Fossicking at Kilve

So, the parents wanted to go out for the day because my niece was down from Aberdeen a-visiting and where should we go? 

'You choose, Deb.' 

Hmmm. Somewhere requiring minimal walking, plus eating/toilet opportunities, BUT with at least a modicum of interest for the attendants. I know ... Kilve on the Somerset coast, an old favourite of mine.  Perfect.

And it was perfect. Beautiful weather, an easy run down the M5 to Bridgwater and then up the A39 through sunlit pastures to the coast, diverting on the way to drive past Coleridge's Cottage in Nether Stowey, before swinging neatly across the road in Kilve and onto the forecourt of the Hood Inn with plenty of time to avoid the tractor bowling down the hill. 

Only to look up and see it all boarded up. 

I'd been looking forward to making the most of a precious half pint of Rich's Cider, even though, as I'd muttered to my niece, my mother would be sure to say 'you can't have any more, you're driving'. But clearly it wasn't to be. Disconsolately - and without phone signal to inform our journey - we meandered west until we reached West Quantoxhead, where there was a purpose-built inn on the side of the road with a bouncy castle and play area, and the dreaded word (for a vegetarian), Carvery. 

'Perfect!' said my mother. 

Well, if not perfect exactly, it turned out to be better than OK. Plus, they sold farmhouse cider. I took a sip. If, by any chance, it wasn't Rich's, it was pretty close.  

'You can't have any more, you're driving,' said my mother. 

Then back to Kilve and down the lane to the sea. On the way we stopped at the little white Church of St Mary the Virgin.  

The oldest thing in the church - predating it by a couple of hundred years - is the 12th century font, which is still beautiful despite someone's attempt to turn it into a punch bowl. 

There's one surviving arch of the ancient rood screen propped up in the vestry ...

... while the carved back of this pew in the choir dates from the 17th century. 

And the mediaeval glass, I like that too. 

Plus, the door has a sanctuary ring - always useful to know in these dark days. 

On then to the end of the car park by the oil retort, which was built in the 1920s when it was discovered that there was oil-bearing shale in them there cliffs. If I ever get there and there's no plume of ivy smoking from the chimney, I'll be distraught.

Jane and I settled the (grand)parents on the bench and went for a fossick, to see if we could find some fossils to bring back to show my father. 

Most of the more noticeable ones were too big to heft. 

Nope, going to need a small crane to shift this one.

We found a few smaller fossils to take back to my father but by the time we got back, he'd disappeared, the warm, south-westerly breeze having proved too much for the combined efforts of his vest, shirt, jumper and zipped up anorak to keep him from feeling cold.  

Rather concerned - since I had the car keys - we made our way back to the car park to find him ensconced on a seat in the neighbouring cricket field, looking victorious. 

Between the church and the sea, there's a chantry, which was founded in 1329 and which, it is believed, fell into ruin long before the Dissolution of the Monasteries.

These days, you can get cream teas and ice cream in the adjoining farmhouse ... 

... commune with sparrows ... 

... and watch the doves in the old dovecotes round the back ... 

... but in the old days, as well as being used as a barn, it was associated with smugglers, who would bring their contraband up Kilve Pill from the coast and hide it there.  This continued until 1848 when barrels of brandy were allegedly set alight, in order to destroy evidence when the revenue men appeared. 

The chantry is now a Grade II listed building and Scheduled Ancient Monument, and deemed to be at the highest risk of collapse. 

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!

  

A Poetry Pilgrimage through the Wild West

To Devon via the scenic route. And since my partner in poetry hadn't been there, a visit to the cottage at Nether Stowey where Samuel Taylor Coleridge and his family lived from 1797 to 1799 seemed apt. 

I'd been there before, so while he fossicked about inside, Ted and I sat outside the pub and birdwatched.  A squeal of brakes and the slamming of car doors announced the arrival of a gang of swifts from distant climes. I wonder what the resident birds make of the new arrivals each May.  Probably not too different from the villagers when Samuel, Sarah, William Wordsworth and Dorothy descended on the area. 

After lunch. a drop of Rich's cider and a delve in Lyrical Ballads in the garden of the Hood Arms in Kilve, we popped down to the beach to let Ted stretch his legs. I love Kilve's delightful shore, as Wordsworth called it, though this time, post broken ankle, I found its stony terrain challenging.

Kilve has found its way into a couple of my poems too.  I love scrabbling about in the hope of finding a fossil or two.  I did see a selection, all on hefty pieces of rock.  I always wonder how many people have struggled to get them back to their car, only to give up en route.  Much better to leave such impressive specimens where they lie - they've been there for millions of years, after all.

After a good scramble about, we made our way to Watchet to see the statue by Alan B Herriot of the Ancient Mariner (which also pitches up in a poem of mine).

Salty sea dogs

Our final stop, via a quick dash through Dunster, was Tarr Steps, an ancient clapper bridge over the River Barle in pretty much the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately for us, we arrived there gasping for a cup of tea five minutes after they's stopped serving tea and coffee and fifty-five minutes before the pub opened, and da yoof behind the counter was not inclined to pop the kettle back on. 

The bridge, which has been rebuilt following flooding twice since I last saw it, was looking good ...

... though I have to say, it's the Second Severn Crossing of clapper bridges. Impressive in a burly sort of way, but lacking the grace of, say, the clapper at Postbridge on Dartmoor. 

The Barle, and then the River Exe escorted us off the moor and as far as Tiverton, beyond which we rejoined the motorway and completed our journey south and west, all poetried up and ooh! what's that feeling? ... happy.  

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