green if possible. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the lower branches a thickset bird sets
its beak to finding food – seeds maybe, insects, anything but leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a colour scheme of yellow, white and
black it’s distinctive enough to be named even with a glance – it’s a Crested Shrike
Tit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a heavy bill and a muscular
looking demeanour it’s clear that this is a powerful bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The male – all bright colours once more –
seems far bolder than the female and flickers through the lower branches,
giving wonderful views and drawing comments of appreciation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The female rustles in the background, higher
in the trees and more hidden for view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>According to the guide books, this bird is locally common – which must
mean I have been looking in the wrong locations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In a natural pool, set between the joints
of two high branches, Rainbow Lorikeets wash with splashy wing beats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>High in a nearby tree<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Galahs sit and watch the watchers go by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Open spaces in the canopy illuminate bright
patches on the woodland floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dark and
light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Green and grey. Sun warmth and
slight shadow chill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Back in the cars we head towards the
coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the sand, Hooded Plovers run
in the distance, backwards and forwards with the waves, clockwork, wound by the
fetch of the wind and the breaking of the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ravens and Oystercatchers form patches of
darkness, some on the rocks, some on the sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gulls ride the waves on silver wings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The wind smells of salt and seaweed, cast up on the beach by last night’s
high tide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watch the open sea for a
chance of albatross, or seals, or whales.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Chance passes by.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Waves break to form caves and rough-cut
headlands around a series of small islands called the Nobbies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They look, according to local legend, like
the islands of the same name in Scotland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This may be true; but I cannot tell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When large waves rush into a cave the air inside is compressed, pushed
together to form a force that, when released, sends a spray of foam and mist
into the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a blowhole and it
looks like the sea and the rocks are breathing in and out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deep breaths of sea air, fresh from the
Southern Ocean.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Where soil remains on the steep cliffs
there are tunnels and holes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some are
old and overgrown, some look fresh trodden and open. In the places where the
soil has been lost, ripped away through the lack of plants and passage of
damaging machinery, small wooden boxes, complete with neat rectangular open
doors, replace the holes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From a few of
the openings black and white faces meet the light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One face shakes from side to side, a beak
flick of tiredness or maybe irritation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For all their comedy appeal penguins are as inscrutable as the next bird
– and Fairy or Blue Penguins are no exception.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But these penguins have little to be
irritated about – the Summerlands Peninsula where they live is as close to
penguin heaven as you get in Australia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is a piece of land bought years ago with the sole purpose of giving
penguins peace on Earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the past
there were far more colonies around the coast of Phillip Island – maybe ten or
more - but one by one they were lost to dog and cats, cars and houses, so that
only one was left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without action the
penguins of Phillip Island were doomed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But then something strange happened – a
government took a farsighted and expensive decision to protect the last penguin
colony. To favour the birds over the developers and the homeowners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The land where they lived, and the land
around it was bought and managed for the penguins. This decision may have been
driven by economics as much as ecology, for the penguins are central to the
island’s tourist trade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But whatever the
motivation, the outcome has been good for the birds; their numbers have
recovered, and they are (at least for the moment) safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Under these circumstances you would have
thought that they would at least pop out from their holes for me to see
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But, sadly, not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A daytime penguin is a home-body, safe and
sound underground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But what seems sadder still is the
realisation that today, our politicians would probably just let the penguins
die and claim they were victims of market forces or the poor management of the
last government. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Waves pound heavy on the shore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thoughts weigh heavy on my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deep in their sheltered burrows the penguins
sleep the sleep of the protected, and knowing this lifts my spirits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I end where I began, by a bridge from an
island to another – from Phillip to Churchill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pelicans roost in a huddled group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Black Winged Stilts stab and forage in the shallow waters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A White-faced heron waits and waits by the
water’s edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A peregrine flashes
overhead, spreading a wave of consternation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Politics be damned, while there is wildness
there is still hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The peregrine returns as I depart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It has been a fine morning.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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Stewart Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622420206244603688noreply@blogger.com18