The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 17

In the beginning there was the road. But before the road, there was the river.

Gillian Tindall – The Fields Beneath

Lockdown Day 17

Her fishlike eyes adjust to the dimness of the church’s interior. The walls, she notices, are alive with colour. The colours dance and shimmer and she is drawn towards the nearest wall. As she approaches, trailing a faint spoor of weed and river water along the floor of the church, the colours first separate and then coalesce into what she discerns is a picture. Dragging her river wet body along first one wall and then across to another she sees that there are three pictures that stand out from the others. One is of the Apostles’ Creed, another illustrates the Seven Deadly Sins and the third, a stylised skeleton figure, represents Death. Its eyeless sockets stare out at Julie, drinking in her mortality.

 

Picture of River Gwenfro, Wrexham ©Bobby Seal

Extract from Swimming Against the Stream ©Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 16

Oh, I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby say goodbye.

Joni Mitchell – River

Lockdown Day 16

Yesterday evening we held a signing ceremony in our back garden. We set up the documents on a garden table and brought in, separately, two of our neighbours. We all stood overlooking the table, but several metres apart. We each then took our turn to come forward and sign the documents, two of us as signatories and two as witnesses. Naturally, we all brought our own pens.

We all laughed and joked that this was like something taking place in the Korean De-militarised Zone, or some other unhappy trouble-spot. Despite the serious nature of the task, it was good to be with other people, albeit all of us maintaining an appropriate distance.

The serious matter in hand was not a peace treaty, though we hope completing the task will give us some peace of mind at this time when we are all facing the threat of COVID-19. Mrs S and I were simply updating our Wills and asking our neighbours to witness them.

Everyone should have a Will, not just rich people or old people. We first drew up ours in 2013, when our youngest daughter was 13 and we wanted to make arrangements for who would look after her should we both suddenly die. Yesterday was just a matter of updating the arrangements now she is an adult.

Our youngest tells us she wants to make a Will too. She doesn’t have much in the way of assets, but she tells us that she’s read that, should she die, all of her student debt will be expunged. She reckons, therefore, that she should take out the maximum loan each year and leave it all to her beneficiaries!

 

Picture of Ruisseau des Écudets, Savoie ©Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 15

the rivers we cut
                                   the artificial divides
                      lead us to the shore of source

Allen FisherPlace

Lockdown Day 15

Julie continues her journey upstream. She reaches the Church of All Saints Old Parish at Llangar, the so-called Church of the White Stag.

Then to Llangar, a tiny village near Corwen with a white-painted church. It squats on the banks of the Dee overlooking its confluence with the River Alwen; it watches and it waits, occupying this same spot for more than seven hundred years. Her thick stone walls glow in the setting evening sun and cast long shadows over the gently flowing waters. The building is indifferent, though it sees Julie it does not acknowledge that it has done so. It crouches, a vast white stag surveying its kingdom.

It neither repels nor welcomes the woman it sees in the river that it guards, it just accepts that she is there in the way one would notice a passing shadow. But Julie is tired; her lifeforce is ebbing away and she needs to rest; to close her eyes and enter the kind of sleep that one does not know for sure that one will ever awaken from. She drags herself out of the river and struggles of the bank. The church breathes in and she drawn towards it, stumbling across the grass for much of the time on her four limbs like some creature from the forest. The door is open and she enters. Standing at the back of the nave she is aware that no human soul is within, though she is aware of some other presence.

 

Picture of the River Dee near Corwen ©Bobby Seal

 

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 14

A change in the weather is sufficient to recreate the world and ourselves.

Marcel Proust – In Search of Lost Time

Lockdown Day 14

 

 

The fortitude shown by some people in this present crisis is really quite humbling. My eldest daughter, as people who have read this blog before will know, lives in a small two-bedroom flat with her husband and two young children. They have been self-isolating now for three weeks, having been advised to do so for at least twelve. Her three-year old son had a stroke last year and underwent brain surgery less than two months ago, so he is regarded as highly vulnerable to COVID-19.

She has lost her main source of income, as a supply teacher, and the family is confined to a small, first-floor flat, albeit with its own little yard at the back. They manage to get out on their bikes once a day, but the government are now suggesting even that privilege may be withdrawn.

Yet, whenever I speak to her she is positive and upbeat. I know she worries, and has done so since her child first became ill, but to the kids she’s just a cheerful, lively mum. As a committed teacher she’s thrown herself whole-heartedly into the task of home-schooling her kids – on the first day of self-isolation she sat down with them and they drew up a learning schedule together. Everything is turned into a learning opportunity and every lesson is turned into fun: thus, a water pistol each and numbers chalked onto the wall of the yard becomes a maths lesson.

But we can get this whole appreciation of ordinary people doing amazing things in difficult circumstances thing a bit wrong sometimes. Last week I was out for my morning run and passed, having crossed to the other side of the road when I spotted him, a council worker sweeping the pavement with a brush and a push-along cart. Just an ordinary guy, but one who was doing an amazing job for his community and someone who deserves our appreciation.

‘You’re a hero, mate!’ I called across to him, ‘you’re doing a fantastic job’.

I left him looking puzzled and embarrassed as I ran on, and I’ve worried ever since that he might have thought I was using irony to take the piss. So if the town centre street sweeper ever reads this blog…

Picture of Old Dee Bridge at Chester ©Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 13

one step-width water
of linked stones
trills in the stones
glides in the trills
eels in the glides
in each eel a fingerwidth of sea

Alice Oswald – Dart

Lockdown Day 13Julie makes swift progress for the waters of the lake are calm and she no longer has to battle upstream against the flow of the river. But the river is still there, deep below the surface it weaves its way south to north along the length of the lake, a golden thread of pure mountain water.

The waters of the River Dee, Afon Dyfrdwy in Welsh, flow through Llyn Tegid. According to legend they do mix with the waters of the lake: they are a ‘golden thread’ forever flowing through the cold depths of the lake and never mingling. Thus in mythology the lake represents the flood, the deluge drowning the whole world, whereas the golden thread is the stream of life, clinging on and emerging unscathed.

 

 

Excerpt from Swimming Against the Stream, ©Bobby Seal
Picture of River Dee ©Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 12

I also took a digital approach to letting the river guide the composition, through a process called sonification. In the same way we might visually represent a set of data in a graph or diagram, sonification represents data through sound.

Rob St John – Surface Tension: A Sonic Exploration of the River Lea (Notes)

Lockdown Day 12

At its heart his blog is about psychogeography. More particularly it is a vehicle to explore the responses of artists, writers and musicians to urban and rural environments. Flânerie, the art of experiencing by walking around, provides a useful tool for the practice of the  psychogeographer.

The concept of the flâneur, the casual wanderer, observer and reporter of street-life in the modern city, was first explored, at length, in the writings of Baudelaire. Baudelaire’s flâneur, an aesthete and dandy, wandered the streets and arcades of nineteenth-century Paris looking at and listening to the kaleidoscopic manifestations of the life of a modern city. The flâneur’s method and the meaning of his activities were bound together, one with the other.

The present lockdown has necessarily made such wandering very difficult; we are all limited to a daily walk, run or cycle starting at our own front door, and for perfectly understandable reasons. But these limits on our right to wander, and attempts to curb the flaneur and flâneuse, are nothing new. Iain Sinclair has written extensively about parts of London, whole streets and squares, which are privatised and effectively off limits. But restrictions on the casual walker go even further back:

A man who goes for a walk ought not to have to concern himself with any hazards he may run into, or with the regulations of a city. … But he cannot do this today without taking a hundred precautions, without asking the advice of the police department, without mixing with a dazed and breathless herd, for whom the way is marked out in advance by bits of shining metal. If he tries to collect the whimsical thoughts that may have come to mind, very possibly occasioned by sights on the street, he is deafened by car horns, [and] stupefied by loud talkers.
(Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project (Cambridge, Mass and London, Belknap Harvard, 1999) p. 435)

But what we are left with, if we cannot explore by wandering, is something even more powerful. One’s own memory and imagination provide the outline and, in the virtual world, one can find limitless colours to fill in the gaps.

Picture of the River Dee near Eccleston, ©Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 11

What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that–everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me, it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness….I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.

Virginia Woolf – Her last letter to Leonard before drowning herself in the River Ouse.

 

Today’s pictures feature the extraordinarily beautiful fourteenth century bridge at Holt, near Wrexham.

Lockdown Day 11a

 

The bridge is made from local sandstone. It spans the River Dee and links Holt, on the Welsh side of the river, with its twin village of Farndon on the English side. I wrote about it in a poem some time ago:

A bridge that links and divides.

Two nations, border country, and in my mind

I’m so close to the edge.

But fly-strewn water fills my mouth,

and drowns all possible words.

There are several legends connected with the bridge. One concerns two young boys, Madoc and Llewellyn ap Gruffydd, who were thrown from the bridge in dead of night soon after it was opened. The boys, relatives of Llewelyn, the last true Price of Wales, were murdered by John, Earl Warren, and Roger Mortimer, feudal lords allied to Edward I, to claim their inheritance.

Legend has it that the boys’ cries can still be heard in the river on dark nights.

Lockdown Day 11bPicture of the River Dee and Holt Bridge, ©Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 10

The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a water way leading to the uttermost ends of the earth.

Joseph Conrad – Heart of Darkness

Lockdown Day 10

I was a student in London in the 1970s. On dark, still nights, lying in bed in my flat in Whitechapel, I would often hear the horns of ships and barges edging their way through the Pool of London. I always associate that sound with East London: horns calling out above the constant hum of traffic as if seeking to remind all who hear that they, the coastal and ocean-going craft and the river they ply their trade upon, are the very reason that the city exists.

I live on the edge of a small town in Wales now and the sea is quite a long way off, so the only ships’ horns I hear now are those that haunt my dreams. But even here, close to open countryside, one can always hear the background rumble of traffic from the garden. Until recently, at least.

One of the few positive spin-offs from the current COVID-19 crisis is the fact that there is far less traffic on the roads. Going out for my early morning run every other day or just taking a walk at other times I see very few cars and lorries. As I sit at my desk now, looking out over the garden, all I can hear is birdsong.

There are far fewer planes flying overhead too. We live on flight paths for Manchester and Liverpool airports and would normally see and hear scores of aircraft each day. The huge Beluga transport plane, shuttling between Airbus at Broughton and Toulouse each day, normally flies over our house too. But it does so no longer.

Worldwide air pollution levels are plummeting too. People are driving and flying far less. Sadly, this is probably only a temporary phenomenon. But it does give us all a foretaste of the kind of world we need to create if we are to avert Earth’s impending climate disaster.

 

Picture of River Thames from The Shard, ©Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 9

The flow of the Ill had often taken me in its current. I had spent so long wandering along its banks and along the cobbled paths away from Petite France that I had rarely explored the local vicinity of my partner’s flat by Square des Moulins.

Adam Scovell – How Pale the Winter has Made Us

Lockdown Day 9

I’ve chosen today’s picture because, to me, it seems so typical of the French countryside. Something to do with the light and the even spacing of the trees. In fact, it was taken on a walk along the River Dee from Holt to Bangor-is-y-Coed.

The virus is coming closer to home. Several of my wife’s colleagues are self-isolating at home with possible symptoms, as is a district nurse friend. The daughter of another friend has just returned to her new role as a GP having been off work with (thankfully mild) COVID-19 symptoms. The common factor with all of these people is that they work in a frontline NHS role, as does my wife.

But it’s not just about frontline medical staff. This present crisis will, one hopes, give us all a greater appreciation of our minimum wage heroes: our delivery people, shop and warehouse people, care assistants and cleaners. An appreciation, not just expressed as a sentiment, but translated into decent wages and fair contracts. One can always hope.

 

Picture of River Dee near Holt, ©Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 8

The Thames cuts a lonely swathe through maps of contemporary London. She’s one of the last visible remnants of a natural landscape lost beneath concrete and steel. She trails sadly through the megalopolis like a party ribbon hanging from the back of a crashed wedding limousine.

Gareth E Rees – Marshland

 

The other day Gareth Rees sent me a short extract from his next book, which is due to be published later this year. He wanted me to read it because it concerned a memory from an incident in my childhood that I had previously shared with him.

One Saturday morning almost a year ago, while he was travelling the country researching his book, Gareth and I took a walk along the River Alun in North Wales to the place where something strange had taken place many years before. Thinking back to that morning last year, such a fresh, sunny Spring morning, I am reminded of happier times when we all took it for granted that we were free to go out, meet with friends and wander around to wherever our fancy took us.

Lockdown, Day 8

Incident is, perhaps, too concrete a word for the thing we discussed. It was more to do with a memory of an atmosphere, a feeling; something imbued into the very fabric of a particular place.  This section of the Alun runs through a wooded limestone valley and is particularly beautiful; Felix Mendelssohn liked to walk here when he visited the area.

However, there is a short section of the river, running through a former industrial site, that is distinctly different in atmosphere; one might almost say it has a sinister feel to it. For me this is apparent even from the picture above.

There is a chapter in Gareth’s next book that considers the place I took him to and other weird post-industrial sites. The section he sent me to read retells the tale more or less as I told it to him – but with a twist. Gareth, perhaps, likes to follow Emily Dickinson’s advice to: ‘tell all the truth but tell it slant’. Either way I am looking forward to reading the rest of his book.

 

Picture of River Alun near Mold, ©Bobby Seal

 

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