On looking into Wilson's Homer

I'm only just beginning to acknowledge to myself how laborious reading is for me. It feels counter-intuitive, because I love books. I love buying and borrowing and holding them. I love the idea of reading them. And I begin with much anticipation, but mostly end up struggling through to the end. If I get there at all. 

It drives me mad. Words are something I've always been good at. A proud member of the Spelling Society of Class Three at primary school, I was invariably one of the last three pupils left standing on my chair, easily spelling 'reconnaissance' and 'ptarmigan' and 'idiosyncrasy' at the age of nine. Decades later, during the 90s and early 2000s, while undergoing series after series of psychological tests designed to figure out how my ex-husband and I managed to produce not one but two autistic children at a time when the consensus was that autism wasn't inherited, I achieved the highest score in word recognition of anyone they'd tested at that point. So why does it take me at least three attempts to read a page before I absorb any of the data? 

This is a rhetorical question. It’s an attention thing, of course, and my problems with focus aren’t just restricted to the page: I’m even worse at listening to audio books or podcasts, and going to the cinema is a waste of time because I'll spend most of the film somehow focussed on anything other than the 70-foot-wide screen in front of my nose. If I go to the theatre to see a play for the first time - I love going to the theatre! - I memorise the plot in the programme first, so I have a vague idea of what I've been watching by the end of the production. 

I often wonder if the main reason I read (and write) poems is because they're shorter and less dense than prose. Unless they're epic poems, of course. It might be more than five decades ago, but I clearly recall the purgatory, during my first term at secondary school, of trying to get through the chapters of E V Rieu's translation of 'The Odyssey' that had been set for homework before my next English lesson. 

Which is why I love and admire this translation by Emily Wilson. Still epic, yes, but this version, printed on smooth, sturdy pages with deckle-edges (oh yum!), is more than just a joy to hold, it somehow grabs my attention by the scruff of its neck and holds onto it every time I pick it up. The lines just roll off the tongue as you read it aloud/to yourself/in your head; there's no pomposity, no 'poetry voice', just a story cut loose from earlier hidebound translations and set free. 

Thank you, Emily Wilson. I’ll be reading The Iliad next. 

Walking out of winter

Forget snowdrops, celandines and dandelions ... spring begins for me when the first wood anemones start blooming, and here they are ...

... which means it's time to look back at our winter walks and bid them farewell till next time (don't come round too soon). 

Not that I had to walk through the brunt of winter - for the last week of December and the first two weeks of January, I was laid up again with a bad shoulder. Which is unpleasant in itself, but happened to coincide with the coldest, darkest, grimmest days. 

Even when I did get out, it was still gloomy.

near Wickham Glen

This is in part due to the unremitting rain we've had, that has filled the rivers, created ad hoc ponds and left Eastville lake brimming. 

River Trym at Badock's Wood

Above the Trym at Badock's

a winter pond on the Blaise estate

the Frome at Wickham Glen

Eastville Park lake

Despite the fact none of the winter's named storms gave Bristol more than a passing glance, we saw several trees downed, presumably as a result of stress following last year's hot, dry summer and the very wet winter. 

Badock's Wood

Blaise

Wickham Glen

Snuff Mills

A sign, perhaps, of climate chaos was all these ladybirds on a single stone wall at Snuff Mills in January. (I saw the same phenomenon in the same place a couple of weeks later.)

There were, at least, some stunning skies. I did manage to catch one sunrise up on Purdown, which was glorious ... 

... and back when my shoulder impingement meant I could only visit our local park, a double rainbow. (On another occasion, I actually passed through the end of a rainbow, which had never happened to me before - it was there, and then it wasn't. No photos because I was driving; no pot of gold because I was crossing a bridge over the M32 and it would have meant digging through a lot of tarmac and concrete.)

And also this sun halo, photographed from Purdown:

I suppose it's no surprise that walks out in the open on fine days are generally brighter than those down in the valleys or woods. We had a lovely walk a little further afield, though still in North Bristol, at Kings Weston House a week or so ago. 

Kings Weston House

Daffodils!

Former quarry in Penpole Wood

And Purdown remains a wonderful place to get at least get above the city, if not away from it, the M32 being audible from a large part of the park.

Yet more trees have been felled from along the paths in Long Wood, which is hard to see, though of course woodland management is necessary. 

There have also been attempts to restore some of historic landscape, with hedges of cherry laurel being laid around the woodland opening called, since the 18th century, 'the Saloon' - such an awful name for a magical place with the most beautiful light at any time of the year ...

... and also at the flat, circular site in Barn Wood where a rotunda stood until the 1950s, when it was pulled down. 

I'm not a fan of 18th century landscape gardens, and I would prefer to see the woods and park managed as a refuge for the city's wildlife, with native species planted, but as that approach might involve banning dogs and their walkers in the interests of native flora and fauna, I'd best keep quiet and focus on the horizon, like this view from Sir John's Lane ...

... and this one from the gun emplacements.

Purdown has the GOATiest goats

I disparaged snowdrops, celandines and dandelions at the start of this blog, but of course they're a delight and comfort in the muddy dark, alongside daisies, sprouting bluebell and ramson leaves, dead nettles, primroses, hogweed leaves, violets, cherry blossom and dog's mercury. The year is turning.

fungi

scarlet elf cups

hoggin

A Walk at Henfield and Westerleigh

It stopped raining, and the cloud cover lifted just enough to reveal a moon in all its blueness. A straggling flock of pigs flew past. 'Let's go for a walk,' Son the Younger suggested. 'I've sorted a route.' 

Our walk started in Howsmoor Lane, a rural relic that now staggers through the ever-expanding suburb of Lyde Green. Much of the start of this route we'd already covered more than once: Lyde Green Common, the oak in the field by the M4, passing under the M4 and heading north along the Dramway towards the lakes at Windmill Fishery. 

From here, we crossed Westerleigh Road and - shortly afterwards - a disused railway line that once served nearby Ramhill Colliery (for we were once more walking the South Gloucestershire coal field).  The colliery wasn't on our route, but I made a mental note of its location and will aim to visit some other time. 

The lane leading to Box Hedge Farm

Just before we reached the farm, we turned right and walked along a ridge with views to Lyde Green in the south. It was cold, with a thin wind blowing, and boggy underfoot, and I couldn't help thinking what a lovely walk it would make on a breezy summer afternoon. 

On the edge of Westerleigh, we encountered some ponies, which were the highlight of the walk for me - though not for Cwtch. They ignored her barks and little rushes from the other side of the fence and strode over, apparently hoping for sugar lumps or carrots, of which I had none. 

We were now heading south, back across Westerleigh Road towards the local slaughterhouse, where the squealing of pigs reminded me of the one just down the road from where I lived in Taunton forty years ago. It's a horrible sound and a horrible business. 

We crossed the Westerleigh branch via the level crossing ...

... and headed back towards the M4, crossing Folly Brook and under the carriageway where the railway line terminates.

We were now back in familiar territory, having walked this part of the route - along the Bristol and Bath railway path - almost a year ago when we visited Brandy Bottom colliery. 

The remainder of our route took us along the side of the ring road and the edge of some of the new housing. It was starting to rain and I felt that, had I been in charge of the walk, I might have cut it short at this point and returned the way we set out, but I wasn't and the full six miles had to be completed, come what may.  It was mostly enjoyable, though, with good company, and I plan to explore some more of the area soon.