where art collides philosoperontap

July 21, 2009

Isle of Man Day 1

Filed under: prose — Trefor Davies @ 7:09 pm

We arrived at Pier Head at almost exactly 10.30, the appointed hour for check in. Whilst not last to arrive we were near the back of the queue and seeing our trailer the attendant waved us into the “white van lane”. We weren’t sure if this was a good thing because being stuck behind a high sided white van we couldn’t see the queue ahead and in consequence had no idea whether the line ahead was moving.

Of course the line wasn’t moving and we stayed there for the usual interminable length of time, waiting. The waiting is a traditional part of getting on a ferry. It’s a bit of a lottery really. When you get into that queue there doesn’t seem to be any logic as to which lane moves first and therefore who gets on first.

Even if you do get on first that often means that you are parked in a dead end on the car deck that pretty much guarantees you are the last off. And nobody wants to get into that position. When the boat hits the jetty in the Isle of Man everyone is chomping at the bit to hit the road.

So this time we were in the white van queue and waiting…

When in the queue the dynamics in the car change. Suddenly everyone gets bored. The box of sandwiches, made by Anne at the crack of dawn for consumption on the boat, is breached and handed round. Anne wants to get out of the car. There is an interesting new building a hundred metres or so away. No no I say. They will all want to follow and what then happens when the lane starts moving?

Anne and Hannah settle for standing next to the car, stretching their legs after the 20 minute journey. Starlings break the boredom by looking for food on the wall next to the car. There is no food. Why don’t they go somewhere there is a bit of grass where there at least might be worms.

The man in the van behind us gets out and sits on the wall.  The cricket has not yet started on the radio. The kids start arguing.

At last we start moving, slowly, although when we get to the front we are waved through without the security checks that apply to white vans and we drive onboard.

The journey is smooth though not entirely uneventful because whilst we are at sea England beat the Aussies in the second test at Lords. The Niarbyl lounge is comfortable and almost empty. When we arrive in Douglas we are indeed one of the first off. Result!

July 17, 2009

Choppy

Filed under: poems — Paulie @ 8:38 pm

I’m here, looking at the trees.
They look so tired after a day of pounding.
The sun (I see) is setting in the west and the clouds are scooting wildly across the tops of the ash and elder.
Who would travel on a Monday after such a skirmish?
Those who travel hopefully I suppose.
Short of Juan next week but pretty complete otherwise until the weekend when W leaves to tend to sick father.
In primary now – not the Presidential. Tired beyond belief. Looking forward to seeing Freya’s big almost sister. So is she.
Good luck with the weather – we now call it surfing (new boat).
See you soon!

The story so far – Cardiff/Islay

Filed under: Land of Bent Grass — Blues @ 2:32 pm

Feels like months, but it’s only really been 2 weeks. Five ferry trips and one uninflatable inflatable bed later and I’m in the pretty little village of Port Ellen on the South West part of Islay, with a sun tan that rivals the one I had after two weeks cycling in Vietnam. The sun’s out and the landscape is dramatic in its intensity of blues, browns, greens, purples (that’ll be the thistles) and yellows. The skies are very picturesque with huge cloud formations which change every minute in the blustery wind. Arran was controlled wildness. Gigha was small and friendly with spectacular white beaches. Islay is so far magnificent in its big open moors stretching miles. I drove past some men hand-cutting the peat for the Laphroaig disillery today, then saw it stacked up in the distillery itself. The next island will be Jura. That’s another kettle of fish. Big jagged mountains and lots of dark looming clouds. Happily, unlike the bed, the tent has taken everything thrown at it so far. Have bought a new one which needs checking out later. Photos at a later date when I’ve got them off the card.

July 13, 2009

After the storm

Filed under: prose — Tags: — Trefor Davies @ 9:19 pm

The monsoon finally arrived to break the run of hot weather. Latterly the combination of heat and humidity had become difficult to tolerate. Nobody had wanted to stir. Instead everyone languished indoors in the shade, patio doors flung wide open in the hope of catching the faintest of breezes. We craved for ice in our drinks but had to settle instead for the cold tap, run as fast as it would go to maximize the cooling effect. The lawn had lost most of its colour and the streets were uncomfortable to walk. Ten paces and you broke into a sweat. Life slowed down to the slowest of slow. In the papers we read of the deaths of old people in apartment blocks. The fragile and the sick who’s bodies found it easier to give up rather than contend with the unaccustomed heat.

Then the rain came accompanied by spectacular thunderstorms. We watched the flashes of lightning and counted to see how far away they were. They came gradually closer bringing with them a torrential downpour that filled the gutters to overflowing and sent us outside to unblock the drainpipes that had filled during the dry period, the leaves prematurely shed from the trees that surrounded the house. We sat in the conservatory looking out at the vertical torrents that bounced off the roof, nature banging its drum. Occasionally we would have to venture out, clad in shorts, sandals and waterproofs. Although it was wet it was still pleasantly warm.

The rains finally left us. We set to unblocking the drain in front of the garage. The garage itself had flooded, as it does every time. I took Tom for a driving lesson, instructing him to avoid the large puddles that met us at every bend in the road. The sky was spectacularly grey and white, a steely contrast with the damp straw colour of the fields that we sped past in the car. We arrived home as it grew dark. The television could be seen lighting up the room with the curtains fully open. Leaving Tom to lock up I strode through the front door, opened up the laptop and started to type.

July 9, 2009

the heavy typer

Filed under: poems — Trefor Davies @ 11:37 am

the heavy typer
sits next to me on the train,
a corporate animal
tied to his laptop,
reminding me of
someone playing
chopsticks on the piano.
engrossed in his email
he blows dust off his keyboard
and stares intently at the screen.
it half interests me
to know what he is typing
but it is bound to be boring.
he wears a blue uniform
blue suit, stripy blue shirt
and a striped pink and blue tie.
not really my kind of guy.

opposite him
a chap in his early fifties
looks far more relaxed
in an open necked white shirt
and sports jacket.
without being able to see
he is probably surfing.
his breakfast consisted
of a hot chocolate
and a Twix chocolate bar
he will be tired by the time
we get to London.
he is already yawning.
his young chum
with gelled, greying hair,
is in a dark grey pinstripe suit
and grey shirt.
he reads a novel
and says nothing
for the whole journey.

July 5, 2009

Airshow

Filed under: poems — Trefor Davies @ 8:31 pm

hot and tired
the sun beats me down,
no violence
but for certain
no benevolence
and I need all defences.
I hat-share with another
of less foresight,
eyesight cooled by new shades,
tongue licked by ice cream,
cardboard cup of weakly satisfying tea.
noise, excitement, awe,
strikes, soars, swoops,
cameras click and binoculars pan,
babies cry and throw plastic bottles,
tattooed parents sip cold beer
and polystyrene packaged chips with sausages
are consumed out of duty to a tradition
best reserved for windswept seaside towns in March.
homeward we queue and complain
but there is no one to listen.

July 4, 2009

Independent Education on 4th July

Filed under: poems — Paulie @ 11:19 pm

‘What?’
‘No:’
‘Pardon’.
Sit still. Stop swinging on the chair,
Playing with the paper/pens/pencils/other students’ education.
OUT! You really didn’t need to punch Alex twice in the face, once was adequate.
You’re acting like you are in Year 2, maybe the American system should be trialled here.

Where do they get the language from?

The kids do like the US but don’t have a clue really.
An island of sadness within an Island nation.
This is the new school.
Primary, like the healthcare.
Basic and scary.

Nifty Fifty

Filed under: poems — Trefor Davies @ 7:07 pm

When asked what it’s like to be fifty,
Kim replied that it feels rather nifty,
For to party is fun,
When all’s said and done,
Though the time has gone by rather swiftly.

July 1, 2009

Summer’s evening

Filed under: chinks — Blues @ 12:09 am

It’s one o’clock in the morning and I’m sitting out on the decking with a nice little glass of wine. It’s completely still. No breeze, no traffic, no inner-city noise at all. Of course, the odd seagull is still at it. The worst is over on the seagull front, though, since Liam, my next-door neighbour, took this year’s abandoned fledgling to a rescue centre. It had found asylum in my driveway underneath the branches of the Chilean (or is it Argentinian ? – I can never remember) potato plant. I tried hard to give it water, and even opened a pack of smoked salmon for it. But it was too frightened and kept running away. Do seagulls like smoked salmon anyway ?? I’m glad it’s in safe hands. The noise the young ones make is horribly pathetic, and, what’s more, really piercing – and I can leave the house now without being mobbed by its parent. Anyway, the point of the story is that I have seen through midnight, the time at which I go from being on holiday, to being unemployed. It’s a lovely night. I’m comfortably warm in my shorts and T-shirt. The future is ahead of me and it’s going to be good.

June 24, 2009

Early morning at the petrol station

Filed under: thoughts — Tags: — Trefor Davies @ 8:13 am

It’s the beginning of a hot day in Lincoln and after dropping John off at school I take the car to fill up with petrol. The smell of the petrol and the whirring of the pumps says to me that this won’t be a pleasant place to be as the morning moves into midday. It feels inner city, radiating concrete with little relief from the sun.

At home the back doors are already open and I hear the birds calling to each other in the garden. They are enjoying themselves. I can almost hear them say “this is why we come here every summer”. I too am relaxed. Tom bustles about upstairs but everyone else is out of the house.

June 23, 2009

the excitement of the trip

Filed under: thoughts — Tags: — Trefor Davies @ 9:08 pm

I’m pretty much all packed. A few toiletries to sort out in the morning. Passport retrieved from hibernation and fresh ironed clothes tidily, for now, tucked into the bag. Tonight is my last proper night of sleep. Tomorrow I will be on the plane, overnight, and then five late nights and forced mornings, before another overnighter back on the plane home.

The feeling isn’t quite the same as I imagine trips of old to be. The farewell dinner with best friends and loved ones. Next morning taking the trunk down to the railway station and then on to the harbour for departure on a lengthy voyage. The ceremonial crossing of the equator. Dressing for dinner on board. Interminable days of seasickness followed by long periods of intolerable heat.

The idea that I can fly for twelve hours to the far side of the earth, party for five days and then fly back doesn’t seem right. Still, everyone on the trip is excited and I can see this excitement heightening tomorrow morning as the party, from all over the country, diversely makes its way to London Airport for the departure. We even have people from as far as Dublin and New York joining the trip.

It is twilight now. Nearly ten o’clock at night at the height of the British summer. In South Africa it will be dark at this time, Lions roaring and birds screeching, night time in the wilderness. At this time on Thursday I will be gathering around a watering hole, probably singing myself, just like the lions in their own way. Hopefully tunefully.

the lake in summer

Filed under: poems — Tags: , — Trefor Davies @ 9:06 pm

bright primary colours float across the surface,
small boats under an endless blue sky,
the water, shimmering
as the hottest day of the year
drives me into the pleasant shade above the lake.

blackhead gulls find energy,
absorbed from the afternoon heat
and reeds, where week old ducklings hide
and dragonflies hover,
sway gently at the waters edge.

dry onlookers avoid the drip of wet clothes
of self drenched, red faced children
dazzled eyes squinting in the high sun,
tongues, in search of cool refrigeration,
and parent towelled cosset.

June 20, 2009

18

Filed under: poems — Tags: — Trefor Davies @ 8:14 pm

Twas only when he turned eighteen,
That Ben was quite oft to be seen,
In the Star and the Vic,
And the Strugs and the Wig,
And a number of pubs in between.

Tomorrow is the longest day

Filed under: thoughts — Tags: , — Trefor Davies @ 5:16 am

It sounds like a dramatic post title, “the longest day”. It doesn’t, though, refer to some forthcoming ordeal, an adventure where the aircraft crashes in the jungle and it takes forever to be rescued. Tomorrow is actually the longest day. June 21st, the summer equinox.

It is somewhat disconcerting because it implies the summer, and I mean the period of semi nice weather rather than the specific season, the cricket season if you like, is half way through already. Aargh.

Wimbledon is about to start. Good. I can identify with tennis nowadays since I took John to see it last year. We saw Andy Murray, Rafael Nadal and Venus Williams in separate matches on Centre Court. A great introduction proper to the sport.

We also spent lots of money. An “official” towel was £24. We bought two. That’s roughly 20 pints of bitter’s worth for anyone reading this in the future and trying to calibrate that cost. Still we had a great day out.

The first test against the Aussies is also about to start. Another pointer to this being the height of summer. I have mixed feelings about this one. The last time they were over was probably the greatest test series ever. It is unlikely to be repeated this time but we shall see.

Anyway the effect of course of it being the longest day is that it is light both very early and very late and it is at that first part of the day that I now sit in the conservatory tapping out this conversation.

It is not a particularly nice day out. Typical British summer weather really. There is breeze and cloud although this will not stop me from putting on my shorts today. There is also a sparrow pecking away at the patio outside. I can’t say I regularly see a sparrow in the back garden but he is very welcome.

Since I sat down to write this morning the noise of the birds has grown louder. I’m surprised that I was up before them. I suppose we all need our fair quota of sleep.

Looking out into the garden I can see the detritus of childhood. A broken football goal, a football, a giant tennis ball, some football cones, a cricket catching practice net, a trampoline and a slide that must now be 12 or 13 years old and has very well withstood the rigours of its dozen British winters. It doesn’t get used much anymore.

The door of the shed that keeps all the outdoor toys stands half open. It has to go someday soon. The toys are no longer used, just like the playhouse, a treasure in its time but now occupied solely with the storage of garden furniture.

The wheelbarrow on the patio is filled with compost and has been planted with long stemmed white flowers. I know not their make. The chimeniere hides behind them.

Enough of these musings. Tomorrow is the longest day which means that today is nearly as long so I must get on with it and go and make Anne a cup of tea. It is still early but there is a lot of day to cram things into so lets go!

June 19, 2009

Breakfast before the tourists get there

Filed under: prose — Tags: , — Trefor Davies @ 8:36 pm

It’s early in the big city. I’m just off Oxford Street. The shop workers pour out of the underground and bustle to their counters criss-crossing the road in a seemingly random yet purposeful fashion.

I had left the hotel in search of a more economic and down to earth breakfast and settled on an Italian café down a side street. There are only two or three other customers. The Eastern European waitress serves me. She is pleasant enough but you get the impression she is not well versed in the Full English Breakfast.

Ordering one anyway I settle into my paper and survey the other customers. There is nothing really to report. The place was clearly designed to attract tourists and I was an anomaly. It was too early for the regular punters.

Elsewhere in the room a suited businessman drank a coffee and stared into his laptop. An early shopper drank a cup of something else and soon her friend arrived. They looked as if they were steeling themselves for the effort ahead. Retail therapy without the therapy.

My unsatisfactory breakfast arrived together with a cup of tea and an orange juice. Italian cooks don’t do justice to Full English. The giant mushroom was at least artistic. I didn’t finish the breakfast, paid leaving a tip earned solely on the personality of the waitress and left for the tube.

Disappearing into the underground I felt as if I was joining the rat race.

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