Category Archives: walking

Walking with Thomas

The sun used to shine while we two walked
Slowly together, paused and started
Again, and sometimes mused, sometimes talked
As either pleased, and cheerfully parted

                                                                                  The Sun Used to Shine, Edward Thomas

 

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Near Dymock, K. Manwaring, 2017

On the 100th anniversary of the death of Edward Thomas, poet, who died at the Battle of Arras, Easter Monday, 9th April 1917, after only two months in France, my friend Anthony Nanson (writer, editor and cousin of  the Edwardian editor and critic Edward Garnett) and I undertook a memorial walk around Dymock, Gloucestershire, where he lived for a brief while with his family at Oldfields, just over the field from his fellow adventurer in verse, Robert Frost.

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Setting off on the Poets Path, K. Manwaring 2017

It was a glorious Spring morning when we set off from opposite the Beauchamp Arms (where Frost and Thomas liked to sink a pint or two), the sun was shining as it did upon their famous ‘walks-talking’ (‘The Sun Used to Shine’), the sky was a freshly-scrubbed blue, and the fields were brimming with wild daffodils, daisies, anemones and bluebells.

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Reading by the Old Nail Shop, A. Nanson, 2017

We walked an indulgent ten hours, from 10am-8pm, at an ambling pace – stopping intermittently to read poems in situ – on a 13.5 mile route that took us around the old stomping ground of the Dymock Poets, as they became known (close to Frost and Thomas lived Wilfrid Gibson and Lascelles Abercrombie, who along with John Drinkwater and Rupert Brooke, formed the loose band of bardic brothers). We followed some of the Poets Paths (2 routes which take in the key sites, although in a poorly-signposted and badly-maintained way), but quickly struck out on our own way, a road less travelled, taking us via the Greenway crossroads, site of the Old Nail Shop (Gibson’s former residence) through Brooms Green and Bromesberrow, before striking out on the ridge up to southern tip of the Malvern Hills and our destination for the day, Ragged Stone Hill, another Dymock ‘hot spot’ (as marked by Gibson’s eponymous poem).

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The view from Ragged Stone Hill, looking backward towards Dymock, May Hill in the distance, K. Manwaring 2017

It turned out to be a hot day, so we took it easy, finding frequent excuses to stop, stand and stare (as advocated in ‘Leisure’ by WH Davies, a visitor to the Dymocks). Supertramp Davies was not only an epic walker (even with a wooden leg, having lost one while freight-car hopping in America) but also an animal lover (see his poem, ‘The Dumb World’), and he would have enjoyed the many encounters we had today – splendid pedigree horses; a whole colony of pigs, the sows feeding their litters of lively piglets; proud ewes with their sprightly lambs; frisky young bulls (a herd seeking to harangue us from one end of the field to the next until I waved them off). There must have been something in the air, because the livestock seemed to get increasingly frisky towards evening. At one point I had to fend off the challenge of a feisty black bullock with my walking stick.

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One Man and his Stick, Kevan on Chase End Hill, A. Nanson, 2017

Along the way we talked about many things – the writer’s life, lecturing (we both teach in universities), cabbages and kings and everything under the sun. We read out poems by Thomas and the Dymocks along the way – I choosing mine at random, Anthony selecting his from the contents page. Here’s what we shared:

Early one morning – ET (KM)

The Lane – ET (AN)

The Old Nail Shop – WG (KM)

May 23 – ET (KM)

The Bridge – ET (AN)

The Ragged Stone  – WG (KM)

Iris by Night – RF (KM)

Celandines – ET (AN)

But These Things Also ET (KM)

The Poets: ET – Edward Thomas; RF – Robert Frost; WG – Wilfrid Gibson
Readers: AN – Anthony Nanson; KM – Kevan Manwaring

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Anthony reads The Bridge, K. Manwaring, 2017

The views from the ridge were magnificent, looking back across the Dymock vale – May Hill in the hazy distance (another favourite jaunt of Frost and Thomas) – the vibrant shades of green upon the trees, the meadows festooned with flowers, every detail picked out by the golden afternoon sun. This part of England, where Gloucestershire meets Herefordshire, is so quintessential it is positively Arcadian (at one point we strolled through a handsome country estate where lambs hopped, skipped and raced about by the shores of a royal blue lake, a pastoral idyll that just needed a shepherdess to complete the picture). To connect the flat fields of Dymock with the dramatic peaks (or rather ‘Marilyns’) of the Malverns was satisfying – a transition that Frost and Thomas would have enjoyed, heading for the hills to get a perspective on their lives, away, for a day’s meandering, from families, bills, deadlines and looming war.

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Light and shadow co-exist in Thomas’ poetry. K. Manwaring 2017

The flanks of Ragged Stone hill have a Faerie quality to them – alive with Earth energy. Perhaps this is not surprising as it is said to be a nexus of ley-lines, as initially discovered the original ley-hunter, Alfred Watkins (who described his theories in The Old Straight Track). Next to it is the Whiteleaved Oak, said to be the site of one of the Three Perpetual Choirs (as cited in the Welsh Triads), along with Glastonbury and Ely. The harmony of the land was maintained by the choirs there, and to this day the Three Choirs Festival takes place in the area. In a way, perhaps the Dymock Poets, with their songs of verse, were also maintaining the land’s equilibrium. I really do believe that for a brief while they created, with their inspiring creative fellowship, a Little Eden in a quiet corner of England. And whenever kindred spirits gather together to share their stories, songs, verse, laughter and love, it can happen again.

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A well-earned rest on Ragged Stone Hill, only 4 hours back to the car! K. Manwaring 2017

As the sun set, the trees silhouetted by its evanescent golden after-glow, the ink of shadows oozing from the earth, we made it, foot-weary but happy, to the Beauchamp Arms, were we raised a pint in memory of Edward Thomas.  In Steep and Aldestrop there had been memorial events also on that day, but here in Dymock, Anthony and I, in our modest little way, had perpetuated the choir of the Dymock Poets with our walks-talking, in the spirit of Frost and Thomas.

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Elected Friends, Edward Thomas (left) & Robert Frost.

 

The Road Not Taken

 

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”Two roads diverged in a wood, And I – I took the one less travelled by…’ Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken, Photograph by Kevan Manwaring 2017

On the anniversary of the death of the poet Edward Thomas on Easter Monday, 9th April 1917, at the Battle of Arras,  I wanted to share a screenplay I co-wrote with a fellow Dymock Poets enthusiast, Terence James back in 2010-2011, ‘Little Edens’ (or The Road Not Taken). It hasn’t been produced, but it has been performed in a script-in-hand read-thru the ‘Spaniel in the Works’ theatre company in Stroud. I share it memory of Edward Thomas and Robert Frost and the special friendship they enjoyed. I am an avid believer in  creative community and in celebrating the ‘little edens’ of the everyday – the golden moments shared with friends, loved ones, animals, nature, and the spirit of place.

‘Little Edens’ – A Writer’s Statement

I want to develop this project because I am a poet and a lover of the British countryside, and this story celebrates both. I am interested in the period (Edwardian-Georgian-Twenties) having set my first novel, The Long Woman, in it (in its celebration of the English landscape and the Lost Generation, my book echoes some of the concerns of the screenplay). I am haunted by the artistic response in times of conflict – how can we ‘justify’ such rarefied activities as writing poetry in the face of conflict? – and I think the story of the Dymock Poets mirrors our own times and predicament, a hundred years on. Against the shadow of war, there is a brief, bright flowering of creativity in a small corner of the Gloucestershire countryside. This would be precious enough in its own right (one of the ‘little Edens’ of the film) but the fact that this convergence of poets and their muses produced some of the most memorable poetry in the English language shows that ‘something special’ occurred. Thomas might not have been able to ‘write a poem to save his life’, as he so poignantly said to his devoted friend, Eleanor Farjeon, but his poems have given him a kind of immortality – through them he lives on.

I am also fascinated by the influential friendship between the two poets, Robert Frost and Edward Thomas. When they first met, in October 1913, the former was yet to establish his literary reputation and the latter had yet to turn to poetry. Through their friendship, they inspired and encouraged each other. Thomas wrote favourable reviews of Frost’s early work, helping to launch his career, and Frost encouraged Thomas to try his hand at poetry, which he did from the end of 1914 – the year the film is set – up until his death in April 1917, in the battle of Arras. During this time he wrote the 150 poems that made his career. Frost returned to America with a burgeoning literary reputation – he went on to become a four-time Pulitzer Prize winning ‘grand old man of American poetry’. This trans-Atlantic friendship is the heart of the film – in microcosm, it mirrors the wider circle of the Dymock Poets and their wives. I find their fellowship heartening, especially in the face of war – and the community they share, the coterie at Dymock, a model for creative living. For a brief while they created and shared something golden.
The Dymock Poets (and the wider clique of the Georgian Poets, to whom they mostly
belonged) have fallen in and out of fashion over the years, but the astonishing convergence of talent (Frost, Thomas and the ‘Adonis’ of the Bloomsbury Set, Rupert Brooke) at such a poignant time deserves to be more widely-known. I picture ‘Little Edens’ as being a deeply beautiful and moving film – with many of the scenes filled with wide shots of lush English landscape; sleepy hamlets; faces a-glow around the hearth; evenings of poetry, cider and fellowship; the embryonic lines of classic poems; the colloquy of poets out on their rambles; contrasting with the harsher scenes of war and its consequences. Imagine elements of ‘Bright Star’; ‘Regeneration’; ‘A Month in the Country’; ‘Hedd Wyn’; and ‘The Edge of Love’.

A logline might be something like: ‘For one brief summer they found paradise — until the world found them.’

Kevan Manwaring Copyright © 27 August 2010

Here it is:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B65FARK-P4_HeXlYSmMwTEtHU0k/view?usp=sharing

Let me know what you think. Film producers and directors especially welcome!

 

 

Walking an Imaginary Line

Boundary: imaginary line between two nations, separating the imaginary rights of one from the imaginary rights of the other.

The Devil’s Dictionary, Ambrose Bierce

 

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Offa’s Dyke Path, K. Manwaring 2016

I decided to go for a walk. To mark the end of the academic year and the start of my summer holidays and as a kind of detox from teaching, technology and the ‘unbearable shiteness of being’ (in 21st Century little Britain), I have, over the last three years, cultivated the habit of going for a long distance walk.  In 2014 it was Hadrian’s Wall (84 miles); last year the West Highland Way (96 miles); and this year, to go one better, I decided to tackle the Offa’s Dyke Path (177 miles, or 168 or 182, depending on which sign you read!). I was drawn to this route for a number of reasons: I’m fascinated by borders and how cultures cross-fertilise across them; I was going to be in the north, giving a paper at a conference at Lancaster University (on ‘Loving the Alien’), so could travel from there to the start (or, for many, the end) of the walk in Prestatyn; and also I liked the idea of walking homewards, towards Gloucestershire, and being joined by my partner for the last couple of days at Hay-on-Wye. Also, in the light of the EU Referendum the notion of borders (and the fallacy of trying to keep the ‘other’ out) seemed very resonant. And so I packed my rucksack and off I loped.

When I would create myself, I seek the darkest woods.

Henry David Thoreau

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Go south, young-ish man! 

Offa’s Dyke is an earthwork consisting of a ditch (up to six feet deep) and a rampart (up to twenty five feet high) stretching from north to south, from the Irish Sea to the Severn Estuary. It was constructed around 757-796 CE at the instigation (and probably brute force) of Offa, an 8th Century Mercian king, of whom it was said approximately a century afterwards:

There was in Mercia in fairly recent times a certain vigorous king called Offa who terrified all the neighbouring kings and provinces around him, and who had a great dyke built between Wales and Mercia from sea to sea. (from Bishop Asser’s Life of King Alfred of Wessex,  893 CE)

Giraldus Cambrensis (Gerald of Wales), somewhat later (1145-1223) said of him: ‘King Offa shut the Welsh off from the English with his long dyke on the frontier’. Offa feels like a very topical figure, a Johnsonish, Faragesque, or Trumpist Cnut-type, trying to shut out the inevitable tide of alterity. If the dyke was designed to ‘shut the Welsh off’, it an ironic and ultimately futile endeavour. The Welsh, the Waleas, the ‘strangers’, were the original British, and it was the latest wave of incomers, the Saxons, who were evicting them from their own land. The other was scapegoated, seen as the root of all evil. Plus ça change. Whether the dyke was intended to be defensive (although it was lined by a palisade and the rampart on the English side gave them some advantage, to defend 177 miles of line 24/7 for years seems an unrealistic proposition in what would have been a very underpopulated Britain at the time); designed to control trade; a power statement, or, more likely, a bit of all three, nobody knows for certain. The fact that it often follows the ridge of high places, giving it maximum visibility to the west, suggest it was designed partly to be seen by the surly Welsh as a constant reminder of Mercia’s might. One idea, however, suggests Offa simply took the line of least resistance and augmented existing earthworks, joining up the many hill-forts, and possibly existing routes, along the way. Certainly walking it over 11 days what really came across to me was how it made travel between such sites swifter and more discreet, for it allows you to move across high country without being seen, if you follow the ditch (although today that would be almost impossible unless you wanted to run the gauntlet of miles of nettles and thistles and brambles, for much of it is overgrown). Though it might have originally demarcated the line between England and Wales, now Offa’s Dyke weaves back and forth between the countries somewhat slyly. It slips between worlds. Without knowing it sometimes, you’ve crossed the border. It is only when you come to a gate or sign do you find out which country or county you are in. For much of the route it feels like a place between worlds and outside time. I often walked for hours without seeing a soul. Most hikers traverse the ODP from south to north. I met only one other hiker going southwards. I often seemed to walking faster than most I met, so I would have overtaken any going in my direction at some point. When walking the West Highland Way last year, and Hadrian’s Wall the year before that, you kept overlapping fellow hikers, or vice versa. Some become familiar figures on the trail over several days. But that didn’t happen this time, and that was fine with me as I enjoyed the solitude. After a year of teaching and being responsible for several groups of students, it was soothing to be in a non-verbal, non-technological space. One focused on the daily goal – the next campsite –and core needs – water, food, shelter, warmth, safety. One’s daily effort was reciprocated by the view achieved, the progress made. Life becomes simpler, less cluttered, more focused. Going south. One foot step after another. Breath and sweat. The wind and rain. Sunlight and birdsong. As Gary Snyder said (I took his classic work, The Practice of the Wild, with me, so apologies if I cite him a lot):

The wilderness pilgrim’s step-by-step breath-by-breath walk up a trail, into those snowfields, carrying all on the back, is so ancient a set of gestures as to bring a profound sense of body-mind joy.

I have to ‘fess up at this point, I didn’t lug all of my campsite with me as I saw some poor souls doing, but used local taxi firms to take my main enormous rucksack from pitch to pitch, leaving me with a 25 litre daysac to carry, more than adequate for me needs. I took this approach last year (although then I was able to use a single firm which covered the whole trail) and it makes such a qualitative difference. Instead of it being a masochistic slog, one can actually enjoy the walk. A member of staff at Mellington Hall said ‘That’s cheating!’ but I disagree – there is no rule saying you have to take your house with you like a human snail when walking a long-distance footpath. I was walking the trail, the same as everyone else. Just using my smarts, is all. As Thoreau said:

The only obligation which I have a right to assume is to do at any time what I think is right.
On the Duty of Civil Disobedience.

For me it’s about savouring each step, standing and staring now and then, enjoying the view, a pause for a cuppa, to feel the sun on your face, or savour the peace and solitude, not proving anything to anyone else. Some seem to tackle it like a race – I met one man doing it in 10 days – but I wasn’t doing it to break any records. If I made the campsite at a decent time of day, e.g. 4-or-5-ish, then that allowed me time to set up, for my usually wet tent to dry out, to have a shower, fix some food, write some journal, read a little, before nodding off ridiculously early. When one camps one usually starts to synchronise with the rhythm of nature, going to sleep when it gets dark and waking up at dawn. It’s hard to do otherwise, especially after a long and tiring day’s walk. I slept like a log every night.

Pick up your stick, put on your hat, and strike out with a pilgrim heart from your front door. Kevan Manwaring

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A 161 miles later… Finishing the walk on Wye Bridge, Monmouth (I’d done the final section between there & Chepstow before). But there’s more to share before then! Photograph by Chantelle Smith, 2016.

 

In my next blog I write about the ballads I sung every day along the Offa’s Dyke Path…