Out and about around Huckford Viaduct

Time for a walk somewhere a bit different. While perusing the OS map, I'd noticed a footpath running down to the River Frome on the map next to the farm in Winterbourne where I went horse-riding for a couple of years in my early teens, and, thinking maybe I'd get a glimpse of those fields again from the river that meanders its way through the valley and under the Huckford viaduct, I packed Cwtch into the car and headed for it. 

Horse-riding sounds very posh but it was more a case of messing about in jeans and borrowed riding hats on a motley group of ponies owned by a former jockey. (Except I had my own hat because I have a large head and rummaging through crates in the porch of the farmhouse trying to find one that fitted was a pain.)

 

Down the cow parsley-lined lane, then, though we soon diverted into woodland running parallel to it ... 

... where I found my second jay secondary - and third jay feather of the year - which was pleasing, this one having a little more blue on it than some of the ones I've picked up.

Near the bottom of the hill, our path led under Huckford viaduct and along the Frome. I decided to explore as much of the area immediately around the viaduct as possible, and headed first in the direction of Winterbourne Down.

We were mostly walking through woods but every now and then a view opened up, like this one of the viaduct, which was bulit in 1902 and is part of the Bristol Parkway to Paddington line, so in frequent use.

We also explored a steep side path, where the steps were formed by roots.

After a while, I started to hear traffic up ahead, so rather than put Cwtch back on the lead, we executed an about turn and retraced our steps to the viaduct.

Next we explored Huckford Quarry, which was apparently mined to provide material for the viaduct, and is now a nature reserve. It felt like it had its own microclimate; a miniature temperate rainforest. One thing that never used to affect me when I was younger but does now is vertigo, so I took it very steady on the higher paths, as there were some precipitous drops.

One sign of nature was this dead mouse, almost buried under leaf litter.

We then passed under the viaduct again and headed along the river in a north-easterly direction towards Coalpit Heath. 

Some of the whitethorns were still flowering, which was a bonus as they've mostly stopped now in the other places we walk.

Charlock

There was little to see of the fields of my youth, however, as the banks of the Frome are now mostly wooded, which wasn't the case in the seventies. I think it's great there's so much more tree cover, though seeing pretty big ones growing that weren't there before is a reminder of how much time has elapsed between then and now. And when I could glimpse the occasional field, it was unrecognisable.

After a while we again turned about and retraced our steps, as we'd been out two hours already and there were jobs to be done at home.

In places the path was thick with fallen whitethorn petals, and I wondered why it's so much pinker on the ground than on the branch.

Golden chervil, ground elder and hemlock water-dropwort

Common Carder on Comfrey

Hoggin, including some willow pattern

Back up the path

Cwtch and I drove home rejoicing at having found another lovely new walk. We'll be back.

Fifteen days of poetry in spring

It's been a wonderful couple of weeks of poetry. First, it was the Lyra Bristol poetry festival, and although work commitments prevented me from going to a few events, I did manage to attend an online workshop led by Malika Booker, and I got to see my poetry hero, Ilya Kaminsky, who was one of the headline poets, and who lived up to my sky-high expectations.

And it was a  joy to have him sign my treasured copy of 'Deaf Republic', all battered and filled with notes from when I wrote an essay on it while I was studying for my Masters degree at Manchester Writing School. 

Talking of which, I also attended a showcase featuring some of the poets I studied with a few evenings ago, albeit online. This was my view for most of the evening, but no matter, the poems sounded great.

Throughout this past winter, the IsamBards, whose swan song it is this year, have been working hard, putting together an anthology of their poems, featuring poems from poetry walks held in the centre of Bristol and its floating harbour, the Bristol Botanic Garden, and Arnos Vale Cemetery, plus further sections entitled 'Brunel' and 'Books'. And now, at last, the anthology, called 'Dancing on the bridge', is in the world.

To accompany it, we've done three recent poetry walks, the first one - as part of Lyra Bristol Poetry Festival - on Bristol's waterfront. 

An interlude - with dog - on Narrow Quay

Reading at Pero's Bridge

Part of our rapt audience, which included John Cabot 

At Mud Dock, our final stop

Eight days later, we found ourselves at Arnos Vale Cemetery for two walks, this time as part of Bristol Walk Fest.

The ram's skull I found in Evilcombe on Dartmoor, many years ago, made an appearance as Yorick's skull during one poem

Our guide for the morning walk, Janine, at George Müller's grave

I'm always touched when flowers brimg themselves to a grave

Our guide for the afternoon walk was Alix, and her and Janine's knowledgeable presence made for fascinating walks.

magpie feather

With thanks also to the butterfly, which fluttered by while Janine was talking about Psyche, the goddess of the soul, who's often depicted with butterfly wings and who's the origin of the butterfly as a symbol for the soul, and to the sparrowhawk, which made an appearance seconds after IsamBard Dominic Fisher read his poem 'Sparrow', which features one.

And of course, my collection 'Love the Albatross' has continued to make its way in the world.  In addition to the reading I did in Totnes, also during this wonderful fortnight of poetry, Nigel Kent has kindly published both a short essay, written by me, on one of its poems - 'The counsel of hares' - which can be read here, and his own highly perceptive and empathetic review on the whole collection, which can be read here. 

Finally, from the same collection, my poem 'A betrayal', which was first published in issue 4 of The Fig Tree's online journal, has made its way into the 2024 anthology of poems, published by Tim Fellows of Broken Spire Press - many thanks to him also.

Poetting in Totnes, plus a detour to Dartmoor

Having missed out on driving Son the Elder to Crewkerne last week - and enjoying a day fossicking around Dorset while he roboteered - because of waking up in the morning to the flattest of flat tyres that Could Not Be Pumped Back Up (and needed replacing), I was relieved to get safely down to Devon for my reading in Totnes a few days later. First, though, a stop on Dartmoor, my heart's home.

Hound Tor

Looking over to Hayne Down

I chose to visit Hound Tor, hoping that through the miracle of magical thinking, the late-flowering bluebells that cover the Down and Holwell Lawn might somehow be out, but as I suspected, I was just a bit too early to witness that glorious lavender haze that seems to float over the moor when they're in full bloom.

A few were just beginning to show their faces, though, along with heath milkwort, spring cinquefoil and marsh lousewort, which were lovely to see.

View across the Beckabrook to Black Hill, Grea Tor, Smallacombe Rocks, Haytor, Holwell Tor, etc

It was very warm for April, despite the breeze, so I had a bit of a sit-down on a rock. Up ahead a deer was grazing, and down in the valley, the cuckoos were shouting to each other.

The deer is in the middle distance, against a patch of green

Grea Tor 

Looking from Haytor and Holwell Tor to Saddle and Rippon Tors

It was then nearly time to leave, so I wandered back through the rocky outcrops of Hound Tor.

Looking back towards Haytor, you can see a face in profile in the rock

Looking up to Easdon Tor, with Hayne Down in the middle distance

Then down down down to Totnes, where a poster of me and my fellow-Bristol-poet-and-reader, Tom Sastry, greeted me on the door of the venue, which was the Barrel House and very fabulous indeed. I spent some time staring in every direction, open-mouthed.

Julie Mullen was our MC, and she'd put together a great bill, but first she read some of her own arresting poetry.

Then the first of two sets by the fantastic Bulgarian vocal group, Gora Ensemble, who were mesmerising ... 

... and an excellent set of funny-but-deadly-serious poems from Tom Sastry, reading from his new collection, 'Life Expectancy Begins to Fall'. 

And me, I read too, from 'Love the Albatross'. Here's an accidental selfie that couldn't have been better composed if I tried. 

It was so good to meet poets I'd only previously been friends with online, as well as catching up with real life mates, including my old friend Bob Mann, whom I've known for years and accidentally lost touch with when his computer died. Firmly back in contact again now, thanks to the poster on the venue door.

Then it was back home up the M5 and into bed at 1am, my five hours' sleep before the alarm went off leaving me to a zombie for most of the next day, but a small price to pay for a precious few hours on Dartmoor and a gig I'll never forget.