Taking the sudden sense of loss and disorientation that has struck me over the past few days and trying to make of it some benefit; catching this restless air, this feeling of looking for something that is not here, and replacing it with the hope of the meaningful in my immediate, unknown surroundings -
- A man out of time? -
I get a tip-off by phone from an old friend who grew up here. He suggests a walk to St. Catherine's Hill. So at the end of the day I set off without a map, directions logged in the back of my mind.
The town is full of football fans celebrating an England victory in the World Cup - they bay and bray, or grunt inaudible words toward the sun whilst wrapped in flags of St. George; the boys are almost orgasmic over the goals they've witnessed, their eyes alight with more life than ever they have over other aspects of their lives. There is a real flavour of the medieval here in this, obviously heightened by the age and architecture of the town itself, the traces of that period. They get so jubilant and happy these supporters that they pick fights, break heads and noses, and spill blood on the stones outside an old pub. Their screams can still be heard over the rooftops as I reach the town outskirts and cross over a narrow road to reach the footpath beside the old navigation canal. St. Catherine's Hill is tantalisingly close, maybe half a mile away to my left, but without a map I get lost and find myself on the wrong side of the water courses with nowhere to cross -
- The sound of the air beneath a Swift's wings as it pulls up in front of me and heads into the eaves of an out-building -
It is not long before I realise that there are people out here still praying for the spirit of place; apologising for the scarring of the land, the open wound that is Twyford Down nearby. With the M11 cutting through its heart and assaulting the area with noise and pollution. All for the sake of a mythical 11 minutes off your journey time to London. Twyford Down, galvanizer of the road-protest movement, of the DIY fighters and rave-progressives standing up to the Criminal Justice Act and whose strength came to the fore in this place, yet whose efforts were ultimately swept away by the lords of Tory misrule. Confrontation played out to the beat of Spiral Tribe's bass bins and the hammer of riot shields. And Cameron's blues are now trying to claim themselves as the 'green' alternative politicos. He ought to come here and make amends instead of running off to Greenland for sledge racing. Do something radical like shut the road down, replant and replace with what was here before; apologise, come bow down and regret. This is his political history, the legacy of poor land treatment -
- Chalk and flint in abundance along the footpaths of the ancient hill fort - Up with the Sand Martins, on a level with their altitude - aye, the backs of birds, a fortunate sight - dancing and cavorting close to the grass tops and briefly flitting down to touch the chalk, taste it, take it away for nest building, then whistling away in their descent -
Winchester 15/6/06
- A man out of time? -
I get a tip-off by phone from an old friend who grew up here. He suggests a walk to St. Catherine's Hill. So at the end of the day I set off without a map, directions logged in the back of my mind.
The town is full of football fans celebrating an England victory in the World Cup - they bay and bray, or grunt inaudible words toward the sun whilst wrapped in flags of St. George; the boys are almost orgasmic over the goals they've witnessed, their eyes alight with more life than ever they have over other aspects of their lives. There is a real flavour of the medieval here in this, obviously heightened by the age and architecture of the town itself, the traces of that period. They get so jubilant and happy these supporters that they pick fights, break heads and noses, and spill blood on the stones outside an old pub. Their screams can still be heard over the rooftops as I reach the town outskirts and cross over a narrow road to reach the footpath beside the old navigation canal. St. Catherine's Hill is tantalisingly close, maybe half a mile away to my left, but without a map I get lost and find myself on the wrong side of the water courses with nowhere to cross -
- The sound of the air beneath a Swift's wings as it pulls up in front of me and heads into the eaves of an out-building -
It is not long before I realise that there are people out here still praying for the spirit of place; apologising for the scarring of the land, the open wound that is Twyford Down nearby. With the M11 cutting through its heart and assaulting the area with noise and pollution. All for the sake of a mythical 11 minutes off your journey time to London. Twyford Down, galvanizer of the road-protest movement, of the DIY fighters and rave-progressives standing up to the Criminal Justice Act and whose strength came to the fore in this place, yet whose efforts were ultimately swept away by the lords of Tory misrule. Confrontation played out to the beat of Spiral Tribe's bass bins and the hammer of riot shields. And Cameron's blues are now trying to claim themselves as the 'green' alternative politicos. He ought to come here and make amends instead of running off to Greenland for sledge racing. Do something radical like shut the road down, replant and replace with what was here before; apologise, come bow down and regret. This is his political history, the legacy of poor land treatment -
- Chalk and flint in abundance along the footpaths of the ancient hill fort - Up with the Sand Martins, on a level with their altitude - aye, the backs of birds, a fortunate sight - dancing and cavorting close to the grass tops and briefly flitting down to touch the chalk, taste it, take it away for nest building, then whistling away in their descent -
Winchester 15/6/06
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