In Pursuit of Poetry – A Personal Journey (as it has to be)

How many of us, I wonder, do justice to poetry? Perhaps it is the ultimate written form, striving to say so much with so few words in an ultimate distillation; invoking strange alchemies to achieve improbable and powerful evocations. However it can often be too much effort to unravel those cryptic complexities, feeling more like doing the Times crossword, and I for one have certainly struggled frequently in slowly developing a rewarding engagement with poetry.

That process seems though to have recently reached a tipping point, and I now find myself in an exciting and more comprehensive relationship with the work of a small but growing number of poets. To understand how this came about I’ve been tracing my history of engagement with the form, which you may care to compare your with own.

I have always loved the rural above the urban and, in my younger days particularly (but still somewhat), the wilder the better with hillwalking and mild mountaineering dominant interests along with the creative capture and interpretation of such places. Hence the landscape work of the late photographer Fay Godwin was an early passion, her stark monochrome images of the wilder parts of Britain making a significant impression. Collecting books of her work starting with the still magnificent 1985 volume Land, I subsequently picked up a cheap and unassuming earlier work Remains Of Elmet, only to discover I had inadvertently bought my first book of poetry. While full of Godwin’s atmospheric photographs of the harsh beautiful landscapes of the Pennines, it was also a book of strong uncompromising poems by Ted Hughes. But rather than Godwin simply producing images to accompany existing poems, this was a more intriguing joint project where Godwin first took photographs that captured the essence of the area as far as she could, and Hughes then wrote poems triggered by particular images that struck a chord with him. The synergy and impact of the joint representations and interpretations remains marvellously strong, and certainly strong enough for me on first encounter to register the power of poetry for the first time. Hughes raw, visceral lines (epitomised by titles such as You Claw The Door and The Sluttiest Sheep in England) were an invigorating slap in the face akin to being out on those moors lashed by gale driven rain.

 

In subsequent years my preoccupation was very much with exploring the Scottish mountains in all their splendour, seasons and weathers. In doing so it was impossible to avoid encountering the evocative poetry of the prolific Norman MacCaig, who provides a stirring, yet tender, thoughtful and relatively uncomplicated narrative to such hill-going activities. His work is a clear demonstration that poetry need not be cryptic or difficult, and that if it talked of the things that you were most passionate about, the motivation to engage with and savour the work regularly and fully was easily forthcoming. For the keen hillwalker there are endless gems such as Climbing Suilven and A Man in Assynt, but in truth MacCaig captures the whole of Scotland in every aspect, and much of the human condition besides, hence there are rich rewards for anyone with a love of the country or of life itself.

 

More recently I have found equal pleasure in exploring regions other than those with mountains, and an early affection in this new phase was South Devon which my better half and I visited repeatedly for a number of years. Exploring the exquisite coast, the rivers from estuary to moor, Dartmoor itself, and the bohemian atmosphere of Totnes were all special pleasures. And all of this proved to be a kind of preparation for the full appreciation of the mesmerising Dart, published in 2002 by young poet Alice Oswald. Dart is the unsentimental book-long poetic description of the River Dart, gradually moving from its source on the moor, through Totnes to the sea at Dartmouth. It reads almost like prose and makes frequent use of local characters Oswald encountered, both describing and quoting them at length to fascinating effect. Knowing and loving so many of the places described created a strong connection for me which again meant I was able, and continue, to draw much from it and revisit it often. There is even a rather fine recording available on CD of Oswald reading the entire work, which takes about an hour. Her slightly severe voice is perfect for it, and strangely and subtley reminiscent of Ted Hughes, to whom many consider Alice to be the natural successor.

 

And so, via rewarding encounters with better known poets such as John Clare and Dylan Thomas, to more recent times, and a new and unexpected connection that has taken my appreciation of, and engagement with, poetry to a new level. I know and love the countryside around Petersfield in Hampshire well, having previously lived in the town for several years, albeit without making any literary connections at the time. Last year I began revisiting the area since it is now once again within easy reach of home, and savoured the rediscovery of the beautiful varied landscape of both open downs and steep wooded hangers. A favourite walk has always been north up through Steep village to Ashford Hanger and down the far side to Hawkley, with variations extending to Selborne also. As I was enjoying this area on foot last year I dimly registered the Edward Thomas memorial stone on the slopes of the Hangers, and having done so realised that Matt Hollis’s recent prize-winning biography of Thomas, Now All Roads Lead to France, might be necessary reading. This was encouraged by the fact I had recently read Thomas’s book The South Country, a curiously poetic piece of prose of a kind I had not previously encountered, which while beautifully evocative of rural southern England and clearly written with great passion, was idiosyncratic in aspects such as the refusal to name the specific places he was writing about. Hence my initial failure to connect Thomas with the Steep area.

 

That Hollis’s work was required reading proved something of an understatement, for rarely have I devoured a book with such indecent haste. But more telling was that having realised Thomas’s greatest work was his poetry, and having picked up a volume of that work to read in parallel with the biography, I then found I consumed the poems from cover to cover in a matter of days, drawing deeply from them as I went, and which I have found hard to leave alone since. This is a new level of appreciation for me which seems to stem from knowing intimately the places he writes of, walking them via the same routes and with a similar regularity, and due to the deep insights into Thomas’s situation provided by Hollis (clearly benefitting from being a poet himself). For there is something almost mythical in the tragic story of Thomas that makes him stay with you; haunted by serious depression and financial insecurity despite being one of the most influential literary critics and prolific prose authors of his time, but only realising he could write poetry three years before he died in France at the battle of Arras on Easter Monday 1917. The outpouring in those slender years was however astonishing, and despite often being referred to as a war poet all his poetry passionately reflects the love of rural England and the folk within it that meant most to him. His work is tinged with a melancholy that adds a special power, a symptom of the overbearing war and his depressive nature perhaps, or a deeper recognition that when something is sufficiently beautiful or precious it becomes potentially heartbreaking – constantly at risk from mans stupidity or mortality.

And so, hopelessly hooked as I now am, this weekend I will again walk out to the pub with no name near Petersfield, have a pint in the Edward Thomas bar, look at the map, and decide which direction to head next. Thomas’s soulmate Robert Frost for sure, David Jones, Liz Berry perhaps? The possibilities (that work for me) are expanding…

And poetry has a wider definition after all, than its written incarnation. Is it not what we all reach for in some form, above and beyond the basic drudge of life?

Literary Walking in Hampshire - A Slippy Slidey Affair

The affection I have for my adopted home county of Hampshire has grown steadily down the years, but an unanticipated new enthusiasm has recently taken hold as I slowly register its dense connections with the English literature I’ve belatedly engaged with and am learning to love. A simple walk out of Petersfield today, through the village of Steep and up onto the Ashford Hangers, and then down towards Hawkley had us (almost literally) falling over literary associations and resonances.

It was a cool murky start as we wound our way past Bedales school towards Steep, where the war memorial revealed the first surprise. I’ve cycled past this little pillar perhaps a hundred times in my life yet never stopped to read it; today we did and registered the inclusion on the roll of honour of one Edward Thomas, poet, writer, and literary critic. The countryside and country life were Thomas’s muse and his work some of the most evocative of southern England ever produced. He settled in Steep with his family in 1906, and walked and wrote prodigiously, although he only turned to poetry from his staple prose in 1914 with the encouragement of his close friend the American poet Robert Frost. As we strolled to the northern edge of the village we passed Thomas's first home, Berryfield Cottage, where it was good to see that it still seemed to be someone’s normal home, with no blue plaque or tourist paraphernalia in immediate evidence.

 

Then it was the stiff pull up through the wooded hangers, picking our way, initially alongside a clear spring-fed chalk stream, through sticky mud on slippy chalk, gradually aware of increasing height but tantalised by the characteristic view-blocking trees. On reaching the top of Shoulder of Mutton Hill a glorious, expansive view south east should have been ours, one of the finest in southern England and referred to in several of Thomas’s poems. But the murk hid it for now, so we pressed on along the ridge.

As we were about to descend northwards towards Oakshott two deafening quad bikes roared up, spraying mud everywhere as they turned sharply down the track we were also to follow. The peace was well and truly shattered and tranquillity was hard to re-establish as we slithered down the steepening quagmire of the track, deeply gouged by 4x4s and water run-off. The going became increasing difficult and exasperating in the claustrophobic tradition of many a Hampshire sunken lane, and sufficiently vertiginous to be a little like trying to down-climb an ice-covered gully. At a final absurd precarious friction-free giant step, with no sensible way forward, we made a more emotional literary connection. Nearly 200 years ago the indefatigable William Cobbett explored this area on horseback and railed regularly and heartily in his classic Rural Rides against the perilous muddy morasses he had to negotiate down its sunken lanes. What can I say except that my better half produced a sequence of suitably impressive expletives in classic Cobbett style (she formerly of William Cobbett Middle School, Farnham) as we struggled to accept we were just going to have to turn round and climb all the way back up through the mud to the ridge.

Looking north to the distant church tower of Hawkley, from Ashford Hanger

 

This we did in suitably dark mood, having had our route to Hawkley neatly curtailed. Nonetheless we somehow remained friendly towards a group of exaggeratedly polite off-road motorcylists who descended gingerly towards us, clearly aware that public acceptance of their blatantly destructive activity was on a perpetual knife-edge.

Regaining the ridge we claimed our recompense, for the mists were clearing rapidly and the sun beginning to energise all about. To quote Cobbett as he sat on horseback near this spot in 1822:

“…out we came, all in a moment, at the very edge of the hanger! And, never, in all my life, was I so surprised and so delighted! I pulled up my horse, and sat and looked; and it was like looking from the top of a castle down into the sea, except that the valley was land and not water.”

Looking south-east from Shoulder of Mutton Hill towards the distant South Downs

 We drank it all in as we had our lunch, equally amazed and inspired at the panorama of hills and woodland extending east and south, subtly lit, with the distant skyline of the South Downs the elegant backdrop. Far down below, directly at our feet, sat Berryfield Cottage, a sublime location – how did it take the troubled Thomas so long to turn to poetry here? (But then it was already largely there, his prose is often almost poetry, exemplified by the magnificent The South Country and In Pursuit of Spring).

 

Descending the open slope of the hill is a rare delight on the wooded Hangers, to be drawn out as much as possible, with the view initially widening as partially obscuring trees are passed, before compressing vertically as further height is lost – perhaps there is a sweet spot halfway down, not far below the Edward Thomas memorial stone. The simple octagonal plaque poignantly reminds us of Thomas’s tragic early demise aged 39, killed by the blast of a shell in the Battle of Arras, on Easter Monday 1917 only two months after arriving at the front. He refers to this hillside in a number of poems, notably in When First:

“When first I came here I had hope,
Hope for I knew not what. Fast beat
My heart at sight of the tall slope
Of grass and yews, as if my feet

Only by scaling its steps of chalk
Would see something no other hill
Ever disclosed...”

Looking down from Shoulder of Mutton Hill, Berryfield Cottage is the right hand building in the foreground

We ambled back towards Petersfield in the sunshine, stopping for contemplation in Steep churchyard, only forgoing the interior and its Edward Thomas memorial windows due to the calamitously muddy state of our boots (I hear Cobbett muttering!). A beautiful, annoying, frustrating, uplifting day with much to take away (and return to)…

Favourite Listening of 2014

OK, so here for the record are my favourite new (to me at least) albums of 2014. No agonising was involved in their selection, since by definition they had to pick themselves – standing clearly above all else I’ve heard this year. Regular readers will see few surprises as I’ve telegraphed most of these in earlier posts, though there are a few words below on the one exception, the rather marvellous Mishaped Pearls. At the risk of contradicting my recent post promoting world music I have to wryly acknowledge that this years top listening is all from Britain and Ireland; I was tempted to contrive otherwise but it would have been just that, a contrivance. The stuff coming out of these islands just now is simply too damned good; and I’m also intrigued that this set of five albums happens to form a remarkably coherent combination, beautifully reflecting the diversity of said islands. Savour…

 

Duncan Chisholm - Affric (Scotland): see 26 January post

9Bach - Tincian (Wales): see 22 May post

Fernhill - Amser (Wales): see 29 July post

Eithne Ni Uallachain - Bilingua (Ireland): see 24 December post

Mishaped Pearls - Thamesis (England):  This really shouldn’t work. German mezzo soprano Manuela Schuette meets down-to-earth musical adventurer Ged Flood and his large multi-instrumented crew to perform radically reworked English traditional songs themed directly or indirectly on the River Thames. It should be nauseating or a complete car crash, and probably both, but somehow, with the golden thread of Manuelas strong elegant voice running through the whole, and the sheer class, taste and creative energy of all concerned, it manages to be jaw-droppingly beautiful from start to finish. A classic, and also a tribute to ace musician and producer Gerry Diver (hubby of equally ace singer Lisa Knapp who figured in this post a year ago) who was brought in for the project.


See also: Favourite Listening of 2013

World Music, and its current British suffocation

World music, perhaps you’ve heard of it? It’s that little afterthought category in the corner of your (increasingly rare) music store. So what exactly is it if it’s so small and unimportant?

Of course it essentially means “rest of the world” music from a western English-speaking perspective, since the store, its internet equivalents, the music media, and increasingly the live music scene, in Britain at least, are dominated by music made by and for English speakers, with a little gaelic folk and a fair bit of classical thrown in. After all, that’s what people want… isn’t it?

But hang on a minute, isn’t world music actually something rather enormous? In fact, strictly isn’t all that western English-speaking music really just a small subset of it, and given western English speakers probably make up considerably less than 10% of the world population, isn’t there an awful lot of great music to be had from the other 90% of that population? The answer, for anyone who’s taken the time to look, is an absolutely deafening YES; there’s an overwhelming amount of excitement, richness and diversity to be had everywhere you look, with genres and sub-genres galore. I’ve spent most of my adult life discovering and savouring this treasure trove and remain bewildered at what a minority interest it is given the gems on offer. The sheer scale of this missing (in Britain) music is nicely illustrated by the two massive tomes that comprise the Rough Guide to World Music, first published fifteen years ago at over 1400 pages in an act of apparently almost lunatic enthusiasm and erudition, and which has continued to grow significantly since. To put that in perspective, the corresponding Classical Music guide barely makes 500 pages.

A rather large catalogue of what's currently missing in British music coverage

To my mind this begs a few questions, mainly stemming from the basic point that people can only want what they know about. So who’s telling them, and more to the point who’s not? Of course there are specialist sources out there for those already plugged into this area (e.g. the excellent fRoots and Songlines magazines in Britain) but how do you get to listen to stuff to establish what floats your boat? How can you be serendipitously drawn into different areas of world music if you never chance across it being played? At this juncture it’s impossible to avoid pointing a finger at the mainstream broadcasters in Britain, and the BBC with its public service remit in particular.

Current BBC radio music broadcasting has four main channels to play with (Radio 1,2,3 on analogue and digital and BBC6 on digital only), with Radio 1 and 2 catering for the established mainstream music (all that English-speaking stuff from the music store). Classical-only Radio 3 roams the airwaves like some sort of superannuated dinosaur that has somehow failed to go extinct, with slightly patronising token forays into jazz and (very rarely now) world music; I have nothing against classical music but the monopoly the BBC allows it, given their limited resources, increasingly seems like something from a bygone age. To its credit BBC6 Music does try, and does manage to be more diverse and stimulating, but even it has not fully and openly grasped the whole world music thing. Interestingly though, following a robust repelling by listeners of BBC plans to axe it, BBC6 Music is now going from strength to strength with its listening figures beginning to outstrip those for Radio 3.

BBC World (Music) Service anytime soon?

So what of live music, which is usually the best way to do justice to outstanding talent? If all else fails surely you can just try going to a few concerts/gigs where recommended foreign musicians are playing? This may still work if you’re London-based, but good luck anywhere else in Britain. Within the last twenty five years there have never been fewer such world music performances going on than right now. It’s tricky to nail the reasons for sure, certainly they fell off very sharply after the last financial crisis perhaps because venues or labels couldn’t afford the costs, and the tightening of security may be making it trickier for some foreign performers to get visas. But my overwhelming sense is of a depressing level of conservatism amongst event organisers. Festivals are more popular than ever all over Britain and run through much of the year, and yet when I scan the impressively long lists of performers for them, they’re full of competent but same old same old names that you only want to see so many times, and it’s rare indeed to spot a truly outstanding and exciting new name from overseas despite the vast untapped talent out there.

Rumour has it that the new controller of Radio 3 has a taste for world music, and the editor of fRoots keeps hammering festival organisers to show some gumption, so let’s hope things have reached rock bottom and that the only way is up – it certainly feels that way. If popularity and success require the oxygen of publicity then world music in Britain is currently suffocating.

As for me, I’m fine – the exciting and uplifting discoveries keep coming and the obscure CDs from sometimes equally obscure addresses keep arriving; it’s all those who are missing out I’m concerned about.

A Pyrenean Adventure - high camps, vultures and whistling marmots

It wasn’t the most dignified of arrivals. Stranded at the final motorway toll payment station with hazard lights flashing and my credit card well and truly stuck in the machine slot, awaiting the “man from Pau” to come and extricate us. Something of a Winnie-the-Pooh moment. After an increasingly sweaty ten hour drive from the Channel coast Mark and I were tantalisingly within sight of our objective; at least we could admire the jaggy Pyrenean skyline from where we sat, albeit partially obscured by black thunderclouds. After half an hour, and the partial dismantling of the recalcitrant machine, I was presented with a slightly battered card and a receipt for payment, and we were waved on our way. Skirting the tacky fringes of miracle-industry Lourdes, and eleven and a half hours after rolling off the ferry at Caen, we chugged dazed into the campsite at Cauterets: put tent up, have shower, knock up quick functional meal on stove, go to bed, sleep deeply.

In theory we’d gained a day by covering the length of France in a single push, In practice of course we were too knackered to hit the trail next morning and wisely spent the day gathering our wits, planning in detail our first sortie into the mountains, and desperately trying to distil out of the absurd amount of kit and food in the car what was actually needed for this initial two day backpacking trip. The philosophy of the holiday was to do a series of separate mainly multi-day backpacking trips to get up and deeply amongst the Pyrenees, and through high camps experience them to the full without the subtle insulation and constraints that tend to come with mountain hut use. The obvious down side to this approach was the sizeable packs we would have to carry, often in hot sun, a combination I have neatly managed to avoid for most of my mountain experience – so this first outing was always going to be something of a personal test, not to mention a shakedown/proving of the whole approach for both of us for the next fortnight.

Beautiful Lac d'Estom at the head of the Vallee de Lutour

Thankfully, while initially a struggle to put on the next day, my rucsac didn’t prove crippling once in place, and as we steadily climbed southwards up the pleasant Vallee de Lutour the sun had the decency to stay behind the clouds for a few hours, helping us acclimatise to the level of effort required. We cruised nicely to the beautiful Lac d’Estom with its deep green waters, overlooked by many day trippers eating their lunches. We had our lunch too, we’d done over half the days distance so maybe this lark wasn’t going to be too bad after all. Unfortunately we hadn’t done half the days climbing or any of its rougher terrain, we’d ascended 700m so far but a squint at the map revealed another 900m to come, over the rugged Col d’Arraille. Hauling myself over this bouldery col so early in the holiday with full camping gear was the biggest physical struggle of the whole thing for me, and it was a very weary descent westward from there to our camping spot at 2150m, dramatically located directly below the north face of the Vignemale and one of the biggest rock walls in the Pyrenees.

The Vignemale (3298m)

No sooner had we got the tent up and got ourselves organised than weariness was temporarily eclipsed by the adrenaline rush of intense lightning, deafening thunder and torrential rain, the thunderclaps booming off the huge nearby rock faces. The weather persisted and we were forced to seal ourselves up in the tent and cook our evening meal listening to the lashing rain, which continued into the night. In a repeat of the miracle of the very first night I slept beautifully in the tent; this for a person who can’t normally fall asleep in a tent (a tricky shortcoming for a backpacking holiday), clearly total exhaustion is a good cure and one I was able to encore a few more times yet.

The morning dawned clear and sunny and we savoured our situation over what was to become our standard simple wild camping breakfast (large mug of tea, large bowl of muesli, both with rehydrated milk powder). The drama of the Vignemale dominated, gradually being lit by the rising sun, with a small but striking glacier sitting below it. The original plan had been to leave the tent where it was and climb the relatively easy Petit Vignemale summit in the morning before returning, packing up, and descending the Vallee de Gaube. However we were both too weary, after such a strenuous preceding day, to contemplate the climb and so packed up and made the most of the (actually rather long) beautiful descent down the Vallee de Gaube in sunny weather, to Lac de Gaube, Pont d’Espagne and ultimately the car at la Raillere.

Mark at Lac de Gaube, after descending the valley in the background

It was a satisfying first outing, which hence set the tone for the rest of the trip. It was good to simply confirm I could walk all day with a large enough rucsac to enable sustained backpacking, including substantial climbing and hot sun, and we’d both learnt that we wouldn’t be climbing 1600m in a single day with such packs again! After a nice rest day in Cauterets (cafes, pizzas,…) we were re-energised for a more substantial trip, this time a planned five day foray across the border into Spain and back, with possible summits in the offing. It was however interesting to note how reaching summits played a very secondary role on this holiday compared to most mountain walking I’ve done, it was more than satisfying enough to be traversing through the stunning high valleys and over cols that were generally only a few hundred metres lower than the multitude of jagged peaks.

Vallee du Marcadau

Despite the extra food that had to be carried we felt stronger on this longer outing and got into a good steady routine. The heavy packs made for a more measured pace and outlook that arguably allowed more to be taken in and appreciated. From Pont d’Espagne we wandered up the exquisite Vallee du Marcadau to camp at the Chapelle du Marcadau near the Refuge Wallon hut, within sight of the peaks clustered around the 3005m Grande Fache. We dozed off to the sound of the nearby stream and the cowbells from the slopes opposite. The next day was a particularly fine meander up through the small lakes of the Lacs de Cambales, toward the tricky boulder fields guarding the Col de Cambales. On this stretch we were regularly leapfrogging a friendly Spanish couple, Maria and Alberto, also with big packs and their beautiful white Pyrenean mountain dog which carried its own supplies in its panniers. We all converged at the col, which at 2706m was the highest point we hauled large rucsacs to, and had a chat over lunch with our new friends, one of whom thankfully spoke workable English. Large vultures could be seen drifting along the ridgelines looking for small furry fodder below as we ate. Further down the subsequent descent we met again for the last time, and I was astonished to see that Maria, having kicked off her boots and socks to chill out, had immaculate pink-painted toe nails; quite an achievement amongst hardened mountain goers who generally have battered and bruised toes!

The remote Chapelle du Marcadau, below the Grande Fache (centre)

Climbing through the Lacs de Cambales, towards the Col de Cambales (low point on the skyline)

Entering Spain shortly afterwards, we spent a lot of time finding a good campsite on rock-strewn ground in a neighbouring valley at about 2400m since the plan was to keep the tent here for two nights to allow a single relatively unladen day for peak bagging. It was a great perch for admiring the sunset over the Spanish mountains and the mists battling over the mountains from France; there is a natural weather divide between the two sides with mists regularly drifting south in the evenings but struggling to convincingly establish themselves on the Spanish side.

The next day was spent climbing eastward with light rucsacs up to the Col de la Fache back on the border, and then eschewing the obvious and popular ascent of Grande Fache itself (which Mark has climbed before) for the rarer pleasures of the Pic de Cambales to the north. Err, only to realise after a while that we had taken the wrong line and were climbing the rather more obscure Pene d’Aragon instead! We were suitably chilled about this however, and carried on with the serendipitous route change, to a very photogenic and prolonged lunch on the 2918m summit. Often the slightly lower peaks provide the best views of all, putting the highest mountains in context, and that certainly seemed the case on this occasion.

Mark on the summit of Pene d'Aragon (2918m)

After returning to the tent and another memorable overnight on the Spanish side, including watching the ubiquitous whistling marmots hurtling around the hillsides, it was time to head back into France. We’d originally intended to take two days over this but had realised it was achievable in one at a push, and that push came with deteriorating weather. Hence we scrabbled back up the Col de la Fache in light rain with occasional thunder, and began the long descent back to the Refuge Wallon and then the Vallee du Marcadau. The weather chased us all the way with waterproofs on and off more times than I can remember, and startling thunder and lightning at increasing frequency as we approached Pont d’Espagne.

Returning to Cauterets, for which we were developing a certain attachment, we felt we had earned a bit of a blow-out evening meal, but to keep costs down we headed for the take-away pizza parlour. Slightly anxious at the moderate size of box a customer left this establishment with, we decided that maybe three pizzas between two was the best policy to avoid any possibility of under-nourishment. Suffice it to say that this was an act of gross underestimation on our part, each of these three pizzas was a major meal in itself. We got through two and half before hurting enough to call a halt! Fortunately cold pizza is good packed lunch fodder so the leftovers kept us going for the next couple of days.

After another rest day, and drying out day for our kit, it was time to plan out the remainder of the holiday. We wanted to explore a little further from Cauterets, and also fancied a single day outing with smaller rucsacs, so we headed east over to Gavarnie in the car and did a strenuous and highly rewarding ascent of the distinct peak Pimene, which at 2801m proved a nicely varied and interesting climb and viewpoint. The Cirque de Gavarnie is justifiable regarded as a highlight of the whole Pyrenees, being a dramatic semi-circular distinctly terraced rock wall rising to 3000m, and we had an outstanding view of it from the summit ridge of Pimene.

Carl approaching the summit of Pimene (2801m)

Cirque de Gavarnie from Pimene

To finish the holiday we decided to go for one last special high wild camp, and headed further east to the less frequented Neouvielle region. The drive over to our start point near Bareges took us along the start of the ascent to the Col du Tourmalet, famous as a regular climb in the Tour de France. Quite a few cyclists were out and I confess to a compelling mixture of envy and sympathy for them, I would love to ride this and other classic continental climbs on my bike, yet the scale of even just this early part of the climb was inescapably daunting.

Setting off with full packs from the enticing looking country restaurant of Chez Louisette, typical of the establishments which the French seem to excel at, we headed south and steadily climbed up the steepening tracks to the rather ugly Refuge de la Glere at 2150m. Beyond this however we entered beautiful intricate higher ground from which we could look down on a number of small lakes and valleys, as well as out to wider horizons to the west and north. Idyllically a healthy stream was flowing through this just where we wanted to camp, providing our water supply and soundtrack for the night.

Camping at 2200m in the Neouvielle region

We savoured this camp and its situation which was in many ways the best of the holiday, and in the morning made a meandering foray further south, delayed by early rain, towards our original objective of the peak of Turon de Neouvielle at 3035m. However, due to the late start but also our general pleasure in our surroundings, we didn’t feel the need to push on to the summit and decided to turn around on reaching the high Lacs de Maniportet. This felt more like a success than a failure, an acknowledgement perhaps that simply ticking off summits risked tokenising a more rooted and all-encompassing appreciation of our surroundings and why we were really there. The whole fortnight had developed and matured such feelings, encouraged by our approach but also the very nature of the Pyrenees that seems subtly to invite it, a fine thing indeed to take back home.

 

And what of the Welsh? - the most elusive music in Britain

Since the spine-tingling performance by 9Bach I described in May, and the deserved recognition they’ve been building in the mainstream press ever since, I’ve found myself repeatedly musing on the curious state of creative Welsh-rooted music more generally. Wales resolutely remains a place apart within the UK despite its intimately close proximity to its dominant English neighbour, a situation long sustained by geography and history. That the only motorway links between the two run along the north and south coasts like the rods in a wall hanging, neatly isolating and preserving the vast rural heartland in between, surely assists this even into modern times.

Llanthony Priory, in the peaceful Vale of Ewyas

As to the people, I should first declare a piece of personal baggage:

Some twenty or so years ago a couple of friends and I found ourselves in Caenarfon, the epicentre of Welsh-speaking North Wales, early on a Saturday evening after a long day on the hills of Snowdonia, dishevelled and in search of food and drink. We went into a busy, promising looking pub in the main square, whereupon the place fell silent within seconds. Undeterred we strolled to the bar and waited for the oddly absent staff to reappear, to no avail. As the minutes passed customers quietly and smugly peered round at us, and after a while we realised this was going nowhere and headed for the door. As we opened the door to leave, the banter in the main bar smartly rose, the apparent culmination of an impressive and well-practiced piece of communal passive aggression. Given that we knew that if we’d strolled into a similar establishment in Scotland or Ireland we would have been new best mates with the locals at the bar within minutes, it all seemed rather sad. Fortunately the staff at the Chinese takeaway in a nearby side street had no such hang-ups and did us proud.

While possibly an overreaction, I’ve never entirely shaken off the sense this gave me of a certain wilful insularity in parts of Wales, and particularly in the Welsh speaking areas that also currently provide the source of much of its finest and most exciting music. This combination does however seem to have created a strange situation where that music is held very close, and rarely strays outside the homeland, which is why 9Bachs uninhibited recent breakout into England and the stir they’re currently causing at a number of major festivals has been so striking. Many with even a casual interest in the locally rooted but creative music of Britain and Ireland will be able to name major singers or bands that represent most geographic regions whether singing in English or Gaelic; but for Wales?

I’m still in the early stages of my exploring, but two key things I’ve discovered are (a) there is absolutely no shortage of terrific Welsh-rooted music whether instrumental or sung in Welsh and/or English, and ( b) if you currently want to hear the best Welsh music live you are (with very rare exceptions) going to have to go to it because it’s not coming to you. This second issue even extends to the difficulty of buying recordings of the music, a number of the best artists I’ve found being unavailable via mainstream websites or shops, and only obtainable via an individual specialised website that needs seeking out. Deliberate insularity? Lack of confidence? If the music was so-so it might be understandable, but it’s absolutely wonderful! So to stop whinging and start promoting, here are some current favourites:

 

The harp permeates much Welsh music, giving it a unique and often gentle or delicate texture, and to enjoy it in its purest form with spell-binding compositions and playing of the highest order you can do no better than to savour the work of Anglesey-based Llio Rhydderch. Don’t be fooled that she looks like everyones favourite bright-eyed gran, this woman is exceptional and mentors a number of young up and coming players. Blending harp with exhilarating Welsh vocals, soaring and gentle by turns, Sian James is an established and justly major artist within Wales but has been inexplicably absent much further afield down the years. Her 1993 album Distaw remains her clear masterpiece and is well worth seeking out. More outward looking is harpist Catrin Finch from Aberystwyth who has teamed up with renowned Senegalese kora player Seckou Keita to recently create the mesmerising intricate instrumental album Clychau Dibon, so good that in a coup for Welsh music it won this years highly prestigious fRoots magazine album of the year award.

So far, so refined, but Wales does edgy and pulse-racing too. I won’t rave any more about 9Bach here but the absurdly unknown Taran really do need some trumpeting. This is varied, innovative and energetic pulsing dance/house-influenced music with a sharp Welsh cultural edge, with both Welsh and English lyrics and occasional powerful use of the spoken word. At the heart of the spine-tingling final track of their recent captivating album Hotel Rex is a riveting reading of the Dylan Thomas poem And Death Shall Have No Dominion, the gravitas of which is quite something. Good luck finding this album which comes on a particularly home-recorded looking CD!

 

And so to Fernhill, named after another fine Dylan Thomas poem. Not so much a case of Wales reaching out, as of someone reaching in. Core singer Julie Murphy hails from Essex but married a Welshman, moved to deepest rural Wales, and speaks fluent Welsh (better than her husband!). I’ve found it impossible to liken Fernhill's style to anyone else’s; it is quiet, complex, often jazz-influenced and sung in an intriguing mix of Welsh and English. As such it has over the years become a unique and sophisticated Welsh sound. It is certainly not “easy listening”, but if the listener has the appetite it is hugely rewarding, more like the musical equivalent of a good piece of literary fiction than a lightweight chick-lit novel. With time I’ve got the hang of this music, and perhaps it has also been made a little more accessible, certainly the most recent album Amser is proving particularly stimulating as the layers and subtleties emerge with each new listening, marvellous intelligent stuff! Once again, you won’t yet find this on Amazon.

The diversity and pleasure to be had from all the above music is considerable, and interestingly they all have a distinctly Welsh feel in their own individual ways which are hard to nail with any single glib explanation and it’s probably foolhardy to try. Nonetheless, appreciating it all, I’m drawn strongly to the dark suspicion that they all thrive on a degree of apartness and otherness that a measure of insularity may be necessary to preserve. Maybe the Welsh know exactly what they’re doing!

Useful Welsh music source: www.sadwrn.com

Afon Cwm Llan, Snowdonia

 

Something Else - 9Bach hits Winchester

I’m not sure how to start this, but Wow! feels about right.

It’s just 48 hours since we got home from our terrific large sophisticated concert at the Barbican (see the previous blog) and we’re at it again, out on our musical adventures. The prospect before us however, couldn’t be more different or lacking in promise. We’re in a small, dark, battered and seat-less (aside from a single bench) back room to a tiny amiable pub of similar attributes behind the railway station in Winchester. The (highly competent) support act is gamely playing to about ten people, at the end of which he gets as much of a clap as ten people can muster, and we discover that six of those people comprise the main band for the evening. At least the ale from the bar at the back of the room is pretty good!

So… the six band members duly get up on stage and word goes out that the “main event” is about to start. After a short delay there is an influx from the main (i.e. tiny) pub of eight or nine people, phew - at least the audience has gone up rather than down, just! And if we add in the barman, the sound man and a roving photographer that makes about fifteen of us. Everyone stands coyly round the edges, clutching their drinks, terrified of the wide open space in the centre of the room. And then the music starts…

“We are 9Bach”, charismatic lead singer Lisa Jen Brown announces, and who with husband and guitarist Martin Hoyland form the core of the band. They hail from Bethesda in the heart of Welsh speaking North Wales, on the edge of Snowdonia, with the vast gash of the Penrhyn slate quarry dominating their view in contrast to the beautiful neighbouring Ogwen valley. Lisa sings in wonderfully soft and expressive Welsh (with one Greek exception), songs that are mostly interpretations of traditional Welsh material of generally weighty subject matter, which is perfectly complemented by the innovative slow and pulsing atmospheric sounds of the band with harp, guitars, drums, harmonium and frequent tinkles from xylophone and chimes which are extraordinarily engaging; gentle and powerful by turns, and highly evocative of the homeland. But if this is the context and the general sound, what is really astonishing is the quality and subtle creativity of the songs, arrangements and delivery. This is a class act.

The ever reliable fRoots magazine, ahead of the game as usual

After the first impressive song everyone is smiling, realising this isn’t going to be a duff performance. After two or three it’s broad grins and earnest concentration all round, this demands our full attention. Then comes the first of an outrageous number of spine-tingling “stop you in your tracks” songs that has my better half spontaneously standing up in excitement, not quite sure what to do with herself but knowing sitting on the bench is no longer satisfactory! The rest of the audience are similarly increasingly agitated and/or entranced and there is a growing awareness that we may be small in number but tonight we are some of the luckiest folk in the land. And so it goes on, innovative and bewitching throughout, interspersed with hilarious and unrepeatable banter between the band members, and increasingly the audience, often initiated by mischievous London cabbie and drummer (and token non-Welsh member) Ali Byworth. The emotional range and effect achieved is extraordinary, and the ultimate highlight is the stunning song Plentyn that Lisa herself has written after a visit to the aborigines of Australia, telling the appalling true story of the white man coming to take a mothers child away, and capturing the ensuing grief and despair. The piece as performed is a thing of astonishing beauty.

The understated, mesmerising first album from 2009

And then, too soon, it’s all over, and they’re off the stage and we’re shaking hands and having a good old natter. Lisa admits she’s thoroughly enjoyed the venue despite the turn-out; they’ve just played a couple of concerts in one to two hundred seat auditoriums in North Wales and found it a little too staid being spread out on a large stage which kills the banter within the band, and with the audience locked into their seats restricting the scope for dynamics and spontaneity and hence the atmosphere they clearly thrive on. Chatting to Martin he’s unassumingly chuffed to bits when we make clear what we thought of the evening’s performance, and that the new album Tincian has had rave reviews in the national broadsheets over the last couple of weeks; I waste no time in giving him a tenner for my copy. I’ve had their impressive eponymous debut album for the last four years and play it regularly, it’s extremely engaging in its unique understated way and many of its pieces were played this evening to great effect, but it has also always hinted at huge further potential – something that’s been finally realised in spades tonight and through the new release. Lisa and fellow singer Mirain Roberts ask sociably if we can stick around for a while as they are keen to extend the post-performance social – but with a heavy heart we have to make our excuses for the late drive home (a decision we naturally regret even more half way back).

The stunning new album... err, just buy it!

Walking through darkened Winchester back to the car the locals are turning in for the night, absurdly unaware of the uniquely special experience on their doorstep that they all missed out on. No it wasn’t a smart concert at the Barbican or Royal Festival Hall, it was something else.

 

For more information on 9Bach, including access to some nice videos, click on: www.9bach.com