2019: Year in Review

2019: Year in Review

I began the year with a wondrous hangover. My friend cooked me a breakfast I almost had to reject. We then spent the morning watching back-to-back episodes of Bad Education. Did this augur well, or ill?

The world around me, as it happened

As current affairs unfolded through the year, I looked on mostly with a sense of impotent horror. Would we leave the EU without a deal? No. Would we leave with a deal? No. Would parliament make up its mind? No. Would May survive? No. Would parliamentary democracy itself survive? It began to look doubtful. The parliament of 2017-19 was so foul that it needs its own name to mark it out for posterity. There is the Merciless Parliament of 1388; the Rump Parliament of 1648; I suppose the parliament that ended in 2010 will be known as the Expenses Parliament; this one needs a fitting name as well. Here are some of my suggestions:

• Deadlock Parliament
• Parliament of Fouls
• Dishonourable Parliament
• Parliament of Liars
• Defectors’ Parliament
• The Parliament That Could Not Make Up Its Mind

Suggestions on a postcard.

The low point was after the Supreme Court overruled the Queen and sent the parliamentarians back to discuss Brexit some more – because, after three years of talking and voting for deadlock, they needed more time to talk about deadlock. Only, they chose to discuss something else: themselves. In scenes of fury and self-righteousness, parliament made itself irrelevant like it had never been before, and I hated the MPs for it; I hated them the more that they pitied themselves.

To cap it off, they refused for weeks and weeks to dissolve themselves.

With the election December, for the first time since 2010 we have stable majority government: the next five years will be without a major election or (one hopes, as one looks to Scotland) referendum. We have had, in the last five years, two referendums (both traumatic) and three general elections. That is too much for us to bear.

Personal objectives for the year that has passed

In my last review, going into 2019, I set myself six objectives, which I totally forgot about and ought really to have pinned to my bedroom wall. As it is, here they are, assessed:

1. Get the novel drafted to a standard that I can send it to an agent. Verdict: No. Utterly FAILED. I was too daunted when it dawned on me how much work needed to be done, more than mere tinkering. I have started, though, belatedly.
2. Get a story or poem published somewhere. Verdict: FAILED, but not for want of trying. My energies dried up with continued failure. I am less sure why my stories were not taken, for I thought they were interesting. My verse is too traditional to be of much interest to the gatekeepers; local poets have effectively said as much.
3. Get fit, not so much to lose weight as to tone up and be healthy. Verdict: Mixed. I seem to drift in and out of fitness. I was doing well with Parkrun in the Summer into the Autumn, but a foot injury has done for that. I shall resume in the new year.
4. Finish the album of music and vanity-publish it: FAILED, because I began to question the point. But I have renewed impetus now.
5. Play live more often: SUCCESS. Of all the objectives, this was the least likely, but I am in a band now, and the next year looks promising for us. 
6. Watch more local rugby: SUCCESS. The easiest to achieve, of course. I have adopted Tonbridge Juddeans as the club I support.

This time last year; and since

I began this year optimistically. Work was going well. I had my first flat. I had achievements I was justly proud of. Not much has changed since then. I still live in the same place, work in the same place, mix with the same friends. The year has been less about progress, more about stability, and in pursuing a life outside of work (but not always knowing how).

There have been some changes. I have continued to lose weight – and this continues to be expensive. But I think I have rediscovered the art of buying clothes. When I was bigger, I unconsciously opted for darker, drab things that attracted no attention. I am now aware of a desire for the opposite; to wear eye-catching, even daring things that I would never have countenanced before.

Added to this, I am also more aware of how welcoming my home can be for others. Especially with seating space and a large kitchen. I have started taking an interest in cooking and hosting, and I am shortly going to buy a cookbook – my very first! Probably Nigella.

Writing

Creatively, I am much stalled. I had a novel which I knew was miles away from being good enough; yet I was so blinded by what I had produced that I could not see how it ought to be. That problem now is solved; at least, I think so. I have radically altered the design; now, I just need to ‘action that’. Some of the pain will be in devising new passages; the rest of the pain will be in butchering and deleting much of what I have already slaved to achieve. Heart-breaking, in a way. But necessary.

Away from prose, I got involved with the local poetry society, but I am ambivalent about it. They have very well organised monthly meetings with high-flying modern poets, usually dividing the evening between an open mic and the guest slot. But I was not inspired by any of the guests. The low point was when two of them, on a joint ticket, recited their collaborative project inspired by Brexit. It became a group therapy session; for those of us not grieving, it was uncomfortable and a bit insulting.

Music 

Arcadian Dawn's first gig

We are Arcadian Dawn. We had our first gig, as a supporting act, in early December, and we were good. We had only had four rehearsals, but four was all we needed: when it was over, the whole thing felt to me as though it had been a real moment. We know we’re onto a good thing, so we are staying together going into the new year. This is what I have wanted for a very long time. I have been searching for other musicians online, but it’s worse than online dating. At present, we are doing covers, but I and one of my bandmates both write original music. For this reason, I now have added cause to get my demo recordings finished, for now there is actually a chance of some of them being played.

Outdoor pursuits 

I began well. In February, I walked around Bewl Water, which I think is 13 miles. I even filmed my day. But I never made a video of it, nor did I do anything greater than a day’s walk this summer. I regret that. The greatest achievement was in August, walking from Tonbridge to my friend’s place in Maidstone, where he put me up for the night. I traced the route of the Medway and saw it in its full Edenic beauty. I had often thought Kent was overreaching slightly when it bills itself as ‘The Garden of England’, with the obvious resonance of Eden; yet I saw it, on the approaches to Maidstone especially.

I wrote a number of pretty verses about the River Medway, before and after this walk. Together, they are basically a pilgrimage text and a love letter to Kent. I dedicated one of them to the outgoing GCSE students, who were good enough to tell me they liked it. I am doubtful any of it will ever see the light of day in publication, not for inadequacies, but because nothing I write ever finds favour with other poets. I am not modest; I know what I write is technically accomplished, but out of step with the times. This year was not my year; perhaps with some luck, I can begin to be published in the year ahead.

Resolutions and objectives for 2020:

1. NO dry January
2. Observe Lent: give up coffee (did me the world of good last time)
3. Reach a decision about the Reserves
4. Keep up the exercise routine
5. Do a proper walk of several days, across some county or other
6. Get the novel done
7. Get published (prose or verse)

After Canterbury

Journal Wednesday 29th August 2018 0840hrs

Yesterday I transcribed my journal entries from pilgrimage. Rather light work, I must say. It’s possible all I had to say, and all that was of value, went into my video diary, which I must yet edit. It is also possible I was simply too tired or practically inconvenienced to write. What is slightly more mysterious to me is that I wrote not a word thereafter. I know I was highly charged, full of feelings, raging and flowing. Some of it I know is captured on video, but
none of it in written word. Why?

At such distance, I cannot say with great certainty; equally, distance can lend clarity.
Feelings do not come at us in the shape of words. Words are simply the tools we have with which to give them shape. I remember enjoying whatever it was I was feeling, just allowing myself to feel without having to give it a name, explain it or make a record. I am reminded of people at special events who film everything on their phones yet forget to watch any of it for real.

I know I had a strong desire to close the door, to draw a curtain on the experience. After I tossed my staff into the river, that was it, and for the next two days – a night in Canterbury, a day in Deal and on the road – I felt as though suspended, temporarily removed from any reality but my own. There was no home to go to, no time to spend, use or waste: just me and an evening and a morning.

I bought a cigar before Evensong; once I had showered and dressed for the evening, I ate dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant by myself. Some visitors from Lancashire got chatting with me. That was nice. My inhibitions with strangers went once I was on the road, and I had, by that evening, developed a certain joy in connecting with people. There was also a degree of counsel in it, for I had to put my journey into words, and unlike with standard conversation – work, love life, &c. – the chat was fresh and I wanted to share it as though for the first time, because it was the first time.

Thereafter, a drink at the Cricketers and then a puff overlooking the Stour under the aegis of the West Gate. A stranger came to me and, photographing the church there, asked me what it was called. I said I did not know, adding ‘it’s pretty, isn’t it?’ and she readily agreed. Everything was lovely to me that evening.

It was Evensong that did it, I think. Had it been a trek just anywhere – to Milton Keynes, let’s say – the experience would have been duller. It was the voice, the silent accord, the reverence for words, the harmony, the stillness, the purpose, the spiritual warmth, everything. Sitting there, bathed in song, I could let go. And there was much to let go.

Much to let go. For I had not realised, was not conscious of, how much it was my mind
that drove me forward. Not my body. Without anyone else at my side, all the drive came from within, and that leant me the most tremendous energy and power, enough to push me across an entire county by myself. I complain in my notes that I am not as reflective as I think I should be. Well, this made sense of it. It was all subconscious, below the level of my waking thoughts. And so sitting there, at Evensong, I felt inside that it was ended, and I let go. The energy and the power fell away, and everything that had hibernated beneath came to life in me, and made me feel freer than I ever had.

Maybe that’s what happened. It feels right to me. I still have a little of it now, or a token of it, as I recall it now for this journal: for I feel so young again; life is exciting again.

Journey Through Kent and Sussex: A Journal

Journey Through Kent and Sussex: A Journal

The following passages are taken from my journal, those segments concerning my attempt to walk to Hastings from Royal Tunbridge Wells between the dates of Monday 28th of May and Wednesday 30th of May, 2018.

Sunday, 27th of May

On the Bluebell Line

Tomorrow, I begin a great trial and test. I shall walk to Hastings. All that there is to sustain me and keep me shall be on my back; and it is a heavy load indeed. But I am looking forward to it and eager to start.

This is the culmination of the self-training I have undertaken in preparation for my pilgrimage in the Summer holidays. That should take around two weeks, perhaps more, and I shall have much to do even after this trip. But so far, I have only done single-day trips and this is the first time I shall be out in the wild and walking day after day. 

My first preparatory trek was to the Bluebell Railway, timed to catch the bluebells in bloom. That really was glorious, so beautiful, and a great success as well as instructive. I was well prepared nutritionally but very poorly prepared for navigation, having to rely on my phone for its GPS. I was not able to make it all the way to Sheffield Park as the train timetable was against me, and had I pressed on from Horsted Keynes I would have found myself stranded. I took many audio clips of my thoughts along the way and many pictures, all of which I am yet, to my shame, to knock together and transcribe into a blog piece.

For the second trip I set upon the task of improving my navigation. I prepared OS maps and banned myself outright from using my phone. Alice Hardy came with me, keen for the opportunity to trek somewhere, as far as Penshurst. It is just as well, for she could read the map better than I could. The first leg, to Penshurst, was much the loveliest, with rolling hills and valleys to please the eye and work the legs, and the sense of being alone and in possession of it all was thrilling. Alas, the leg to Tonbridge was less interesting visually and the paths were much busier, especially with cyclists, which I resented. An additional difficulty, when passing so many bodies of water, was the abundance of mosquitoes, and I regret to say they had a good drink at my expense. Nonetheless, I succeeded in my aim of navigating by map the whole way. 

So now I come to much the greatest challenge. The sheer weight of the bag; the unfamiliar nature of the route; the unforeseen circumstances for which I am doubtless unprepared, in spite of my best efforts; the succession of days walking; the length of solitude I shall endure; all these things, and more, shall put me sorely to the test. Yet, why not? For is this not the very point of pilgrimage? It is no package holiday and I am no tourist: to be a pilgrim is to be a lone journeyman, and that is to be one who undergoes trial. I relish the challenge, no matter how broken I shall be by the time I stand upon Hastings Pier. 

I have equipped myself with a notebook and pen, and for my evening's pleasure I am also bringing my copy of A Shropshire Lad. Its pastoral and nostalgic themes are most apt.

For the rest of this night, I shall take my rest. For the Sun now dips on this day, and plenty awaits me upon the morrow.

The Tory power pose. Over the course
of the journey, this became my emblem.

Day 1: Monday, 28th of May

The following entries are transcribed from records taken over the course of the journey. Click here for my video diary.

1300 at Brecknock Arms, Bells Yew Green

The first thing I said to myself this morning as I closed the door behind me was 'what am I doing?' ⸻ To which my other self replied, with a sense of a sigh, 'something. You are doing something.' And it is true. I am doing something, and I mean the overall endeavour for which I am preparing. For how easy is it to treat the half term break as a succession of easy lie-ins? Much too easy. Some computer games in the afternoon, perhaps an ale in the evening, maybe a day trip to London or a session on the Pantiles, but never, it seems, anything worth writing about. And I am too old now to be throwing my time away.

My guiding principle must be always this: do something worth writing about.

So I have come thus far [via Frant]. Not as far as I had hoped, but that is down mainly to the prevalence at this point in the route of roads over footpaths. The roads are dangerous; caution required; therefore slow going. This lunchtime ale is then well earned and much needed, but I dare not tarry long, for I have many miles ahead of me and I am quite hungry. 

2100: Cedar Gables Campsite, near Bewl Water

Probably for reasons of exhaustion and dehydration, I neglect in the following entry to describe the course of the day. The weather was hot and intensely sunny all through. I had planned to drop in at certain points for refreshment, but for different reasons these were all shut, so I had quickly run out of water with half the journey yet to tread. Finally, the campsite had basic facilities, including water, but was miles from anywhere that served food and drink, so I had to dine that night on my rations. These details would have seemed unimportant by the time I erected my tent and opened my notebook in the dusk.

This has been an ordeal. I am suffering. I am also doubtful. Can I do this?

It is precisely for these things I have done this. Not to feel comfortable all the time; not always to be sure of myself; to see if I can overcome these things. 

I believe I can at the same moment that I fear I can't. That is not a contradiction. 

I have not yet found in myself any great solace or meaning on this journey. But what exactly am I looking for? Revelation? Enlightenment?

Setting out on Day 2

Day 2: Tuesday, 29th of May

Morning, 0810

This morning I woke at 0500 to a symphony of birds. My God - they were loud. I have often heard them when waking early at home. But the sound in town is nothing to this.

For a while I lay in the dawn, in the noise, only guessing what time it was; my phone is quite depleted so I dared not switch it on. But then I turned it on and Lo! it was only 0500. Then I checked the weather, which said a monsoon was on the way. Discouraged, I rolled back over and slept a second time. 

It is now ten past eight. It is still pretty grim out there but I have to get moving soon. Perhaps I shall find advantage in the rain? For I got very dirty yesterday. But my feet still hurt and I really don't want to put those boots on.

*

There is beauty in the rain. Yes, there is also threat, even mortal danger at times. But that is true of the Sun, the sea, the chalk cliffs at Dover. Even as I watch it fall, awaiting my moment to let down my tent, pack my bag and make my way, it strikes me, the music that it makes and the new complexion it puts upon the visible world; and I wonder how much we owe to the rain. 

But were we not taught, long ago, to put these fond, romantic notions aside? And to see instead the irresistible and, to us, indifferent forces that are at work? The rain is gone anyway, and it is time I put my day into motion.

1500: Somewhere south of Hawkhurst

I am in the church of The Moor, Hawkhurst. Peaceful. I am grateful for the opportunity of rest as well as silence.

Today is quite different from yesterday. Grey, hazy, constant rumbles of distant thunder. So many prospects, I have thought, might have looked Italianate in the sun; it is storm clouds and rain that makes them English. 

But I seem no longer moved by the beauty of nature. It is not that I am innured to it, or even bored with it, but rather that its meaning has changed. No longer just glory and views and solitude but also hardship, danger and pain, to be endured and overcome.

Dusk: Campsite, near Bodiam

Bodiam

As with the previous day, the following entry is light on details of the progress of the day, which was marred by great difficulty only alleviated by a good supply of ale at various spots. South of Hawkhurst, most of the public paths were overrun with nettle bushes that reached as high as my chest. In heavy rain I spent much of my time and energy hacking through what ought to have been easy walking. At times I feared myself getting cut off, especially in the gathering darkness, and the fact that water had seeped into my boots made my spirits droop very low. It must be for these reasons I forgot about the amusing incident early in the day when I was chased off a field by a horde of free range hens. 

In the fading light I re-read Shropshire Lad. No. 2: mourning the passage of time and youth at the age of twenty. Curious, for it is now at the age of thirty one that I feel as the poem describes; the very feeling that explains why I am here. 

I do not like this place and I shall get out as early as possible tomorrow. In the fading light beneath the low hanging storm clouds I feel, looking at these tents and semi-permanent caravans strewn about in this nowhere, that I have accidentally strayed into Gehenna.

Today has been quite miserable, and I go to bed in half a mind to walk to Robertsbridge tomorrow for the first train home. We shall see. But for now, the light fails, and I must retire.

Day 3: Wednesday, 30th of May

Morning

Now I understand those prayers that cry out 'the night has passed' and give thanks to God 'for bringing us safely to this new day.' Damp. Hard floor. Noisy neighbours. Strong winds. Rain. Thunder and lightning. The morning is not exactly bright and glorious - the cloud is thick and the gloom is heavy - but there is light, and I am alive, and I can begin to make my preparations. 

*

I have been holding my boots and socks under the hand dryer. Unsurprisingly, they didn't dry overnight. I've managed to dry them a bit, but not to a crisp, and they certainly won't bear me to Hastings. And I am covered in bites, cuts and stings for which I have no relief. 

There is a Boots in Robertsbridge as well as a train station. The tendons at the top of my calf muscles are seriously tenderised and I do fear doing myself an injury.

Evening: Tunbridge Wells

Triumphant:
the Tory power pose after my safe return

I am home. Thank heavens. My legs are in agony - skin and muscle - and I have just emerged from a deep nap. 

The journey to Robertsbridge was far tougher than I had anticipated, and as bad as anything I encountered yesterday. In some respects it was worse. I am sure the problem stems from the intense and sustained sunshine on Monday and heavy rainfall thereafter, resulting in an explosion of growth which has engulfed every common footpath. The nettles yesterday were as tall as my chest; today, they were looking me in the eye. Added to the relentless stings upon my body, sustained as I hacked my way inch by inch through the overgrowth alongside miles of wetland: standing and hacking, hacking and standing; easy prey for mosquitoes; these things added together, I am in great pain now. 

But at least the journey to Roberstbridge was short - four miles, by my reckoning - and half of it was along road or pavement. But I realised as I went that I had made the right choice: I was never going to get to Hastings. Not like this. 

How do I feel about not getting to Hastings? Fine, actually. There would have been excellent bragging rights, of course, but there is no shame in facing facts when they are against you: it was out of the question, at this time and on this attempt. I now have a better feel for judging distances on a map, and it became obvious by last night that what I had planned for the third day would require a fourth to complete. 

It was also apparent that the paths south of Hawkhurst that had caused me such grief the day before were not just badly kept, as I had first thought, but in fact would be typically like this hereafter, as the land was clearly exploding with new growth. This induction was confirmed on my hellish walk to Robertsbridge.

And I was not properly equipped. It is not that I was negligent: it is partly for such experience that I undertook this trip. I had no long trousers to protect me against the nettles and insects. Why should I? Shorts have been perfectly adequate - nay, given the recent heat, desirable - on my recent shorter treks. And besides, considering how much space and weight in my bag was taken up by the tent, I had to make compromises with myself. And in this season, I shall also know better to take insect repellent and some cream for bites and stings. 

This is all to say that Hastings was a bridge too far. All things considered, I think I have walked thirty miles, though I shall need to check that on an OS map. That is no small achievement, and I can be satisfied with it. 

*

And in retrospect? It was odd being on the train, going home. I felt vindicated. I hardly noticed the world we were passing through, the beauty of this special place, for even if a glimpse was there, through the window, it appeared and was gone in the twinkling of an eye. No time to set one's sights upon it, or to think upon it. 

Even at a good speed on a direct and unfettered course the train took a good while getting to Tunbridge Wells. It was like a fast rewind of all that I had done, and I felt deeply satisfied therefore, especially passing Frant, which, as I had learned on my journey, is not in Frant. But it also revealed to me how much of our land is measured in time, not miles. I know this is not an original observation but the force of it is new to me. The work of three days was undone in just over twenty minutes by a train. Upon foot, this land is vast, complex, almost impenetrable and actually quite dangerous. On a train, it is small, pretty, fleeting and harmless. It will be a while before I complain once more about the slowness of journeys in these parts, for I shall long bear in my mind what a transformation is there in how we view the world, first with the steam engine, then with the motor engine; and just how much at odds, possibly out of reach, our forebears' understanding of our shared space must be from our own. The only way to get the old country back, then, is to walk it.

*

I set out as a tourist of nature, a greedy sightseer of photogenic views. I return changed: those hills, trees, rivers and valleys don't look the same to me anymore. Nature is something to be reckoned with.

How clear my mind has become.