A different kind of tension

          OK, enough of the heavy stuff for a moment. I’m back at work (again) after a fairly uneven summer which, nonetheless, seemed to have an air of change and replenishment tucked somewhere inside it. Work on the other hand still seems so…well, pointless. However, it pays the bills and that’s something to be said for it.

          So I’m feeling ambivalent about life at the moment and one thing that symbolically represents that ambivalence quite nicely is – caravans. You see, where I live caravan owners are (quite rightly) viewed with some distrust, some annoyance and sometimes even downright hatred. They clog up the narrow roads, they block views by parking in the nicest of places and then staying there for days, sometimes weeks, they often seem to have forgotten how to drive after a year of having the ‘van in their gardens waiting for that moment to descend en masse, they go to the most wonderful of places and then sit inside watching satellite tv…. Well, the list goes on. Simply put, caravans are second homes that reappear every summer, like a travelling Brigadoon without the decency to disappear after just a day.They can be a right pain.

 

          That said I should make a confession. Yes, my name is Bel Mondo and I used to own a caravan. There, said it. To be fair it cost £40 and was never on the road, simply parked in a field and used for the small Tins when they got tired of camping. I think I slept in it once. It lasted us two years and then we gave it away. Strangely, in between us giving it away for nothing and the new owners coming to collect it someone stole it…..I have no idea why since there were many better caravans (in fact every other ‘van there) to nick. But no, they took our crap one. Never saw it again. Although I was in London later that same year and down in Blackfriars’ tube station there was an art ‘installation’ on the unused platform which featured a caravan of the same make and vintage as ours….it even had the same curtains. I don’t know if it was ours, but if it was then I’m glad that’s where it ended up. Somehow having a caravan in the depths below London seemed quite a nice twist.

          And this is where the ambivalence comes in – I understand the need for that freedom, the ability to just drive off with all your stuff packed safely into the little mobile living space. To hit the road Jack and at least imagine that you’re never coming back no more. To take off and explore, to wander, to roam. What I hate is the way that they get bigger and bigger and give their owners the excuse never to leave them. After all what’s the point of going someplace if you retreat inside to watch Eastenders and cook pizzas in your four ringed halogen oven at the slightest hint of a cloudy sky ? Just stay at home yeah ?

          However there are always some exceptions and these sometimes turn up on ‘The Field’. Here are two of them, the first small chic and almost too perfectly beautiful – it was I thought the ideal ‘van to pull behind a late sixties sports car, maybe an MG Midget or an Alfa Spyder. This one had come over all the way from Germany (to digress, it’s very odd that so many Germans pitch up down in Cornwall – I’m told it has something to do with the popularity of Rosamunde Pilcher novels over there).

          The second is just a hippy dippy throwback which at least has the sense of scale and wears its sensibilities on its shell. I couldn’t object to this really since it looks like the sort of thing Dylan from the Magic Roundabout would retire to after a day of sitting in a field doing nothing much at all. I do like the fact that they seemed to have had fun painting the wheels green but kind of gave up on the flowers quite early on leaving it looking like the drop-out English cousin of the sharp continental above.

          But as for the big mutha’s – well, I feel a strange desire to follow them back home, put up a tent, light a campfire and play bongo’s all night in their garden…

          I never realised (due to a lack of interest I guess) that Canterbury proggers Caravan and Soft Machine both grew out of The Wilde Flowers – kind of sums it up really, never liked Caravan but Soft Machine are OK, and what is a tent but a soft machine…?

None of that noodling here though 

And boy do those dancers look like they got dressed for caravanning...

Swift !

          Swift – the very name is so smooth, so positive and so absolutely right for those darting swooping masters of the air. I won’t get all ornithological on you here since I’ll leave that to those who are better informed but one of the things that has stuck with me from the sojourn on ‘the field’ is the swifts. Birds, who I’m reliably informed are not that closely related to swallows at all but rather to the humming-bird ! Now how cool is that, to have a very close relative of one of the most exotic of species in a wet field in England ?

          Whilst much of the natural world seems to have taken a battering from this overly wet summer, there seemed to be few caterpillars, butterflies, bees and crickets about, the swifts were definitely taking to the skies with a wild abandon that was simply breathtaking. It was an absolute privilege to be amongst them, on what was presumably their home (or at least summer) turf. They flew relentlessly throughout the day and on into dusk, swooping and swerving, making dramatic last minute changes of direction that seemed to verge on impossibility and were totally unperturbed by human presence. If anything they seemed to treat our itinerant invasion as a chance to show off, to delight in their skills and to generally take the piss out of us lumbering, gravity constrained, clumsy and graceless beings. They spent a lot of time flying about six inches off the ground – no doubt a rich source of food – but they frequently flew within inches of our clumpy legs and on one occasion straight through mine, there can be no reason for them nutmegging me other than to just make a point – the point being that they just can.

          They also used the verdant high-hedged single-track lanes around the field as their own personal highways. Why they do this I don’t know but they did seem very fond of following man-made routeways, perhaps we attract insects, I don’t know. What I do know is that they would often approach the car at speed, from the opposite direction, aim their streamlined bodies at front grill level and leave it until the very last millisecond to swoop upwards leaving maybe an inch or so between themselves and the windscreen as they cleared the roof of the car.

          There’s something about their style that makes them appear like daytime bats, although sleeker, cooler and more self assured than bats who I always think of as rather lacking in confidence. Perhaps it’s because they remind me of the sort of Goth who hangs about on war memorial steps drinking cider. Swifts on the other hand are sharply dressed, confident, slightly edgy birds – if they were human (and forgive me for lapsing into anthropomorphism) then they would be well heeled hustlers, working hard at making the rest of us look like fools.

          Colin MacInnes knew this I’m sure – I don’t think for a second that in Absolute Beginners his naming the sharp cocky ‘modern jazz creation’ with a flair for duplicity and a sideline in ‘modelling’  Dean Swift, was just an homage to the writer of Gulliver’s Travels. At least, I still picture him as sleek as his feathered namesakes.

 

          Finally, perhaps you can help me out on this one, is this some new urban slang that I haven’t caught up on ? Earlier in the year I was in a supermarket late at night, one of those ‘metro’ type ones, on my way back from a work trip. I was wearing what I can only describe as my moddest of suits, pointed patents and a long pointed collar white shirt ensemble. Standing at the checkout these two girls who were maybe 25 years younger than me and who would have been out of my league even twenty-five years ago stopped, looked me up and down and just pronounced one word – yes, that one – ‘Swift’ said  one, in what certainly seemed to be a complimentary tone….  Ah, how to make me happy ! For one night I was an absolute beginner again and having spent my summer with the real things I’m even happier to have the association.

          Precious few songs about swifts out there so you'll have to make do with Richard Swift and Damien Jurado instead - Hello Sunshine is rather addictive after a while and could easily accompany you as you drift along in a summery haze watching the skies until dusk falls and the sun slips away.

          As an added bonus you can download the album  Other Peoples Songs volume one free by following the link.

Field Days

        

Warning - may or may not contain actual field

           It’s hard to explain to those who don’t ‘get it’ why choosing to live under canvas in a field for a few weeks in a country regaled for it’s unreliable weather could ever be considered a holiday…. The thing is that despite the frequent rainy days and nights, the potential for storms that will demolish the very shelters you’re sleeping in (and yes, that has happened before), the mud, the very limited showers / toilets (to the point that if they were more limited they would disappear like a Cheshire Cat, leaving just a grin to say ‘Well, you complained about me whilst I was here, what are you going to do if I’m gone…..?’).

          You see this particular field is pretty much that – a field. In fact it’s two big fields, both the size of several football pitches, camping only allowed around the edges, on a cliff, facing the North Atlantic. No glitz, no attempt at entering the twenty first century. We replace the cows that live there for a few weeks every year. And it’s heaven ! As a bonus there’s absolutely no mobile signal either. There’s a kind of allowable anarchy that runs the place and that’s why I go back. Imagine a festival with no music, no crowds, no entrance fee and you pretty much have it (sorry to go all hippy on you but don’t imagine something like modern Glastonbury or V, rather stroll back to early Stonehenge or maybe take a walk even further and picture a mediaeval encampment with wood fires and lute players strolling ‘round whilst wenches dispense rough wine from earthenware urns…..

          OK perhaps stick with the picture of a field with tents around the edge….. That said there were plenty of late night fires with guitars and much much rough wine, Joe Strummer would have been at home there. 

          In fact the only real complaint from the younger Tins was that someone was playing the bongos into the early hours and whoever it was had no rhythm… I had to admit that I thought it was a good idea at the time… until you’ve heard That’s Entertainment accompanied by bongo’s, well….  (and for accuracy I should point out it was a djemba I was torturing)

          It was / is a place where I can just forget the rest of the world. The kids know my ambition once there is to spend the whole time not leaving the field apart from walking the five minutes or so to one of the most perfect Famous Five type beaches I have ever seen. Uncrowded, surfable, rocky outcrops to climb and leap off, caves, blowholes, islands, poisonous fish  (Oh I didn’t mention the Weever fish did I?  This year being notable as for the first time in years I didn’t get stung by one of the evil sand lurking spiny devils and thus avoided everyone telling me they’d piss on my foot – It doesn’t work by the way, the water needs to be hotter !).

          Then there’s the other people. Hell can maybe be other people but there it just generally isn’t. That’s where the manageable anarchy comes in. There are no rules, but if anyone starts to make it hard for anyone else there then a few people will absolutely always step in.  Provided you don’t set fire to anyone’s tent then you can do what you like. Personally for me that involves shedding layers of clothes and wandering unselfconsciously about in a towel for most of the morning drinking an early glass of red wine like a primitive Noel Coward – so far no-one’s asked me to leave because of that…. Maybe next year ?

           It’s the physical space that my soul needs, that my head needs and that my life needs. I guess we all find the ones that suit us best. I’m by no means averse to cities, I love them, and I’d love to go off to a villa in Greece or a hotel in New York. But this place always does it for me. And as a measure of its charm the kids always, despite now being old enough to do their own thing, eagerly anticipate going there (and amazingly still seem to want to spend their time hanging out with me which is so not what I wanted to do with my parents at their age !) – the youngest spent some months in Australia and Bali earlier in the year and one of the first things he asked when he touched back down was ‘ When are we going to the field….?’

          I could write reams just about being there but I don’t want this to turn into the blog equivalent of being invited over for a sherry and a light ale and a look at the neighbours’ holiday slides, so I’ll try to restrict myself over the next week or so. Although do expect some specifics to show up now and again.

           I’d invite you all there to join me, but like all the best locations it’s a secret spot...

 And yes it's obvious - but I love this version of the song....