a game of two halves

Day One: Stourhead

A beautiful rare day off work. A plan was hatched ages ago for a decent 3-4 hour walk around the wider Stourhead estate. As is often the case with plans however, they don’t quite work as expected.

The day has dawned grey and moody, like a hangover in physical form. The sort of day where a lit fire, not getting out of your PJ’s and watching a movie kept topped off with mugs of tea sounds like a grand idea. Undaunted (or perhaps bloody mindededly), waterproof clad and in a heavy drizzly fog we set off with not another person in sight. We begin by walking around the lake the wrong way, something that two weeks ago you’d have had no chance of doing as the flow of hundreds of feet would have been marching round on their way between toilets and afternoon tea. The pantheon looms out of the haze, brooding in it’s columned glory, unsullied by tourists today and splendid in it’s stony solitude. Behind us the Palladian bridge anchors the lake to the landscape a man made link between earth, tree, water and sky but even this soon fades, lost behind us in a pale eerie sea as we march on round the lake and up the valley.

We strike out of the main landscaped garden following up a worn path, decorated with spiders webs heavy with dew, up through Six Wells Bottom. At St Peters pump, removed from Bristol and erected here in 1768 to mark the source of the river Stour and standing proud like a set piece from Lord of the Rings we take a left turn away from the open landscape and head into the woodland.

The silence descends as we are enveloped by the woods, not a total silence, but no bird song or voices spoil the tranquility today. With fat plops of water landing on our heads, leaves crunching underfoot and an earthy, humid atmosphere assailing our nostrils we are welcomed to the new habitat. Nothing but autumnal colour as far as the eye can see, interspersed by fingers of curling fog stretching between silhouetted ghostly boughs. Leaves fall around us as we walk, colour raining around us like natures own skittles advert. A kaleidoscope of fluttering and whirling leaves, dancing in the light breeze.

Emerging from the woodland we veer West and walk along the open gallop towards Somerset. A brick tardis shimmers in and out of existence in the distance as the fog seems to breathe in and out. An impermeable wall of grey one minute and then a subtle relaxing offering us teasing glimpses of a man made structure the next. We walk on and slowly but surely Alfred’s tower takes form as we near. All million bricks sullen and resentful at being left out in the damp fog.

Dropping off into the woodland again from Alfred’s Tower we head off, down and over towards the village (or Hamlet?) of Gasper. As the woodland thins and we begin approaching civilisation again we hear and see our first humans since saying good afternoon at the ticket office back at Stourhead gardens. A gang of foresters are busy snedding fallen trunks having cleared an area of pine plantation. They offer us a brief wave as we pass on, through the stacks of cut timber piled on the sides of the path and decorated with luminous pink numbers. The stacks smell of christmas.

We finally emerge into Gasper, and to be fair I am a bit parched by this point, out of the forest and into high hedged country lanes. The hedgerows have finally gone over, losing their leaves and colour, donning their slightly slimy brown winter coats. Nettles droop their heads in submission to the onset of winter.

Not having had a frost yet to bring us into season leaves us in a vague ‘between seasons’ stage and everywhere we look the Blackthorn still carries a heavy crop of Sloes, the Holly is bedecked with it’s lipstick red fruit and clusters of the toxic and strangely named Black Bryony cling, vine like, twisting amongst the branches.

Light is fading now and we push on, on to the main road and up under the arched tunnel of the Stourhead grotto. Back up the hill and into the main car park and reception building complex. Just in time for a cup of tea, a slice of very civilised cake and to sit for ten minutes with boots off, saluting ourselves on a job well done.

Day Two: London

A rare day up in the smoke for me. I was asked to give a presentation on historic buildings and climate change at the Royal Naval College in Greenwich.

After a morning dealing with invitation to tenders for biomass boilers, insulation and associated pipes and radiators I woke up, wiped the drool off the keyboard and smoothed out the QWERTY imprinted on my forehead. Stumbling out the door and grabbing my keys I headed for the train station.

Sitting on the 13:47 out of Salisbury I watch the countryside fly past with a clickety click and the odd woosh as we fly through sidings and tunnels. I have a love hate relationship with days like these. On one hand I love the pace and complexity of London, I love the noise and bustle and diversity. On the other hand I struggle with the lack of personal space, the lack of simple manners and the sheer bloody time it takes to get such short distances by public transport. I’m not country boy, like a fish out of water in the city. I spent much of my younger years skateboarding around lots of our cities seedier sides but I do find myself just wondering how people can not burn out in such a noisy, dirty scrum of a city.

In a complete contrast to the day before where for 4 hours I saw maybe one or two other people here in London you cannot move for people. Everywhere you look there’s people people people. It feels like all seven billion are trying to go on the Northen Line. It also amazes me that every single space appears to have something happening in it, something mostly using one frm of energy or another.

Senses are assailed by the noise, sights and sounds of the causes of climate change. Diesel busses, cars, taxis, tube trains. Stereos pumping music from blackened BMW’s, air conditioning units humming, escalators clanking. Rubbish piles on the floor, drifting like snow or autumn leaves in forgotten corners, collecting around cardboard boxes and sleeping bags. Every conceivable space is illuminated and either flashing, flickering or glaring. Can you see stars from anywhere in the city? I don’t know, perhaps someone would be kind enough to enlighten me.

Everything is man made, even the green spaces are manicured and managed to the point of being practically indoors. If I look in the forgotten parts of town, in seedy industrial estates or down back alleys you can see nature gaining a foothold. Colonising. Repatriating. But this naturalisation is the exception in an otherwise bladerunner like environment.

Where does a londoner find peace? At home surrounded by wailing cats, barking foxes (at least this I can understand) and the never ending audible war between car alarms and police cars and ambulances? It’s not that I’m dismissing people who want to live in that, I just can’t understand how they do it without that ability to sit for 30 minutes and hear nothing but the chuckle of a stream as it tickles rocks on it’s way to the sea. You can’t even go into a coffee shop and find peace, here the esspresso machine sounds like a steam train, the piped sounds of Ella does Christmas slip queasily from poor quality sound systems.

For me, the best part of a day in London? Despite enjoying myself, seeing friends, eating out, going to a museum. Despite the architecture, the majesty of it all, the diversity, the sheer sense of things happening around you; Despite all of that. The best thing about a day in London is getting off the train when I get back to Salisbury.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 16th, 2011 at 5:54 pm. It is filed under The Diary. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.