June 13th

Cloud peak horizon

another coastline melting

rays of regret rise

I stayed up all night and watched the sunrise.

Two of the photos I took.

June 11th

Loyal familiar

rope creaks, body twists in breeze

an angry rain comes

There was a small display about Matthew Hopkins, Witchfinder General in the Aldeburgh Museum / Moot Hall. It was a dreadful, rainy cold day.

For every innocent woman hanged, I wondered if there was ever a malevolent witch who wreaked revenge in her death. Hopkins seemed like a deeply unpleasant character.

Note the names of the familiars in the pic below (from Hopkins book), fascinating. “My imps names are…. Pyewackett, Ilemauzer, Griezzell Greedigutt, Vinegar Tom etc… (the last of which looks like a cross between a greyhound and a bull).

Dreadful weather… view from our window.

June 10th

Even cloud angels

fall to earth to bathe in dust

trilling in pleasure

Skylarks fly so high and sing so beautifully, seemingly never taking a breath. It was lovely to see a pair on the ground, having a dust bath. Here is a pic I took of one of them. This was near Snape maltings in suffolk.

June 9th

The marshland echoes

with the screams of the gull mob

a heron’s fish lost

We took an evening stroll along the beach, inland, behind the beach, over the high shingle slope, between Aldeburgh and Thorpeness is a wetland. We saw a heron, it had what looked like a fish in its beak. The gulls mustered and harried the hunter in mid air.

June 8th

flatland fringes end

reassured by cold stone weight

the ninth wave crashes

The Ninth Wave is lifted from Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s Idylls of the King*. I used to love Tennyson when I was younger. Sod knows why a north London working class lad was so much into the Arthurian romances, but I read about them voraciously. I also read Le Morte D’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory. The modern English translation was, from memory, still very challenging for someone of my competence (and no doubt it would also be today). I then got into the art of the Pre-Raphaelites, the tragic realism of their depictions of myth, history and romance. And the gorgeous laydeez they painted of course. (I think that was the appropriate ‘street’ spelling of ‘ladies’ there).

Below is the Lady of Shallot by John William Waterhouse (1888), another Arthurian subject of Tennyson, although like most things Arthurian, the poem’s story was cobbled together from a number of sources/legends/historical facts, who knows who the true Arthur was, let alone what he and his peers got up to.

(pic from wikipedia)

Despite my above average academic abilities, I got cut from taking English Literature at school. This was from a time when you just stoically accepted that teachers knew best. What it meant was I was shut out from some wonderful books, which although I might not necessarily have appreciated at the time, would have given me a different outlook and set me up in some small way for the future. It’s a small moan, I admit, but it’s not borne of a deep seated rage, more of an observation. People must still take responsibilities for themselves so I have no gripe or simmering regret to this incident. I think I’ve turned out alright! But who knows, I might have been given an honorary doctorate for some reason or other (much like Mike Tyson) had I taken English Literature at school.

But.. Back to Arthurian Romances. Why? I think they played into the moral values I loved. People who wanted to do good, but were in some way flawed (Lancelot). People who wanted to do good, often did, but were flawed and let down by those they loved (Arthur). People who could achieve great things from humble origins (Percival).

They are archetypes. Whether they appear in comic books, Arthurian romance or mythology, they pull levers deep set in our psyche somewhere. Or at least in mine! Especially comic books!

So here I was, standing on Aldeburgh beach at dusk, holding a beautiful two tone pebble. Listening to the sea, thinking how wonderful the moment was. How it couldn’t last. How in a few years, the very spot I was standing on might well be under those waves as East Anglia is always at risk of the sea reclaiming it. But we live for moments like that, most of life is a flatline, with small peaks of wonder and light. This was one of those moments.

Extract from Idylls of the King, The Coming of Arthur

It seemed in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof
A dragon winged, and all from stern to stern
Bright with a shining people on the decks,
And gone as soon as seen. And then the two
Dropt to the cove, and watched the great sea fall,
Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep
And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged
Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame:
And down the wave and in the flame was borne
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet,
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried "The King!

My pebble and the ninth wave -

* – Kate Bush, someone who is significantly more famous and talented than me, also used The Ninth Wave as a concept for her Hounds of Love album. And what an album it is too. Side one is the commercial side, magnificent, a pinnacle of her talents, but side two is just immense, so out there, beguiling, mysterious, almost frightening. Just thought I’d mention that.

June 7th

North sea winds squalling

the transience of the coast

chatter of shingle

Going to Aldeburgh in Suffolk tomorrow. I love Suffolk, the coast line forever being eroded, the coast changing shape over the years such that houses near the sea are under threat. There’s something about that, that reassures me. It should frighten me but it doesn’t. Nothing lasts forever.

January 13th

It was a beautiful winters day today, clear blue sky, a chill in the air and with a gentle breeze. Or at least it looked like it was from my window. I was stuck at home working and didn’t get out.

My mind drifted to Suffolk, one of my favourite places. I just wanted to be wrapped up in a big coat, walking on a deserted beach.

 

Shoreline Reverie,

Sand dune cliffs, boats by the quay,

And sun striking sea,

(me and my little nephew Luca on the beach at Southwold in April)