Category Archives: Writing

The Alder Pool.

The voice of a cuckoo

          Dropped to the lake

                           Where it lay floating

                                                       On the surface.

 

A foreword;

A foreword? To a short piece? Yes, there are a couple of words in here that bear definition. One very old, one new. Both I think deserve more use. 

Mogshade: an old English for the welcome cool shade cast by trees in leaf

Shivelight: a word coined by Gerard Manley Hopkins for the gleaming shafts of light shining through trees in leaf 

The verses are haiku by Bashō, from Sumidawara, published in 1694

Now that’s done, let us away to the story…

 

… It’s late September now, the equinox is passed and autumn comfortably settled in after it’s brusque arrival.  A time for sweatered evenings drinking hot chocolate, for listening to Vaughan Williams and remembering the sweltering summer now past.  Blattering rain, from the winter’s first big storm, rattles down the window.  

Memory drifts back to near midsummer, a rest day saunter at the quiet end of Borrowdale. There’s a massive Atlantic storm on the way, but I don’t know that yet. For now, all is calm and still. 

The air hangs quiet and becalmed, no breeze to relieve an enervating heat felt bone deep.  A lone buzzard wheels high in the bell clear sky, a cuckoo calls somewhere unseen.  The Derwent runs trickle dry in it’s rocky bed.  All bar a glass clear relic pool, willow and alder shaded, cupped in the cut bank of a lazy meander.

Nestled in this welcome cool mogshade the pool rests, it’s surface planished metal mirror smooth.  A settled calm for now bare stirred by flow of either air or water. 

Spears of shivelight dapple the pool bed with rippling glimmers of brightness; each dapple studiously prowled by silverdark trout.  In the bed thousands of ephemeropteran nymphs, avoiding the predations of stonefly, of alderfly, of damselfly nymph.  A flickerdash and a prowling silverdark trout gobbles an ephemeropteran, a stonefly an alderfly, a damselfly nymph. 

In the heavy air above each shivelight shaft plays host to a haze of ephemeroptera swarming in their frantic nuptial dance.  All male, all desperate to attract a watching female into the swarm, to copulate.  Blood red damselflies, hawking, flash from sunlit borders, through the shadows, disrupting the dancers’ chaotic order.  Each flashing dash snatching a single dancer from the swarm.  Oblivious, in the desperate rush to reproduce, the swarm reforms, the dance continues.  In the seemingly stable column each individual ephemeropteran swirls ever lower to finally settle on, and cast eggs beneath, that mirror calm surface; their final act.  A flickerdash of prowling silver dark trout makes an occasional encore, each ripple a transient ring and ditch memorial for the life of an insect.  

The eggs, in their minute tens of thousands, sink safely to the pool bed, there to hatch, to bide for years as a nymph and one day on the wing. 

And all these myriad tiny dramas play out in and above a glass clear relic pool, willow and alder shaded, cupped in the cut bank of a lazy meander.  The Derwent still runs trickle dry in it’s rocky bed.  A lone buzzard still wheels high in a bell clear sky, a cuckoo still calls somewhere unseen.  The air still hangs quiet and becalmed, no breeze to relieve an enervating heat felt bone deep.

But, far out in the wild Atlantic a low pressure is deepening, tracking rapidly northwest.  The beginnings of that massive storm I don’t know about yet.  In two days the glass clear pool will be churned by sky wrenching gale and bank breaching flood as the now trickle dry Derwent runs full spate.

 

  In the sky

                                    Of eight or nine yards

 

                                              Above the willow –

                                                     Drizzling rain

 

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First Summit

What’s the first mountain I climbed? 

That depends.  What do you mean by climb, mountain and first?  But that’s a philosophical path I don’t choose to tread here; for there lay sleeping Jabberwocks (in this gentle memoir they will remain untickled).  So for this happy, as true as long ago childhood memory story, we’ll stick with a simple physical mountain (a lump of rock, mud, heather etc. over 610m altitude) on the Isle Of Man. 

Away we go then, to August 1970 (relax, time travel works in our imagination), at Laxey tram station. Specifically the queue for the Snaefell Mountain Railway (actually an electric tram, but this is the Isle Of Man, so railway it is).  And in the queue, with his beloved dad, there’s a very excited small boy; me.  Always fidgety, this day I’m close to bursting.  I am though on best behaviour (think Pooh holding Tiggerish energy in check) standing politely and outwardly calm. 

This day, I’m going on an expotition (I’d discovered the Pooh Bear books, to this day I remain convinced the word is perfectly correct).  I’m going to climb a mountain.  Not just any mountain though, Snaefell, the highest mountain (yes, I know it’s technically “the only mountain”; shush, I’m seven here) on the island.  I’ve been up there before with dad, but today’s special.  Today if I’m judged sensible, I’m going to climb the mountain on my own.  For a seven year old, an awfully big expotition. There are well worn boots on my feet, blue woollen socks tucked neatly into grey breeches. There’s a thoughtfully packed bag on my my back. A bag replete with compass, map, aran sweater, honey butties and something for the journey.  That something for the journey is my well thumbed copy of The House At Pooh Corner (read on the tram from Douglas, ch6 “In Which Pooh Invents a New Game and Eeyore Joins In” probably). 

The  Snaefell tram rattles in, the passengers shuffle off, we scuttle on. I grab a window seat, dad beside me and the tram rattles out.  For the next half hour the book remains in my bag, unread. Instead I try to read the mountain landscape rolling by as we’re carried over 500m to the misty summit station.  The tram rattles in, the passengers shuffle off. Most, realising it’s a little chilly here at around 600m, scuttle away into the cafe and gift shop. 

Driver, guard, dad, a hopeful sheep and I are left in the wind shredded mist. 

“You walking to the top with your dad?”

“No, I’m going on my own!”

“Oh; smashing.  Well, have fun and we’ll see you on the next tram down.”

It’s all tremendously, excitingly real now.  Driver and guard are suitably impressed (as this is the Isle Of Man neither think my plan odd) and dad’s happy.  The sheep has lost interest and wandered off.  A final show of the route and I’m away.  Off on my expotition, I’m climbing a mountain, on my own.  Carefully navigating, treading the familiar but now fresh path, one walked by thousands of feet before mine.  A wide, clear path (though one people miss every year) winding gently around to the summit. I’m concentrating so carefully, stopped occasionally by stupendous views over to Scotland (never once of course spotting dad, in the mist, keeping careful watch) then vigorously striding out once more for the summit. 

I can still, near half a century on, feel that slightly surprised calm euphoria (I’ve never felt one conquers a mountain or climb or descent) as I touched the trig point.  I’d done it.  My first solo summit.  There were tourists, the radio station and a very troublesome sheep. To me it felt, there and then, the very wildest place on earth.  Settling in a leeward hollow a celebratory honey butty and drink of water were lingeringly taken.  As the descent was to come one butty was carefully saved for later.  Lunch done, bag repacked, time for the second part of this expotition.  Getting safely back down again. 

Now, I’d been walking most of my life.  This meant dad and I had a habit of descending, let us say, at pace (ascending too, where we could move quickly, we did).  So away I went.  A skinny, clumsy kid in boots and rucksack galloping past bemused tourists, casting occasional sincere apologies to the wind’s mercy. 

Of course dad was sat waiting on the station bench as agreed.  He’d waited there patiently since I set off (yeah, of course he did, I’m a dad now).  Hugs and congratulations were exchanged, then hot milk and expotition report in the cafe.  Drinks and debrief done we wandered out for the next tram down. The friendly driver and guard waiting there as promised;

“You do it then?”

“Yeah!”

“Well done young man.” 

Smiling, they shook my hand in congratulation.  I suddenly felt very grown up (sincerely given praise I still feel is important for children). 

Somehow the tram whisked us back down to Laxey in the blink of an eye (yes, I know, the seven year old me fell asleep) to chicken and chips in the corner cafe. 

So, in a pedantically technical sense not my first mountain.  But in a truly practical sense (one that matters to me), very much my first mountain.  

I’ve been in so many mountains so many times since, in so many ways.  With my misfunctional mind, the best times are like that first time.  Willingly alone, moving light and fast through the fells, my joyous, curious internal child grinning, a book and a honey butty in my bag.  

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Petrichor

 

 

Petrichor; derived from Greek petra, “stone” &  īchōr, “divine fluid”: that uniquely fresh, rich aroma of rain falling upon parched earth after days then weeks of hot dry weather.

Early summer, the driest on our modern record.  The birchwood copse, moist cool haven where I run, is parching now.  A grass bleaching, footpath firing, tree wilting parching.

But this evening, just for a little while, the parching eased.  The long cloudbare sky became cloudspeckled.  Clouds grew, darkened, grew rain heavy, some few precursor raindrops speckled the ground.  The heat fell away from sweltering toward merely too warm, then the true rain came down.  A sweet soft rain.  A rain warm and rejuvenating, joyous to experience.  As rain fell petrichor rose, that blessed aroma of hot, dry, rain slaked earth and stone.  A beloved scent of summer calling back far memories of gilden* days amongst forests and fells from childhood on to now. 

And then near quick as it came, the rain quits.  The heat climbs back from merely too warm toward sweltering, the rain marks evaporate.  Trees are still wilted, footpaths are still fired, grasses are still bleached. 

But yet the air is no longer parched dry.  It bears a lingering humidity, a memory of water.  In a hawthorn a pigeon preens dampened feathers, beadlets of water bejewel the orchids.  The sky, for weeks a cloudbare blue remains cloudspeckled.

A promise that maybe, just maybe, there will be rain once more. 

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*gilden: Middle English gilden; gelden; gulden from the Old English gylden. An equivalent to gold(+/-en). Yes, I like archaic language. And?

To a possible reader…

Lone tree on a lake district fell skyline, monochrome

Beneath a building summer storm a lone tree; high on a lake district fellside.

A note to a possible reader. On prose, specifically mine, often the purple variety. 

I make no apology, for none is needed. I love words. I cherish them. I love their variety. I love that old words are refound and ofttimes repurposed, that new words are founded. I cherish the practical magics words create. 

Once I found passage through the wrecking reef shoals of ADHD and dyslexia, the wondrous richness of words became my refuge. When kept away from moorflank or riverbank, whether by school or by overbearing mother, I took sanctuary in books, into a wordworld of the imagination. The library, with the aid of an understanding father and a librarian who turned a knowing eye, and with that eye an occasional suggestion, that library became my portal; Narnia’s wardrobe in Portland stone and oak and brass and compassion. 

And so I grew up in company with, amongst others; Durrell, first Gerry later Larry; with Rebufatt and Whymper; Eyre and the Brontes; Pope and Dryden and Montaigne. Modern times they’re joined, again amongst others, by Macfarlane, Shepherd, Baker, Deakin, Calvino, Pratchett and Gaiman. 

Now, I do consider plain language has it’s value, in court reports, medical records, instruction books and suchlike. 

However, when recalling worlds to mind, or growing worlds in the mind of another. No, not here. When writing the experience of long fell day’s, for the flickering silvered nacre braids of a dipper bobbed stream: then the wondrous richness of words is where I play. 

There you are dear reader, if you like occasionally florid nature and mountain writing, for to my mind the two are inseparable…

Welcome. 

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