how could you possibly invade against the white chalkiness of these cliffs? this is what i think of england, must be from watching too much kiera knightly. the clouds are english, the weather is english, the surrounding pubs are very. shocking white cliffs, then tiny war-time bunkers, still there and rocky in the barren landscape. must have been cold and damp in there, must have been aching.
The train departs in a sunny interval and slides between the upper levels of terraces and warehouses, their east faces lit up.
Then quickly expanding and wide, the overgrown stinky greenness of hackney’s marshes begins the pattern of outer London: the green, the remnants, the disused railway bridges, the rusted gas holders, the allotments, then warehouses. This is the Lea Valley. Industry melts into ditches of grease, geese, swans, a hundred dusty white vans.
On my left are the backs of terraces, with their washing on the line and their lace curtains in the windows. To the right are so many trees, the saplings suffocating the old, undergrowth creeping into the canopy, weeds towering over ponds and stinky crevices. And then a power station. This valley will be one of the cradles of the post-apocalyptic world.
And then I am into the gently sloping pastures. If you have an empty heart, a positive side of this is that even small amounts of sunshine, a scrap of blue sky, a brief message, a short story, quick journey, glances, flickers, glimmers… all make it completely weightless.
Is this what it feels like to be Norwegian? So many things to make me smile in a single day:
^The memory of Victoria Plum, my saviour on that harrowing day 18th january 1987, when I was taken landscape painting in the 40degree Clare Valley heat, and when a fatty tiger snake crossed my dusty path.
^From nowhere, a heavy downpour for 5 minutes. Or maybe it was more prolonged but localised in this small patch of nowhere. Don’t be fooled by the sign, Cambridge City Centre is an hour ride away. Imagine me sheltering in the woods, building this quick shelter on Grug’s prototype. The sun came out instantly, just like the moral of this story.
^ Thatch is lovely, so thick and spongy. Again Grug’s hair.
^ And then, amongst all the thatch and winding roads, immediately after the rain and unpleasant wind, there it was: An Australian landscape. By some trick of the crop the land looked parched, and the sky was wide, opening up toward the A14.
And a cacophony of animal. Cows on the cycle path, cats in the lanes, ducklings in the river, bunnies in the golf course, two turtle doves, and a foil sealed baby frog for the journey home, gross. I savour the journey home, as the train goes through Ponders End which is my spiritual home and where I hope one day to settle.
i don’t want to be a travel blog, but this hvar is beautiful rock plunging into cool turquoise adriatic. if you want to fill any hollowed heart, then float in salty water in sunshine for a bit and the gap in your chest will be replaced by a longing deep in the belly for chips and grilled calamari, for spaghetti, for pizza, milkshakes and beer. that day we ate boiled egg mayonnaise sandwiches while we air-dried our salt-crusted bodies (like a fine pork product) on a mat of pine-needles. the pine scent reminds me of tasmania.
also like tasmania; the grasshoppers who jump from each footstep, magically, and the sound of crickets.
the town is second in my memory to the landscape of the island. i imagine that we all are drawn to the landscape of our childhood, and this is barren and dry, with lavender fields and scorched hills like australia. snakes would like it here.
here are some photos in summery summary, more later about the hills, the old town and its lickable stone steps, and the improbable islands.
work makes me think of long-haul flights, drink makes me think of food, a glass makes me think of broken, blue sky makes me look for clouds, being with someone makes me think of solitude, loneliness reminds me of love, and summer makes me think (not unkindly) of winter. not being a pessimist, but i doubt the new bougainvillea will make it to autumn, let alone through this next winter.
spent 3 days in lovely places; like John Soane’s House (more another time), like eating a cherry almond tart and a jasmine lily tea at a tiny cafe on church st, ricotta mustard toasts and a beer at Cafe Oto, like Abney Park Cemetery, like the bar at Moro, like the insides of many pubs, like london in the throes of visitors heaving as blood during exercise, somerset house’s wide courtyard gleaming in the sunny intervals.
so i’m tired. going to read newspapers, make a nest, eat carol’s courgette then find a mossy crevice and slumber like a large stone lion.
come back to london on a flight that’s been delayed 4 hours. it rains and i visit the nhs doctor on the same day. the garden is covered in 50 fat snails. more. but the kind man at the all-in-one let me off 25p for a plump avocado and a punnet of very sweet strawberries. i love the english but i need some more wide blue sky and warm stone. more on spain (a cemetery suspended in silence, motorways to france and back, unstoppable catalans, the 5 daily phases of the ocean, tiny fish darting around ankles, tiny fish on toast) to come one day soon when i have rediscovered the will to continue.
4 tasmanians, probably the last time. gulls, tall houses, the man with the ice cream van, even the sunshine and wildflowers made me sad. although for a few hours i had forgotten.
woke up this morning at 5 by the bright sunshine, ran around clissold park at 7 (meg are you proud of me now) and it is beautiful and hot. ridley road market (more veg less beer in honour of impending beach), the car boot sale (funny sailor’s dress £1 in the style of someone else), dalston square (i’m so sorry)… none of these places seem like england now that it is hot. about to have my hair chopped, although i worry because drastic changes really should not be undertaken during a lunar eclipse.
such an attraction for a coast-less country. would you give up the beach for mountains, or mountains for a coast?
first there was the boat ride, past parts of the mountain which were quietly sliding into lake, then the cable car, and i remembered it from both a summer and a winter childhood.
the fog at the top was so thick, i almost couldnt find the bratwurst shop.
the mountain is a dark shadow of dripping earth and trees, steaming in its lake. it is very tasmanian, to feel contained and limited by the landscape overwhelming you.
in switzerland plants grow so ferociously. a warm explosion of lush leaves and flowers of almost every colour. i am not exaggerating; blue, yellow, orange, pink, white, purple. all represented in any random handful of wildflowers grabbed from the meadow. suburban cats have long grass and high smells to roll in. the joggers, the children, the german-walking-sticks all rustling through plants.
the abundance is guilt-ridden, as if none but switzerland can afford to have plants that grow in the ground, and not in planters. (although, i am writing this now sitting on my bed, neck against the fresh night air of a london sky that has not yet darkened at 10, and the air feels full and generous; the cold and the sunshine and the moon, the moist soil, a garden full of cats and trees. is it any surprise that i dont want to leave this spot by the window.)
it might also be her slice of life; while her neighbours in switzerand and in spain trim the lawn and sweep the concrete respectively, my grandmother’s houses are entwined and overgrown:
not yet, just a glimmer. bare legs ambitious.
i go walk around abney park cemetery often, dont know what season i prefer. winter is stark and brutally gorgeous but only if it snows, autumn obviously has coloured leaves which work well against the stone but then they too are turned to mush on the ground. summer is possibly the most beautiful, although i wasnt prepared for this spring.
spring has less meaning in australia; the winter is not cold enough or the summer fleeting enough for the metaphor to work. and here, already, the daffodils which were plump and juicy last weekend are starting to whither. so there’s another metaphor.
the weather omens were correct; just lost £16 on the steeple chase betting on the wrong horses; snowy morning and cloudy lane. if there had been a horse called squirrel i would be rich now.
