Hunting Hares in Selby

Two days after Branscombe, I was in Selby, Yorkshire.  Not directly en route from Leeds to Bristol, but close enough for a detour.

Having left Daughter Number 1 to the tender mercies of Son Number 1 as she recovered from a hypo in the car, I slipped into the lovely Abbey.  I couldn't, in all conscience, linger to explore properly, but as it happens, I was on a mission anyhow, to bag their example of the three hares, a symbol I’ve long pursued around the south-western peninsula, but never encountered outside of Devon or Cornwall.  It didn’t appear to feature in the guide book or on any of the souvenirs on sale, but I soon spotted it high up in the rafters in the form of a roof boss. 

Getting a decent photo was a challenge too far for my camera, so I’m posting one of Chris Chapman's, taken for the Three Hares Project.

I really like this carving. What distinguishes it from the West Country examples is the addition of a fourth, smaller hare to one side.  Maybe it’s an apprentice, studying how they do that thing with their ears.

I fell into casual conversation with the volunteer manning the trestle table of merchandise.  The profile of the hares is obviously much lower than in the south-west, as he’d never heard of them, so I gave him a potted history and pointed out the boss.  He liked Dru’s and my cards very much but the person responsible for deciding what was selected for sale had just gone on holiday for three weeks (this is starting to sound familiar!) so I left one of each with him. 

Just time for a quick maraud and then back to the car park and the long drive south and west.  Soon, Three Hares country for real.  Can hardly wait. 

A Grand Day Out, Morris Traveller-Style

I submitted a photo of the fifteenth century mural warning against lust in Branscombe Church for the cover of my poetry collection some months ago, but making the acquaintance of my artist friend Dru offered the opportunity of securing a much better quality picture, along with the perfect excuse for an early spring jaunt down to Devon, so the Thursday before last we piled into Dru's Morris Traveller – with Ted in tow – for a grand day out early Seventies style. 

It was a blustery morning but the Traveller forayed gallantly down the M5, the only hitch occuring after we’d branched off into East Devon, when a passing lorry sucked the back door open.  After hastily securing it, Dru admitted that the same thing had happened once before, in an earlier car. ‘Did you lose anything?’ I asked, concerned.  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ she replied. 'The lurcher.’  (Apparently, said dog had sat in the middle of the road, uninjured but somewhat puzzled.  I was glad Ted was curled up at my feet, even though he kept fussing and fidgeting, clearly miffed at the indignity of sharing the passenger footwell with my boots.)

Having arrived in Branscombe, we headed straight for the St Winifred’s.  To our phew it was open and the mural in question was unobscured by scaffolding or damp or anything else unsightly.  While Dru and her unfeasibly large telephoto lens did the business, I prowled around the church rediscovering old delights, like the 1608 tomb of Anne Bartlett with its dentally enhanced skull and accompanying male heads, two bizarrely leonine, two more with decidedly flouncy hair-dos.  

After exploring the churchyard, we progressed to Branscombe Mouth, where it was sheltered enough to picnic on the beach.  I’d brought homemade almond and chocolate chip biscuits and oranges, but Dru trumped that easily with lashings of salad drizzled with homemade pomegranate and caraway seed dressing, cheese, salami and tea freshly brewed on her small stove.  Such a lovely change to be mothered instead of doing it myself; I can’t remember the last time that happened.

We then wandered up over the cliff and onto the coast path which passes below the line of the cliffs but some way above the sea, through an old landslip dating from 1790, alternatively called the Undercliff or Under Hooken.  It's one of my favourite stretches, being the most extraordinary terrain, wooded and full of jungly humps and hollows, with predominantly chalk rocks towering overhead and the grey and brown sea prowling below.  The last time I was here it was August and it had felt very sultry and exotic and un-English.  That effect was muted this time as the trees were only just beginning to leaf on this last day of March, but their comparative bareness afforded better views of the cliffs, which have a hint of Arizona about them (or so I like to think). 

We walked as far as the point where the path rises to the top of the cliff, with Dru identifying the call of the chiff-chaff (‘chiff-chaff’) and spotting a peregrine falcon on top of one of the very distinctive butte-style outcrops of rock.  All stuff I would have missed in my customary walking daydream.  We then retraced our steps to the car park.  Having decided to take the scenic route home – a far more suitable route in a Traveller – we headed north through Axminster, Chard, Crewkerne and Martock before stopping off in Long Sutton to visit the extremely gaudy Church of the Holy Trinity.  The pulpit dates from 1455-58 and has been embellished with 20^th century statues of the apostles, presumably because the originals were removed during one of our earlier Cultural Revolutions.  As is customary, each poor soul – or glorious martyr – is bearing the instruments of his execution.

There was also a wonderful roof of carved angels. 

On then to Huish Episcopi, which I know for its Church of St Mary with its beautiful Burne-Jones window.  Dru, however, had a different destination in mind, and we stopped at the Rose and Crown (known locally as Eli’s) for a swift half pint, served from the flagstoned cellar in the absence of a bar (even though it was closed).  I had cider from nearby Burrow Hill and hell’s teeth, it was good; Dru had a beer from Teignworthy brewery, which is just down the road and across the river from my caravan in Devon. I think I must sample some of their Harvey’s Special Brew when I’m next down there as it has my name written all over it.

Our next stop was Glastonbury to see if we could persuade one or two of the shops to take our range of Three Hares cards.  Unfortunately the buyer in the most promising emporium was away on holiday, but we left a sample of all three with the very enthusiastic shop assistant. 

On then through Shepton Mallet, reminiscing about the days of the Babycham factory with its giant fawn atop – still there apparently, but down at ground level rather than on the roof.  Then back through Bristol to home, slightly cidrous and in a sublimely good mood, thanks to  the possession of a far more professional cover photograph than I would have had otherwise. Thanks, Dru! 

Graffiti with Serifs

Graffiti with serifs being one of my longer-standing obsessions, I'm so pleased that my poem of the same name has made a small niche for itself in the world, as one of six prize-winning entries in the Staffordshire International Poetry Competition.  

Graffiti with Serifs

Take a breath and try the handle. 

At first it might stick as if locked,

but more often than not

the door will open. Step inside.

You will undoubtedly need more light.

The switches are by the door on the right,

next to the safe. 

What you see depends on the season:

at Harvest, wilting displays of leaves, teasels,

a wrinkling apple,

hydrangeas arranged on each ledge;

in the curtained-off vestry, after Epiphany,

a forsaken infant Jesus, six tinsel haloes

and a gold star on a stick.

And at all times battalions of jars and spare vases,

a Hoover hidden behind a pew,

a mildewed hymnal, several pipistrelle umbrellas.

The font in the corner early Norman:

generations of babies baptised

to die in contagions, battles and matters

of no importance.

Sometimes a detail hints at a fate:

you’ll read the names of three priests ordained

in the Year of our Lord,

Thirteen Hundred and Forty-Eight.

But best is the esoteric: initials

and backward-facing dates, graffiti with serifs

scratched during a boring Puritan sermon;

the stone underfoot the grave of three children,

carved at each corner with uncouth angels,

sticking out tongues;

the lilies stitched on Italian damask

seven centuries gone by,

as faded and fragile

as the weft and warp of time.

Deborah Harvey © 2010 , 2011

http://www.facebook.com/Deborah.Harvey.Writer

On Border Collies

There have been times when Ted, my border collie, and I have failed to see eye to eye.  Indeed, eighteen months ago, when his behaviour was at its most reactive, people would often stop me and say, ‘Ahhh, is he a rescue collie?’  ‘No,’ I’d answer, grimly, ‘not yet.’

Loving Ted was never a problem, but was he ever hard work!  And I only had myself to blame. After my ex-husband’s departure, the kids and I all needed a big distraction from the big absence, and what better than the dog we’d wanted for ages but were never permitted?  Within ten minutes of my suggesting it, we’d settled on a breed (I blame Shep) and chosen a name that was cuddly yet dignified enough to bawl in the park, and with more than a hint of dark poet about it.  Two evenings spent trawling the internet, and I was bonding in the back of my neighbour’s car with a gorgeous, 8-week-old border collie puppy with violet eyes (now amber).

Of course, I couldn’t have done it wronger, and I have to admit that even at the time I knew I was being foolhardy.  Ted was Love On The Rebound With Knobs On, a symbol of my and the children's new life on our own.  Worse, I’d chosen a puppy used to running around a barn with his siblings, who’d had no injections, no health checks, no socialisation.  And whilst telling myself that a pup bred for working out on the hills would be in better physical shape than a dodgy-hipped, epileptic show dog (not to mention cheaper), I’d overlooked the fact that his engrained desire to herd everything that moves might make him unsuited to being my pet, given that we live in the suburbs and our local park is full of joggers, skate-boarders, kids on scooters and speeding, non-bell-ringing cyclists taking a short cut to avoid the traffic on the A38 and A4174.  Finally, I, a first-time dog owner, had wilfully bought probably the most demanding breed of dog there is, with a high rate of re-homing, at a time when I was particularly depressed, stressed and anxious following the end of my marriage.

It could have been hell, and there were days when it was. There were three factors in Ted’s and my favour, however.  First, I only work regular hours two days a week, and in a place near enough for me to drive home at lunch time to walk and train him.  The rest of the week I work varying hours here and there, often in the evenings or at weekends when my younger son is at home to keep Ted company.  Second, raising autistic children has given me considerable reserves of patience and perseverance to draw on.  Third, Ted is extremely bright and quick to cotton on to what you want him to do (though whether he’ll do it is another matter … )

We’re not out of the woods yet, me and Ted, but we’re definitely in the sun-dappled, bluebell-y bit rather than the darkest depths.  In particular, exploiting his strengths and proclivities as a means of training him has proved very successful.  Being a typical collie with a collie ‘eye’, he responds very well to hand signals and is now probably good enough to be a Communication Support Worker in British Sign Language.  Also, he’s ball-obsessed, which allows me to keep his attention quite easily when we’re up the park, although I still have to watch for passing bikes and joggers.  To be on the safe side, I keep him on a long lead which trails as he runs, so I can grab him quickly if need be.  The hours of training, both at home and on his lead, have really paid off.  He can still be hyper-vigilant when moving from one location to another – eg from the park to the street, or car to car park – but I try to keep him away from anything he might feel the need to herd (cars, bikes, joggers, small children) or protect me from (men without dogs, mainly).  All the signs are that he’s beginning to calm down.

‘Best dog I ever had,’ people tell me of their much-loved border collies, ‘after the first three years!’

  Evolution

  

  My dog watches me squat in woods,

  on his face the smirk of male

  further up the evolutionary scale. 

  Since he’s learnt to lift his leg,

  he cocks at every opportunity,

  laying claim to territory.

  ‘Just like we did,’ grins my father,

  ‘more than eighty years ago.

  Against the playground wall, all in a row.’

      Deborah Harvey © 2009 , 2011

    Collie pup by Dru Marland

Earth Stars

                                                      
                                                      Earth Stars


                                                      From the chronicles of trees
                                                      she wants monsters:

                                                      baleful Destroying Angels,
                                                      stellar brides of hell,
                                                      all innocence and virulence
                                                      in petticoats and veil,
                                                      or troops of gleaming Death Caps,
                                                      goose-stepping through leaves,
                                                      marshalling for massacre
                                                      in copses, killing fields, as if
                                                      escape clutched in her hand might gift
                                                      illusory control.

                                                      In forests damp and warm,
                                                      in thickets blanketed by spores,
                                                      the Prince with Devil's Fingers
                                                      knows their secret, loamy holes.
                                                      He can smell them, see them, feel them swelling
                                                      opening the ground,
                                                      thrusting through the litter
                                                      with a hungry, crackling sound.
                                                      He finds her Velvet Shanks and Blushers,
                                                      puts an Amethyst Deceiver in her hand.

                                                      In the sultry, starless dark,
                                                      she'll settle for a zodiac
                                                      of flesh and pearls and earth.



                                                                                                            Deborah Harvey © 2009, 2011




Poem from my collection Communion, to be published shortly by Indigo Dreams, with Cerne Giant and Stinkhorn by Dru Marland. 

A Jaunt to Sharpness and bark-bark-Berkeley

Ach du lieber Gott, I am way behind with my bloggerei about my jaunterei.  Must rectifei.

It’s almost three weeks since I asked Ted where he wanted to go for our first proper walk of 2011.  He said ‘Sharpness and bark-bark-Berkeley’, so that’s where we went.  It suited me, anyhow – an easy, six-mile stroll on the Severn flood plain to test my ribs and hip and find out how they were mending. 

Having passed the museum to Edward Jenner, local pioneer of the smallpox vaccine, our first stop was Berkeley’s Church of St Mary the Virgin, which has a very odd-looking exterior as its tower is situated the opposite side of the churchyard from the rest of the building, this having been done for strategic reasons, apparently. 

I am a bit of a late convert when it comes to Berkeley Castle, having spent a good 40 years assiduously avoiding the place, after visiting at an impressionable age and being terrified by stories of a jester falling from the balcony to his death and the gruesome fate of people imprisoned in the dungeon at the bottom of a 36-foot deep shaft in the incongruously well-appointed King’s Gallery.  (I’m relieved that no one took it upon themselves to reveal to my five-year-old self how the hapless Edward II allegedly met his end.) I love it now, although in mid-March it was still closed for winter and Ted and I only saw it from adjacent fields. 

The church itself is exceptional, its most striking feature being the survival of such a lot of its mediaeval paintwork. 

I especially liked this corbel of two female heads surmounted by a toad, a sermon in stone to reinforce the message that gossip is poisonous …  

  

… and this Tudor rose, believed to relate to Edward VI. 

Here, the intricately carved tomb of Thomas Berkeley, the 5th Baron, and his wife Katherine.

After leaving the church, we wandered along Berkeley Pill towards the estuary.  It was a bright day and the sun had real warmth in it, so after we had negotiated a field of cows the size of caravans, I sat down in a patch of teasels and composed an ode to my faithful and fearless(!) canine companion. 

There was loads of mistletoe in the trees.  Why do we only put it up at Christmas?  The world would be a better place with more snogging.

Eventually we reached the Severn, with sunny views up to the dock at Sharpness, and a gloomier vista downstream towards Berkeley nuclear power station, with Oldbury in the distance.  The post-earthquake problems at Fukushima might be half a world away, but there was a catastrophic tsunami in this estuary in 1607.  The next one promises to be far worse, thanks to our idiocy.

   

The return leg of our walk took us inland from Sharpness to Berkeley.  As is so often the case, the very last section, just prior to getting back to the car, involved negotiating the muddiest lane of the day.  I was rather more careful, and thus considerably less besmirched, than Ted, who needed a stern rubbing down with the old towel I keep in the boot for just such eventualities. 

All in all, though, my ribs and hips held up pretty well and it was a good opening to our jaunting season.  Looking forward to many more forays over the year.

Going Postal: the Anti-Cuts March

Jenny, Will and I became honorary postal workers for the day and hitched a ride to London on the CWU coach.  Well, it is March, after all.  


One of these flags was part of the demonstration and one was on a souvenir stand. They made a intriguing combination.  





I'm going to post a selection of my favourite banners, placards and scenes.




Our honorary union for the duration.



On the Embankment.

Jenny interviewing a nurse from Cornwall for Student Radio.


A woman alongside me at one point asked about my Keep Elmfield Open badge, and it turned out that she was partially deaf and from Bristol, and we had many mutual acquaintances.  She spoke very eloquently and passionately to Jenny about the effect of the cuts on the Deaf community and disabled people as a whole.

    Jenny and Will on Whitehall.

Parenting disabled offspring can be a lonely job, and it was good to feel part of something much bigger than myself and my kids.

  

                   This implies that somebody somewhere once had expectations ...

Although we saw a series of police vans scream past as we were leaving Hyde Park, we didn't witness any of the trouble in Oxford Street and Piccadilly.  Hopefully the violence perpetrated by a very small minority won't detract too much from the message of 250,000 people peaceably marching together to draw attention to the threat facing this country's jobs and services.