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Jovial

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A restless night, where a volume of thunder blows away sleep. In the morning clouds stack and part and here is the sun, a warm salutation of sun. Sit down to write and the light shines direct into my eyes. What?! I ask of this phenomena: humorous cosmos, most humorous! Sigh; for I will have to push the table back to clamber out of my seat and walk every one of those five steps to the window and shift the wooden clothes horse to lean in, unwind the cord, let the blind down halfway. Shadow ivy shimmies and the breeze whispers like shantung silk.

epiphany

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Noun: manifestation of a divine being a sudden intuitive leap of understanding especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence Gorgeously backlit, the morning clouds, steeped pinkish gold, shadowed dove grey. A lady with a pastel coat shouts as she passes on the park pathway. 'Blows the cobwebs!' Her dog bounces by. He has a rubber ball in his mouth. Her hair is a silver shade. Storm swells makes the news. Pictures of breaking waves, air bourn water; think of lace, of ghosts, of elemental energies, listening to the howl outside while the decorations are stripped down: a sense of rediscovery in the bared spaces. Wind sweeps the car park where people clutch onto shopping. Faces are bored, inconvenienced: or pleased to have secured a favoured flavour, a bargain, the satisfaction of having remembered they were low on milk. Above the scene a band of moon in the sky, tucked in darkness like a ring in a jeweller's box; think of offer, promise,

A Landscaped Gym

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A vertical path leads to the little woodland; footholds scarce. Upper body strength gets you into the little woods. Two levels of trail, in this woodland: deer and badger. To follow the deer: be nimble, leap the logs, span the hollows where the bracken lies fractured, where bramble stems are snaking. To follow the badger: squat, duck, dodge the low blackthorn. Forget everything for marvels found: how muscular that mushroom and here a tree attempting flight? Watch the wind catch the root-tangle; the whole structure tip and teeter on the bank; the almost-launch; the bounce and retract. All around are failed flights: deer bound over them and skin off the bark. Slither down the bank, muddy the stream; leave the little woodland for some plain lane legwork, splash a few puddles to vary your stride. Over the hedge, edge the mud, resist the wind, the rain that hurts, push back at the air. If the tree were here it would fly: might even land in the river, splash down like a wooden dragon…

Adjust

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An earache cure has muted the world. Starlings in masses pass overhead, unheard. The river deep makes silent waves. Soundless leaves shake from voiceless trees. Only a recoil crack of corrugated roof, a panel loosed in the night's storm, pierces the taciturn pod. Down by the water the wind blows darkly. The old quarry wall is comprised, though it won't fall entirely for years yet. It's shale underfoot and could easily drop a lone walker into the rain swell of river. It is enough, today, to lose a familiar sense, adjust to a world with quieted starling hordes. The other path is trod, up and up, step by steep step, cumbersomely clambered, over the leaves that dropped, up while the wind blows the cloud over the valley, up to a mossed rock. Legs and ears at rest, eyes and brain roam the valley, the canopy, the lifting sky, a strangely melancholic riverbank. Adjustments; the river flow represents; the altered path, the world without noise. There will always be things

There's A Light

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The sun's light was there, barely recognised, diffused through gunmetal grey. Storm wind shook out the deadwood, charged the lanes, loud as thunder. At breakfast, sat at the hatched grain of the old table, we looked out of the windows. A white watery disc; hazed, indistinct: no sooner perceived than lost in miles of cloudy wool. Rain in droves was blown over hedges. The tractor men drew loads; sodden fruity pong, a different kind of seasonal spice. The great wheels left tracks in the fields, knee deep at least. There was lightening, this morning, our neighbour said. Our voices were stolen by the wind: we had to shrug and give up. Paler grey and fixed, the sky, the rain seemed set in: but then the clouds tore open and there was the background as it always is: such blue. All day the cloud re-felted, the wind ripped. The blue was there. Dog took a run on the dung heap, chased the tiny birds she will never catch, earned herself a hosing and then snuck wet onto th

New Boots

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Nam-ma, Girl, Little Granddaughter: after buying new Wellington boots they go to Widemouth Beach with a happy Dog. Feet are kept dry. Paws and fur in the water, happy happy Dog! The sun has a turn at shining again. Little Granddaughter chases a plastic bag over the sand and every time she bends to reach it blows away again. Nam-ma and Girl would have helped sooner only they were suffering a laughter fit, poor dears. But after this is ice cream and café crafted soup. Dog loiters under a chair. Clouds cluster, the wind speeds and chills. Coffee heats. Feet are still dry on the drive home. Little Granddaughter sleeps and the wakeful others talk of fresh diary pages, cider vinegar, brisk walking, making project lists. Dog on the back seat, damp, gently steaming. New boots press pedals, vroom-vroom!

Day One, 2014

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I yearn to describe weather: why would I desire that? Because it is outdoors, expansive, it tints each day's experience. These details make days and days make lives. So I always speak of sun and shade. I see it, I am awake, alive! Yesterday the sun gave us a winter bath, today the rain is drenching. Wind draws the trees as an archer draws a longbow. My son-in-law is outside ankle deep in a puddle, huddled under a gazebo, barbequing. Neither the climate nor Fat Beagle's cake theft will ruin Little Grandson's birthday party. 'Binocleers!' He likes the present we bought him. He peers through them into the winter dark treetops.

The Page Unwritten

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I love this about history: the stories; oh , best of all the stories: from conqueror to waif: from tectonic shifts of geology to the hatching of a rare egg: the feeling of otherness that one can glean from trying to understand another time, another place; the awareness of basic human experiences like love and financial insecurity, the shock of mortality, the inspiration of courage shown. Only… if it were to gently rock to a stop... not a frozen in its tracks stop… perhaps a boat at a mooring on a fine weather day… The focus, then, would it fall on the oddities of nature? What if 2013 were most memorable for unusual cloud formation, for admirable sky colouration, for the best spider webs on record? Do think of it, for sometimes one has had enough of the debris, of the way that people can be scattered, hurt, abandoned, lost, misdirected, miss the point, forget that all this has happened before in different clothes and make up and the outcome was not happy, it never will be

Intermezzo

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Sunday Afternoon December sun turns the landscape silver nitrate: the day like an exposure for a scene: between river and quarry pool where the wall is crumbling. We came here when the wall was covered, unknown under earth and moss. We came here when the earth tumbled, the slate blocks shining, the tree roots, exposed. We came here when the water pushed through stones and through the dark roots, the fingers fumbling. Monday Morning White noise in the chimney hollow, tapping rain on window glass, strands of ivy shook loose, soft soot thuds. All the electric is strangled: torches found, candles lit, fire stoked, the fuse box investigated. The storm takes a pause, as though distracted. The lights cough back. No sign of settle in this weather system. The calendar is close to running out of pages. Miles and miles we walked this year. Today I will polish my boots.

The Years

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Elmore Leonard advises against opening a book with the weather or wasting plot time describing objects or places. For conversion to film that is sterling advice, naturally, and there's no reason why a reader can't be an involved part of that snappily paced adventure on paper either. One is allowed some fun, one hopes. It's Christmas, so I'm out on a round of visits and meals and this afternoon have been paddling in the sea sipping port and brandy out of a hip flask, so I don't have a copy of the book I want to talk about with me and these words might have an uneven pace, a drift and giggle gait. Clouds drift, beautiful puffy ball gown clouds, the sky is a Wedgwood dome. We're at Bluebell Barns admiring the mackerel shoal sculpture. Later the solar light will catch them shimmering silver in make-believe waters. We are warm on the corner sofa with a clear view and strong coffee. Three dogs sleeping. I shall get back to the point now. The Years is the last b

Queen Lily Makes A Speech

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Christmas is a time for messages, Queen Lily asserts, waving a glass of dry sherry, so here's mine: The pressure to conform is oppressive unless you ignore it, as is the pressure to react. The will to help, the ability to love, these are what makes you beautiful, what justifies your place in the world. Nothing you put on your face, in your wardrobe, in your bank account or display in your house or garage adds to you at all. But if you are a painted fancy rich curator in a big car I can still find something I do like about you: maybe you have a penchant for fun and a well stocked wine cellar? Every time a line is drawn between them and us the world stays divided. Learn by mistakes, lead by example and raise your glass, or your nice cup of tea, or wheatgrass shot or champagne flute; that's incidental, you probably realised, and let us toast the future of happiness, not just for Christmas but for always, at the heart of a healthy and truly wealthy world. Cheers!

O Lovely Calm

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In a lull of storm a stroll to the river to see how it spills: fast, capacious. The nouveau delta valley is dangerous and charming. Bright raw wood dots the dark undergrowth: trees fresh weather-felled. Stern faced cloud sails our way. Water tumbles through the quarry wall. Later, maybe, the wall will tumble down, dissipate, river swept. Meanwhile the pool is calm, reflecting a bloom of sun.

Gemology

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Exeter: Granma Grace laughs. Mr apes her instructions that this bag must go to those people, that bag to these people and the envelopes on no account opened before the event of Christmas Day. 'Or you will die,' I add, mock-sombre. Her eyes blue-glitter. 'Yes, that's right.' Mock-sombre right back. Little Granddaughter adds tomato sauce to her pasty platter, then cries, for reasons unknown. 'Well, if you talk to me I can help, okay?' Girl shrugs the drama aside. A glass of water brings some respite. Boy fetches biscuits. Exmouth: Mr and Little Grandson play rugby in the front room. Baby Boy is there, sleeping in a Moses basket. They play with a soft ball but just to be perfectly safe they shhh don't tell Mum . Launceston: Girl, Little Granddaughter, eyes of brown onyx; walking home, blowing kisses. Lawhitton: Boy looks at his list of cards to finish. Sighs. He helps unload, reload the car. Po

An Acknowledgment Of Birds

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A walk on the safer side, today: no ponies lurking amidst twilit bracken and bones. Over the arcs of cut-crop fields clouds tower. They have storm left in them. A storm shortage is unlikely. Dog has a beauty day, first a whole body mud wrap then tea tree foam, cold rinse and an ear trim. A mild chill brews in my head and back indoors it is all about wrapping up. This jumper is bobbled from use: comfortable and flecked gold. Presents stack under the tinsel tree, labeled. This time last year, we review: Mr Craig gave us the beautiful shock, the surprise wedding! We were thinking of our friend who was touch and go after a car crash. Ian Rice was poorly, we were used to it, it was just a fact. Little Godson on the phone, telling us about snow and a kestrel that hit a pigeon. The pigeon survived. Two magpies, I saw, out walking: one for sorrow, two for joy… This year: Baby Girl joins her parents for anniversary celebrations, the young man who survived the crash

An Idiot Celebrates

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After a roast feast, thinking of Solstice resolutions, put Dog in the back of the old red car, drive to the car park at Feather Tor. We are heading out, just Dog and I, to that intriguing stack but it's past mid-afternoon on the shortest day and that is not the easiest route without a torch. I have my phone for a torch and emergency contact. I have misplaced my gloves, and though the rest of me is adequately togged, this is a sign of poor boding. We change tack, head up Cox Tor instead. It has a nice clear path up and down, level with the car park. At the top the wind is impressive. Stop to take a picture, holding on to the vantage point and my phone: my camera, my torch, my emergency contact; is almost whipped from my fingers. Uh oh. I decide it will be easier to descend shielded, and cross back to the easy path: which at this height on the tor is also easy to miss, especially if it has been raining and the terrain is boggy, slippery, littered in pointy rocks and a person i

Arbitrarily

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Little Granddaughter gives instruction as to where one may hide. In the launderette it is a wedge of space between the supersize tumble dryer and the oddly angled wall. This will be the last place to be searched. It will be her turn, then: she will hide exactly there and it will be the last place to look. In the dryer towels steam, and t-shirts and a stream of clothes, and the twenty pences and the pound coins drop in, till all the washing is dry. Yesterday on the beach the wind blew wave spume and rain so we headed back towards the car and arrived patched in damp so we changed our clothes and bought an ice cream. 'I like a beach,' the flutey voice says, cuddled in with Teddy, a fine vanilla cone, a purple plaid blanket. 'I don't like a sea.' 'Why not?' 'It's crying.' Between wipes across the windscreen the scene is clear: heavy clouded sky, unstill waters, the wave spray leaping, catching low light. 'It's crying?&#

Because Of

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Storm Approaching Water pours brown out of the tap, but hot, restfully hot. Window chinked open to let out steam. Swamp meets spa, lying in mud coloured water, peering through fog. Beyond the glass, trees lash, boughs crack, things whistle, flap, blow away. Storm air tendrils in, gentle-curious. Small dark bodied spiders tuck up in corners. One taupe slug navigates peels of paint, over on the wall where the mould is boldest. The geranium is making an effort. This thought, as the water pours, brown and hot, scooped up for rinses in the plastic pot that once held sweets at the Shaolin Circus: That not in spite of this but because of it, happiness is here . Dog loves Swamp Spa

Homely Affluence

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Day starts, slow as stone, a carved opal In the earth warmth beds down deep There's a level, the rabbits know it Where the frost can't reach Under the window trundles trailer loads Of rich stinky dung, heaped and steamy They are building a castle of it At the top of the field: views of the river valley

Papier-mâché

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Drab weather, indeterminate, damped, that's how it seems, looking out. Indoors smells of spray paint. A cold air stream runs from the door to the open window, brings an earthy edge. Dog is pacing. Metallic-sticky hands wipe down the front of the old smock: a pause to count: twenty years, or more or not much less, of paints layering over blue cotton. Hung up now with silver sparkles drying, a clodge of glue, old colours flaking. Heavyweight rain drummles the lean-to roof. Waterproofs are pulled on. Four oversized papier-mâché baubles glimmer in the cool living room, secretly stuffed with sweets. Dog is prancing. On green wooded paths, precipitation gives a rich shine. Winter's kingdom is deceptive. It blurs and covers. Under the surface life waits, curled in seedpod wrappers. Dog is both ecstatic and replete.

Clicks

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Christmas lights are paused. The extension lead is redirected for a laptop battery boost. Boy clicks and complains of hitting bedrock. We have a houseguest this week: the two lads lean in to the screen and comment. Can't you- Click click. No this is as fast as you can travel, except falling out of the sky down- Click click. Oh, yeah, or there's, you got some smoke I guess- Click click. Dun-du-lalala, dun-du-lalala- Click click. Dog sleeps in her basket, deposed from sofa dominance. Dried mud flecks her coat from our earlier walk; from the storm thrown woodlands where the boughs knocked and the earth coughed pheasants up. Click click. A few Christmas cards are squeezed on the mantelpiece, in amongst the various items: a wooden model man, vegetable seeds, wedding photo, address labels. Click click. Have you ever made a cannon- Click click. No- You haven't lived! I'll show you- Click click. In comes Mr, shuffles himself a sofa spot. The la