I am just a poor boy Though my story's seldom told I have squandered my resistance For a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises All lies and jests Still a man hears what he wants to hear And disregards the rest ... In the clearing stands a boxer And a fighter by his trade And he carries the reminders Of ev'ry glove that laid him down Or cut him till he cried out In his anger and his shame "I am leaving, I am leaving" But the fighter still remains, mmm mmm Simon and Garfunkel, 1969
Possibly their greatest song both for its music, its lyrics and its truth. Paul said "I think the song was about me". Me too. What if the promises I believe in are a bunch of mumbles? If they are not then to say so is rank blasphemy and there's the rub. And that last stanza - how strongly it resonates with my experience. Where would I go? But the fighter still remains!
This world is not my home I'm just a passing through My treasures are laid up Somewhere beyond the blue...
It's hard to disagree with these sentiments but there are some here-and-now-treasures that I figure I will never forget even come eternity. Certain experiences like that walk along the coast from Lee Abbey, or a panorama that opens up on reaching a mountain summit, a riot of flowers, strawberries sprinkled with sugar, falling in love and its consummation, slipping naked into the sea or a mountain lake, running barefoot through grassy river meadows. And music...
If ever there was quintessential humanity it is in music. It seems that the human psyche is preconditioned to appreciate what we call music. Scientists try to understand this in terms of evolutionary advantage, which music does not seem to have. Or is it that music can in fact actually transcend mere humanity as when at the very dawn of history the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy or at that singularity of divine purpose suddenly there was with the angle a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!" Is it after all the prime medium whereby we worship so it must be capable of prising a crack in the heavenlies.
Apparently not everyone experiences frisson aka the chills when listening to music. My friend Flavia describes this feeling very well when, attending her mother's funeral, she says: the organ swelled into a song of triumph, the glorious music causing me to feel suddenly as if caterpillars were crawling up my spine. They say this frisson is the result of a dopamine release caused by the brain as it anticipates patterns it recognises in music.
Often I pass through the kitchen here and the cooks have an electronic gizmo playing Goodness Knows What through a tinny loudspeaker. IMHO and in mild disgust this muzak seems to me mere noise being used to fill a void. But then my hearing is poor. My ultra reverence for serious music does not acknowledge background "music", which foible of mine tends to restrict the amount and type I listen to.
I've always been fascinated by the aeolian harp. Although man-made to be harmonic, it is played by the wind and so, to some degree, the sound it makes is random, so can it be called music? For music it must be, in that it gives us the chills, it stirs one's heart-strings. So there we have it - music reaches into the heavens and at the same time reaches into our innermost being.
Of course I'm only talking about "good" music. But it seems that what's good for one person may be bad for another and who am I to judge? Besides, I've noticed with music, or a novel, indeed any art form - you have to go beyond the first impression in order to fully enjoy it. Good art has depth. Which reinforces the idea of anticipation. It's hard to anticipate something that is alien.
The longest running BBC Radio 4 program Desert Island Discs has been on the air since January 1942. In it the castaway gets to choose eight recordings (usually music), a book and a luxury item to take to his or her desert island in addition to the Complete Works of Shakespeare and the Bible (etc.) and, one supposes, food. A tantalizingly short excerpt of each recording is played, but the interesting part is what and why the choices. So far they haven't invited me to the program. I think I know why.
What music would you choose? I can go along with the three "absolute favourites" in this video clip and readers of this blog will know that I would add at least Bruckner's eighth. And maybe Handel's Messiah. Most of my choices would be so called "classical" but I might add some Simon and Garfunkel. Maybe even some hymn tunes for their harmony. And, talking about the Emperor concerto, I really liked Alina Berco's performance.
Music can be so rich, so perfect, so evocative, so uplifting, sublime, fantastic, almost too good to be true. Like Golden Syrup or Evaporated milk but so much better and with much longer lasting effect. I'd be sad if heaven excluded it.
The occasion - Ali's out-patients visit to the Cappagh Hospital prior to the other hip being done hopefully soon. So I ran (barefoot) whilst she waited and stuff. I clocked up 10.66 miles (and all that), and explored the Royal canal and river Tolka almost from where I got to the other day. Looks like I've figured how to insert pics from my phone in the correct order! The bit where the railway and canal with its tow paths cross the M50 / N3 interchange was of particular interest - in short they did a good job in preserving the old with the new.
My track
Tolka valley near Blanchardstown
River Tolka
"Board walk" actually iron walk
Royal canal aqueduct over the M50
Same
The main railway NE from Dublin follows the canal
Nice that they left this old bridge in the M50 interchange
My path in yellow - the old bridge is in the yellow box
M50 interchange everywhere
Locks on the canal
Down train at Navan Road Parkway station
Royal canal
Level crossing at Ashtown - here I turned north
Building site on the last leg of my run (literally)
A short run whilst waiting for a friend's appointment in the Mater hospital. The Royal canal way was well worth the visit for barefoot running. The recently extended Luas tram line terminates at Broombridge where you can change to Irish Rail - one day I hope to explore these routes with my Free Travel pass.
Some while ago I posted about our Christian community experiences in the North. That lifestyle ended abruptly when a group of us moved down to the South to begin living together in HH. How HH was acquired is another story, little short of a miracle, that I was not involved in. My own story starts once we had moved in.
We had left the community in the North with little more than our bedroom furniture and the clothes on our back. Whilst we had free use of the HH property, we had no income and thus, once our meagre funds had run out, no food. But we did have a car, so a few of us borrowed a neighbour's ladder and drove into the outskirts of Dublin and offered to clean windows. And it was winter, but rain and snow did not overly damp our spirits.
Early group photo at HH
Back then breakfast was a bowl of porridge and one slice of bread. Period. We had only one table, not large enough for all of us to sit around. The only source of heat was a wood stove in the basement kitchen / dining room, or an open fireplace in the lounge and then only if we could find enough waste timber. Packed lunches were often a mashed potato and pickle sandwich followed by a homemade-sort-of-cheese sandwich which some privately called "sludge". You ate all you were given. On one occasion I had saved half a sandwich for later, and then forgot to eat it. When the girl on kitchen duty found the remains she gave me a very strong dressing down - how dare I waste food! And due to lack of funds and amenities we were restricted to one bath every 5 days (there were no showers back then) unless doing something like sorting out the septic system.
But all this was infinitely preferable to our experience in the North so we were happy enough. We were bound together by a common vision to survive. In due course the window cleaning business morphed into painting and decorating, and then general building work and, finally (for me), a move back into electronics. And the rest is history...
And now a new generation has grown up that knew not Joseph. Food is plentiful and the children often don't eat all they are given and no-one bats an eyelid. Well, no-one except us oldies who remember the lean times.
Alan Bradley, author of the Flavia de Luce detective stories, was formerly an electronics engineer - so there's hope for me yet... He is Canadian by birth and now lives on the Isle of Man but the books are set in 1950's England, reminiscent of my own childhood. Flavia is the youngest of three daughters of widowed Haviland de Luce and in Alan's words she is just your ordinary precocious 11-year-old girl with a passion for poisons. Oh, yes, and she has violet eyes. An 11-year-old is on the cusp: neither girl nor woman; man nor boy. It is a magical age, when, given the gift of wonder, anything – anything! – is possible. And she has pigtails, is a sleuth extraordinaire and rides a bike called Gladys.
The plots are intriguing but what I like most of all is the tenderness that Alan bestows to Flavia's narration together with her vivid descriptions. The following example finds her rushing back home from some prank and meeting her grieving and rather distant father:
What are we going to do with you?” he asked suddenly.
“I don’t know, sir,” I replied.
The “sir” came out of nowhere. I had never addressed my father in that way before, but it seemed perfectly the right thing to do.
“It’s just that sometimes … sometimes—I think that I am very like my mother.”
There! I had said it!
I could only wait now to see what damage I had done.
“You are not like your mother, Flavia.”
I gulped at the blow.
“You are your mother.”
My mind was a swarm—a beehive, a tornado, a tropical storm. Were my ears actually hearing this? For the past several years my sisters had increasingly tried to convince me that I was adopted; a changeling; a lump of coal left by a cruel Father Christmas in their stockings.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for some time,” Father said, fidgeting as if he were looking for something lost in the pockets of his dressing gown. “I may as well come straight to the point.”
My chin was trembling. What was going to happen? What was he going to say?
Was he about to tear a strip off me for ruining my best coat?
“I am aware that your life has not always been—” he began unexpectedly. “That is to say, I know that you sometimes …”
He looked at me in misery, his face flickering in the candlelight. “Damn it all,” he said.
He began again. “As was your mother, you have been given the fatal gift of genius. Because of it, your life will not be an easy one—nor must you expect it to be. You must remember always that great gifts come at great cost. Are there any questions?”
There are occasional glitches that show his Canadian start, like the colour coding of mains wiring as brown for live and blue for neutral. Back then it would have been red and black. Or a reference to "clapboards" which are weatherboards over here. But such hiccups are a small price to pay for the joy of living inside Flavia.
This video clip, shot years ago, is of another genius: someone I know rather well who reminds me a bit of Flavia, or should I say Flavia reminds me a bit of her.
So far there are eleven books in the series, possibly still counting, and I am currently on No. 5, so I've got a fair bit of enjoyment ahead of me. If you like stories involving intrigue, coming of age, that are well written and with characters that are vibrant but which you can relate to, I can heartily recommend this series.
My goal: to top my other recent Willand runs, scale Hackpen Hill and return via Culm valley for its beauty and a wild swim.
Hackpen Hill and its footpaths to Culmstock (top left)
My track: 14.2 miles, elevation gain 533m, average moving 5.46mph
Hackpen Hill was a bit disappointing but the descent and over-fields footpaths to Culmstock satisfied. I love running bare foot through grassy fields. Warm rain would have heightened the experience but you can't have everything.
The River Culm is the longest tributary to the River Exe and is responsible for place names Uffculme, Culmstock, Cullompton, Culm Davy and such like. And it flows past Willand hence my attraction.
River Culm catchment - I swam somewhere inside the yellow circle
As usual, my pictures are in reverse chronological order and can be clicked to enlarge.
My wild swimming hole (exact location secret)
Why is it called (naked) wild swimming? It makes swimming pools sound like the norm which I strongly contest because surely swimming in lakes, rivers and the sea came first. And anyway I hate swimming pools. Kate Rew, who hails from the River Culm area, author of Wild Swim, would be proud of me.
Another shopping trip was needed apparently (the last one was only yesterday) - having run out of bottled water and cream, two essentials for any trip away with Ali. Having duly shopped I parked the hire car in Cullompton and set off on another magical mystery run. Bradninch being the next place of any consequence south of Cullompton. Lots more glorious Devon countryside.
