365 Ways With Words

Taking Stock

A little over two and a half years ago I handed in my notice. It was not too difficult a decision. I had been working as a teacher in one of Hong Kong's most prestigious schools for 12 years and decided that rather than end my days at the chalkface, I would quit by the summer and try pastures new. Although I wanted to write, and blogged often, quite what would happen next was as mysterious to me as I'm sure it was to everybody who asked.

Teaching was a stressful job. I liked it  – the students were pleasant, but their constant drive for high exam grades made them a demanding lot. In addition, the ever-encroaching culture of box-ticking, meetings, target-setting and hoop-jumping changed the ethos of the school I had joined in 1999 from that of colour and human interest to that of an artificial target factory. The changes did not have the desired effect of endless improvements in grades – quite the reverse. The students' 'careers' were as hard (sometimes harder) as their parents in paid employment. It became obvious to me that I did not share the values of a school culture that perceived excellence in children only in terms of a comparative international scale of International Baccalaureate grades. For the few that attained these targets all would be well; the majority rest would forever remain failures.

And so the end of term arrived. There were farewells and goodbye speeches in which I presented a positive outlook on an unknown future. Was it the full-stop of my career, or the beginning of something new? Could I cut it as a writer? How would I know success if I saw it?

At that time my wife was completing her PhD. I was happy to sit pretty for the hot and humid summer months, but by September we'd got itchy feet. A one-way flight to Bangkok started a month of travel in Asia. I constantly blogged (Daily in Asia) as we went. From Bangkok we took the train to Trang, a minibus to Satun and a boat journey on flat calm waters to Ko Lipe. Summer is a tricky time in the Andaman Sea, and the weather was unpredictable. Thus far it felt like a holiday. The onward trip to Langkawi was potentially catastrophic – an over-packed boat driven blind across lightning-struck green waters made prayers rise faster than stocks in Apple before a product release. Langkawi, the 'Jewel of Kedah' was wet –it being the rainy season– but staying in the old colonial era houses at the Temple Tree At Bon made up for it. It was only on the ferry from there to Georgetown, complete with hundreds of holidaying Saudis, that the journeying finally felt like 'travel' and not 'trip'. Indeed, of all places in the mystic and incense-laden orient, Penang and Georgetown felt the most enjoyable: beautiful Chinese merchant houses, excellent Tamil curries, more than a smattering of colonial monuments and history and views to die for from atop the funicular-railway ascended Penang Hill, this place felt like it could be 'home', that elusive something we all search for. The train trip up to Ipoh and from there to the wonderful Cameron Highlands also had its moments, chiefly being the approving ghostly presence of long-past relatives when staying in the mock-tudor, mock-British delightful nonsense that is The Old Smokehouse. From there to Kuala Lumpur and on to Singapore felt like a progressive return to normality, and indeed we cut our travel onwards to Indonesia short for a return to HK and an unsuccessful interview. The daily blogging sewed a seed that came to fruition in this very vehicle, of which this is the penultimate entry.

There remained the vexing question of where to go? It was decided that jobs must come first. So, we waited for something to turn up, and by December two had appeared – Limerick and Olomouc. We had to see both places. The wintry-wet drive through England, Wales and Ireland was enjoyable enough, but within days we had flown to the dry and cold Czech Republic. Had we found what we were looking for? Olomouc was a wintry and wonderful city with picturesque buildings and friendly locals. Limerick turned out to be unsuccessful, and on advice from a friend ("a quarter the rainfall of Ireland") we settled on Moravia. I would remain in a supportive role, and keep on with the writing until something worked out.

By the end of January we were prepared to move countries, but were we ready to move minds? It quickly transpired that doing anything in the Czech Republic is a challenge, not least the finding of an apartment where three dogs and a cat would be welcomed. Such a thing, it transpired, was impossible. So we bought. It meant an investment of nearly all our cash and additional money to finish the transformation of kitchen and bathroom, but six months on it was done. I was already on to a new local blog Anglicky in Olomouc, but knew it was high time to focus a little more on the writing – I had already started on a few books whilst in Hong Kong and found short stories engaging. I worked steadily on them, but knew my literary ability lacked something... experience and depth. I reasoned I could get this by writing –forcing myself to work– each and every day. I began 365 Ways With Words in the belief that a little more of what I fancied would do me good. It would be a daily struggle; at times harder than any other task I'd set myself.

Whilst the new job allowed for enjoyable travel to conferences across Europe and beyond, and all seemed well and good, there was trouble ahead. Here comes the tough part: we had a falling out. Separated by a 3-month stint in Sweden, we found our courses going in separate directions. It fell to me to be an idiot and think things worse than they actually were. And instead of patching things up, we argued – fiercely. I was to blame.

And so we separated. In my quest for new beginnings I had not actively sought an end to everything from before. But life has a funny habit of turning things around and of forcing pressing items that require attention onto the top of the desktop pile. By August, I came to the realisation that the little money that I could earn from teaching English conversation was spread all-too thin on the ground to support myself, three dogs and a cat. I was nowhere near completion of a book on travel writing and the other project, 10 Beers With Czechs – a collection of interviews with Czechs 25 years on from the Velvet Revolution, needed more time. So I had to get a job, and got one working in Olomouc's one and only English international school. Ostensibly, it allows for time in the afternoon and evening to devote to writing: in reality, there is barely enough for more than a few glib changes in overlooking a marginal point in a paragraph.

The future, therefore, is a little less glamorous and exciting than had been imagined. I will continue to write, albeit with a steadier focus on quality rather than on mere output, and my attentions will be on completion of the works already begun. But unlike the stretched life lived in Hong Kong, life here in Olomouc feels more like the real world, where sincere people strive to earn enough cash to pay the bills and have a little left over for a beer or two with friends. Czechs read a lot (it's cheap and enjoyable) and enjoy rock and drinking in parks. On a side note, and whilst I am a long way from speaking the lingo, it's interesting to see how people here put meaning and emphasis together in a form unconnected with western latin or germanic languages.

So here I am; back to teaching (and writing). It's not quite full-circle, because the experience of writing over the past two years has taught me much – about the literary craft, about moving and changing and about the priorities of life, albeit how not to do things. And as this project draws to a close, a little later than exactly a year, and tomorrow's is the last entry of 365, so another task is already set: to complete those books and short stories for publication. This has been a rather personal entry in what is in reality a very personal blog. Writers cannot fail to open up now and again, letting the world see the quivering wreck of humanity that is, in effect, within each of us. As Art is a jealous mistress, I will leave the last paraphrased word to Winston Churchill, who writted a few books from time to time:

“Writing a [daily blog for a year] is an adventure. To begin with it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public."

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.

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

Names and Misdemenours

We've met them. We try hard to be mature, but sometimes it's impossible. And although we wonder the route by which they named themselves, whether through self-christening or by random word generator, we are none-the-less amused by them. For just as the best stories are true, so also the reasons for some Chinese aliases must also be amazingly true. Why not ask? Besides, said in the right way, 'Winky Wu' is a very nice name.

It can only be guessed when the Chinese of Hong Kong began to chose an English or English-sounding alias, but it may safe to assume it began not long after the British colony was first established. That Chinese names are all-but absent from the 19th century records of internments at the Happy Valley cemetery on Hong Kong island testifies to racist exclusion even in death of those without western names, but may also reflect the fact that Chinese burial rites elsewhere were naturally just as exclusive. There are long and complicated traditions associated with Chinese names, but the lack of evidence my reflect the fact that aliases may have been seen as incidental and dropped from official Chinese or English documentation.

Whatever the reasons, Hong Kong Chinese are inheritors of a tradition that has somehow stuck. Some are given names by their parents, others voluntarily choose, whereas others will be asked to adopt a non-Chinese name fairly early in their school career and stick with it. Thus, some names, such as Cherry and Bonnie, obviously suit sweet babies, but Winnie, Annie and Ryan may also sound similar to Chinese names. And perhaps we'd better not dwell long on a Kinky or a Fanny.

Then there are the self-selectors. It begins with school, no doubt, but ends in all sorts of bizarre adoptions that must have come from desperation, creative deviousness or mere indolence. Thus, Puzzle Yiu will work at 7/11, Bunny Ho might serve you KFC, whilst next door at the bank will be Fonda Chiu. Titan Bang may be your best bet for fixing your air conditioning and at the pub your Tsingtao may be poured by Satan Tang. This is all very well, but some even more bizarre aliases crop up from time to time. 'Precious' may not be too bad, and even 'Barbie' might fail to raise a smile, but how about 'Suddenly', 'Fruit', 'Anvil' 'Potato', and 'Vodka'? Then there are the Old Testament prophets, such as Amos and Moses, brand loyalty such as Zara, Bentley and Rolex, places like Yukon, France and York, and more abstract concepts such as 'Lucky', 'Healthy' and 'Hearty'. Other names are modified from existing names, such as Gorden (Gordon) and Lona (Lorna), and then there's all the Hymens, Willys and Tootsies...

However amusing these names seem, they are used to substitute for the more formal Chinese names that, according to Joyce Man, are only given at formal introductions. So they are not mere distractions, but serve a very useful purpose. And, should some awkward pale-faced Gwailo point out that these are not 'proper names' (whatever that may be), the reply is always that it is their name – an individual nomenclature that gives a unique identity. And surely that's the whole point. You're not going to forget a Winky Wu, Dicky Chiu or Rambo Man in a hurry.

Please feel free to add any weird name delights you've come across in the comments section.

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 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

Ko Tong Ha Yeung

As the door of number 31 sluddered to a metallic close, its reverberations would lightly echo in the narrow expanse between the two Hong Kong Spanish villa houses. Once outside, the slippery crazy paving awaits each unguarded footfall with treacherous intent. It can only be imagined that whoever lay its impractical glassy surface thought more of saving precious dollars by using up a few old marble pieces than he did the necks of those foolish enough to live with its daily use. The landlord, a wily chain-smoking owner of a local hardware shop, could not have been more disinterested in replacing the spectacularly ugly and perfidious surface with anything more practical.

A flight of equally smooth ceramic steps descends to the road—sickly peach tiles down which copious summer storm water, and the odd unmindful, hurrying resident, will find a quick exit to the roadway. It can only be guessed how many days sick leave have been successfully administered through their misuse, how many compressed vertebrae have been taken to chiropractors and how many packets of high-dose painkillers bought from chemists: once cast, the seeds of Pandoran chaos have unlimited and very mixed effects.

The slippery surfaces would not, however, deter the diminutive local cows who would occasionally take an interest in the slopes to the rear of the properties. Unfortunately, they would also take an interest in any planted flowers, and would need to be chased away back down those steps. During late springtime, crabs would also find their way up the small estuarine river to appear in the dead of night and, like some enormous spidery beast, slowly make its way across the tiled ground floor. Frogs, large crickets, changeable lizards and vermin caught by cats released inside would also have to be dealt with. In springtime, but also at winter's approach, snakes would find their way under the front door. Usually a juvenile red-necked keelback, and sometimes a fearsome cobra, these snakes would at once be on hostile territory, particularly if the dogs and cats were awake, and would secret themselves beneath bookshelves to wait it out. At this point, the police and Dave 'the Snake' Willott would be called, the first to size up the situation, the second to successfully (and humanely) remove the poor serpent to a safe location, Dave being paid so for the privilege by the police.

Like a thousand others in the New Territories, the semi-detached three-storey village house epitomises Hong Kong’s recent past: worn and cheap. Built in a place and at a time where transience was a virtue, the structure possessed no damp-proof course and a trickle of rain successfully leaked in at every aperture. Its shallow and cracked footing may have buckled, and that lead over time to visible subsidence cracks from roof to ground. It was impossible to find one straight-laid tile amongst the dirty millions that cover its highly imperfect exterior. The brilliant white has a furze of grey patina from pollution-stained rainwater, and a living slime of green grows around each downpipe. It has taken years for the red-tiled villa to look this bad. Spanish? – a title common only in HK parlance because these structures have a ring of useless dusty maroon roof tiles that surround a flat rooftop area. But no, they're not useless because insect-hungry pipistrelles often use the secluded darkness behind them as dry, safe roosts, the concave descending tiles forming for them the most convenient launch tubes for happy hunting each evening.

These newer houses are almost all occupied by westerners who daily commute over the mountain road to jobs in the city. The village can, therefore, take on the feel of a dormitory. At weekends and holidays, however, and particularly if children are amongst the residents, then a party atmosphere can sometimes develop. Karaoke, outdoor cinema, barbecue and drinks, even maypole dancing sporadically generated into village-wide events that linger long in the memory.

 

The lower village that shares the Ko Tong name is set in its own valley that descends with the river to the nearby sea. The older, traditional Hakka settlement—12 little white stone-built houses in a long row that faces open fields– has at its back a protective wooded hillside. Immediately before their doors lies the low-walled outdoor work area, now used more for barbecues than the drying of rice or fish. Each diminutive house has, or rather had, a red wooden double door, some still have two small windows on either side, perhaps small enough for a child to crawl through, and maybe two more even smaller ones for the upstairs area. A continuous roof of thousands of old ceramic tiles covers the entire row’s roof trusses, themselves made from sturdy timber taken upon the building’s construction from the ever-providing vicinity. Each imperfect hand-made roof tile is laid upon the other in a heavy cascade; heavy enough to keep the roof intact during all but the most severe of typhoons. Beside the main door some houses also had a ground level dog door in the wall that allowed for the ingress and egress of the curl-tailed and twelve-toed family dogs, especially so to announce the arrival of any strangers in the neighbourhood.

There's evidence of human settlement in the valley since prehistoric times, and it’s easy to see why; it has all the right ingredients for success human life. On three sides are protective and wooded hillsides. At one time these would have teamed with game and may even have supported a tiger or two. The hundreds of native species of tree would also have provided timber for a wealth of uses and enough plant life to fill a shaman’s medicine box. Also, an abundance of year-round clear water flows through the settlements, vital arteries for ribbon field rice production—the long-established, toilsome endeavour that took up flat land wherever it could be cleared. In-shore navigation to other settlements for trade and family connectivity would also have brought news and cultural exchange.

Proximity to the sea always provided for ready protein. As well as net fishing, children and their grandmothers could daily harvest an abundance of boulder-clung limpets and mud snails to add a little extra to the pot. The one local Hakka family that still lives in the centre of the village continues the tradition, the older ladies daily in rubber booties daily wheeling back a trolley-full of buckets brimming with oysters and sand-dug molluscs.

Around each ancient settlement are mounds of midden, most lost under decaying forest residue. At the abandoned village of Cheung Sheung, high up in the hills and home now only to cows and campers, is exposed several massive piles of spectacular aquatic debris. It must be remembered that each shell will have had to be carried up the long track in baskets strung on shoulder poles.

The village is now recognised solely as a stopping point for walkers that want to take the coastal path to Hoi Ha. As such, a noisy assembly could take place at any time of day or night, causing the residents to fume in their sleep-robbed beds.

Ko Tong Ha Yeung has a mixed population. The older villagers have all died. One of the last, a wizened old dear, clearly felt so bold as to sell fruit in her dotage. Early one Sunday she came around to the wealthier gwailo (non-Chinese) residents to sell a big bin liner of star fruit that she must have tended and picked. I smiled, handing over my twenty Hong Kong dollars to which she said something indecipherable and handed over the entire bag, coming back in a few minutes with change—which I dared not refuse. It made its way into delicious star fruit and anise village jam.

The Hidden Pools

First one, then two, and then three: the secrecy deepens as the path rises.

There is no bus stop or car park. From the Hoi Ha Road at the bridge, the scene is unwelcoming. Before the eyes is the high wall of a concrete dam that captures the river’s constant flow, diverting it several miles to the bright and unnaturally blue High Island reservoir. The inquisitive will not—indeed should not—use this pool: access is treacherous where it is not protected by wire, and it is made from dangerous undercurrents.

The scruffy path weaves over a trickling riverbed and through a succession of cumbersome, clambering boulders and curtains of knife-like grasses until it is clear the sandy trail leads somewhere. Within minutes the outside world has gone, and the final few metres are more forgiving—the welcoming pool opens to the sky.

It is difficult, even in the coolest winters, to resist the urge to strip off and plunge beneath the little wavelets. Alone it is a place of silent contemplation, in company a natural noisy playground. From the edge, the shallow rocks fall away into deep green depths. From there the little fishes come and stare; they come to eat whatever is cast. They are naturally wary; bigger fish and herons await a momentary snack.

The clear river churns milky only in the powerful mid-summer deluges. At those times the white water brilliantly cascades over the rocks to create falls fit for a jigsaw puzzle photo. At other times, the summer heat promotes a coating of slippery algae over each rocky sluice—treachery at every footfall.

There has been death here, of the reckless and the foolish. It adds the piquancy of inevitable mortality to skyward heads afloat in the languid flow. By itself, nature thinks little of infinity. That is our job.

Pushing further up the path, more rocky pools will appear—shallow and irregular. From them the framed opening between the trees on either side allows for the monolith of Sharp Peak to arise. But above the second cataract can be found the next deep pools. Reached by fern-covered path, they are more secluded, more withdrawn; they lend themselves further to sun-kissed afternoon privacy, both of body and mind. Life, work and everything else seems a very long way away.

The course beyond is progressively rougher and must be actively sought. Splitting from the track that leads away to the hilltops, it suddenly descends into mysterious undergrowth only to appear again beneath a creeper’s awkward growth.

At this juncture, the final secretive glades appear, although almost totally obscured. The exclusive domain of endangered turtles, and of the desperate criminals who catch them, surrounded on all sides by deep mud and slipsure rocks, rotting overhead branches and listless yellowing leaves, these are the primitive holdouts of punishing mosquitoes and subtle leeches. The place is at once hostile and intriguing: none come here for pleasure alone. Pandanas thorns scour unguarded skin and giant orbweb spiders aspire to leave their strong sticky yellow threads upon the hair. Yet there is a purity and a delight in ultimate seclusion.

There is no path ahead. Where pig or cow may have once lazily made their way all night above the boulders and through the canopy, the track for human feet, if there ever was one, has forever vanished within the thick subtropical vegetation, the primordial, the emotionless and the moral-free. Beyond this terminal place it would be easy to set down forever, and leave no trace for the world further down that lifeline track. Once free of vitality, the body would become the food of a boar, of rodents, flocks of pecking birds, thousands of ants and a billion microbes.

But back the seeker must go, reminded with each step about what it means to be a solitary soul within society. Such isolation is to be treasured because of the necessary intensity of social interaction. Quiet places, even secret places, are treasuries of autonomous experience. We bring ourselves there to find peace and hope to take a little of it home.

Fragments From a Journal

Glastonbury Tor 20/07/99

Peculiarly mundane, but incredibly special: the very nature of that which is mystical or supernatural in any way. Yet therein lies its attraction. And down the wobbly road lies the quizzical Youth Hostel – a veneer of Swiss Chalet beside a cow-grazed orchard. Quiet it is not, but the oak, beech and sycamore shake their leafy language over the dime grove. A dirty sky brooms over the Mendips and the tiles and the ubiquitous patchwork. Only on the Tor did the landscape come to life.

Millenia of water, forest and more water flattened good pasture. From the drains now emptying into the Severn the hand of men determine the island charm that is no more. For beyond my imaginations, the past is swept far away. The Avalon I climbed to see was lost in a jumble of colloquial Italian and heavy rucksacks. The peace of the scene was pinched by closed eyes in peace themselves. And down below, ever down below, the tumbling circus is in town telling us all how it is.

Yet there it is, upon the crest, over looking it all – not a master or mistress, more a slave to us. It cannot hide, so it remains our badge of hope. Mercilessly we drain our needs as we come and go. The strong and weak – we come and go. The untidy and the curious seek those answers in a scene of delicious landscape. For there is nothing to which one can compare this individuality, this shape and function. After all, no one lives there but King Arthur.

So I'm glad it wasn't sunny (as I'm thankful there was no rain). The chill of Englishness met the delicate nature of a conundrum. And in my clumsy foolishness I sought a path to the top with everyone else. And I saw what we all saw and then came back down again.

Getting There 05/08/99

It was not the length of the journey but the underlying inevitability that made the journey. And yet, despite the dull Englishness, the sharp grinding of gears, the unknown destination and the monotony of my own thoughts, I nevertheless expected to be somewhere. Anywhere.

Why should I embark upon a journey such as this? The distance was unknown. Only my heart was hoping to go: catharsis of vacation, exorcism of 51 weeks.

But I had the chance to go South. And, even though I yearn to head North, this is where my heart is now. And, even more, I would run and jump at the chance to be there.

Between Floors

Panic took over – a blind, desperate panic! In the minimal gloom of 4:30 am, every corridor looked the same. Each floor was identical, even down the plastic flower arrangement on the table under the end window. Which floor was his? And what was the damned number of his room? Time was against him. He didn’t want to get into trouble. And neither did he want another scene with an angry naked man…

18^th August 1979 – the lumbering Gatwick-Constanța Tarom flight carried several hundred Englishers across the free European skies to descend way behind the Iron Curtain upon the Black Sea coast. Prior to departure, an uncle had unnervingly said, “I hope they let you come back!” But why shouldn’t they? We weren’t going to do anything wrong. Were we?

His mother’s preternatural frugality clashed with her heartfelt desire to see the world. Saving was second nature, but her wanderlust forever sought ways and means to encounter what was out there. A trip to Romania therefore seemed just the ticket – far away, yet cheap! But the underlining fact that it was ‘over there’ in a land unknown, also gave the trip a significance far and above a run-of-the-mill Costa Bravan package. For this trip included a tour.

The seaside shoal upon which the unfashionable hotels of Mamaia were built was a Balkan dump – no doubt about it. Even with twelve-year old eyes it was obvious that inefficiency, poor management and an ambivalent attitude from the staff towards anything like service meant some things happened and others didn’t. Sometimes the rooftop café was open, sometimes not. Not that this appeared to matter to the thousands of holidaying locals who were simply glad of a few days away from the factory to glaze their bodies beneath the burning sun.

Whatever else did not make it this version of the far east, Heart of Glass and Pop Muzik had managed to fill the discos and dodgems at the amusement parks. They played out like siren calls – come, dance and play the whole summer long. But this was not to be for a 12-year old. Nor for his fussy mother. It was noted with a head shaken in disbelief that along with what passed for ice cream, the locals’ beach treats appeared to consist of large beefsteak tomatoes or capsicums – apples and bananas, it had to be presumed, were much harder to come by out of season. Maybe it had something to do with Cuba…

The English stuck together at mealtimes. A worried single lady, tissue permanently in hand, complained of the heat. Young marrieds took advantage of that rare British commodity, the sun. No other children could be seen, at least not in the same hotel. Therefore, an unusual friendship was struck up between the boy and his mum and two loungers, Piers and David, also on the same trip, which meant they would have meals at the same table. But that was about it. Piers and David liked to go walking together. They were passed on the sandy beach. They smoked well and drank moderately. Their open shirts exposed a growling bear of chest hair for Piers, a clean smooth boyishness for David. It appeared likely they shared a room. It was therefore unlikely that they enjoyed regular church going or cared much for discussions on Conservative party politics.

A week’s seaside mundane shenanigans meant beach every day, evening strolls beside the freshwater lake teeming with frogs or what passed for hotel entertainment (think working men’s club singer crossed with bizarre muppet-like heavy rock outfits) and consuming whatever was pit before them – all meals were free, but were generally bland. He knew no difference. It was exactly how his mother liked it. And then it was time to see the rest of the country. Those parts of Ceaușescu’s Bucharest not ravaged by central planners were beautiful – suitably matching the guide’s epithet, the Paris of the East. The Snagov monastery delighted, the beautiful forested Carpathians rose up out of the landscape and Transylvania became a land of soft-lit enchantment. Old towns were had an ancient decrepit charm, the modernist Soviet-era buildings marking a striking contrast. It was all walled fortresses, high-pitched roofs, sunflowers from horizon to horizon and cars parked by the side of the road as their occupants no doubt completely pissed, relieved themselves against the trees. Public weeing being a novelty in English-speaking countries, this last one lightened the traveller’s moods. Signing the visitor’s book at Dracula’s Bran castle, the English wags had to include comments such as, ‘Fangs for the memory!’

It came as some shock, then, to those same wags when grim news filtered through of Lord Louis Mountbatten’s death at the hands of the IRA in Northern Ireland. By now, nearly two weeks in, it all seemed a very long way away, and the report was an uncomfortable reminder to all the cheery holidayers that they were going back to an unsettled nation. Piers and David exchanged an uncomfortable glance. They probably had a different war to attend.

The morning’s flight being at sunrise, it was essential that all was ready and packed. And so it was. Sense called for a prompt bedtime, regardless of the energy released in the disco next door by Gloria Gaynor, Donna Summer or Patrick Hernandez. But midway through the night, the badly cooked chicken had a predictable effect, and began rapidly exiting both ends of his mother. Knowing that ‘the boys’ had something for stomach disorders, he was despatched to find them, wake them and bring the medicine back.

And so he dutifully left and waited for the lift, the intense silence of the hotel broken only by cricket song and the slow crashing waves upon the shore. The lift took longer than expected. By the time he’d got inside, pressed 6 and the lift doors had closed, he’d forgotten their damned number. Was it 605 or 615? The lift doors opened. He stepped out, but the dim corridor looked identical to the one he’d just left. Not wanting to go back and ask again, he crept along with cat-like stealth, pausing to listen at each door – 601, 602, 603. From each came snores, some louder than others.  From 605 there was silence. He imagined that Piers and David were already up and maybe prepared for the day. He knocked. Nothing. Louder. Nothing. Maybe it was empty. He continued along the featureless corridor towards the black window, the net curtains blowing gently in the minimal sea breeze. He suddenly felt very alone. Eventually he found 615, and friendly voices assured him that the two companions were in, and they were up.

Once the bottle had been received, half of his duty had been accomplished. He thanked them, shut the door and returned towards the lift. But once there, he froze. What floor? Where had he come from? They had been in so many hotels in the past week he couldn’t tell any more. Had he gone up one floor or two? Perhaps it was three? And what was his own room number?

The only way to tell was to take a look – to see if anything was familiar. He descended three floors. The corridor looked exactly like the one he’d just left: a simulacrum that could not have been more precise. Only the room numbers changed. Was it the third door in – 303? That didn’t sound right. He paused again. Nothing. Perhaps the next? More snoring. Was it 313? Was it this floor?

And then he had an idea. The bathroom light would be on. His mother was unable to leave its confines and would have left the light on. It was like a beacon – he just had to find it. But none of the rooms had lights shining under the door. Perhaps it was 313 – if he tried the door and found it open then that would be the one. He twisted the doorknob. It turned. Phew!

Once inside, it was dark. Exhausted, his mother had obviously gone back to her bed. He fumbled for the light switches, but couldn’t find them. His hands swept over the wall in big arcs until – click! He’d found the main bedroom light. Instantly, he knew he was in the wrong room: the shape was different, the décor was wrong, and a voice emerged from the bed. “Wha– what the…?” Before him arose the figure of a naked man, wincing in the harsh overhead light, ready to do battle with an intruder, a burglar, or worse.

“Sorry, sorry, so sorry!” he hastily replied, realising that the man was not alone. He had a sleeping companion – a male sleeping companion! This was too much. He turned and fled, heading for the lifts. Instead of waiting, and maybe inviting chase by an irate homosexual, he swiftly ran up one flight to the fourth floor.

Surely this was the one. Surely. Panic, terrible debilitating panic swept over him. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to get into trouble for breaking into people’s rooms, especially rooms occupied by… gays!

Indeed, the light did shine from under the door of 405, and it was not locked. He found his mother, head over the sink, looking thoroughly miserable. Lying in bed, listening to the sound of his mother retching, he wondered, what the hell just happened? This was certainly not the sort of thing he could tell his friends about at school. They would surely think only the worst, something he couldn’t afford. It would have to remain a thing hidden, almost like a dirty secret.

The medicine did what it said on the bottle. His mother had just enough time to recover before they, Piers and David, the wags and the miserable lady boarded the bus to the airport.