Yesterday – 30th December 2016 – I went to Exeter – to the Sales. Not to buy anything cut price – rather – a pair of expensive moss-green trainers for Tom – that predictably were not reduced! They were my Christmas present to him which he’d been patiently waiting for since Christmas Day. Buying post-christmas presents – is just something that we traditionally do now – like putting up the Christmas Tree – or taking down the decorations on Twelfth Night – it takes all the pressure off – and lets us enjoy the said simpler pleasures. His challenge was to buy me something for one pound or less but it mustn’t be something to eat – his gift to me is still outstanding!  Something else to look forward to in 2017!

By the time – we arrived in Exeter – the light had faded fast – and the illuminations were shining brilliantly in the gloom.  Our first port of call was the big John Lewis emporium – where I instantly fell for a completely ‘useless’ item that was dumped on a sale stand with some other leftovers from the sale.  All of them soiled or broken in some way.  The item that caught my eye was a bronzed armadillo candle with a broken tail. He may as well of had a broken wick too because my intention is to never light him. To me – he stood out because he was broken – other than that I don’t know why I wanted him – I just did!

He could almost be the star of a John Lewis Christmas advert – he was so cute and woebegone. After some further negotiation at the till point – I managed to get him for the knock down price of just two pounds!  He is really an Armadillo – but to me, because I can – he is a Gold Pangolin – I just like the sound of the word! 

Moving out of John Lewis to Next – I bought another adorable creature in the form of a cushion.   If there is one ‘vice’ I need to give up in 2017 – it is my cushion habit. At least I’ve acknowledged my addiction here – so that’s a start.

Our next stop was the sports shop!  All I can say is – mission accomplished; Tom got his desired trainers.

What an unfamiliar world the sports shop was! The young woman that served me must have been one of the most unanimated individuals that I’ve come across – my purchase from her must have been such an effort.  I’m looking forward to the time when Tom has grown out of the ‘brand stage’ – and I won’t have to hang-out in these places!

Further on – I made eye contact with a quiet, homeless man – I ‘met’ him down a gloomy alley near the cathedral. He was sitting in a dark doorway – huddled among his belongings.

I had gloves on – my wallet was in my bag – and it was all too much effort.  I – and the moment passed – I didn’t give him anything.

Further on again – there were some other homeless people dossed outside the BHS entrance.  What a sorry sight on a bitterly cold night between Christmas and New Year.  An indictment on our society if ever I’ve seen one.

I just followed my two sons – and thought my thoughts.  Tom led the way – and we enjoyed one last tour under the Christmas Lights before they’re packed away ‘under the stairs’ for another year.  Tom led us up and down one side-street after another – then suddenly I noticed those soulful eyes again; unexpectedly I was back in the gloomy alley. This time – I didn’t walk passed. I just quickly handed him a crisp new fiver and left without wishing him a ‘Happy New Year’ – that would have been crass. The quiet man said ‘Thank you’.

Well this year has nearly come to its end – and I find myself thinking about what resolutions I’m going to make.  Perhaps – I should stop buying cushions for starters!  I’m going to try to get my priorities right too – like the example of ‘The Gold Pangolin’ and ‘The Homeless Man’ – one cost me just two pounds – an impulse buy that I don’t need even though he’s undeniably cute – where as my crisp five pound note went to someone that needed it more.  With any luck it was one of those special ‘Jane Austen’ notes – I wouldn’t begrudge him a penny off it whoever he was. I’ll never forget those eyes.

One of the most notable things about 2016 – are the number of famous people that have died this year.  I’ll miss the stars that made me laugh out loud. I say miss – I won’t truly miss any of them because I didn’t know them personally.  In one shape, form or another they are still here – on cd, vhs and dvd – and Dear Terry is even on a mug! The exception is a favourite singer who died on Christmas Day.  I keep my George Michael collection in the car – because I like listening to him when I’m in my bubble – driving to and from work.  It’s George and me only time.

I have called my imperfect ‘Gold Pangolin’ – ‘George’ in his honour.  It is symbolic of a man that I think was perhaps too vain – too sensitive for this cruel world.  One only need look at the newspapers that used the least flattering image of him – to announce his passing. So unnecessary.  If only ‘Big George’ had had a suit of gold armour like ‘Little George’ – he may still be here in person. 

Now I know why I needed him so.

Never too funky – always absolutely ‘flawless’ – forever handsome, eternal white light – George Michael.

Goodbye 2016. 

* * * * * * * * * *

One thing I know I’ll not be giving up in 2017 – is going outside.  My favourite track… 

At home with the Brontes: feeling their pain.  (Graphite study from my collection.)

A couple months ago – my colourful nephew came to visit us from London. I remember listening attentively as he enthused all about his latest ‘money making’ venture – ‘Immersive Cinema’ – apparently it’s a sort of audience participation thing – where you enjoy a meal while being immersed in a fantasy world that has been brought to life around you – as if straight out of the silver screen.  Apparently – being entertained in this way is a booming culture – especially in trendy London circles. Without wishing to pour cold water on anyone’s fire – I kept my thoughts to myself – but couldn’t help wondering who on earth needs to be spoon fed an imagination in this way – and pay for the ‘pleasure’.  I wished him well with his venture of course!  He is such a tonic – always fizzing with ideas – and dreams – and that’s wonderful.

Last night – I immersed myself in some TV – I think it is the first time in over a year that I have actually sat down and watched a television programme of any sort – apart from catching the odd bit of breakfast news in the mornings while on the move.  

What a treat was in store…  

The Bronte Sisters on my widescreen.

Everything had been organised like a military operation so that I could sit down and watch – ‘To Walk Invisible’ at 9 o’clock – on the dot.

‘To Walk Invisible’ on my telly.

Two whole hours of uninterrupted telly – while my two sons set about building a ‘do it yourself’ Gingerbread House – they are twenty-three and sixteen – nearly seventeen. It was a present from eldest son to youngest son who is learning bricklaying at college; an inspired gift that kept them happily amused. While they busied themselves in my cosy parlour downstairs – I retired upstairs to my bedroom where the telly is.  Rather stupidly – the window had been forgotten and was still on the latch from earlier – my unheated room was cold and offered as much comfort as Haworth Parsonage in the 19th century!  I sat down in the armchair with two hot-water bottles – two cups of tea and a blanket around my shoulders – and immersed myself in their unforgiving world.  It would have been nice to have had some powered heating but somehow the realism of seeing my breath condense while still inside – only added to the two hour drama – I was rapt throughout as well as suitably numb!  I thought that the actress who played Emily was particularly powerful – brilliant.  All of them were.

How cold those three sisters must have been inside that roomy Parsonage; wearing long dresses with rising damp – and necklines that exposed them to the grip of every sneaking draught.  My god – I felt their pain!

Something that warmed me up.  Two hours later – the Gingerbread ‘Parsonage’ was complete!

Back to the modern-day – to where I started.  I guess – I kinda see where my nephew is coming from – although I think immersive cinema is really about this 21st century’s unrelenting pursuit of pleasure and always having ‘a good time’ no matter what the cost is. I don’t get it.

“O dreadful is the check–intense the agony–
When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;
When the pulse begins to throb–the brain to think again–
The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.” Emily Bronte

Wistman’s Wood – Dartmoor.  Lair of the Devil’s own dogs.

Don’t be fooled by their rather airy, faerie, wistful name – The Wisht Hounds of Dartmoor are hellish beasts; huge and slathering with fiendish appetites – especially for unbaptised babies.

My ‘baby’ understandably up a tree in Wistman’s Wood – in 2009.  He needn’t have worried though because he’s been marked with ‘The Cross’.

Their nefarious reputation is vastly more menacing than being trapped on the Moor stifled by the infamous fog – without map or compass and no hope in hell of finding your way out. A terrifying prospect but avoidable if you go out equipped. The only thing that might save you from the ‘Wisht Hounds’ is wearing one of these.

Something my Mother gave me.

‘The Wisht Hounds’ are the Devil’s own dogs.  

I can’t claim to have ever seen them – thank god – but I’m in no doubt about their existence – it’s more a feeling.  I’ve been around Wistman’s Wood their reputed lair – when the day is drawing to a close – and they’re palpable.

Beware ‘The Wishting Hour’ after sunset.  On the path – somewhere near Wistman’s and the B3212 – safety.

 As you step up your pace to get off the Moor by nightfall – there’s a feeling that they are not far behind; baying and drooling for your blood.  They are a cross between ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ and your worst nightmare – only neither of those are real.

Yesterday – Wednesday 28th. December 2016 – I encountered a hunting dog with a less formidable pedigree – unless you’re a fox or a rabbit! It wasn’t on Dartmoor either – but right outside my garage – when I returned home from work at the end of the day.  

He’d lost scent of the others in his pack – and was astray and noticeably confused. On first impression, he was nervous and unwilling to come close but after coaxing – I’m thrilled he came to heel. I remember smoothing his bracken-coloured coat that had patches of black and white intermingled – and of wanting to pick-up one of his muddy fore-paws to greet him. They were broad and spread-out between the toes – and I loved his lolloping action as he came to me. He was a strong, handsome breed of dog – a Foxhound.  His eyes were beautiful – almond-shaped and amber in colour – and he had an unexpected gentleness about him that I fell for.  I also loved that he had that sweet ‘whiff of horse’ about him – that brought back thoughts of Jessie.  I’d quite liked to have kept him just for that!

Jessie tacked-up and ready to go – but we never went hunting.

I was so taken by the foxhound’s gentle demeanour that had there been time – I would have invited him in for some cat food – to help him on his way.  Alas – no sooner had I got to ‘know’ my new friend – he’d pricked-up his ears to a-calling in the distance. To me – it sounded like someone just calling a pet dog or a cat in for teatime – not his Whipper-in calling him home to the Master. Surely – he’d have sounded the horn to bring any strays to heel?  That late in the day – I’d seen no sign of huntsman – or horses – when I’d driven home – I think they had gone home – to earth.  Really it was for the best that he ran off – because Dobby would have attacked him and vice versa; all hell would have broken loose in my kitchen and I’d have been the cause of it.  Foxhounds are not really suitable as pets.

Dobby. A cat not to be messed with not even by a ‘Wisht Hound’!

Just as I clicked the camera shutter – he took off with-out so much as a backward glance.  In that moment – I managed to snap one shot to remember him by – as I’ll never get to pat him again. I love how my camera has caught his sudden movement as he turned without saying goodbye.  If it wasn’t for this one fuzzy ‘memory’ of our meeting – I’d think I had imagined him. 

‘The Wish Hound’ Not so much a photograph – but a tangible memory.

A classic in my life. The film version of ‘The Ballad of the Belstone Fox’ written by David Rook.

Ever since seeing the film version of ‘The Ballad of The Belstone Fox’ at the cinema in 1973 – I’ve been ‘waiting’ – unwittingly wishing – for yesterday – when one of its stars – the foxhound, ‘Merlin’ – would come lolloping out of the screen to me.  It was a magical meet!

I hope ‘Merlin’ – or ‘The Wish Hound’ as I’ll remember him by – made it safely home to his kennels before nightfall; where he belongs. 

Dartmoor has fired the imagination of many writers down the ages – including Arthur Conan Doyle’s ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ – and David Rook’s – ‘The Ballad of the Belstone Fox’.

And then there are the old stories that are not ‘mere’ works of fiction. 

I like this hiatus between Christmas and New Year – when the ‘big clock’ winds down-a-bit and the cogs all turn at a slightly slower speed until the year ends; it’s a time to take stock and retrospect…

Dad’s old walking hat laid to rest on the bookshelf.

This is a tribute to my Father.  He isn’t dead – yet – but he’ll never read  it.

It has been written and compiled for my Mother – inspired by a gift that she gave him this Christmas – 25th December 2016. It will serve also as a record of his room before the inevitable happens.  The time when his room will be dismantled and all his things dispersed among family. Somethings will have to be simply cleared out.

Lest any of us forget.  Treasures gleaned around the four ‘corners’ of his room – his life.

He’s finished with reading his newspaper – and with listening to music – and watching the telly.  The hours – the days – the nights are long – so he sleeps in a no-man’s land – curled up like a small, hibernating animal waiting for Spring – that he hopes he won’t see.  He goes in and out of consciousness – in a golden room full of memories – but the birds don’t sing – and the crickets have all stopped chirruping a long time since. He’s waiting – hoping to die.  

Dad’s faithful clock that doesn’t keep time accurately anymore – but ticks nonetheless.  It’s also had a ‘healthy dose’ of woodworm in its long past!

To me – and my siblings – he’s eternally ‘Codger’.  A term of endearment that we gave him as children and it has stuck – and has been passed on – to the next generation. It’s a name that he once thought amusing and encouraged – but he denies that now.  He doesn’t like it anymore but he’s really too old to care. Just as well.  His grandsons call him ‘Codger’ too – especially strong, young Tom – my midnight helper and lifter-upper!  

He has been an eccentric father – both hilarious and embarrassing.

He once fixed a hole on the front of his car with a ‘Fray Bentos’ pie lid – and it was recognisable as such.  I’m doubled up right now remembering it – but not at the time when we had to ride in his bodged-up banger!  I’ve never liked his favourite pies – although I suppose I should be immensely proud; Codger was an upcycler before his time!

Oh – and he fought for his country – called up at just nineteen.

Dad on the left – with Walley, Wyatt and Seed – India 1946.

He’d often regale us with valiant stories from far-afield but back when I was young and impatient – I didn’t listen appreciatively.  I was ignorant about war and probably a lot of things – still am. I remember him telling us how he had been holed up on-board a troop ship for three weeks in the Med – ankle deep in vomit.  There’s no need to mention what action he saw; the tricorn hat, scarlet coat – and medals on his chest – say enough.

My father at Chelsea. He didn’t much care for the hustle and bustle of city life – so he returned to the country – and we’ve lived together ever since – always.

Dad wearing a different kind of hat – these days!

A larger than life ‘Dragonfly’ that hangs in his last window on the World.  I made it for him a ‘long time ago’.

He’s past it now – and we don’t mention the War – or anything. We only share my ‘hairdressing skills’.  I can remember from a very young age being asked to rub his head – or do the exact same thing of combing his hair.  Only then – there was a lot more black.

It’s alright for him – I do have to get up for work in the morning!  Pertinent words above a dying man’s bed.   I can remember this sign above their marital bed when we were kid’s – five of us!  It evidently had a different meaning in those golden far-off days – before divorce!

I could recount so much about my father – but time is short and the Internet wouldn’t be big enough – so to the job in hand.  

Snow falling on snow.  Dad’s long, wispy white hair laying upon his pillow.

Because I’m a night-owl – I’m the one who ‘puts’ the old man to bed – it is my last job of the day.  Codger is permanently in bed you understand – he hasn’t got up for over a year – but he needs straightening-out, pulling-up and tucking-in  – and a good drink of water before I trundle off up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire.  He hibernates most of the day apart from when his carers and nurses come in to do the necessaries – but on my shift he is perceptibly more ‘active’ and verbal!   He expects me to do one last thing before I’m dismissed – “Comb my hair Melly.” he assertively asks! Dutifully – and lovingly – I stand at his side – sometimes half-asleep – me that is – and I run the comb through his snow-white hair for ten minutes or so until I’m done – in! 

“It’s soothing.” he says – as my eyelids begin to shut!

The warmth inside his room coupled with the tick-tock of his clock makes me sleepy – but the bugger of it is – he’s deaf and he can’t hear it!  He’s been – and still is – an awkward old bugger at times!

KBO – Winston’s motivational acronym on Dad’s wall.  “Keep buggering on.”  I will.

In this ‘hour’ – he sometimes asks me ‘Who’s that behind you?” There is no one else up.  Perhaps it’s just that man in a long black robe waiting in the wings again to collect him; he’s cheated ‘Death’ before.

His room is full of memories and warmer things – and photographs of when we were young.  Nicholas, Simon, Caitlin and Rosie – and me. I’m his middle daughter and the only one out of his children that he saw being born.

When we were young.  Photos taken by Dad with his Leica.  I’m the fat roly-poly one wedged into a washing-up bowl – top right!

There is a small Christmas tree in his big bay window but there weren’t any presents under it this year.  He doesn’t want or need anything – he’s tired of all that – of living.  Musing about his room while I combed his hair last night – I remembered something that I put next to his clock for safe-keeping on Christmas Night; a pure cashmere scarf to be kept in it’s cellophane wrapper for later – from ‘his’ Sallie – our Mum – Granny.

Where we all began.   Aged 28 and 17 respectively on their wedding day.  St Peter’s Church – Hangleton, Sussex.  12th. January 1952.

The ‘dragonfly-blue’ scarf is not for wearing now – because he doesn’t need it under his toastie warm ‘blanket of snow’ – a 13 tog duvet with a fleece atop.  Rather – she bought it in readiness – and it comes with instructions for use.  The scarf is for when he falls into the deepest of sleeps – the coldest and longest sleep of all – to keep his neck warm – for eternity.

From here to eternity.  Dads new scarf from Mum.

For a man whose life is almost over – I think it is an inspired, loving and useful gift – that only ‘his’ Sallie could have thought of.  She chose his colour – because he always built ponds to attract dragonflies. The scarf is a testament to their love that has withstood the test of time – even though they’ve been divorced longer than they were married! Somewhere light years from here – they are together on his motorbike – with her arms tight around his waist – forever.  

Five children – and five grandchildren later – this is for them too. For Jason, Archie, Araminta, Tom and Tobias – and to all his sisters and brothers – nieces and nephews. . .

And for Helen – his main ‘Homelife’ carer. 

Helen at ‘home’ in the ‘spiritualist’s chair’ doing her paperwork.  With Dobby our cat fast asleep on the other side.

The ‘big chair’ can tell more stories from Dad’s childhood and of much harder times between the Wars when his life was unsettled in more ways than one.  It is no wonder that he is so embedded now – in his golden room – in his home of the last forty odd years. He’s surrounded by those who love him and who’ll look after him to the very end. 

They say ‘old soldiers never die – they just fade away’.  In Dad’s case it has proven to be true – it has been a long, long – long goodbye… 

Still in the land of the living! Being kept warm by his sheep blanket – a previous gift from ‘his’ Sallie – for use this side.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Addendum 18th March 2017. The Art of Remembrance. 

A short footnote – in response to Caitlin and her heartfelt comment – 18th. March 2017.

Tempus fugit! Don’t return to Dad’s empty space to often – (here). Just now and again to remember his ‘Golden Room’ and therein all our treasured memories of him. He would want us to be cheery – and he’d be sending us on our way now. In life – he never wanted us to overstay our welcome in his ‘Golden Room’ – he liked his own space too much even for us towards the end. (See photo six above and know that expression!) Remember how he’d get rather irascible if we were in there too long! In ‘forgetting’ so I’ve remembered again!

Above is the original poem mentioned in my reply.  I bought it towards the end of 2016 through Ebay – not knowing for certain exactly when Dad would die but I knew it was coming towards me in the New Year – 2017 – we all did.  It serves as the most perfect Memento Mori along with a luminescent drift of his snow white hair – cut on the 6th. January 2017 – after he’d died.  The springtime photograph of Tom and his Grandpa – taken when Tom was four – or five – could almost be a metaphor for Old Father Time himself welcoming in the New Year – this year. My corner to Dad is in Loveday’s space also – they share it.  I don’t linger in their realm too often but it’s always a comfort to have them behind me in a literal, visual, spiritual and metaphorical sense – as my life moves forward ever nearer!

Christmas Past – Christmas Present.  The littlest gifts under the tree can be the biggest inside.

Christmas unwrapped.  Monday 26th December 2016. 

This Christmas – I have been blessed. I’m sitting here on Boxing Day surrounded by tokens of love from my family.  The room is cold as the woodburner is out now and hasn’t been laid – yet I’m feeling warm.  Around my shoulders – I’m wearing a silky-soft, forest-green velvet throw that my eldest son – Archie gave me from his emporium ‘Next’.   As I speak – he’s already manning the Boxing Day Sale back in Bath. Barely twenty-four hours have passed since he stopped – and arrived home after midnight on Christmas Eve – Christmas Day.  And now – time and work have whisked him away again – back onto the wheel that doesn’t stops turning…

Although he isn’t here – he is.  I look at these ‘Next’ cloche lights – that he gave me as a pre-Christmas present.  Each little light reminds me of all the hours of work that he has put in through his life – at school, at university – and now – as a deputy manager at Next…

Now to my niece – Araminta – who has made me something that I want to share with the world; my world.  This way my youngest sister Rosie who lives in Vienna – can readily see what the clever daughter of our clever sister Caitlin – has created especially for me.  It’s our little club – and you are welcome here!

Her gift is nine inches square on the outside – but the inside is limitless; a metaphor in itself – for a miracle girl who at birth weighed about as much as a mushroom! She weighed merely a pound…

Complete with a tiny magic mushroom that she bought.  Araminta – I shall keep it in here always as a lucky charm.

That little girl who so loved pinks and purples has grown-up – and twenty years on – has made a velvet bag just for me.  There are no sides – no bottom – ‘just’ a pocket within a pocket – that overflows with love…

Araminta is in her final year at Plymouth University and she has a huge workload to design and make – and complete – so to have squeezed this in too is ‘just’ Araminta in a nutshell – or a mushroom!  She’s earned a first with honours – from me.

Honoured. Something made for me only.

My ‘pocketful of love’ has been designed for use. It isn’t a bag to be just stroked and admired – it is to be used in all weathers as a goodie bag – for Auntie ‘Melanie Magpie’ to take on her walks. For gathering leaves, stones and feathers – and any other shiny things I may pick up on the way!  I love how Araminta has chosen earthy-coloured fabrics – and embellished the flap with a beautiful felted stag. He has such a benevolent face – I feel certain he will attract all-sorts of finds into my magical, bespoke-made pouch.

Araminta – I thank you from the bottom of my heart.  Rather like your little green velvet bag – I can’t adequately express just how deep down your giftedness has gone – other than to simply say I love my bag – you. X

My eldest sister Caitlin – also ‘surpised’ me – rendering me speechless twice in one extra-special day!  Three exquisite hand-blocked – hand-dyed ‘snowflakes’ to melt my heart – Ivy, Mistletoe and Belladonna.  All my favourites wrapped up together in a gift that crossed time – let my camera say the rest… I have been completely spoiled this Christmas by my ‘nearest’ and dearest…

To make my heart sing.  A ‘Red Cross’ parcel from Vienna – from Rosie –  Full of L’Occitane potions for my rough – and ready hands!  Thank you Ro! X

One other gift that touched me – was something not for me but for Tom – my youngest grown-up boy… 

‘Granny’ – our Mum and matriarch of our little club – gave him – me – something that brought back time.  

Just zooooooooooooooom right back….

To memories of a golden-haired boy that used to zoom everywhere on a big bright yellow ‘Rabo’ Scooter…

Flash of yellow and gold…

Tearaway!  A boy after my own heart – out in all weathers!  (In this photograph he’d actually put his coat on – it must have been tipping it down!)

No family is complete without a patriarch – and so I end this entry with a dusting of Winter Snow…

With a wide awake late-night – early morning kiss under the mistletoe – with Old Father Time.  Our Michael – soon to be ninety-three in January.  X

A Happy Christmas.

I’m off out now – for a long walk…

It’s Christmas Eve – and I have been for a long walk.  A long walk – not so much in distance but in time.  A luxury when there are so many more pressing things to do before tomorrow comes.

I spent a solitary hour or so in ‘Shedland’ – and took with me a gift of my favourite Evergreen – for the naked trees that grow there.  I left some on the Giant Oak that lives in the middle of the clearing where I found my second shed antler way back at the start of the year.

A garland of Mistletoe for the naked trees in ‘Shedland’.

I didn’t expect any gifts for myself – because ‘Shedland’ has given to me all year round.  Nothing stirred in the wood apart from the wind.  I think all the animals lay quiet in anticipation for Midnight – when they can magically talk to each other.

When finally I emerged under the cover of dusk – I stopped at the crossroads nearby – and watched the last vestiges of daylight turn dusky-pink and amethyst…

Time to stand and stare at the crossroads on Christmas Eve…

and see the brightest star come out in the darkness.

Half-way round my route – I heard something “breathing” in the hedgerow – not an animal but some bleached, dried grass moving at the roadside in the wind. As I stopped again and listened – I found myself remembering the last paragraph from ‘Wuthering Heights’.

A memory of Summer Past.

When finally – I arrived back in the village – roughly two hours – and an indeterminate bit later – I walked back through the churchyard where the porch-light had been left on after the Christingle Service earlier.  It was so lovely – to end my Christmas Eve ramble by walking up the path towards the bright light – as Emily’s words fluttered back into my head again…

“I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.”   From Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.

A beautifully peaceful Christmas Eve treat.

23rd. December 2016.

Pre-Christmas review of my ramblings through The Wood – through The Year…  

“O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, Your branches green delight us!” Baubles and raindrops helping to illuminate the way to my door.

2016 has been a fruitful year for me – in terms of my experiences under the greenwood trees.

I love being with trees – and glimpsing the lives of the creatures that inhabit our beautiful woodlands.  I love unearthing things too…

My bountiful year started in April when I set myself a quest – and found an extraordinary red deer antler cast from an ancient animal. 

Moment of recognition before unearthing my ‘eight-pointer’ Red Deer Antler.

Come May – I’d ‘stumbled’ upon new life – curled-up just a twig’s throw-away from where I’d found my ‘out-stretched hand’.

Living breathing Bambi. Newly born Roe Deer in ‘Shedland’.

I call this magical place – ‘Shedland’.  

Doorway to ‘Shedland’.

A Raven’s cathedral – Dartmoor

Then there have been innumerable visits to ‘Ravens’ Haven’ on Dartmoor – where I found my biggest ‘writing quill’ yet!

My gift from the clever Ravens of Dartmoor.

A couple of weeks ago – I found myself again – in Avalon Orchard under Glastonbury Tor – picking windfalls from the sparkling wet grass. Huge red and gold orbs that filled my palms.

Timeless Avalon Orchard – Glastonbury Tor.

I have also entered a new wood – and witnessed that elemental beings really do show themselves to those that believe…

The trees speak bliss to me. Emily’s silhouette in a tracery of trees at the edge.

Then in early December – I visited my old haunt again – ‘Ravens’ Haven’ on Dartmoor.  On entering – through the Hawthorn Grove – I discovered a beautiful fluffy young sheep – quietly lying on the dewy bank beneath a tree.  He was completely alone.

The Lamb lies down on Dartmoor.

At first sighting – I was worried he had been injured or was unwell – because apart from opening his eyes – he strangely didn’t move.  I could have stroked him – he was that gentle and unafraid.

Close enough – I didn’t want to disturb him unnecessarily.

I kept a vigil for a little while near his side – as his breath condensed in the cool evening air.  In the quietness, I determined that if he was still there on my return – I’d investigate to see what ailed him.  

Meanwhile – I enjoyed my ramble through the cathedral of tall trees.  As ever – high-up in the roofless ceiling – the clever ravens were keeping a watchful eye on me.  When I returned – to the spot where the lamb had lain down on Dartmoor – I found he was no longer there – and oddly no where to be found in the immediate vicinity. He’d invisibly moved on to pastures new; the Lamb had risen.

As I was leaving the area to go back to my car – I stood at the bole of an old friend; ‘The Great Holly’ who stands at the entrance to the wood…

A much visited friend throughout 2016.

– and there saw I in the darkness – boughs laden with blood-red berries.

The Holly Bears the Crown.

There was something especially confirming about this Dartmoor experience.

On a merry note…

My good friend the Squire – came-a- calling at the shop.  With a “Ho Ho Ho!” he made his presence loudly – and warmly felt – with mince-pies and a tipple of port for the gang on duty!  After a joyful interlude – he quickly popped-out to the town square…

On his return to the shop – I caught sight of him standing proudly in the doorway – sporting a huge Brussel Sprout tree with a profusion of larger leaves sprouting from its top!  “Behold the Greenman liveth!” – I mused to myself.  

Then I just happened to say – “Ooh! I do love a man bearing a big Brussel Sprout tree!” and with no more ado he gave it to me – all thirty-three curved, knobbly inches of it!  Not content with giving me just one either – he went back down to the town square to buy himself a replacement – and doubled his gift to me. 

What a lucky ‘girl’ I am.  Enormous pair of sprout trees from my good friend the ‘Squire’!

If there is nothing else for Christmas Day Dinner – my two sons can be guaranteed a generous helping of their ‘favourite’ vegetable – all served up with lashings of gravy and bread sauce – only!  In all seriousness – this may come to pass like the inevitable wind.

Mother has been fiscally irresponsible again – and bought another piece of beloved religious art!  A ‘priceless’ watercolour and pencil study – after William Holman Hunt’s visionary painting – ‘The Light of the World’ of which there are three versions.  I miraculously found a fourth on Ebay – with a price tag for less than the price of a free-range Christmas Turkey – and evermore sustaining!  (Besides – I don’t eat turkey anyway!)

I love how somebody has taken the time to copy the original so meticulously – they must have loved ‘The Light of the World’ even more than I – or Peter do – if that is possible!

Behold I stand at the door and knock.  This version is testament to the artist’s faith – and love – whoever they are – or ‘were’.

For me – Holman Hunt’s mastery of light and imagery – mirrors my own experiences of being inside an English Woodland throughout this wondrous year.  Of being there in that quiet moment when light breaks through the trees – as a door opening on a new dawn…

Woods are where I find The Light is closest of all.  Being flooded in Shedland – 2016.

The fourth ‘Light of the World’.  Tinsel and lights reflected in the cellophane that still wraps him.  The picture auspiciously arrived on the 21st of December – at Winter Solstice.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Dedicated to three other luminaries in my life…

My Sons bringing the woodland home – Christmas past.

Behold a gentle man in the flesh. My beloved Uncle Peter – and fellow worshiper of ‘The Light of the World’. We share a love of art – and poetry – and lovely old things.  I see the light in his eyes always. X

Everyone enjoy Christ’s Day!

(If after eating too much – you feel you need to get out for a ramble – there is nowhere more reviving than being inside a beautiful green cathedral.)

Stream of lights.  Cruising up the M5 – outward bound for Mistletoe country – Glastonbury and Bath – Somerset.

This time a-week-ago I was on my way to Glastonbury – and Bath in Somerset – to enjoy the abundant Mistletoe – and take-in some festive vibes from the Christmas Market that surrounds Bath’s golden heart – the Abbey.  My companions for the day were my two lovely sons – and nothing could dampen our spirits – not even the forecast for heavy rain.

Snatching the ‘Wicker Man’ – as the rain promised to hold-off for awhile.  (While Archie was at the wheel – not me!)

Somehow the heavens opening over Bath added to the experience by reflecting everything back – the pavements in Bath really were paved with gold.  

Pavements of Gold.

Our first stop was Glastonbury – for a festive foray around the quirky shops – it was grey overhead but the rain held-off for awhile…

I fell for a life-size Raven sculpture in here! My generous, hardworking eldest son paid half as an impromptu Christmas present – Thanks Arch! I’ve called my striking Raven – ‘Tor’.

For Dad – for Grandpa asleep at home. Lighting a candle in St. John’s Church – Glastonbury.

From colourful Glastonbury High Street – it was onward and upwards to the Tor.  My ever patient sons stayed cocooned in Archie’s all-too-cosy and comfortable car listening to ‘Heart’ – while I enjoyed a solitary walk to the Avalon Orchard at the foot of the evergreen hill.  In the dimsy light – the orchard seemed more magical than I ever remember – and what a treat to have it all to myself apart from a chorale of crows.  The grass was soaked – and so too were my boots in a very short time – but it didn’t matter – I just absorbed the tranquility and the rain – if I could have stopped time – I would have stopped it right here…

Inside the Avalon Orchard – Glastonbury Tor.

Everywhere – there where windfalls lying in the sparkling grass – huge red and gold orbs ready for harvesting.  A number of the apples were decayed – brown and half-eaten on their underside – but many were perfectly acceptable – so I gratefully gathered a bagful to take home for my ailing, bed-bound ninety-two year old father – a bag of priceless rubies and gold.  He has been dying for a long time now – but every now and then he rallies a bit – and nevermore so than when he has some stewed Glastonbury Apples from the Avalon Orchard. He is just skin and bone now – disappearing before our eyes – but he still eats just a ‘mouseful’ a day. Quite a few years ago now – when he was relatively fit and active – he had a pace-maker fitted – but now that he is dying of cancer and great old age – his mechanised heart won’t be still – it won’t let him go…

I have a picture in my head of his heart remaining in the middle of his bed; when the rest of him has withered away and gone to dust – it will still be beating.

For Dad – windfalls from Avalon Orchard – Glastonbury.

When I got back to the car – I noticed a Hawthorn leaf had attached itself to me – so I peeled it off and pressed it between two receipts and put it in my wallet for safe keeping; the perfect souvenir of a blissful moment in time never to be forgotten.  One can’t stop time even if one wants to – but there are ways to remember its passing.

Preserved.

Ball of Mistletoe against a leaden sky – the forecast for Bath was rain…

Bath was resplendent in the rain – and even though I looked like a disheveled drowned rat come-up from the country – with squelchy boots and rat-tails for hair – I immensely enjoyed elegant, sartorial Bath City Centre.  The rain poured down – every drop a sparkling diamond as they fell on a sea of umbrellas.

Pouring it down in Southgate.

The pavements were like mirrors – reflecting the Christmas lights and doubling them.  Bath was a wet, winter wonderland  – and we were soaked – joyful – but hungry!

Bath’s beating heart – The Abbey.

Christmas all wrapped up for Wagtails roosting in the city centre.

Not dampened either! Another cheery face in the Christmas Market reminding me of my wild friends.

And face of an old friend who exemplifies the magic – and poignancy of Christmas past and present.

For Archie – home from home.  My favourite Bath portal all aglow for Christmas.

I treated my boys to a juicy burger from the Christmas Market – while I had a ‘poor man’s’ burger – a bap with ‘just’ fried onions! Nothing has ever tasted that GOOD!  It was delicious – even though it was probably tainted with beef fat; ‘when in Rome’ and all that!  I just went with the flow – and let the Christmas Spirit of Bath in the rain – wash over me. I didn’t buy much apart from a cheap and cheerful, super-blingy brooch of a spider in her web – that sparkles like the sparkliest silver tinsel and cost just six pounds! 

The Bath Christmas Spider – embodiment of all that sparkled and glistered on our rain sodden, festive trip to Glastonbury and Bath in Somerset.

Mostly, we enjoyed window shopping and the lights and the festive atmosphere – and our burgers! However, I did spy a beautiful, Mistletoe-green sofa through a shop window and I’ve added it to my wish list…

I was like a child in a Dickens novel; nose metaphorically pressed up against the glass looking at things I couldn’t afford!

Still-life for Dad – I wish him deepest peace.

Christmas greetings from ‘Tor’ and me…

I wish you a joyful Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Bath’s Wish Star.  May all your wishes come true in 2017…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Soundtrack for a magical day – Saturday -10th December 2016 – a timeless favourite.

Tyntesfield.

“The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.”  

The opening line to my favourite novel of all time – ‘The Go-Between’ by L.P Hartley.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I guess this is a kind of early ghost story for Christmas – perhaps a love story too that spans a century or more. It follows on from my previous post about my Emily portrait; one idea always seems to ignite another within me.  It is dedicated to a spirited young woman called – ‘Loveday’.

Loveday.

I called her ‘Loveday’ because she came to me out-of-the-blue one day – and as soon as her face turned towards mine – I was smitten by her bespeckled loveliness. It was love at first sight. She has no provenance – other than what was imparted by the well-spoken gentleman who passed her on.  He said he’d bought her in Exeter at an auction in the 1970s – but that she’d always been a bit too creepy to hang-up in his house – although he felt that there was some immensely tragic story behind her face.  I think in one way he’d had a bit of a pang parting with her – because he’d enquired a couple days later about her fate.  He’d certainly hung on to her for several decades for a reason – and why did he bid for her if he found her creepy?  Creepy – and chilly – are words that have attached themselves to ‘Loveday’ – repeated by those that have seen her in the ‘flesh’ – including by my other work mates.   I don’t think their pairing was probably his choice – I think ‘Loveday’ chose him as a suitable custodian – so that forty years on she’d be brought to the right place – for me.   ‘Loveday’ has an etherealness about her – her face is strong with a piquant expression – yet her body fades away to light. She has a frozen quality about her and not just of time. She may well be a ‘post mortem’ photograph – it’s hard to tell – but what form she is makes no difference – it’s who she was – and is – that matters.  

When I removed ‘Miss Loveday’ from her bashed and crumbling frame – there were no clues written on her reverse side – as to her real name. This ‘nameless’ young woman has been asleep behind glass for possibly one hundred years – or more.  I think she is possibly Edwardian at the very youngest.

She came to me on the 10th November 2016 – a Thursday morning – whilst I was at work in the shop.  Her ‘bequeather’ – who is a regular giver and buyer – had brought her in for recycling – along with a handful of other old pictures that had clearly been gathering dust for a considerable time – possibly in an old barn or outhouse. My manager dealt with the gentleman’s donations – and gladly accepted them all apart from poor ‘Loveday’. In his eyes she was deemed to be “creepy” – and not thinking that anyone else would want her either – he dismissed her!  We get inundated with unloved and unwanted pictures – most of them are mass produced and of little monetary worth and are often broken – so sometimes it is necessary to be a little selective on such occasions. People more often buy pictures to up-cycle their frames – but in ‘Loveday’s’ case – her frame was beyond repair – and she herself was badly foxed and creased.  The gentleman who donated her wasn’t at all offended – and was happy to take her away again.

While all this was going on outside – I had been serving in the shop – and knew nothing of her arrival – or of her imminent departure.  Just in the nick-of-time before she disappeared from ‘sight’ forever – I entered the yard.  My manager was suddenly inspired at the sight of me to say to the gentleman – “Ah! Just the person! Melanie likes unusual, creepy things!”  My skull fetish is no secret at work – and they humour me about it – but they are the ones that don’t get it!  

While still in the boot of the gentleman’s car – he turned the subject’s face to me – and I was instantly struck by her spirited look. Her crooked fringe reminded me of myself when I was a young girl.  I always had a crooked fringe – and would often frown and glower from beneath it – I was always a rather spirited individual in my day! Suddenly I’d been confronted with a picture of a young woman that mirrored an element in me.  With no more ado – the gentleman was pleased to handover his custodianship.

For the rest of the day – she patiently sat in a spare chair in the manager’s office waiting for home-time.  At the end of the day – my manager said he was glad she was finally on her way – “She’s been giving me the creeps all day!” he said – as I spirited her away out of his office door.

The day after – I set about reframing her.  I searched through my store of old picture frames – for the perfect match. I have been collecting old frames for a long time now – and quite often they can lie-in-waiting for years before the right picture comes along – each is as important as the other in my eyes.  I tried several around her – but none were right – either in dimensions or looks – or both.  Then I remembered an empty frame that I’d bought in Church Antiques in Barnstaple – about a year ago.  I just loved the wavy shape of it – even though at the time I had no worthy picture to go inside; it was a necessary extravagance at £19!  I think it is mahogany – and it’s got ‘the look’.  I wanted to create something around ‘Loveday’ – that reminded me of her era – and there was no better place to inspire me than Tyntesfield in Somerset.  Ever since being spellbound by the opening bars of Dan Cruickshank’s insight into ‘The Lost World of Tyntesfield’ – (that I’ve watched on an old video tape many times since) – have I been so in love with a house! From my own experience of visiting Tyntesfield – I especially remember those areas with peeling paint and damp plaster – ‘forgotten’ rooms and corridors that housed a treasure trove of restoration projects and stored artefacts.These areas seemed to retain the greatest evocation – that for me brought the past to life.  It was as if an invisible cloud of sleeping dust had stirred all around me – and I can remember absorbing great wafts it. How I wished that the scent of that “foreign country” could be bottled as ‘Essence of Go-Between’ and sold in the National Trust gift shop – I’d have bought the lot!

The above photograph of a bedroom at Tyntesfield – is the room that inspired the look for ‘Loveday’ – there was something about the elegant lines and atmospherics inside the room – that came to mind when I was deciding the tint and shape for her velvet mount.  If I could see ‘Loveday’ hanging on these walls – I was doing her existence justice.

Miss Loveday on the wall.

A couple of weeks on – ‘Loveday’ is on my wall looking suitably lovely. She hangs on the wall directly behind me; it was the best space available for her impressive surround. When I’m sat here writing or browsing – I feel her eyes boring into me but not in a nerve-tingling way – I adore her sweet face – and her presence.  Late at night in the early hours of the morning – when I’m the only one still up – I’ll suddenly become aware of a coldness around my back and neck for no real reason.  No doors are open and the wood-burner is throwing out a good heat still.  It is a phenomenon – or fancy – that has only happened since ‘Loveday’ has been at home.  I myself do not find her creepy.  On the contrary – it is her perceived chilliness that warms me. I’m happy that she found her way here – so that I could preserve what is perhaps the only visible memory of her – at least for my span of time. I think old things have that within them – an ability to navigate their way to their chosen custodian. To me – ‘Loveday’ glows like this piece of pomegranate-shaped stained glass – which has suffered multiple breaks in its lifetime; I don’t see the cracks – even when the sunlight highlights them more. What I pick-up – is a sense of memory -of that foreign country that L.P Hartley wrote so powerfully about. It is the only way I can logically reason to myself as to why I have such a feeling for these outwardly fragile, half-broken yet still lovely things. They possess an extraordinary other strength that endures like the soul.

It’s long gone midnight – and there is nothing remotely chilly about Loveday’s presence in my room – in fact the only chilliness is outside – as the temperature sinks below freezing. Although having said that – I do detect something.  A spirited young woman behind me – has tapped me on the shoulder – reminding me it’s time for sleep.

Night night. 

Icier and icier – probably because it is Winter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.

Poem by Emily Bronte.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Yesterday – Saturday 26th November 2016 – was one of those November days when Emily was floatin’ around…

In the ‘moment’ I reached for my little green book of her poetical works – I especially love her poetry.  Opposite me – there is an impressive canvas of a much smaller original drawing – of a young woman wearing a bonnet – I call her ‘Emily’.  Often we meet each other’s gaze – and I feel challenged by hers – I feel the young women in the portrait has set me a task and she won’t rest until it’s complete.   After flicking through Emily’s impassioned poetry – (I wasn’t truly in a reading mood) – I suddenly was taken by an undeniable urge to get outside – and visit a place that I must have driven passed about a thousand times on my journeys to and from work.

When I snake down the long hill on my morning runs (always in a rush) – I’m intrigued by a steep path I see through a deciduous wood – it looks like an aisle in a cathedral – only one of Nature’s making.  After years of passing the ‘doorway’ – I determined that it was time to enter in.  I didn’t feel the need to tell anyone where I was going – I just dropped everything – including Emily’s volume – and breezed-off in my car.  Ah such freedom! Emily would get that – only she’d have grabbed her bonnet instead of a car key!

Fall. leaves, fall…detail from a beautiful watercolour – signed J.H. Wilson 1932 – perhaps inspired by Emily’s poetry too.

It is rare for me to go for an afternoon walk – but today was a special calling.  To hear the sound of leaves whooshing through my feet – and to smell earth’s sweet decay.  I too love the dreariness of Autumn – heading into Winter…

The way back through the wood from a newly discovered perspective…

Once inside the wood – I was like a ravenous pig on the hunt for acorns – although I wasn’t purposefully searching for anything.  It wasn’t long before I’d grown tired with the path and I’d strayed off to explore the rougher areas on either side.

A bowlful of sweet decay.

I scrambled between tall trees – impatiently stumbling up-to the top of the wood – where I could see light through the tracery of black trunks and branches at the edge; I discovered that the wood bordered open fields.  There were several rusty gates used as fences – and the space had that feeling of neglect and forgotten ways – I was in my element.

Tracery of trees at the edge – I see ‘Emily’ again! (See the image at the bottom of this post.)

My only apparent company was an old cock pheasant – who despite the sound of distant gun shots – was unperturbed by my arrival. It wasn’t long before I was gifted a beautifully weathered skull that had a soft green ‘verdigris’ – I love unearthing old, forgotten treasure.  Its layered structure was so paper thin – that I felt if I’d dropped it – it would’ve crumbled to dust.  I was ‘lost’ in the wood for a couple hours – exploring ‘paths’ that I had no idea where they were taking me – it was an exquisite experience.

By the time I’d ‘navigated’ back to the start – I was treated to a most glorious sunset on my homeward journey.

Remembering ‘Beautio Beautio.’

It was on this very stretch of road that I found – ‘Beautio Beautio’ a Devon Buzzard – and was inspired to write a piece of poetry – to remember his passing.

I’m circling ever higher – beyond my usual limit – where I can see myself lying at a roadside – crying tears of blood.

Higher and higher – until the fields and moors that are my hunting ground are lost from sight – beneath a veil of cloud.

Onward and upwards nearer the Sun – I’m disappearing into light.

Free.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I arrived home and got out of the car  – I picked up a windblown leaf that I’d just driven straight over! Even though I’d been trampsing over thousands of leaves all afternoon – this one spoke to me.  And despite its pressing – its delicate structure held fast – and it looked for all the world like a piece of century-old thread-bare lace from the sleeve or collar of a Victorian lady’s dress.

It was the perfect keepsake – to remind me of my Emily inspired – impromptu ramble.

Again – thoughts of Emily drifted into my head – and of the mysterious eyes that search me from under a frizz of curls and a bonnet brim…

Hither and thither.  Like the wuthering wind – ‘no-one’ knows where she has come from or where she blows…

When held to the light – she looks like my windblown leaf; the watermarked paper is stained and brown with age yet somehow she has survived for a hundred years plus; her intrinsic beauty shines forth.  She is monogrammed ‘C B’ – artistically disguised in a wisp of hair.  She also has a striking resemblance to two other known ‘Bonnet Portraits’. 

Emily in the shadows –  on canvas.

Treasure as strong – or as delicate as paper lace; it’s in the keeper’s hands.

‘Emily’. Simple relief image of the trees at the edge of the wood – they really do spell-out her name.

When I’m out on my walks – there are certain trees that I notice more than others – because they stand afar on a hilltop – or a hedge-top – or at a crossroads. They have become familiar friends – and I can’t imagine a time when they won’t exist – especially as trees outlive us humans by centuries even millennia.  I silently talk to trees – and if I can reach them in a physical sense – I lay a hand on them too – I’m an undemonstrative tree-hugger I guess!  

From here – where I sit at my computer to write – I can ‘see’ a familiar tree – a Eucalyptus I think it was?  

I’d often lift my eyes away from the glary screen and look out beyond the high fence to the sky and the straight lines of power cable that crossed its space.  I confess – I probably took it a bit for granted because it was so readily – and comfortably in view.  Apart from its obvious lankiness – its other noteworthy feature was as a visible parameter for measuring the gentleness of the Wind; even on the stillest of days ‘The Gangly Tree’ murmured and sighed.  In that sense – its constant companion was the Wind – and together they’d sing and dance – and sparkle – and never more noticeably than two Saturdays ago…

I was here doing nothing much again —— a combination of internet browsing and intermittent daydreaming, when suddenly I really sat-up and took notice of my gangly friend – enough to reach for my camera and take a couple snapshots…

From gangliness to a vision of loveliness.

 After years in its neighbourly presence – I suddenly felt impelled to capture the light – the movement – and the feeling I had of great upliftment on an otherwise sedentary afternoon.   In that transitory moment – I could not know what was to befall my gangly neighbour only a short time later… 

Tuesday – 15th November 2016 – someone somewhere had made the decision that the ‘Gangly Tree’ was to be axed – and by mid-morning the whine of the chainsaw was the only audible sound carried by the now weeping Wind.  I found myself thinking what it must feel like to be a tree and to suddenly feel your branches being cut off ‘slowly’ one by one – I’m sure I could hear it screaming for mercy – for light.  I was ‘glad’ I was home to witness it’s slow dismemberment rather than coming home and finding it had just gone.  I painfully watched the ‘axe-man’ as he methodically went about the task – risking his own life in its execution.  The ‘Gangly Tree’ lived up to its name right to the very last – swaying uncontrollably with each controlled movement of the tree surgeon.  I don’t think the ‘Gangly Tree’ was a push-over in tree-felling terms – and in that way I greatly admired the agility and strength of the man wielding the saw; it was a morning of mixed emotions. These are the only other pictures I have of the Gangly Tree’s existence – taken through my window on the fated morning.

Going, going…

Gone.

In the foreground are the bare branches of my equally dead Buddleia – slowly poisoned by next door’s leaky oil tank.

Even though the butterflies didn’t come this Summer and Autumn has witnessed a sudden death —— the alchemy of sunlight and colour through glass will raise my spirits through the dark days of Winter. If I pan back from the vacant space and greyness outside – to what is inside —— there is a little stained glass panel that hangs in the foreground that fits as a perfect epitaph for a tree that I’d mostly taken for granted just because it was always there. 

Bought earlier in the year from stained glass artist – Rachel Ravelle.

I’m glad I listened before it was too late.

On Friday 28th. October 2016 – I joined my two sisters and ‘The Whippets’ for a walk along the Tarka Trail to Beam – birthplace of Henry Williamson’s ‘Tarka the Otter’.

“His cubhood was ended, and now indeed did his name fit his life, for he was a wanderer, and homeless.  Already his mother had forgotten, and perhaps would never again remember, she had loved a cub called, Tarka.”   From ‘Tarka the Otter’ by Henry Williamson.

We rambled over Torrington Commons to where two Hawthorns entwine – they reminded me of the moralizing fable of Baucis and Philemon – a love story that exemplifies the virtue of being kind to strangers. 

It was a walk of many stops and starts – a chance to revel in Autumn’s coat of many colours – my sister suitably dressed in matching attire.

Soon we were on the trail itself – where the water of the Torridge was in reflective mood befitting the sleepy afternoon – and Season.

We enjoyed looking up into the tree-tops at some ‘Giants in the Forest’ – this one a kindly face in a mighty Ash.

At Beam Weir – ‘Old Nog’ was standing in the white water – I love how my camera has captured an eye in the shadow of the bank – an elemental being – another Green Man.We walked on to above ‘Owlery Holt’ – where the view of the viaduct brought thoughts – and discussion – of the migrant children that have sought peace here in the heart of Tarka Country – across the bridge – at Beam House.  All three of us are now in our fifties – yet we can’t begin to truly imagine what horrors they have seen and suffered.  We hope they can draw strength from the beauty and tranquility that we are so lucky to have on our doorstep – at least as a temporary stepping stone in life’s river.  

On the way back – ‘Old Nog’ was still fishing.Watching the Great Heron standing in the mercurial water – our thoughts turned again to the Syrian refugee crisis – I found myself inwardly recalling lines from another proverbial work – this time by Martin Tupper – a powerful poem called – The Giant Fisher.

We noticed this crumpled leaf gripping the bridge railings by a thread; a metaphor for life’s struggle against adversity – and the “sheer weariness” that many people feel in this troubled World.

And so The Giant Fisher watches and waits – and so the river flows on…

Dedicated to the memory of Henry Williamson and Martin Tupper for their inspired writing and poetry.