Field

I've just finished making a short film - the first for a while. Coming across a cornfield when out on a walk reminded me of a childhood experience...

The Last Three Feet

Many years ago, a friend and I went rock climbing on Polldubh Crags in Glen Nevis. The route we chose to climb started not far from the road and I remember looking down between my feet to see that a number of people had gathered on the roadside to watch. Like all people watching such things, they were probably intrigued to see if I made it or if I fell off. Falling off was something I very much did not want to do.

Sometimes, if you're climbing, it's no big deal. You're roped up and well protected. If you fall, you'll fall a few feet and dangle in the air from your last point of protection. Obviously, you want to avoid doing so, as things can go wrong and equipment can fail but, as I said, it's usually no big deal. Here, though, it was. I was climbing up a vast slab of rock. Although the holds were big enough to accommodate my toes and the tips of my fingers, I could find nowhere to set up any kind of protection. 

I remember, too, looking up to see the top of the crag, only perhaps three feet away. I remember beginning to feel a sense of relief only to immediately dismiss it, as it occurred to me that the next three feet were no easier or safer than the fifty or so feet I'd already climbed. If I looked up I could see blades of grass and wildflowers overhanging the top edge of the slab. If I looked down between my feet I could see the rope, curving down away from me to my 'second' on his stance half way up the cliff. The onlookers, now tiny dots, were still down by the roadside. Had the remaining part of the climb been two feet from the ground, anyone would've been able to scramble up it without a second thought. It wasn't technically demanding in any way. As it was, it was perhaps the hardest three feet I ever climbed.

One of the attractions of rock climbing is its metaphorical relationships with life; and I often think of that climb, for the simple reason that life has a habit of throwing up situations like it from time to time. One such is finishing a book. You've written tens of thousands of words. You could possibly finish it off more or less as it is, but you feel you've a bit further to go. You need to write just a few thousand words more. Just a few thousand? You look down between your feet. Then you look up. You realise that the last few are no easier than the first few. However, it feels as if you've a lot more invested in them.

To my left, as I type, I've a pile of A4 sheets, a first draft waiting to be typed up. If I'd worked on them instead of writing this I'd be six inches closer to the top of the crag.

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And if I'd spent the last few days adding to those sheets instead of making this short film, I'd be six inches closer still. Thing is, you have to be disciplined but you also get the feeling you have to give yourself a bit of slack if you're to give your best. 

The Wood

Over the last few days I've been walking up to the small wood at the top of the hill when I've had an hour or two here and there to spare, making this. 

 

The Window

I went for a walk across the fields the other day to a ruined barn. There's a small,  stone window in the side of it that always reminds me of the dark openings in neolithic long barrows.  It's obviously a very modern structure by comparison but the darkness is the same.  I took my tablet with me and recorded some footage. 

Getting Ready for Christmas

I've just read an account written by a young Muslim man who, separated from his family, has found himself for the first time among people who are celebrating Christmas. It's doing the rounds on Facebook. He decided to get into the spirit of it. The long and short of it is, he is astonished to find that Christmas is a full-time job that starts sometime in the middle of November. If you're not putting up lights, you're hoovering, presents always cost a bit more than you expect, etc., etc. You get the impression that the poor guy is already on his knees. And he thought all you did was buy people presents and stick up a tree. It's very funny and very touching.

I know how he feels, although I refuse to do anything until December. You can never get everything done. If you think you have, then it only takes a moment's reflection to come up with either something you've forgotten or something you ought to do that you hadn't previously thought of.

Today, I've got to

1. Deliver local Christmas cards,

2, Make more mince pies,

3. Sort out two or three last minute presents,

4. Put away the Tesco delivery that's coming later,

5. Put up a few decorations I've not got round to putting up yet,

6. Hoover and dust,

7. Do whatever it is I've forgotten or whatever it is I haven't previously thought of, that I really ought to do.

What I must NOT forget to do tomorrow morning is take the frozen chicken out to defrost, which I bought not for myself but for the only meat-eater in the house. The poor thing weighs 1.45kg (the chicken, that is).  The internet tells me I should put it in the fridge, 5 hours for every 450g.  I make that just over 16 hours (well, 16.11 reoccurring hours to be exact). I can then keep it up to 24 hours in the fridge before cooking it. I plan to move it from the freezer into the fridge, in a roasting tray covered in clingfilm, very early on Christmas Eve morning, with a view to putting it in the oven perhaps 10am on Christmas Day. Any advice from more experienced chicken roasters will be gratefully received!

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This is another short film I put together as a result of exploring my immediate locality during lockdown. The days were longer then and the leaves still on the trees. Why this hill is called Zebra Hill has intrigued me ever since I saw the name on the map. You can click on the little box in the corner to see it 'full screen'... 

Cabin Fever...

 ...is something I don't suffer from, on the whole. I've stayed at home, now, for nearly nine months. There are times when I've had no choice but to travel but they have been very few and far between. I sometimes pop round to my mother's bungalow on errands but I only go in if it's absolutely necessary. I deliver prescription requests to the local surgery. I've used as much petrol in these last nine months as I usually use in three weeks.

The funny thing is, I seem to manage quite well without doing all the things I used to do. We're suckers for coffee shops and probably will be again. There's one in particular (Sip Coffee in Richmond) that we used to visit once or twice a week (well, three times, maybe). Some of the regulars had become quite well acquainted with each other and we'd started having monthly poetry and music evenings there. Obviously they're not happening at the moment - this is not the time to be cramming twenty people into a small room.

I do get out for local walks in the fields and hills round here. I'm well aware of how privileged I am and that my life is, in many ways, probably many city dwellers' idea of a holiday (in other ways it's not and the grimness of these days can be all too apparent). What I find interesting is that, not being able to go further afield, I've got to know the area immediately round about us more intimately. 

Some of the time I used to spend driving to work, etc., I've spent making short films set in this local area, just using the camera in my tablet and a sound recorder. This is the first one I made. It has the aura of lockdown around it, I think. Apologies to anyone who knows me from elsewhere and may have seen it already: