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

How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight?

The first time I heard Tamsin Waley-Cohen perform was at an Orchestra of the Swan concert in November 2011: in what was then Stratford-upon-Avon’s Civic Hall. After the orchestra had serenaded us with John Ireland’s A Downland Suite (now available on CD!), she joined them for Vaughan Williams’ rarely-performed ‘Concerto Accademico’ – “a name [Vaughan Williams] subsequently disliked, withdrawing it before a Menuhin performance in September 1952” – known latterly, simply, as the Violin Concerto (or Concerto for Violin and Strings).

I have heard her play with them many times since. And the fact that their partnership has grown so rapidly, so naturally, so wonderfully, says a great deal about the talent and conviviality of everyone involved: especially as their recordings together – including, in 2014, a jaw-dropping CD of this work and The Lark Ascending (along with a brace of similarly ravishing Elgar string-works) – are so beautifully fledged.

I was very happy when the opportunity arose to record the Vaughan Williams Violin Concerto and The Lark Ascending with the Orchestra of the Swan and David Curtis, as they were the first works we played together and we have performed them many times since.

     Whilst the Lark is one of the best loved and most famous works in the repertoire, the Concerto is, rather unfairly, hardly known. It is a true “chamber” concerto, full of humour, eloquence and imbued with a rustic spirit. The outer movements have a playful wildness about them, the music darting and dancing, that make them great fun to play, and I find the slow movement a jewel of beauty and expressivity.

     The slow passages, both in the second movement of the Concerto and the Lark contain a poignant nostalgia, filled with longing for remembered times. There is a strong sense of narrative, not unlike the English folk stories and older Celtic sagas which are so cyclical and rooted in the power of nature.

– Tamsin Waley-Cohen: Thoughts on recording Vaughan Williams’ Concerto for Violin and String Orchestra and The Lark Ascending

So, last night, I was delighted (actually in an almost euphoric state…) knowing that I would be hearing her perform this “hardly known” work once more; along with Mendelssohn’s equally entrancing, more famous concerto in E minor, Op.64 – again, “after the orchestra had serenaded us”: this time with the same composer’s evocative Incidental Music to ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’, Op.61 (and even more evocative with its original German title: Musik zu Ein Sommernachtstraum von Shakespeare…).

To be honest, it felt like we needed a little such evocation: there being an autumn chill in the air as I walked through Priory Park to Malvern’s Forum Theatre for the pre-concert talk. And I was reminded of Curtis’ command – before the first, Mediterranean-flavoured event in this series (with guitarist Craig Ogden), in February – “to dream of wine and olives…”. In the end, though, such instruction, last night, would have been unwarranted: the music was consistently soul-warming, and filled with passion from start to finish!

¶

Written for violin and string orchestra, this is Vaughan Williams’ homage to the Bach Concerto for Two Violins: a work he loved so much, he requested they play it at his funeral (and they did). The work has the same rhythmic vigour and forward impulse as its model, and curiously anticipates Hindemith’s mature neo-classical manner.

– Steve Schwartz: Ralph Vaughan Williams: Concerto Accademico in D

That description, along with its original title, might lead you to anticipate something a little dry – or even austere. But such expectations would have taken you – especially with these forces – very far from the mark. Many writers tell us that it is only in the central Adagio that we will be reminded of that famed bird “climbing, spiralling, fluttering towards the sun…”. But – and maybe this stems from my greater familiarity with the work; or, more likely, five years of immersion, development, and even greater understanding from Curtis and Waley-Cohen – I felt its presence more in the opening Allegro pesante.

As discussed in that pre-concert talk, Waley-Cohen’s soundscape has deepened and widened – as it will, I believe, always continue so to do… – and thus, having “managed to eke out yet more exquisiteness” in her recent astounding performance of The Lark Ascending at Holy Trinity Church – “her tone, sublimely matched to the music, ranging from hushed earthiness to a beatific, soaring, incommunicable luminosity” – I felt that she brought that experience to bear here. There was an astute lyricism weaving its way through all that contrapuntal intensity; and it felt as if the movement ‘breathed’ more – more easily – as a result. There was space for emotion, as well as technique – both of which shone brightly. (And the orchestra were her equals.)

And yes, of course that Adagio is “dreamy and relaxed in mood, and features mostly delicate, triadic harmonies” – and, in being so, is the equal of the greatest, most intense, most romantic, of Bach’s slow concerto movements. But I feel the bird may have returned to its nest, and be bathing in the ensuing sunshine, rather than flapping frantically upwards toward it, or even parachuting downwards.

The more I hear this profound centrepiece, the more it insinuates its way into my soul. On the cusp of chromaticism – as Waley-Cohen pointed out – it also defines a new, more modern type of beauty (especially for Vaughan Williams): bringing to mind the greatest sculptures of Henry Moore or the natural forms of Barbara Hepworth. For me – despite the undoubted joys that followed – this was the high point of the evening (even if the skylark was grounded, momentarily…).

The Presto finale opens with a theme that is pure Vaughan Williams, a jig tune taken from Act II, scene 2 of his opera, Hugh the Drover (1910‑14), which had premiered in July 1924, shortly before the composer began work on this concerto. At less than four minutes, this is the shortest movement, but its bustling energy never flags, its folk-like spirit permeating the whole movement, leaving relatively little to identify with Bach. In the end, this concerto must be assessed a masterpiece, perhaps a major masterpiece.

– Robert Cummings: Violin Concerto in D minor (“Concerto Accademico”)

¶

The six movements extracted from Mendelssohn’s version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream began with the original Overture (which went on to inspire the later incidental music). I thought the initial, suspended flute notes – unusually – were just a tad hesitant. (From my perspective, this looks like a tough, hushed opening to pull off – followed as it is by sprightly violins scurrying quietly through the air.) But, soon, all was well, and – despite me having always assumed it was impossible to play the trumpet or oboe and smile simultaneously – everyone in the room was grinning from ear to ear!

Mendelssohn was an undoubted genius (as well as a phenomenal pianist and violinist, as Waley-Cohen reminded us). That he produced his first violin concerto – not the one I’ll be singing for the next week: but the one that these selfsame forces have recorded (and which is recommended in the BBC Music Magazine’s current issue, Curtis proudly informed us…!) – when still in shorts; followed it not much later with a string octet that has never been beaten; wrote some great oratorios; magnificent symphonies; and some of the best piano pieces I have ever managed, fumblingly, to play – all before dying at a stupidly young age (not much older than Mozart, indeed) – should be evidence enough. But anyone who can transform an orchestra into a braying donkey must rank amongst the very greatest composers of all time!

This is fantastic music: descriptive, joyous, beautiful stuff – and Curtis and the orchestra went for it with every chunk of gusto they could muster (which was a lot – they measure out such matter not with coffee spoons, but with buckets). In fact, Curtis seems to have developed a new artistic gesticulation for such moments: one which simply indicates that everyone on stage should give it as much welly as they possibly can (if not a little more). This was not a one-off. Later, in Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto, after the interval, he turned to the cellos, and repeated this new gesture… – Nick Stringfellow being my hero of the night: firstly for his beautiful solo in the Vaughan Williams; and secondly, for then not falling off his chair…!

There was superb playing from all quarters: my favourite being the ‘song without words’ for the horn in the Notturno. But the return of “the hee-hawing of Bottom disguised as a donkey” (as Christopher Morley wrote in his typically excellent programme notes) in the final Dance of the Clowns is just so riotously funny! The perfect way to take us from the sublime to the not-quite-ridiculous; and to end a glorious first half.

¶

In the pre-concert talk, Waley-Cohen had been asked about the “edge of the seat stuff”: the visual impact that is as much of the essence of a great live performance as that “soundscape”. (“Sound is all we have. It is how we communicate.”) There were many moments in the latter concerto where I could quite easily have switched off my hearing aids and still known how deeply invested in this music both she and Curtis were, though. Even in the extremely rare moments when she is not playing, she is there with the orchestra, immersed with them, part of them; and Curtis’ body language is also balletic, and quite beautiful to watch.

Come the fireworks, there is a muscular intensity, though, from Waley-Cohen, that demonstrates not – as with many performers – that we are to note that this is a particularly difficult bit; but that she is giving it her all – especially emotionally. This does not distract; it heightens our involvement, as well. For me, it almost felt like a private performance, such is the focus this potency promotes.

Even knowing already how brilliant she is, has become, this rendition took my breath away. The planets aligned – as did Waley-Cohen, Curtis and every single member of the orchestra – to produce something simply perfect; and yet utterly unique. Only now, recalling its magic, does it prompt tears. (It is hard to cry when you have stopped breathing for so long.)

The repeated calls back to the stage; the extended thunderous applause; the loud cheers; the reverberating foot-stomping; Curtis’ habitual retreat to the background to force Waley-Cohen to acknowledge the miracle she had wrought… – let’s just say Mendelssohn will be smiling, tonight: as I did all the way home. And still am. Wow.

The Fresh Prince of Elsinore…

Paapa Essiedu (Hamlet); Ewart James Walters (Gravedigger) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

Despite it being a play ostensibly about a young man, Hamlet – which I saw last night (the first of at least three viewings of this RSC production – which could never be enough…) – strongly called to mind, for me, many of the themes of King Lear. (Although it may be that I find myself just a little too immersed in the later drama – for me, Shakespeare’s greatest – especially with Michael Pennington in the lead rôle.) For instance, family and inheritance are obviously central to both plays. Their plots also pivot around the central character’s descent into madness – real or, in this case, feigned – and its tumultuous, deadly effects on those around them.

Hamlet… loses his anchors: as home, family, heritage and a sense of dynastic destiny all crumble away. As he struggles against an existential crisis that simultaneously overcomes his psyche and his kingdom, he finds himself in a twilight between madness and powerful insight.

– Augustus Casely-Hayford: The Limbo Between Worlds (programme note)

Finally, there is the invocation of angry and vengeful deities to excuse human spite. Just the one god, in Hamlet – “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will…” – and only, seemingly, a last-minute conversion.

…the Act V god who inspires its belated resolution is characterised exclusively as a god of “rashness”, one who releases Hamlet’s trigger-hand, rather than encouraging him to repent.

– Ewan Fernie: Poem Unlimited (programme note)

Oh… and the other factor these plays have in common – at least in this year’s ‘Shakespeare 400’ renditions – is the sheer magnetism and talent of the (what I can only describe as) legends playing the eponymous rôles; as well as the consistently soaring quality of the company and creatives surrounding them. That I have been fortunate enough to see such perfection in so short a time is nothing short of miraculous.

Paapa Essiedu (Hamlet) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

It is immensely hard (almost impossible) to take your (frequently tearful) eyes off Paapa Essiedu’s Hamlet – …but you must. The earthquakes he sets in motion – the shockwaves he radiates – provoke reactions in those around him that are not to be missed. (This is where my habitual repeated visits come into their own.) Tanya Moodie’s initially controlled Gertrude, and her knowing, forced smiles in the presence of ‘Uncle’ Claudius – a mesmerizing, believable, and fascinatingly sympathetic portrayal from Clarence Smith – and Cyril Nri’s Polonius (probably the best I have ever witnessed), and his increasingly paranoiac ramblings, as well as his obvious, touching love for his children (Marcus Griffiths, a resolute, but deeply emotional Laertes; and Natalie Simpson, born to play the doomed Ophelia…), just a few of the many, many highlights.

I shall therefore do what I did for King Lear, then: and run through (if you see what I mean) the cast list – feebly delineating each actor’s strengths. (I can currently think of no weaknesses.)

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

Despite my doubts as to his heroic status in Cymbeline, here, Hiran Abeysekera is an immensely strong Horatio: obviously adoring – and just a little in awe of – his BFF, Hamlet. His howls at the latter’s death – followed by some of the most beautiful words I think Shakespeare ever wrote: here so flawlessly uttered that I wish the play ended there and then (truly, “the rest is silence”), without dragging us back to Fortinbras’ military reality – “Why does the drum come hither?” – could certainly have been Lear’s. This can be an unrewarding, overshadowed part, in the wrong hands. But his astute observations – particularly of Claudius’ villainy, and Ophelia’s stumblings towards insanity – are credible and movingly rendered. This is a performance of great subtlety, loyalty and love – and you could, therefore, easily understand why Marcellus and Barnardo – and Hamlet – show such trust in him.

Romayne Andrews – so versatile and amusing in Cymbeline – sadly gets little opportunity to shine: although, as the affected “lapwing” Osric, his togs certainly do (and are matched by his wit)! His bravery, though, as the judge of Hamlet’s and Laertes’ duel, is astounding.

Kevin N Golding (Player King); Doreene Blackstock (Player Queen) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

We do not see enough of Doreene Blackstock, either, as the Player Queen – although her thirty lines of verse (and awesome Queen of Hearts wig) are an utter delight! (In fact, if there is one flaw – but only in comparison with the RSC’s previous production of Hamlet – I thought the play-within-a-play went by too quickly. But then, all three hours and fifteen minutes flew by in a flash: so, as Einstein might have said, such things are relative.)

Eke Chukwu (a fabulously authoritative Caius Lucius in Cymbeline) is also under-used. He has such a commanding stage presence, though, that each of his twenty-lines stands strong.

James Cooney – as a Johnny Depp-like Rosencrantz – and Bethan Cullinane – Guildenstern (and where gender-swapping did add depth…) – act their sycophantic rôles admirably. But I have always found both parts immensely unsympathetic – for which you can, of course, blame Tom Stoppard. That I was delighted at the loss of their joint heads (that famous line beautifully proclaimed by Byron Mondahl) shows, though, how perfectly their treachery and incompetence shone through!

Another great actor in another pair of tiny rôles – one of the Players, and the one-line Cornelia – is Marième Diouf: demonstrating just how talented and strong this company really is. (She is understudying Ophelia – and rightly so.)

Paapa Essiedu (Hamlet) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

I was going to begin this review, originally, by writing that you should never believe the hype… – unless, of course, it isn’t actually puffery, but reality… – in which case you should pay it very close attention. And, in this case, anything you may have heard probably doesn’t even begin to describe just how mature, well-developed, talented, charismatic, etc. Essiedu is. Simply put, he is astounding.

It helps, I think – and is extremely rewarding (and quite unusual) – seeing someone of the right age playing Hamlet. (Huzzah.) Not only does he utterly live the rôle, rather than perform it – although his marked madness is so perfectly painted that you see the character ‘acting’ it, rather than the player… – but his actions are accordingly all the more believable.

He looked astonished – although it could just have been sheer knackeredness (how he puts himself through this, emotionally and physically, over and over again, is beyond my imagination…) – at the cheers he raised, stood alone, in the centre of the stage, after the initial curtain calls. But he deserves as much approbation as can be mustered. This is a Hamlet like no other (and one, I am sure, that will be discussed in fifty years time – when he similarly conquers Lear – with the hushed reverence that, say, accompanies conversations about Peter Brook’s ‘white box’ 1970 production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream…). I am therefore as impatient to see his Edmund in the forthcoming RSC King Lear as I am to see this play again… – in fact, he is now the main attraction.

Tanya Moodie (Gertrude); Clarence Smith (Claudius) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

Similarly, Kevin N Golding – in the many parts he plays: particularly the Player King (where he is as regal and authoritative as both Old Hamlet and Claudius – both of which he understudies…) – grabs you with every line he utters.

And Marcus Griffiths (understudying Hamlet, of course…)? Well, the man can do no wrong in my eyes. As hinted at above, his Laertes is more thoughtful, more profound than may be apparent in the text. His considered performance also brings a vulnerability (underneath all that muscular, macho posturing) that is deeply affecting; and his dying embrace of Hamlet – finally united in their joint love of Ophelia – is breathtaking.

We need to see more of Byron Mondahl, though. Such a wonderful voice, and with such humanity… – I would love to see him play Gloucester – or even Prospero.

Tanya Moodie’s extraordinary Gertrude is a matriarch steeped in suffering, delusion, misguided love, and a desire to play by rules real or imagined. In the first half, she teeters constantly on the verge of unveiling her true feelings; but it is only when confronted by Hamlet in her bedroom – shortly before Polonius gets his extremely dramatic comeuppance… – that all this repression explodes; that we see her for what she really is. This is a masterclass in nuance; and I am therefore eagerly looking forward to Joanne, the “one woman show” she will be appearing in as part of this summer’s Making Mischief festival. Even amongst a cast of such rich, deep talent, she is magnificent.

As I said above, Cyril Nri’s Polonius is also almost beyond perfection. All that surface guff conceals a highly political – yet, I felt, a desperately lonely, longing – old man. Were it not for Essiedu and Moodie, he would have been my performer of the night (although this was a fiercely-fought competition: with no losers to speak of…). His constant nervousness and desire to please those in power are never over-egged. What can be a one-dimensional rôle becomes richly fascinating in all its flaws.

Theo Ogundipe – as in Cymbeline – brings a canny gravitas to each of his characters. A worried Marcellus, he conjures – with Golding’s Barnardo – the Ghost’s initial visibility with mere words. As player Lucianus, he overacts appealingly (and appallingly), as he should. But, as Fortinbras, he commands the stage in the dying lines with simple presence.

Natalie Simpson (Ophelia) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

There there is the sublime Natalie Simpson. Even after witnessing the ethereal Pippa Nixon as Ophelia, in David Farr’s intriguing 2013 production, Simpson still somehow manages to make this rôle her own. So sprightly in Cymbeline, her heart-rivening doom, here, seems inevitable, unstoppable. And yet we still do not know whether her death is intentional….

Clarence Smith is a real piece of work as Claudius… – and yet I really did like him (well, as much as you can any charming tyrant)! There was a moment, early on, where he stood in the very centre of the stage, and the whole theatre belonged to him. His self-belief wanes so gently, so subtly, though, that it is almost shocking when he kneels before the cross, and we see the doubt written plainly across his pleading face. As with all the cast, power and subtlety are keenly weighted and balanced. He is the match of both Essiedu and Moodie; his power never quite as certain as he desires… – we see his self-awareness fleetingly… – yet he will make the most of it whilst he still can: bullying those who he needs to fulfil his sovereignty.

Despite his charming grin as the Gravedigger, and his ripe demonstrations of wit, Ewart James Walters is absolutely terrifying as the Ghost of Old Hamlet. (I was forced back into my seat so hard by his first appearance.) Such a great voice; and charisma by the bucketful. You would not want to meet him on a dark night, patrolling the ramparts of Elsinore, that is for certain.

And, finally, Temi Wilkey – and that great smile – playing, again, a multitude of parts (Francisca, a Player, and the Gravedigger’s Assistant). Versatile in the extreme; and yet another demonstration that giving small parts to great actors pays dividends in the quality stakes.

Paapa Essiedu (Hamlet) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

That the creative team is the equal of those on stage just goes to show how superior this production really is. Sola Akingbola’s awesome percussive soundtrack (directed by Bruce O’Neil, the RSC’s Head of Music) plays as fundamental a part as any of the actors; and his representation of the (as yet invisible to us) ghost is spine-shiveringly atmospheric. Paul Anderson’s lighting is also outstanding – but it is Paul Wills’ imaginative design, and Simon Godwin’s intelligent direction, that generate the audacious, cohesive and fascinating, gripping, universe in which the action takes place.

A hit, a very palpable hit.

I feared for them; I could not turn away…

I have referred several times on these pages to Vaughan Williams’ evocative masterpiece, The Lark Ascending – and almost exclusively, I think, as performed (increasingly exquisitely and heartrendingly) by Tamsin Waley-Cohen.

It seems, though, that, as I have aged, any concrete glimpses of the bird itself have been usurped by this glorious orchestral characterization – especially those closing, solo bars: climbing, spiralling, fluttering towards the sun; and thence beyond perception….

Skylark populations have dramatically declined in recent years, more than halving since the 1980s. This decline is due to changes in agricultural practices and habitat loss. The Wildlife Trusts are working closely with farmers and landowners to promote wildlife-friendly practices to help the skylark and other farmland birds, such as leaving winter stubble and providing field margins. We are working towards a ‘Living Landscape’: a network of habitats and wildlife corridors across town and country which are good for both wildlife and people.

– Warwickshire Wildlife Trust: Skylark

When I rekindle a generic lark ascending in my mind, consequently, I am consistently taken back to Chiselbury hill‑fort (sometimes also known as Chiselbury Camp) – guarding the A30 between Salisbury and Shaftesbury – where, being the only (frequent) visitor (and thus guaranteed peaceful solitude), I was more often than not guaranteed the display of what can sometimes feel as fabled a bird – this swift passerine… – as the phoenix.

Yesterday – tracing the Centenary Way between Home Farm and Old Lodge Farm – I was therefore astonished and overjoyed to perceive that familiar song: although it took me a short while to spot the hovering culprit against the gathering storm clouds (which would later pound me with heavy globules of hard rain).

Time and I stood there still… – “Long complicated, beautiful song-flights can last for up to an hour and the birds can reach 300m before descending…” – and, despite several short parachuting dips, this hardy male showed no sign of waning, or a willingness to return to earth. Later, as I entered the woodland – before struggling up the horse-pounded, pockmarked quagmire through the tall trees towards Sugarswell Farm (and, beyond, a well-deserved flapjack and coffee at Upton House…!) – I could still hear its elevated echoes. And my day was made; my effort rewarded. All pain temporarily erased.

This, therefore, is why I walk – when, as a physical act in itself, it is absolute agony for me. I simply, repeatedly, put one foot in front of the other not only for the endorphins engendered by such exertion; but for the fortuitous euphoria Mother Nature always bestows.

I have assail’d her with musics…

I wrote recently that “It’s strange how life’s roads diverge… yet, sometimes, then cross, run in parallel, until they meet again at some glistening, memorable moment…” – and mentioned, amongst others, Martin Roscoe, Peter Maxwell Davies, and a “Yamaha CFX concert grand”.

Well, in some kind of parallel crystallization (although partly inspired by the above convergence), yesterday I took delivery of a Yamaha Clavinova CLP-525R – which includes “Complex sample sets, painstakingly borrowed from Yamaha’s flagship CFX concert grand…” – and from a retailer who (being based, then, just around the corner from my second childhood home of Blackburn Cathedral) also played a large part in my formative musical years. In fact, the copy of Farewell to Stromness I chose to baptize the piano with actually bears a Reidy’s price sticker on it… – as does, unsurprisingly, a great deal of the sheet music I own (apart from the seventy-year-old collections of Brahms, Bridge, Chopin, Mozart, etc. that I have inherited from my mum: a much better pianist than I).

As much as I would have liked to have claimed back the family Bechstein Model 10 upright from my son: firstly, my ears and hands are no longer worthy of such a wonderful instrument (and, more importantly, he is so much more musical than I, and can therefore give it the justice it deserves); and, secondly, we really don’t have the room! Additionally, with the Clavinova, I can pipe the sound directly to my hearing aids: which not only saves the rest of the household from the caterwauling of my (current) incredible rustiness; but enables me to hear its output more clearly. In fact – being able only to recall the aural and physical aspects of the Bechstein: so embedded, after thirty years of playing it (although I did borrow my sister’s Blüthner for a while, when my hearing originally started to fade, but I wasn’t quite willing to let go completely of my favourite pieces) – one of the astounding features of an electronic keyboard is the ability to adjust the feel and sonority to my own satisfaction (even on what is a relatively basic model)!

I was also surprised by how easily (yet inaccurately) technique came back to me, the first time I sat down and played: musical muscle memory is a great thing – as, of course, is my recently improved hearing. However, my hands appear to have shrunk – or, at least, their span – in the last few years: and Max’s awkward major ninth semiquaver (from middle B to C#) at bar 20 caused me no end of problems!

Practice, of course, should restore some of this flexibility – although the piano will, primarily, be an aid to relaxation: in much the way that listening is. I also hope, however, that such immersion will prompt a return to composition. We shall see.

For the moment, it is just wonderful to be able to riffle through my large collection of music, plonk it on the stand, and restore – however clumsily – relationships with once-familiar friends. A few Chopin mazurkas, later, I think! (And maybe a little Mompou, too…?)