He knew how to keep Christmas well…

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at last! Yet everyone had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits, in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows!
– Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol

Three months ago, I wrote about my inchoate struggle with food allergies. And then went perfunctorily wheesht… – especially concerning the related battles I ended up fighting as my former fine fettle fell away….

My colours are as red…

It was as if they were precisely as I had left them: serene shapes bathed in blazing sodium – a tinge flattering of the redwings, particularly as they settled; although the companion fieldfares and thrushes likewise glowed with the radiance painting the village’s warmed brick chimneys (some, like ours, wisped with telltale drifts of light smoke). But now the sunken sun shone westwards – not from the west – although my suspicion was the same: that, perched as high in the skyclad oak as its topmost thin fingers would hold, these returning travellers were relishing this tepid coloration; were making the most of the new winter’s protective evanescent light, of its ebbing eight-hour span.

Hook, line and sinker…

Rhys Rusbatch (Peter Pan, centre) and the Shadows – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

I want to always be a little boy and to have fun – says Peter – his final line in Wendy & Peter Pan (on until 31 January 2016) pretty much encapsulating (apart from the enticement of paying only a tenner for a centre Circle, front-row, ‘superseat’) my reason for being there. I needed cheering up; to reconnect with the theatre; to participate in something (a panacea, perhaps?) that would play directly to the bits of my instinctive anatomy that had been left uncommonly unchallenged by Queen Anne – i.e. my funny bone; my chuckle muscle; and the hot and cold faucets that operate my emotional waterworks. I had also entered the Pantheon that is the Royal Shakespeare Theatre – on Friday night – presuming that my grey matter, in contrast, wouldn’t get much of a work-out – after all, this was going to be a ‘childish’ (in the very best sense of the word) not-really-a-pantomime, wasn’t it? (The nearest we got to such a fabled beast, though, was Martin (the adorable Adam Gillen) – one of the most characterful members of the cast – They’re behind me, aren’t they?)

But this is the RSC at its gobsmacking best: and, therefore, nothing can – or should – be taken for granted. (You really would think I’d know better, by now. Although it is so good to be nonplussed now and then; and have your cocksure conjectures soundly quashed.) Not just a technical tour de force – which bodes well for next year’s “not-really-a-pantomime” – but an intelligent, wilful, tongue-firmly-in-cheek, almost metaphysical – I’m just expressing myself creatively through the medium of food – multi-layered, moralistic, magical mystery tour around Neverland.

Not only did we get a whole heap of humble history-lessons with a Panglossian perspective – the finest strands of feminism and suffrage – woven in (sometimes with subtlety; sometimes a little less so…) with our humour (suitable for children of all ages, etc.); but a slick social study of family dynamics infested with unabashed grief. We will have little arguments that may seem awful at the time but in the long run will only serve to develop character and bring us closer together. As with all worthwhile fairy-tales, though, any visible merriment is merely an unstable oil-slick floating on a deep lagoon of pain and darkness. It does not take much force, much of a splash, to reveal the terrors beneath. It is only a game… to die will be an awfully big adventure.

Cleverly and consciously, though – principally due to writer Ella Hickson; ably partnered by director Jonathan Munby and designer Colin Richmond (conjuring up a veritable pantechnicon of delights) – the younger the audience member, the more opaque that dankness. Not only mischief-making, wicked wisecracks and cultural references – You can’t handle the truth! – floating over the smallest ones’ heads like so many fireflies; but the fatal snicker‑snack thrust of swords (brilliantly, robustly choreographed, as always, by Terry King) having as much impact on these innocents as (I hope) Tom and Jerry.

¶

Okay, okay – wait – slow down or you’re going to break your head. Look, stories are written by people that already know the ending, they go back and fiddle with the middle to make it match afterwards; they’re cheating. When you’re right in the middle – no one knows their aa-aardvark from their elbow.

The writing, for me, then, was just as able, as intellectually stimulating, as high-quality, as Helen Edmundson’s – with double-meanings, wily wordplay, and keen insight in abundance. She looks exactly like she might say – ‘Curly, it’s naptime – how about a little crumpet and a snooze?’ The text (and acting) is also imbued with a highly-infectious charm – cushioning you like the finest eiderdown – allied with a clear desire to portray all kinds of love as worth investing in, fighting for, risking. It looks like your face might rain. Please don’t rain, biscuit face, you’ll go all soggy.

And yet the menace (often in the shape of the sly, slithering crocodile – Captain Hook’s very own vindictive white whale – played effectively and super-creepily by the slick, double-jointed Arthur Kyeyune) is never shockingly, tick-tockingly, far away.

Characterization is exemplary – each rôle is so individually written and perfectly performed (every actor outstanding); decked out with a panoply of meaning and vigour – although there is the odd slip into stereotype. But that’s probably just me being a grumpy grown-up… – I’m sure that such devices make it easier for the kids to follow the more obvious aspects of the storylines and interactions.

The philosophical, world-weary, wrathful (and yet occasionally quite charming) Hook – The sun is setting – the evening of my life draws in – himself is played by the stupendous, soul- and sabre-rattling – and frequently immensely scary – dapper Darrell D’Silva: with a keenness more than capable of skewering any noisy, naughty children in the audience. (Just a shame, really, that it didn’t extend as far as the Circle….) Not only is this weapon polished to perfection, glinting throughout; but there was a permanent twinkle in Hook’s eyes, too, as he swung from foe to supposed friend, and back again. This is a man never to be trusted – albeit with a sentimental streak – Oh, Smee – I never knew – as wide as his evil, lecherous grin and tricorn hat.

Darrell D’Silva (Captain Hook) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

And talking of twinkles, whatever jiggery-pokery was used to enable the miniaturized Tink (Charlotte Mills, in the flesh: a cheeky delight as Barbara Windsor on steroids) to fly from hand to hand, was seamlessly synchronized – just one of a myriad of transparent technical tricks that made the show so thrilling and watchable. And, therefore, however wonderful and awe-inspiring Mariah Gale is as Wendy (and she is quite rightly at the centre of so much of the action) – just the right mix of girlish innocence, studied sensibleness, joy and grit – it is the set that wows most; that prompts most of the many, many gasps of astonishment and delight.

Like Wendy and Peter (the acrobatic, joyful Rhys Rusbatch), a fair proportion of the cast spend a great deal of time soaring through the air: and from my viewpoint, not only was this frequently balletic, but also unremittingly brave – I am terribly scared of heights… – especially considering the glitch experienced earlier in the run of this mechanically-daunting production. The coordination and concentration required to keep every single cast member, prop, gizmo, bit of set… in perpetual motion is magnificently overwhelming (and must be completely knackering for those behind, under, above, the scenes…) – but, on the night, invisible in their fluidity.

Mariah Gale (Wendy) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

This play is called Wendy & Peter Pan. Why is that?

When I read the original book and play again I was struck by how much fun the boys were having and how Wendy had very few choices outside of just ‘playing mother’. That was one of the elements that didn’t seem very true to today’s world. I was interested to see what the story looks like told from Wendy’s perspective – what does Wendy want and how is it her Neverland as much as it is for the boys.

– Ella Hickson: Q&A

I’m not utterly convinced by the parallels drawn between Wendy’s plight and Mrs Darling’s earthbound sojournings – but the narrative arcs, on the whole, work well; this is as fresh an interpretation as I think I’ve ever seen; and the audience is never very far away from those traditional oohs, aahs, titters, guffaws and shocked silences (as well as frequent tugs on the heartstrings, and an occasional stir of the old noggin).

You could have left your brain at home, though, quite easily, and still enjoyed the show: letting the laughter flow over you like the incoming tide (eroding the sandcastle of your cynicism…). Two nights later, and I’m still buzzing with the childish thrill of it all! Stupendous energy; wizardry and humour! What more could you possibly want?

I’d just like cake… – once cake is in your head it’s very difficult to think of anything else.

The long and winding road…

After a day trapped inside, ambushed by the deepest, dankest monsoon, Sunday’s dawning brought with it a spectacularly clear sky: and only the northern Pennines, morphing into the majestic Howgill Fells, just waking, to my right – constant, lumbering, reclining colossi – were still snugly covered beneath the cotton-wool-drifted quilt of rising dawn moisture, softening their sharp bulk.

Leaving the motorway, and arriving in the Lake District proper: as I passed Scales on the main road, those majestic mountains reared up in front of me – Blencathra almost friendly, welcoming – glowing a glorious rich russet; with their own topping wisps of remaining cloud floating away, lazily and gently, on the surprisingly lethargic breeze.

All the way, I had followed the sentinel just-past-full moon – a guardian and a guide – the low, bright lunar globe leading me to the turning I wanted at Braithwaite; before descending to its own long orbiting sleep behind the north-western summits.

Hugging the Derwent Fells, the familiar narrow road leads to a small, ancient bridge just before Birkrigg – but mouldered now into the grown-riverlike Rigg Beck beneath – the first vestige of the struggles I had, thus far, only seen in the news. Fortunately, the gushing ford that ran next to the footbridge was passable – but only with immense care and forethought. Had I not a vehicle designed to conquer such challenging terrain (and the knowledge to go with it), I would have mourned my annual return to “the lake by the dairy pastures”; but, surely, in this small paradise, readily found another delightful destination. (Cartmel – which my iPad’s autocorrect decided should be “Caramel” – which seems apposite – Priory, again, maybe; or “old man’s mountain” Gummer’s How – surely, on such a glorious day, one of the Lake District’s more achievable, and far-seeing, vantage points? (In August, visibility had been minimal; the ascent and descent treacherous; the weather then damp, belligerent, and bitter.))

Having waded through this first obstacle, still I went on with deep trepidation. At points – especially the final descent, beyond Newlands Hause – torrents of water rendered the 25% inclines deceptive, untrustworthy waterways. Landslips had mostly been cleared; but the surface of the road was littered with debris: mud, wrack, tangled branches, scree. My 4x4 was as sure-footed as a mountain goat, though: enabling me to concentrate with long-held breaths, and steer slowly and cautiously to my morning’s destination.

I was the second to arrive at Buttermere: chatting for a while with the seasoned, hardy soul about to set off to reconquer Haystacks and the ridge along Seat, High Crag, High Stile, Red Pike, before returning via Dodd and Old Burtness.

His love for the mountains was obvious: as was his preparedness. He, too, had arrived via challenges and setbacks – but also would not be thwarted in his goal!

I parked next to Mill Beck, which feeds into Crummock Water. It bubbled and frothed with a rabid anger that had not only destroyed the fences which usually ran alongside, but filled me with a foreboding that I would not be able to complete my planned circuit.

No snow remained: although torrents poured down from every crevice. Water, water everywhere – turning roads and paths into rivers, streams, and sometime waterfalls.

The walk itself was more hazardous than in previous years: well-trodden ways now well under water; sodden ground; routes blocked by serried, toppled, shallow-rooted pines. At one point, I had to scramble along a short rockface: hunting with amazed joy (and the memories of long-forgotten youthful climbing) for hand- and foot-holds – true crag-hopping (albeit in extreme slow-motion) – before descending to the remains of the eroded, slate-pebble-dashed path below. (My damaged body will take weeks to recover from this punishment, I know. But my mind will leap forever with joy at each similar memory.)

Conditions could have been so much worse: recent wrack-marks demonstrated how much higher the mere had lapped – obliterating any chance of traversing its shoreline.

Just past the obstacle course of fallen trees, I encountered a toddler (with justifiably proud mum) entranced with my reflective sunglasses, bush-hat and fingerless gloves. This was one happy child – with an even better outfit than mine! – determined and communicative; and aiming to complete the circuit with a big grin that warmed the heart. I truly hope they succeeded. They deserved to on such a day; and with such spirit.

But, of course, everyone I encountered said hello. Some stopped to chat, as well; and there was a comradely courtesy – holding gates open; advising about obstacles ahead; suggesting diversions… – but all of us glorying in the sunshine hovering above us.

At this time of year – even when all the sun can do is paint the sky a vivid cobalt, and tint the surrounding, cradling peaks with gold flames, without ever reaching the mere itself – this remains such a beautiful, yet sometimes harrowing, place: the true definition of the ‘picturesque’.

I must have been born without the traditional-English-stiff-upper-lip gene: and, as a result, there is a direct line drawn from external, ineffable beauty – whether that be music, art, poetry, sculpture, landscape… – to the core of my creative, sensitive, romantic soul.

Standing once again on Peggy’s Bridge, at the entrance to the Scarth Gap (I expected orcs), gazing back towards my starting point below High House Crag – Haystacks and Fleetwith Pike glowering menacingly dark behind me…… – dear reader, I admit that, silently, I cried.

The overwhelming assault of magnificence flooded my senses. (There was no room, today, for music.) Truly, this is a place where there is a surfeit of glory and grandeur – enough to emotionally sustain one for a lifetime.

I do not believe in any deity – yet this felt like an epiphany, a conversion (albeit on the path to Gatesgarth Farm).

As I returned to the sanctuary of my car, I was rewarded with one of my favourite sights: four keen Border Collies, expertly controlled with the subtlest of commands, manoeuvring a small flock of muddy Herdwicks to less waterlogged pastures.

Such skill; such innate teamwork; corralling them seamlessly and cohesively through a series of gates along narrow tracks. The oldest dog had a withered rear leg – but this was no impediment – this was an independent, sharp spirit, tugging at the boundaries of control, and obviously gleeful in its well-earned freedom.

Later, with such perfect weather for wandering – although, returning to my hotel, I would discover that my cheeks and forehead had been sanded rough and raw by the prevailing wind – the car park behind the Fish Inn grew full; and the paths and roads around the mere grew busy with companion walkers and cyclists. (Last Christmas, I departed as only the second car of the day arrived – such was its peace.) Such busy-ness, this time, made the place safer, though – essential when each turn of a corner presented unexpected vistas and occasional risks.

Not wanting to repeat my morning’s daring adventures, I returned to the A66 via the Honister Pass (which I had been told by my earlier associate was clear and dry) – pausing below the rugged, stunning Seatoller Fell to wonder at the surrounding might. Beautiful Borrowdale (I expected hobbits) glowed golden and welcoming, below, bathed in a beautiful, warm, umber light. But, beyond, yet more stark evidence – an almost infinite sea, where Derwent Water had once lain peacefully: at some points reaching out to stroke the road’s edge. In Keswick, the worst-affected households were marked by cairns of damaged white goods and furniture – and yet the town was very much buzzing with life.

This had been Buttermere at its very best: not as placid and tranquil as perhaps it can be (and is often imagined). But the Lake District as a whole is still struggling: and needs as many visitors, as much help – along with Lancashire, Calderdale, etc. – as it can get. Go visit! Cumbria is open! (But please – with Storm Frank on the way – be careful out there.)

Merry Sproutmas…!

For Alex and Mike…

This year, for the first time in living memory, the Winter Solstice coincides exactly (in fact, to the minute) with the (as yet) little-known celebration of Sproutmas: where we commemorate the budding of the Monster Sprout; and remind ourselves of our gemmiferous saviour’s miraculous creation story.

Today’s lesson is therefore taken from the first chapter of The Book According to Cranberry (an arguable source, admittedly) –

1. In the recipe was the Sprout, and the Sprout was with Chestnut, and the Sprout was Chestnut.
2. The same was in the ingredients with Chestnut.
3. All things were cooked by her; and without her was not any thing cooked that was cooked.
4. In her was taste; and the taste was the feast of diners.
5. And the feast smelleth in the kitchen; and the cooker-hood extracted it not.
6. There was a chef sent from Chestnut, whose name was Floyd.
7. The same came for a toasting, to raise toasting of the Feast, that all diners through him might be satisfied.
8. He was not that Feast, but was sent to raise toasting of that Feast.
9. That was the true Feast, which feasteth every diner that cometh into the restaurant.
10. He was in the restaurant, and the restaurant was made by him, and the restaurant knew him not.
11. He drank unto his socks, and his socks carried him not.
12. But as many as carried him, to them gave he menus to become the fans of Chestnut, even to them that believe on her name:
13. Which were cooked, not with sauce, nor of the turkey of the flesh, nor of the bill of diners, but of Chestnut.
14. And the Sprout was made festive, and eaten among us (and we beheld her greenness, the greenness as of the only pistachio of the Nut), full of relish and flavour.

Thanks be to Chestnut. Worship the Sprout.

The price of greatness is responsibility – an open letter to Tysoe Parish Council…

Government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the Earth.

– Abraham Lincoln

We seem to have forgotten what politics is. What politics is really for. It is not for self-aggrandizement – i.e. for the enlargement of egos – but for serving the requirements of the constituent population: whether this is at national, regional, district, or at parish level. Anyone elected to any governing body should therefore always remember why they were elected; how they were elected; and who they were elected by. To misquote another American president: Ask not what your village can do for you; ask what you can do for your village. Perhaps, whatever your religion – or lack of it – Christmas provides the perfect opportunity for such reflection.

This is therefore just a polite request – from one of your many constituents – that you work together; and work through any differences you may have (amongst yourselves; or with other parties who may believe they hold sway in the village – however delusional their reasons…) for the good of the village. If such responsibilities are not your principal measures – your principal guides – then perhaps you should rethink your relationship with those you serve; or the standing of those who would try to wield over you power that they should not have. I do not – however beautiful the landscape; however generous the majority of my fellow residents – wish to live in a village riven by the selfishness and solipsism of an élite few, who believe, through sheer arrogance (whose only fuel can ever be ignorance), that it is only their wishes and needs that should be fulfilled; that only their supposed ‘vision’ for the Tysoe we all love is correct.

Another request, therefore, is that – particularly with regards to the Neighbourhood Plan – the Parish Council returns to first principles: and asks those of us who live here whether such a plan is actually required; if so, what form it should take, what we think should be in it, and how we would like it to be put together. I would rather this, than have stricture imposed on us from above by those whose perspectives are skewed by either supposed expertise, wealth, or bigheadedness.

And, no, I don’t have the answers. I also don’t have the power; or feel I should have it. I am just one small voice; one small part of this place – who loves it beyond measure; knows, if push came to shove, that it would survive (as it has done for centuries) without the interference of heavy-handed governance; shaped by those forces – internal and external – that invisibly wax and wane in and around it.

What I do know, though, is that I do not want our local councillors to act like the worst combative proponents of the Westminster ‘bubble’. You may disagree with his (and my) socialism – which I must assume many of you would, considering the local demographic – but I doubt if anyone can disagree, deep down, with the politeness, conviction and sheer decency of the way Jeremy Corbyn conducts his type of politics. Such thoughtfulness befits us all. Especially those who have the power to mould other people’s lives. Especially at this time of year.

Now sing recover’d paradise…

“Where’s your church?”

     “We’re standing in it.”

     “But this is a bookstore and it’s a Friday.”

     “Yes, but you might also choose to see it as a cathedral of the human spirit – a storehouse consecrated to the full spectrum of human experience. Just about every idea we’ve ever had is in here somewhere. A place containing great thinking is a sacred space.”

– John A Buehrens & Forrest Church: A Chosen Faith: An Introduction to Unitarian Universalism

Last Friday was a delightful day of discovery (and therefore one perfect “to be happy in”) – possibly prompted by the fact that it was my (blog’s) second anniversary – although I had initially lacked a way of marking it. However, happenstance (as is its wont) provided divine inspiration (‘theopneusty’), by way of a necessary visit to our nearest railway station; and a consequential impulsive diversion to Books & Ink: “Banbury’s Independent Booksellers” – which has just celebrated its tenth birthday. Huzzah!

Where is human nature so weak as in the bookstore?

– Henry Ward Beecher: Subtleties of Book Buyers

The fact I only left with five small(ish) volumes is something of a miracle – but, as a lifelong bibliophile (especially one with a reading mound that is beginning to resemble Haystacks – both in outline and immensity), I know that one must only enter such an Elysium after a lengthy pause; a very deep breath; and an establishment of sensible(ish) limits. (Plus, of course, books are weighty things: and I am not as strong or youthful as I was – once carrying home every single work by Plato I could lay my hands on in the university bookshop – albeit in paperback. (I was studying engineering.))

Jake went in, aware that he had, for the first time in three weeks, opened a door without hoping madly to find another world on the other side. A bell jingled overhead. The mild, spicy smell of old books hit him, and the smell was somehow like coming home.

– Stephen King: The Dark Tower III: The Waste Lands

Samantha Barnes – who “runs the shop single-handedly apart from her mum” – is utterly representative of the business she has built (or possibly the other way around: this is definitely an archetypal “room of one’s own”): an enthusiastic and extremely knowledgeable lover of all things literary. Talk of books – what else… – and her face lights up with what I can only describe as encyclopaedic joy!

Usually when I enter a bookstore, I feel immediately calm. Bookstores are, for me, what churches are for other people. My breath gets slower and deeper as I peruse the shelves. I believe that books contain messages I am meant to receive. I’m not normally superstitious, but I’ve even had books fall from shelves and land at my feet. Books are my missives from the universe.

– Laurie Horowitz: The Family Fortune

Consequently, my first time there went all too quickly: helped, of course, by our similar, overlapping tastes – albeit somewhat omnivorous… – and a shared reverence for the power of print, and its relevance to life (as well as the fact that it is simply wonderful to be surrounded by cocooning walls of wordage). It’s always a treat to wander into any bookshop – but especially one that is as welcoming, beautifully kept and organized, and well-stocked as this: and where a large majority of the books are demanding to be taken home. (I was so engrossed by the contents of the ground floor that I never even made it up the enticing stairs! Next time….)

Fiction will be much the better for standing cheek by jowl with poetry and philosophy.

– Virginia Woolf: A Room of One’s Own

This is therefore a place to linger (especially if you are lucky enough to arrive when it is experiencing what must be a rare quiet moment – although there is also something exquisite about being immersed in the gentle hum of parallel exploration and discovery). And it must be said that the shop itself has a mystique that would not feel out of place on Diagon Alley: such is its magical allure. (No wonder those who visit White Lion Walk – a sort of modern muggle facsimile – rarely do so only once; and that loyal customers may travel quite some distance to visit.) In fact, its location – “up a pretty alley I’ve never noticed before” – in Banbury Old Town, seems so apposite; and makes it a place you have to actively seek: knowing that the rewards for doing so will be immeasurable, unquantifiable by any tangible means (apart from arm-ache, of course…).

Second-hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack. Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world.

– Virginia Woolf: Street Haunting

With Saturday morning’s flurries of fading snow, and trenchant northerly winds, now seems an apt time – even for me: no fan of its early arrival… – to mention Christmas: if only because Books & Ink – to me – is the ideal setting in which to commence the hunt for presents for those of all appetites and ages; as well as a self-indulgent reward for doing so…. Whatever your predilection, this place is a perfect paradise.

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.

– Cyril Connolly

As two years of putting this together is – again, for me – a momentous achievement (especially as my ‘readership’ seems to be experiencing a growth spurt – thank you…!), I thought it worth attempting to explain what this blog is about. Well, unlike many, it’s not single-topic (as you may just have noticed…). Like a good bookshop (which I obviously do), it’s about what fascinates me and delights me (hence the Connolly quote, above – courtesy of Sam at Books & Ink: who also provided most of the photographs – thank you…!) – although I do try and concentrate on championing all that is wonderful about living here in Shakespeareshire (and sometimes further afield): especially the natural and cultural environments; and how someone who is deafened and disabled wends their way through them (trying to keep a smile on his face, whilst putting one on yours…).

So – hoping that some of your interests coincide with my somewhat eclectic variety; and that’s why we’ve both made it thus far… – thank you for your attention!

So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.

– Virginia Woolf: A Room of One’s Own

Woke up this mornin’…

The Adrian Mitchell blues (Christmas 2008)

I use rock and jazz and blues rhythms because I love that music.

I hope my poetry has a relationship with good-time rock’n roll.

– Adrian Mitchell (Shadow Poet Laureate; 1932-2008)

Woke up this mornin’

Got a space within my bed

Woke up this mornin’

Got a face that’s full o’ dread

Woke up this mornin’

Got a bass within my head

Playin’ the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

Bump

     Crump

          Frump

               Grump

Thumpin’ out the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

                    Hump

                         Lump

                              Rump

                                   Slump

Trumpin’ out the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

Woke up one mornin’

And found that you were dead

Woke up one mornin’

And found a world of lead

Woke up one mornin’

And found all you had read

Writin’ the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

Bound

     Crowned

          Drowned

               Frowned

Poundin’ out the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

                    Ground

                         Hound

                              Mound

                                   Round

Soundin’ out the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

But now my head is better

Read so much of what you wrote

Nearly every single letter

Heard the words sing from your throat

I’ll always be your debtor

You will always get my vote

The perfect antidote

Our greatest ever… pote

Floatin’ out the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

Floatin’ out

     the Adrian Mitchell

          blues

               in all

                    their laureate hues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

Hither, page, and walk by me…

Christmas walking seems to be what an American friend of mine would call a “thing”, nowadays: an increasingly habitual, or even traditional, way of burning off some of those excess seasonal calories; or just escaping from the usual rituals and infinite complexities. I even noticed that the wonderful Stratford Town Walk – a very useful and entertaining introduction to “Shakespeare’s Stratford-upon-Avon” – organizes a “Christmas Day festive guided walking tour”.

However, realizing I had not attained its lofty 184 metre summit even once, this year, I decided, bright and early, to ascend the north face of Windmill Hill. So I dug out a pair of fleece-lined walking trousers; clad myself in many, many layers; pulled on a fresh pair of woollen socks, and my still-Buttermere-soiled leather boots; donned my habitual hat; and set off – fortified by a hearty breakfast – companion staff in hand.

Forth I went, through the rude wind’s wild lament, treading boldly, etc.… – and, my goodness, it was bracing! (Once I reached the top, I measured the temperature at just over 2°C; and later learned that there was a windchill factor of at least 4°C!) But I am a hardy northerner: so was not deterred – not in the slightest… – especially as the sky was a beautiful rich blue gradation, and there was hardly a cloud (nor other foolhardy soul) in sight; and it felt that you could see forever. However, the large amounts of sticky Warwickshire tilth clinging to my soles must have increased my burden (and height) quite significantly!

Looking back from the achievement of the Windmill – being moithered by a pair of squeaking blue tits (the only wildlife I saw…) – it was so easy to be proud of our three little hamlets of brick and stone, slate and clay, peeking out between the many trees below, and guarded by the Edge Hills: a sight which should make the heart of any resident beat faster (although, if I am to be totally honest, this symptom may have been fuelled a little by the climb…), and care deeply about their future. I therefore lingered a while, until my face began to freeze; and headed back – albeit a little reluctantly – for home, and a well-deserved large mug of hot coffee.

Then, last night, as the Feast of Stephen faded, typically not being able to sleep, I went on one of my regular dark patrols of Upper and Middle Tysoe – suitably attired again. No snow lay round about, as in other areas of the country: but, as the church clock chimed half-past two, it did begin to sleet from the north-west. Luckily, I had then turned my back on the prevailing weather. The night was dark as Erebus, though, and the wind blew even stronger; but, having supped a preparatory dram or two of ‘Leapfrog’, I certainly found the winter’s rage froze my blood less coldly. Still, I was immensely grateful for the oak-logs flaming in the hearth, when I returned.

Oh, morning, at the brown brink…

All I ask for, at the end, is a last long resting place by the side of Innominate Tarn, on Haystacks, where the water gently laps the gravelly shore and the heather blooms and Pillar and Gable keep unfailing watch. A quiet place, a lonely place. I shall go to it, for the last time, and be carried: someone who knew me in life will take me and empty me out of a little box and leave me there alone. And if you, dear reader, should get a bit of grit in your boot as you are crossing Haystacks in the years to come, please treat it with respect. It might be me.

– Alfred Wainwright: Memoirs of a Fellwalker

The north-western fells of the Lake District have a very limited colour range at this time of year: the dark green of the conifers; the almost-lime green of moss and grass; the rust of dying bracken, fallen leaves and pine needles; the grey-green of slate; and dark grey of the peaks, silhouetted against the steely sky – or, if you are lucky, glowing gold beneath emerging patches of blue – tinting the choppy lakes…. Green; orange; grey – with the occasional silver glint of vertiginous streams, or streak of snow. A gift to screen-printers; and absolutely beautiful to behold – even in a howling gale, when the sleet is battering your face at over 40 mph…! (I’m a northerner by birth, and by inclination: so am allowed such masochism.) Fortunately, the wind was blowing towards Wainwright’s beloved Haystacks: cradling Innominate Tarn, as it should… – but adding my face to to the local palette: a glowing, windburnt ruddiness.

Such was an almost deserted Buttermere, early last Saturday (when everyone else – if the roads were anything to go by – was out, manically Christmas shopping). Pottering around a small lake is much more preferable, to my mind – whatever the weather: especially when you can count the like-minded people you meet on the fingers of one necessary glove. And my perseverance was rewarded. Even though the wind never dropped, it did clear some of the clouds away from the majority of summits – revealing their true glory, transforming threatening giants into warm-hearted friends: especially the “fell with the prosaic name”, Robinson.

The Buttermere valley is robbed of winter sunshine by a rugged mountain wall exceeding two thousand feet in height and of unusual steepness, its serrated skyline seeming almost to threaten the green fields and dark lake and homesteads far below in its shadow. No mountain range in Lakeland is more dramatically impressive than this, no other more spectacularly sculptured…. Here the scenery assumes truly Alpine characteristics, yet without sacrifice of the intimate charms, the romantic atmosphere, found in Lakeland and nowhere else….

As I walked, I found myself humming the perfectly-ambling-paced Prelude from Holst’s Brook Green Suite – used as the theme music for Eric Robson’s television series of walks with “A.W.” – and it’s difficult to think of a more appropriate accompaniment, even in such challenging conditions (although Brook Green, as a place, itself couldn’t be more different).

On a better day – better for my health, as well as the weather – I might even have hauled myself up Buttermere Fell through the welcoming Scarth Gap (as did one lonely, better-equipped soul – aiming to descend later past Green Crag… – who I met at the southern end of the lake, crossing Warnscale Beck at Peggy’s Bridge) to pay my respects to the man himself at Innominate Tarn. But the granite crest of Haystacks, today, and from this perspective, never looked anything other than its usual forbidding self: a suitable sentinel for such a private – and great – individual. As the man himself wrote: “The Buttermere aspect is the better known, although this side is often dark in shadow and seen only as a silhouette against the sky: here, above Warnscale, is a great wall of crags…. The only advice that can be given to a novice lost on Haystacks in mist is that he should kneel down and pray for safe deliverance.”

Once up there – and it isn’t that tough a climb, really, at around 400 metres – as I know from a youth filled with fellwalking: you will find nothing other than a rewarding, but tough, beauty – the perfect definition of grandeur – that will never leave you (and that you will find very tough to leave – as did Wainwright…).

Writing this, a few days later, on Christmas Eve, supping a pint of Wainwright “exquisitely lovely” golden ale, I can remember almost every step taken: beginning with the walk from the car park behind the Fish Inn; Rannerdale Knotts (“a mountain in miniature, and a proud one”) a perfect backdrop… – not just because the ground beneath your feet varies so much, in level, texture, solidity: ranging from smooth, manmade paths; the damp cushioning of moulding leaves; false friends of less-than-stable slabs of slippery rock; tree roots almost fossilized by the frequent tread of boots; and temporary waterfalls rushing across where the trail once was… – but also because of that allure: every short stride bringing a new perspective (as well as a new photo opportunity… – even with my iPhone battery dying halfway round, I took over one hundred photographs…!).

As I turned, at the far end of the lake, approaching Gatesgarth Farm, I had a real feeling of déjà vu… – Fleetwith Pike rising majestically above a small group of trees… – “Ah: so that’s where the cover of Wainwright’s The Western Fells is!” [And that’s where the majority of the quotations come from (being his last Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells: “Thus a 13-year plan was finished one week ahead of schedule…”) – along with a smattering from The North Western Fells – as he uses the valley of the Cocker, “jewelled by the lovely lakes of Buttermere and Crummock Water”, as a convenient boundary between the two books.]

Returning along the northern shore of the lake (including the unique Hassness tunnel), you certainly look more down than up – and I never once forgot to watch where I was putting my feet, as Wainwright often prompts… – although Mellbreak, once cleared of cloud, was a great target: and stood as encouragement to keep up the pace (although I must admit to flagging terribly at Wilkinsyke Farm: using the excuse of a young border collie’s eagerness to stop and rest my legs, before the wobbly charge of the last few hundred metres; a change of boots and socks; and a final peeling of layers…).

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

     It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

     It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

     And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

     And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

– Gerard Manley Hopkins: God’s Grandeur