Stout Footwear in Chepstow

Finding myself in Chepstow for the first time in ages, I decided to have a fly-by exploration during my lunch break. 

It's all crooketty-crannitty. 

I ate my sandwich in the churchyard, where there is a nice bit of Norman archery going on ...

... as well as an impressive line in chubby-cheeked cherubs. 

Back in the Gestalt Centre, where our excellent Creative Writing in the Therapeutic Encounter workshop was being run by Claire Williamson, I unbolted the gate at the end of the garden. 

It opened onto a patch of rough ground ...

... with magnificent views over the town (the flying black splodge isn't a Chinook but a massive buzzy thing that I somehow didn't see when I took the photo) ...

... and the Norman castle, with England beyond it. 

Getting good shots meant scrambling up muddy slopes in my sandals, which, although they are sensible, was still a bit tricky. 

A reminder that writing poetry always requires stout footwear, because you never know where it will take you. 

Tintern Sojourn

It would be enough to spend the day facilitating poetry in an ancient, sprawling house just outside Monmouth. Great to read your own poems and sell a few books too.  

But this morning the universe laid on frost, daybreak, ruins, a river, crows and jackdaws too. 

I stopped off at Tintern Abbey six weeks ago on my way up to Stratford-Upon-Avon to see 'The Witch of Edmonton', when Autumn was swinging through the trees like an orangutan.  Now it's winter with big frost-furry knobs on.  

A short distance upstream, in the car park of the Moon and Sixpence, mist lifted off the surface of the Wye. 

So six weeks, not five years.  And kind of just less than half a mile above Tintern Abbey, rather than a few.  Even so 

... with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things.

J'accuse ... Rover!

For a long time I've blamed this:

for this:

But I'm doing a poetry workshop in a few days' time about childhood and where we come from and I've been gathering a few bits and pieces that are triggers for writing about my past: a thruppenny bit, black and white photos, an old school exercise book, a  red hardback Famous Five book. I've bought some things too: Green Shield stamps, Black Jacks and Fruit Salads ... and this:  

God, I remember it so well!  My first reading book. And the joy of reading it all by myself.  The heady independence!  

I mean, I can still recite it.  And suddenly I am four all over again.

I remember the eponymous dog also.  Rover!  He was black, he was. And quite big.  He loved playing with his ball.  He was - 

A BLOODY BORDER COLLIE!

J'ACCUSE ROVER!