The IsamBards in the City on Shakespeare Day

One year and thirteen days after the last IsamBards in the City walk, we found ourselves at it again, on Shakespeare Day this time, and with our full complement of Bards this time too. 

This time we started at Electricity House, a Grade II listed 1930s landmark, which we always called the SWEB building when I was growing up in the 1960s and 70s, and which is now, inevitably, 'luxury student accommodation'. 

We started with an introduction from Professor Lucy English, Poetry Queen of Dragons and Joint Director of the Lyra Bristol Poetry Festival, of which our walk was one of the events, and we were off, starting with David Johnson who gave a potted poetry history of Electricity House.

Dominic conjures an Electric Fish Market

This is me reading a poem about nearby Christmas Steps.

We then wandered down the Centre to our next stopping point, the now empty plinth where the statue of notorious slaver, Edward Colston, once stood.

Pameli reading 'In the Centre of the City'

Remembering George Floyd

Cwtch enthralled by the story of what happened here before she was born

It was then time to head to our next stop, down by the statue of Neptune and the Hippodrome.

Alfie the whippet studies his paws in rapt concentration ...

... although Neptune has rather rudely turned his back

Pameli reading her poem 'Mr Matchem's House of Marvels'

Our next stop was at the head of St Augustine's Reach on the Floating Harbour, which almost has a view of the Central Library and was therefore just the right spot for a communal poem protesting the threatened and revoked and then re-threatened plan of the Mayor to sell that beautiful Arts and Crafts building (which is ours, actually) and rehouse it in the empty Debenhams building, or Joneses as it used to be, over in Broadmead.

'Or sell our Central Library / sell everything it means / but beware its darkened aisles / in the library of your dreams' 

Our penultimate stop was further along Narrow Quay, within sight of Pero's Bridge, where we remembered one of the few slaves in Bristol whose name (albeit only his slave name), birthplace and dates we know.  

I also read a poem about a little known, but grim episode in Bristol’s history concerning three Inuit captives – a man, a woman from a different tribe and her infant son – who were brought to Bristol by Captain Martin Frobisher, following his voyage to Canada in 1577. He’d planned to present them to Queen Elizabeth I but all three died before that could happen, within weeks of their arrival.

 

I was a bit disconcerted to realise we were standing right outside the room where my wedding reception was held almost 37 years ago, but then the Northerner reminded me that reading poetry in that spot was the perfect way to lay any residual ghosts and he was right.

Our final stop was nearby Queen Square, which used to be a marsh before the River Frome was diverted in the 1240s and which contains a fanciful statue of King William III dressed as a Roman Emperor and sitting on a steed, both of which points of interest were referred to in various poems.

'It was all right as these things go,' said Cwtch, 'but there was only one mention of bones and no dogs whatsoever.'

Four IsamBards

A day out at Charmouth

Last year when Son the Elder wanted me to drive him to an event in Crewkerne, I drew up ambitious plans which entailed walking around a couple of hill forts and then driving a few miles south to the coast at Charmouth. The hill fort experience was amazing, but my son decided he'd had enough by late afternoon, so Charmouth had to wait for another day ...

... and that day was Saturday. No rookie errors this time; I headed straight for the sea, rejoicing in the weather forecast which had predicted rain but was clearly wrong.

Looking west towards Lyme Regis

The River Char crossing the beach

For a moment upon arrival I was confused. I was pretty sure I hadn't been to Charmouth before but it felt so familiar. Then I realised I was thinking of Cuckmere Haven in Sussex, where the eponymous river also crosses the beach, though the cliffs there are of chalk, of course, rather than soft silt, mud and clay.  

It was far from crowded, but most people were scouting for fossils near the cliffs so I plonked myself down on the pebbles and looked for sea glass instead, finding handfuls without even having to move.

Looking east with Golden Cap on the horizon

After a time I started to feel a bit dunched, so wandered along the beach ...

... and immediately found the fossil I wasn't looking for (part of a sizeable ammonite-y thing) ...

... as well as the perfect domed paperweight, grey with a white ring. 

I decided to explore the beach to the east of the Char next, and maybe ascend part of the coast path over the cliff to get a better view of Golden Cap, just as soon as I'd had a drink of Ribena back at the car, but the moment I got there, it started to spot with rain. Sitting inside until it went off, the minutes became hours and the hours became the rest of the afternoon and finally it was time to drive back to Crewkerne to pick up Son the Elder, who hadn't wanted to finish early this year, as it turned out. 

Never mind, I had a quantity of sea glass, an unlooked-for fossil and a couple of interesting pebbles to take home with me.  A good day out.

A poetry jaunt to Devon

On Saturday poetry took me to Teignmouth in Devon for the launch of Rosie Jackson's new collection 'Love Leans over the Table', at which I was reading two poems, so I decided to make a day of it and visit my favourite place, which is Dartmoor.

Because of needing my energy for the reading, I decided not to do much of a walk, but instead drove right across the moor from Tavistock to Ashburton, stopping off on the way at a couple of favourite places. 

The first of these was the car park below Cox Tor, where I parked to walk along the Grimstone and Sortridge leat that skirts Barn Hill on Whitchurch Common to Windypost Cross. 

Beckamoor Brook

The aqueduct carrying the Grimstone and Sortridge Leat over Beckamoor Brook

The Grimstone and Sortridge Leat, with Vixen Tor in the middle distance

Clapper bridge over the leat

Apparently, there was once a smithy here, and this is a wheelwright's stone, the wheel and spokes being assembled on the flat surface, with the hub fitting into the dip in the middle. The rim of the wheel, which was made of iron, would then be heated on a forge, dropped onto the wheel and quenched with cold water, which had the effect of shrinking the rim to a tight fit.

Pregnant Dartmoor hill ponies

Windypost (or Beckamoor) Cross, dating from the 15th century and probably replacing a much earlier cross, coming into view on the horizon.

Where the leat splits, originally to provide farms near Pew Tor and Moortown with water

I could see a crow perched on gorse over on Feather Tor, and that, combined with the arrival of a party of people led by a shouty man, was enough to send me scuttling over for a bit of a sit-down.

Pew Tor from Feather Tor

Looking back at Windypost Cross, now being used as a scratching post by a black cow

A bunch of feathers from a ring-necked pheasant, some of them blood feathers; this didn't end well

After walking back to the car park, I drove on across the moor, turning right before Dartmeet to cross the West Dart at Hexworthy and stopping at Combestone Tor, which is conveniently near the road and provides fabulous views of the high moor and what goes, somewhat inelegantly, by the name of the Double Dart Gorge. 

A quizzical Dartmoor Blackface sheep

Looking west, with Longaford Tor and Bellever Tor on the horizon

Looking east

Hameldon Beacon, Honeybag Tor, Chinkwell Tor and Bell Tor, Sharp Tor, Haytor, Saddle Tor, Rippon Tor, Buckland Beacon

Dartmeet, centre, middle distance

Wild strawberry flowers

Then on to Shaldon and a quick change from moor mode to poetry mode in the ladies loos by Smuggler's Tunnel, the lane leading to which was full of primroses, violets and wild strawberry flowers. I was gasping for a mug of tea by this point, and hurried down to the Clipper in the hope of partaking while sitting on the jetty, but it had just closed; no matter, the Alice Cross Centre, where the launch of Rosie's collection was taking place, had, in  addition to a bar, a kettle and tea bags, so that was fine. 

And the evening was fine too; it was a privilege to be part of it among so may illustrious poets, not least Rosie.

Graeme Ryan, Jean Grimsey, Sue Proffitt, me, Helene Demetriades, Rosie Jackson, Wayne Smith, Ian Royce Chamberlain, and cellist Eliza Jacobs