"To Edward Thomas"

I have just come across this beautiful poem to Edward Thomas, from the pen of Welsh poet Alun Lewis who died in 1944.  I know I should leave it until the 97th anniversary of his death, on 9th April, but in typical Aries fashion I cannot wait that long to share it with you.  I am beginning to think I should have a separate Edward Thomas blog so that those of you who are already tut-tutting and about to visit elsewhere in blogland will at least have a choice in future!  The picture above shows the band of yew trees amongst the beautiful woodland girdling Shoulder of Mutton hill, where the Edward Thomas memorial stone is.  Yew trees love chalk downland.

 To Edward Thomas
(On visiting the memorial stone above Steep in Hampshire)
I On the way up from Sheet I met some children
Filling a pram with brushwood; higher still
Beside Steep church an old man pointed out
A rough white stone upon a flinty spur
Projecting from the high autumnal woods...
I doubt if much has changed since you came here
On your last leave; except the stone; it bears
Your name and trade: 'To Edward Thomas, Poet.'
II Climbing the steep path through the copse I knew
My cares weighed heavily as yours, my gift
Much less, my hope
No more than yours.
And like you I felt sensitive and somehow apart,
Lonely and exalted by the friendship of the wind
And the placid afternoon enfolding
The dangerous future and the smile.
III I sat and watched the dusky berried ridge
Of yew-trees, deepened by oblique dark shafts,
Throw back the flame of red and gold and russet
That leapt from beech and ash to birch and chestnut
Along the downward arc of the hill's shoulder,
And sunlight with discerning fingers
Softly explore the distant wooded acres,
Touching the farmsteads one by one with lightness
Until it reached the Downs, whose soft green pastures
Went slanting sea- and skywards to the limits
Where sight surrenders and the mind alone
Can find the sheeps' tracks and the grazing.
And for the moment Life appeared
As gentle as the view I gazed upon.
IV Later, a whole day later, I remembered
This war and yours and your weary
Circle of failure and your striving
To make articulate the groping voices
Of snow and rain and dripping branches
And love that ailing in itself cried out
About the straggling eaves and ringed the candle
With shadows slouching round your buried head;
And in the lonely house there was no ease
For you, or Helen, or those small perplexed
Children of yours who only wished to please.
Divining this, I knew the voice that called you
Was soft and neutral as the sky
Breathing on the grey horizon, stronger
Than night's immediate grasp, the limbs of mercy
Oblivious as the blood; and growing clearer,
More urgent as all else dissolved away,
--Projected books, half-thoughts, the children's birthdays,
And wedding anniversaries as cold
As dates in history--the dream
Emerging from the fact that folds a dream,
The endless rides of stormy-branched dark
Whose fibres are a thread within the hand--
Till suddenly, at Arras*, you possessed that hinted land.
Alun Lewis (1915-1944)

The white Black Mountain, and bird-watching

Like everywhere else, spring is coming slowly to our valley.  There are a few Primroses out and Celandines, but they look rather tatty from being battered by this constant wind - I think it must be on holiday from the Falkland Islands where my husband tells me "the wind blows all the time."  The Dog's Mercury has been out for weeks, and now the Ramson (wild Garlic) leaves have just burrowed up through the earth and last week I was delighted to see the happy little faces of the Windflowers dancing on the bank by the junction.

I am trying to walk daily again now.  Not very far at present, but I need to stretch my legs as I keep getting twinges of Sciatica.  My back is definitely "out" but bearable.  The trip to the Chiropractor will have to wait for the moment.  Anyway, I took my camera with me when I walked up the hill yesterday, as I wanted to get a photo of Black Mountain still in her winter wraps.  She looks rather splendid and primeval against the monochrome foreground.

I was bird-watching yesterday and imagine my delight when I spotted a Goldcrest in the hedgerow.  It flew off, startled by my approach, but when I stood quietly, it returned and I was able to see it properly.  It is only the 4th I have ever seen.  One in Dorset, one down by the Mill last summer, and one last week - which one of those intrepid hunters (the boys) brought it into the kitchen, already dead . . . 

It looks just-fledged doesn't it?  A very early brood in that case.  Not sure if it could be a young Firecrest - they have bronzey shoulders, but this one is still too fluffy to tell.  They are apparently members of the kinglet family of birds . . . Old World Warblers according to Wikipedia.

Early-morning light across the paddock.  Our stream runs through this little copse, and the trees towards the back are ones that have grown in and around the old abandoned mill-pond. I wanted to capture this warm morning light, and the very special "March-light" which has such clarity later in the day.

This morning I was up at 6 and as I pulled the half-landing curtains, I could see Miffy on the trackway the far side of the lane, out hunting unsuspecting baby rabbits I will assume.  However, so was the dog fox I photographed last week.  They must have come face to face, as I saw the white of Miffy turn and run back across the lane, and then hurtle across the paddock with the fox - interested but not in hunting mode - following her.  She ran across the garden and into the hole in the corner where they all come and go, and he trotted up on the rockery, by which point I was at the front door and rapped on it.  he looked at me over his shoulder, totally unfazed, and then followed Miffy through the gap.  I called Miffy and she ran across the farmyard and back into the other end of the garden and the fox loped off down the trackway at the back of the slurry lagoon.  I wonder what happens under cover of darkness?  These two obviously have a stalemate.

As I opened the front door, two small flights of birds hurtled overhead, wings scything - no, cleaving is the word I wanted (thank you Robert Frost!)  the air with a very audible swoosh.    They were migrating Starlings, a bird we don't often see around here, but which are finding food locally at the moment.  As I write there are more going over - 6 to a dozen in each little group heading up the valley towards Jim's.  A couple of hundred more have settled in the big Ash trees above the farm.  They are making little flight-forays across the farmyard and back in a swooping loop to the tree.  Every now and then small groups break off and fly up the valley.  They are fascinating to watch.

 Last week when I opened the front door first thing, it was a party of male Blackbirds - one being pursued by 4 others, obviously in a territorial dispute. There are many Blackbirds locally and when I was out in the car on Thursday, it was Blackbirds, Thrushes, and Chaffinches I saw most of.  There are such gangs of Chaffinches about locally and yesterday we drove down the hill through a perfect storm of Chaffinches!  Magic : )

Saxifraga oppositifolia - well it was called that but they have recently changed its name, but I can't remember what to - in English it is Opposite-leaved Golden Saxifrage.  It grows by the acre in the wet woodlands round here, on banks, ditches - everywhere.  An insignificant little "flower" but a harbinger of spring.

In Pursuit of Spring

 .

The photo of the Germander Speedwells and  Yellow Archangel was taken in the beautiful woodland near Thomas's memorial.

I  apologise for pinching the title of Edward Thomas's book - his last one (published in 1913) before his beautiful prose flowered into stunning and evocative poetry..  Over the Easter weekend, Matthew Oates is on Radio 4 each afternoon, speaking of Edward Thomas's journey from London to Somerset (the Quantocks), a journey of some 130 miles by bicycle.  I was a little disappointed that this programme was only 10 minutes long (and not the half hour I was expecting!) but I am just listening to it again

Anyway, I was out and about yesterday and on my way back from the horse sale, the road over the mynydd was blocked by a tractor and a load of hay, and someone trying to fix it.  I backed up and reversed and came home the way least taken . . .  It was a regular route for us at one point, and I used to go that way every day when I was at Uni at Lampeter.  Until that is, we had a really icy spell and a car hit mine.  I had stopped, as I could see him coming towards me, but he was going too fast and hit an icy patch and did minor damage to my old car.  Remembering the awful rabbit-in-the-car-headlights feeling as the car shot towards me made me very disinclined to go that route that winter, and so I took the other way and have been going that way ever since.

Anyway, it was an absolute treat to go a different way.  The scenery is rather wild and woolly and there are plenty of pine trees planted amidst the peaty moorland, all covered with anthills or tussock grass.  Where the tussock grass is behind the sheepwire at the edge of the trees it has sprouted a shaggy top like a beige anemone. Where it is sheep-nibbled it is like stubble.  With the sun on the moor, it assumes, at this time of year, the hue of a slightly undercooked Digestive biscuit . . .

I may return to this tomorrow . . .

Down by the river

I have spent a while looking at our river today.  At lunchtime I went for a walk to stretch my legs - and hopefully keep at bay the Sciatica which has been coming and going the past 3 weeks or so.  I leaned on the parapet of the bridge for a while and just watch the water glissading underneath it, and then as I walked across and up the lane, I caught sight of a Dipper on a rock, preening himself.  He seemed totally unaware of me - and there were a few trees between us - and so I was able to watch him for 5 minutes or so.

I only walked a mile or so up the valley but was lucky enough to have the sun come out and light up the maroon and bottle green of the ivy leaves, throw a golden glow on the hedge bottoms where the Dog's Mercury shelters, and show  tree-tops the colour of mercury against the darker clouds.

I was hoping to hear a Chiff-Chaff, but none have arrived here yet.  I heard and saw some Blue Tits and Great Tits, and a Robin followed me a few yards from curiosity.  Blackbirds turned over dead leaves and three small orange snail shells lay broken on the road's edge, where a Thrush had his workshop.

The Dipper was still on a rock when I got back, and he then flew up onto a branch which the river had captured and jammed against the central stanchion.  What a handsome bird, but no dipping or curtsying did he do today.

An hour ago my husband suggested that we go and bring back the excellent Ash log which the river had recently brought down.  It needed the chainsaw at it, and made 4 logs to heave back to the car.  I managed to carry one a short distance, but my back began to complain and I had to leave it for the strong one in our partnership.  As we worked, I noticed that there were huge fingers of ice on the slate rockface beside us, where we have had torrents of rain and then a return to colder temperatures.  It made me feel cold just to look at them!

I couldn't resist picking a bunch of pussy willow twigs which had been cut recently when the fishing guys were sorting out the river-edge, and these had now decided to flower anyway and the dove-grey and silver buds are now gracing the hall table in a simple earthenware jug.

This GREEN is what I would LIKE to see down by the river, but I don't think it's going to happen any time soon, as when we came back to the car it was attempting to snow, and little flurries of flakes were thrown into our faces.  According to my husband, the weather pundits reckon this cold spell could go on into April, and then be followed by another dismal wet summer.  I do hope not. . . it will wipe out certain Butterflies which are already critical (98% decrease in numbers of Black Hairstreaks for instance) and soon all we will see will be Cabbage Whites .  .  .  Bees are already suffering terribly and I think another summer could really decimate their numbers.  We will have to wish for a decent summer for 2013 . . .

The view from here . . .

All I need to do is to step outside the front door and I instantly know what it feels like to live in Siberia.  Somehow I don't think I shall be emigrating any time soon.  Yeesh - we just have the wind.  I feel really sorry for the people in Northern Ireland, North Wales and Cumbria who have snow drifts 10 - 20 feet deep.  Particularly the farmers who have had such a bad year weatherwise over the past 15 months or so, and now stand to suffer catastrophic losses with ewes about to lamb and buried in snow.  I hope the Government will do something to help them, but somehow I doubt it . . .  Countryfolk live outside the  circle of the M25 and somehow drop off the Downing Street radar.  All I can say is, come Peak Oil, we shall look after our own!

I thought I would share the SPRINGTIME view above, which was taken on my way from Somerset into Dorset a couple of years back - from memory, it is the back of Bulbarrow Hill, looking back towards the Somerset border.

I have ordered, and taken receipt of, 3 books so far for my birthday.  One is an absolute corker about Crochet (different shaped blocks) and my fingers are fair itching to try some out.

Then there are two books about Edward Thomas: one in-depth one on his poetry, and the other is a reprint of a book published about 1939, and a very readable biography of ET.  I have dragged myself away from this book just long enough to check out my eBay listings and write this post.  Then I shall be back by the f ire.

 

Just to leave you with another reminder that spring can't be TOO far away.  I hope!

This gorgeous cottage with its ancient Wisteria was - I think - in Childe Okeford, Dorset.

Living in the past with Edward Thomas

      Above: the view from the hill above the memorial stone to Edward Thomas on Leg of Mutton Hill, Steep, Hampshire

I am spending what has been a very wet and windy and thoroughly miserable spring-that-still-feels-like-winter day up in my office, at the computer, looking up various poems of Edward Thomas, and printing them off (for my talk).  It is easier to do this than to photocopy them from the book I have of his annotated poems.  Needless to say, this sends me on a spiralling exploration of links via the internet - what a wonderful invention the search engine is! - and I am now thoroughly drawn into the past.  The First World War Poetry Digital Archive is the most delightful and helpful site and I have been endeavoring to read some of Edward's letters to his son Mervyn, but gosh, his writing was done in haste and takes some working out as a combination of pencilled writing and many words pretty well joined together needs much concentration.  The signature of "Daddy"  brought a pang to my heart.  He speaks of walking 20 miles on a Sunday afternoon with four pals.

I have read some of his letters to Helen, they start "Dearest".  One mentions sending her some more of his verses which "should make up pretty well, with those I put in the oak chest, the set Merfyn has."  This letter shows him concentrating on practical matters.  Saying he has got a good haversack, but if she gets a pipe, to get it at the Stores, a dark red French briar pipe costing no more than 5/- or 6/- (shillings to those younger than me!) . . . He ends it "Goodbye, Edwy".  No mention of love, or missing her or the children but the core of the letter is about getting sets of his poems together for publishing but not to send to Robert Frost until he (Edward) tells her the thing is settled.

Some of these letters are held in the Edward Thomas Collection in Cardiff and I would love to see them if I could.  Several of the notebooks containing the poems he wrote are held at the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth, where I have a reading ticket.  I hesitate to write this next few lines, for fear that I will be thought completely stark raving bonkers, but I would SO love to handle one of those notebooks and see if I could get a sense of the man behind the words, because  I once had the most amazing and inexplicable experience in our local Records Office.  Those of you with long memories must forgive me for having written about this before.

I had ordered up a box of various notebooks, letters and unknown documents for some research I was doing.  The family was a notable Carmarthen one, although they also had land holdings in Scotland.  Amongst the documents I came across scribbled letters from Queen Victoria herself (gosh, but her writing was bad!) as one of the family had been one of her bridesmaids.  I became absorbed by the notebook kept by one of the family's sons (in Victorian times) when his Battalion was sent to the Zulu Wars.  At the time I was looking for mention of how horses were kept etc and there was some interesting stuff which I jotted down.  The son was overawed by the terrific thunderstorms with immense lightening out on the African plains.  He was, it would seem, being kept busy (and safe)  as Staff Officer and well away from the fighting, but he wanted to show his mettle and volunteered to be involved closer to the fray.  Sadly, it was is undoing, for when their small exploratory party came under fire from a Zulu force hiding in  cave, and in bravely offering to lead a small party of men against what was truly an impregnable position, he was mortally wounded.  HERE is a link to tell you more about it. 

Anyway, when I got home, from curiosity, I looked up a website which had photographs of the slain and when I reached Lord C's son's photograph I immediately felt what HE had experienced at the moment of his death.  His blood was up, he was totally unafraid, and completely surprized when he was hit (on his head I believe, from the notes added later in his personal notebook, by his surviving CO).  I scrolled down, and then up again and every time that night I did that, I felt the same thing all over again.  This ended when I had had a bath and presumably his . . . essence . . . or whatever from the notebook was washed from my hands.  I cannot, simply cannot explain it, but I guess it is part of my "feyness".

Oh my gosh - I have just checked, and one of the archivists has written this up in this link  to the journal.  It may take a while to read it though, but it's fascinating stuff.

Anyway, in a childish way, I am rather hoping I might have some sense of Edward Thomas if I handled documents he had written . . .  I shall report back in due course.

Fox vs. cat - who won?

At teatime yesterday we had an unexpected visitor to the garden - a big dog fox - who looked like his mum had never taught him that Cleanliness was next to Godliness!  He was quite aware of us in the window, but not at all bothered.

He trotted round the garden, clambering up the water cascade and then around the edge of the pond, where he spotted . . . Miffy, the boys' mother, who had also spotted him and was cwtched behind a big planter, with her tail like a bottle brush . . .  We watched the scene unfold . . .

Hearts in mouths, we watched the fox get closer and then Miffy decided she had had enough of THIS and flew at him, and he scarpered - only to the back of the apple tree, and both parties considered their next move . . .

He decided that perhaps he would leave iffy in peace - thank heavens.  It was interesting to see their reactions.  He wasn't really bothered by her, but respectful enough perhaps to know that cats have claws.

Sorry for the quality of the photos, but in my excitement, I had knocked the camera setting onto Portrait, which isn't much good for getting close-ups long-distance!