365 Ways With Words

Eternal Elder

                                        Beside the clearing beside the water

                                        Seeking dappling damp footwet and limp

                                                Forever here as the galactic centre

                                        Elder knows all, old woman

 

                                        Tendergreen lengths new week-in, week-out

                                        Saving flexibility in sapped strength

                                                On a mission renewed year-in, year-out

                                        Elder meets at arm's length

 

                                        Thicket low hefty abandon whiteshake

                                        Trafficking heaving pollen for a million blue beady eyes

                                                Five in petal, protecting alive and dead

                                        Elder has the charm

 

                                        On the final cusp down among the grasses

                                        Jew's ears flick and spring long into frost

                                                Giving on in queenly afterlife potency

                                        Elder is eternal

Sweet Apples

                                            The scent of sweet apples roams

                                            September’s yielding rain-soaked skin

                                            A transient softness full of hard nose

 

                                            Black mulch mud proudly boot sole sticks

                                            Committing witless with wind-crept aridity

                                            An imprint baked firm dry to remain

 

                                            But such intensity is purloined on the rot

                                            Such richness arced in apple weeks

                                            On and on until to soil they are returned

 

                                            And so are all footfalls set down

                                            Awaiting a raindrop’s destructive power

                                            Or the windly ministrations days ahead

The Track and The Challenge

There is a track that leads up to the top of Sze Tei hill, a rounded promontory that juts into the waters of Long Harbour. It is difficult to find: the casual coastal path walker’s attention is naturally focused on the seascape, the fishing boats and the forbidding massive of Sharp Peak. There are no signs—neither should there be. Unless a string of munching cows have cleared their way uphill, or a team of hikers have chosen this hacked their way up this ungainly route, then this is always a challenging track. Often hidden, and not a little testing, the route is obscured by the rapid summer vegetative growth. It is therefore best to tackle in winter.

At first it twists and turns—up and away from the low summit; there are dead-ends and low branches to avoid. A scrambly rock is to be surmounted before the large boulders that mark the peak are at hand. This is the place to stop, for the view is now truly magnificent. An inclined slab makes for an excellent picnic spot to while away the hours. The ferry comes and goes, there is a tranquillity to be removed from people, a rare enough event in such a hectic city. To the left one can clearly see some old dry-stone walls that must have demarked the edges of a small hilltop plateau of a field. Quite how water was brought to the crops can only be guessed. It is now covered in low growth of ferns, melastoma and camellia.

From the trig point top, there is only down; a scrabbly sandy track winds through the brush. Lone bulls frequent this place because of the persistent mud on the saddle between the top and the eroded incline that rises towards the trees of Chung Sha Teng and the Hoi Ha Road beyond. They will wallow to protect their nether regions from nipping mosquitoes.

Below, to the left, a much-used track seems to fall away towards the stream. For a while the going is good beneath the shaded canopy, and then it hits the thorny pandanas patches surrounded by mud that slips and slides towards the tumbled boulders. The easiest going appears to be hopping over these large stones—this way, that way, around a small waterfall, on either bank. Scratched, sweated and irritated by double-backs, a temptation creeps into the consciousness to turn and ascend back to the known paths above. To the optimist, it seems that just around the bend the final stretch towards the sea will appear, but another fall and another traverse takes the feet further and further down this lonely jungle stream, noisy insects and carefree birds being the only companions. Committed, the way is now maintained by ferocious red ants that mercilessly spit their painful acids on exposed flesh.

Finally, the last bend is reached and the flat and overgrown agricultural land testifies to the proximity to the coastal path. Sure enough, the link is joined, a surreal moment of ordinary familiarity tenuously linked to the abandoned wilderness riverscape. Now on level path luxury, it is only minutes to the village of Tai Tan and the buses back to Sai Kung.

Why do this? There are few moments in our controlled lives where we are able to test our wits, where we demand a little ingenuity and determination in facing a situation and where we are not the boss of all we survey. Humans like control. Handing it over to nature is risky. Trekking through wilderness, even that close to home, brings out characteristics that we may have not previously recognised, and allows a respect for the ways of nature not hitherto comprehended nor understood. Such challenges should not be alien to us. We are not separate from our environment; we are part and parcel of our biosphere, red ants and all.

The Drive Home

It is late and the traffic is beginning to calm. The knuckles whiten and mirrors are checked for approaching cars who might dare to overtake. The perceived insult of being cut-up by a green minibus is intolerable and the ears strain for the siren song of the traffic cops who have noticed something abominable about your driving. There is desperation in reaching a destination, regardless of the urgency of the occasion, and a gleeful victory over lane hoppers is achieved by sailing past them boxed into their continuous white-line lane choice. It’s the same craziness today as it was yesterday. And it will be the same tomorrow.

The madness of driving in Hong Kong is no worse than other intense motoring experiences around the world. The same competitive psychosis disturbs those behind the wheel. The only difference will be the average value of the vehicles on the road. What makes Hong Kong driving such an attention-demanding activity is the necessity to be in the right lane for upcoming forks and intersections. Quite simply, there is very little room for error. Getting into the wrong lane exiting the Cross-Harbour Tunnel could mean the daydreaming motorist must complete a non-stop full circuit of Hong Kong Island!

Some, of course, sidestep all of the problems associated with car transportation (ever-increasing licensing, astronomical insurance prices, mortgage-sized parking fees, the inevitable speeding fines, unavoidable accidental damage and wear and tear) by taking taxis. This is all fine and dandy until changeover time (just before teatime) or it rains, which is a lot in Hong Kong, and the aquaphobic taxis disappear leaving the poor stranded shopper/worker/party-goer stranded on a rainy pavement under a useless umbrella and waving a soaking arm at occupied taxis-who-hopefully-might-just-stop-anyway.

So, the road from Choi Hung opens up and the slow climb to the top of Razor Hill means Kowloon and Hong Kong fills the rearview mirror. Before the descent into Sai Kung down Hiram’s Highway there is the magnificent view of forested slopes from Pik Uk, the snaky village road that winds away from the darkness of Kowloon Peak. The single-track road through Sai Kung slows the speed to that of the double-decker buses. Marina Cove’s yacht masts sail past at Hebe Haven. Then Sai Kung is reached.

This is the last opportunity for late shopping, to snatch a meal or even take a drink. But onwards: home beckons. So the driver continues along the winding Tai Mong Tsai Road as it skirts the sandy coast, past temples and new condominiums. The moonrise sits between the hills of the peninsula and a blessed feeling of calm rises with each kilometer. And then the gateway to the Sai Kung Country Park is reached – a non-permeable security zone for all but the most serious of gangsters on their way to midnight rendezvous with smugglers. None shall pass, especially if the date on the driving permit has expired!

At this point the windows should be opened. Through the aperture comes the sounds of the night – chirpy crickets and cicadas, wooping asian koels and hooty scops owls, squeaky bats and singing frogs and the belchy cows that meander from village to village to take their fill of the vegetation. The musky smells of resins, night flowers, pollen and foliage fills the nostrils. My God! It’s good to live here.

And, as quickly as it arrived, the mantel of driving madness has dissipated. There is no rush, no urgency and no deadline. Who knows what might cross the road at this time of night. As the car is parked up, the night offers a warm embrace. Perhaps I will walk with the dogs down to Wong Shek pier to feel the breeze from the waters or see the lights of the speedboats coming and going out to Tap Mun Island. Perhaps I will sit outside and have a beer and consider the day. Perhaps I will spend some time with good neighbours. And perhaps we will discuss the traffic that happens all the time elsewhere – away from home.

Running Tigers

They accompany the runner and the casual walker, the slow cows, the excited dogs and their quarry the hurrying monkeys. Like attentive lackeys preparing the way, these marvels skip ahead of each step on the path, ready to accept the accidental prey kicked up by the dust.

Their life is measured in weeks. They live without worry, eager only in determined hunt – itself a precondition of species success. And they must meet and mate. The mysteries of day and night, of victory and failure, of anguish over longevity and pride of progeny, of appropriate reactions to culture and fashion and a pressing need for social integration are not theirs. For they are free.

They have their markings; their carapace is an identity wherein they are able to elude predation and find each other. They make good the time that is theirs. Or not: the margin between thriving and death may be slim and ever close.

Tiger beetles shimmer in the light. Their magnificent spots and iridescence capture the eye and the mind. So unlike humans, the life they have they must have. The life we have, we must choose.

Get The Boat Back

                                                It is still hot above; we tire one and all

                                                The fat noodles slosh in icy beer

                                                Weary knees welcome clinging sea wetness

                                                For the return through surge waves a-chop

                                                Over the rising waah of wavecrash

                                                The engine’s rolling reverses stop

                                                Let rope boy hold ashore in his shorts and sunnies

 

                                                Lift the swimming dogs, legs paddle air – leads on

                                                A last billow cools the pants (and whatever’s within)

                                                Hold bags and shoes and phones aloft!

                                                One last look back upon the playing beach’s ebb

                                                Soft sand clings spangly to ankle skin

 

                                                The cost, of course, is too much

                                                But smiles erupt as lazy miles are consumed

                                                By deafening outboard, by bum-bouncing spray

                                                Too fast by the sombre fishing men engaged

                                                Marooned on crops of shadeless rocks

                                                Around the splayed deep green barren headland

 

                                                Beside the frozen tumbling boulders

                                                Fish jump in sea clear below

                                                Under this towering massive, this commanding silence

                                                Into the open harbour neck

 

                                                Features reverse from footsore eyesight

                                                Sight of home spirit spurs on the slided surface

                                                Bullet past the hour-walk mark

                                                Bus and taxi wait happy by this yellow rock

                                                Voices natter in on wafts of sweet barbecue smoke

                                                An honest sleep beckons up the wet moored steps:

                                                When journey drops the bags and keys

                                                When last footfalls stop behind the closed front door

                                                When toes and heels are sand-free showered

                                                When the lightless night is cicada sung

Breath of Easterly Wind

 

                                                    Starlight dimly leads upon a perilous path

                                                    Long before, the silent cows hear noisy footfalls approach

                                                    So softly around I ginger, their calm presence is felt

                                                    A warm sweetness rings their rest

                                                    Homely, but a pressing hour approaches

 

                                                    Skystretch thin and mute

                                                    In gradients grow particulates on the earthturn schedule

                                                    Too late, these sleepless clumsy feet scrabble up scree

                                                    The full light has come

                                                    It glareburns upon the shimmering waves

                                                    Along the eastern coast far from eyes but mine

                                                    No fishing boat or trawler's wake

                                                    Empty of bulk and tankers beyond

                                                    This July hour is partnerless

                                                    Solely me, the dogs, the swifts and dragonflies, the sun

                                                    All clouds are coy this morning

                                                    Not a breath of easterly wind

                                                    This is the moment

 

                                                    Last drops in hand, all water drained

                                                    The canine pair know where to go

                                                    Down, along a perilous ridge to trees

                                                    Too quick they are, and rightly so

                                                    I find them basted in the stream

                                                    Beside a bull under spider canyon

 

                                                    Long are the music waves on a pristine beach deserted

                                                    Dryads and Oceanids cavort and win me

                                                    Into cleansing tumbles my nakedness is won

                                                    And for a time there is a single entity

                                                    The crystalline peace

                                                    A totality in union

                                                    Before breakfast at the café

The Scattered Ashes

So it was late when we arrived home. So the dogs needed a walk. So we took them out for a quick wee. So we didn’t bring the leads. So we didn’t –we couldn’t– foresee what would happen.

The reason for moving to a house in the country park was simple: we adopted a dog. Ordinarily this sort of commonplace thing means an adjustment of some sort, perhaps in daily habit, but this dog was different. He came as a pair.

To make this clear, I must explain that before the move to Hong Kong, we kept a beautiful (and rescued) Irish Wolfhound whose head was above my own when standing on his hind legs. He was a bounder—a real sight hound who enjoyed tearing off to the opposite side of a field because a hare had lazily lolloped beside a hedge. I can recommend no gentler nor more family-friendly a dog than a Wolfhound. When word came to us that an English Mastiff in the Sai Kung Country Park was similarly in need of rescuing and of proper care and attention, my interest was piqued. How many other people in Hong Kong had the experience necessary for large dog care?

I drove over to meet the Campbells, a missionary couple who were about to leave Ko Tong Ha Yeung to carry out work in Cambodia. They had seen 'Buster' hiding in the surrounding forest; this emaciated ghost-like apparition hid from all human contact. He had injuries, was scared witless, and would only approach the village houses in the dead of night and then only to drink from stagnant water and rummage for scraps. In the evening these kind souls left him food, each time a little closer to the house, until eventually they succeeded in trapping him into the enclosed space behind the gate where he immediately succumbed to their kindness. I was moved by their compassionate story, patting as I did so the other dog of the house, Batty. She was a very bright lanky and hairy ginger thing who, I was to find out, was to be taken along with Buster. The Campbells incidentally enquired if I liked any of the furniture they were thinking of leaving. And what about the house? Before the afternoon was out, I had acquired a mastiff, his ginger matey, some second-hand furniture and a new house way out in the wilds of Hong Kong!

Buster and Batty were good for each other: she was bright and intelligent and a more sociable dog I have never known, whereas he was scared of sticks, umbrellas and newspapers, thunder, Chinese people and sudden noises—in fact, he was an emotional wreck. It must be assumed that he had been severely mistreated. On top of that, he had severe heartworm, suffered poor blood condition and required fattening up. Our new life in the country park unfolded into a wonderful experience and with six months of care and trust things had also become much better for him – just in time for another addition to the family.

Brenda had been angered by seeing another smaller female English Mastiff that had been kept in a cramped pet shop window cage for some months. It was about time this poor animal was released. With the assistance of a good local vet and neighbour who promised all sorts of animal welfare trouble should the irresponsible pet shop owners not quickly sell the animal on the cheap, Bella was brought home. A soppy pup, she quickly grew into Buster's tan-coloured female companion, enjoying the same love of open water and stinking dead fish and was eager for soft affection. For a little more than one year the three dogs were happy together. And then two more turned up.

The domestic helpers in the village had been feeding two pups located beneath the roadbridge. Their swollen little bellies were suffering from too much kindness. And so whether they wanted it or not, the black and white pair were rescued, de-flea'd and formally introduced to Buster, Batty and Bella. We had difficulty naming them, but for some reason the names Squiddly and Diddly stuck. The two pups were semi-feral and required a little seasoning and training. But now we were 5. And all, except for Batty and Buster, were inexperienced youngsters.

Perhaps I should also mention at this point that at this time we had in addition acquired 4 cats!

The combination of animals in the family home certainly made for a lively time. The dogs suited long walks by the rivers and beneath the trees of the park, but their sociability together also formed them into a pack. Being naturally chauvinistic, they handled better under dominant hands, but whoever held the five leads had to content with other pets and pet owners. They had already met, and scrapped, with another well-meaning couple's five dogs that lived in the next village. Thus, the bad blood had been drawn: historical antipathy for canines is never far from the surface—without socialising, they just don't forgive each other.

So the night came at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, when these two packs found and fought each other. Amid the cacophony of barks and yells, I held onto big Buster as Brenda sought to intervene. Unfortunately, the other pet owners also put their hands in and were severely bitten by Bella intent on wiping out the opposition to her cherished new pack. Once fur had flown and blood had been spilt, I ran to meet them and apologised. It seemed there was little pleasantry to be said, and I felt there was only one course open to me: Bella had to go.

To keep a large dog is a responsibility. To keep a large dog that has drawn human blood is to invite condemnation as an irresponsible dog owner—quite apart from my own issue of trust. Why wouldn't she do it again? It was her job to protect the pack.

With a heart heavier than lead, I drove with her the next morning to the vets in Sai Kung and held her in the treatment room as the injection was administered. At the very last moment, she looked quizzically into my face: what was I doing? Was this a punishment? She was only doing her job...

I had to have a brandy to steady myself. I had taken away her life, the one that had been rescued, and for what? Things are simple in the mind of a dog, and her actions, although condemned by humankind, were natural and normal for her own. The next day, Christmas Eve, I took all the dogs for a long walk to the end of the Wan Tsai peninsula and sat alone taking in the view and weighing my actions of that night. If only we had brought the leads. If only we had left 5 minutes later instead of rushing out. And I sat to weep copious tears; for her, for having been irresponsible, for my betrayal, and for my stupid sense of duty.

New Year's Day the following year, Bella's ashes were scattered at her favourite place on the Wong Ma Tei hilltop above Wong Shek pier. And I love her still.

The Mountain on Your Right

                                      

                                                    Around the sandflat bay, tide out

                                                    Raised beds a-crackle and pop in the new sun's weight

                                                    Fiddling crabs make sandball radiances

                                                    And sign, claws up, claws down—up down

                                                    Such summery pastimes

 

                                                    Crabs fill their bubbly mouths, fiddly twitter

                                                    Darting black fishies jump their panic

                                                    Over hot wavelets

                                                    Coursing by the mudskipper’s tail-lugged gape

                                                    In blithe trampers trampfoot print

 

                                                    The moon’s mass drag, look way down

                                                    Corals do appear, rock blue and life green

                                                    The jeweler’s shop unlocked

                                                    Sea skaters nip before a shadow

                                                    The long path beckons resumption

 

                                                    And there it is, eternally there,

                                                    Monolith

                                                    Seat of all woes, a navel vision dragged ever

                                                    Feet may fall on boulder paths or forest edge;

                                                    Conceal-less, peer-less, it dominates regard-less

 

                                                    Beached sat in attention consummation

                                                    The mountain on your right

                                                    Is forever within, the dark hold deep solid

                                                    Crabwork and fishleap are not to sway

                                                    Nor the pretty things nor ministrations of exercise

 

                                                    It must be left…

 

 

                                                    Climbing on the turn

                                                    The path will make

                                                    The back—to face its cognition

                                                    The path will take

                                                    The footsore on—into wild glades free

                                                    The path will wake

                                                    New sites—new bravery

                                                    The mountain is still there

                                                    But

                                                    Is no longer in sight

To The Fire Lookout

In order to appreciate the view, one must climb. This necessity sometimes eludes those who seem unable to grasp the basics: that enlightenment can only be achieved when one step is placed above another.

There is a sweet spot to be found in the middle of the shallow bay at the end of Ko Tong Hau (Long Harbour). It receives the chilled waters that pass through the forest-reclaimed farmland in the valleys of Ko Tong and Ko Tong Ha Yeung, and the river that sometimes violently cascades between rocks down to Tai Tan. The mudflats of this bay are so enriched with regular deposits of silt and vegetatable detritus, that abundant wildlife will feed upon it – from stinking methane-producing bacteria to crabs, molluscs and fish. As such, the sand beyond is liberally inhabited with sharp-shelled filter-feeding oysters, and footwear is essential. The sand shelf drops away at about one hundred metres allowing for the welcoming embrace of cooler deep waters and at high tide an undisturbed lazy float midpoint between the forested shores. It is here at this point, this sweet spot, that the fire look-out atop Lo Fu Kei Shek can be best appreciated. And from sea level it appears small and easy – paltry, even.

But what the eye cannot see from salt waters is the view, what can barely be imagined are the gentle coastal breezes, what cannot be experienced is the peace.

To ascend takes three forms: using the tarmacked Hoi Ha Road, up the river valley that winds beside the Tai Tan river and the long way through the bamboo and underbrush to the sand ridge resplendent with trees. Each has its character and proper feel, the first being for marchers, the second for observers and the third for those who seek encounters.

The Hoi Ha Road is characterised by a slow ascent between overhanging trees. Being in the gated country park, there is minimal vehicular traffic apart from the regular green minibus and the thundering convoys of coaches that take tourists to Hoi Ha to dip their toes in the warm waters. It is a good running road with many little detours available to extend regular exercise into something better.

The Tai Tan river track is stepped and rocky, sometimes awkwardly so, but twists and turns beautifully past steep ravines, beside the old walls of abandoned rice fields and beneath a majestic outcrop of red pines. From time to time wild boar rush across the path, and docile feral cows munch their way along its length. The track meets the road between the bridge and the helipad.

The long way up past the graves and through the bamboo is somewhat challenging, but the isolation is paramount, especially at the top point where the trees offer shade and an excuse to sit and watch the boats arrive and leave Wong Shek Pier below. It is then a case of following the nose until the path returns to Hoi Ha Road opposite the next stage of the journey.

However the route thus far, the next step will be a little more physically demanding. The signpost for the fire lookout indicates a zigzag path that rises rapidly onto Lo Fu Kei Shek hillside. By the time all the puffing and panting is over, and just as the hill seems not so paltry, this section will have levelled out. It then branches to the right and leads directly to the lookout above.

The lookout serves to warn of imminent fire threat in the dry winter season when it is often manned: surely a lonesome occupation. But it is precisely this seclusion that the many lonely walkers seek. On the shelf that is the viewing platform, the viewer can see far on all sides; directly beneath is the traditional village of Pak Sha O, the threatened jewel, on the opposite side is the road back to Sai Kung and civilization and the nestled villages along its length. The mountains of Ngau Ye Shek Shan, Mount Hallowes and Sharp Peak surround; further afield is Hoi Ha harbour and beyond are the shining sunset waters of Plover Clove reservoir in Tai Po. On a good day far one can see far into the smoky hills of Guangdong and coastal China.

Ceylon Blue Glassy Tiger butterflies abound all year bar winter, black kites superbly circle high above and on those terrible humid days emperor dragonflies display and hunt in the air around. In spring purple cat-tail bean flowers spike their beautiful displays in the long grass and forever on the wind is the scent of resins, spores, pollens and white camellia flowers that abound since the ancient time tea was tended upon the slopes.

The effort of taking those steps to the silent top are always rewarded. Each time aloft the rest of the world is suspended, the spirit is unguarded and the dreaded inner chatter of daily cares and concerns stills to a whisper. But there is, of course, no water to be found here. So every visit must marry the supplies brought along. It is always with heart-felt longing that departure is made. Then the only question is which path to use to return home.