Clearing the decks

Left handed life drawing - M Charlton

I've been away from the bike shed for a few weeks so I have some catching up to do and promises to keep. It's strange how I feel the need to do this before I return to my usual introspective ramblings. It must be connected with the way I write; I like to clear the debris, to restore order with an empty desk and a 'to do' list which is ticked from top to bottom; only then can I sit peacefully at the computer.

It was the same when I painted. I would spend hours tidying my studio only to return it to chaos in a flurry of mark making - and then I'd scrub it clean again so I could start once more. This process is the exact opposite of one of my heroes, Francis Bacon, who could only work in a basement studio crammed with the detritus of his life - it has since been recreated in a Dublin gallery.

October is my busiest time of the year; an inbox full of memos, budgets to approve, the dreaded 'year end' and the writing of the company report - or more precisely, The Annual Report and Financial Statements. I spend hours finessing words and phrases - was it a good result, or merely solid? Perhaps we should say robust, or pleasing, or sound? In the end, results were in line with expectations... Quite whose is beside the point.

Business has a language all of its own. Apparently innocuous phrases carry hidden meanings; a word like progress, when used in certain contexts, can have a subtle nuance as impenetrable to outsiders as the Geordie slang I grew up with - and sometimes as dangerous to get wrong. It is the only time of year that my colleagues are much interested in the particularity of words. But ultimately it is tiring.

I think that is another reason why I stopped writing these last few weeks. My head was all of a spin, no time to clear the decks; it was overflowing with clichés - which, as you know, should be avoided like the plague. My problem was, I hadn't the energy . But no matter, it is clear now and time to move on.

I'm indebted to Sara who works with me on these things and to Colin who doesn't blog so can't have a link but whose black humour keeps us all sane - and to Deborah and Kerrie, my assistants and sometime blog followers. Thank you all.

On the subject of friends, thanks also to those who wrote or left comment asking where I was. And welcome to my new followers, I hope you find something of interest. I note that Jimmy Bastard has added his name to the list - I'm honoured. His blog, its title ostensibly a cliché, is loaded with meaning, though not at all like the city-speak I write for a living. Take a look.

I have a promise to keep to my friend Fiona Robyn who has recently published her new novel, Thaw. It tells the story of Ruth who is 32 and doesn't know if she wants to live to be 33 - she gives herself three months to decide... I met Fiona about eight years ago on a business course; she moved on and now has four books published - good for her, I say through gritted teeth.

Fiona is planning to publish Thaw as a blog, a month after it launches in paperback. She is looking for 1000 bloggers to help her promote the launch with a blogsplash. I promised to mention it here. Follow the links to find out what she plans and how you can help - she has some interesting tips for writers on her website too.

Another acquaintance is the award winning writer, Rory Maclean, currently researching his new book in Berlin. We'd lost touch for a while but recently caught up via his blog. He sent me a link to the astonishing picture below taken at a recent street party in the city.

Photo from Rory Maclean

It is even more astonishing to think the Berlin Wall came down twenty years ago. I read recently that its collapse marked 'the premature end of the twentieth century' - that seems an astute observation, though I'm less sure that much has changed on our side of the wall. It's hard to know which of Rory's books to recommend, though my favourite is the quiet and charming Falling for Icarus, the story of his quest to build a plane while living on Crete.

Photo from Rory Maclean

I am going to Wales tomorrow, back to Pembrokeshire, the sea, and hopefully to start writing again. I hear a Spoonbill has taken residence at Newport; the crows are certainly roosting at Lochmeyler; and the starlings - hundreds of thousands of them - are returning at dusk to their small copse under Plumstone Mountain. Everything in its place it seems, and just as it should be.

Doethie

Sometimes it's the snatched opportunities that we remember most. Trips we plan too carefully often fail to meet our expectations, leaving us deflated and wondering why we made the effort. When I think back it is often the chance encounters that are most vivid in my memory.

And so it was last weekend. I'd planned to go backpacking with Daniel, mapping out a route over the Beacons, researching a wild campsite – I'd even packed his rucksack. 'I don't fancy that route,' he said, just before we were due to leave. 'It's too far and too high, can't we go somewhere different?' We'd already had a row – typical teenage lounging as everyone else was getting about the morning – it was midday by now and I was keen to be off. 'We could go to the Doethie valley, but it's a bit of a drive to get there.' Excellent he said, I can sleep in the car.

The Afon Doethie rises in the southern hills of the Elenydd, falling steeply into the wider curves of the upper the Towy near Llandovery. The Towy is a favourite with picnickers, who splash in the gravel beds, much to the annoyance of fishermen casting their lines into silent pools. A few miles upstream the Doethie valley marks the end of the road; the only way onward by foot or horseback. At its head, only five miles distant, the valley joins the high plateau of hills above Soar y Mynydd and the Llyn Brianne dam. Anyone wanting a pick up would need to persuade a driver to make a thirty mile diversion to meet them over the watershed.

We started our walk here, it was late afternoon and we were hoping to make camp by a copse of oak trees that I knew to have flat ground. When we arrived, there were jays in the trees, being harried by what looked like large hawks, though I wasn't certain. It was early and we decided to carry on, reaching the track to Soar y Mynydd as the sun began to dip into the horizon. From here we walked to the old youth hostel at Ty'n Cornel, once an isolated farm accessible only by the drove road from Llanddewi Brefi. I love this place, rescued from closure by the Elenyndd Trust, it is the best and most remote hostel in Wales. The volunteer wardens, Mark and Bronwen, greeted us with traditional northern hospitality, 'Would you like cup o tea?' We would, and we decided to camp in the hostel garden.

The hostel has a small snug; there is one conversation and you either join in or bugger off. We started the evening as strangers, sitting round the fire, and as so often happens you realise it's a small world. Bronwen was studying creative writing and Mark told me story of how he and a friend had once walked four miles to a pub in Pembrokeshire only to find it had shut up shop the week before. That pub is next door to my house, and I vaguely remember two blokes sitting on the wall one evening and their disappointment as I told them they'd be waiting a long time if they wanted a pint.

As we retired to the tent the sky was alight with stars; I could see the Andromeda galaxy, the Milky Way a thick band from horizon to horizon, the occasional meteor falling through Leo. The tent was thick with dew, and we snuggled into our bags leaving the door open to the night. 'I like it here,' Daniel said, and fell asleep.

Next morning we packed and ate breakfast with our new friends; a woodpecker joined us on terrace, picking at the nuts in a feeder. Some of the hostelers were off home, one chap was walking to Dolgoch, the other hostel run by the trust – it is lit by gas lamps and has a church organ in the sitting room. We would retrace our steps, descending with the river to the car near Rhandirmwyn. Not a cloud above us, the bracken damp and smelling of earth; two ravens sat on the oak trees where the jays had been. It was swift walk; Daniel strode ahead of me, leaping over the pools and squelchy ground; his back now as broad as mine, his body chiseled and hard. The river, young too at this height, cascades its way over rocks and drops, foaming and turning, gouging in haste to reach the flatter landscape.

I walked the last miles some way behind Daniel, enjoying the silence, the company of the river. As I stopped to drink the peaty water a dragonfly rested on my arm, its huge eyes watching me, daring me to move. It followed me for a while, attracted I think by the colour of my rucksack, until I reached the road at Troedyrhiw farm.

Daniel was waiting at the car, lying on the grass and looking at the sky. We had parked near the cave of Twm Shon Catti, the welsh Robin Hood. The legend says he lived in these hills before building a manor at Tregarron and becoming a pillar of society. I wonder if he ever returned – snatching a visit on days when the sun shone, the river tumbled through the autumn bracken and dragonflies hovered by the streams. There are few better places in Wales.

Dawn chorus

Saturday 4.55 am. Can't sleep; too much wine last night; the first light is filling the bedroom. I get up and open the window. Jane pulls the duvet round her shoulders, rolls over and grumbles. I look over the fields and listen to the morning.

I love the dawn chorus. Oddly enough, it reminds of university; of the heatwave in my first summer term, and of lying in bed with my girlfriend, too hot to sleep as the sunlight filtered through the thin curtains. I remember trying not to wake her, and listening to the birds and smelling the cherry blossom from the tree in the garden; and of feeling immensely happy in the way you do when you are eighteen and life is packed full of possibilities.

The fields are cloaked in mist, thin watercolour washes of paynes grey, madder rose and cerelium blue. My eyes take a moment to adjust. I lean out the window and listen: a wood pigeon foghorning to the dawn, the crows gathering in the twisted tree by the church, house martins chirping on the overhead wires; two gulls fly overhead, then more. A marmalade cat that I have not seen before, slips through the hedge and makes its way towards Martin's farm. I can hear geese in the distance though I'm not sure where they are from.

Sometimes, when we see the familiar in a different light it can be as fresh and surprising as anywhere new. Looking from my window, I had the sense of a place I'd not seen before, of coming and goings that passed me by. These were different fields to the ones I knew, the village wasn't the workaday jumble of cottages that I barely noticed each morning, the old drove road which is opposite my house (blackberry lane my boys used to call it) was timeless in the golden light.

As the mist lifted, the street and cottages reasserted themselves in proper order, the fields I knew came back, the crows flew off towards the coast. A bird (a dove I think) was standing sentry on the telegraph pole outside our house; it was watching me closely.

Thin March sunlight.

A snatched weekend in Pembrokeshire; the thin March sunlight offering a hint of summer.

Horses taking to the sea at Nolton remind me of Sara and her comments on piloting sports. They don't look much like wild beasts; I suspect they do this journey most days - plodding from the stables with what we refer to as Boden types on board.  ( I used that expression when talking to some friends the other day and they knew exactly what I meant - curious how we label people. I supect we are just as easily classified - second homer's; incomers - to many people who live here permanently.)

Sunday, at Newport the horses and riders were galloping and jumping the sea-washed tree trunks on the open sands.  A cattle egret on the estuary was looking lonely.  When I told my neighbour where we had been he said, 'sounds nice, we've never been there.' 

I notice the rooks have started nesting in the tall trees at Lower Vanley.  They work in groups of about a dozen, crawing all day but especially in the evening.  It seems they no longer gather for the evening roost at Llanrhian. The first wheaters of spring have arrived.

Blogging at its best

The Parrog - well known birding site, Pembrokeshire

Blogs come in many forms, and there's an ever increasing array of features and gizmos for those who care to use them. But sometimes, the simplest ideas are the best.

One of my favourite blogs is Pembroke Birds; as its title suggests, it's dedicated to bird watching in Pembrokeshire. The content is as plain as its description; there are no fancy videos, few photographs and little in the way of obvious editorial intervention. I'm not even particularly keen on birding, other than watching the crow and starling roosts near my house in Wales - and yet I look at this blog every day.

The idea is simple: birders from around the county post their sightings on a daily basis. Yesterday, there were reports of a barnacle goose, marsh harriers, common sandpipers, guillemot, redstart, chough and ssshhhh… dartford warblers. And earlier this week, amongst dozens of other sightings: a rare cattle egret, a merlin, some goshawks, short eared owls, woodpeckers and the first wheatears of spring.

I've learned too that Richard D. has been birding on the north coast, Greg and Lisa have visited Ramsey, Lydon cancelled the field trip, Richard C. has been to Angle and my favourite regular allthingsgood,cliff had a fine afternoon photographing snow buntings. I couldn't put a face to any of these names though I must have met a few – walking on the coast path, carrying my binoculars, I'm regularly greeted by the question: 'Anything on the web site today?' No need to ask which site they mean.

There are regular locations for reports – The Gann, Marloes Mere, Tefeiddan Common, Sandy Haven Pill. I find myself wondering (and worrying) about what's happening at each, what birds have been spotted and who's been out looking. Checking in each day, I'm reassured and feel included even though I'm often hundreds of miles away – a sort of 'twitter' for twitchers perhaps.

Gradually, a picture emerges of a group of people who are passionate about where they live, about its landscape and the wildlife it cradles. There's a community spirit to the blog – even the odd frisson (as happened recently when there appeared to be a wilful delay in the reporting of an extremely rare falcon) –though more often it's good natured banter.

I like people who have passions, who take a deep interest in an aspect of life, no matter how irrelevant it may seem to others. And I like the way the Pembrokeshire birders use their blog, building a collective knowledge and sharing it, generously, with others. That seems to me to be blogging at its best.

Starlings

After watching the crows all summer we started to notice the starlings flying past as the sun goes down. It turns out that only three miles from our house is the biggest starling roost in Wales . Estimates vary but I'm told it's a safe bet that more than a million birds gather there. They roost in a small copse of fir trees near to Plumstone Mountain.

Go there half an hour before sunset and face south with your back to the trees. About fifteen miles away is a small tump known as Arnolds Hill. If you look carefully, what appears to be a plume of smoke will rise from it and drift towards you. Soon after the birds will arrive.

The first flocks swirl above the trees, making patterns as they rise and fall in ever tighter circles. You will hear them too, a hundred thousand wings swooshing overhead as they change direction. Then more will arrive; from St Davids, Llanrhian, Fishgaurd and Preseli. If it's a clear night the sky will be indigo, perhaps turning pink. Still they will come; from Llandeloy, Pembroke Dock and Clarbeston Road. Buzzards and sparrow hawks will hover by the cow sheds, an owl might flit from tree to tree. And above the copse the sky will be black with birds.

Last time I was there, John Cod, who owns the cow sheds, told me it was nothing to see five different raptors in the air at one time. 'Sometimes there are more than 3 million starlings,' he says. 'Can you believe they are a protected species?' His house sits in the shadow of the fir trees. 'The only problem with living here is the bird shit; good for the soil though.' Would I like some fuscia cuttings?

Jon farms here, trains motorcyclists as a sideline and knows more about birds than most of the twitchers who chase round the county with their telescopes. There's a hushed mention of a rare warbler - I'm to keep my eyes peeled on a certain moor. He tells me to come at dawn when the starlings leave, evidently more quickly than they arrive and in bigger flocks. I'm to look for the stragglers in the road; every night there are some that don't make it back – easy pickings for the buzzards.

Before leaving, I headed into the trees, picking my way through the forest break by moonshine. It seemed a small area for so many birds. You can't help but wonder why they come here. I could hear them calling, a soft ripple that ebbed and flowed like running water; as if there were a stream nearby, a waterfall perhaps.

Clear skies

There were about 100 rooks gathering in the village this evening. They were joined by dozens of seagulls, all of them freewheeling in great arcs over Sunny View, one or two gulls landing on the roofs. The wind was bending the old Scots Pine so some of the rooks took shelter in the fuller trees at the back of the graveyard, but most flew on towards Llochmeyler and Llanrhian. I think I'll try and find their roost later this week. Very wet and windy all day until the sky cleared at night - so many stars it was hard to identify the constellations.

Jane starting to point out the crows.

Flapping about at dawn

Ever since I read Mark Cocker's Crow Country I've been watching crows and rooks. I like the idea that they return to the same place each evening, travelling miles to sit together. And I like knowing relativey useless things about them, such as the way they find small worms by stabbing their tough beaks into soft grass using a sort of hit and hope technique.

There's an old Scots Pine that stands in the churchyard of our village, where the rooks gather in the morning. I can see the tree from my bedroom and sometimes I watch them flapping about at dawn. After a bit of tooing and froing between the tree and the telephone wires they fly off in small groups. Some go west, the majority seem to go north. I counted fifty birds this morning. It's hard to tell which are rooks and which are crows, but I don't worry.

My neighbour tells me - with some glee - that they used to cull the rooks each year. It brought back memories of the photographs in one of our local pubs - of men carrying the dead rooks, caracasses tied at the feet and hanging in bunches. A good cull would take more than a hundred birds.