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. 

Once upon a Dartmoor dreary ...

Happenstance took us to Dartmoor yesterday, for the second time this year. The first time it was wet, misty and dispiriting. Yesterday ... ?

... Well, it really wasn't any better.

The fabled view from the car park near Bennett's Cross  

We abandoned our plans to go for a walk out on the open moor and had our picnic in the car. Which is a bit tricky when you're sharing the front seat with a large, moulting border collie. 

On, then, to Postbridge, where at least it wasn't raining. Much.

And it was so very beautiful and lush, even on this greyest of days. 

I don't think I've seen the East Dart this full - at least, not in summer.

We then proceeded sedately through low cloud and mist, noticing with pleasure that the Forest Inn at Hexworthy, high above the West Dart, has reopened after two long years of closure. 

It was pretty bleak up on Combestone Tor too, looking out over the Dart Gorge. 

Finally, we stopped for a brief amble on the edge of Hembury Woods, so that Ted could stretch his legs and have a splash in a nearby stream. 

At least the company was excellent.

And as for not so glorious Dartmoor, we'll just have to try our luck again soon. 

Halloween on Dartmoor

A late gig followed by a 5am wake up call and I found myself heading to Devon without my lovely anti-arthritis pillow and, more alarmingly, my extensive library of Dartmoor walking books.  'Never mind,' said my companion, 'you can buy one in the Tourist Information Centre in Postbridge'.  Except that when we got there, I discovered that I already owned all of them and baulked at paying £8 for a duplicate.  So we'd be making it up as we went along.  

First, though, a coffee in the East Dart Hotel and a visit to the bridges over a rather full looking river ... 

... and the pleasure of a chance encounter with copies of my novel, Dart, on sale in the post office, right in the middle of the moor and a few miles from where the story is set, in Hexworthy. (Apparently it's been a bit of a best seller in Postbridge this year.)

Then on up the road for a couple of miles where we parked near the pub and set out over Water Hill, which soon turned out to be very well named.  

Sloshiness notwithstanding, there were some grand views in all directions, back the way we'd come (such colours!) ... 

... and looking ahead to Meldon Hill near Chagford. 

 And given that the walk was of an ad hoc nature, it was great to come across the standing stone and very well preserved double stone row on Hurston Ridge.  

The top end of the stone row.

The end stone.

We headed for the drift lane past Metherall on the edge of Fernworthy Forest, the general murkiness of the day proving to be quite photogenic.  

After stopping for a time to watch a kestrel hovering against a background of darkly dripping conifers, we headed down the lane off the moor, Meldon Hill now less than a mile away.  

Then we mountaineered over a stile and negotiated the signposting around Lower and Higher Shapley, before heading back up onto the moor at Hurston.  

At times it was quite hair-raising with fields of cows to cross with Ted (Ted does not like cows) and paths that were more like rivers, complete with waterfalls.  It would appear to have rained a lot on Dartmoor lately.  

Back on the moor we leapt Hurston Water in a feat of derring-do, only to discover that the swollen stream was flowing right alongside the wall below the aptly named Lakeland and we had to cross back over again.  

Eventually we managed to cross it for a third time and gain some higher, drier ground.  

It was a bit rainy from time to time but still very beautiful in a wuthering sort of way.  

We hit the road at  Bennett's Cross, which dates from the 13th century and is one of my favourites.

 View of Cosdon Hill and Kestor Rock.   

And then up ahead loomed the welcome sight of the pub, the third highest - and reputedly the loneliest - in England.  

It being Halloween, we were relieved to see that despite having a spiffy new pub sign, it still goes by its old familiar name of the Warren House Inn, rather than the Slaughtered Lamb.   

Let's take a closer look ... ah yes, the Three Hares. Welcome to Dartmoor!