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.
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