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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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 7

He has the feeling he’s staring back in time, or at another part of time. And, as he stares, the white, blown carcass of a moon-like fish – a tench – stares back from the reed bed, its ripped flesh waving in a dense current.

Will Eaves – Murmur

Lockdown Day 7

She recalled, for the first time in years, she once read something about the shipping lanes of the estuary. Apparently, the main shipping channel between Parkgate on the Dee estuary and the Irish Sea was somewhere around here. For two hundred years it was a busy route; Cromwell supplied his army in Ireland along it and, in 1742, Handel sailed to Dublin from here to attend the first performance of his Messiah. But the sands of the estuary have shifted and now Parkgate was all but land-locked. The memory surprised her as it had been, until this moment, long-forgotten. How come I can remember all that, even the date?

‘Time is doing strange things,’ said the voice in her head.

 

 

Excerpt from Swimming Against the Stream, ©Bobby Seal
Picture of the Dee Estuary near Parkgate: a former riverside quay left land-locked by the encroaching marshes, ©Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 6

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I’d something more to say.
Pink Floyd – Time

 

Lockdown Day 6

She drifted on, absently moving her arms and legs in a gentle dance. Despite the water all around, Julie’s lips felt parched and dry and her head ached with the dazzle of the sun. She suddenly felt very vulnerable out here in the estuary. If she got cramp or just became too exhausted to stay afloat, she would die. Or what if a boat hit her? She didn’t exactly have a beacon on her head to warn them off. She gazed listlessly and saw, or perhaps imagined she saw, a twin-masted sailing ship cutting its way through the deep-water channel heading towards the open sea. Its prow sliced open the grey water to reveal the white that was within, leaving a wake of mixed grey and white particles behind it. She bobbed up and down for a few seconds as the wash hit her; it was a strangely pleasant sensation, she decided.

 

Excerpt from Swimming Against the Stream, ©Bobby Seal
Picture of Dee Estuary near Thurstaston, ©Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 5

The river is within us, the sea is all about us

     T.S. Eliot – The Dry Salvages

Lockdown Day 5

Julie is one of the lost. Sitting on the train to West Kirby, alone and enveloped in her thoughts, as ever, she wonders if she is in fact already dead. It’s not the first time that this thought has occurred to her. What if there was a moment years ago when she passed on from this life but was not paying attention at the time? There were plenty of opportunities for the life within her to be snuffed out, could it be that she had unknowingly grasped one of them?

Excerpt from Swimming Against the Stream, ©Bobby Seal
Picture of Dee Estuary at West Kirby, ©Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 4

So the lockdown continues and all my river wanderings must either come from memory or take place in the virtual world.

My other daughter, the middle one of three, is self-isolating too. She is pregnant and has been advised that she must do so. Luckily for her she has a job where she is able to work from home. She still goes running too, even at seven months pregnant. She was momentarily confused by the people coming out of their houses to applaud for the NHS as she ran past last night: ‘I’ve clearly lost all sense of date and time as I thought people were mocking me on my run. Yeah, I was thinking, alright I’m slow and big but I’m trying!’

I mentioned in Lockdown Day 1 that I’d almost completed the first draft of a book about a river journey from sea back to source. In subsequent lockdown days I might share some extracts from the draft here. Of course I do risk becoming like one of those trailers in the cinema where the 90 seconds they show you turn out to be the only good bits in the film.

Lockdown Day 4

 

Which brings me to the haunting complexity of London’s buried rivers. They’re not lost, not at all. Just because you can’t see a thing, as Ed Dorn points out, doesn’t mean that it’s not there. The rivers continue, hidden and culverted as they might be, to flow through our dreams, fixing the compass of our moods and movements. The Walbrook, the Fleet, the Tyburn, the Westbourne, the Effra, the Neckinger: visible or invisible, they haunt us.

Iain Sinclair – Swimming to Heaven: The Lost Rivers of London

 

Picture of culverted River Clywedog at Wrexham, © Bobby Seal

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The Flow of Time: Lockdown, Day 3

So now, with my youngest daughter back from university, we have three of us at home under lockdown. But my wife, as a key NHS worker, still has to go out. Her patients need her, which is why she and all of those others carry on, despite putting themselves at direct risk of catching the virus.

Lockdown Day 3

My older daughter and her family live quite close and have been self-isolating for two weeks now. Just over a year ago, when they lived in the UAE, her youngest child had a stroke at the age of just two years. They moved back to the UK and my grandson has been having some amazing care from the NHS for the condition which caused his stroke. Four weeks ago he had an operation at Great Ormond Street Hospital to increase the blood supply to his brain and, hopefully, prevent any further strokes.

The effect on them as a family has been profound, from a very comfortable lifestyle in the UAE they now live in a small rented flat and survive on my daughter’s earnings as a supply teacher. Even that erratic income has now ended as they have been advised to totally self-isolate for at least twelve weeks to protect her little boy.

And yet the human spirit is so resilient: my daughter is enjoying home-schooling her two children and told me on WhatsApp the other day how lucky she felt to live near open countryside where she and the children can get out to enjoy their daily fresh air and exercise.

Her daughter, my grand-daughter, was six last Friday. We visited and stood several metres distant in the yard outside their flat while she opened her presents. They went inside then for cake and games, without us. At bedtime she told my daughter that it had been the ‘best birthday ever’. Yesterday, when I delivered some supplies to them and I spoke to the kids who were at the first floor window, I noticed that my grand-daughter had stuck a rainbow picture she had drawn and coloured to the kitchen window facing outwards with the message ‘We Are OK’ written across it. It is this spirit that gives us hope for the future.

If I close my eyes and let my mind wander, I can step outside our present cares and walk the wild Cairngorms with Nan Shepherd:

Here and there in the moss a few white stones have been piled together. I go to them, and water is welling up, strong and copious, pure cold water that flows away in rivulets and drops over the rock. These are the Wells of Dee. This is the river. Water, that strong white stuff, one of the four elemental mysteries, can here be seen at its origins. Like all profound mysteries, it is so simple that it frightens me. It wells from the rock, and flows away. For unnumbered years it has welled from the rock, and flowed away. It does nothing, absolutely nothing, but be itself.

Nan Shepherd – The Living Mountain

 

Picture of River Alun near Rhydymwyn, © Bobby Seal

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