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...