Travel

Winchester Architecture – Broadway / Eastgate St / Colebrook Area

Posted on by Duncan Toms

An architectural tour of the Listed Buildings in the Broadway, Eastgate and Colebrook areas of Winchester, in the east of the city. These buildings include The Guildhall, St Johns Chapel, mills, old hospitals, shops and houses, and are mostly from the 18th and 19th Century. I’m not sure how old the statue is. The shops on the north side of Broadway are built upon much older wooden structures. Colebrook St is a quiet, bricky street near the river, with many fine houses surrounding the park. Eastgate street is very busy, with traffic with three impressive terraces. Behind are the almshouses of St Johns, probably the oldest charitable foundation in the UK. In the park is Abbey House, home of the Mayor. My favourite buildings today are No 34 and No 14 Colebrook St, and the unusual curved bays at the beginning of Eastgate St.

Landport Architecture, Portsmouth

Posted on by Duncan Toms

Today I walked around the Landport area of Portsmouth, seeking out those buildings not destroyed in WWII. Landport was a development outside of the original city’s defences and dockyard. Being near to the naval base, it was heavily bombed in the 1940s meaning large areas were cleared of the existing buildings. After the war and into the 1950’s, more buildings were raised in slum clearance ahead of new housing projects in Landport and to the north of the city. The walk took a couple of hours, from Old Commercial Road to the north (with the home place of Charles Dickens) down to the city centre and the terraces east of the University, then past the museum and up the west side of the centre. Here are the photos I took of the architecture, the most unusual being the museum in French Château style.

I didn’t use this beforehand or while walking, but here is a Google map of the listed buildings of Portsmouth.

Old Sarum

Posted on by Duncan Toms

Feel the ancientness! Just north of the city of Salisbury sits the site of Old Sarum hill fort and castle. From Wiki:

The site contains evidence of human habitation as early as 3000 BC. Old Sarum is mentioned in some of the earliest records in the country. It is located on a hill about two miles north of modern Salisbury adjacent to the A345 road.

Old Sarum was originally an Iron age hill fort strategically placed on the conjunction of two trade routes and the River Avon. The hill fort is broadly oval in shape, 400 metres (1,300ft) in length and 360 metres (1,180ft) in width, it consists of a double bank and intermediate ditch with an entrance on the eastern side. The site was used by the Romans, becoming the town of Sorviodunum. The Saxons used the site as a stronghold against marauding Vikings, and the Normans built a stone curtain wall around the Iron age perimeter and a centrally placed castle on a motte protected by a deep dry moat. A royal palace was built within the castle for King Henry I and subsequently used by Plantagenet monarchs. A Norman cathedral and bishop’s residence were built at the western end of the town.

In 1219, the cathedral was demolished in favour of the new one built near the river and the townspeople moved down to the new city, then called New Salisbury or New Sarum. The castle fell out of use and was sold for materials by King Henry VIII.

Portsea Buildings

Posted on by Duncan Toms

Today I walked around Portsea, between Gunwharf, the university and the naval base. The area has a much less genteel, more rugged feeling than Old Portsmouth but in amongst the council housing and blocks are some interesting old buildings. The area being right next to the naval base was heavily bombed in WWII and before that, the old slums and buildings were cleared. These photos largely focus on those buildings prior to 1900, including St George’s Square, Burnaby Terrace, Queens Street and Bonfire Corner, up against the barbed-wire walls. I didn’t get as far as The Hard, nor the base itself.

This page has some interesting history and photos of Portsea in the c19, including areas cleared of decaying houses.

Old Portsmouth and Gunwharf

Posted on by Duncan Toms

Photographs taken around Gunwharf and Old Portsmouth in October. While certain others are shopping I like to wander around the city in the immediate area of Gunwharf. Inside Gunwharf itself are many original dock buildings dating back to the c18. Past the harbour in Old Portsmouth and Spice Island you can still get a feel of the old maritime city in the time of Nelson, with many interesting Georgian buildings, doorways as well as the defences and churches. See also, Portsea

Ai Weiwei on Beijing’s Nightmare City

Posted on by Duncan Toms

Having just been, I found this piece on Beijing by Ai Weiwei very interesting:

Beijing is two cities. One is of power and of money. People don’t care who their neighbors are; they don’t trust you. The other city is one of desperation. I see people on public buses, and I see their eyes, and I see they hold no hope. They can’t even imagine that they’ll be able to buy a house. They come from very poor villages where they’ve never seen electricity or toilet paper.

Every year millions come to Beijing to build its bridges, roads, and houses. Each year they build a Beijing equal to the size of the city in 1949. They are Beijing’s slaves. They squat in illegal structures, which Beijing destroys as it keeps expanding. Who owns houses? Those who belong to the government, the coal bosses, the heads of big enterprises. They come to Beijing to give gifts—and the restaurants and karaoke parlors and saunas are very rich as a result.

Beijing tells foreigners that they can understand the city, that we have the same sort of buildings: the Bird’s Nest, the CCTV tower. Officials who wear a suit and tie like you say we are the same and we can do business. But they deny us basic rights. You will see migrants’ schools closed. You will see hospitals where they give patients stitches—and when they find the patients don’t have any money, they pull the stitches out. It’s a city of violence.

The worst thing about Beijing is that you can never trust the judicial system. Without trust, you cannot identify anything; it’s like a sandstorm. You don’t see yourself as part of the city—there are no places that you relate to, that you love to go. No corner, no area touched by a certain kind of light. You have no memory of any material, texture, shape. Everything is constantly changing, according to somebody else’s will, somebody else’s power.

To properly design Beijing, you’d have to let the city have space for different interests, so that people can coexist, so that there is a full body to society. A city is a place that can offer maximum freedom. Otherwise it’s incomplete.

I feel sorry to say I have no favorite place in Beijing. I have no intention of going anywhere in the city. The places are so simple. You don’t want to look at a person walking past because you know exactly what’s on his mind. No curiosity. And no one will even argue with you.

None of my art represents Beijing. The Bird’s Nest—I never think about it. After the Olympics, the common folks don’t talk about it because the Olympics did not bring joy to the people.

There are positives to Beijing. People still give birth to babies. There are a few nice parks. Last week I walked in one, and a few people came up to me and gave me a thumbs up or patted me on the shoulder. Why do they have to do that in such a secretive way? No one is willing to speak out. What are they waiting for? They always tell me, “Weiwei, leave the nation, please.” Or “Live longer and watch them die.” Either leave, or be patient and watch how they die. I really don’t know what I’m going to do.

via Ai Weiwei on Beijing’s Nightmare City – The Daily Beast.

Forbidden City and Beihai Park

Posted on by Duncan Toms

4/9

Slept until gone 0900 – what a treat after the broken up nights. Breakfasted at 10 (great omelette chef at the hotel) and then out into Beijing. Took the subway Line 10 south for a few stations, then onto Line 1 west to Tiananmen Square.

As soon as I was at pavement level the offers came – come and see our art gallery, do you need a guide, have you seen the great wall? I did go and see some student artwork and of course they did try to sell me some prints. The art was good, if derivative. I left without buying and headed into the entrance of the Forbidden City.

Past the first gate there’s a long, wide walkway with many sellers and tourists headed deeper inside. To go further you need a ticket. It was about £6 for an adult. I tried to buy an audio commentary but my money was rejected as fake. That’s odd, I thought – it came from Thomas Cook in the UK I thought. Wasn’t sure I wanted audio anyway, so headed into the paid zone, through huge gated archways, walls painted a deep red.

Inside are a series of very large courtyards, divided by more archways, with gold coloured roofs. Everything is on a grand scale – from the walls, the cobbles, to the cauldrons for putting out fires, kept frost free in winter by fires. A river runs through the city, with decorative white stone bridges.

Further inside, the scale gets more human, with walled streets, halls, palaces, pavilions and gardens. The temperature was well over 30c today, and often I would stand next to the air conditioners inside the exhibitions to cool down. If I faced the ac, others thought I was looking at something very interesting through the mesh. You could look into the rooms, but only through rather murky perspex.

In the northern section were the palace gardens and family residences. The pavillions had names like Palace of Gathered Elegance, Palace of Earthly Honour, Hall of Mental Cultivation. The gardens had a variety of very old trees, some interesting rock formations and fish ponds. By this stage the crowds were dispersed throughout the many courts so it was possible to feel quite peaceful in places.

It took a couple of hours to walk round most of the ancient fortress city, 1 km long. I left via the north exit so I didn’t have to walk all the way back south, over a wide moat surrounding the whole compound. I headed west towards Beihai Park, with its large lake and White Dagoba. On climbing the hill and walking past the monument I noticed a sign saying Caves. It wasn’t highly publicised. I paid 50p to climb down tunnels hundreds of years old. I found myself laughing at the contrast – suddenly I was alone underground. Along the tunnels were 100 statues of emperor looking fellows. Each one represented three birth years. Mine was number 48, an ugly bearded little fellow. On the exit were fine views over the lake. Then a Sunday afternoon walk in the shade along the east side of the lake, paddleboats paddling and picnicking people.

So, quite a Sunday Weekend Walk, several hours. After a walk east I hopped in a taxi and headed back to the Hilton. Here’s a video I shot of that ride:

Then out for a Chinese massage at a centre near the hotel. A tiny Chinese lady dug deep into my city- and book fair-stressed body, through pyjamas, I suspect using acupressure points. She was tough! Afterwards, again the 100 Yuan note was rejected. The manager came with me to the hotel to get a replacement. I remembered then we had taken one note when selling some Chinese books on the last day of the fair.

In the evening a final meal with Zhang Dan, Derek and Marleen at an Italian restaurant near The Village. They had hundreds of photos of the owner’s uncle with celebrities – Paul McCartney, Patrick Swazee, Sigourney Weaver, Arnie, etc. Very 80s, including the music. A fairly quick meal, all of us still quite tired from the time zones and the fair. Outside the hotel, a fond goodbye as we went our separate ways – Zhang Dan to her home nearby, and tomorrow, me to Heathrow, Derek & Marleen to Bali.

A Meeting with the Krishnamurti Chinese Committee

Posted on by Duncan Toms

3/9

A public day at the fair, but still not very busy at all. We had a good couple of meetings with existing publishers looking for new titles and were able to offer appropriate titles to their previous publications and interests. Time too for a game of Chinese battleships, with aeroplanes instead of ships. Our last day, since we have had all the meetings we need to, and Sunday is really only a public day and that type of contact is not why we are here. In the afternoon we said goodbye to The Cage, leaving out some literature for those who wanted some information in our absence.

Us:

Us:

I enjoyed working at the fair with Derek and Zhang Dan. The new contracts we initiated will increase the availability of Krishnamurti in Chinese, sales of which are already doing very well. A book fair is something I had never done before. Speaking of which…

Saturday evening I had been invited by a member of the Chinese Krishnamurti Committee to attend an event at their new venue, a café style meeting place in the north west of the city. At 1745 Zhang Dan and I set off from the Hilton for the subway station down the street. ZD has been helping us at the fair all week. She said that an email had gone to the committee mailing list announcing my attendance, and a charge of £2 was being made, which included a light buffet. I’d emailed before to say I wasn’t one for giving a formal talk and was told it would be a casual gathering. I wasn’t sure I’d be the ‘main attraction’ or what, but it seems I was. We arrived and mingled and I ate some melon and grapes, not quite trusting the other foods. I am sure it was clean and healthy but neither did my stomach want much food right then. I chatted with Fanfu, the organiser, and Sue, a translator, her bright daughter playing and running about, enjoying herself.

On wandering around I saw on a blackboard that there was a schedule and that there was to be a meeting at 1930. We all sat down, around 25 of us, and I was asked to introduce myself, and was then translated. Then a question and answer session commenced. I was a little nervous at first, but the normal fight or flight response – the highly charged nerves and wanting to flee – didn’t kick in. Luckily it wasn’t too hot in there and so I felt quite comfortable. All eyes were on me, apart from one guy who had obviously been dragged there by his girlfriend and spent the entirely time texting or looking at the floor. A range of questions in Chinese followed, Sue translating them, me answering as clearly as I could. The questions were about Brockwood, the Foundation, the Centre, Krishnamurti, his teachings, what they meant to me, why I worked there for such low pay. I tried to answer honestly and ‘deeply’, given the translation. I had to remember to stop after a few sentences to allow Sue to translate. People seemed very interested and extremely curious, in me and what I had to say. It was all rather surreal, but then most of the trip to China has been.

After answering a question about theme weekends at the Centre, one younger guy asked, ‘I have come a long way to be here tonight. Do you think your what you just said is important?’ Some objections came and discussion amongst a few ensued. When things had calmed down I said, ‘I am just giving answers to questions, and of course compared to the fundamental issues of life, this info isn’t important. But it’s easy to criticise. If you want to be serious, ask a serious question.’ He didn’t. Later he said there has been a total change for him. I said, ‘Good for you!’ It seems he is renowned as a bit of a stirrer and each time he said something there were ruffles of disagreement. As soon as the Q&A was over, he left the building.

Fanfu said he thought I answered ‘rather well’. I liked doing it. Despite all the eyes, I enjoyed myself and could have gone on longer than the hour and a quarter. I didn’t really expect the formal Q&A scenario. Another surreal moment when one lady’s question was, ‘You are very handsome!’ She’d been taking photos throughout. I made some ugly faces while everyone was laughing. Generally, I tried to take the emphasis away from trying to understand ‘Krishnamurti’s teachings’ to: What are your own reactions, and what is taking place within yourself, now and when you read or listen or watch?

So, my first experience of anything of that kind, apart from some casual tours of the foundation and the brief Q&A we did at one of the international committee meetings. It’s a good little place they have set up. Afterwards I chatted with a few who spoke better English. I felt I was experiencing a real community there, not only the people inside but entering the grubby street with men playing chess at the roadside and families and small apartments. Very different to the routine hotel to conference centre to restaurant to hotel, so far this trip.

The subway back was full of the Saturday night young. I am used to the looks and looks-away and looks by now, a tall Westerner in a carriage of Asians, all of us wondering quite what I’m doing there.

Van Gogh vs China

Posted on by Duncan Toms

2/9

A rather uneventful day at the book fair, although successful meetings with publishers. Also took some time to wander around the place and check out the exhibitor’s stands. Van Gogh prints at the Netherlands area and the ultra modern Chinese/Asian aesthetic elsewhere. A general feeling pervades amongst exhibitors that this hall is much too far from the city centre and attendance is way down on previous years. Apparently the French and Germans are going to make a formal complaint to the organisers.

Here are some more photos from around the fair:

Second Day At the Book Fair

Posted on by Duncan Toms

1/9
It rained overnight and cleared the air. The megasmog has gone… into the ground I guess… and a welcome breeze on stepping out of the hotel this morning. Slept soundly, all the way through from 2230 until 0730. Felt much more balanced, and present in a less stressy way. Shower, meditation, then to breakfast – fruits and then omelette again. At 0930 we took a taxi to the fair – many complaints from attendees, apparently, about moving it all the way out to near the airport this year. It’s a good 20 minutes by taxi. It felt OK to breathe today. No cloying feeling in the throat nor prickles at the back of the nose. So it’s not always quite the hell I thought Beijing might be. The fair went well, with discussions about the quality of translation, and then another major Chinese publisher very interested. Back by 1630 for a snooze and a swim before supper.

We have named our tiny booth The Cage. Picked up some nice Peter Rabbit postcards with Chinese text from the Penguin stand. There’s is definitely not a cage. Or maybe just a very fancy one.

First Day of the Beijing Book Fair

Posted on by Duncan Toms

31/8/10

First day at the bookfair. We were among the less organised of the exhibitors, most people having registered and set up their stands yesterday. We arrived at around 10am and were not allowed past security as we didn’t have entry tickets. We tried to get in the East entrance but were turned away, despite our invitations. In the end we just kind of muddled our way in. ‘I’m with him!’ Security checks, metal detectors, bag scans.

We were surprised at the tiny size of our booth. About 2 square meters. Room for two chairs and not a lot else. We pushed the desk forward out into the walkway to make more space. And so dirty! Nothing had been cleaned. The floor had bits all over it, the bookshelves were grubby and tape-stained, the chairs and the desk and the walls had a layer of accumulated smog all over it.

So, not much of a welcome to the fair. We got ourselves set up, erecting the banner poster and displaying the English books available for translation and publication in China, along with some examples of Chinese, Japanese and Korean books. Quite a bit of interest right away, with a visit from a publisher wishing to print 10 new titles. Other enquiries came in waves, from new publishers to journalists to people just wondering who Krishnamurti is. There were lulls and therefore some time for each of us to to look around the huge hall, a local having come with us to help with translation if needed.

In the early afternoon, suddenly guards, police, officials and firemen were marching up the aisles instructing everyone to leave the hall, speaking only in Chinese. You what? We found out there was a bomb scare or some other security alert. There was a curiously slow response. We slowly filed towards the exit, but many stalls were continuing, along with meetings and even a TV broadcast. Confusion reigned as we waited by the Netherlands section, finding out if it was true we had to leave. Eventually the answer spread around: leave, and the fair is now closing for the day. The Dutch finished a Q&A with a bookish man called Kroonenberg, in no hurry, and we left the building into the stifling afternoon heat. Of course everyone wanted taxis, so we walked out the the grounds to the main road and flagged down a Jetta after a few minutes. A hot, tired ride back to a cool shower and a rest.

Supper out at The Village, another Western Mall with Apple store and Adidas and all that. Two of us had Chinese – dark rice fried with vegetables and steamed green veggies – and two had Indian next door. After eating, back to the hotel around 8.30 for a sauna.

Travel and Arrival in Beijing

Posted on by Duncan Toms

29/30 August. Getting here and arrival in Beijing

At 1130 I left Brockwood, Jerome giving me a lift to Heathrow. We went the Odiham route, quaint Englishness, nothing like what was ahead, and got to Terminal Five in an hour and a quarter. Due to keenness (not so much on my part) to be in plenty of time, and due to Jerome wanting to make sure the baggage drop went OK, having changed the name on the ticket, we sat around for 45 minutes in Café Nero, waiting for the drop to open. A lady tried to pay for her lunch with a very old design of fiver I hadn’t seen in years. When that was rejected she drew and equally old twenty, all sterling looking and serif. In my bag lots of weirdy Yuan with the criminal Mao still pictured.

There was no difficulty checking the bag in, so we hugged goodbyes, with more thankyous from Jerome for replacing him on this trip to the Beijing Book Fair.

I had a sore throat and wasn’t feeling great as I passed through security into the departure area. Hungry. Had a veggie brunch – potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms, veggie sausages. Skipped the sugar laden beans. Felt conspicuous and odd eating in that busy environment, so many voices, such harsh lighting, the lone diners eating at the high bar. Afterwards I found a water fountain and then a seat with natural light and fewer people. With food in my belly and a view, I began to relax. Before long it was time to take the shuttle to Gate C and wait for boarding.

People didn’t listen to the row numbers called first, nor did the attendants check, so getting to my seat at the back of the plane meant lots of waiting for people to get their bags in the overheads. Not sure why I chose right at the back. It was next to the loos, so often there was a queue of people stood right next to me. Podgy Chinese fellows and their podgy wives. Garlicky Europeans. I didn’t mind the girl with the coconut hair, who seemed to make a point of leaning into my shoulder as she waited. A nine and a half hour flight over Europe, Russia, Siberia and across the vastness of China. I saw some desert after dawn, railroad and railroad across the yellow.

Ignored the mushroom-something supper and ate instead a Boots-bought quiche and crisps. For breakfast I ignored the beans and tuck into cheesy eggs and the mushrooms. Breakfast was at around 0100 UK time. I had not slept but I’d meditated and I’d relaxed to music, and rested with earplugs through which I thought I could hear violins. Perhaps the wind noise was louder at the back, too; different seat on the way home. It didn’t seem to take too long, with a couple of films and Johnny Vegas on Desert Island Discs. The art of the aeroplane movie. Nothing too ‘deep’ or serious. Nothing that really needs a bigger screen, or at least better quality, or which I’d rather watch at home. I tend to go for the obviously, stupidly entertaining. First: Fast Five – silly fun action with excellent car chases, one with two cars towing a large safe, smashing shit up on the corners as it swung wide. Later in the night: No Strings Attached – Natalie being not quite so intense, and a story pretending to be different but not really. Again, obvious stuff to pass the time in a piece of metal riveted together, with added wings and jet engines. I walked up and down quite often, asking the steward how far forward I could go. Back two chambers only, not into Business Class and definitely not upper deck where he said it is ‘sterile’. Huh? ‘Because the pilots are up there too.’

Talking of sterile – airport shops are just that, incredibly bland and this weird, clean, international ‘world class’ glossy nothingness. It was the same in a mall along the road from the hotel. I could have been anywhere.

Short wait for passport control, a tick on my £90 visa. A long shuttle to baggage reclaim and then only a short wait for the big case. Then to the taxi rank, a supervised queue. First time outside, in the heat that doesn’t leave, sticky with poison. On your turn you stand next to the furthest empty bay and soon a yellow and green Hyundi comes powering into the lot and bakes late into the space. I stepped back. My trolley did the same. I’d printed the Bijing Hilton’s address in Chinese characters as I’d heard they don’t necessarily recognise English, and there are a few Hiltons in Beijing. Windows down it wasn’t too hot but megasmog everywhere, even inside the airport, aggravating my sore throat some more and pricking my lips. As I write, on the 18th floor, at 6pm I can hardly see 1km away due to the greyness. There seem to be three taxi types but I don’t know the difference: yellow and green, yellow and blue, and black. Many black limos and Audis and Lexus and Mercs on the Airport Expressway, and old Passats and Jettas. I habitually tried to put a seatbelt on but the clunky clicky bit was under the blue and white fake silky back seat covers. The driver looked stern, as do most of the Chinese I’ve seen today.

On arrival at the hotel, the cab door was opened for me while I paid the fare, and a bellboy collected the cases from the boot. I was escorted into reception. Very proper. On checking in, I asked for a room with a view and they tried to upgrade me. When I asked, they said it was £60 extra a night to be in the new tower. ‘No thank you,’ I said, a little hot and red by now. I’d read that you don’t tip in China so the taxi driver got his fare and tolls only, and the bellboy got, and expected, nothing when bringing my bags to the room. Room 1812, way up above the streets, looking sort of south over the 3rd Ring Road. A sigh of relief to be alone in a neutral room. 11am, 4am in the UK, there was nothing else for it but to have a snooze, after letting Jerome and Caroline know I’d arrived safely. Set the alarm for 5pm just in case and slept for an hour or three. That was a good reset but slow to wake. It was now 2pm and after a while I felt more centred, more here – China! – and up for a little wander.

I’d thought of going to the Forbidden City but it closes at 4pm. Mo had recommended some parks and temples. But the heat and pollution was rather too much for the subway. And I realised I am just not that interested in sightseeing, especially after a long trip. So I walked along the ring road to the sterile Lufthansa centre. Stayed five minutes and got the hell out. On the way was a major junction with a long zebra crossing. Green or red for pedestrians didn’t seem to make all that much difference, so I huddled in behind a little tour group and scurried across. Beyond the shopping centre were a few local shops – a café, a tattoo parlour, youths getting shoulder wide tats in black, sitting out in the streets grimmacing; and a small grocery store. Found some natural mineral water for 80p each (Beijing prices seem much like the UK) rather than paying the Hilton’s assumingly higher cost. Not that I’m paying, but you know, why get ripped off? The girls in the shop were sweet, getting all confused over the calculator of 8 Yuan times 4 and giggling. A little further along, the Ministry of Rock and Hard Rock Café. I walked back along the river a bit, yellow bridges, a possible massage place, and a sex shop also selling biscuits and whatnot, and the ‘Durty Nellies’ Irish Pub (an imitation of course, and spelt wrong…)

Back at the hotel, sorted for fluids if not food (on oatcakes for ‘lunch’, breakfast, whatever it is), I went to the gym and pool on the 4th floor. Swam some lengths while an American family made a lot of noise, splashing about. The mother apologised. Popped into the steam room then back to my hotel room. And that’s pretty much it. Rang reception and there’s free wifi in the lobby whereas in the rooms it’s 30p a minute. Seems a little steep for a classy hotel. No facebook in China!

I wanted to include some of the photos I’ve taken but the internet is far too slow. [Now added] Here is one of the smoggy views in the area:

Weekend Walk 29 – Winchester to Eastleigh – The Itchen Way

Posted on by Duncan Toms

Last Sunday I walked from the City Mill in Winchester along the c17 Itchen Navigation as far as Eastleigh. Passing Wharf Hill, St Catherine’s Hill, Twyford Down, Twyford, Shawford, Bambridge and Highbridge, and many locks, hundreds of years old. This was the third stage of the walk along the length of the Itchen Way.

Weekend Walk 27 – Cheriton to Alresford – Itchen Way

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After (most of) the South Downs Way and the Hangers Way, I’ve chosen the Itchen Way for my next long distance path. Yesterday we walked a short stage, from the source of the river south of Cheriton, to the southern edge of Alresford. At this stage the river is really just a shallow stream with rapid current, headed north. This is before it turns west then south in the Itchen Valley. The walk took us through Cheriton village and Tichborne Park.

110305 & 6

Posted on by Duncan Toms

The weekend of my brother Martin’s stag do. I drove down to Southsea early on Saturday morning, dressed in the manner of a country gent. Sort of. Arriving at Tristan’s at 0650, everyone ready, Martin in his military fancy dress, chosen by the best men. We left for the new forest, all in cords, tweeds, wax, arriving early at the New Forest Outdoor Centre for the weekend’s activities. While the staff got ready, we hung out in the centre’s main building, trying to warm up as the log stove got going.

The first activity was archery. Probably my favourite of the day. We learnt the basic techniques and took it in turns in rounds of five arrows. While waiting we could try out the crossbow. Very powerful. I feel I could happily take up archery, with something about the precision, the steadyness of aim really appealing to me. We had a competition, with Martin and I both getting exactly 100. Out of – what? – 150 disregarding the tin can bonuses. After a tea break, shooting guns – first pistols and then air rifles. It was like being in the Bailey’s back garden, shooting down the cans. Quite weedy power but again great fun. Then came the axe throwing and ninja stars. This was harder but very satisfying as the axes or stars thunked into the tree stumps. We had to wear flack jackets and metal helmets for this so we couldn’t thunk the axes into our heads instead.

After a break for lunch, time for the climbing. First a climbing wall wrapped round a tower, then a high and fast zip wire. The assistant seemed to take some time to learn to stop us correctly, with Martin reaching the end at high speed and his hemetted head hitting the wire, then Tristan and Gavin being stopped suddenly by their harnesses. I was glad he had sussed it by my turn. Then the high ropes section, the highest we climbed, balancing across beams and wires way way up.

Martin on the zip wire:

Me on the high ropes course:

I really enjoyed doing all these activities, all things I wouldn’t normally do and haven’t tried for years. The high ropes were comparable to Go Ape, but the sense of trying all these things together was much stronger here. It was a great choice for a stag weekend.

Things got more traditionally staggy by evening; with the sun going down and the fire lit, the drinking started. And continued 12 hours until 5am, for some. We got the heat of the fire well up with an ample supply of logs. I was meeting Martin’s old friends for the first time in over twenty years, as well as meeting newer friends for the first or second time. I went to bed at around midnight, after such an enjoyable, varied day and an evening around the camp fire. There were no pranks on the groom; why do that?

Today, Sunday, of course everyone hung over, or me just tired from the intense day before, and the odd night in a shepherd’s hut, we walked to Emery Down for lunch and sunshine in the pub garden, before the minbus took us back to Southsea for late afternoon, all of us, I think feeling it was a good weekend, and a great send-off for Martin.

Meanwhile, another 1990s morning train commute. Observe ESP Precautions.

Posted on by Duncan Toms

Four boys going to school, one of them in DMs.
“Boxing Day’s a Thursday isn’t it?”
Talking about Christmas presents and polar bears.
It’s getting lighter outside but today is going to be one of those days that never really gets light and then it’s dark again by four.
Talking with mouths full of crisps they have opened their packed lunches already.
Now they are selling chicken wings.
“I’ll give you 40p for one.”
Chickens from factory farms, full of antibiotics so they don’t die too soon.
I have big baggy trousers on and new wide trainers.
The laces are loose.
The slightly crusty school girl is smoking B&H.
It is 08:30 and we are at Hilsea.
“Observe ESP Precautions” says the sign.
“Authorised Personnel Only”.
“Well cool place innit?”
“What number she live at?”
“Your granddad’s probably dead.”
They are talking but not one of them is particularly listening.
There is a red bus parked on the wasteland by the gas storage thingies.
“My mum gave me the water bed.”
One boy is swinging the chicken bones in a bread bag.
Crumbs of southern fried coating on the floor will be there all day, travelling up and down the line.
Five yellow bollards surround a loose paving slab next to a puddle on Fratton Station.
Approaching work in the city.

Meanwhile, back in 1997, on the train to work

Posted on by Duncan Toms

The next morning, a long long time later.

I walk to the front of the train looking for an empty four-seater section but no joy and I sit opposite a tired-looking man in a suit. He has dark putty arcs underneath each eye, cumulative lack of sleep. The same old thoughts going round and round have gotten to him. A girl over the aisle is chatting about work and about Christmas eve. Now she is yawning exaggeratedly. This is part of her conversation. Now she’s talking about golfing presents for Larry. When you are older, perhaps people will associate me purely with my pastimes. Perhaps they already do. But if you have no particular hobbies your present becomes ‘smellies’. Or socks. The Asian lady behind her looks more peaceful with a book, but the chatty girl also has an open book, thumb in the crease. The man she is talking at is now responding with one word answers while she gently massages her left index finger.

At Fareham she quickly moves her bag as lots of commuters board. My pack stays right where it is, on the seat to my left. Most people have a tabloid, necks bent forward, reinforcing their entrenched ideas about the world given by fathers with their tabloids. A woman is looking at the TV pages. No, a complete magazine dedicated to TV. TV Quick. TV, quick! The different channels are highlighted with pastel shades. Another man opposite looks vaguely permanently amused so I assume it is to do with me. Another man in cheap thermal gloves and rectangular glasses, light brown jeans and sensible brown shoes. His hair is thinning and his ears are pink from the morning chill. I realise mine probably are too. His interesting feature is his down jacket, not the shiney space age style of the clubber, but matt orange. The Simpsons stare at me from the TV mag. I once thought they were radioactive, that was why they were yellow.

The train moves on through the urban scenery. On boarding, it was dark hedges and shabby woods, green fields and mist. Now its rows of back-to-backs and NO BALL GAMES housing, brightened by coloured panels fading fast. A red brick church, but they didn’t bother with a tower or spire. The crows have gathered in the corner of the football pitch and then we are back to the terraces of houses, viewed from the back as we move south on Portsea Island.

Meanwhile, back in 1997, on the train home

Posted on by Duncan Toms

We want to escape from suffering as fast and thoroughly as possible. Therefore pleasure is demanded.

On the train after a normal day at work with the telephone, the brokers, the accounts and the incessant chat about shopping and television. Keep out of it. Another train flashes by in the opposing direction. My back is aching slightly and eyes smarting. A man itches his head, concerned for his hairstyle. The train slows for Hilsea, the industrial estate stop. My thoughts turn to my brother who I must phone tonight; since moving I haven’t really kept in touch. Thinking ahead to the two mile walk to home, hoping the skies will be clear to view stars I don’t know the names of. SAVE US TIME. SAVE YOUR TIME. PLEASE SHUT THE DOOR. NO SMOKING. Danger Do not lean out of the window. Do not lean on open door when the train is moving. Everyone does when the train is stopping. Rush, rush, rush. Slow it right down. A girl with clipped back hair at the temples gets off. A woman with lanky hair gets on. I thought she was a teenage boy at first. We move on.

If the door is not properly closed and the train is moving DO NOT attempt to close it – use the emergency alarm. ALARM. Penalty for improper use £50. The train lurches to a stop. People look round, annoyed. I sit quietly, innocently. The Guard arrives with the ticket machine hanging from shoulder, grey coat for the cold, looking like a Russian policeman. Why did you pull the alarm? The door was open and the train was moving and I read the sign. Tuts and sighs and closing of the door. The train moves on. I match the stares from other passengers until one by one they all look away, concerned with their problems or what’s for tea. Hope it’s chips it’s chips. The idea of pulling the alarm chain fades as I realise I too would like to be home.

Deep blue train seats with purple and cyan railway-like patterns zig-zagging. How many arses have sat on them? Grubby black marks where the heads go. Sitting up straight, not wanting my head to touch the filthy grime. Another station. A pretty girl sits down opposite. I don’t talk to her or look at her directly but use the reflection in the dark window. I look at what’s going on in the world of the platform and the reflection of the girl I have named Kim.

Any passengers for Botley please alight from the front six coaches of this train due to the short platform at this station. Am I in the front six? I think so. Otherwise I’ll just jump out into whatever is at the end of the platform. A prickly bush. I loose track of which station is next.

6 Jan 2011

Posted on by Duncan Toms

The first full day of the Yewfield retreat. The daily schedule:

0800 Silent meeting
0830 Breakfast
0915 Cleaning
0945 Krishnamurti video
1100 Hiking
1300 Lunch
1500 Silent meeting
1530 Dialogue
1700 Cooking for some
1930 Supper

The hike was very enjoyable, and the sun shone for the first time in what seems like weeks. We hiked an hour over to Black Crag, a rocky hill at about 330 meters. Fine views to Windermere, Hawkshead, Conitston Water, the Irish sea in the far distance, and to the north, the southern fells including The Old Man of Coniston, Weatherlam, Langdale Pikes, Hellvelyn. We returned via a frozen Tarn Hows. Back for a lunch of leek and potato soup.

View over Windermere:

The dialogue was on the communication of another kind of learning of the inner life of man, instead of just on outward achievement. We ventured slowly to talk about the hold of apparent security over us all and how even though we know there really is no security it is so powerful, and why that might be.

We were the cooking team this evening , where Hersha led Derwent, Bill, Fran and I through cooking a south Indian curry and dhal, with some kind of milk and wheat desert. I only had a little of the spicy vegetables because the spices send me buzzing and the taste lingers in the mouth for days as well as the smell on the skin. But it was quite mild.

I woke in the night, clear, awake, fresh, very present. And didn’t go back to sleep all night, but for a few drifts during yoga nidra. A gentle day six of the yoga course this morning.

5 Jan 2011

Posted on by Duncan Toms

When the room is stale, you open a window and let the clean air in. The lungs get stale too. After a night’s sleep the air at the base of the lungs is rather old and needs refreshing. The complete breath is the equivalent of opening a window, except you can reach the whole of the lungs within a few breaths.

Sitting, lying or standing, exhale fully without strain and relax the body. As you inhale, expand the belly allowing air into the bottom of the lungs. As the inhale continues, feel the ribcage expanding. Continue the inhalation into the clavicles and raise the shoulders. At the full extent, hold for five seconds then gently release, exhaling from the shoulders, the chest and lastly the abdomen. A squeeze of the bellybutton towards the spine as the diaphragm lifts in and up, will expel the last of the stale air. You may taste or smell it as it leaves. Continue these full breaths five times, and whenever you feel like a break during the day.

We left Brockwood at about 1015, 19 staff members in three vehicles. I drove the minibus, with Mark as co-driver. The journey was without incident, but for my heading south on the M40 instead of north. It took five miles before I reached a roundabout to about face. Mark was trying a new satnav. It wasn’t much good. It didn’t seem to know about services so when we’d stop for breaks it tried to recalculated the route. And then near Kendal it tried to take us who knows where, towards Barrow. We weren’t impressed with this Garmin.

I like the Lake District. Who doesn’t? We are staying at a large guest house belonging to a Brockwood Trustee. He also owns a cinema and two vegetarian restaurants in Ambleside. I’m in a particularly floral room:

How many flowers can you fit? Even the wardrobe has the same material on the doors. And the mirror surround. It’s cold in here, the room probably not having been used since before Christmas. They apologised for the radiator not having been turned on, like every year. It’s the 8th time I’ve been here for a staff week. The first time I came to Yewfield was when working at the youth hostel in Coniston, down the road a few miles. Raman was showing Krishnamurti videos here sometimes, and I hiked up the hill, returning through the moonlight with Consiton Water stretched out below.

Q: How many lakes does the Lake District have?

A: The Lake District only has one lake. The others are all something-or-other Water, or Tarn, or -mere. Buttermere. What a fab name. The only lake is Bassenthwaite Lake, in the north. Looking at the map, some other nice names right near Yewfield: Bettyfold, Keen Ground, Bobbin Mill. Ah, the Lake District! I can’t wait to take a walk, and maybe a skeet tomorrow. Now to the warm open fire downstairs…