Poetry on the Levels

There's been lots of poetry going on lately. I missed the most recent session of our open mic, Silver Street on Friday, as I was covering at work for my co-worker Neelam, who's on a family holiday in India, but late Sunday afternoon saw the Zoom launch of Finished Creatures Issue 7, which I'm very pleased to have a poem in. It sounded a bit daunting to begin with, with 'breakout groups' - eh? - being organised for sub-readings, but it worked very well and was an enjoyable prelude to the Zoom launch of my former tutor Kim Moore's latest book, 'Are you judging me yet?' 

Yesterday was a poetry day too, and it started auspiciously enough with two foxes making their way through the back gardens and finally settling in my neighbour's. Hopefully we'll get some more kits this year.

I'd been booked by Ama Bolton to read at Wells Fountain Poets in the evening, and as it was the first day of the Easter holidays as well, I decided to make a day of it and visit my friend, Jan, who lives in Glastonbury.

After the most delicious bowl of sweetcorn chowder at the farm shop and cafe which is literally next door to Jan's rural domicile, we set off for a meander around the locality, stopping first at nearby Meare. 

The Church of St Mary was locked so we didn't get the chance to go inside, but no matter, the mediaeval Meare Fish House just down the road is always worth visiting so we wandered there instead. 

If you're wondering why there's a fish house in the middle of fields, there used to be a pool here, as the village name suggests. It was large, measuring four miles in circumference in winter, and disappeared when the Somerset Levels were drained in the 1700s. 

Sadly, it too was padlocked and we couldn't get inside. 

We then drove to Godney along Godney Road. It was exhilarating to see the Levels remembering themselves after the recent rain, so we stopped where the road turns right and walked back down to the rather prosaically named Division Rhyne.

What the bright and sunny day lacked in atmosphere, it made up for with brilliantly clear views in all directions.

Glastonbury Tor in the distance

And even on sunny days, the pollarded willows lining the causeway look haunted, or, as Jan observed, as if they've been drawn by Arthur Rackham.

Stranger still were the celandines opening their petals and blooming underwater. 

Looking back towards Godney

Division Rhyne

After a light, pre-reading repast back at Jan's, I drove over to Wells, parked and walked down the former Gropecunt Lane - now Union Street - to the King's Head. It was a warm and supportive evening, as expected - no photos, but a residual fuzzy feeling that makes mementos unnecessary. The only bit of the day that didn't quite live up to expectations was the drive home, when I had to divert from the A38 to the A39 because the road was closed at Pensford, which meant returning via Keynsham and negotiating St Philip's Causeway in the dark but you can't have everything and at least rush hour was long past by then. 

Misty Avalon

Another writing and editing session in Glastonbury today, for the piece on climate catastrophe some of us west-based poets are preparing, and as it was misty and sunny and beautiful, Dominic and I decided to avoid the M5 and take the scenic route.

I was hoping for a repeat of this: the October Sunday, seven and a bit years ago, when we stopped on Bristol Hill, en route for Wells Literary Festival, to gaze at the mist spreading over the Vale of Avalon. 

But as we descended from the sunlit heights of the Mendip Hills, it became clear that it was too foggy to see anything at all. This is the view of the coombe from Rachael's sitting room. 

Throughout the day, I took little breaks to look out the window and watch its gradual retreat.

First the top of the Mendips came into view ...

... then the houses down the hill ... 

... and finally the towers of Wells Cathedral on the far side of a distant river of mist.

Then, before we left, it came piling back in again. 

I had a hunch it might be worth returning the way we came, so we drove to Wells, ascended Bristol Hill, turned around by the TV mast at the top, and drove back down the hill, pulling over just above the sign post where I'd stopped all those poetry years ago. 

And we were rewarded with this. 

A reminder, perhaps, that when you can no longer be bothered to go out of your way to find beauty, it might be time to call it a day.

Here Be Wolves

And so to Chesterblade in the Mendip Hills for lunch with our friends, Sara Butler (a poet), Bob (a potter) and Tess (a Parson Russell terrier). 

Look, a church. But first a walk up the narrow lanes to the local iron age hill fort, Small Down Camp.

Though not before a pause at the nearby dew pond, across which a brisk wind was flitting. 

As soon as we got up onto the top of the hill, we realised that the wind was more than brisk. In fact, it had put its teeth in, and they were bloody great fangs. It was wolfish.

The hill fort is impressive but quite small, so it doesn't take too long to beat the bounds. 

We headed for the trig point.

Chesterblade and beyond from the trig point

View over to Glastonbury Tor, eight miles away

Looking over towards Bath

After a while, it looked as if it might rain so we decided to return to the village.

It was much more sheltered down in the lane.

My first primroses of the year

Looking back at the hill fort, we saw it had taken on the appearance of a great ship.

While Bob and Tess popped into the cottage to put the dinner on, Sara, the Northerner and I wandered over the road to the tiny Church of St Mary the Virgin (which is actually a Norman chapel) to have a bit of a fossick.

The etymology of the placename Chesterblade is interesting. Obviously, the Chester- bit comes from castra, which is Latin for camp or stronghold. The -blade has all sorts of suppositions attached to it. The one I favour is that it's from Bladji, meaning 'of the wolf'. 

The bellcote

And here he is in the South Nave doorway.

And here beneath the North-East Nave coping. Look at this magnificence! Chesterblade is definitely the Stronghold of the Wolf! 

I thought this might be the fate of Robb Stark in reverse: a (dire)wolf with a human head, but apparently it's the Lamb of God, this carved on the South-East Nave coping. Hmmm. 

There's also a rather desolate Virgin Mary above the South Nave door ...

... and this face that looks like a bad doodle.

Inside, the Church is compact and bijou ... 

... and a bit dusty or ghostly, depending on your point of view. 

The font is Norman. 

The panelling is Jacobean.

The yew tree looks like a menorah.

And lunch was delicious, and the road home happy.