Can I take your postcode, please…?

Exactly ten thousand days ago today, driving home on a gently warm afternoon in the middle of September 1996, I was on the receiving end of the first of three serious road traffic collisions (RTCs) that wrote-off the succession of vehicles I was driving and increasingly damaged my neck: leading, ten years later – despite hundreds of physiotherapy sessions, and many, various minor operations – to major, and extended, surgery: when my cervical spine was stabilized from the front with four surprisingly lengthy screws and a sizable titanium plate. (My neck was so badly deformed – like the poor cars before it – that a bespoke mechanical replacement for one of my cervical disks had to be forgone; and the two vertebrae surrounding it were instead fused together.) I have not seen my shoulders since.

Unless a man starts afresh about things…

Loweswater at dawn, frozen in time

My first walk of the new year: and to a location now – as it will be forever – so very near to the centre of my heart and melded so very closely with my mind. Yet, on Saturday, it was clothed so tightly in frost, and held so singularly still, that its icebound enchantment freshly conjured even more enthralling memories to be layered, interlaced, with those soothing ones already possessed. Not just visual – such as the moon-glinted mint-white of the fields below fells of dry-cured bacon; and audible – the rushing becks, the joyful birds; but also, of course, sensual – the ice tightening my face like Botox; the frozen, sogged soil crunching beneath my boots, spongily, surprisingly, bearing my weight… – along with the absolute astonishing absence of Aeolus or his team of Anemoi: their breaths apparently held abnormally tightly, or at least currently (although Eurus would soon awaken: his lazy easterly breeze drawing disappointing clouds to mask the valley from the sun – whose rise I had come to witness, of course… – as well as stinging my eyes on my return…). The place looked and felt new-made: its birth accompanied by nature’s gently twinkling fanfarades!

Lockdown diary #5: Enter into his gates with thanksgiving…

Peacefully, joint in sleep
To Eric Ward (10 March 1929 to 19 May 2020)

I know what it is to die
But not to know that you are dying –
As the breeze clears the hollow sky
Holding your faint, fading soul and fingers
Brushing my face as gently; as gently as
Odours of sage, marjoram and rosemary
Make hands of deep, supportful, lifelong love –
The draught yet unable to fill the emptiness
quarried sharp within my chest.

I know what it is to mourn
But not quite yet to be mourned –
Eight months of pain between our passings:
Mine resolved and out of mind; yours too soon:
Too soon a hand of sharp chalk shelling the blue –
So I take to bed to be with you: too early,
But peacefully, joint in sleep; mine too early:
Yours eternal; mine all too quick, all too quick;
and much too false, except in others’ hearts.

Such endings then should be writ loudly
Each letter screamed so ever deep and ragged –
New scars fresh pathways free forever to explore
Hard into your new hills as they forever grow:
Smoothing under the boots that took so many
To their better futures: taught so well; so well
That your remembrances now merge with theirs.
Proficiscere anima Christiana.
Proficiscere patrem meum.

Lockdown diary #4: My words fly up, my thoughts remain below…

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
– Shakespeare: The Tempest (V.i.88-94)

As with so much horticultural minutiae, it was Felix – still not yet accustomed to having the run of the garden (or – as he must see it – patrolling ‘his’ domain) – who first spotted the tiny creature, and then alerted me (his unrealized chaperon) to its hovering presence; swiftly (and coincidentally) followed by The Guardian’s consistently high-quality Country diary column. I say “tiny”… – but the “creature” in question has a big name in so many respects: “Bombylius major, the large or dark-edged bee‑fly”. Nevertheless, it is small. Yet another of nature’s brilliant and beautiful works of precision engineering, and perfect, startling, purpose. [Bee-flies are sometimes called “humble-flies”. But never, sadly, “humble-bees”… – an eponym reserved for bumble-bees: who, if their buzz (or hum) is anything to go by, are actually quite assertive!]

Eat, prey, fluff…

It is an overwhelming and life-affirming privilege to share the existence of another sentient creature: one devoted to you, and dependent on you, to such a large extent that the alliance rapidly becomes symbiotic. Such a relationship has to be based on mutual trust, as well as love, though; and both parties have to be frank as to what to expect from each other; what they will need; and how much time and affection they are able and willing to give. That so much of this goes (and has to go) unsaid should be no impediment (in fact, to some, this may seem to strengthen the bond…) – even though many would preach the value of constant open communication in cementing any such connection.

For those who respect and love animals there can be no bigger thrill than one coming to you of its own free will, understanding what you are trying to communicate, and trusting you not to harm it.
– Claire Bessant: The Cat Whisperer

That I am writing about the association of human and feline may well prompt derision from some quarters; but the majority, I hope, will innately grasp the truth at the heart of this hypothesis. [As I type, Felix, the characterful dark tabby who prompted the above, is curled up tightly next to me, dreaming: as genial and graceful a proof of vulnerability, faith, and commitment, as I think you may find. He knows no hurt will come to him here; and his credence and company, in return, both comfort and calm me – despite the plethora of hairs wisping over my keyboard and screen…. He is therefore the ideal companion for someone as disabled as myself: especially as I am currently confined to home (even) more than what passes for usual, fighting (and perhaps finally starting to subdue) a variety of maladies….]

When; and the art of existential transience…

For a relatively short time, I sobbed my heart out. But then, being the undoubtedly strange creature that I am – and, yet residing on its periphery, probably reasonably representative of my species… – I do seem to devote rather a lot of effort – as well as lend a disproportionate amount of significance to – mayfly moments such as this. It is as if – recognizing (whilst simultaneously attempting to avoid discussion of) our brittle mortality – we treasure the ephemeral above all else; venerate the transitory beyond rational measure. We see, reflected in such twinklings, I suppose, the entropy that must always prevail (until the only thing remaining is entropy itself); and therefore lend them as much love as we can, until they crumble to the sand by which, when captured in entwined glass globes, we would once (long ago) have measured their brief incidence; before mourning their finiteness. As I did.

All we can do, really, faced with such, is remember. Or, at the very least try to – however imperfectly filtered through our emotions and subjectivity. Surely, otherwise, these junctures lose the import that produced them; and – for a paltry while – that sustained them (and us). And, should our memories – the golden threads which fabricate the texture of our lives; the microscopic building blocks of the richness of our realities: ones we hand down, inadvertently, along with our atoms… – be fortunate, then perhaps they will survive, beyond our crumpled existence, as poor proxies. Thus, many lifetimes hence, those that follow (should they choose) can discern their value, gasp at their truths (again) – rather than simply, reflexively marvel at their endurance, the longevity of the poor surrogates themselves.

¶

I cannot – even were I freakishly nominated as literary ambassador for all humankind – speak, speak to… others’ thoughts (unless similarly committed to posterity: stochastic samples of the privileged and able, perhaps; and, yet, I would hope, as contradictory and wide-ranging as those who selected me… but especially those who did not). All I know is that, pick any part of this blog, and – whether of a walk; a play; a concert; an encounter with the weather, or another soul… – the evidence before you would go a long way to demonstrating that my sole purpose here is in making inefficient attempts at tanning the hide of time, pickling the ineffable, pressing the fading petals of awe between my ever-mounting pages. No better than those proud, possessive Victorians displaying pinned moths by the caseload.

Yes, there are strong hints of their quick beauty; but, once slowed by my dull hand, am I in fact merely robbing the life, the mystery, the essential ‘beingness’ from that which I witnessed? Or should I continue to believe that – in pleasing (only) myself; and providing enough clues with my monochrome words to reconjure the original technicolour majesty, momentarily in (only) my head (should I dare to; care to…) – this is all I should be expected to be able to achieve?

Stumble upon the tens of thousands of still images, archived with a similar objective, and you might begin to suspect that, surreptitiously, I was either stashing them with the aim of posthumous fame; or, more likely, concerned that my raddled brain will increasingly require such prompts. (It would be nothing but vanity to imagine that they hold value to anyone but their creator… – words or pictures.)

¶

And yet I persevere. And always will. Both in cherishing and recording. I feel I have no other option. If I only aim to do so to distract myself, though, then I fail. If all I achieve is to say “I was here”: then, again, there is no purpose. If, however, I write to proclaim my bewilderment at miracles frequently flashing by me – and that I managed to grasp a few of them, momentarily – then perhaps I am on to something. It may not be my “responsibility”, as such. But if I convey just to one other person just one fraction of that I experienced – so that the miracle is extended in time and space – then, maybe, maybe, I have a little justification.

For a short time, I sobbed my heart out. Not, this time, because of what I had seen or heard. But, for the third time in the same number of weeks, because the anticipation of such would lie unfulfilled. Yes, I can watch the DVD of the RSC’s production when it is eventually released; and I can also – as I did, over and over, on Monday evening – listen to the mesmerizing CD of the same performers playing one of the most intimately radiant pieces of music ever composed – instead of hearing it live. But, of course – some of it being down to that adoration of the temporal; most of it due to the ‘happeningness’ I seem to spend half my life waving a tattered butterfly net at… – it’s not the same. (It’s not that the digital domain is sterile – the passions are still utterly crystalline… – just that presence overloads every single one of your senses.)

All those months of drooling expectation; the prolonged crescendo of excitement; the knowledge that something so utterly exhilarating lurks over the horizon… – all dashed. Perhaps it is the anticipation – rather than the event – which renders it so special?

I am convinced that it is a combination of both. I am also convinced that not being able to realize the three-dimensional possibility so readily accrued distresses at least as much as the actualization would have comforted… – and carries with it all the poignancy (if not the force, the tragedy) of a life cut short. At this moment, it certainly feels as momentous – however inordinate I know that to be.

¶

After all, it was just another point in time, a potentiality. And there have been many such that I have chosen simply to pass by. But I selected the ones that would eventually pass me by because they possessed something significant. They were fleeting, rare, coveted creatures that I will now never hold, even temporarily; therefore never stumblingly attempt to memorialize for others (and, in doing so, secure for myself). Scattered amongst the infinite possibilities of my life, they will haunt me: carving yet another notch into the wall of the cell that holds and punishes me (one that is, in my case, simply labelled ‘disability’) – one whose volume seems to decrease, almost imperceptibly (were it not for those sad markers), trapping me tighter with each vanquished wish…. (I could, though, treat them as ‘friendly’ ghosts: letting them help me rationalize, and gain proportion and balance. More straightforward to write than to execute, though…?)

¶

So, I wonder – having tapped single-fingered at my iPhone for the best part of two hours – why do we cherish the transient so greedily? And then why do we – some of us – try to describe it; or at least cement its effects into our emotions? Surely the experience alone should be enough?

And, of course, for most, it is. And yet… we still purchase the CDs; replay the concerts on iPlayer; peruse the reviews; watch the DVDs until we know each line of dialogue, weep and laugh in the same places…. But then, I wonder – an epiphany prompted by an insomniac stroll… – if, “for most”, this is actually what suffices, even excites… – if only a minority of us genuinely crave the imperfections, the risks, the exponentially unwinding possibilities of failure – the spills – that are, of course, driven to insignificance by the thrills. Do the majority actually relish the reproducibility, the repetition, the safeness…?

 

During the hours of darkness – especially two hours after midnight – the village is mine. And, usually, only mine. But it is never the same. And that is as much an enticement as is the pretence of dominion. But, I suspect, many people would find the rich, velvety void of blackness quite scary – never mind lying back on a damp church bench for an hour, surrounded by graves and the rustle of tiny critters.

Very early Tuesday morning, I left home under a trillion pin-pricks of flickering, bright, distant suns: constellations spelled out with clarity and precision; and – beyond the blinding sodium – interspersed with clumps of dust: each speckle an individual. Given long enough, head resting on the arm of one of those benches, the Milky Way also emerges.

As I dragged myself away from the treacle-tenebrosity of Sandpits Road, I saw a canine hind leg skulk around the corner into Main Street. Too large for a fox; and no place for a fox, neither… – there is enough for them in the verdant nature and nurture that surrounds us. But my eyes were temporarily blinded. However, intrigued, I followed: expecting a distant ginger lolloping blur. But, it seems, my depression had momentarily become flesh: for there, a few footsteps away, was a timid black labrador (a shy old friend): dark as the shadows itself. Head hung low, it stood stock-still as I headed for the church; but was gone – home, I hope – when I later returned.

Yet with it came – or so it felt – a change. (And it was then that I remembered that such is our species’ bête noire – not the unpredictable delight I personally revel in.) And when I lowered myself into my customary seat (I can be a creature of habit sometimes…) I realized that my perfect sky had been replaced with an encroaching, enclosing mustard-coloured blur – as if the condensation which had earlier veiled the cars was now obscuring all of Tysoe.

Like the pain that had curtailed my day’s enjoyment, it seemed unlikely to disperse: and so I slouched home, again disappointed. There was nothing new to be discovered tonight; and even the owls had been quieted by this descending, dank wool.

Buddhists believe that “It is only by accepting the truth of impermanence that we can be free.” And the Japanese even have a word for that “impermanence” – wabi‑sabi – although this may be interpreted in many different ways: authenticity; simplicity; naturalness; intimacy; especially an acceptance of imperfection, whether that be of one’s life, an object, or the art we surround ourselves with [pdf]. (It’s probably why I love contemporary jazz so much; or struggle to remember the rare mistakes in a classical performance when there are so many moments of bliss.)

And, so, perhaps I should not really have sobbed my heart out? At the time – so swiftly passed, if not yet forgotten – it felt justified: a cathartic reaction to a spiritual cruelty piled atop never-waning physical ones (which it could, of course, have eased – temporarily). I have learned, over the years, though, to absorb those corporeal pains – they have become part of my material concept of self. Perhaps it is time to start learning, though… – accepting that sometimes the excitement I crave has a necessary bleaker dimension… – how to assimilate the incorporeal ones, too…? Not all unpredictability leads to happiness – although some of it may lead to release.

Let’s think the unthinkable, let’s do the undoable. Let us prepare to grapple with the ineffable itself, and see if we may not eff it after all.

– Douglas Adams: Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency

Fizzy deadly nightshade cordial…

Listen, don’t mention Christopher Marlowe! I mentioned him once, but I think I got away with it all right…. So! It’s all forgotten now, and let’s hear no more about it. So, that’s two grated Tamburlaines, a Jew of Malta, a Doctor Faustus, and four Dido salads.

I suppose with a title like Mrs Shakespeare, a show like this was bound to attract Will (and Chris (and Ben)) aficionados (like me!) – so why only a dozen or so in the audience at The Bear Pit? Were the rest “i’ th’ other place” – or simply (this being the first Saturday night of the summer holidays) filling Stratford-upon-Avon’s many eateries: consuming “the food of love” (or just stuck on a motorway “In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder”…)? Whatever the answer, those poor souls (assuming they hadn’t seen it earlier in the week) missed out on an hour of intelligently hilarious, devastatingly tragic, powerfully insightful, full-on, perfectly-presented, multi-layered drama – not only theatre as entertainment; but, again – for me, at least – theatre as therapy. [And, rather cunningly, (failing) therapy as (successful) theatre.]

I make no apologies, therefore, for quoting a huge chunk of the Doctor Faustus review that precedes this (and which you will also find if you click that link, directly above) – as it applies fully, here, as well:

I go to be challenged. I go to have my mind opened; my heart broken; my soul riven. I go to be educated. I go to weep; to grow – emotionally and psychologically – to laugh; to discover my place in the world that is created in front of me, as well as its relevance to the troubling complexities that exist beyond its literal and figurative bounds. I go to be absorbed into that new interior world; to escape from the old exterior one. I go to be distracted from my constant pain with an injection of a different sort of masochistic agony. I go to retain my sanity. I go to witness and admire deities transform themselves beyond the ken of us mere mortals; to mark miracles. I go to be shocked; to have my opinions and beliefs confirmed, or challenged and transformed; to see and hear and feel things that I have never seen and heard and felt before. And may never see and hear and feel again. I go because it is incredible, unreal: but also because I know I will still believe. I go because I know that, each and every time, I will emerge transformed. In other words, I go to connect to everything I am not; to have my life enriched. I go because it is Art; because Art is humankind’s greatest invention; its saving grace; its redemption; and because it speaks to me so directly, as only Art can. I also go, because, to be blunt, it is so bloody awesome!

In a way, the title of this post – a device from the play itself – sums up the contents of the evening quite neatly. I have a feeling, though – backed up by Google’s statistics (if anyone mentions “damned lies”, they can leave now…) – that people don’t come here for pithy four-word reviews. (Or, if they do, they are bound to be sorely perturbed and disappointed… – and frequently by a factor of several hundred.)

The almost unbelievably versatile Irene Kelleher, as the eponymous Mrs Shakespeare (yup, she really was christened ‘William’ by the Bard-fixated parents who we are led to believe drove her to her current dire straits) is as energetic and fizzy as Puck (if you’re reading this aloud to someone, please be careful…) – at once petite and vulnerable as Ophelia; the next moment – with just the closing of a Freudian eye – authoritative and menacing as Oberon; sometimes as quick and quirky as Touchstone; or as opinionated and simperingly long-winded as Polonius – just one of the many voices she hears internally, and proclaims with pitch-perfect gusto. (One could, indeed, say that she is one of “The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral scene individable, or poem unlimited…”; and without exaggeration: not only for bundling all these into one too-short hour – in which she really does visibly age and gradually mentally unwind – but particularly as she continually juggles this variety simultaneously and successfully – unlike the poor bouncing Yoricks.) [At last! I’ve found a name for my touring theatre company! Yay!]

Her shouts (and whispers) of “Who am I?” – are they Ophelia’s; or are they her’s…? – though, are as traumatic and piercing as Lear’s mournful “Who is it that can tell me who I am?” – especially when she locks her glistening eyes on yours, and just won’t let go. (Gosh: this is brave stuff. Are you staring into her heart; or is she – more likely – interrogating yours…?) The expanding, expansive repetition of that question at so many pitches, and with such a devastating mix of emotions, thus becomes as soul-rending as his “Never, never, never, never, never.” (This is possibly the most difficult line in the Shakespeare canon to deliver – but I have a feeling that Kelleher, with her magnificently huge range of physical and vocal talents, would dissolve us all instantly to grief-stricken puddles with her rendition.)

I don’t know if it helped that I saw the RSC’s current nigh-on-perfect production of Hamlet for the third time on Thursday; or that I now know, from personal experience, so damned much about mental health (or its lack). All I can say for certain (but, probably from your perspective, with intense subjectivity) is that writer and director Ian Wild grabs both by the scruff – the ruff?! – of their necks, whilst wearing his knowledge lightly; bangs their heads together (sometimes quite violently – the oft-cartoonish nature not reducing the impact one iota); and emerges with something incredibly bruising, but immensely entertaining (as funny as Titus Andronicus, yet as tragic as The Merry Wives of Windsor…). There is a mass of intelligence bubbling beneath the surface of this script; as well as a plethora of what might be raw and open psychological wounds.

It is hard to imagine that Wild hasn’t experienced some of these issues himself. But, of course, he could just be a brilliant researcher; and the world’s best transformer of third-party information into gob-smackingly potent drama. I really don’t know. (And it really doesn’t matter.) All that counts, and all that I am conscious of, is that – with Kelleher’s mesmerizing, all-guns-blazing delivery – he hits his multiple targets over and over again with profound accuracy. Who knew that dissociative identity disorder could be so much fun (and yet without once insulting its sufferers – in fact, showing a keen comprehension of their plights, as well as unadulterated empathy)? Of course there’s an “up the arras” joke… – but the belly-laughs this provokes only underlines the agony of delusion, the pain of psychosis, with its acute antithesis.

The pacing of the play – and Kelleher’s transformation from someone to laugh at, then laugh with; to someone you sympathize with; identify with; want to rescue (knowing you can’t – these are her demons…); feel pity for (as well as feeling anger at the ‘treatment’ that fails her – a system you know is all too real…) – is perfection itself. That you leave with more questions than answers – whilst weighed down with jollity, if you will – is a demonstration of its energy and brutal, subtly-crescendoing effectiveness. As I’ve probably said many times before (as have, I am sure, so many others): comedy isn’t funny without a continual thread of adversity; and tragedy isn’t sad without the stout opposition of humour. (We left Hamlet, on Thursday afternoon, dabbing away the weeping that Horatio’s howls at Hamlet’s death had provoked. And yet the frequent tears of laughter had been, in many ways, just as scalding.)

I wish I had seen this earlier. It has the authority of a modern parable. And I am sure I would therefore have returned again and again. (Yes – however different – it has the potential, I feel, to be just as addictive – for me, anyhow – as nine-times-viewed Faustus.) It just shows what dramatic power can be achieved with minimal – but massively effective – props (the cunning set is by Davy Dummigan and Dowtcha Puppets); and an ingenious, insightful script – especially when delivered by a single, enthralling, multi-gifted actor.

From the play’s Facebook page, it would appear that it tours frequently – indeed, this is its second visit to Shakespearetown… – so it’s probably worth keeping an eye out for (cue Duke of Gloucester joke), if I haven’t, somehow, put you off. Seriously, it is incredibly funny. And vice versa. I really can’t recommend it highly enough. Honestly. It is that good. (Only more so.)

Always try to keep a patch of sky above your life…

If you are seeking creative ideas, go out walking. Angels whisper to a man when he goes for a walk.

– Raymond Inmon

As I closed the wooden garden wicket, gently, carefully, quietly, I heard St Mary’s bell mark midnight: muffled by distance; but transported gently by the dying gusts, veering lethargically from northerly to westerly. And, as the night’s squabbling furore dissipated temporarily, so did the warmth and the earlier cohorts of cloud: and the rump and tail of omnipresent Ursa Major hung – a perfect, italic, pointillé question-mark – above the ghostly tower, exhorting me onwards. No other sound surpassed that of the indelible breeze apart from the uncanny, sporadic creak of wood – of tree or fence, I cannot be certain. The natural world existed only above me, it seemed.

The heavy iron church gate was also closed: but pivoted quiescently. The edifice itself, although anchored centuries-solid into the earth, illuminated only by the graveyard lanterns, appeared evanescent under the crystalline vault of heaven: as if its rheumy form would retreat from my approach, my touch. And yet, I could have plucked any star easily from its tranquil ambit.

Once away from the inconvenient streetlights – and as my pupils relaxed – more and more constellations seeped into my vision: a wonderful reward for patience and seclusion. But, forlornly, I espied none of the meteors I had so coveted.

In contrast, the horizons above Banbury and Stratford glowed with a deceitful dawn: delineating the familiar contours of the Edge Hills and still-straining boughs, finally stripped of all summer decoration.

As I turned for home, the clock marked the third quadrant of the hour with its repeated song; and the ostensible three pearls of Orion’s belt – Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka – slid effortlessly from behind the returning, blurring, ethereal veil: revealing a resplendent warrior poised for battle with his club of solid bronze. The decaying Betelgeuse thus twinkled orange beneath the raised arm: an ancient jewelled fibula more fiery than paired blue fighter Bellatrix. At Orion’s heels, Canis Major snapped half-heartedly – with Sirius, more eager as his gleaming wet nose – at Lepus, the bounding hare. And, at the least obvious corner of the Winter Triangle, the puppy Procyon straggled behind the hunt: lost in the bluster of night.

Home, the storm and dark retreated behind me, as I locked the door. And yet sleep would not come.

It is not easy to walk alone in the country without musing upon something.

– Charles Dickens

Money can’t buy you love…

…but it seems that it – or, at least, the trappings of unearned privilege emanating from some long-lost royal arse-licking in the dim and distant recesses of history – can buy you selfishness; all the privacy you could ever greedily desire; sack-loads of solipsism; and the right to stick two very large, land-owning (probably silk-gloved) fingers up at the local peasantry.

I may be the concrete epitome of irony, being an anti‑social Socialist – but I’m sure that if I owned what has been described as “the perfect Tudor mansion”, I would not be so downright impertinent, miserly, covetous and inconsiderate as to keep it to myself: not only barring public visitation (along with Castle Ashby – whose gardens, though, you can enter, for a fee… (I wonder how much the Council Tax is on that second home?)); but ensuring that my property (“It’s all mine – mwa-ha-ha…!”) can only be glimpsed, hazily, from a great distance; and that the stinking, pestilential breath and pervasive body odours of the lower classes cannot be blown within shooting distance by the prevailing breezes. (I wonder if they also require some sort of licence to pass by…?)

Normally, of course, in response to such discourtesy, I would write an open letter, beginning something like this…

Dear Spenny – do you mind if I call you Spenny? (I don’t, of course. And you can call me whatever you want.) You have to earn respect around the Bard’s meagre land-ownings; and you have, so far, in my limited experience, done exactly the opposite…

…but I am sure that my missive would be treated – if not ignored – with the same narcissistic attitude that helped compose the above supercilious sign: which – translated from toffspeak (for the hard of understanding; and those who think that the hierarchies of class and money are there to be envied, and provide society with meaning and structure…) – reads, of course: “Fuck off, proles – and don’t dare cast your bubonic blights on – or anywhere near – my property again! (How dare you be so disrespectful towards your betters?)”

So what has prompted this vitriol, you may ask (or not – it is a little obvious…). Well, continuing to do my bit for the Rambler’s Big Pathwatch, I decided not to visit the windmill, directly, earlier today, as I would normally, but take the footpath around the hill – a route (mostly) new to me – that brings you down straight to Compton Wynyates church. I was then intending to head back along the level Shipston road, having passed the remains of Chelmscote, and past the entrance to Lower Compton Farm; having expounded all my cripple’s finite (and meagre) energy resources surmounting Windmill Hill’s (to me) forbidding slopes.

I had studied the OS map, beforehand, of course – noticing that the marked right-of-way stopped a mere gnat’s dick in distance from the church: which I foolishly, not appreciating my low rank (both meanings) in society, had assumed would have permissive access – due to its historical and community interest and value (not to mention proximity to the road) – and from both directions. (I don’t believe in any god, of course: but the local, supposedly-Christian one obviously only belongs to those with inherited titles – and all that stuff about mammon, charity, and brotherhood is mere cant…. What would Jesus say?!) I also could not imagine – brainless wazzock that I am – that a footpath this long, and leading so close to the public highway, would be a lordly cul-de-sac. But, like the somewhat clumsily‑revamped windmill, it seems its true purpose is as a giant garden ornament for Stalag Compton: on display solely for those with giant opinions of themselves, and Elizabethan leaded-window views. (The house apparently dates back to the time of Edward IV… – but I somehow feel I should be referencing Henry VIII: although, for the life of me, I really can’t think why….)

I may be misinterpreting the message I received (I’m only a northern clodhopper, after all; with proud, deep roots in the well-tilled soil of the working class): but it’s as if we plebeians are supposed to catch a glance of the great Mr Compton’s massive, er, pile; be stunningly impressed; tug our forelocks; and then mount a retreat, backwards, up the steep slopes between Windmill and Lady Elizabeth’s Hills. What I actually did was curse his name very loudly, and vulgarly, as I did so, until I ran out of breath (and the effects of my morphine and salbutamol sulphates had faded…), and had to rest awhile on the stile at the top of the retraced climb – interspersing my oaths with cries of “Vive la révolution!” as well as lambasting the whole principle (no, that can’t be the right word…) of hereditary peerages.

I also considered the Scottish people even more blessed – with their unfettered right to roam their nigh-paradisaic landscape – and temporarily toyed with the idea of pretending I couldn’t read (being thick and from Lancashire, like, tha noes; ferrets; pikelets; dripping; clogs; mills…); before realizing that someone who relies on a walking stick really shouldn’t be attempting to scale a gate (a rude message in itself) much higher than his own head; and wondering how much being pelted with both barrels in the buttocks actually hurts….

The Yahoo, of course, here, isn’t me. It is Spencer Compton, 7th Marquess of Northampton, himself – whose coat of arms, one assumes, is representative of the forces that would have been amassed against my disabled self, should I have trespassed one ermine millimetre onto his privileged, newly-mown turf. (Most of us have a Flymo. This man actually has a man with a shiny tractor…! Crivens!)

It is all very well and good for the latest Tysoe & District Record to fawn, desirously, in this man’s general direction – but not only does the windmill not look “once again as it should” (someone needs glasses…!); neither should the village be owing him “a great thank you” – not until he treats us all as the equal human beings we are; and allows us passage through what rightfully should be ours.

He said also to the man who had invited him, “When you give a dinner or a banquet, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbours, lest they also invite you in return and you be repaid. But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind…”.

Everybody needs a place to think…

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

     So how should I presume?

– TS Eliot: The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

In my last-but-one post, as is my wont, I snuck in many links (which I suspect no-one follows): one of which was to a glowing review of Saints and Sinners: Britain’s Millennium of Monasteries. Like most series on BBC Four – Scandiwegian or otherwise – it was erudite, fascinating, and expertly produced – and the photography was stunning. (So engrossing was it, indeed, that I watched all three parts back-to-back on iPlayer.)

However, the more I became immersed in the history, and intrigued by the skilfully-narrated stories of the people involved, the more it dawned on me that there are strong parallels to be found in the life of someone in permanent pain and that of a truly devout monk – for example: one of the first Irish anchorites (from sometime between the sixth and eighth centuries), on Skellig Michael, who Dr Janina Ramirez initiated the first programme with; or the intensely thoughtful Father Erik Varden, the current Superior of Mount Saint Bernard Abbey, in Leicestershire, who she then interviewed – both demonstrating the deference and self-restraint one must have at one’s core to lead such an existence (and both of which characteristics I am certainly not naturally prone to…).

Serendipitously, at around the same time, an article appeared on the Chronic Pain section of HealthCentral’s website, entitled ‘How to Do More with Less Pain’, which captured this notion perfectly – advising that…

No one likes to live with pain or disabilities, but the fact of the matter is that there are those of us that have no choice but to continue living despite it. Contemplate about how these steps of being flexible, disciplined and humble will help you do more with less pain. Implement these concepts into your life in order to improve your quality of life.

…which could almost be an extract from the Rule of Benedict: more relevant than you may imagine to modern-day – even non-religious – life. My favourite section describes how “The vow of stability… speaks to our current environmental crisis – for when we remain committed to the earth we learn how to be good stewards of that which God has given us.”

¶

The word ‘monk’ comes from the Old English munuc, based on the Greek monakhos: meaning ‘solitary’, from monos, or ‘alone’. (Combined with the Greek arkhein ‘to rule’, it is also – as Shakespeare obviously knew – at the root of ‘monarch’, which comes via late Latin, that is monarkhēs.) And one of the tribulations of constant pain can be that feeling of isolation (on top of the loneliness that may also come with any form of disability): because it is both extremely difficult for you to convey your experience clearly to anyone else (even those who know and who love you well); or for them to truly understand what you are going through. In brief: it is impossible to communicate the ordeal accurately; and it is similarly impossible for most people to empathize with you (which – although I keep parroting on about them – is why chronic pain management programmes (PMPs) are so bloody helpful).

There are also similarities in the contemplative and ordered aspects of both ways of living (particularly the unsocial schedules). The monks of Mount Saint Bernard, for example – rising at 03:15 each morning (although they do then retire each evening at 20:00) – have their practices of lectio divina (“some time every day reflecting on the words of Scripture”) and liturgical prayer (sometimes called opus dei – the work of god, or ‘divine office’) as core parts of their rigorous daily timetable.

My day, too, is governed by regular relaxation and other exercises (as much mental – some involving self-awareness, -acceptance and (attempted) transformation – as physical); and measured out, not with summoning bells, nor TS Eliot’s “coffee spoons” (although they come a close second); but with regular, changing chirrups, at all times of day, from my iPhone (which I think would not be welcomed in a Trappist environment), reminding me to take my various medications – on top of my various meditations (including this one). I also spend as much time as I can communing (in tinnitus-infused ‘silence’) with knowledge – but mostly of a non-divine nature (apart from my recent Wall of Separation series, of course: of which this is, I suppose, some form of postscript, or Compline) – carving frequent intermissions out of such an increasingly sedentary lifestyle: following the fine fissures of chapter and advertising breaks (when I am having a rest from watching television that, for a change, doesn’t impinge on my exhausted braincells; or reading Terry Pratchett, of course).

¶

I have to say, apart from the overtly religious aspects, that (encouraged by these parallels – and perhaps prompted by my recent investigation of Who is my neighbour?) I do find much in the monastic way of life appealing (or, at least I understand some of its attractions); and I can see why those who seek “union with God” would find it compulsive. (Although, something like “The incredibly strict diet of a Jain monk” is definitely not for me!)

I do wonder, though, what contributions such a community would expect from those who, like myself, are disabled; or simply, through age, infirm. I can well imagine that such ‘elders’ are treated with great respect and love for the sanctity and knowledge they have amassed through their long lives of devotions – and in a way (by the ‘infirmerer’) that is very different to that of the much less protective world outside. But what if you arrive as an oblate, at a young age, on crutches, or in a wheelchair…? Or, like me, frequently have isolation imposed on you by your poor health: and are constrained not by vows, nor spiritual devotion, but by the cell walls erected by the photo- and phonophobia of a severe migraine…?

There has been some research comparing levels of disability and mortality in monks and the general population: but it is difficult to draw conclusions from such a small sample – although “The authors hypothesize that [the monks’] prudent lifestyle may prolong life, but at the expense of a higher prevalence of disability.” Those with religious faith are supposed to live longer, anyway: but it really isn’t that simple – and if your life consists of (self-)imposed harshness or deprivation, is it really worth it? I accept this is very much an atheist’s question: but I have to add to my insult by asking is it then also worth it if there is no reward for your devotion – i.e. there is no eternal life with God, in heaven? And isn’t this a selfish quest, anyway: wanting to live for ever, ‘up there’? (Although, if you take Cardinal Newman’s portrayal of Gerontius, and his soul’s ineffable moment, his “approaching agony” – below – then, personally, I’d rather not, thank you: however beautiful Elgar’s music.) I am more than content – well, as much as anyone can be – with my struggles to find whatever utopian moments I can through nature, art, and companionship.

And these two pains, so counter and so keen,—

The longing for Him, when thou seest Him not;

The shame of self at thought of seeing Him,—

Will be thy veriest, sharpest purgatory.

¶

There is a strong history, in early monastic tradition (certainly pre-Dissolution), though, of integrated care (albeit usually for the hoi polloi): many monasteries having started as – or with – ‘hospitals’ or ‘infirmaries’ on their sites (as well as having herbalists amongst their members, such as the legendary Brother Cadfael, of course). Locally, for instance, just across the M40, is Clattercote Priory (although the nearest ‘dissolved’ standalone monastery was probably Wroxton Abbey):

[Clattercote Priory] was founded for Gilbertine canons to run a hospital in the mid-twelfth century, possibly by Robert de Chesney. The hospital ceased before 1262. The priory was refounded 1251-62. It was dissolved in 1538 and granted to Thomas Lee around 1559. The site is now occupied by a private house.

Such a “hospital” – sometimes known as a ‘Maison Dieu’ (literally, ‘House of God’); and sometimes even separate from the main monastic buildings – is at Dunwich: and this featured in a Time Team dig in 2011:

English Heritage has for many years been involved in coastal erosion issues at Dunwich. Although little remains of the once thriving town and Medieval port a few houses remain as well as scheduled ancient monuments, the Maison Dieu – a monastic hospital of the Holy Trinity and Greyfriars – a Franciscan Friary and St James Hospital – a former leper hospital. These monastic ruins are all that remains of the religious houses of the former town, with at least 8 churches and 3 chapels having been lost between 1086 and the present day.

Although it has an educational bias, rather than a medical one (“founded in 1615 in Paris by exiled English monks scattered abroad in the wake of the Reformation and the dissolution of the monasteries”), one of my favourite monasteries is Douai Abbey, a Benedictine house re-established in this country in 1903. You do not need to believe in God to discover that sitting peacefully in such a space as the main church – especially with the awesome filtered light that its radical design promotes – brings a healing peace and contentment all of its own. (This is why Quaker practices and ‘rules’ – encapsulated in their Advices and queries – so attract me. The silent hour of Quaker meditation – or worship – results in similar physiological and psychological relief to the relaxation and breathing programmes of pain relief: although with an emphasis on the spiritual – which, in my case, is countered by the physical torture of sitting still for such a long time.)

¶

Of course, should a monk lose his religion, his devotion, his faith, he could return to that “world outside”: to what most of us think as ‘normality’ (although I can only imagine how intensely wrenching that must be: similar, in a way, to a combat-experienced soldier after demobilization) – and this, I think, is where the “strong parallels” between our lives would also end. There is no such living ‘escape’ from chronic pain. (Nor can you refuse your ‘calling’, in the first place.)

However, were I to wake up pain-free, tomorrow morning (were I actually to get any sleep, tonight…), I think I would feel a similar, major absence – the hurt has become, after over seventeen years, such a major part of my being (both physically, existentially; and metaphyscially, ontologically) – and I would always be concerned, of course, that it would, at some stage, come back to haunt me. It is almost as if I have developed not just a truce with my affliction, after much negotiation; but a synergistic, almost symbiotic (although not really beneficial) bond, after years of sharing the same space – perhaps, indeed, a warped reflection of the affinity the monks seek with their contemplation of, and union with, God…?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

– TS Eliot: The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

Wall of separation – disability…

For various reasons, I’ve been doing a lot of reading, recently – even more so than usual… – including the superb 818-page biography (about the size of an HSBC ‘brick’) of J Robert Oppenheimer, Inside the Centre, by the philosopher Ray Monk – as great a work of literature, I think, as I have ever read. But what inspired this post was something a lot shorter: the Church of England House of Bishops’ ‘Pastoral Letter on the 2015 General Election’, Who is my neighbour? – which The Guardian welcomed as “a thoughtful and well-rooted Christian argument as well as a very different kind of political intervention”.

Although it has its faults (including the inconsistency of style you would expect of a committee-derived communication; and – to me – a strange mix of religiosity and plain-speaking commonsense), I found it rewarding and refreshing to read an ostensibly political message that:

• was neither adversarial, arrogant, nor haranguing;
• demonstrates a duty of care towards all fellow human beings;
• makes “an overarching philosophical argument about the state of modern politics”; and
• provides a coherent, sincere vision that no political party, to my mind, has come within a country mile of.

It is sad, though, that, immediately upon its publication, there was not only an instant – and ignorant – massed attack from many parts of the political continuum, accusing the church of being partisan; but also a parallel attempt by cynical – some may say disingenuous – politicians to render it, somehow, more pertinent to their ideology than their adversaries’.

Over the next couple of weeks or so (and possibly continuing up to the election itself), I will therefore try to delve deeper into this letter (all under the Wall of separation heading): examining (and meditating on?) some of its statements and manifold themes; and the way these contribute – subjectively, of course – to my feelings about, perspectives on, and connections to, current politics – in the same way, I suppose, as exegesis and hermeneutics are used to critically examine, and learn from, the bible and other religious and philosophical writings and scriptures.

¶

Tara Flood, a Paralympic gold medallist swimmer, speaks for the entire disabled population when she says: “I want to live an ordinary life in a society that treats me as a human being.”

– Tony Parsons: Disabled go from Paralympic winners to humiliated as ‘scroungers’ in space of a year

As it is a subject that is obviously close to my heart, as well as moulding the way I live, I have decided to begin with the emotive issue of disability – which is referenced in three paragraphs (quoted in full, below) in the bishops’ letter, all contained in the subsection entitled ‘The Person in Community’. (There are no such concerns, by the way, in the much shorter, less politically controversial, Catholic equivalent: released at around the same time. All its authors “suggest” is that, before voting, you ask “Where do your candidates stand on directly helping the poorest and most vulnerable people in the UK and also helping them to transform their lives?”)

[61] Most people, when asked, subscribe to some version of the idea that all people are created equal. Yet this is contradicted in the way that some categories of people are spoken about – people who are sick, disabled, terminally ill or otherwise unable to live the life that a consumer society celebrates; people who are unable to work, materially poor or mentally ill in ways which challenge “acceptable” ways of being unwell.

[62] There is a deep contradiction in the attitudes of a society which celebrates equality in principle yet treats some people, especially the poor and vulnerable, as unwanted, unvalued and unnoticed. It is particularly counter-productive to denigrate those who are in need, because this undermines the wider social instinct to support one another in the community. For instance, when those who rely on social security payments are all described in terms that imply they are undeserving, dependent, and ought to be self-sufficient, it deters others from offering the informal, neighbourly support which could ease some of the burden of welfare on the state.

[64] Restoring the balance between the individual and the community around them is a necessity if every person is to be truly valued for who they are and not just on a crude calculus of utility. It is vital to move beyond the superficial equality of free consumers in a market place of relationships and to see the virtues in the relationships of family and community which are given, not chosen.

¶ 

That perspicacious and challenging phrase “a crude calculus of utility” hit me right between the eyes; and made me ruminate not only on who the “disabled” actually are – a clumsy but useful label, I suppose, for collecting together the diverse people who are impacted by restrictions (social or medical) “in the ability to perform a normal activity of daily living” – but what rôles we, as a general group, are ‘allowed’ to play in society; and, chiefly, if we have any marketable ‘value’ in a world ruled by capitalism. (And, yes, a battered copy of The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists lies proudly near the top of my Matterhorn-like reading pile!)

Many people – especially those “hard-working” folk so beloved of our current main party leaders – are defined (and would define themselves) by their jobs (which may, also, of course, provide a shorthand method of categorizing their class, or societal ‘level’): but not many disabled people are, by definition (as well as by the constraints of the workplace), able to work (especially those claiming benefits).

If, as a genuinely separate grouping, the disabled are only seen as contributing to currently accepted definitions of society by also working – otherwise we are simplistically labelled “scroungers”, or decried as “a drain on the economy” – does that really make us ‘in-valid’ members of it if we are not employed (even if we had already contributed large amounts of tax and National Insurance over, say, a quarter of a century…)? Perhaps if welfare amounts were more attuned to the real-world (additional) cost of actually being impaired, then they would not keep us trapped in a position of meagre subsistence. And ‘higher-level’ benefits – such as PIP (Personal Independence Payment) – would not only truly contribute to that “independence”, but would also enable more active entry into ‘the market’: with payees using it, for example, to purchase care, lease Motability vehicles, and pay for adaptations to their homes.

¶

The loss of employment after the fact, though – although (maybe) not as bad as the loss of a sense or other facility – has a devastating, explosive impact on that earned and earning identity (splintering it both inwardly and outwardly): especially if there is no chance (because of age, as well as impairment – although, in some people’s eyes, the two are not that different: a premature agglomeration of the sixth and seventh ages of man…) of returning to any form of work (although being disabled can be more than a full-time job in itself, for many…).

For instance, I have attempted to rebuild my persona (principally for my own desperate satisfaction) – especially its public-facing aspects – by producing this blog. Writing was always one of my major competences in employment (as a subset of wider natural and learned communication skills): and although the physical aspects of production are immensely painful and tiring – which then lead to the mental aspects also rapidly diminishing… – I can, however limited my capacities now are, carry them out in my own time (days and weeks, rather than minutes and hours; at three o’clock in the morning, rather than nine-to-five), sans deadline, sans supervision, sans inspection, sans employment. However satisfying, though, in its slow-mo accomplishments, it is no substitute for the camaraderie of the workplace; or the almost accidental absorption of additional aptitudes (never mind the necessary collaboration and quality control…). And it certainly does not pay as well….

The point I am trying to make here is that – although it does not fit the ‘norms’ of current employment practice (who is going to pay me the living wage for a couple of hours of self-selected ‘work’ per week; but not most weeks…?) – even though I am disabled, I still have a marketable skill, however much depleted. (And, even though Labour talk enthusiastically about “predistribution” – I cannot see this coming to my rescue: especially as it appears both extremely left-wing and, currently, completely without substance.) My intellect – although only available in disjointed, irregular chunks – is still some form of asset (as is that of my eighty-odd-year-old parents). However, there is no way – unless you count this blog as a ‘good’ (rather than just, ahem, good…) in itself – that I am adding much economic worth to society; nor does society, from its own perspective, appreciate me for it in any way. And therefore, because I am disabled, and because I am not appreciated, I am also not a voracious consumer (except of books). I am outside the wall – as the bishops say: “unwanted, unvalued and unnoticed”.

Timon will to the woods, where he shall find

Th’ unkindest beast more kinder than mankind.

The gods confound (hear me, you good gods all)

Th’ Athenians both within and out that wall!

And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow

To the whole race of mankind, high and low!

Amen.

– William Shakespeare: Timon of Athens

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills…

Betwix’ thi ’ills, s’ bleak an’ barren,

Lies a little town, bi the name o’ Darren.

For most of the first forty years of my life, I lived on the western edge of the Pennines: cradled by tall hills and rugged moorland; and for the latter half of that period, made my home on the edge of a small industrial town, whose low centre lies 172 metres above sea level; and whose most famous landmark – itself 26 metres high – stands on the “bleak an’ barren” (but utterly beautiful) moors 372 metres above the Lancashire coastline: with Blackpool Tower visible, nearly thirty miles away, on a clear day.

If you can see the tower, it’s going to rain.

If you can’t, it’s raining.

I therefore feel utterly at home when the terrain huddles around me – although this does not mean (especially as my legs grow older) that I need to be climbing; just that the altitude needs to be such that I know, even with my eyes closed (although that would just be plain silly, when there are so many delights to soak in…), I am not in the lowlands or the flatlands of our country’s varied topography.

Over the weekend, I therefore found myself driving through freshly-fallen snow and thick fog, as the sun rose – clearing the hilltops; but leaving the deep hollows in-between filled with thick strands of cottonwool – with an inexorable desire to don my walking boots, and retrace some familiar steps from that earlier existence. From the single set of tracks, and lone 4x4 sitting in the pristine, bright crispness, it was obvious that this would also be the peaceable experience I hankered after: complementing my memories with refreshing vistas (of the sort, I’m afraid, that you can only find many miles north of Tysoe…).

It’s not a long walk (about two-and-a-half miles) around Turton and Entwistle Reservoir – formed by what was the tallest dam (33 metres) in Britain, when it was constructed in 1832 – even when it’s cold enough to leave it partially frozen; and, on a less treacherous day (and without other commitments), I would have carried on around its lower sibling, Wayoh Reservoir, stopping for refreshments (and warmth) at the welcoming Strawbury Duck pub, right by Entwistle railway station; and which is therefore most easily accessed by train (especially tempting if you travel from the north through the remarkable over-a-mile long Sough Tunnel – the (debatable) source of a very local saying, which basically translates as “on the road to nowhere”).

When the fog cleared (before returning, and creeping slowly and surreptitiously across the valley), an almost Alpine landscape revealed itself: flecked with white, and mirrored perfectly under a crystal-blue sky. It therefore took me nearly two hours to complete the circuit: stopping both to admire and to capture the coolness, the calmness, the quietness and restfulness that was the perfect panacea for anyone’s troubles; my only companions being the tits, robins, blackbirds, ducks, gulls and herons scratching, digging and diving for sustenance.

I so love Tysoe; but I also, occasionally, miss the hills of the north (and usually more, the closer they are – approaching or departing): rejoicing in their rugged majesty; their snowcapped peaks; as well as the challenge they can present, when in the mood. They reward my efforts with a calm and a presence that I can find nowhere else. I will be back….

You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;

I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.

As the peach-blossom flows downstream and is gone into the unknown,

I have a world apart that is not among men.

– Li Bai: Question and Answer on the Mountain

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