Kevan Manwaring's Blog: The Bardic Academic, page 14

Terminal

PATRIOT NEWS

Climate Change is Fake News

In a press conference this morning at the White House President Koil dismissed the recent reports by ‘doom-monger’ climate scientists, who claim the extreme weather events we have been witnessing across the States and around the world in the last year are the result of so-called ‘Climate Change’. President Koil made it very clear that he sees these reports as evidence of ‘Fake News’ and renewed his campaign commitment to ‘make war on fake news’. The President said ‘the climate changes every day’ and it is ‘nothing to write home about’.  To say the extreme weather events – hurricanes, floods, wild fires – are the consequence of man’s actions, in particular the burning of fossil fuels, is, the President said, ‘a blatant lie’, and an ‘attack on democracy’. “These people want to shut down our oil industries, our coal industries, our car industries. They want us living in straw huts like Third World savages.” Afterwards, a Whitehouse spokesman said ‘Third World savages’ was just a ‘figure of speech’ and the President meant no racial slur by it. He had ‘a lot of Third World friends’. Many of them work at his chain of hotels around the globe.

Chapter 2: Terminal

‘So, what’s your story?’ Eddy asked, sipping a coffee and munching sceptically on a croissant.

They sat outside a service station café, just over the border into France on the outskirts of Strasbourg – which was overflowing with weary travellers. Some had a clearly spent at least one night there and the place had the air of a refugee camp. Folk sitting hunched exhausted, blankets over their shoulders, cradling a steaming cup or a half-eaten sandwich. Others recumbent in sleeping bags, on any spare floor. Eddy knew how he felt – four hundred and seventy seven miles since Pisa, another four hundred to go to Calais, but at least he was over the halfway point. A plasma screen blared out the latest news, watched avidly by the stranded – each latest revelation leading to more gasps, groans and curses. A spokeswoman from the Civil Aviation Authority was blathering on robotically: ‘There is no telling how long the eruption would last. The airspace above Europe will be closed for the foreseeable future, unless there was a dramatic change in wind direction.’ The studio cut to shots of airports and ferry terminals across the continent – aisles of awkwardly slumbering travellers like the dead waiting for resurrection, the ‘cancelled’ litanies of departure boards – showed the misery was shared with millions in the same plight.

‘My story?’ Fenja smiled. ‘You … people seem to like stories, don’t you?’

‘All the time.’ Eddy grinned. ‘Especially my people. My late grandfather Gunnar was always telling me stories.’ He looked wistful for a moment. ‘But … you distracted me. Answering a question with a question. Cunning! You could be a politician.’

‘Could I?’ Fenja considered the idea.

Eddy caught her eye. ‘Anyway…?’

‘Ah, yes. My story. A traveller, like you. In a place I don’t belong, like you. Trying to get … home. Like you. What more do you need to know?’

‘Your family, your job, what you love, what you hate…’

They laughed.

‘Mm, interesting. I’ll get back to you on those.’

Eddy gave her a puzzled look. ‘Ah, the mystery woman.’

‘Yes, that’s it. My story is … mystery.’

They enjoyed their breakfast in silence for a while.

‘Don’t you want to know my story?’ Eddy finally asked.

‘Why should I?’ Fenja lit up, despite the sign and the frosty stares.

Eddy considered this as he contemplated his coffee. ‘Because I’m giving you a lift. Because we’re sharing the road.  Because we’re fellow human beings, caught up in this mess.’

‘Mess?’

‘Katla. The ash-cloud and all that shit. A bit of dust and this whole continent reverts to the Dark Ages. Doesn’t take much.’

‘For what?’

‘For it all to come crashing down. You can’t even get on the travel websites to find out what’s going on. They’re all jammed. Tried to book tickets for Eurostar. Forget it. I figured my best shot was to haul my sorry ass to Calais, and take my chances at the ferry terminal. Get to Britain and ride up to Scotland – apparently a couple of their airports and still letting out flights. This trip has been a disaster – literally. I might as well head back.’

‘Why?’

‘I was meant to be touring Europe with my lady … my ex-lady… but she dumped me in Italy. Wonder how she’s fairing?’ He looked out at the grey skies. ‘If she had any sense she would have got on the last flight out of Dodge. I had to carry on regardless – bison-headed, my other grandfather would say. Look where it’s got me…’

Eddy finished his coffee. Sighed.

‘So, where are you heading?’

‘To Ellen Vanin.’

‘Ireland?’

‘The Isle of Man I think it’s called these days. There’s a big … meeting there. I’ve been … called.’ She looked into the middle distance.

‘The TT Races? Always wanted to go there. Isn’t that earlier in the year?’

‘No, not that.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m meeting tribe.’

‘Ah, I see. Well, let’s hope we can get across. The English Channel – only twenty one miles but it might as well be the Pacific. How good at you at swimming?’

‘We’ll get across.’ She smiled that smile again. ‘Get me there. I’ll take care of it.’

Eddy looked at her as she got up to go to the bathroom. She walked past the long queue and went straight in, causing stunned silence, followed by a chorus of angry voices.

They were at some service station somewhere in Luxembourg around the six hundred mile mark. Time to fill up for the third time since he’d set off. Eddy squeezed the petrol pump, watching the euro counter whizz round alarmingly rapidly. ‘Jeez, the cost of gas over here. It’s amazing you guys drive anywhere.’

Fenja looked agitated in the forecourt, pacing up and down. The legs had a hypnotic effect on some of the drivers. A long line of vehicles stretched back onto the road, into the distance. It had taken alot of nerve to ride straight in, but ‘it was every man for himself’, as Redcrow put it. ‘Survival of the fastest.’

‘Don’t these places always look the same?’ He called over. ‘Same plastic shit the world over. Bums me out.’

When Eddy had finished, tapping the last few drops out, Fenja walked back to his pump.

‘Well, looks like we’ve hit the jackpot again.’ He groaned, nodding at the final total displayed. He started to pull out his billfold.

His passenger leant nonchalantly against the pump, as though against a tree. She inspected her nails as Eddy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘Wha—!?’ Both counters spun around until they returned to zero.

‘How– how did you do that?’

‘That?’ She shrugged. ‘Me and electronic things never get on. They always seem to go haywire when I’m around. Don’t know why.’

Eddy watched as she straddled the bike, sliding up onto the passenger seat. ‘Coming?’

The petrol pump attendant was busy with a never-ending queue of customers. Shaking his head in disbelief, Eddy got on and fired her up. He set the tachometer back to zero. ‘I have to do it manually.’

‘I’m sure.’ She blew a kiss to the motorists as they accelerated off.

As they approached Calais they found the roads increasingly congested, until they saw a sign that flashed in French, German, Italian and finally English: ‘Ferry Terminal closed until further notice.’

‘How can it be closed!’ spluttered Eddy.

A truck-driver nearby, shaking his head. ‘A bloody farce, that’s what this is! So many people have tried to get there; they’ve had to shut it down. Evacuating Europe. Like flamin’ Dunkirk – my Pap was in it. He’d turn in his grave, God bless him. Doubt they’d send a fleet of fishing boats over.’ The trucker cast an ogling eye over the Nordic woman. ‘Hear they’re sending the Navy down to Santander – fat lot of good that’ll do us, stuck here. Your best bet is Rotterdam, mate. They’re still sailing from there, far as I know. Good luck to you and your bird.’

‘Your bird?’ Fenja queried.

Eddy grinned, checked the atlas. ‘Rotterdam, jeez. This really is turning into a non-stop funaround…’ He found it, and worked out a route. ‘Come on, before everyone and their dog has the same idea!’

They rode through the night until they arrived at the port in the small hours of the morning. It was as dismal as its name suggested – a squalid neon Purgatory, where the tourist dead awaited the Ferryman. The red tail-lights blurred in the rain into a continuous smear as traffic crawled towards the terminal – but Eddy managed to filter through without any prangs, more through luck than skill as the toll of the journey made him spaced out and lacking in the usual grace he felt on two wheels.

Nearly twenty hours on the road.

Mercifully, they were finally there.

The large crowd had gathered out of the ticket office, trawling luggage, barely kept in check by anxious-looking, exhausted security guards. It was clear many of the travellers had reached the end of their tether. Babies screamed. Adults snapped. Arguments were breaking out. There was a nervous desperation in the air. The barriers seemed very flimsy.

As Eddy stretched – stiff from the long ride – Fenja slinked over to the crowd and seemed to pour through them. This caused further uproar – but when an angry Brit harangued her, she turned to look at him and he fell silent. Like a cat sauntering along arrogantly she made her way to the front of the queue.

A little while later she returned with two tickets.

‘How did you get those?’

‘Never mind. Let’s go. The ferry is leaving soon.’

Eddy rode the bike with relief onto the roll-on, roll-off ferry, parked it and killed the engine. The doors started to swing closed behind them. A manic traveller tried to leap aboard at the last minute, plunging into the widening gap.

‘God! Man in the water!’ Redcrow shouted. He started to pull off his jacket to go in, but Fenja held him back.

‘No!’

There were what sounded like gunshots and screams, muffled as the doors clanged shut and the engines throbbed into life.

‘Jeez–us. All Hell is breaking loose out there!’ He started to shake with adrenalin. ‘I could have saved him. Why did you stop me?’

‘So you could get yourself killed? I saved your hide, mister! Don’t mention it!’ She turned on her heels and headed to the stairs.

Redcrow caught up with her as she reached the passenger lounge. ‘Let’s find a couple of chairs. I need to sit down.’

As they entered, they could see all were taken – and many were sprawled on the floor. The place was stuffy with a damp smell of wet and weary travellers, coughs and sneezes, murmurs of subdued conversation and a blaring TV.

Fen kept walking. ‘Up on deck.’

‘It’ll be freezing!’

‘We can keep each other warm.’

Eyebrows raising, Eddy followed.

Fenja found a spot, next to one of the funnels. It let out some warmth. They arranged their bags into a nest, zipped up their jackets.

She offered him her arms. ‘For survival purposes only.’

They huddled together, under the stars, the sea surging around them, the lights of Rotterdam fading into the distance. Fires were breaking out, sirens flashing. Then, a small explosion – a muffled boom in the distance.

‘Looks like we got out just in time! That could have been us.’

‘Sshhh! Rest.’

Eddy inhaled the scent of her hair, found himself nodding off. After the epic ride, he was exhausted. The slow undulation of the ferry as it ploughed its way through the waves rocked him. His eyelids grew heavy. Within minutes he was fast asleep, head resting on her shoulder.

Fenja stared up at the sky, wide awake, eyes filled with stars. ‘Allfather, I am coming.’

***

[image error]Thunder Road – coming soon…

Extract from Thunder Road copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

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Meltdown

BBC WORLD SERVICE

Icelandic volcano eruption causes major disruption across Europe.

A recent spectacular eruption in Iceland, predicted for sometime by experts, has closed down European air space yet again. In 2010 the volcano Eyjafjallajökull erupted, grounding 100,000 flights in the largest commercial air-traffic shutdown since World War Two. And now Katla, a neighbour in the Katla Geopark, has erupted – causing an earthquake 6.4 on the Richter scale, which created shockwaves that reached the north of England. Since late on Saturday night vast amounts of toxic material have been thrown up into the jet-stream, where it is causing a major hazard to aircraft. Aeronautical engineer, Helen Macdonald said: ‘When ash is sucked into a jet engine, it is heated to such a high temperature it turns into molten glass. When it reaches the back of the engine, it cools, solidifies on the turbine blades, jamming the engine and causing the plane to plunge out of the sky.’ Vulcanologist, Sten Olafsson, said: ‘This has been a long time coming. The last time Katla erupted was in 1918. It threw up five times as much ash as Eyjafjallajökull and extended Iceland’s south-coast by three miles. The glacial melt released was similar in volume to the Amazon river. There was major destruction, although amazingly no one was killed that time. Unlike when Laki went up in 1783. That explosion killed a fifth of Iceland’s population, and created an ash cloud that covered the northern hemisphere for months, reducing temperatures to three degrees. Winds brought tonnes of lethal sulphur dioxide and sulphuric acid to your Britain, where an estimated 23,000 people died from poisoning and extreme cold. The poisonous ash created a fog that closed ports. The sun turned the colour of blood. Crops and farmworkers died in the fields. Some believe it triggered the French revolution.’ Europe’s travel systems are in meltdown as millions of travellers attempt to get to their destinations by other means. Train stations are experiencing chaos and major roads are gridlocked. Jeremiad Hopkins, controversial social media ‘influencer’ tweeted: “We are finally paying the price for the cholesterol of capitalism. The blood clots of a corrupt system. Europe’s infrastructure is having deep vein thrombosis.” Leader of the GB-Homefront party, Roger Fandango, said: ‘This is exactly why we need to get out of Europe. If we go down, we go down with them.’

Chapter 1: Meltdown

The young man on the Ducati motorcycle filtered through the gridlocked traffic. Eddy Redcrow had been riding all night. From Italy, through Switzerland, and now, at first light, into Germany. He’d travelled further down any of these poor souls would for some time, but with the endless jams he hadn’t been able to get up to speed and had barely covered three hundred and sixty miles in twelve hours. Yet, slowly, he was making progress. Up ahead, the traffic message boards weren’t boding well. Serious delays ahead. What, worse than this? Time to find another route.

Looking down, he checked updates on his satnav. His phone was playing up; the signal fracturing. He gave it a frustrated tap. No good. On a whim he turned off the autobahn as soon as he could – a junction to somewhere obscure – and pulled over on the slip road. He flipped up his tinted visor – showing fierce blue eyes, an angry brow, red skin. A ponytail of long black hair poked out from the base of his lid like dark tail-feathers. His appearance seemed apt for his name, so his friends joked. He pulled out the atlas from his tankbag and followed his intended route with his finger, from Pisa to Calais: fourteen hours, fourteen hundred clicks. He spotted a straight-ish country road, going north-by-north west, and nodded. Looked promising. He was tired and rubbed his eyes. He would need some coffee soon. The new day was about to start, though you would barely tell it.

The sky was dark again. Traffic jams stretched into the smoggy distance of the autobahn – an endless stream of red and white lights. Nothing was moving. As dawn broke over the land to a chorus of car-horns and road-rage, it could have been a scene from an apocalyptic movie.

Tired of the babble of rolling news, which seemed to be stuck on a Moebius loop of clueless politicians, failing to quell the rising panic, vox pops and punditry – Eddy Redcrow changed from radio tuner to music – selecting shuffle and revved the bike into action as a blistering rock track kicked in. He felt the tension of the autobahn melt away as he accelerated to a hundred along a blissfully empty country road. He would use his own navigational skills (‘your blood’s sat-nav’, Grandpa Running Bear called it) to cross this benighted land.

As he lost himself in the rhythm of the ride and the hard chords of the rock music, his mind flipped back to Pisa.

‘What do you mean, it’s over?’

Eddy held his arms out in disbelief. He wore a faded AC-DC t-shirt, Levis and shades. His girlfriend, a light summer dress which revealed more than it concealed. They had parked up in a view of the famous leaning tower. Tourists snapped away around them, the digital cameras making artificial shutter sounds. Despite the early summer crowds, it should have been perfect. The Italian sun caressed them, made everything stand out like a Surrealist painting. Their body language was a tableau, classic ‘arguing couple’.

‘I can’t go on, Edward.’

She always used the formal version of his name when she was upset. He hated it. He wanted to correct, but gritted his teeth.

‘We’ve only just started the tour! You wait until we’re all the way out here to tell me … this! You know how long it took to save for this trip. How many crummy shifts!’ He let his hands drop, shook his head. ‘I just don’t believe it!’

‘It’s hard to stop you, once you get started. It’s like when you ride that damned bike. I swear you have a death wish.’

‘Ah, that’s the real problem here. You hate the wheels. But you knew the deal. You chose to go out with a biker, for crissakes! When I suggested a bike tour of Europe, you leapt at the idea.’

‘I know. It sounded totally wild. But I didn’t realise it would … take so long to get around. And we’d have to wear all that gear. Uh. And hardly take any luggage. My butt aches after being on that thing all day.’

‘You seemed to like it at first – enjoying the views. It was a buzz, you said.’

‘Yes, we saw Naples; nearly died. But the thrill has … worn off. I want to travel in style and … comfort.’

‘Listen to you – you sound like someone whose retired! I thought you wanted some rock ‘n’ roll?’

‘Sure. But I like to change the station as well. That rock is deafening – after a while, it all sounds the same. Planet Rock, pluh– lease. Give me a break!’

Eddy looked over the glittering waters, scanning it for some meaning in all of this. ‘I thought you were different. Not just another Lake girl. You were so spontaneous. Now I see you just wanted a bit of excitement – to liven up your life.’

‘Oh, because it was so dull before you came along! Get real! Some of us grow up, get real jobs, want a real life. Not to keep riding…’

‘What are you getting at?’

A group of Japanese tourists stood watching them, filming it all. Eddy gave them the finger.

‘You can’t keep running forever, Edward.’

He gripped the rail, knuckles whitening.

‘A girl can’t pin her hopes on some … tumbleweed, blowing through life. Maybe one day you’ll realise that.’ She turned on heels and walked off.

Eddy watched her go.

Numb, he walked absentmindedly until he ended up by the bay. The black holes of his shades mirrored the beautiful vista. The seagulls harsh call seemed to mock him. Letting out a roar, he kicked the spare helmet onto the beach, to the alarm of Italian sunbathers who gesticulated their annoyance with verve. Sighing, he went to collect it. He picked it up, dusted it down, and walked along the beach, scanning the breakers. Their boom and hiss said it all.

The Ducati roared along the straight country road – an old Roman road, surely, Eddy pondered –  the needle pushing a ton. The rock track reached its feedback crescendo as he shot over some train tracks just before the barriers came down. A train rumbled past as he sped ahead. Suddenly, beneath a line of poplars he spotted a figure. A woman, with her thumb out.  As he approached he slowed down a little. She had a good figure. A very good figure accentuated by tight jeans, high boots and a leather jacket unzipped to reveal a figure hugging top. Designer shades. Spiky ash-blonde hair.

Eddy dropped gears and tugged on his front brake, sending the bike into a semi-circular skid, leaving a crescent of burning rubber. He rumbled to a stop, just a few yards passed the crossroads. He turned to look back, as she flicked away a cigarette, picking up a small bag, which she slung over her shoulder and walked towards him. ‘Walked’ doesn’t do it justice – the movement her lower body seemed to make, independent of the upper half. He took off his helmet and found himself beaming. ‘Want a lift?’

‘Sure,’ she said, with a faint Nordic accent, lifting up her shades, revealing eyes the colour of glacier melt. ‘Nice bike.’

‘Wish it were mine.’

The woman looked at him steadily.

‘Not that. Hired, for the grand tour that never was.’ He shrugged. ‘Where you heading?’ He was mesmerised by her face – and the rest of her he tried not to think about.

‘To the coast. I need to get to Britain.’

‘You’re in luck. So do I. I hear they’re still letting flights out of Aberdeen. Hop on.’

She appraised him and the bike coolly. ‘Can I trust you – on this?’

‘Lady, I’ve been riding bikes since I was a boy. Have a hog, but I wanted to check out a European bike. Belong to a gang back home.’ He anticipated her response. ‘No patches –  just for kicks. But you’re safer with me than some of the clowns on the road.’

‘I have your word of honour?’

Eddy laughed. ‘Not a word you hear very often these days, but, of course.’ He placed his hand on his heart. ‘By the code of the Runestone Cowboys – share the road, but not your woman!’

She took his hand and held it very firmly, nails white as teeth. ‘A man who does not live with honour is no man at all.’

‘Phew, I bet you’re one helluva ball-breaker when you wanna be, huh?’ He got off and unlocked the tail box. ‘Here, you’ll need this.’ He handed her the spare helmet, shaking out the remains of the sand.

She laughed, showing bright teeth.

‘Eddy Redcrow.’

‘Pleasure. I’m Fenja … Bergrisar.’

‘Pardon, mam?’

‘It’s an old name. Fenja with a ‘j’ but you pronounce it with a ‘y’.’ Eddy looked confused. ‘You can call me Fen if you like.’

‘Whereabouts you from, Fen?’ asked Eddy.

‘Guess.’

‘Somewhere Scandinavian, clearly..?’

She shook her head.

‘Mm, Icelandic?’

She smiled inscrutably. Nodded. ‘That’ll do.’

‘Icelandic? Cool. Can you go tell your freakin’ volcano – enough already!’

Fenja looked puzzled at this.

‘Never mind.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Now you’re meant to say: And you?’

‘And you?’

‘Gee, thanks for asking. Well, a butt-hole called Gimli, Manitoba. New Iceland, they call it – lot of puffin-eaters. Sorry, that’s what we call your fellow countrymen – you might feel at home there!’

He watched the woman struggle with the helmet. ‘Here, let me show you…’ The strap clicked into place. He adjusted it so it sat true. Fenja said something, muffled. Laughing, he flipped the visor up. She gasped.

‘Is it meant to feel like you can’t breath?’

‘You’ll get used to it.’

‘It smells of … another woman.’

‘A long story. Listen, I don’t know about you but I’m dying for a coffee. Shall we find somewhere for breakfast? We can talk more then?’

Fenja scried him with piercing pale grey eyes. ‘Okay.’

‘Ridden a bike before?’

She smiled innocently.

‘Sit still, don’t lean. No funny hand signals. Hold on.’

Eddy mounted the bike, sitting between her thighs, which felt hot – even through his leathers.

Fenja placed her arms around him.

Smiling, he flicked his visor down and fired the 1200 into life.

It growled down the lane, leaving a tail of dust.

A new track kicked in.

***

[image error]Thunder Road – coming soon

Extract from Thunder Road copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

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Meeting your Mountain Self

[image error]On the summit of Lhadar Beinn (3346 ft) in chilly mist and high winds, 1st September, 2020

Recently I visited the remote Knoydart Peninsula for the first time – an area of breathtaking wilderness on the time-worn west coast of Scotland accessible only by boat, or a demanding 2-3 day hike in. Unlike many of the adventure tourists who go there, I didn’t visit with the sole intention of ‘Munro-bagging’ (which always struck me as a form of bucket-list, or a way of turning nature into a some kind of macho endurance test), but to spend three days savouring the solitude, the stunning vistas, and the stillness.

Yet inevitably the eye is drawn to the peaks.

The first full day, heedful of the way the weather can turn in the Highlands very dramatically (any dry day is a blessing not to be squandered), I caved in to a traverse along a ridge between summits (off my map and so unknown), improvising a route, which involved a serious slog up a steep bracken-covered and deeply-rutted slope (I ended up following a pipeline, using the concrete brackets as staging posts, until I stumbled upon a rope dangling down from the heights, which I used to pull myself up the near vertical ascent). Sweaty work! The second day I felt languid, and lollocked around the campsite, enjoying the sunny morning and my book — but the day was so beautiful, and the cloudless summits looked so enticing, that suddenly felt compelled to climb a mountain (as I was leaving the following morning I really had to ‘seize the day’). So I quickly packed a daysac and set off. Ladhar Bheinn is the highest Munro on the Knoydart – a spectacular ‘saddle’ summit, which connects to some hair-raising ridges. It took an hour to walk in and another couple to reach the summit, and it was surprisingly hard work (I’ve climbed higher – Ben Nevis, Britain’s highest peak (4413 ft); Mount Kinabalu, the highest peak in South East Asia (13435 ft)). Maybe I was done in from the previous day’s hike, and the long ride up. Or just dragged down by my own mortality. Feeling the burn, the breath, and the beat, I had to dig deep.

And that led me to this idea of your ‘mountain self’.

When climbing a mountain you really meet yourself. There is nowhere to hide. You are confronted by all your frailties. Have you got the chops to make it to the top, or are you going to give up? This is similar to running a half/marathon. You have to draw upon inner reserves of stamina, of tenacity. The struggle is as much psychological as physical. So, to your mountain self. How resilient are you when faced with adversity? How much ‘true grit’ do you actually have? Could you slog over a bleak moor in a howling gale? Would you survive a night in a small tent in a storm? When you are cold and wet and miles from home would you lose hope? It’s not about machismo or masochism, but about having some bedrock, some backbone. Stamina and belief. Real character. Show me who you are in your moments of weakness – when you are soaked through and lost. Do you have a centre? An internal compass with its own True North?

The idea of the mountain self points both inwards and outwards – to our inner core, and to a community-minded consciousness. How many of your ‘facebook friends’ would help you if you were stuck on a mountain? Or a bed for the night if you broke down near their home? The former may be asking too much – and I wouldn’t want to put someone else act risk due to my own ineptitude; but the latter for me is a benchmark of true friendship. That open invitation to drop by if you’re in the area – for a cuppa, maybe a meal, even a sofa or bed. If you can do that for a complete stranger in need, then you’re a true hero/ine.

Show me your Kindness Index – the only metric that matters.

So, what is your authentic self?

Let us lead real lives! And live this one precious life deeply and truthfully. Let us shed the inessential, the trivial. I want to know who you are when stripped of pretence, when the chips are down — your true mountain self. I don’t mean this literally – not everyone can physically climb a mountain of course, although everyone has their own mountain to climb. For some, getting to the corner shop is the challenge. For others, it is finishing that essay, or learning that new skill. Facing that bully. Or the daily Everest of feeding a family on a low income. There are Edmund Hillarys and Tenzing Norgays all around us and we do not realise it. No one acclaims their achievements, but they soldier on, against the odds. They are channelling their true mountain selves and I salute them.

But whatever your mountain, will you still be able to smile when you reach the summit?

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring, 2020

The Great Sky Speaks

Dunnet Head – the most northerly point in Britain. Photo by Kevan Manwaring, 2020

A house cannot be big enough
to contain all this light,
except for perhaps
the house of creation —
a sky greater than my
field of vision,
an horizon more than my
parallax can assimilate.

Beyond, rags and scraps
of land – full of ancient
mysteries and rich-tongued
people. Selkies and fisherfolk.
Seas that have seen Vikings and
grey-hulled Germans in war-time,
explorers and dreamers.

From here, there is only south,
for landlubbers like me anyway.
My two wheels have only got me
this far, but now the road
wends to sunset – from
the east’s oil-smooth, beast-flattened coast
to the west’s soft-tongued, yearning shore.

It is a place of possibility,
of beginnings and endings.
Here, I could start a movement
that could sweep the land
like a wave,
or peter out against the rocks
of indifference.

Yet there is hope here.
This is not the place
for denial. It is one
of immanence. Spirit
speaks in the susurration
of surf and wind.
An edge to contemplate the
centre,
an emptiness to consider the
fullness
—
the way deity
has found its way into every miniscule
corner, with an attention to detail,
a loving awareness and diligence,
which is endless.

Here, even amid the campervans and
motorbikes, daytrippers and tourers,
the Great Sky speaks.

Dunnet Head – home to a thriving colony of sea-birds, including puffin, gannet, fulmar, & shag. Photo by Kevan Manwaring, 2020

Written at Dunnet Head, Wednesday, 2nd September, 2020

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Singing into the Storm

[image error]Image from Natural World Photography

I had postponed the inevitable for as long as possible – seeking refuge in a pub in Ullapool to escape the high winds that were pounding Ardmaire Point, site of a popular Caravan and Camping Park, that stuck its beak out into Loch Carnaird towards Isle Martin, and the Summer Isles beyond. Although it was tempting to stay for a dram, I was on the bike, and fatigued from a long, epic ride 170 mile ride along the North Coast 500 from John o’ Groats. I had nursed my single pint of Black Sheep as long as possible, but the light was going and so I zipped up and headed into the damp dusk.

Back on site I accepted my lot – to spend the night in my 2-man tent in the middle of a gale. It was like being inside a paper bag continually being flicked by a bored school-boy. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, as Shakespeare put it. They kill us for their sport. Here though I felt (yet again) at the mercy of the Cailleach, the Mountain Mother. This wasn’t the first time I’ve had to survive a night in a small tent in a storm. When walking the Coast-to-Coast last year I experienced ‘tempest camping’ on the exposed Blakey Ridge in my tiny ‘coffin’ tent. Knowing I had weathered that storm gave me some ballast. I recalled my strategy: you have to surrender to it. There is no point fighting a storm – it is stronger than you. It is in charge. You just have to yield yourself to its elemental might.  Laughing at the craziness of trying to camp in such conditions, I cracked open a bottle of Dark Island (a delicious Orkney ale), and entertained myself with singing, digging into my repertoire of walking songs, which I’ve accumulated over my annual long-distance walks. I found this to be a fine way to keep my spirits up. On long slogs it keeps you going, and in this instance, it felt like a way of not only surrendering to the storm, but celebrating it. Getting a little merry and singing my heart out into the dark felt slightly bosky – but exhilarating. I picked songs that seemed appropriate: David Dodds ‘Magpie Song’; Chantelle Smith’s version of ‘Mist-Covered Mountains of Home’; Dougie MacLean’s ‘Caledonia’; John Martyn’s version of ‘Spencer the Rover’; Dave Goulder’s ‘The January Man’; Swarbrick and Thompson’s ‘Crazy Man Michael’. I bellowed them out above the howling wind and they probably sounded awful to my neighbours (sorry!), but it felt great to do. I didn’t have any comments or complaints in the morning, so I suspect the din of the gale mercifully drowned out my drunken warblings.

Apart from recommending this as an unorthodox bardic survival technique (!), and because it feels life-affirming and fun, I would like to extend the metaphor of this – singing into the storm – to life in general, especially during these dark times. We are face with a ‘perfect storm’ of multiple threats (in the United Kingdom: the triple wave of Covid-19; Brexit; and Climate Chaos), and although we must not deny them, indeed we must do everything we can to prevent them, prepare for them or ameliorate them, I think to give up our creativity is to snuff our the flame of if not civilisation, then our humanity. For we are more than just survival machines. The songs, stories, and poems of our ancestors flow through us, and we can create new art, new life, every day – celebrating the miracle of our sheer existence and the beauty of the manifest world. The darkness encroaches and the storms of the world gather strength. Let us keep our frail flames alive, and sing, sing into the howling night. While even one of us refuses to fall silent – with our creative outpourings in the face of the overwhelming forces – the stultifying forces of philistine Neoliberalism will not have won.

Aftermath

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One Eye opened his good eye, breathing heavily, sweat trickling down over his patch. Heart racing like a 2249cc engine, he tried to get his bearings. Next to his head was a black pool ball, which he knocked as he turned. ‘Ow!’ He watched it roll into the pocket. A bottle trembled on the edge. Then the room shuddered as though a massive juggernaut had thundered past and several toppled onto the stone floor. The smashing seemed unreasonably loud – like he’d just kicked in a plate glass window. Yet the shuddering subsided, and the heavy snoring around him continued. Groaning he slowly sat up, every sound, a needle to the brain. His leathers unpeeled from the baize, and his tongue from his gums. His mouth was drier than a camel’s cunny. Not that he would know, although there were some in the club who probably would. A few of them lay sleeping it off around the bar. It must have been quite a party last night. He wished he could remember it.

            One Eye slid off the table and tried to defy gravity. It was a mistake. Gripping the sides, he waited for his head to stop spinning. Then, crunching through the broken glass, he staggered to the toilets. He was busting.

            Bladder empty and face splashed with water, One Eye felt a little better. He inspected himself in the grimy mirror. What a magnificent specimen! Fuck, he looked old. Every party took its toll, which was every night with the Wild Hunt. He had a reputation to maintain. Standards. He was their president after all, and if he couldn’t out-drink them, out-fight them, and out-ride them, then some other fucker would, and that would be that. And now he was having these crazy dreams. Same shit every night. An infinite extended cut of some apocalyptic flick, but starring him, which he kind of liked. Sometimes he felt like he was meant to be something else, something bigger. Like there was a whole other life in their waiting to be lived. Yet for many, just being president of a club would be enough – the pinnacle of a biker’s ambition. They all looked a mess this morning, but when the Wild Hunt took to the road, you knew it. What a sound they made! Folk gave them space, gave them respect.   

One Eye straightened his cut, and smoothed back his grey mane and white beard. ‘You’ll do,’ he said to himself. He’d have to.

Stepping outside was a big mistake. Daylight. He reached for his wraparound shades. The northern sky was a grey ragged cloak of cloud, but it still hurt his eyes. The bracing wind woke him up a bit, but tasted foul. Something mean was on the air. He hawked a good one onto the concrete, hoping to get bitterness out of his mouth. The bikes were all racked up – three hundred, at the last count, with more joining them every day, gleaming beasts every one of them. Better looked after than their owners. It was the back of Chasey’s, one of their favourite stop-overs, Nearby the mountain road snaked downwards towards the haze of ‘civilisation’, well, Manchester. Soon they’ll be on it and heading west. They had a Gathering to get to. It was going to be a big one. Colours from all over. Deals struck, scores settled. Road races, rock’n’roll, and … more partying. He groaned a little inside. 

Sounds from the kitchen drew his attention. Talking. A television. Clattering and sizzling. The reek of hot fat made him nearly gag, but then the thought of a fry up suddenly seemed appealing.

The fire exit was open and he popped his head round. Sitting at the metal worktable were four ‘survivors’, who happened to be his closest crew: the massive bulk of his daughterson, The Hammer, the club’s enforcer; Rig, his solid, reliable road-captain; and hot-tempted Tear, their one-handed sergeant-at-arms. Balder lay with his face smushed on his arms, snoring, and displaying his shiny tattooed pate to the world.

‘Behold, our glorious leader!’ roared Tear.

They cheered, the Hammer spitting out bits of her breakfast. In each hand she held a greasy butty, dripping egg yolk and ketchup down her thick forearms.

‘Morning, chief. Coffee?’ Chasey was working the grill, rolled up sleeves revealing his ex-army ink.

One Eye nodded and sat down heavily.

Chasey grabbed a mug and the coffee pot and hobbled over. Since he’d had the spill and the pins, he’d stopped riding on two wheels. He sometimes came out on the trike, but he was a businessman now. Had a bar and grill to run: the classic pit-stop on Serpent Pass, as the popular biker run was known – offering thrilling twisties over the Pennines. A beer and a burger at the halfway point was a tradition for many bikers in the area. For the Wild Hunt, it was a useful stopover on the way to the west coast and the ferry to the Isle of Man. 

‘Cheers,’ said One Eye, gratefully accepting the mug of steaming joe.

‘Full English?’ asked Chasey, shifting his weight to his good leg.

‘How about a full British?’ he smirked. ‘I’ve got lots to soak up.’

‘Mmm, a challenge! I like it! I’ll see what I can rustle up!’ He hobbled back to the store cupboards.

‘A great night, gang. Skol!’ One Eye raised his mug.

Rig and Tear did the same, and The Hammer raised a butty with a grin. ‘Skol!’

They had a few Nordic affectations – all part of the club’s mystique, making out like modern day Vikings.

Then One Eye remembered his dream and shuddered.

‘Someone walk over your grave, chief?’ teased Tear.

He feigned a laugh, but the feeling spooked him.

Nobody noticed. They seemed distracted that morning, and One Eye followed their gaze back to the TV on the wall. ‘What’s happening in the world, then? More shit from that Koil guy?’

Tear shook his head. ‘Not this time. For once his idiotic babblings have been blown out of the sky.’

‘The guy is entertaining, I’ll give him that,’ said The Hammer between mouthfuls.

Rig was glued to the set, watching the shaky live footage from a helicopter of a mountain spewing out fire and ash. ‘There’s been a big eruption in Iceland. Katla, or something. Might explain that rumble we just had.’

One Eye’s good eye widened. He remembered. He remembered it all.

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Extract from ‘Thunder Road’ by Kevan Manwaring, (c) Copyright 2020

A GROWL OF THUNDER

Earth shall be riven
and the over-heaven.
11th century Skarpåker Stone, Sweden

The sky was a slaughterhouse. The ice-crowned crater dominated the tortured landscape, smoke broiling from its broken temple like dark, troubled thoughts. From treacherous fissures steam swirled, reeking and scolding. At the threshold of a lava tunnel stood the crone, wreathed in scorched rags. A gnarled hand wrapped around a warped staff as though carved from the same piece of storm-blasted wood. Eyes blinked open, white and sightless, yet sensing something beyond the spectrum of human vision. Beyond the howling of the wind subtle ears picked up a different sound. The old woman tilted her head – iron-grey plaits stretching to her shrivelled thighs restless in the biting gale – and smiled a black-toothed smile.
            In the distance, a growl of thunder, growing louder. Then, out of the blackness, a beam swept across the broken land. At the foot of the mountain, where the dirt trail ended, the bikes converged. One among them got off and ascended – his large figure picked up in the headlights which helped to light his way – casting a giant shadow before him.
            The crone waited for him to climb to her.
            Finally, he was before her – a giant of man, clad in rank leathers. A leather eye patch, decorated with a grinning silver skull, covered one side of his face. His long white beard was whipped by the wind. From beneath his cut, bristling with studs, he pulled a fistful of glittering treasure and flung it at the crone’s feet.
            ‘Witch, give me a vision!’ he roared, his voice carrying over the storm.

‘No sweet words? Once you tasted of my spring and I gave you a gift of the Futhark.’

‘And I lost my eye as a result!’
            ‘Nothing is without cost, Bolverk One Eye. Kneel!’
            Slowly, he knelt before her – not taking his one good eye from her, its cold orb a sun of fierce ice.

She placed her claw-like hands over his head, fingernails digging beneath his leather eye- patch into the ruined socket. ‘An eye for an eye…’
            One Eye tensed, but did not recoil. He bore the white flashes of pain.

Her white eyes swirled with colour and her form blurred. At times she seemed young, a sparkle of youthful allure and mischief in her eyes; then suddenly, a woman in her prime, powerful and confident; next, in a juddering smear, the crone showed through once more – the skull beneath the skin.

‘Each of us wears many faces, but our soul remains the same. Do not forget who you truly are, Bolverk One Eye, even if the world does. Your name will be chanted at the end of days.’
            Swaying, wailing, and frothing at the mouth, the hag-mother-maiden started to recite his many names.
            Each one was a chisel and mallet to the tomb he had made of his life. A hammering, growing louder until a vision exploded into his mind. A vast tree, growing between the worlds. Nine spheres of shadow and mist, flame and frost. Mighty races of gods and giants, monsters and men. A bridge of seven colours stretching across the worlds from a realm of gleaming halls, flowing with mead served by proud swan-maidens. Warriors boasting of their deeds before the throng. Then a dark cloud covering all. The dream shattered by the crowing of three roosters – golden-crowned, red-billed and black. The howling of a monstrous dog. Vast armies marching to war. Cities shattered by terrible battles.

‘Aarghh!’ he cried.

Her claw dug deeper. Writhing in her skin, the sightless seeress chanted:

‘Behold Ragnarok!

It sates itself on the life-blood
of fated men,
paints red the powers’ homes
with crimson gore.
Black become the sun’s beams
in the summers that follow,
weathers all treacherous—’

  She sensed his restlessness. ‘Sorry. Am I boring you?’
           One Eye hissed through gritted teeth: ‘Get on with it, old woman! But speak up! My hearing isn’t what it used to be!’

Grumbling, the crone enunciated her prophecy:

‘Brothers will fight
and kill each other,
sisters’ children
will defile kinship.
It is harsh in the world,
whoredom rife
– an axe age, a sword age
– shields are riven –

a wind age, a wolf age –

before the world goes headlong.
No man will have
mercy on another.’

One Eye gritted his teeth as the hellish vision flashes into his mind. Mountains shook, oceans rose … a winter without end … Old enemies awoken … one by one they fall… The Earth split asunder … all was consumed in flames, smoke and steam – until he could bear no more.
            Crying out, One Eye pulled back: ‘Aargghhh!’ He crumpled on to the floor, breathing ragged. From his ruined eye a line of blood trickled down his face. ‘What I have seen … Will it come to pass?’
            The crone looked at him with inscrutable eyes. ‘This is the wyrd of the world. Only a fool would try to prevent it. Even the gods must die. Their end has come.’
            The mountain shook beneath her. From the summit, smoke and ash billowed, crackling with lightning.
            ‘Ragnarok is nigh!’ she cackled. ‘You have slept for too long, Bolverk One Eye. As have I. Time to awaken! Humanity has neglected us for too long! Man has fouled my body; treated me like his thrall; abused my sisters. But no more! It is time for him to pay! To know the wrath of the goddess! Katla awakes!’
            The long-dormant volcano erupted, vaporising the glacier plugging it in a massive fire-cloud, which sent material thousands of feet up into the air. Molten debris rained down upon the the slopes. From deep within the lava tunnel they stood in came a blast of searing heat.

            ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’ One Eye roared.

            ‘Run, Bolverk One Eye! Run as though you wear magical breeches!’

            One Eye dived out of the tunnel just as a river of lava gushed forth from the volcano’s bowels. The old woman was not so fast – or chose not to escape her fate. Her ragged cloak caught alight and she was wreathed in flames.
            Zigzagging down the mountain, boots sliding on the scree, One Eye made for his men. Gobbets of hot ash and cinder fell around him, bouncing off his cut displaying the three interlocking triangles of the Wild Hunt patch.
            The dark riders gunned their engines as their leader leapt on his metal steed – a beast of chrome, snorting fire. Tyres cut black crescents into the fallen ash as they skidded out of the path of the hypercaustic cloud rolling down its flanks. One Eye led them at speed away from the mountain of fire – spewing high into the night sky, a she-wolf raging against the heavens, howling with hate.

To be continued…

Thunder Road – available soon!

Road Ballad of a Vagabond King

Road Ballad of a Vagabond King

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Sleeping King, David Wood FFI: http://davidwoodart.com/

Arthur stretched out

his scratched and golden limbs,

matted head of wheat

pillowed upon the Polden Hills,

the Levels below

a damp cloak steaming.

Leaking boots drain into the Sedgemoor.

Fallen rain runs down the rhynes

of his ribs.

Cattle habitually give him

a lockdown haircut.

A king on the road,

footsore and boneweary,

long has he journeyed

the obscure ways of myths,

the hollow lanes of legend,

wearing the oak-leaf crown of his belief –

a fool on the wend,

stepping out of the way

of drivers rushing nowhere.

He has slept in the bleak leeward

of niches facing down

the grey gauntleted

fist of Tintagel,

the fastness of the forest perilous,

the moon-furnished margins of the Tamar.

St Bridget’s Well is off limits,

only bus stops and church porches

offer shelter to the vagabond king.

Lonely as a bedraggled buzzard

sitting on a stump in drizzle,

eyes in the back of his head,

a shiver of feathers

his rain dance.

He lugs his broken

kingdom on his back,

hoping somewhere he will

be able to unroll it and

raise it again.

Grey and hard are the roads,

his blister-scalloped feet prefer the verge,

the scratch choir of birdsong from

the eavesdropping hedgerows

to the rumble and hiss of passing machines.

He avoids the drilling gaze of curious drivers,

except to acknowledge when one acknowledges him

for stepping in – hedge backwards amid the nettles.

Sometimes, he sings as he goes

or walks for hours in brooding

silence. On greener byways,

sun-buntinged, river-garlanded,

a friendly stranger

receives a smile, a blessing, or

cheerful greeting. For we

are all on our way –

moving inexorably in one direction,

the universal terminus.

What we do with each step,

each moment, is the constant

fork in the path we should

ponder and savour, delaying

the need to be anywhere

else but here.

 

Inspired by walking the King Arthur Way 

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Bardfest 2020

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Saturday, 22nd August, 2020, from noon til late

BARDFEST 2020

Poetry*Storytelling*Music*Talks

A day of vibrant voices celebrating the living Bardic Tradition in the British Isles and beyond. Join us to be entertained and stimulated by our inspiring line-up of poets, storytellers, musicians, and speakers. After each slot there will be a chance to discuss, make comments, and ask questions.

CONFIRMED CONTRIBUTORS

Nicola Chester – Berkshire-based nature-writer, Guardian Columnist, Author, Wild Writing Workshops.Blog: https://nicolachester.wordpress.com/  Twitter @nicolawriting @JogLibrary

Kirsty Hartsiotis – storyteller and art-historian.https://www.kirstyhartsiotis.co.uk/

Daru McAleece – druid, bard Website – https://tracscotland.org/storytellers/daru-mcaleece/  Website for anthology – https://www.hauntpublishing.com/books/haunted-voices

Paul Flinn – runner, poet

Rob Farmer – singer-songwriter https://robertfarmer.bandcamp.com/

Charlotte Hussey – Canadian poet (Glossing the Spoils; Soul of the Earth from Awen)

Helen Moore – ecopoet, writer, socially engaged artist & outdoor educator https://www.helenmoorepoet.com/

Peter Alfred Please – storyteller and writer http://www.peteralfredplease.co.uk/

Kirsten Bolwig – writer & storyteller Linked In profile

Brendan Georgeson – pop poet

Richard & Misha Carder –  Gorsedd of Caer Badon (Bath),  co-ordinators of the long-running ‘Poetry and a Pint’ night in Bath.

Henk Vis – druid, Avebury gorsedd

Gordon Rimes – musical bard of Avebury gorsedd

Scott Freer – banjo-maestro

Simon Andrews – singer-songwriter

Svanur Gisli Thorkelsson – Icelandic writer and tour-guide

Marko Gallaidhe – Irish musician and writer

Kevan Manwaring – author, lecturer, and storyteller

& more

Online via Zoom (100 maximum – booked early to guarantee a space).

Donations invited to the Wiltshire Wildlife Trust and the Trussell Trust.

Please make a donation, then contact Kevan for Zoom details.

https://www.wiltshirewildlife.org/

https://www.trusselltrust.org/

Contact Kevan: kevanmanwaring@yahoo.co.uk

 

 

Wild Arthur: A Tintagel Conception

Gallos, Rubin Eynon, Tintagel 

A Tintagel Conception

Wild Arthur

awaiting to be reborn

here on this rough island.

Storm forged, sea girdled,

palace of choughs and seals,

this, the cracked cauldron of your making,

where you were conceived,

— so the poets sing —

a gleam in the eye of Uther,

using Merlin’s magic to

inveigle his way into Igraine’s

bower, guised as Gorlois.

Good enough for the guards.

But a wife knows.

Did she keep mum,

as her belly bloomed

with another’s child —

a Pendragon pregnancy?

Where you first saw the light

Of day, who can say?

Did Merlin spirit you away,

swaddled in spells,

to raise you a king

in some gramarye-tangled grove?

 

Wild Arthur,

Fortune’s cock-snooker,

bold-undertaker,

who raided Annwn,

who pulled the sword

from the rock;

Arthur of the Celts,

warrior chieftain

who gathered men

to him, a wolf-pack —

no shiny knights of courtly romance

these, but mud-cloaked

dwellers of the wild wood,

fen-hoppers, ridge-runners,

moving swift, striking deep,

inspiring love and loyalty

by deed and word – not

by wealth or birthright.

 

How we need you now –

to put steel to justice,

an edge to truth,

a backbone to the beleaguered.

Hope to the underdog,

healer of a broken kingdom.

Recarve the table round

so all may sit as equals,

so all may partake of the feast,

so all may be heard and seen,

so all may taste of the Grail.

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020