Shetland

I've never visited them nor have I given the Shetland Islands too much thought  until recently, but a month or so ago I started reading Ann Cleeves' Shetland detective stories.   Gripping they are too.  Elegant writing, clever plots, a sympathetic detective and, above all, vivid descriptions of the British Isles' most northerly islands. ( I've long realised I read detective stories as much for the descriptions of the land and cityscapes as for the plot).

As I've worked my way through the series Ms Cleeves and the Sheltland Islands have reeled me in. I started scanning the internet for images, plotting routes, studying maps. Even though I'm in no state to walk any distance and I take taxis to go to where I need to go, I'm planning hikes across the rocky, treeless moors under the wide skies where the only sounds are the wind, the waves and the sea birds.  Where Bergen is closer than Edinburgh and the names of the little towns and settlements come from Old Norse.  Wildness and wilderness attracts me, it always has.  So I'm smitten. It's like falling in love again at an age where you should know better. 

By happy coincidence I caught a TV programme the other night on the landscape artist and printmaker, Norman Ackroyd,.  The son of a Yorkshire butcher, apart from being stunningly talented he came across as a humble, down to earth man who produces haunting, powerful yet delicate etchings and aquatints of the remote and wild places of the British landscape.  He is particularly captivated by the Scottish islands, including the Shetlands and I in turn was moved and excited by his work.  A new discovery. 
 





More prints and biographical notes on Norman Ackroyd's website here.    Take a look.

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 I've told myself of late that travel no longer holds the same appeal, that I'm jaded and weak and old, that I want to stay home. I may perhaps be pickier now, but there are  moors, cliffs, rocks and islands, that still call to me and to my spirit.  I can still fall in love.

Family

Last Sunday afternoon, late. The train is crowded. Luggage everywhere and no seat to be had when I get on at Bristol after a few days at my cousin's place. Not my favourite part of the journey, this, but fortunately it doesn't last long. Twenty minutes at most, then a change. I share the stretch of grimy corridor with a father and two sons. The father, late thirties, jeans, sweatshirt with a logo. The boys maybe ten and eight. The father asks if they are in the way, offers to help me with my suitcase. A Welsh accent. He seems kind.

The two boys chatter, looking out the window, pointing at trains, carriages, signs. Look over there, Dad. Is that the same train we saw at Swansea? It would have to be a very long train if it's the same one, says their father. Laughter. Oh Dad.

The older boy starts to talk to me, unprompted. Quick, darting speech. I notice the bulky dental braces.

"We're going to Maesteg". The Valleys. "We've been to see our cousins in Durham". That's a long way, I say, I did the journey myself a few months ago.

"I know. We've been travelling all day". He turns back towards his brother and the window.

Rail travel may be a novelty for both boys. There is something old fashioned about their excitment and keen interest in everything on the other side of the glass, with nary a computer game or ipod to be seen. I watch them with mixed emotions - happy, wistful, sad, who knows - their lack of cool is very endearing. As is their confidence in each other's company. Their security in being part of a unit.

Newport. The father offers to open the carriage door. People start to board, pushing. Almost dark. Goodbye, I call as I get out. A faint reply is just audible over the blaring cacophony of the station loudspeaker.

Proximity

You’ve been travelling since that morning and now the sun is going down behind the hill at the end of a limpid autumn day and along with a dozen others you’re waiting at the little Victorian station at Great Malvern for the final train to take you home. Last leg of the journey.

The body itches and aches with travel fatigue, a day of sitting too long, not moving enough. You walk along the platform, pulling the suitcase behind you, and take a few photographs. It has been a good few days away, a respite from the reports of financial meltdown and a reminder of reality, of the nuts and bolts of living in close proximity with another person for more than three hours at a time. It can be done.

Back to the bench. Two teenagers walk over and sit down. Extremely 21st century, boyfriend/girlfriend, pale, dressed in black with spiky hair and a clusters of metal studs in nose, mouth and ears, they exchange sentences in a desultory fashion. At first sight they seem edgy, hostile even, yet their conversation becomes surprisingly conventional. College. Examinations. Friends. How to navigate through the next seven days without upsetting the parents.

You’re not used to young people these days except as the collective subject of doom-ridden news items. In spite of wariness and mammoth preconceptions, you warm to these two.

Nothing to fear here. Nothing to envy either, not really.

Behind us the cool moon rises, almost full.

Of Cats and Men

From the Hebrides, c. 1930, Iain the herd boy with his cat, Eachunn.

A friend in Scotland sent me this postcard last week. For framing, definitely. If he is still alive, Iain would be very old now.

It reminded me of a June evening in Italy ten years ago ...



... when the man behind the counter of a small hardware shop - I was trying to buy batteries - allowed me to take a snap of him and his cat. He nodded when I asked if I could photograph the animal, scooped up the sleeping feline from his place on the counter and led us outside.

Not a good shot, technically speaking (what is that thing that seems to be coming out of the young man’s ears?). The day was fading fast and the cat was struggling to get down. I think the obliging shopkeeper was happy though and I certainly was.

Something about this combination of men (or boys) and cats undoes me. The two cats appear to be startled and pissed-off respectively, but look at the expressions on the faces of the humans .....

Journeys

Northamptonshire two weeks ago, South Wales for a massage training this coming weekend. At the end of next week the train to the North of England for a few days break with an old friend and former work colleague.

This is the first time since the move that I have travelled further afield than Bristol or Cardiff. The globetrotting days are largely over but in the future it should still be possible to walk in the Welsh mountains or take the National Express coach to London to stay with N for a few days, or even visit Birmingham (never been!).Or do some conservation volunteering. Or rent out the house and go to India for a year.

Or, most daring of all, catch the local bus and spend ten days with these people ...

***

Each day the mind climbs into its hamster wheel and runs and runs. Uncertain, draining times. I need to bite the bullet and ask difficult questions when I return to work briefly next week. One way or another, hard decisions need to be taken.

***

Repeating patterns. The older I get the more they are apparent. When I switch on the news. In my own life. The work. The addictions, greater and lesser. Loves chosen and rejected. The supposed free choices made.

Maybe real freedom is simply to know this, to understand, and with this knowledge to move into the unknown.

Time to go to work.