A short Crag Notes piece for UKC about Sennen, Cornwall, on a rainy winter’s day. “Below and to the right is the main fairground. It is shut…”
It took me years to love Portland. So many monsters!
Gunslingers, Part I: Coppola
Dinner at the chippy on Weston Road
Codfathers. Mafia allusions, gangster, tongue-in-cheek
Nod to Francis Ford Coppola
But fish and chips, night after night?
Monday evening. Every pub kitchen shut. No restaurants
Drive through the prefabs and estates, looking for food
And fail. Boil up some pasta and grate on cheddar
Sleep in the van, barely satisfied
Next morning in the lay-by, jot verbatim
The words of a young man to his climbing companion
Can you be fucked with more of these giant ciabattas?
As they pack their rucksacks for Cheyne Weares
A new, potty-mouthed mob. Only a question of time, surely
Before Portland gentrifies. It’s coastal, beautiful
Well-connected with a magnificent climate
But it’s an island, with its own code, and doesn’t need outsiders
The rock-climber’s classic winter refuge. More rock than you will ever eat!
Naranja! Naranja! tres euros, seis kilos
Dutch you? English? juice eat – yes! – these – juice!
you try – take, take! tomates? green, red?
this – doesn’t matter! – medio kilo? lekker, lekker!
She proffers tissues for our sticky orange-hands
but I’ve already wiped mine on my trousers
Ha! where wife, wife? she mimes – slapping the
air-husband who smears his shorts whilst always insisting
on wearing white. Siete euros cincuenta. We pay and turn
then hear her call – Venga! two huge, yellow suckable lemons
hitched up at breast-level – then! guttural laughter –
she drops them lower – offers us, gratis, sour fruity balls
A couple of short poems made it to the Winter 2019/20 edition of Sheep Breeder magazine. They are starting up a poetry competition! Send all sheep-related poetry to the super-friendly firstname.lastname@example.org.
Do you relish the butter-melt of a baked potato? The feel when each crystal sticks, minutely, into the whorls of your tips? An article about sensual joys, and the creep of machine-like regimes.
Skye and the Outer Hebrides. Where desire and grief seem one and the same.
Peat (Skinidin, Skye)
Usually the earth is hard
I’m used to this
Where I put the past behind me
But on the Islands
Reach into the peat and
Your hands slide down through
Spooky. The undead
Exes and myths
Clasp my wrists
From the black water
Gogarth as the best theatre on earth. Poems and chunks of prose:
Head West, always. As the Joad family in Grapes of Wrath or Otis in Dock of the Bay. Adventurers, pioneers and runaways. The dreamers and desperate. Years ago, hitch-hiking the deserts, flagged a ride with New Jersey kids jumping bail. Headed to California. Drive West. Leaving Llanberis, light rain closing in on the windscreen, peppering the glass. Not forecast. But there it is. Nature of the mountains. Keep driving. Roundabouts. A bridge, squat and self-promoting. Irksome to the island, one would think. Centuries of the Menai Straits thwarting casual visitors and conquerors. Drive over. Look at the state of the tide. You’ve checked online. But seeing it, the mud or gleaming water, confirms the iPhone’s information. Drive on. Through the town. Beyond all conurbations. Beyond fields and into heathland. Sea beyond the passenger seat. Sea ahead. Only sea, and the end of the track where the road runs out. The Western edge of Wales. Crumpled cliffs, high cliffs, red cliffs, yellow cliffs, mud cliffs, crystal cliffs, lichen cliffs, loose cliffs, clean cliffs. It’s all there. You can reinvent yourself, out West. Be whoever you like. Be who you are. Start again, each time, and hope for better results.
A few thoughts on new routing ethics, habits and implications…
“…The trouble is, there is no one, simple, correct answer. We’re all looking for the Perfect Line. But that line can be smudged, chalked, rubbed out and redrawn depending on myriad factors including personality, gender, location, faith and time…”
Poems of a mishmash trip: https://www.ukclimbing.com/articles/features/kalymnos_the_smooth_and_the_rough-11965
On arrival, I knew I couldn’t stay here happily
Squeezed in together like stuffed vine leaves
Dim, north-facing balcony, non-working light bulb
Shower-hose hand-held in the toilet cubicle
Soaking the seat (before the shower head broke off
And landed with a smash in the porcelain) and the
Noisiest, stompiest, brashest matriarch
Yelling Greek at her husband and daughter and us
We looked elsewhere immediately. Saw hotel rooms
Without kitchens, places being Spring cleaned
Establishments with barking, chained dogs and then
Got yelled at again for looking. Word gets around
So we climbed. Now, a week later, plastic chair
Dragged to the patch of sun in a walkway corridor
Propping my tea on the out-of-date fire extinguisher
The power cuts, disappearing cooking pots
Lack of hot water, the way a full set of keys
For every apartment is left, publicly, on a hook
Our proprietress patrolling and yelling. I’ve become
Oddly attached, like one of the many stray cats
Thanks to UKC for supporting poetry on World Poetry Day: https://www.ukclimbing.com/articles/features/poetry_-_song_of_bare_blabaer-11834
The buildings amphibian
Half in water, half on land
Decks and jetties project into the
Kitchens dangle over water
Yachts and motorboats
Lashed alongside as
Fifty percent of the accommodation
Onshore, the structures
Teeter on frameworks of granite
Whilst seaward sections
Prop on top of
Seaweed-covered, rotting, wooden poles
And corroded metal piles
Listing and murmuring and dripping
Between each semi-diurnal dunking
And so the houses balance
On the edge of the sea, the edge of stone
Never quite belonging
Dwarfed by the mountains and the Arctic Ocean