Hambledon (n.) The sound of a single-engine aircraft flying by, heard whilst lying in a summer field in England, which somehow concentrates the silence and sense of space and timelessness and leaves one with a profound feeling of something or other.
soundscape:
soundscape without visual documentation of a horserider and his dog:
View from Coit Mawr to Ynys yr Afalon (Selwood to Glastonbury Tor)
cycled through the forest. This road is great to cycle along: very exhilarating.
view over Coit Mawr towards Caer Pelladwr (Selwood to Shaftesbury)
I went on a quick walk shortly before dusk. The temperature
range between setting off and coming back – a period of about half an hour –
ranged from comfortably sporting a
t-shirt to indesperate need of several woollen layers;
measured in degrees of clothing. I didn’t take my camera, but I can report that
the countryside looked photogenic: gold on green, bright half moon in deep blue
skies, pampass grass casting long feathery shadows, and distant black cows
looking toy-like in their perfection. There was a deep earthy smell I don’t
often sniff in the winter.
When I reached the bridge I experienced a strong urge to
throw my glasses in the river. Throwing your most valued personal item into
water was a popular British practice up until the 14th Century. I
guess we all became stingy around 1300AD. I managed to fight my urge to toss
away my most valued item; my distant ancestors did not.
Wildlife of note:
A buzzard
2 kingfishers (or perhaps the same kingfisher seen twice)
A hare that ran up the hill and paused at the brow looking
majestic in the golden setting sun.
A limp-wristed jogger in hi-vis.
A buff man in wellies capably wrestling with a lamb that had
escaped from the field opposite my house, and his small terrier.
Latin of the week:
In Season: Galanthus nivalis
Out of Season: Briza media
My sabbatical is going badly. One and a half weeks in I was
given a little one-off day of work closely followed by several intensive 9-13
hour days, and I’m set to work 8-16 hours a week from now until the end of my
sabbatical, when I will “resume” an 8-16 hour week.
…I think the sabbatical is over. I think it was less of a
sabbatical and more of a short holiday.
But this is good
because I’ve been offered a place at Bath Spa’s Creative Writing MA again, and
at this rate of employment, I might be able to afford it, even without AHRC
funding.
I have to go on a walk everyday otherwise I start to loose connection with what’s important and what isn’t. The only days that I don’t go on walks is if it’s raining heavily or I have become too neurotic and sucked into what I am working on, which usually happens when I haven’t gone on a walk in a while.
Yesterday it rained all day. I did not go for a walk. My words started to slip and get lost somewhere between my animus and my ego.
The day before yesterday I went for a walk. I thought I was gone less than an hour, but when I came home it was already 6pm. I’d been walking for almost three hours. When I walk I try hard to push verbal thoughts out of my head, to live only with what my eyes see, my ears hear, my nose smells, my skin touches, my tongue tastes. Anything beyond this, anything verbal, I try to dispel. I am a verbose person, I guess that’s why I choose to write stories. If I’m not careful I start to drown in words. It isn’t good. It isn’t healthy. I have to take a break sometimes.
I am very fortunate to live in a stunningly beautiful place. The things I feel for this land are extremely primal and powerful. I love this land more than I love almost anything else. Within walking distance of my little white cottage there is so much to see. Here are some photographs of just a tiny amount of the treasures they lay in the surrounding three miles of my house. I don’t often photograph my walks because the process of photographing what is around me detaches me from my surroundings. I get stuck in Plato’s Cave. But I’ve walked these paths so many times that I think it’s now ok to respond to them from a reflective, detached point of view, on occasion.
This is the foundry. It’s been slowly decaying for 14 years, left abandoned. In 1860 the largest water wheel in Europe was in operation at this foundry (60ft diameter), and this was where the wheel was made. Bomb casings for WW2 were made here. It’s had countless uses, and now after hundreds of years of operation this place lies silent; a window into our history. A lot of the villagers want it to be demolished, because it's been decaying like this for 14 years and they think it is ugly. I think it is beautiful. It's a magnet, it draws in young creative people from all over. Music videos have been filmed here, art and photography projects inspired by it, graffiti artists turning the peeling white paint into a huge canvas for their work.
In a small wood beyond the foundry, up past the golf course, there are a number of underground bunkers that were built in WW2. They have something to do with the nearby Zeals airfield, which was in operation at that time. When myself and my siblings were children we’d play here, afraid that tramps lived in the bunkers. Even to this day I approach them with caution, terrified some bedraggled old man will stagger out into the light.
A view of the forest.
New Lake. I sat here on the shore for a long while, watching the herons and a strange black bird. Not sure what that was. It was huge and hulking and beautiful, nesting in the corner of the lake I think. This lake is very close to the famous Stourhead gardens.
This forest is quite large and stretches from here up to Longleat. One day I will walk from home, from the most Southerly point of this forest, right up to the most northerly point.
This is my favourite place in the whole world. It doesn’t capture well on the camera because its beauty is subtle. I can sit in this coombe for hours on end and never feel bored. A small stream bubbles down the trough of the valley, dragonflies darting across the water. Beyond the valley is a small copse in which is a witch’s cottage.
And here we are parallel with the foundry, back near the start of the walk. The distant view of Shaftesbury across the vale. That’s a town where most of my friend’s live. Sometimes I wish I lived there too, because though I am very shy, I like to be in the company of my friends. I don’t have a car. The town is up a steep hill. I am not fit enough to comfortably cycle it yet.
Where will I walk today? I don't know. I try to let my feet guide me and not plan it out in advance.
A month or so ago I wrote a letter to the cottage on the hill near the golf course. I did not send it. Since I wrote the letter some people have moved into the cottage. I feel very sad, because I have seen those people and I know they do not suit the cottage. They have modern furniture and they have hideous horsey ornaments in the window. I feel sorry for that cottage, because I would have shown it so much more love and respect. In this capitalist society love and respect is meaningless, because only money matters. I did not have any money to buy the cottage. I only have love and respect.
Today I walked fast across the vales, through the woods and over the hills. It is icy on the paths. Careful as you go. The green shoots coming up in the woods have not progressed any further. I am watching over them. They are a signal for springtime. I love the springtime, but I also love winter. I don't want it to leave. I never want the seasons to leave. I always think that whatever season I am in is the best one by far. Winter is cold and crisp. You can see everything; the countryside is open and vast. There are no tics to worry about, I don't overheat when I walk really fast so that my calf muscles hurt. The lakes are frozen over and glimmer in the sunshine. The earth is frozen dry; it is so much easier to walk compared to the slushy mud of autumn and spring.
Here is the letter :(
Dear cottage on the hill near the golf course,
I go walking in this area quite frequently. I live with my parents in the village. Ours is the little white cottage in the middle of the terrace opposite Bridge Street. I do like living in the little white cottage, but it’s small, and I’m running out of space for my books. I have noticed you have been empty for quite some months. Earlier in the year a window would be opened every so often, but that hasn’t even happened for some time. You stay silent and cold. It’s coming up to Christmas, and I am sure you are very lonely up there. If you are at all interested, I am seeking residency is the area. I’m very neat, and respectful of old houses such as yourself. But perhaps you need some more background on me; maybe I am still too much of a stranger. There are many beautiful places to walk around these three neighbouring villages in these three neighbouring counties. So although I walk most days of the week, I probably only take the routes by you once a week or so. But I’m sure you’d recognise me. I am a girl, in her twenties. I have glasses and messy brown hair. I don’t have a dog. Almost everyone else who walks around these parts has a dog. They have stopped putting their dogs on leads when they see me approach, because they’ve learnt by now that I go for a walk most days, even though I don’t have a dog. My occupation is a writer. But I am still very young, and everything I have got published so far has not been for money. This means that I have a part time job, which is at the discount bookshop in the nearest town. It doesn’t earn me enough to be able to live in my own house. I could get a proper job, and then afford to move into my own place, but that would mean giving up being a writer. That is not an option for me. I really love the countryside a lot. I have tried to live in towns, and even lived in a city for a little while. But I hated it there. I much prefer to be close to the seasons and the air. So now you know a little more about me. I was just wondering if you wanted to team up? I could live with you; you’d offer me shelter and space, and I would offer you warmth and love. How does that sound to you?
Anyway, I’ll pass you many more times in my lifetime, so I’m sure we can discuss this matter further at a later date.
