Now Autumn time is here…

I’m sure most families have them – customs that originated somewhere, somehow: but that no-one can really remember when or why. In the Bardic household, we have a small cupboard, at eye level, that features a blackboard on the front. Inside, as well as the multitudinous keys – which also hang from hooks beneath it – this armoire à clés also conceals a box of coloured chalks. And, as the seasons change, one of us (often on a whim) will wipe clean the period’s previous illustration, and sketch out a new one. Currently, therefore – magically appearing one morning, in the last few days, in parallel with the cooling conditions – we have a deciduous tree, beginning to shed its leaves: accompanied by the phrase “The nights are drawing in!” (reflecting the Lady Bard’s annual discomfort at the shortening days); replacing (my slightly pretentious, perhaps) “Sumer is icumen in, Lhude sing cuccu!” (You will be pleased to know that I have so far not capitulated to the compulsion of superimposing an image of either curtains, or a punning pencil, on aforesaid tree….)

It’s not really a longstanding tradition: the cabinet was purchased on a whim from Pillerton’s Shabby Shack only three or four years ago. But I can’t see it ever ending – and, although, it’s not ‘officially’ autumn until the day of my mum’s birthday (coincidentally, International Day of Peace), meteorologically (as well as being marked by the number of fleeces I needed, walking through Tysoe at two o’clock, a couple of nights ago – three, if you’re interested…), the ‘fall of the year’ began on the first of the month.

Additionally, the horse chestnuts on the Banbury Road, towards Stratford, have been bronzing for some time, through what little August sun we sustained; and are now losing their sadly-sickened, once-impressive, charred‑brown palms – a premonition of the new season – caused either by the leaf-mining moth, Cameraria ohridella, or perhaps leaf blotch, Guignardia aesculi. (It’s hard to tell without stopping and having a closer look – not advisable, when cars and vans are whizzing by at well over the speed limit; and often on the verge of control, on the wrong side of the road….)

Every time I pass the cupboard, unbidden, therefore, comes to mind (and mouth) the music I sang, as a four-year-old, for my cathedral choir audition: the eleventh of fourteen Round the Year Hymns for Small Children (and I was very small), Autumn Leaves (professedly written for November) – comforting words and music by Marie Cleeve Dainton. The inch-wide Sellotape that was eventually required, from frequent use, to hold the score together in many places, has turned the same hue as the chestnut leaves, and started similarly to fragment and fail – but the melody bursts forth from the page as “Brightly” as ever!

Leaves in glory tumble down

On the countryside and town,

Golden, crimson, russet brown,

Now Autumn time is here.

God will send His trees to sleep,

While the snow falls fast and deep,

Over all His watch He’ll keep

When Winter time is here.

God will send His sun and rain

On woodland meadow, hill and plain,

Trees He’ll wake to live again

When lovely Spring is here.

September marks the beginning of what is for many people the most beautiful time of the year.

– Ron Wilson: A Year in the Countryside

I adore autumn – and always have (hence my choice of song, I think): possibly because of the time of year I was born. But, as Wilson states, above, I’m not the only one – for instance, I had an American friend, a couple of decades ago, who, at a moment’s notice, used to (and may well still) hop on a plane to visit his folks’ farm in Vermont, every single year, as soon as the leaves started rusting: just so, for a few weeks, he could hike his youthful trails, yet again, bathed in the same boyhood glow.

But I love it not only for those spectacular colour changes – there’s something instinctive, almost primordial, induced in me by the cooling of the weather; the increased transparency of trees; the mists and mellow fruit crumbles – especially apple and blackberry – and the extensive, tranformative, easing down of nature. Things, generally, just feel less frantic (well, until shop windows are decked out in Christmas apparel in a couple of weeks time…).

Of course, nearly half a century of autumns later, I shall still start to miss the birds who have so enriched summer – especially the swifts, swallows (twittering in the skies) and housemartins – but know they will return. And, as the zephyrs crispen, I begin to hanker for the occasional heavy snowfall of my childhood, as we later will fade into winter – the sudden, almost monochrome, repainting of the landscape; the grinding crunch of each footstep; the sheer, shocking freshness of the bright, blasting breaths entering our lungs.

And yet, with the cold and damp, for me, comes increased pain: as these dyadic pests insinuate themselves into my creaking arthritic bones. But it is a supplemental discomfort that I am both prepared for, and prepared to bear – compensated as I am by the rich increase in edifying delight; and a glorious visceral feeling that I am more closely connected to, and immersed in, the world around me – as yet another twelvemonth passes by.

A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall….

– William Shakespeare: Love’s Labour’s Lost

Say I be entertained…

Jasper Britton (Barabas) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

Even having seen Jasper Britton excel as an extremely affecting Henry IV, last year, I still find myself astonished at the charisma, wit, humour, intelligence, and sheer eye-rolling panache he brings – in huge, revelatory chunks – to Barabas, The Jew of Malta – even though I have just witnessed his brilliant, arousing portrayal for the third time (and am now desperately scambling up a good reason for attempting to ‘go fourth’, before the production closes this coming Tuesday (sob)).

In fact, I am struggling to think of an actor who has entertained me quite so much; and so consistently. [Although the over-scented, TOWIE-castoff couple next to me, who fidgeted and fiddled with their phones throughout the first half… – and then, thankfully, did not return for the second (phew) – probably would not concur. At last, I could relax completely… – and breathe again. It is a mark of the supremacy of the show that they irritated me less than a brace of knackered gnats.]

There’s nothing more to say, really – apart from the fact that (although I have yet to see Volpone – sadly, my visit has had to be postponed until its penultimate performance, in a week’s time) this is almost certainly the best thing the RSC has put on, this season: convincing me, yet again, that the Swan Theatre is where it’s really at…. It will be so very good to see it emerge from its cocoon, next spring…

Farewell my joy, and by my fingers take

A kiss from him that sends it from his soul.

Now Phoebus ope the eye-lids of the day,

And for the raven wake the morning lark,

That I may hover with her in the air,

Singing o’er these, as she does o’er her young.

Distance is incomprehensible and therefore meaningless…

Going rambling means freedom to go out and explore the countryside and enjoy the scenery and landscapes that I used to enjoy when able-bodied…. It lifts the spirits and gives a huge sense of contentment, especially after a ramble that becomes really special.

– Val, Disabled Ramblers

Walking, for me, is as easy as pi (or, to be more exact, calculating its cube-root to forty‑two decimal places, in my head, in hexadecimal; whilst simultaneously chewing on a Carolina Reaper chilli; listening to Metallica – or, perhaps, Disaster Area – at full volume, with my hearing aids turned up to eleven; and marking time by jabbing myself in the eye with a blunt chopstick). It is also precisely as pain-free. Patting the top of your head (gently with a medieval mace) at the same time as rubbing your tummy (soothingly with fresh nettle leaves and brambles), by comparison, is a cube of frozen excreted nitrogenous waste. Funnily enough, though, it – i.e. walking – is one of the most rewarding, relaxing pastimes I know of and experience.

Although a mere amateur – or, more accurately, tiro (my technique is terrible: but my “artistic impression” almost certainly ranks alongside the Chuckle Brothers’ mighty pinnacle) – I’ve written frequently on here (even including the occasional ‘pome’) about my deep and lasting love of the pursuit: especially clumping through the countryside. I’ve also mentioned (more than once, no doubt) how such apparent masochism (which it most certainly isn’t (I think)) makes a major positive contribution to a life where every waking minute is spent dealing with being disabled: especially carrying on with constant (and inconstant) what-the-DWP-laughingly-refers-to-as “discomfort”.

Ironic then, isn’t it – the predicament of medicament, I suppose… – that the ‘remedy’ for the hurt I live through is more of the same… – well: more of the similar.

This is because, I believe – as I’ve (also) explained before (nevertheless, it bears repeating (like Yogi, but especially Boo-Boo)) – there are “two levels of pain”. Not that these cancel each other out, as with matter and anti-matter; or one acting as the less-toxic antidote to the venom of the second. Just that you can, with a little ongoing practice, manipulate the first to distract from, or sometimes temporarily supersede, the second, marginally lessening its impact; whilst also (and more critically: and therefore more profitably) “commanding your body”, and managing its exposure to suffering, its experience of it… – “Always [dealing] with what pain is and never with what it means.” From this “commanding” – allied with my drug of choice: the production, through such exercise, of my “own private narcotic”, the super, supernatural endorphin – comes the willingness to push my frame beyond its restrictive infinitesimal aptitudes. From this commanding – some of the time – comes control. From this commanding – when it does work – comes satisfaction, delight, and almost-addictive enjoyment.

Which is why – simply put: because the gains, for me, far outweigh the drawbacks – I walk. When I can. (How I walk is a completely different matter. Basically, badly: “doing my habitual impersonation of a slightly inebriated penguin”. Although this does mean – yippee – that I consume more calories than those with a ‘normal’ gait.) Additionally, the associated continual shift of scenery is intensely preferable to the unmoving view of our bedroom ceiling (only varied by the writhing attempts to find the holy grail of a restful, comfortable state); or the stultifying, stabbing solidification of my joints when glued repeatedly to the goggle-box. And, as another beneficial side-effect – despite the increased (always hopefully temporary) physical distress – the odd bits of me that can be strengthened gradually increase in fitness (including, importantly, my mental welfare – which is at the heart of all this, of course): leading to a more robust ability to cope, the next time around. (Which there will be. (I hope.))

There is an art, it says, or rather, a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss…. Clearly, it is the second part, the missing, which presents the difficulties.

– Douglas Adams: Life, the Universe and Everything

This is not to say that after any exercise I won’t be in a worse physical state than I was before – at least as measured in quanta of pain. Undoubtedly, I will. And for some time. But, being stubborn – and not solely because all the components of a good walk toiled come together serendipitously to produce transitory, momentary intoxication – it is an activity I refuse to relinquish: whatever barriers may be placed in my way (such as disobedient or immobile limbs; or a lack of proprioception and sensation). Therefore, as I wrote a few posts ago, after each successive, periodic downturn in health, I have had to force my unwilling body to repeatedly relearn and regain what should be an innate ability (similar to how Arthur Dent acquires skill in flying, and then teaches his “human soul-mate”, Fenchurch – although, sadly, I don’t have the equivalent of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to instruct me).

When you’re permanently in possession of “this terrible pain in all the diodes down [your] left side”, keeping fit can obviously be a bit of a challenge (in the same way that “lleng” is…). But, to me, it’s one definitely worth accepting (even for the umpteenth time); along with overcoming (if not demolishing) those barriers – however obstinately permanent they may at first appear. (Screw your eyes up tight; or retrieve that mace, and aim for somewhere tender: and they’ll soon start to drift out of focus. Possibly accompanied by the sound of a harpist’s gentle, receding glissandi.)

Even if your health is relatively sound (especially compared to mine (ha‑ha)), a recent newspaper report detailed – again – how walking is good for you, anyway; and for your longevity. Sadly, I’m not convinced that what I do can in any way be described as “brisk walking or slow jogging”: but…

Exercise buys you three to seven additional years of life. It is an anti-depressant, it improves cognitive function and there is now evidence that it may retard the onset of dementia.

– Sanjay Sharma

And if you’re a more social (less anti-social) creature than I; but think that any sort of distance is beyond you – it’s not; and I am proof (more of the jelly variety than the pudding… ) – or need a kick up the (waterproof) pants to get moving; then there is always Walking for Health:

Getting active can be difficult. But we’re here to help.

     Walking is great for your health and puts a spring in your step. With Walking for Health, you can take part in a free short walk nearby to help you get active and stay active at a pace that works for you. It’s a great way to stretch your legs, explore what’s on your doorstep, and make new friends.

     For over 12 years, we’ve helped thousands of people like you discover the many benefits of regular group walks. From reducing stress, to losing weight, to sharing laughs, Walking for Health has something for everyone.

With regards to my capability (or lack of it), however: even when I’m game, and my condition is at the top of its sine-curve, there are some days – and possibly a greater number of nights – that are better than others. Equally, no two are ever the same: in terms of capacity, (dis)comfort, and enjoyment. And, sometimes, my ‘programming’ can suddenly go awry (those blasted diodes!) – whether it be a loss of directional control (more inebriated in appearance; more penguin-like); fading coordination; or simply my fingers spasming, as they do, resulting in yet another dent on my poor old walking stick. In all cases, I have found it best simply to stop; gather my breath and my wits (such as they are); and concentrate extremely actively on the impending first step that my body would enforce as the threshold of my abilities, given half a chance. Then the second step. And repeat as necessary, until normal service is resumed. If I do not halt, the chances are I will simply topple (or at least wobble like a Weeble – which must be a very disturbing sight for those around me…).

This is one of the sundry reasons I prefer to walk at night; or very early in the morning. Additionally, in, say, Stratford, in the half-light, it is actually easier to ‘see’: as there are far fewer moving objects to contend with; as well as it being less embarrassing (for all concerned; and with less risk of a collision), should I (and I will) oscillate or dodder.

I consider ‘Stratford-upon-Heaven’ my home town: but, when it is busy, and filled with people soaking up the sun (I will not blame the tourists: all are equally liable, it seems…), it is more akin to Stratford-upon-Hell; and a part of me starts to meretriciously envy those in mobility scooters who appear to see no harm (revenge, perhaps?) in scything their way up Bridge Street, with metaphorical blades attached, Boudica-style, to the hubs of their wheels.

But, one day, perhaps – the Dawn of the Dread – when I can no longer put one front in foot of another more than once, or twice, even in shaky slow motion – perhaps I will be limited(?) to such a device. Of course, then I can join the Disabled Ramblers to get my third-age kicks (right through the night)!

There is a moment in every dawn when light floats, there is the possibility of magic. Creation holds its breath.

– Douglas Adams: Life, the Universe and Everything

But there are other reasons for my tenebrose meanderings: insomnia, of course (often caused by the selfsame pain…); the startlingly distinct perspectives you gain on familiar places (swans spread out on the Avon: no longer compelled to crowd by unwholesome crusts); the rare, precious, crystalline silences; the melding of souls with the genius loci that gifts you temporary monarchy of all you survey, that helps you revel in the momentous aloneness. (Hush.)

And, strangely, I am not the only one with such hankerings. A new book – At Night: A Journey Round Britain from Dusk Till Dawn by Dixe ‘No second i’ Wills – is, according to one reviewer…

A charismatic evocation of what it is to be awake while the world sleeps…. The book’s most delightful passages convey [Wills’] wonder at the natural world that comes to life under cover of darkness….

– Matthew Jones: Walk

So – as I have implored of you before – get out there, and strut your stuff! The nights are drawing in (which, to me, is a good thing…)!

Otherwise (and I’ll be round to check on you), I shall just have to keep pushing the Ramblers’ Big Pathwatch – which seems to be progressing well – down the boots of those, like me, who can only manage the occasional amble, until you do. Although there is, of course, absolutely nothing to stop you making yourself useful – even at the peak of fitness – whilst enjoying the beautiful Warwickshire countryside, and relishing whatever the weather decides to throw (or gently lob) at you. Is there?

Just be grateful that these paths still exist. And be grateful that walking is as simple, for you, as two-plus-two. One day, it may not be so easy….

When the Ramblers Association recently launched its Big Pathwatch, urging walkers to upload pictures of overgrown footpaths, I considered it a bit silly. Poor hard-pressed councils tasked with footpath maintenance – can’t walkers stamp down a few stray nettles? After a stinging wade along the bridleways of Buckinghamshire, however, I’m all for app tale-telling.

     It wasn’t just fast-growing nettles and brambles but teasels, thistles, young oaks and hogweed as high as a horse. And this 35 miles from London, in the Tory shires, where keen trampers take to the lanes in battalions and steel swing gates have been installed in memory of members of the local U3A group.

     Apart from council cuts, the problem appears to be that many landowners regard footpaths as an unfortunate relic from pre-enclosure days, when peasants swarmed unimpeded across the countryside. Virtually every fence has a warning sign attached. “Private” (it’s really obvious where the footpath goes), “Beware of the bull” (there never is one) or “Vermin control in progress”.

– Patrick Barkham: The Guardian

The path to Wroxall Abbey…

Though fresh-furrowed,

ghosts – having trod this field before me –

have signed the track new with silent boot and scythe.

They came to pass; made my way plain:

my bearing clarified by clover beribboning the glebe’s brink –

a shock of verdant stripe, bright after slack stubble –

sharp after soft: an excised edge keen as the blades

stopped short of earth’s full mastery.

So I move on with grace and gratitude:

true as the plough; and pure as those prior souls.

A wilderness of monkeys…

Tubal: One of them show’d me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey.

Shylock: Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal. It was my turkis, I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor. I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.

– William Shakespeare: The Merchant of Venice

This is what I wanted to call my book. However, my publishers thought it too… complicated.

– Howard Jacobson

Returning, last night, to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre to see – from a somewhat different perspective – The Merchant of Venice, I was glad that my initial response of “feeling overwhelmingly sorry for Shylock” was reinforced. In fact, at a debate in the Swan Theatre, this following morning – Anti-Semitic Plays? (the highlights of which should soon be on YouTube) – there seemed to be a great deal of conjoined empathy, from the panel, for the “gentle Jew”: from “rising star” Patsy Ferran’s “standing in his shoes” at the age of fourteen, in a school production; to Howard Jacobson’s “retelling” of the play (entitled Shylock is My Name – which will be published in February 2016).

Patsy Ferran (Portia) and Jacob Fortune-Lloyd (Bassanio) – photo by Hugo Glendinning/RSC

The quality of mercy is not strain’d,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest, it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown.

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptred sway,

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s

When mercy seasons justice.

That “different perspective”, though, originated in two variations from my initial viewing – “twice blest” – one physical; one sensory. The former stemmed from the fact that I was sitting diametrically opposite to my original position in the Circle – reinforcing, in my mind, the (not-quite-insurmountable) difficulties thrust stages present (although, obviously, not with sounds, but rather with sightlines). The latter was the lack of (what can be intermeddling) captions: which – with a company that is as pellucid in proclamation as this one – meant that I could concentrate more on the drama: and I found myself even more immersed than before in both the language and the action.

As a result – apart from reinforcing the certainty of Ferran’s future that “shines brightly as a king” (she was just as animated and intelligently expressive in the debate) – I really feel I should rectify the absent list of great performances missing from my original review. Again, Jamie Ballard’s heartfelt, anguished, “deeply melancholic” Antonio (“as part of as soulful an interpretation as I think I have ever encountered”) – the “Merchant of Venice” – elicits sympathy, rather than empathy. Makram J Khoury’s transcendent Shylock. Scarlett Brookes’ textbook tortured touchiness as his nervous daughter, Jessica – always on the outside; always seen as an outsider, an “infidel” – prompting the compassion you feel for none of the “narcissistic, Christian-by-name-but-not-by-nature characters”. Owen Findlay’s conscientious Salerio (again, I sense another “all-hail hereafter”). Ken Nwosu’s mercurial, almost out-of-control, Gratiano – contrasting neatly with his boastful-yet-sensitive portrayal of the Prince of Morocco (cleverly changing costumes and character on-stage). And, finally, Brian Protheroe’s “pretentious, supercilious”, arrogant Aragon: channelling Leslie Phillips to perfection (so well, in fact, that his departure was accompanied by loud applause)!

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears. Soft stillness and the night

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sadly, the ending – as I think it always will be: Jacobson described Shakespeare as having “lost interest” – is still weak (despite the wonderful language); although is handled as well it can be, here, I feel. In a way, the prolonged last scene gives you the chance to lament Shylock’s loss; his absence (his implicit wrenching from – to borrow from Romeo – “the devout religion of mine eye”; although Judaism is as much about identity as it is faith, I believe…); to mourn the consequent lack of heart, of focus, of a fulcrum; and reflect on the conclusion that “none of the engendered, concocted couples seem destined for long or happy relationships” – or, as Ferran said: “no-one comes out of this well”.

Once more, I came out entranced, though; immensely moved; and was grateful for the drizzle freshening my face; for the curtained moon painting an eldritch sky-in-negative.

Shall I have the thought

To think on this, and shall I lack the thought

That such a thing bechanc’d would make me sad?