Landscapes for Life with Samuel T Coleridge and Ted the Border Collie

The defining feature of my life for the last 30 years has been the amount of caring involved: for disabled children who, although now adults, still need daily input, a daughter and ex-husband with Type I diabetes, and these days for very elderly parents too. 

Going on forays into the country for a few hours lifts me above the frustrations involved in having to set aside my own interests, and replenishes my not-always-very-deep reserves of patience.

When I go out on a jaunt, more often than not I find myself in either an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty or a National Park. We are spoilt for them here in the south-west. 

Which is as well, because as far as my mental health is concerned, these places are life-savers. 

So I am always thrilled and delighted when one of my poems pops up in connection with the bodies overseeing these special places on our behalf. 

My poem Coleridge Changes his Library Books, which is from my first collection, Communion, is currently gracing the AONB's Landscapes for Life blog. This is particularly apt as many of the places it mentions are under their guardianship. It can be read it here. 

Meanwhile, today's caring duties will take me to one such area, the Mendip Hills. I think I'll take the dog along and make an afternoon of it. 

So Much More Than The View ... National Association For Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty/National Parks

I love leaving the house (and the vague notion that I should be doing some housework) to go walking, preferably in the country. For me it's an intrinsic part of the writing process, and I am hugely lucky that my home city of Bristol is ringed by the Wye Valley/Forest of Dean, the Cotswolds, and the Mendips, and that at a slightly greater radius lie the Gower, the Brecon Beacons, the Malverns, the North Wessex Downs, Cranborne Chase and the West Wiltshire Downs, and the Quantocks.

And when I holiday, invariably in Devon, I can see Dartmoor from the hills behind my family's caravan, while the Blackdowns, North, East and South Devon, Dorset, the Tamar Valley, Cornwall, and Exmoor are all within easy reach.  So much variety and interest - and all of them either Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty or National Parks.  

So I was delighted when our postman turned up with several copies of So much more than the view, a joint publication from the National Association For Areas Of Outstanding Natural Beauty and National Parks England, which highlights the benefits such areas offer society. 

It turns out that the AONBs and National Parks in England cover more than a quarter of the country and welcome more than 260 million visitors per year.  They also provide inspiration for artists and writers (like me) and sporting people (not like me); homes for people and wildlife; thousands of jobs; and life-enhancing experiences for people of all ages.

Given that these areas are so vital to the country's economy and to the health and well-being of so many, it does therefore seem surprising that public spending on AONBS and National Parks is less than £1 per person per year.  They need more investment from the government to continue to protect these places and to promote sustainable growth within communities. I support these aims, which is why I was delighted that my poem, Coleridge Changes His Library Books, from my first collection, Communion, was quoted in part in the brochure, as an example of how these places can be inspirational.  

In fact, my poem about Coleridge, who famously walked his way around the West Country,  takes its inspiration from visits I made to the Quantocks, Exmoor, the Wye Valley, the Mendips and East Devon - no less than four AONBS and one National Park.   

At the launch of the brochure back in June, the Environment Minister Rory Stewart asserted that we have a 'deep obligation to protect this land, its farms and its communities', and that 'while we celebrate the fact that they have also to potential to bring prosperity, we must never reduce such places simply to their economic value – they are so much more than that.'  Whether this will translate into more government investment remains to be seen.  Certainly such statements seem to be at odds with permitting fracking companies to drill horizontally under national parks and other protected areas, to give just one example of the way these landscapes are under threat.  

In the meantime, we can voice our opposition to such initiatives, visit our special places and support their local businesses, support the AONBS and National Parks by donating, volunteering, putting our car parking money in the honesty box, etc. And we can keep on walking, learning and writing; painting, photographing and sculpting; telling the stories and histories of these places; and letting everyone know how vital - yet fragile - they are. 

As for the bit about being a household name, well, thanks, guys, but I don't think 

that's the case even in this house, given that the dog seems to think I'm called Mum.  But I'll still keep visiting and keep writing. 

Romanticism Revisited : An Interactive Map

Back in April I was approached by the Department of English at Bristol University about an interactive, site-specific map it was developing concerning the literary heritage of the South West, in particular the area’s important and inspirational connection with major Romantic writers.  In short, it was seeking commissions from contemporary poets with a connection to Bristol and/or the South West, for poems written in response to any of the key locations of Romanticism.  

Well, this was right up my vernacular alley.  What could do I but submit my Coleridge and Keats poems? 

Well, I'm pleased to say that the map is now active, and the app can be downloaded to a smartphone, android device or on Apple.  And if, like me, you're not really sure what an app is, you can view it on the website also. 

Happy poeticking!

  

An English Idyll - Ottery St Mary and Venn Ottery Common

After popping into the Curious Otter bookshop in Ottery St Mary to leave a couple of postcards and some information about my poetry collection, 'Communion', on the possibly slender grounds that this lovely little town is the birthplace of Samuel Coleridge, and as such, is alluded to in my poem, 'Coleridge Changes his Library Books',  Ted and I headed for Tipton St John, also on the Otter, for a nice walk in the sunshine, along leafy lanes, past fields of ripe wheat, to Venn Ottery Common with its golden gorse, heather just coming into bloom and views across the valley.  Ah, and it was idyllic ... 

... except ... do you think it might rain?

Waiting for the rain to go off ...

Normal (English summer) service resumed.

View over the Otter valley from Venn Ottery Common.

Down the deep lanes, to quote Ted Hughes.

Here, built into the slope of the hill, the rarity that is an unrestored Devon longhouse. It would originally have had a thatched roof and much smaller windows. Would love to get my mitts on it ...

The pyrotechnics of Rosebay Willowherb. So showy it needs four names. Who needs riots?

Oak trees, sheep in pastures, what more do you need?









A Dark, Satanic Mill on the Otter, perhaps?

History rusting in fields ...

A long abandoned railway bridge.

Big heifer is watching you!

What would an English idyll be without a parish church? - Here, St John's in ... er ... Tipton St John.

Persons to Porlock

Off to Porlock last Friday.  I first visited three years ago, and it turned out to be the start of a series of jaunts which led to my poem, 'Coleridge changes his library books', so I feel affection and gratitude towards the place.  My father had never been, however, and as he is now 89 and quite frail, I decided to get him down there pronto, along with my mother, my sister and Ted.

So, another chance to visit the Ship Inn, which Sam Coleridge, William Wordsworth and Robert Southey used to frequent. On the wall in what would have been the inglenook, there are a few lines of a poem composed in situ by Southey: 'Porlock! / Thou verdant vale so fair to sight / Thy lofty hill which fern and gorse embrown. / Thou waters which roll musically down, / The woody glens, the traveller with delight, / Recalls to memory.' 

Then, having lunched, we moved on to the implausibly named Church of St Dubricius, with its 1,000-year-old yew tree a friend of mine once likened to Don Quixote on his horse.  

It was lovely to climb up the narrow, spiral staircase to the Chapel of the High Cross once more, the warm and welcoming chantry which once served as a schoolroom and as storage for vestments, and to see the delicately detailed Harington tomb again, with its graffiti dating back to 1531. 

A minor disappointment was that a tomb I was expecting to see - of a reclining woman carved in marble - wasn't there.  I must have encountered it in another church I visited that day. Must try to find out which somehow.



Next stop was Porlock Weir, where I parked my parents and sister in the sun and set off with Ted along the rollercoastery coastal path to Culbone.  Ideally I would have liked to have done the entire walk in my book, especially since the latter part of the route passes Ash Farm, where Coleridge was famously interrupted by a 'person on business from Porlock' whilst writing his sublime, opium-inspired poem, 'Kubla Khan' (and whom Julien Temple in his film 'Pandaemonium' rather scurrilously identifies as Wordsworth).  But I didn't want to leave my parents too long, just in case, so that must wait for another day.

As it was, it was very hot and the four-mile-round trip to Culbone was quite enough for me, if not Ted. I was thankful that the route wound through cool and shady woods before descending to the valley in which the hamlet - famously inaccessible by road - and its tiny church lie. 


Culbone church is reported by some parties to be the smallest in England, although this is open to fierce debate. The guidebook claims it is the smallest complete parish church in England, with its chancel measuring 13'6" x 10' and the nave 21'6" x 12'4". Its total length is 35ft and it is reputed to seat about 30 'in great discomfort'. Another interesting snippet is that in the Assize rolls of 1280, it is recorded that Thomas, the chaplain of Culbone was indicted 'for that he had struck Albert of Esshe (Ash) on the head with a hatchet, and so killed him'.  (Presumably this is the same Ash in the anecdote about Coleridge.  What a history!)  This isn't the first time I've come across a West Country church with a lurid history of murder ...

Meanwhile I was enchanted by the sweetly small yet solid entrance door, the rood screen and box pew, the exquisitely carved linenfold panelling on the back of one of the pews.




In the churchyard lots of graves of people with either the surname or middle name of 'Red'.  A bit more earthy than Rufus or Scarlett, lovely names as they are.

Then back to Porlock Weir and the drive home, via Kilve where we stopped for ice cream.  Sadly, my dad was too tired to go up to the beach as he'd hoped and we went home without him seeing the bleak beauty of that part of the coastline. Never mind, hopefully we can return another of these fine days ... 

A Visit to Wells Festival of Literature 2010

So, Saturday it was off to the beautiful Somerset city of Wells, at the invitation of the Festival of Literature Committee, for a prize-giving, luncheon in the Bishop’s Palace, and a talk on writing by the novelist Sarah Duncan. With me my writing teacher and friend, Kate Dunn, whom I was delighted to invite by way of a thank you for her support.

As luck would have it, morning dawned fair and our journey passed uneventfully. Having arrived with time to spare, we took a wander around the town. The trees have some way to go before their autumn colouration gains its full intensity, but they were still very beautiful, and given the lovely, slightly misty quality to the light, I was vexed that I’d carefully stowed my camera in the wrong handbag.

After we'd perambulated the moat, we made our way to the main entrance of the Palace and on to the light, high-ceilinged room where the prizes for the Short Story and Poetry Competition were to be given. I was expecting to feel nervous, but didn’t, partly because an actor was reading out the winning poems rather than the poets themselves, but also because it’s the poem that’s being honoured on these occasions, not the person who was fortunate enough to find it and pin it on the page. Still, it was a pleasure to accept the first prize cheque for £500 on behalf of said poem, ‘Coleridge Changes His Library Books’, along with a certificate and a charming terracotta tile depicting the Cathedral fashioned from books.

Lunch was handsome – roast pork and vegetables, followed by syrup pudding with clotted cream – and the company serendipitous. Kate and I sat with the poet who won second prize in the competition, the generous and indefatigable Sue Boyle who runs the Bath Poetry Café, her husband Jim, the actor Dennis Harkness, who won the Silver Wyvern prize for his short story and who tours with a one-man show about Coleridge (how’s that for synchronicity?), and his wife, the very talented artist Juliet Harkness. We were also joined by one of the committee members, who told us there had been 479 entries in the poetry competition this year.

After lunch we attended the talk about writing, and Sue kindly invited me to read at the November Poetry Café. Then, we left the Palace and made our way to the Cathedral, but not before we’d located the bell the swans ring when they want to be fed! Unfortunately part of the south aisle, the transept and everything to the east was closed to visitors as there was a choir practice in full flow, but even so, it was wonderful to drift along the stone avenues, dislocated from time. And that's another reason to go back soon.

A Poem for National Poetry Day 2010

As it's National Poetry Day, I'm posting a poem about a poet. I was fortunate enough to win the 2010 Wells Poetry Competition with it, and it will be published in my first collection, 'Communion', next year. I hope to report back on the festival next week.



Coleridge Changes His Library Books


All this altering year you’ve called me

from the hills above Nether Stowey,

in the shifting of fossils and siltstones
that clutter Kilve’s wilderness shore. In Porlock
I glimpsed you through watered windows
at the hearth of the mariners’ inn
with jugfuls of cider, potted laver,
a communion of friends.

I saw your whole world imaged at Wyndcliff,
a moss-softened step for each day
that I gazed upon a Xanadu made real,
from the mazy ramblings of the Wye
down to a sunless Severn Sea.
Even the swift, sleek-whiskered river,
baptising the churchtown of your birth,
floated a dream of you

in a nutshell with paper sails,
walking your poems down droves and causeways,
lugging your library books forty miles,
till Bristol lights its tide of stars
and I see you
brimming with words and stories
all along the Hotwells Road,
as high as the swifts that scream over our city.

14th October 2009




Deborah Harvey © 2009, 2010