Travelogue

section one - victoria embankment – hucknall road

like the oak (read at the start of the perambulations project)

let my feet find where they whisper on the ground

 – let the ways i tread be solid like the oak

let my eyes be forward and see the world around

as i feel the breeze upon my back – let me be its boat

let the world give all its colours – let them paint them to a smile

as i feel the breeze upon my back – let me be its boat

let whoever watches and then follows  – stay a while

– let the ways i tread be solid like the oak

let me keep my words intact – let my language keep afresh

let my eyes be forward but see the world around

and when needed – source my wisdom – where imagination nests

let my feet find where they whisper on the ground

let the world give all its colours – let them paint them to a smile

– let the ways i tread be solid like the oak

let whoever watches and then follows  – stay a while

as i feel the breeze upon my back – let me be its boat

and when needed – source my wisdom – where imagination nests

as i feel the breeze upon my back – let me be its boat

let my feet find where they whisper on the ground

 – let the ways i tread be solid like the oak

route – the second – linear walkway to linby cross

shoot

one – planning

to avoid the fast road

we have to go round

to avoid the world of danger

we have to circle the grasslands

to maintain the safety

            keep our sanity

            we find the paths

            away form the hubbub – turmoil – claptrap of daily life

two – seeing and knowing

we already know the old railway

with its creaking bones

and its ailing here and now

among the rutted pathways

             the slopes

all is noted – no blade of grass is not without note

(even the horse muck is pat tested)

this is heritage country

-       underneath – what supports our feet

-       and deeper down

-       the previous generation

-       are still whispering

three – bestwood winding wheel

o watch its dance

(always repeating

always shifting

heel to toe

heel to toe)

            is not just the seeing

there is the push

the smooth whisper of

the past

the down depths below

the knowing of the sky

and the voice of the man that helps it stay in tune

four – the leaving at moor road

we say thanks to our guide

the road that bares its teeth

drags us along its gums

the ditches

try to trick us

            trip us

suck us into its fast flow hedges

we avoid its pitfalls (just)

find the safety net

of the later causeway

we know what’s coming up

and stop for drinks

five – griffin’s head to linby cross

it wasn’t meant to be a sharp corner

but we are glad of the respite

the heritage

(o that word –

            what ties us to ourselves

            keeps popping up and

            showing its machinery)

is either side of linby lane –

st james’ church – its yew tree crowding out its bark

its symbols carved – hieroglyphics tying up a million secrets

                                    in long sharp notes

the land – like a forbidden collar – closed to public boots

castle mill – all done up and tottified

we know the workings off the leen

            its reservoirs – the downpayments

shenanigans of byron five

we pass by

           

and soon enough – two crosses

(which one shall we see as comma to our journey then?)

both are markers of a boundary where the forest stretched and yawned

our sojourn breaks its speed

we rest – drink – and wait

waiting for the bus

(and without the pudding –

custard grinning on the menu board)

we track and swap our i-phone thoughts

and place a pat upon each others backs

we know this gets us further

but far beyond still waits for time to tread

trees that could fall (linby to annesley) - section three

introduction

what dreams we seek in green and brambled hedge

this is the beat of our time and here we step

and while the bulldozers crawl on – and out they dredge

we hold our pace and note the path we’ve led

main song

between two points the black stuff rolled its way

and underground past’s hammers worked in teams

and now the beats are silent – here today

the profits we can feel  are wholly green

and underground past’s hammers worked in teams

and now the beats we make are with our shoes

we pick the blackberries – we know that they’ll be sweet

we know the willow-herb, the nettle’s prickly muse

and now the beats are silent – here today

we walk towards a different kind of threat

where oaks will  topple – the beech will fall away

housing seeks removals for its debt

the profits we can feel  are wholly green

the sycamore and dock and elderflower

dog’s mercury – the bluebells cause a scene

in springtime – such bursts upon the hour!

and underground past’s hammers worked in teams

enjoy the walk – now autumn’s round the bend

and think of trees that fall and what that means

what housing costs - we can’t afford to lend

we know the willow-herb, the nettle’s prickly muse

and now the beats we make are with our shoes

roads - annesely to skegby - section four


we must be mad


the tarmac
dis-forgivings of the road
the fast traffic
no stop - quick
heartbeat


imagine the worst anxiety
you can
triple it 


like the hell sand of joyce


it multiplies
like fractals


but this is the stuff of history
coal shift
coal closures
changes of mind 

the volcano dies 
the steam rising off
mooches away


a waft of heritage 
tickles our noses


this is storyplace
a place for story
and fast cars
and even faster heartbeats


lup dub lup dub

skegby to market warsop

one

this place is the last place we will touch the heart of

for quite a while – we have already found its sign

we do not wish epiphanies – just strong ways that let us walk

Though not his day St Victor of Marseilles looks after us –

he is counsellor to our footprints – gatherer of what

we learn through instep – ball-roll – archway – we are

forward – and then we side step to break into how

these places breathed before we fell on them –

we are like it – we are multi-use - multi-thought –

the talkative – the strong – the bold – we traverse the long

and straight – we feel the banks of green fall and rise up

again – like the wings of raptors – biting the sky

we are glad of tunnels – the bridges are short relief

one is short term gallery -  many more are mouths

to spit us further on and then we touch the gap

our eyes – longing for something – we don’t know what

are broken by the zig zag steps that have grown in light

and up – then down – the fast road oils us on

to a space where left or right points us to - we choose left
and following (yes - following again) we see the spired
chimney and apparatus then that used to draw the black

we sense a holiness - a beat that beat the pace of living
a turn of wheel - a push into the ground and more coal
comes up - what muscles braved the dark of time

two

it is any other town but has the meden in its veins

its protector is the undergrowth that scratches at bare skin

we trust it – we give it the grace to read the map for

at least a short while – we dream of mills – but forego

the extra miles to see their rotor’d arms – the railway

line that only has the ghost of what it was leads us

on – through the tame of cycle track – our feet are safe

with victor of marseilles – he beams his spell bound

eyes and pushes us about a little – makes us talk

three

we are parched – we convince ourselves we are at least

and starving for the cakes we found a place that serves

them in – and plants – we soak the colours like the rainbow

that we crave from nature’s soul – we take counsel then

we talk into the stories – seek the answers from the photographs

that festoon upon the wall – my curiosity breaches social

norms and asks for interview – she (the cakes seller – o sugar me)

obliges and talks her words free – guides the camera into crevices

that echo back – and back again – we shall return – we’ve promised

that the kettle will see our cups rattle eagerly – but now we’ve paid

our bellies with the glucose slurp – we have to gather up our bags

and sling our hooks – like meanderers treading on the waves

four

at pleaseley vale – st chad’s skulks on the slope – deprives us of

the guide at least I’d seen before – the meden wishes us for

company again – we are its short trial of circumstantial gain

little matlock snears at what it beats us at – we are no climbers

and we like the pace we have graced unto ourselves – but we

do climb – the cyclist takes over us – we consider the walk we’re

on is only halfway through – the stony path scares us with its shock

of railway line to cross – we breathe and make a dash of hope

that the timetable (that usually makes no promises) lets us go

and safely – after nettled legs – we carve our way and fall upon

the path that skirts the once dug out for coal – the sun breaks

its yoke upon our heads – the dog is god – stops and starts us

with a sniff upon the bank or a jaunt along the gravel where it’s laid

at the gate – we share a not so private joke that points us

where the locals pointed opposite (I promise not to listen

to at least their sing songs anymore) – a short sojourn and

the busy road knows our faces once again – they are faces

that have to dance (and quick!) across the way where traffic flies

five

by the barn – we see our final stretch – and to the left – st augustine’s

sits like a coy mistress – once a month she says – we cannot enter

and please our toes with knowledge that the meden (o that name again)

will elasticate itself much wider later on – but first the high bridge

makes ants of us – the camber of the path (where floods could wish

our bones away) and the call of hawthorn – prickling at our thoughts

o meden – you temptress – washed out water goddess tickles the

nerves – we sidle up to her and stray from beaten path –

the gusto that we brought is still here – we keep its word

and out the other side – she waves us to the real life

we’ve left behind – but at least a different one – we are

still seekers – seekers still – form fillers – we give the last

half mile one extra push – the wheels roll by – our feet

still hold the smiles that have socked them in – the last

o the last small section of the warsop way – and the seats

are waiting – here we are – we take our photographs

market warsop to clumber

we know the trees will
not quite swallow us
the oaks
hawthorn
beech
sweet chestnut
the low lying nettles
and the towering ferns
at the way long path
but let them balm their praise
upon our feet
ease our blisters
for soon we hear
the legends speak
our song is different from before
the old hymn has changed
the arrows tell us where to go
and pull in visitors
we enter the vision's folds
compaction
arborial union
what the storytellers whisper
in the wind
does not bother us
truth is shaped in late september
the clouds that pass us by

clumber park - new ollerton

sheathed

(one)

sheathed between the green

the road is keen enough

to axe the wood apart

we know it well

and take our task

enough to make it serious

we do not seek beyond

but only what our eyes can gaze upon

we have been visitors

official mainstreams oiling

up a small green world

shades of where the shadows drop

we break  security

and like fools drawn

fro ma sheath of cards

we clothe ourselves

with greenest innocence

and follow meden’s scent

here we go by

tea shop

water lake

bridge into the outside world

the styx-like busy road

that knifes the woods apart

all this and more

the sunshine scratching at our heads

(two)

tea shop lake bridge and gravel

watch our journey thrice unravel

out across the lake we legit

run we must or else we’re deaded

robin hood – your way’s precarious

and here i am with poem serious

knowing where adventure’s happened

spotlights shifting – maps unwrappened

towards the boughton brake we’re headed

then cross the road or else we’re deaded

new ollerton to bilsthorpe

sometimes the world
has to zig zag
to get you to its point

we have to notice things

a raptor
a bridge
the expression of an old man

one turn
one other

a maypole
hawthorn
the drift of heat across
the face

a lon line of elder
splitting a field

the roll of a pen
between the fingers

this is what we nust notice

there are lots of things we don't

almost invisible - bilsthorpe to oxton

away from detritus'd roads

we turn almost invisible

the tracks that steal our souls have

no more use of steel

and take our feet for ransom notes

we shall not stay long

its hawthorn prickles us

its spider - hidden in its own wormed cave

is bored of our disturbances

we have to cross our way

into some kind of highs and low

of green

away from home

we shall become breathless

deaf to shadows

we have brought along

o glory!

woodland lets us see her skirts

and break into her dark

we say our thanks

and before or during rain

we draw the breaths we can

oxton - grimesmoor dyke

field veins and scraps of pornography

from out of serpent's breath

we have found our way

we sleep (late morning)

towards the roundabout

where the bye-pass aches

and what we'll see are remnants

of what she did to him

and he did to her

these are scraps

fodder for the hedgerow

un-meaning for the meandering

they do not last long

and we can always look away

and so we do

we follow lines

field veins

pulse of stream

sugar beet

the scud of what the season's left

we will become something

different soon

our footsteps - drums

our eyes itching

with the sweat of pavement's drift

we know its end

the water's what it is

and where it starts again

stories - grimesmoor dyke to lowdham

now the days are giving up the ghost
the skeletons hang up their skins
and sing their own song

we are discoverers
of the long way through

we are not allowed the short cut taste

our journey licks the fullness of the clock

in these places of the road
we find not the dense complexities of trees
but the gunshot of heritage
the small (slave) child
clothed in a whisper

these things history tells us

and whether the water is still
or that it pushes along
the old path has gone again

thus we mark with the hope of treading soft
(hope never seems to work)

eight miles of mostly tarnac road
is not too long

after all - it is a story that we tell

one town speaks to t’other

thanks to the bookshop

i’m warm with chocolate

and new poetry

and soon at thirty minutes to the hour –

the road that’s stretched taut

enough to gasp a breath

will pound our feet

with pavement

         hedgerow

we steal away from verge-less pondering

into an area where picnic-ers should sit

(there is one bench

one picnic table

and several fly tips

mounting up)

we six legged beast

caterpillar our way

along the housing’s side

our respite is the church upon the hill

and the horse that guards

one town speaks to t’other

nice day for a pootle

- see you then

 

burton joyce to colwick -water and dust

after all – there is always gravel

aggregate

tarmac

stone

today children

on our small diversion from the trent

we shall gather dust

photograph beer cans no longer branded

with percentage

we come from water to dust

dust to water

and when the particles go

and the corners turn

and the bridges wait

we shall be down with the birdlife

looking for flight

colwick to victoria embankment

strictly for the birds

we busied the city

mined for heritage

listened to birdsong

made poetry

we talked of water and how it soaked the soul

this is our coda

strictly for the birds

the lakes plump with november’s mist

the several shades of grey

have uncoiled

we have to face the end

the real world

and how it blows against the face

how does the traffic go?

so quickly

before we know – we’re gone

 

Prose

Checking out the first part of the city route 1st July 2011

I got the right direction among the Trent; that's a good start; the city on my side, as well as the war memorial and the marmalising up near the embankment by some snarling diggers.

Left at the roundabout and over to a bit of a dog leg; the journey, I find out, is full of these little oddities, roads that spring off at 30 degree angles.

The pavement is already precarious; I'm following, by geographical proxy, a dual carriageway.  There's a large hedgerow between us and an urban-ity of comfortable houses to my left. 

I blink through to the other side of whatever passes for greenery and spot Experian, a garden centre and further designer greys, blues and oranges.  Already I was getting frustrated at the lack of the former glory of the Sherwood Forest; well, actually, it was more the early wear and tear of my ankles on the tarmac and concrete.  

I just focused (aummmm) on the vision off the River Leen, perhaps a cool breeze and a place to rest my slingbag full of stuff.

I won't describe the rest of the journey; it was fairly un-momentous - slawming along Radford Road, cutting along Alfreton Road, finding myself lost in an industrial wasteland with the promise of salvation painted clumsily on a banner in splatter red.  Needless to say, I doubled back, dawdled a little, played at 'find my way through' and finally did.  

After a brief sojourn in a flower meadow masquerading as a fly-tipping arena, I lean to the Leen, for all of five minutes.  Basford drove me past its side streets and quirks (along with the permanently poised and stuffed roof mender on the boulevard).

The Fox and Crown pub, (on the rather meandering 'Church Street) with it's Robin Hood mural drew me in; I plan to visit here on the real walk; comfortable, roomy and

un-threatening; just like me.

That's where I left the first short chapter of the Perambulations.  I may have to add another half hour on the time...