Landslips and stormfalls

By some strange miracle, it proved quick and easy to find a day when both my sons and I were free for our annual day out to Devon, so off we went, a lot earlier in the summer than is usually the case.

We were overdue a visit to Dawlish and Dawlish Warren, as the last couple of years we've headed south along the sea wall from Holcombe to Teignmouth and Shaldon, but the storm damage to the pier and the landslip on the Ness from earlier in the year had to be viewed for ourselves, so once again we set off down Smugglers Lane with a very happy little collie. 

The weather was overcast, but it wasn't too hot or wet so we were thankful.

Half way along the sea wall at Sprey Point and I've already got wet feet

The biggest flat top shell I've ever found, albeit with a broken point

We had a very pleasant lunch at The View, the cafe on the ground floor of Pavilions, which I visited for the first time last year to hear Raymond Antrobus read.

It was only the very end section of the pier that got washed away ...

... and the remainder is still open, so Sons the Elder and Younger went on to play The Tuck Shop slot machine - which was my favourite when I was a kid, back in the simpler 1960s, as well as one of theirs too - but it's not there anymore.

Even from Teignmouth, you can see the big red scrage down the dear cheek of the Ness caused by the landslip in March.

We crossed the estuary via the ferry. As further landslips can't be ruled out this soon after the first, the coast path around the Ness headland is closed, so we couldn't walk it, and instead headed up through the village, where swallows were zipping up and down the main street, to the beach beyond the road bridge.

It was good to get a distance glimpse of Buckland Beacon and Rippon Tor on Dartmoor. 

Then Son the Elder did his customary walk across the bridge and around to the ice cream shop in Teignmouth, where Son the Younger and I met him after walking back down the river beach and crossing the river by ferry.

Sadly, our ice creams were less than impressive this visit, the customarily huge dollop of clotted cream atop our cornets now reduced to a smear, so we agreed we would visit Gay's in Dawlish next time for a proper Devon treat. (I've just got to get over the shock of the brutalist replacement sea wall that so disfigures the coast there in the meantime.)

The Poetry Rollercoaster

After the lull in poetry activities towards the end of last year, while I recouped some emotional energy, things have picked up again, coinciding with the return of spring. 

First, in February, the latest reading in Bristol Poetry Institute's series of Annual Readings, this time by Mohave and Latina poet, Natalie Diaz, whom I never expected to get the chance to hear in my home city. It was a privilege to be present.

March saw the publication and launch of Dominic Fisher's pamphlet, Migrations, at the Inn on the Green, Horfield, with support readings by Matthew Barton, Emily Reynolds and me. 

(Matthew isn't a giant, by the way; he just happened to stand nearer the photographer than the rest of us.)

The audience

The Northerner

Emily and Maggie

I was also due to be reading at Berkeley Square Poetry Revue the Tuesday following Dom's launch, but my appearance had to be postponed until July because I woke up on the Sunday morning with no voice to speak of, a situation which persisted for five days. It just squeaked back by the following Sunday, in time for the launch of the resurrected 'Outposts', courtesy Devon-based poet and editor, Clare Morris, which was held in the community bookshop in Totnes.

Of course, a chance to read a few poems in Devon had to be seized, as it meant I could go the scenic route and have a quick dive across Dartmoor. 

Bennett's Cross

Riding shotgun was fellow-poet Dominic Fisher, who not only had three poems published in the inaugural 'Outposts', but was also featured in one of the original issues back in the 1980s - or possibly the 1970s. 

The 12th century clapper bridge that crosses the East Dart at Postbridge 

Hemlock water dropwort growing by the modern road bridge (built in the 1780s)

Ice cream van at Haytor

Looking towards Hayne Down and Houndtor in the middle distance

It was brief. It was bleak. It was beautiful. And then we were bowling down off the moor, re-encountering the Dart near Buckfastleigh and accompanying it almost all the way to Totnes. 

The launch was under the auspices of Word Stir, an open mic hosted by Harula Ladd and Toby Richardson in the community bookshop. 

It was a memorable event, filled with friends in poetry and poets I'd communicated with but was meeting for the first time, including Clare and Peter Roe, the editor of Jawbone Journal, which published one of my poems - 'A brief feather confession' - earlier in the year and who, along with his two fellow editors, nominated it for a Forward Prize, about which I'm still astonished and deeply grateful.  

Clare Morris

Finally, some sad news, as my publishers for the last 16 years, Ronnie Goodyer and Dawn Bauling of Indigo Dreams, have decided to call it day as far as publishing collections and pamphlets is concerned, although they will still be producing their poetry journals, Reach and The Dawn Treader. It's been my privilege to work with them all these years, and I will always be grateful that they helped me realise my life's dream - to take up a half an inch on a bookshelf somewhere - not once but seven times. I've been the luckiest poet, and I'll never forget how, through their faith in me and my writing, I was able to rebuild my life and my identity when my spirits were at their lowest ebb. Thank you to them both, always. 

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.