Saturday 31st December 2011 New Year's Eve

This is the blog that should have accompanied the pictures on the last blog. I've had the devil of a time posting this and am wondering if it isn't just too sensitive a subject, that is when one's neighbours house burns down. At least attention can be drawn to various safety issues. So much purging going on around me, inside me, everywhere. Is it in preparation for receiving all the good stuff that next year promises?  Not necessarily so. If last year is anything to go by, next year will also be busy, turbulent and transformative. Transformation not always being nice to look at in process. A nice word to say but not an easy one to actually experience. Change does not always look nice and healing often hurts.

I took a walk a few days after the fire. I know Stephen is alright and being taken care of and is not homeless. I still have a good torch he kindly lent me. I walked up the track to get the public footpath that leads through Tresidder Farm, which has just been sold, to whom I don't know. It seemed very quiet and peaceful and then you see the burned out wreck. The fire service pumped in water from the stream that passes close by onto this 10  metres by 4 metres wooden construction. You can see one stone wall, a Godin French stove and the remains of the piano and many books singed around the edges. I quickly took a couple of pics and walked away. Everything around is just the same but not the same. I was reminded of a friend's exhibition in 1988 Fire Pictures, at the ICA, Catherine Shakespeare Lane. Sometimes de-struction can produce something beautiful. You can look at the detritus left behind and think what would be the worst thing to lose? I spoke to a friend about this and she said she never put too much store in stuff and if she had five minutes to pick up something and leave she would grab her wallet, a picture of her husband and a nice old print above her fireplace, that features an old barrel down on the slipway at Penberth. Her father used to collect seafood from all the nearby coves in barrels. So quite a few things were precious to her. I would want to get my wallet she said. But I said, all that stuff is replaceable, but what a hassle she said, but replacable. The print and the photograph were not.

It was lovely to reach Penberth. There have been some very wet and windlashed days lately that made it impossible to get out. It always looks the same here, with just weather making the changes. Nobody about, no smoke curling out of chimneys, in fact it is rather warm about 13 degrees. One wonders what might be coming in in February and March. 

I decided to head up the path over the headland and along Pedn Vounder and down to Treen. The tide was low and if it wasn't so wet I might have scrambled down to the beach and dared to get my feet in the sea. I am not yet a winter swimmer. Reading Roger Deakin's book, Waterlog I am inspired to do more 'wild swimming.' I know people put on wetsuits and helmets and float down rivers in the US, like the Yellowstone river. I can't imagine anything more refreshing than floating down a huge wild river, dancing over rapids, pulling into sheltered little covers, seeing wildlife and the expressions on the faces of people in boats, canoes and kayaks. I have swum in the Rio Grande several times. Most of the times I've been with women friends who seem often to be a bit cagey about getting in. One time several rafts came down, I was at Pilar with Pat Fuhrman trying to do some painting by the river but it got too hot, time for a swim. The people, the women especially were saying 'Gee, isn't it freezing in the water?' 'No not at all,' I said 'it's wonderful.' The air temp must have been at least in the eighties. 'That's why it's so nice because it's a little bit cooler than the air, so it's refreshing to swim in.' I have to say that having been brought up swimming in the Bristol Channel, The English Channel and the Atlantic down in Cornwall I am probably a little hardier than most, but really it wasn't cold it was balmy and just to be in a natural body of water and have a little swim was so blissful. When I got out I felt like I was on a wonderful new drug, only this was natural, wild and free.

Paul Gillard kindly gave me a lift to Penzance and I rushed around collecting pamphlets about Brittany Ferries, new savings accounts, train links until I had a huge bagful. As I write this I can hear fireworks going off further down the valley, probably at one of the 'bigger houses' down there, the Banhams, the Hugh Jones, or Favel and Helen Briggs, the toffs whose ancestors used to own the entire area. I wonder where their money came from and I am still astonished how people automatically respect well off people. These ones are pretty nice though keeping their places seriously well maintained, taking care of properties and making sure that Penberth is not damaged or destroyed or left uncared for in any way. There is never any litter, hotdog stands, teaplaces, too much screaming by kids or barking by dogs and the gardens there are exceptional to the point that it would be frowned on if you didn't put a lot of care into gardening. Gardening is good, it provides food for insects, butterflies, birds, worms, flowers, honey, pollen and generally attracts and supports a wide variety of species. 

I wish as much care could be taken of some of the farms down here. So many are not working farms anymore. Often a couple of the cottages will be rented out and the buildings just left empty and unused when they were quite productive in the nineteenth century, about two hundred years ago. so much decline. You wonder if producing good organic food couldn't be a proposition anymore. I believe Lady Bolitho's son Geoff, or Jeff, has sold the place to a Doctor. Years ago Doctors would never have been able to afford such properties and didn't have the respect or the salaries they have now. They might put a horse in one of the fields and just enjoy the view. I wonder how much food was produced around here and where we get those products from now. 

Fire aftermath, walk to Penberth

 

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Santa's Big Fire Engines

I wasn't expecting anything as expensive and large and grandiose as a fire engine to deliver goodies to me yesterday, or rescue me from my rural isolation, but alas there was a fire up the lane at Crean Mill, at the Valbakers place and two massive fire engines were standing around huffing and puffing and about ten chaps in uniforms striding about and talking animatedly into walkie talkies, mobile phones and so on. Seeing the flashing lights I looked out of the window of a quiet Christmas Day, which had been limited for me anyway by an attack of  gastric flu or food poisoning. I went outside to have a look. A fire engine was trying to get up the lane but the neighbours car was parked infront of the wheely bins, so that was a bit problematic. I went over to their house and told them what was happening. Much screaming and hang wringing ensued and a very slow attempt to move the car. 'Get the keys now,' the woman barked.'NOW!!!' Going round to the back of their house, another car was parked. The American academic woman started screaming 'you don't think this is a coincidence do you, who says there is a fire, why would someone park here today of all days' And so on. I mumbled that there was a fire going on up the lane. Again I was poo pooed and I began to think I was in the middle of either a wierd modern Opera set or an episode of 'Enders.

The woman then marched over to one of the officers on duty. I noticed she was wearing a jaunty little red velvet thingy in her hair for Christmas. She let off another tirade at the unsuspecting chap. I noticed her son, usually a bright young thing, was standing in their front garden filming on a camcorder, his mouth set in a petulant and defiant grimace, as if he was filming some murderous disturbance in Tahrir square. Like he thought he was recording something for the BBC. I spoke to him in the midst of all the chaos, yelling and pandemonium. He asked if I was 'in it with them.' That took me aback, as they say. 'What do you mean, these guys were called out as an emergency service.' 'You don't believe that do you?' he snarled back.I tried to reason with him but realized my voice was growing high and shrill and that he wasn't listening to a word I was saying. 'Stop pestering me' he said. Wow, I couldn't believe it.  Here was vitriol and the son of vitriol, talking. His father, just flown in from Italy, the day before stood by quietly and smiled, as his x wife flew around insulting, attacking and behaving like a rabid dog. 

One of the engines tried to back up down the lane but couldn't. Several more service vehicles appeared, four in all. One of them went up the lane. The American woman then decided to go up with her x and have a look. I could smell burning but it might have come from our woodstoves so wasn't sure.

I realized I wasn't doing anybody any good standing around. I went and thanked one of the firemen. He said the American woman had been really rude and insulting to him. She apparently thinks she is being surveilled and watched by Police and Secret  Services wherever she goes. If this is the way she behaves then I'm not too surprized.

Next day, today that is, good old Boxing Day, I get a call from over in  Penberth Valley. The story is that Stephen Valbaker had been at his sister's house, came home and saw the roof of his wooden house on fire and jumped  up and down and screamed and so on. 'Oh no my house is on fire, its all wood, its going to burn down.' He also has a nice piano in there and I dread to imagine what happened to that. The Services were called and the engines couldn't get up the lane and a small vehicle did reach them eventually but not till 20 minutes later when the fire had done its worst. I was glad at least that no one was burned to death while they slept in an alcoholic or drug induced haze next to their fire, full of Christmas pudding laced with brandy and chocolate liquers full of whisky. I don't know how the fire started unless Stephen left the gas poker burning on the ground by the fire, or a curtain was caught by a candle. It is never a good thing when something like this happens and I am glad nobody was hurt at least.

With all the boggy and soggy minded people around here at the moment it's not too shocking that this happenned.  The American academic woman already has had her car impounded. I haven't heard that story yet but am sure she will say it is another conspiracy. And of course I am part of this whole conspiracy thing since I accepted a lift in a Police Van a week ago and she probably thinks I'm an undercover agent. Honestly who needs Opera or Soaps when you have this going on on your doorstep.

Across the way in another mired infestation of old buildings, knocked up dog pens, horses kept in pens 24/7 the white stallion is kicking off a bit. He is neighing and rushing around his pen. Maybe one of the several mares that are kept there is in season. He responds to his hormones and knows exactly what he wants to do. Sadly he is locked up like a criminal at all times. Once last week I saw him proudly stomp down to the gate of the 'mutant stud farm', for that is what it is and was at the gate just before the road before it was noticed. If only he realized that he could easily jump over the fence and leave his prison behind. Soon he was put back behind bars. The mares and young colts and foals wonder around the filthy muddy yard, looking for food, hanging out together while the white stallion, who is now almost completely black with good old Cornish mud can only gaze on longingly. Sometimes I see the 'herd' way up on the hillside and it is very gratifying to see them have a modicum of normal green field instead of the grimy mud and filth of the 'yard.' 

(At this point I have to insert a picture of beauty from a walk I took a couple of days ago at Porthcurno. To show that its not all bleak down here. )

All the while about five or six furry Jack 

Russells leap and jump and wag their tails inside their little pen. God knows if that is ever cleaned out. They cultivate a strange variety of howl, yelp, yap and scream, sometimes almost singing, other times with a kind of staccatto of dog noises, starting angry and ending in whimpers. They love it when a horse goes past, this gets them jumping up and down, tails wagging non stop. I don't know if they are bred for sale or if they are kept just to annoy the neighbours. For some reason the barking doesn't annoy me too badly.One wonders what could be done, a cash injection, drainage project? The pile of run down and filthy buildings look to me like they need burning down. For some reason I am surrounded by murky filthy unrepaired lanes, mad academics, irresponsible and spoiled children of fame and am trying to figure out if there is a message there somewhere I can learn from. There is a huge opportunity here for humour and jokes as well as great pathos. Do I see this as a reflection of my own unconscious, showing a need to clean up, clean out, purge? In which case this is happening to me anyway right in my guts with my attack of gastic flu or food poisoning or whatever it is I just got. Or is it Cornwall Today, a sad and neglected place that has had its heart and soul knocked out and devoured by fishing, tin mining, hedonistic rich kids, places not cared for, energy growing mildewed, problems not addressed, dysfunctions ignored, emotions unexamined, self righteousness pushed to an extreme. Then there's me telling the tale. Am I any different or better? Am I also not being judgmental? I am merely reporting what I have seen and experienced. I hope the fire is some sort of a purification and that I am also purged of what I need to be purged by. There is a powerful energy here that I hope will be turmed to the good.

Finally the wren hasn't been back for a while but a robin turned up instead. The little creature

let me pick it up probably because it was almost knocked out from banging its tiny body slap bang onto the window pane. A large red ladbird sits on top of the old basil plant. It seems to prefer basil to rosemary which was its previous perch.

More about Wrens

Thanks to kind Melody Elwell Romancito I now know how to paste into my blog. 

In European folklore the Wren is the King of the Birds. According a fable of Aesop, long ago the birds held a contest to see who could fly the highest; this one should become the King of the Birds. At first it looked as though the Eagle would win easily. But just as the Eagle began to tire, the Wren, which had hidden under the Eagle's tail feathers, crept out, soared far above and shouted: "I'm the King!" Thus the Wren proved that cleverness is better than strength. The Wren's majesty is recognized in such stories as the Grimm Brothers' The Willow-Wren and the Bear. Aristotle^[10] and Plutarch called the Wren basileus (king) and basiliskos (little king). In Japan the Wren is also called King of the Winds.

It was a sacred bird to the Druids, who considered it "supreme among all the birds", and used its musical notes for divination. The shape-shifting Fairy Queen took the form of a Wren, known as "Jenny Wren" in nursery rhymes. A Wren's feather was thought to be a charm against disaster or drowning.

The Wren also features in the legend of Saint Stephen, the first Christian martyr, who supposedly was betrayed by the noisy bird as he attempted to hide from his enemies. Traditionally, St. Stephen's Day (26 December) has been commemorated by Hunting the Wren, wherein young Wrenboys would catch the bird and then ritually parade it around town, as described in the traditional Wren Song. The Wren, the Wren, the king of all birds, St. Stephen’s day was caught in the furze. Although he is little, his family’s great, I pray you, good landlady, give us a treat.^[11] The tradition, and the significance of the Wren as a symbol and sacrifice of the old year, is discussed in Sir James Frazer's The Golden Bough.^[12]

According to Suetonius, the assassination of Julius Caesar was foretold by an unfortunate wren. On the day before the Ides of March, a wren was seen being pursued in a frenzy by various other birds. With a conspicuous sprig of laurel clamped in its beak, the wren flew desperately into the Roman Senate, but there its pursuers overtook it and tore it to pieces.^[13]

Jenny Wren

Today, 15th December 2011 I was visited again by a Jenny Wren, apparently another name for the Faerie Queen. Somehow this little bird got into the barn, just like on Sunday when I had a couple of visitors and we managed to steer the delightful creature to an open door. Today the returning wren, I presume the same one seemed to enjoy flying around, perching on books, glasses, plants, mugs, table tops and so on. S/he didn't cheep in distress or seem that bothered. What brave and amazing birds they are and with such wonderful vocals, so loud for such a tiny creature.

Again  my little friend did a flying inspection, probably checking out places s/he had seen the last time. Eventually flying out of the door. On reaching the trees and undergrowth outside, the bird jumped about and seemed happy but  not desperate to get away from its possibly terrifying experience. Since I had Radio 4 on and at a low volume it wasn't I would imagine a scary loud noise.

I was reminded of the facebook post about the young female whale that got tangled in horrible plastic nets in the sea of Cortes. Luckily a camera carrying boatload of people found her and gradually cut her out of her entanglement. Before being completely released she pulled the boat about a hundred yards in sheer joy when one of her fins was set free. She stopped when she realized she was towing a heavy load. So again the people on the boat set to removing the rest of the vile plastic fishing net which shouldn't have been dumped in the sea in the first place. I don't know maybe they get damaged by large sea living mammals and in the process get caught up. The answer to that would be to not use plastic nets or at least try using ones that don't get caught up. I don't even know if its legal to use these kinds of nets.

Anyway on being released the whale was so overjoyed it performed its entire repertoire of breaching, jumping, pushing their snouts vertical up out of the water, splashing around so that you got the idea of what true freedom means, simply the joy of being alive and not imprisoned in human constructs. How easily animals seem to take so much pleasure in just being alive.  When I see the rooks swarming and playing and diving at night before roosting I cannot deny the joy they show. I see crows and ravens diving and playing and performing comical antics with each other. They are just happy to be alive.

Continuation

The Royal Mail can trace its history back to 1516, when Henry VIII established a "Master of the Posts", a post which eventually evolved into the office of the Postmaster General.
The Royal Mail service was first made available to the public by Charles I on 31 July 1635, with postage being paid by the recipient. The monopoly was farmed out to Thomas Witherings.
In the 1640s Parliament removed the monopoly from Witherings and during the Civil War and First Commonwealth the parliamentary postal service was run at great profit for himself by Edmund Prideaux (a prominent parliamentarian and lawyer who rose to be attorney-general).^[13] To keep his monopoly in those troubled times Prideaux improved efficiency and used both legal impediments and illegal methods.^[13][14]
In 1653 Parliament set aside all previous grants for postal services, and contracts were let for the inland and foreign mails to John Manley.^[13] Manley was given a monopoly on the postal service, which was effectively enforced by Protector Oliver Cromwell's government, and thanks to the improvements necessitated by the war Manley ran a much improved Post Office service. In July 1655 the Post Office was put under the direct government control of John Thurloe, a Secretary of State, and best known to history as Cromwell's spymaster general. Previous English governments had tried to prevent conspirators communicating, Thurloe preferred to deliver their post having surreptitiously read it. As the Protectorate claimed to govern all of Great Britain and Ireland under one unified government, on 9 June 1657 the Second Protectorate Parliament (which included Scottish and Irish MPs) passed the "Act for settling the Postage in England, Scotland and Ireland" that created one monopoly Post Office for the whole territory of the Commonwealth.<sup>[14][15]


Listening to a programme on Radio 4 about the Royal Mail, we can see that any institution takes many many years to work at all well.At first the postage was paid by recipient. Sometimes therefore a postman would bring a letter from a son at war for example and the recipient, the mother often would see the handwriting and know her son was still alive and refuse the letter because of the huge charge. The service was for spying on people since most of the subterfuges were carried on by letter, witness the incriminating letters of poor Mary Queen of Scots. We hear stories of Postmen being found in ditches by man's best friend, the dog, having drunk rather too much beer on the way. This was when the hapless Postman or boy delivered letters on horseback. Then the mail stagecoaches came in, the 'stages' originally used to transport theatrical scenery until an inventive mind saw a way of reforming postage and improving things.  People and  mail were carried on these high speed mail coaches.

Letters came into their own during war time when a letter from home for a soldier in the trenches of Flanders field would put a glow into their weary  hearts. And today, in this rural area the Postmen who deliver to people's houses individually can sometimes be a real lifeline. Sometimes Postmen have found people dead inside their houses.

Anyway I asked Clive to wait while I jumped out of his car and assailed the hapless Robert and asked if he had my parcel. And there it sat in the back of the van in all its undisguised tennis raquet shape. I signed for it and some mail contained inside by registered post. Then jumped back into Clive's blue car. We drove to Buryan. | rushed into the shop to get the last copy of the Guardian. Thankfully they still had some. For some reason Guardian's often seem to run out. Saw a few locals, had a few words. Tristan's Dad was in there looking very confused while he looked for bananas to feed his grandchildren. Probably never looked after children before. He didn't recognize me even though I'd met him loads of times last year, in particular at the Penberth Pancake Day Party at Favel and Helen's spare holiday let cottage, well its more of a house than a cottage. Most people wouldn't accept the limitations of a real cottage. It's all done to look chintzy in the ads I suppose. Cottage sounding so much more rural than simply house.

So picked up a bag of kindling that I realize is not too heavy to carry and with my rucksack full I trundle back down to Crean Bottoms. Cars rush by manically fast or am I going so slow? They whip past me so that I can actually feel the force of the wind as they flash past. Cars scare me, they have far too much power than we actually need and would cost far less if they were slower and practical. A police van goes past. I see the copper inside eyeing me. Am I doing something wrong? 

Minutes later, believe this, the same Police van returns and this absolutely gorgeous young chap, not too young though, with very firm well muscled slightly hairy arms, I just happen to notice offers me a lift as he felt guilty seeing me plod plodding along!! He said I looked like I was in pain, grimacing. I said 'at my age I always look like I'm grimacing.' Then said I was probably reacting to the speeding maniacal cars whose drivers probably had just done some shopping in Penzance and were returning home for a cuppa, so of course they had to travel at breakneck speed. Had a lovely chat with the Policeman. I said a nice thing about Policemen on facebook yesterday. I hate the constant slagging off of these guys. I don't know what the New York cops are like and I read dreadful stories about what's going on in the 'Occupy' movement but none about decent cops. Lets hear it for Public Servants and in my case a real knight of the road. Two knights of the road in one day. If that isn't pure Gemini/Sagitarrius eclipse magic I don't know what is. So I feel vindicated and not so awful for swearing at  my neighbour yesteday and  not so awful that my brothers are so up their arses that they won't speak to anyone in the family. Here's to the kindness of strangers.</sup>

The winged and otherwise messenger

Waited in today for Robert to come in the red Post Office van to deliver my tennis raquet from London and a packet of mail. It was a walk day, sunny intervals, bright and only a bit of drizzle, which is good weather here. Everything revolves around the sun, as they say, that means that if the sun is out here, so must you be too, it may not happen for a while.

Gave up by two pm, he was supposed to be here by 1pm. So right on cue for the
eclipse I started walking to St Buryan. I had only taken a few steps before a loud honk made
me jump. Clive, a kind neighbour who has no teeth, stopped to pick me up. We'd only gone a few yards and reached Laburnum cottage and lo and behold there was the lovely red Post Office or is it Royal Mail van? Royal Mail sounds more interesting. In this Gemini eclipse, ruled by Mercury, all things communication seem to be highlighted. But you never know what to expect. I had listened yesterday to a programme on Radio 4 about the history of the Royal Mail. Originally set up for surveillance purposes during Cromwell's reign of terror it eventually transformed when people needed some way of communicating and keeping family and friends together when people emigrated and travelled more. So we see there the link between Gemini and its ruling planet Mercury and communications and the opposite sign of Sagitarius ruled by Jupiter which would signify foreign places, travel and probably the content of the letters and the imparting of words of wisdom, one imagines from parents to offspring who have gone abroad to work or fight in wars and so on. We all know a letter from a loved one was a huge boost to morale to troops in the 1st and 2nd wars. I know myself that I used to write letters to my brother Pete, when he was in the Royal Navy and Merchant Navy and to an unfortunate friend who went to prison in the US for ten years. Letters are important historical documents and it is one of the wonders of the world that we can read in letters and journals what people wrote in the 1600's. I was rather surprized to realize how far back we started writing letters.

Henry VIII created The Master of the Post in 

Neighbourly Love

When I'm not gazing at the beautiful landscape here I am dragged down to the human realm and
have 'stuff' thrown in my face when I try to be friends with my nearest neighbour, an american academic, whose area is 'Musicology' which apprently translates to Opera Studies and when you try to talk about it the main focus seems to be on 'Gender.' I get tired of hearing the term 'Older Woman' and refuse to be pulled into that kind of bonding of 'us older women' must stick together. I refuse to be called an Older Woman. I hate the term. Older than what or who, older than a baby? I don't consider myself old, I am fit, I play tennis, I hike, I have a couple of extra pounds I would like to get rid of. I get tired of the conspiracy theories,  the victim mentality, the poor old me and all my illnesses. However I do my best to help. I find someone to bring my neighbour wood. I offer to show her some of the hidden pathways, when I mention I am trained as a massage practitioner immediately I am requested to attend her. I feel when I show or give anything it is gobbled up straight away.

We are walking along an ancient pathway, my companion constantly asks questions like a staccato and I cannot get into the rhythm of the land and the walk, all the attention has to go to her. I am supposed to know every name of every landmark, road name, where everything is, it is all on the map in any case. It was a beautiful day, sunny, clouds coming and going and a real change from my awful struggle home from St Buryan yesterday when there was an haranguing south westerly wind constantly blowing against me and then rain slashing my face. I was like a drowned rat when I got home. This lady my neighbour who seems to need a lot of help constantly takes taxis, she cannot be bothered to let me know when and where so we cannot share. I am sick of this narcissism, selfishness. We are on the path to the sea beyond Treen and she goes into one making comments like 'since you're not receptive to what I'm saying.' I hate that kind of bitchy comment. This woman has no right on earth to talk to me like she even hardly knows me. When I try to respond she totally ignores me and does not even look but demands constant attention with her non stop questions.


She swears at me. That is the last straw and I swear back. I am carrying some eggs for her in a box from a roadside stall here. She goes off in a huff. I yell 'don't you want your eggs?' She mumbles some stupid remark and I say 'Fuck you too.' She has drawn me down into her world and I have capitulated and gone into a bit reaction. I am deflated, disappointed and feel low. But I continue on my way and reach Penberth and the sea. I walk up over the river Penberth, along the river and go and see my friend Jaqueline Chapple. Since my neigh our does not want the eggs, I give them away. We have tea and have a jolly chat about tennis, politics, government a real conversation where we listen to each other and respond. This is rare indeed. I hardly know anyone who is capable anymore of this kind of interaction. We are all so stuck on our track. But it is so refreshing and soon we are animated, smiling and invigorated. Sometimes her beloved husband wouldn't listen to her, she says because he thought she would always be right, win. So obviously this is a cross gender problem, that is communication. But what a huge difference after my previous foray into trying to interact with a neighbour. I am sick of all the usual excuses though I am sorry if someone is ill. But not too sorry when that person is contaminating and polluting themselves with cigarettes.

I walk back to the road, up to Trethewewy and down to Crean. Before we left for our awful walk a buzzard flew past and I would always see that as a good sign. She thought it was a bad one. It's always a bad one to her. If you go for walks with me you will see a lot of Police around she says. I am being stalked she says, conspiracy goes after conspiracy. If I am being shown that I am critical, I so get the message. It was a wondrous day in the end. Tomorrow the eclipse, only a couple of weeks till the Winter Solstice.

New friend of the field

Here's to anyone who dares to read this blog! Here I am in my handknitted winter tunic and my lovely wrinkly visage. Hello to you! I also want to introduce you to a new pony I met today who's joined two other little ponies in a field on the way into Penberth Valley, belonging to Anne who lives in Treen. 

Hopefully there will be a picture of a cute red pony right here. Oh gosh that reminds me of the John Steinbeck book The Red Pony which when I was 12 or 13 had a huge impact on me. I received it as a prize for coming first in my class. My older brother John Roberts recommended it to me. He was quite radical in those days about books and politics and I loved talking to him about 'things.' Basically I couldn't understand anything about the world and at least he had something to say instead of nothing. Don't think his wife liked it later though when I turned up aged 18 with a guitar on my back just because I wanted to 'talk' to him, oh fleeting idealistic youth, gone now!

Bouncing the Blogs

This was taken on a fairly dry day. Since then, about a week ago, the weather has been as stormy as me trying to work out how to get onto my blogs. One at Wordpress, this on on Google. I am caught up with passwords, user names, email addresses so that I am tangled up like Gulliver and becoming, of course, frustrated with the learning process.

Anyway I managed to get out today and found the way to Trengothal which is one of the places where Fen used to live. I took the right hand turn where the three way sign is, not the way up past St Levan School but the other fork. In fact there's a confluence of three roads at Crean Bottoms, plus the Public footpath that you can't come all the way through because of Ruben's muddy mutant farmplace, where bedraggled, wet and muddy horses walk around hock deep in mud, manure, urine, water and anything else thrown on the ground. You can smell it 500 yards away. People seem to work there and give the horses this mangy looking hay which can't be that good. They seem about moderately fed. Some are stabled and a large herd stand around again knee deep in mud gazing longingly at a green field over the fence.

Anyway I remembered Trengothal where I saw a fox once trotting through the furrows down by the trees at the bottom of a dip. I think Fen got fed up with mud and flies. I saw a bunch of people get out of a truck and none of them understood me, they were either Polish, most likely or Ukrainian. The farmer was in the tractor. He jumped down. Name of Barry Hocking. Seemed friendly enough. One the way up passed Amanda Richardson's house where you could see red lights and interesting paintings on the wall. I hope we meet. It would be inspiring for me. I am still interested in living somewhere around here but still exploring, maybe next winter alternating and also the possibility of a house sit.

Learning Curve

As a new blogger I am learning how to put print and pics together. In the last post
there was a series of pictures but no text. I guess I'll learn to put them both together
eventually. I managed to get a walk in on Saturday and a visit to the St Levan School
Christmas bash. I was surprised to see a large bunch of Morris Dancers, including
women with fishnet tights and lacy black tights, wearing top hats and tailcoats.
I guess its another sign of the times. I wonder if there are any old Pagan dances
that were for women or if this is the only one that's survived that we know of.
Probably managed about a four and a half mile walk. Didn't manage to get to
the sea as the weather is very changeable and quite threatening.

Christmas Fayre and Saturday Walk

Rain on the Roof

The rain continues, as it has most of the night. I doubt whether the huge puddle
outside the 'barn' here will ever be depleted. Happily, this time last
year down here in West Penwith we were deluged with frost, snow, ice
a freezing temperatures. This year people have been prudent in getting
their wood, coal and kindling together a lot earlier in preparation for winter.
Often as not winter only passes an occasional snowstorm or frost dusting
down here on the edge of Britain. There is a micro climate that protects 
this little peninsula. The puddles and mud mazes continue all up the track
here as far as Tressider farm, going past Crean Mill and several houses
on the lane. It would require a group effort to tackle the mud and puddles
and this is one more example of how people who need to work together
don't. Everyone thinks they are right and the other is wrong, result really
bad muddy lanes. Probably because of having to put money into it people
just want someone else to take care of it. Really not good. How can we
expect a dialogue with the Taliban when we cannot come to agreement
about such practical things?

I'm reading Roger Deakin's Waterlog, appropriately, as I do my walk, hikes
and photo journals and sometimes dictated notes as I go hither and thither
on the bridle paths, public footways and roads down here mainly in the
piece of land south west of Penzance, known of course as West Penwith.
Deakin says 'walking, cycling and swimming will always be subversive activities.
They allow us to regain a sense of what is old and wild in these islands by getting
off the beaten track and breaking free of the official version of things." He thinks
there are still places of mystery, like darkness, mist, woods, mountains or indeed
the sea and rivers. 

Mystery what is it? I know that when I walk back here from St Buryan on a dark
night, since it is getting darker so much earlier now as we proceed to the shortest
day on 21st December, I realize I enjoy what I can only describe as the 'feeling of the darkness.' I feel like I am in a different world that I don't see or hear normally during
a bright day for instance. This blurring of edges may simply allow our minds to 
wander, 'off the beaten track' as Deakin would say to use a popular cliche. And the meaning
of that phrase? It is what people want to do when they have their short freedom of
holiday, weekends away, a longing to return, re-unite with something almost lost
but at the same time necessary. My mind in the darkness is freed from normal
recognition processes that label and define allowing a burst of creative thought,
or a flight of fancy or maybe even contact with a different energy.


I know that I have a thirst for this kind of energy or experience. It feeds something in me
that I can hardly define, it is what drives me, motivates me and heals me. I cannot understand how people can survive without contact with this world that lies hidden
from so many people. It feels like the difference between clean water and pollution. I will
have to think about this some more and come back to it. But I am sure the same feeling underlies some of the best of our nature writing. The simple glory of birds playing in the treetops, their unconscious happiness at just being alive, the joy of life.

The Pitter Pattering continues

I think it rained all night. I was going to try and sleep in the studio so I could
hear the rain loud and clear. In fact I remember reading about two Japanese interior
designers who put microphones on the roof so they could hear the rain and made
a picture window in the roof so they could see it. Now that would be relaxing and
very cosy to be on the inside, rather than the outside.

Appropriately enough I am reading Roger Deakin's Waterlog. A fabulous look

at wild swimming all through the British Isles, with a fine flourish of history and

unusual detail throughout. Of course he is an x Cambridge boy, so he knows how

to do this! This is how I would like to write and I am working on it. Deakin writes

'walking, cycling and swimming will always be subversive activities. They allow us

to regain a sense of what is old and wild in these islands by getting off the beaten track and breaking

free of the official vesion of things. There are still places with mystery, like darkness, mist, woods

or mountains. I would add the sea and rivers also which is where Deakin applies

his sight and instincts.

Now