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

And still the light grew and grew…

At the long day’s (and my short dawdle’s) inception – as I gingerly secured the front door: hat on head; walking stick in hand… – the extended witching hour that is Nautical Dawn was not much more than a dab ahead of me (having emerged languidly from its wearisome bedclothes – unlike The Bard Who Had Not Slept… – just before three o’clock: a little under two hours before sunrise). But, by the time my insomnia-induced stroll had propelled me, wraithlike, past St Mary’s Church – precisely as its tenebrose profile proclaimed the half-hour – there was sufficient emerging coolness tempering the blackness above (even in the dying embers of “this contentious storm”) for me to effortlessly mark my steps. And, although Aurora’s shy reflection effectively forewarned me of still-standing plashets (most of which I am on first-name terms with, anyway); her crepuscular modesty, regrettably, failed to safeguard a glut of hoarding gastropods (more suited, perhaps, than any aphoristic duck – or even my Pennine-straddling chromosomes – to such dankness) from instant, crackling, crunching ruin beneath my sturdy boots.

I have – perhaps partly incited by those Northern genes – always delighted in such intemperate weather. Additionally, I find the night – as I have often written on these pages – a cordial and comforting companion (as well as a tabula rasa, inspiring ideas and emotions). Not only does such a conjunction (which, for many, I accept, can be an unnerving, forbidding one) – notably when “I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top” – stimulate me to “gain some perspective” (and provoke an almost animal desire for immersion (or even submersion)); but I further find their combined inscrutable vigour intensely refreshening (intellectually and physiologically): as a partial consequence, no doubt, of their essential unsociableness. (The resulting inconspicuousness and solitariness beseem, shall we say, my intrinsic ‘Mole‑ness’.)

And yet – had any supernatural manifestation (as it does, so memorably, for the Mole and the Rat (and “the slumbering Portly”)) broken on me “like a wave” and caught me up… – I would have willingly made myself visible: greedily possessed by “the liquid run of that glad piping… then the clear imperious summons that marched hand-in-hand with the intoxicating melody…”. However, the Gates of Dawn unfolded with a compelling almost-silence. No creature was roused (nor foolish enough to be). Only the susurration of the drizzle accompanied my meanderings: interwoven with the response of the vivid new-blown trees – whose comforting fullness shrouded and shielded me all along Sandpits Road… – to their ill-deserved pummelling by both the raindrops and the breeze which ushered them.

¶

As I crossed Oxhill Road, approaching Windmill Way – and not for the first time… – I keenly craved Dumbledore’s marvellous Put‑Outer (or perhaps an impulsive infection of ‘street light interference’): such is the thoroughfare’s incommensurately intense irradiation of its environment (completely, immediately, eradicating thirty-minutes-worth of hard-earned, dilating night-vision, as well as any hints of the sunrise I was attempting to chase…).

Then, turning into the shadows of Shipston Road, the northerly squalls misting the side of my face instantly evoked the spectre of an equivalent gloomy trudge – at nightfall, rather than daybreak – two-and-a-half years ago, as the Gladman débâcle erupted:

And, just as the fight “Against the envy of less happier lands” gathered pace: as the deadline loomed for objections to be submitted against the planning proposal for those eighty houses, I realized (nay, was devoured by) the enormity of the task; and, Lear-like, headed out into the dark, the pelting rain, and howling winds, to try and gain some perspective.

     But, in that “night’s storm I such a fellow saw”, hunched up, like me, against the “foul weather”; but, despite the air of foreboding, he uttered a friendly and welcoming “hello”.

¶

That “fellow” – at the time, deliberately left nameless – was the late Adrian Tuffin: one of the most courageous, most considerate souls I have ever met (although he would, I am certain, characterize such bravery and humanity as simply dealing with circumstance and necessity). He was one of the very first people to welcome me to Tysoe (which I shall never forget); and we would habitually cross paths – Adrian always accompanied by “his faithful dog, Jasmine” – as we beat our respective bodily bounds around the village: using such opportunities to discuss our various tribulations (conversations, however, which were always gilded with a great deal of laughter at ourselves and each other); and consistently signing off (when we both realized how much time had so easily passed) with a running joke about heading home for a well-deserved cup of tea.

Indeed, it felt almost aberrant when a walk around the village did not lead to me bumping into him (and I can clearly recall the last time, in Lower Tysoe, on a bitterly cold afternoon). I therefore still, involuntarily, watch out for him on my parochial peregrinations. But it is well over a year since Adrian died; and – on a par with the extinction of our great elms – custom (and poetry) would dictate that we should all be diminished by such a sad departure.

But I believe that he has left behind (nevertheless, far, far too soon…) a much stronger, worthier village than would have otherwise been possible… – a small, blessed corner of Warwickshire that, communally, must be grateful for his valuable legacy. For me – and, I am confident, many others – this is because he embodied and readily exemplified Tysoe’s oft-hidden generous spirit of place. He was the strongest personification we could ever have of Grahame’s great, inspirational “Friend and Helper”. “This time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing, simple – passionate – perfect – ”

“This is the place of my song-dream, the place the music played to me,” whispered the Rat, as if in a trance. “Here, in this holy place, here if anywhere, surely we shall find Him!”

– Kenneth Grahame: The Wind in the Willows

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

It’s still National Poetry Day…!

The Bard’s epitaph (in the form of a bench)

Here would Tysoe sit and writ,

And rest his bum a little bit;

But now it’s yours to stop and weigh

In the posterior of his day.

Holofernes: The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable for the afternoon. The word is well cull’d, chose, sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir, I do assure.

– William Shakespeare: Love’s Labour’s Lost

aflitterfortwitter (#thinkofapoem #thinklikeapoet)

amoth a lights onalight

notthemoon anothersatellite

sat a float afloatingpontoon

set a light insight

abrightsprightinflight

It’s National Poetry Day…!

For the Guardian of Minack (October 1987)

This afternoon I found

          that you had died

     And I was glad

          that I was all alone

For inevitable rivers

          of tears flow

     And waters leap

          where you have gone

And this is all I know

          save

That deaths and entrances are all we crave

And where will you go

          now that all your goings are done?

     A subtle lightening

          in the new child’s eyes

     Much more than such

          a suitable joy

     For this you gave

That deaths and entrances are all we crave

And through this joining

          although it may force crying

     I was so glad

          that I was all alone

And as the fragile life force

          leaps

     It’s old to new religions

          now

          that vow

That deaths and entrances are all we crave

Mercury falling…

The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.

What instruments we have agree

The day of his death was a dark cold day.

– WH Auden: In Memory of W. B. Yeats

For all sorts of reasons – and in a rush of senses – the past week or so has become intensely dispiriting. So, as is my wont, I dragged my disobedient bulk out through the front door for an amble around ‘my’ village: just as the light was losing its fight against the increasing darkness of night.

Yet, there was no need for streetlamps; and, as I wandered, my torch remained, forgotten, deep in my warm fleece pocket: the deepening blue overhead, looking past Oxhill, towards Stratford, still bearing echoes – as the church clock struck ten – of the slow sunset song of clearing, cleansing skies punctuated by tender, murmuring clouds; and Jupiter, glowing majestically over Whatcote, forming an auspicious procession of gleaming gods, through Venus, to Mercury, gradually slipping behind the horizon, as I returned home; the lusty blusters of the day also waning as the barometer rose.

All sorts of thoughts flickered through my head as my boots pulled me onwards: Messenger, by hazard, crashing and burning – fittingly – by Shakespeare basin – a metaphor, perhaps, for my susceptibilities; or the similar trajectory of government (or at least a large portion of its subjects…)? Even vestiges of Arthur Miller scurrying and scrambling across the thickening canvas of my cares – diamonds, shining in the dark, indeed (but not “rough and hard to the touch”) – all such murmurations gradually withdrawing as the evolving atmosphere enfolded me; and not another soul to be seen – just hints composed of ephemeral shadows cast on comforting curtains: the blue flickers of small screens; or perchance hinting at hidden bookworms.

It is hard, centred in such a situation, not to feel a profound belonging in your bones; cherishing the experience, the scene, the place; thinking the world of it; and finally believing (perhaps) that God really is in His heaven… and all may be right with that world – eventually.

It’s dark there, but full of diamonds.

– Arthur Miller: Death of a Salesman

The stars are the street lights of eternity…

Moonlight is sculpture; sunlight is painting.

– Nathaniel Hawthorne

In this month’s edition of the Tysoe & District Record, Jane Millward, our hardworking (but, of course, voluntary) Parish Council Clerk, wrote that “The cost of providing street lighting around the parish has gone up by 40%”; and added that the Parish Council, therefore, “would like to sound out opinions from our residents on some of the options.”

I have posted about Tysoe’s “rude interruption of sodium” before; as well as describing my night-time peregrinations around the village: where “The pools of darkness, inbetween, highlight what a beautiful place we live in”. But I do accept, and understand, that, earlier in the night, there may be a need for street lamps – for example, where “continuity of lighting levels is important to pedestrians” – although our neighbouring villages of Oxhill and Pillerton Priors manage without them (as did the village of Fovant, in Wiltshire, where I used to live: and where the nightly view of the Milky Way was so much more than compensation for the dark – but not consequently mean – streets).

Many councils – regional, county, district, town and parish – are already turning off a goodly proportion of their street lamps between midnight and 05:00 or 05:30 GMT (with them not then coming back on if it’s already light, and the sun has begun to rise…) – for ecological reasons (the benefits to wildlife; lower emissions…), as well as economical; and without any obvious downsides. For instance, approximately 80% of Warwickshire County Council-owned street lights now operate on a ‘part night’ basis: leading to nearly 40,000 street lights being switched off for some of the night. And in Essex – contrary to what you might expect – “The experience to date is that there has been no increase in crime or accident levels which could be attributed to the introduction of part night lighting.”

There is, as well, no statutory requirement for local authorities in the UK to provide street lighting. The Highways Act simply empowers local authorities to illuminate our roads: stipulating that any “lighting units are kept in safe condition”.

I know that the Parish Council “will be checking to see we are on the best tariff available”; but I wonder if there are additional ways of mitigating costs. Part of the 40% increase is “due to increased VAT levels”; and I therefore would be interested to learn if the Parish Council is – or could be – registered as a charity: as, according to HMRC, “subject to certain conditions, your charity may be able to buy fuel and power at the reduced VAT rate”. There are probably details in the council’s constitution that I am not aware of that would make this impracticable – but I feel I should mention it for the sake of completeness: especially as any organization that is registered for VAT may also be able to claim some of it back.

Another possible strategy would be to change the source of the electricity used. I have written before about the feasibilities of generating our own wind power, and how this could be financed by the village. To simply fuel our few street lights – and for short periods of time – would not require the leviathans striding across the Edge Hills that I presume most folks would imagine: an image which seems to be the largest obstacle – and the “only one honest objection” – to onshore wind power’s acceptance and deployment. Or we could use solar-powered low-energy LEDs: which have a potential to generate excess – green – electricity that can then be sold back to the grid to raise revenue for the Parish Council, or provide dividends to residents who have invested.

Such lights might again raise aesthetic disapproval: because of the “bright white light” most of them are designed to produce. But I see no reason why high-wattage LEDs need be used; or why we should not break the mould (if we are to carry on lighting our streets), and keep to the dull orange we are accustomed to.

As well as saving money, it will be a boon to skywatchers in the surrounding countryside, as LED lights provide more illumination on the ground and less to the clouds. Close to 100% of the light goes downward, unlike conventional street lights which send a third of their glow into the night sky, causing light pollution.

Financial help for such projects is now available – at least for local authorities: and I admit that I do not know if this applies to parish councils, or if they are allowed to borrow money (although I am sure that Stratford-on-Avon District Council could play a pivotal rôle here, if needs be…) – for making the switch to low-energy streetlights “with the launch of a new Green Loan from the UK Green Investment Bank (GIB)”: which offers “a low, fixed rate… over a period of up to 20 years”.

We have the means to limit climate change…. The solutions are many and allow for continued economic and human development. All we need is the will to change.

– Rajendra Pachauri, chair of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC)

Having said all that – and having walked around Tysoe many times during the dark hours mooted by the Parish Council, and never met another soul, and encountered next to no traffic – I believe that (disregarding any other reasons) there isn’t actually any need or demand for street lighting then (if at all…): especially, where lamps generally are left on, by other authorities, it is principally to safeguard the interaction of large amounts of traffic and pedestrians.

And if you’re worried about the increasing number of vehicles parked overnight on the Main Street chicane, these should already be protected by the requirements of the Highway Code: that is, not parking “on a road at night facing against the direction of the traffic flow unless in a recognised parking space” (so that their rear reflectors catch the attention of any oncoming headlights); and displaying “parking lights when parked on a road or a lay-by on a road with a speed limit greater than 30 mph”.

Mind you, keeping BST throughout the year, and limiting the centre of the village to 20 mph (as Clifford Chambers is in the process of doing) – which, realistically, is the maximum sensible speed for traversing it (at any time of day) – would also help; and, anyway, the current street lamps do little to negate the need for main beam headlights, if you are driving through Tysoe with safety in mind (and are not instead updating your Facebook status on your smartphone to “Currently in intensive care” or, perhaps, more likely, “Currently in custody”).

Whatever is finally decided, it must, I suggest, be uniformly applied (and policed); and follow an audit of the entire parish. As I have written previously, “Windmill Way must contain as many lamp-posts as the full length of Main Street”: and is therefore one of the largest sources of light pollution in the village. Subject to residents agreeing, the number of lamps that are lit there – at any time – could be reduced drastically and permanently.

It is especially important that, in historic towns and conservation areas, particular attention is paid to the aesthetic quality of street furniture and lighting. Care should be taken to avoid light pollution and intrusion, particularly in rural areas. In some cases it may not be appropriate to provide lighting, for example in a new development in an unlit village…. Where street furniture or lighting is taken out of service, it should be removed.

– Department for Transport: Manual for Streets

The decision must also apply to any new-builds. Imagine if Gladman’s proposed eighty houses were built, and all lit as densely and uniformly as Windmill Way. Upper and Middle Tysoe residents would drastically lose the number of stars they could count in the night sky, as would those living nearby.

Light at night not only disrupts your sleep but also interferes with your circadian rhythms. Recent research indicates that intrusive lighting may reduce the production of melatonin, a beneficial hormone, and a resulting raise in the rates of breast and other cancers.

– The Dark Sky Society: Guidelines for Good Exterior Lighting Plans

And, finally, villagers should be conscious that any lights they fit to their homes – for security reasons, perhaps (especially considering the recent heating oil thefts in Tysoe, highlighted by David Sewell, editor of the Record) – should not be excessive, and contribute to such pollution themselves: lighting only their own properties; not trespassing onto the public highway, startling motorists and passing pedestrians with their “unsafe glare”; and certainly not – as does one property in Upper Tysoe – flash on and off, every minute or so, like some Warwickshire Pharos, when it is gusty (not an uncommon occurrence at the windmill end of the village). There is nothing worse, once you have gotten your night eyes in – and “It takes between 40 minutes and an hour for your eyes to become fully adapted to seeing in the dark”– than then being blinded by such an unthoughtful and solipsistic installation.

Neither tarnished nor afraid…

Being an habitual insomniac, I can occasionally be found treading the “mean streets” of wherever I happen to be, at what most people would consider utterly unsocial hours. Chicago, at dawn, is an entrancing place; and, even for this “country boy”, a magnificent metropolis to maunder in. No longer is the city’s peerless architecture cluttered with huddled masses; the air filled with big car and cigarette smoke; the skyscrapers echoing with cacophony… – and Union Station (which was my ultimate destination that morning), although obviously designed to accommodate huge throngs of travellers, emerges as a spacious, sometimes solitary playground. Some concrete jungles can easily overwhelm; but, early in the morning, they can lose their terror, no longer crowd in on you.

In many ways, this can also be said of Paris. Possibly my least favourite of the cities I know – for many reasons… – just before the sun rises, in summer, it becomes alive (for me): an entrancing ambience luring me towards the Seine, and across to the forest of towers at La Défense; before pulling me back to an early breakfast (I was the first to appear) at my hotel, after exploring social housing of learned and unfeigned architecture – in no way condescending to its occupants: with large green spaces, and obviously popular communal areas.

Some cities have areas that never sleep: parts of Vancouver have very useful independent 24-hour coffee shops and eateries; and Golders Green’s all-night bagel bakery, Carmelli’s, often enticed me in with its tempting aromas, friendly banter, leisured customer service, parents kvelling about their children… – contrasting with the tummel in the bakery at the back – and where I learned my first Yiddish: “Don’t make a tsimmes out of it!”

Often, I walk to clear my head – or gather my thoughts… – but, recently, I have also begun to take my camera, as well as a walking stick, as companion (and, if not, the convenience and quality of my iPhone will sometimes suffice…). Stratford is surprisingly busy before first light: a veritable conquering army of friendly street-cleaners and workmen ensuring that our local town-as-theme-park is ready for another day of sightseeing onslaught. As another dawn treader said to me: “It’s so much better without all the tourists!”

The three villages of Tysoe, though, appear completely deserted; and the few signs of human activity are confined to backlit curtains; and silence – apart from the occasional yelping fox; hooting and ‘kewicking’ tawny owl; screeching barn owl; and a shuffling, snuffling hedgehog (I presume), not yet ready for hibernation; as well as the church clock reminding you how long you’ve been out for… – reigns supreme.

Man-made light is, thankfully, as rare as sound (although, sadly, Windmill Way must contain as many lamp-posts as the full length of Main Street…) – however, on a morning when the moon rises with less than one tenth of it on display, as a thin waning crescent, sometimes oddly welcome: especially for creating atmospheric photographs!

The pools of darkness, inbetween, highlight what a beautiful place we live in – although you certainly gain a new perspective… – the random conglomeration of different building styles bringing variety and harmony, rather than discord – as they can do in bright sunshine. The overall effect is one of friendliness and welcome, comfort, even, despite the abandonment.

I found myself, therefore, lingering longer than I normally would: seeing my home with new eyes. In fact, the place may never be the same again….

Why not have a go… – but don’t all do it at once, please: I think you need to be on your own…. (And you wouldn’t want to bump into a strange man with a camera and a stick, would you…?)

Light and darkness…

A couple of nights ago, Jim Al-Khalili’s new two-part documentary, Light and Dark, aired on BBC Four: exploring how humanity has uncovered the secrets of the universe by using and manipulating light. According to Professor Al-Khalili, “The central premise of this series is that what the human eye can see is only a fraction of the vast amount of matter and energy that exists…”.

Deep stuff indeed from my favourite science communicator; but I have pondered similar matters, recently, when returning home – in the near darkness – from neighbourhood planning meetings.

Tysoe, currently, is quite a dark place at night – lit only by the very occasional streetlight; residents’ scattered welcoming front door lamps; the odd glowing window; and infrequent passing cars and bicycles… – hinting only slightly at the many lives that collide and separate; that help glue the village together and make it what, uniquely, it is. It is therefore not unusual to see folks wandering to and from the pub, for example, with torches; or using the LED flashes on their smartphones to help walk their dogs. To be honest, nothing else, really, is needed.

However, last night, I was lucky to have my one-mile walk home – from Lower Tysoe, through the churchyard – lit by an almost full, waning gibbous moon. I had no need for the torch I routinely carry; nor for the rude interruption of sodium street lighting. The sky was so clear that the light was pure and white, and cast crisp, strong shadows. It also meant, of course, that an uncountable number of stars were visible: with my favourite constellation, Orion, rising majestically over Old Lodge Hill.

Our ancestors must have revelled on such nights: appreciating that there were greater powers at play – but not, perhaps, understanding them – but probably worshipping whatever they believed those ineffable powers to be. Nowadays, we take the night sky – that is, when we can actually see it… – for granted; and, arrogantly, assume that we know how it ‘works’, and that there is no longer any need for awe, humility, or even simple appreciation.

At a recent Parish Council meeting, the chairman complained about the number of requests for additional lighting that are made (which the council, sensibly, turns down…); and I fear that the development of a large estate to the west of the village would produce a glow of light that would wipe the scene I witnessed forever from the eyes of a large number of both existing and arriving villagers.

A large part of the argument against such a development is its unsustainability – and I would argue that not only is there the smog of the many additional car and supply vehicles’ journeys into and out of the village to take into account (as well as the detriment to the environment of building so many houses all in one place, and at one time…); but that the resulting light pollution would also play a role in removing our children one further step from the nature that Tysoe is so intertwined with.