Fire, Frost and Dragon's Breath

If I had any doubts about the wisdom of getting up early on a Sunday to read poems to the converted in Wells, my drive across the Downs - all smouldering trees, dragon's breath and frost - dispelled them. Then, as Pameli and I started the descent from the Mendips, I screeched to a halt and jumped out of the car.  No matter that it was a relatively busy single carriageway ...  Glastonbury Tor was adrift in mist.  And how can anyone deny it's magical?

And when we arrived, the City of Wells was morning-dark and misty also.

With such auspicious auguries, the reading of poems in the Oak Room of the Swan Hotel could hardly have not gone well, and so it proved.  For once, we seemed to have an audience that didn't consist entirely of contributing poets, including my friends, Liz and Paul, who had kindly come over from Portishead.  And I sold a couple of copies of my collection, Communion, too - always a bonus.

Before heading back to Bristol, Pameli Benham, Stewart Carswell and I had a little wander around the moat of the Bishop's Palace.  It must be quite sheltered as autumn doesn't seem to have advanced far there yet. 

On the way back to the car park, I managed - finally - to get a photo of Union Street, which was once Grove Lane, and before that Grope Lane, and before that, Gropecunt Lane, for my collection of Gropecunts.  

Which reminds me, whilst on the walk around Bristol yesterday, Mark Steeds mentioned a lane in the bombed mediaeval quarter of Bristol which went by the splendid name of Cock and Bottle Lane.  Must do come googling.   

Coming Over All Piratickal

Sunny and rainy and then sunny again and just the sort of day for a wander around interesting but somewhat less picturesque parts of Bristol, made beautiful by the skies and the light.  Lucky, then, that there was one organised by the Long John Silver Trust, and with added authors too as it was being held under the banner of the Bristol Festival of Literature.  

And so along with the usual selection of 17th century pirates and privateers,  of which, I'm afraid, Bristol nurtured many, we had Daniel Defoe and Jonathan Swift; Coleridge, Wordsworth and Southey; and, of course, Robert Louis Stevenson.  

Our guide was Mark Steeds, pub landlord and member of the Radical History Group, so it wasn't long before we were immersed in the story of the slave trade and its eventual abolition, in which episode the pub 'The Seven Stars' played an important role.  

Here's Mark explaining how the Reverend Thomas Clarkson came to the pub in 1787 and started to put together evidence later passed onto William Wilberforce to support the Act for the Abolition of Slavery.  In order to do this dangerous work, Clarkson, an educated gentleman, disguised himself as a miner.  So tenacious was her that Coleridge described him as 'the Moral Steam-Engine, or the Giant with one idea'. 

After the Seven Stars, we made our way to Redcliff Quay, where we saw a beautiful sculpture entitled 'Exploration'.  It's one of several celebrations of our sea-faring heritage, though I have to say that this is probably my favourite.  The obelisk part is by Philippa  Threlfall and is called 'The Unknown Deep'.  It's topped by a steel armillary sphere which functions as a sundial.

I just loved this mediaeval-style bestiary, which reminded me of my lovely Barum Ware pots at home and also those outlandish fish from the very depths of the ocean.  

Then to Castle Park for a potted history of the mediaeval centre of our city, so tragically lost one full moon in November 1942.  The trees were starting to smoulder today, almost 70 years later, as if in remembrance. 

Peter Randall-Page's sculpture 'Beside the Still Waters', with temporary installation of fallen leaves, and King Street with rainbow.

Three more stops opposite the Rummer, the Llandoger Trow and in Queen Square and our tour ended outside the Hole-In-The-Wall, upon which Robert Louis Stevenson's depiction of the Spy Glass is based.  I can only conclude, therefore, that writers and pirates share a love of pubs.  Anyhow, in the 18th century, this was a very popular watering-hole with sailors, and subject to surprise raids by both Customs and Excise and press gangs.  Hence the spy holes so that a view both up and down the street could be obtained. Arr. We'm not daft.  

  

Three Hares Bounding To Your Door!

Look, my most talented friend Dru Marland has translated her fascination with pictorial maps and the three hares symbol into a limited edition of 100 A4 sized giclée prints, or if you prefer, either an A2 or A3 sized poster on glossy paper (with added pomery by me!)  All are now available for you to buy, price £25, £10 and £5 respectively.

So bound along to her Etsy Shop and get some Christmas Shopping done before the rush and without having to leave the warmth of your laptop - or better still, treat yourself.  You know it makes sense!  

  

Michael Wood at Bristol University

Went to see the lovely Michael Wood give a lecture at the university tonight on behalf of Bristol Museum.  It's always a treat to hear him speak - and I always come away with at least one idea buzzing around my head.  Last time I saw him, a couple of years ago to the day,  it was the ending of a poem which had eluded me for some years, this time the idea for a whole new one and a jaunt to Llancarfan.  Because how could I not go to see this ...

Carol Ann Duffy and John Sampson - Poetry and Song : A Celebration

Had a brilliant hour and a half this evening listening to Carol Ann Duffy reading a selection of her poetry from works spanning the last decade, accompanied by John Sampson, a virtuoso musician who played a wide variety of pipes (including, at one point, two recorders at the same time!)  The event was billed as Poetry and Song: A Celebration, and it was good to hear Duffy's beautifully crafted poems interacting with the sometimes playful, sometimes elegiac playing of Sampson.    

The (free - hooray!) event was to launch the brand new Bristol Poetry Institute, a venture dreamed up by the University to bring together 'scholars, students, poets and poetry-lovers across the University of Bristol and the wider community.'  Bristol has a very lively and varied culture of poetry outside of the hallowed halls of academia, so it will be interesting to see how successful this outreach is.  If it means more freebies like tonight, count me in!  

I've long been fascinated by the way poems by different poets converse, but over the last year I've become increasingly interested in the interaction of poetry with other arts also.  I was lucky enough to be able to launch my collection, Communion, with accompanying songs by maestro Reg Meuross, and more recently, one of the most enjoyable parts of last month's Bristol Poetry Festival was the encounter between Hazel Hammond's poems and Alison Wills' beautiful nocturnal photos, entitled 'The Woman Who Slept With Bones'.  Still to come is the evening celebrating the collaboration between poets associated with the Bath Poetry Cafe and three portrait artists from Bath Artists' Studios, entitled Faces {Bath}, which is due to be held on November 3rd at the Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institution.  

One of the most moving parts of this evening was when Carol Ann Duffy read her recent poem about Hillsborough and the findings of the Inquiry, while John softly played Abide With Me in the background.  After the event I had the opportunity for a few quick words with her, and told her how grateful I was that we had a Poet Laureate who was writing about 'the things that matter, rather than ... you know ... Prince Harry'.  Then, having thought for a moment, I added that actually there were probably lots of poems in that lad, and she confided 'Yes, I've written quite a few rude ones!'

Stripey like a Tiger : Ightham Mote Part 1

After an excellent gig the preceding evening in the company of Woody Guthrie - via Will Kaufman and Reg Meuross - I felt as if I were bound for glory yesterday morning as I drove up the M4 first thing, the sun rising over the horizon and the fields filled with dragon's breath.  Then, as we left the West Country, the mist became murk and I remembered that actually I was heading for Maidstone to drop Son the Elder off to see his beloved robots in action and the forecast promised driving rain.  (That's why it's called 'driving rain', because it always falls when you have miles to drive before you sleep.)  But by the time I reached my destination - Ightham Mote, near Sevenoaks - it was glorious again and that was just the weather.  What a house!  

'It's stripey, like a tiger,' announced one tot as his dad pushed him along.  And it was, except that 'like a quagga' would have been more accurate.  Some bits are stripey, some aren't. Some are 14th century stripey, others - ie the South face - 1904 stripey and 'fake' except that the National Trust decided that pretend modern  stripey is as valid a part of the house's history as genuine ancient stripey and so preserved it when they carried out their 10 million pound renovation of the property between 1989 and 2004. Which is excellent.  In fact, it is moments like these when I feel inclined to forgive the Trust even their pot pourri and trowels covered in Morris and Co fabric designs, for crying out loud. (Well, actually, no, not the latter, but if the pot pourri has cinnamon sticks in, it might be OK.)  

Before entering the house - which I'd wanted to visit for decades, and which for many years I thought I would never see - I had a good wander around outside.  It was so romantic!  I loved these bricks, like a sort of crude ladder up the wall to the mullioned window. Was it a secret way for a lover to get in and out, I wondered, thinking fondly of Romeo and Juliet.  However, the explanation when I discovered it was rather more prosaic.   Ightham is very unusual because it has a free-flowing moat, fed by an underground stream which eventually debouches into the Thames.  The moat was not constructed principally for defensive reasons, however.  No, it was a sewerage system, and the bricks are the remains of the garderobes.  Pity any poor bugger - or should I say, shithead - making the same assumption as me, then!

The grounds are lovely too, with ancient outbuildings turned into cottages, a formal garden, an orchard, stew ponds, a cuttings garden and so on.   Postcards in the shop showed that the orchard in spring is a mass of daffodils. 

Inside the courtyard, the exquisiosity continues in the eclectic nature of the building work that make the house look as if it has sprouted somewhat eccentrically rather than been added to. 

The topiary feature was originally the well-head, and the kennel is the only Grade 1 listed kennel in the country, apparently.

This picture shows the outside of one of the windows in the New Chapel.

The West Range with the entrance tower, the lower part of which dates from 1330-40, the upper floors from the early 16th century.

There are lots of cool stories about the house, so more about them another time.

  

  

Devil's Spit

I went down to the woods today - Badock's Wood, to be exact. It's just over a mile from my home and one of my favourite places in Bristol, for although it's on the edge of a council estate, it's sunk in its own mini ravine which the sound of traffic rarely penetrates.  

Ted loves it too.

I used to visit the wood a lot during the last couple of years of my damaging marriage, and it always made me feel a little better.  I'd take photos of the wood from certain spots in all seasons, whether there was snow, fog, rain, frost or brilliant sunshine, though the thing that strikes me now is not the changes in the weather and seasons but in the quality of light.  The darkest time of the year is deepest summer; the brightest those short dark days of winter when snow lies on the ground.

My season is autumn, my month October, and I think I like the wood best now, when there is still a lot of summer greenery to contrast with the show-offy foliage of trees already forging into fall.  (That is, apart from high autumn when it's all fireworks and glory. And that beautiful slide into winter, the last few branches still clinging to their glad rags.)

Even the blackberries tasted good, despite the Devil having spat on them a few days ago now.  

'Stop maundering and throw the ball' says Ted.