Journeys, planned

It's a very different experience, walking on your own. I know the territory in the photographs from a number of visits over the years, whether on foot or en velo. Each previous time has always been in the (welcome) company of others: friends who are experienced navigators and mapreaders, often in challenging conditions. As such, I've always left the planning of the routes, and the navigation itself, in their more than capable hands.

So while I was away the other week I did a couple of lengthy walks, and a couple of bike rides, which required me to do some mapreading and a certain amount of planning. I think one reason I've shied away from this side of things previously, is that I thought I had the best of it in terms of just being out there and making the most of the scenery rather than having to keep referring to a map.

How wrong I was: I feel now like I've got so much more thorough an overview of the landscapes I was traversing through, due to the very fact that I needed to refer to the map on a periodic basis. I feel a little richer for it.

I think I also gained from the very heavy rain that was present for a couple of days. I was never going to let it deter me from getting out there and walking or cycling as mentioned. On the first day of "proper" walking (as opposed to the few miles down to the pub in the next village, where the previous bit of film was shot) I spent a few minutes stood under a tree, making use of what shelter it afforded me, as the rain came down relentlessly, and wondering if it was absurd to carry on with my planned route: in the end I realised it was more about whether I had the confidence to carry on with it and so I steeled myself against the weather and strode out once more.

The sense of liberty this gave me felt quite tangible, and an hour or so later when the rain had eased I was wondering how on earth I might have doubted that the best option would be to press on. Thus, after a mild blip, I really got into my stride (yes, quite literally I suppose), and made the most of my time strolling through beautiful scenery.

I think the other motivating factor was that the couple of pints (or so) that I would be having in the local pub later on would feel so much more satisfying for the fact that I'd enjoyed making the effort, and had a fulfilling day.











I've chosen the pictures fairly randomly from the few days in question rather than arrange a few in sequence : I may post more, it was difficult not to take pictures which turned out well.

Humbled

Just got back from a fabulous (I know I've already used that word in the previous post) first evening of the music festival.

I'm just very, very pleased that, in the events programme, my name is there under the section headed "Special Thanks." I hadn't expected that.

Time for bed.

Why does the rain

On Friday, just after work, I took a couple of colleagues up on their invitation to go for a couple of drinks before heading home.

Half an hour and I'll be there I told them, as I had a few things to tidy up and file away (more in a mental sense than a literal one).

I knew which pub they were in, it was just a few minutes walk away. When I arrived there I could see no sign of them either in the main bar or the back room. My colleagues both being smokers, I bought myself a pint anyway, making the presumption that they'd be having a cigarette out the back somewhere.

The barwoman had asked if I was looking for someone. A man and a woman I'd informed her, narrowing the odds down considerably (well it wasn't the busiest pub in the world). She pointed out how to get into the garden - round the back of the bar, turn left then right.

I got out there, pint in hand, and found a little enclosed area, verdant and charming - to the right was an awning with seats and space for a barbecue. To the left was a small enclosure with a little, open door - inside my two colleagues were sat on comfortable armchairs on a carpeted floor. It was a quirky, intimate space full of ornaments, a footstool and a solid old wooden table. As I sank into my all-too-inviting seat, I noted that the wall behind me was made of brick - it was part of the outside wall of the pub, backing onto the garden - whereas the remaining walls were wooden. It was like a garden or allotment shed which had been customised for maximum luxury within the means available.

It had the feel of a secret den, a cosy, homely little corner tucked away from the rest of the world. The roof was made of clear, corrugated plastic - so the space was light and airy too rather than dark and dingy.

I couldn't help but talk about what it reminded me of - one of my fondest memories, that of sitting in the greenhouse as a child (usually keeping one or more of the cats company, sprawled out on the trestle or the soil), especially at the onset of a heavy rain or thunder storm.

That feeling - as with being under canvas also - of being simultaneously exposed to the elements, and yet of being very comfortably insulated from them too. To be able to smell and feel the change in atmosphere as the storm hit, to be thrillingly close to it, but to remain warm, dry and comfortable. Only the cats would display any consternation, annoyed that the weather would be so rude as to disturb their sleep.

The sound of heavy raindrops hitting the glass of the greenhouse roof, just above one's head. And knowing that if the rain got so heavy, there would be little choice but to stay put until it had significantly eased off. I still recall the smell of the tomato plants, the paraffin heater, the bags of compost under the trestles.

Well my colleagues and I talked about all this, and then got on to talking about more contemporary topics, setting the world to rights and all that. I could see that it would be dangerously easy to stay here for hours, to settle in for the evening, had I not other plans.

Then, all of a sudden, the heavens opened and we had the heaviest, harshest showers of the year so far, huge drops of rain hitting the corrugated roof with such force and intensity that I couldn't hear the conversation any more. Rather than shout above it, we largely just opted to sit back in our huge armchairs and just listen, talking only when there was a momentarily lull.

It was fantastic. The sheer din just accentuated our cosiness. Then there was a flash of lightning, and a huge clap of thunder followed. Perfect! I hadn't intended to stop for long, but here I had no choice if I didn't want to get soaked through to the skin. In fact the colleague who was brave enough to get another drink during all this got a good soaking as she dashed between the exit of our den and the back door to the pub, a mere 20 feet away.

The lovely smell of the garden wafted through, fresh and refreshing. I just wished there was a paraffin lamp to light. The incessant rain impacting on the corrugated plastic a few feet above our heads continued for a good hour or so, and we three were pretty much enveloped and pleasantly stranded for that time. We managed conversation by leaning forward out of our armchairs and shouting above the din when it was at its heaviest.

Much of the time I was just happy to sit back and just drink in the atmosphere: to enjoy the moment and its powerful evocation of all those other memories, but this time with added beer. I got home an hour or so later than I'd planned, but I wouldn't have missed that for anything.

Pink elephants and all that

I was drunk on New Year's Eve. I'm sure I wasn't the only one in the country to be able to make such a shameful, shocking and disappointing confession on December 31st 2008.

I imagine though that many were far more drunk than me. I was at that level at which I knew I was drunk, and thus should pace myself and be careful with any further intake. The kind of level at which one is very aware of one's own thoughts and, whilst all around is a little blurry and soft at the edges thanks to the intake of beer, wine, whisky and (gulp) absinthe (just a small shot of that - I remember the last time I had absinthe, which was ten whole years ago..), then one is also aware of the blurriness, and that the best thing is to enjoy it but also to take care.

By the time we got to the second phase of the night - we'd already been out just outside town, and were now back to go to a house party just a few minutes' walk from home - it was already well past midnight. I grabbed my bottle of wine, joined the two or three other companions of mine, and we headed to the party.

Inside, whilst not exactly a scene of debauchery, it had clearly been a heavy evening there, judging by the array of rictus grins, eyes in separate orbits, and perambulatory movements which might be some kind of approximation of walking, and whose relationship to verticality was no more than casual.

Not that this should imply the same of everyone who was there - as relatively lucid as I felt (ie I could look people in the eye, and also string a sentence together), I was in conversation for a while with a bunch of people who were clearly far more sober than I. I was together enough to do some washing up to make sure I and my friends had some clean glasses to drink from though (is that any kind of benchmark, I wonder?).

There was a very pleasant surprise: I bumped into a friend I'd not seen for a while, and really hadn't expected her to be there, since I didn't know that she had friends amongst the folk at the party who were familiar to me.

I went over and gave her a great big hug, and said Happy New Year, and we had a few minutes of conversation - I only vaguely recall what it was about - mainly catching up, talking about how Christmas had been, and so on. It was lovely to see her. Soon though I was back talking with my other companions and a mixture of familiar and new faces. Before much more time had elapsed, I realised I needed to go home. I'd had a good evening throughout, but knew that if I had any more to drink, my slightly-blunted senses would become altogether less reliable, and I would surely pay for it in the morning.

Oh, come on, stay for a bit longer - you haven't even finished your wine!

No, seriously, it's time to go. I can't drink any more, I need to go and get some sleep!

Ok. Happy New Year!

In the wee small hours, it was a delight to walk home. Utter silence, save for the faint, muffled repetitive thuds of music emanating from behind the doors of houses here and there along the way. It was refreshingly cold, the sky was largely clear, and the half an inch of snow gleamed and twinkled against the streetlights and the moon. I didn't rush home, weary as I was - I was determined to savour the scene.

Magical is a very lazy word to use, but it'll do. Here goes:

It was magical.

Apart from being a little tired and lethargic, I was ok the following day - clearly I'd made the sensible decision in making my exit when I had done. Nice not to feel utterly trashed or completely devoid of energy on New Year's Day.

The friend who I mentioned above, the one whom I was surprised to have bumped into at the party: we'll call her Karen.

Well yesterday, I bumped into a friend of Karen's: someone I happen upon and have a chat with from time to time.

Oh hello she said, how are you? Anything to tell me?

Suddenly I had a mild stab of anxiety, since there was a mixture of innuendo and curiosity in her voice. Had I been far more drunk than I'd thought at the party? Oh, bloody hell. Had I overdone it and embarrassed myself in front of Karen? I was sure that I hadn't, especially given the clarity of my recollection of the whole evening, but here was a little window of doubt starting to open up.

I replied to the effect that, yes, I'd had quite a drunken night on New Year's Eve. I asked about hers, suddenly thinking that she might have been at the party with Karen.

Oh, mine was terrible. Well it started out alright, but I was at a party and I hardly knew anyone there. Ended up WAY too drunk.

Oh, right, I replied. Where was this?

It was over at a friend's place down in South Wales. I was really embarrassed. Karen's been taking the piss out of me ever since.

Well you should have kept it to yourself then, and not told her!

Well I could hardly do that, she saw everything.

How do you mean?

She was there with me - we drove down together, and came back the following day.

This party - it was definitely on New Year's Eve?

Yes.

In Wales?

Yes!

Are you sure?

Yes!!!

With Karen?

YES! Well I'm hardly going to imagine it, am I?

At which point, I had to explain that I must have imagined seeing Karen at the party I went to on the same night.

All I can say is, I'm definitely going to stick to my customary vow of total sobriety for the duration of January.

Thank goodness...

...I'm ten years older.

Otherwise, the likely scenario would have been:

** I would have had a terrible weekend.

** I would have probably called in sick today: my day at home would have been as terrible as the weekend would have been, anxiously turning over Friday's events in my mind and wondering whether I'd allowed myself - or rather my drinking - to get completely out of hand, and my behaviour with it.

** I wouldn't have been a good-natured drunk on Friday night.

** I would be looking for ways to blame other people for how drunk I got, rather than taking the responsibility myself.

** I would be feeling pretty low right now, as opposed to thinking about the good-humoured conversation I had today with my colleagues about Friday night.

** I wouldn't be feeling as good as I am about the arty things done in the group at work today, and how well they've turned out.

Yes indeed, thank goodness.

Weird

I didn't expect to be writing another post so soon, but something just struck me as I sat having the aforementioned pint(s) of Abbot at my local.

Having been for a very satisfying bike ride, and then just enjoying the feeling of a couple of drinks, I pictured myself back on the bike. Suddenly, thanks to a relative sense of distance from my earlier exertions, the whole concept of cycling struck me as utterly bizarre: sitting - balancing - on a metal frame with wheels and expending a hell of a lot of effort and energy whilst moving at some speed. Now part of this weirdness is the sheer physics of the situation - which I shan't go into since I don't have the mastery of the language required - but that weirdness is very much there, and seems to create a sense of precariousness to say the least.

The other aspect of it is that of the seemingly total lunacy of braving, over the course of a couple of hours, elderly drivers who don't see you as they pull out of parking spaces; idiots on mobile phones who will cut across junctions on the wrong side of the road; people of any given age who will happily pull out of a junction not expecting you to be so close since you're on a bike and are surely going so much slower than anything else that moves; people who think that around 40cm is sufficient space to give you as they overtake.

I could list many more. Such as the twat who trailed behind me for a mile or so on a straight road, where it was safe to pass me at any point, but who then decided to overtake only when I signalled to turn right.

Averaged out, I've been out on a bike ride for between 90 minutes and 2 hours, at least once a week so far this year. Given the sheer hazards as outlined above, you'd have thought I'd have packed it in by now; either that or I'd have been killed or severely maimed at least.

Then I weigh that up against the enjoyment and fulfilment I get from it (including shouting expletives at the types just described), and I can't see me stopping any time soon.

Odd, isn't it?

Tired

Too tired to write much, in fact. One or two things have taken their toll over the last week or so, both emotionally and physically (not helped by drinking far more than I should have done on Saturday night). Right now I can hardly keep my eyes open let alone concentrate, my body is achy and has no energy, and my tinnitus has increased sharply in my right ear, which is most disconcerting.

I think the only thing for it is an early night, and fingers crossed as far as the tinnitus is concerned.

Unfair cop

A diversion back to dream blogging. Here's last night's:

The morning after a night out drinking with a mate, we were sat having breakfast and coffee, idly recounting what we could remember of the night before. Suddenly, a quiet but nagging thought at the back of my mind made itself known: had we been in trouble with the police last night?

Yes my mate exclaimed, we were detained for being drunk and disorderly!

We discussed this with much amusement - clearly we were still pissed - but couldn't even remember whether we had spent the night in a police cell, or been released and found ourselves back at my flat.

Later, we had a further visit from the police, who took us down the station (though it was lit more like a quiet country bar) to run through the events of the night before. They made us wait for a long while, and then came in and started telling us things and asking us questions: their manner was overly jovial and matey, but with more than a hint of a sinister edge. They showed us CCTV images of us, clearly the worse for wear but appearing to have a good time, as they reeled off a litany of moral judgments on the vagaries of being drunk and disorderly.

I don't think they charged us: maybe a caution, then we were released. We were discussing the whole scenario, then suddenly it struck me: sure, we had been drunk, but nothing they had presented us with showed us to have been disorderly, not by any stretch of the imagination. So we had been cautioned for something we hadn't done, but had allowed ourselves to have been sufficiently daunted by the police to not even think of questioning what they were saying. We went and got drunk to commiserate.

Basically what my brain is telling me is, as far as I can see, that I question authority (of whatever kind) far less often than I should in situations where it counts. As a result, every so often I find myself having to dig myself out of a scenario which I've allowed myself to get into but which I could have avoided had I stood my ground.

Frustrating as that is (i.e. very, since it relates to something recent and specific), I was glad to realise once I regained consciousness this morning that I hadn't actually been detained last night, so vivid was the sequence of events in the dream.

Play (2)

A week or two ago I'd emailed some friends suggesting that they join me on my birthday weekend by going out to watch these gentlemen play a gig. Thanks to a slightly curious turn of events I was informed that there was room for me to play on the same bill: after the customary stab of anxiety, I agreed to do so.

I was a little bit wired on Saturday once I arrived at the venue - no doubt informed by a certain amount of nerves, but mainly due to having drank a lot the previous day. The kind of drinking which happens over the space of several hours, which means you don't get drunk or have a hangover, but it has a definite effect on your sense of being all the same.

So I was a little bit fidgety, not quite able to fully relax, tripping over my words a little. I was also slightly flabbergasted to be at the venue - a place I've known for years and years - and find that the area backstage is Tardis-like and labyrinthine. It felt like it took a good few minutes walk to get to the kitchen area where me, the promoters and the other performers sat and ate and had the odd beer. Also, the gig was originally going to happen in a garagey, basement area, which greatly appealed to me. In the event, due to all sorts of health and safety-based panics, it had been relocated to the main part of the venue upstairs. Which, considering I would be on my own in the middle of the stage, felt pretty bloody huge to me. Gulp.

I knew also to not to have the same expectations as the last gig, which was quite a unique thing and with its very own atmosphere. But having said all the above, I was looking forward to it.

I was due on stage at 8.30, though I was wandering round the main bar downstairs periodically before that, looking for some familiar faces as well as someone I hoped to recognise at least by his distinctive height. As is customary, I allowed a few doubts to creep in, and pictured myself playing to a near-empty venue. When I got back upstairs though I was instantly reassured by what felt to me to be a respectable amount of people (which was to increase further as time wore on).

I was also pleased to find Szwagier (he being of the distinctive height) and Nell there - though it was more the case that they found me - they had contacted me previously and managed to wrestle details of the gig from me, and I was flattered that they had turned up with a couple of other friends also. I sat with them and we chatted before I went on stage, and it helped to take the edge off any nerves I was feeling: it was good to finally meet more people I've been in touch with for quite some time now via the internet and blogging, and they were very good company too.

The stage was higher up and far more cluttered with leads and equipment than at the last gig, and my main fear was that of tripping over something and causing chaos and injury as I made my way to where my laptop was parked. Nothing of the sort occurred thankfully, so all felt well and good as I safely reached my station in the middle of the stage.

Normally I like to be somewhere near the side of the stage so that I don't feel like a rabbit caught in the headlights: it felt ok though, the spotlights shining down meant that I couldn't see the audience, and that didn't exactly do me any harm. I could just focus on the laptop and other equipment, and my beer.

Again once I got things going, it all felt reassuringly loud. It was a similar set to last time, albeit with a few adjustments and with one different track at the end. It went pretty smoothly and seemed to get a favourable enough response, I was happy with the reaction and with what I'd done. It was more reserved (the reaction) than the last gig, but I'd been prepared for that since most of the audience were there, of course, to see the headlining act. I did have a number of people come up and tell me what they thought afterwards, and the comments were positive.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening, the main act were mesmerising and very intense (and loud), if you do follow the link near the top you'll get a flavour of what it was like. Thanks again to Szwag and Nell and their friends coming along, it was really good to meet them: we sat and had a further couple of beers and they met a couple of my friends too. After they headed their own way, I toddled over to a friend's house nearby for wine, pizza, and yet more music: feeling tired, rather tipsy, and very content.

I hadn't felt the need for any great plans for the following day - my actual birthday - but come the afternoon a bunch of us were out walking in the Clent Hills, followed by a rather fabulous pub lunch. All in all, a fantastic weekend: I don't think I've ever done quite so much on and around my birthday, and I'm really very happy at the way it all worked out.

Having listened back to a recording of my performance on Saturday night though, it's left me feeling like I need to push it in different directions, make it sound more fucked up, stretch it beyond recognition compared to where it's at currently. Which is par for the course, and so it damn well should be.

80%

Following on from the booze references in the previous post, I was reminded of something very much alcohol-related from a few years ago.

One of the bands I used to play in never got beyond the rehearsal stage. This was never a problem for us, I always looked forward to the rehearsals: it was me and a couple of friends and a few gadgets, and one or two nights a week we would improvise music in the comfort of the house of one such friend. The stuff we used to churn out was epic, mesmeric psychedelic stuff which ebbed and flowed: sometimes very structured, other times completely eschewing any kind of order in favour of a formless wash of sound. Hark at me with my grandiose descriptions.

One significant feature of the rehearsals, and which surely both helped and hindered our musical noodlings in roughly equal measure, was the bottle of spirits which we would usually get from the rather quaint off license a few minutes down the road. Usually this was vodka, though from time to time we would sample other interesting concoctions on the recommendation of the owner. A number of times we would go for the imported Polish vodka, I remember not the name, but it was the ridiculously strong stuff (hence the title of the post) which to the uninitiated wouldn't smell or taste much different to some form of industrial furniture polish. Which probably counted us as being among the ranks of the uninitiated.

Still we would drink it anyway, a couple of capfuls each when each piece of music we were playing wound down to a natural halt (or if one of us needed the toilet). Despite the occasional grimace as this heady stuff hit the back of the throat, it gave a pleasant warming sensation, and served to increase our ability to shut out practically everything else apart from the music.

One of the residents of the house was a marvellous, genial and very knowledgeable chap called...well, let's call him Dave. He too was known for liking, and being able to hold, his drink. Occasionally during our rehearsals he would pop his head round the door to have a listen, perhaps share a capful or two of whatever our chosen poison was that week, and then leave us to carry on.

One evening we were taking a break as he looked in, and we invited him to share some of the strong Polish vodka with us. To our faint surprise he turned it down. Later on when we had finished for the night, we were sat talking with him and during the conversation I asked him if he didn't like the vodka. He then launched into an incredibly authoritative, technical and scientific-sounding description of the chemical makeup of this type of vodka - I still remember him talking about polymers and other such things in great detail, and was astounded by the eloquence of his explanation - and how it wasn't just stronger by volume, but potentially so much more volatile in its effects on the body. "Bad Shit" was how he summed it up at the end of this lengthy but fascinating discourse.

So we heeded his grave advice and decided to leave it alone, and at our next rehearsal a couple of nights later we reverted back to standard strength vodka. Later on when once again we were in conversation with Dave, we offered him a glass, pointing out that we had followed his advice from the other night.

"What advice?" he asked, looking slightly puzzled. I recounted to him as best I could the explanation he'd given, making sure I put the word polymers in there at some point, and how he'd basically shocked us into leaving the stuff well alone. By the time I'd finished he was in fits of laughter, making me wonder aloud whether I should be embarrassed about the inadequacy of my explanation.

"No, it's not that," he said, "it's just that I realise this must have been Tuesday night you're talking about. I can't remember saying any of it: I was, completely and utterly, pissed out of my face!"

Untitled

I was going to do a rant about V********s Day, but I really don't think I'm all that bothered about doing so. It was going to be a good excuse to use a terrible title though, something along the lines of Anti Valentine's Day Macassars. Never mind. Maybe next year eh?

But! I, amongst others, did get one of these - well, two in fact - the other day, thanks very much to queen vixen and pixie: nothing to do with V********s Day either, but why shouldn't I mention it today?


I'm away for the weekend, going to see a good friend of mine for intelligent conversation, a sing-song at the piano and...nah, chances are we'll get rather pissed, and I'm looking forward to that especially since I won't be turning up to work on Monday bleary-eyed and groggy: mainly because I'm not at work next week.

So if I do post anything at the weekend, I wouldn't expect it to be anything approaching coherent. Time will tell...

Stillness

Thanks in part to the unseasonably good weather round our way, there's been an odd (but not unpleasant) atmosphere in the city this week. I think it's probably compounded by the fact that the schools are on half term holiday, which makes travelling to and from work a far less fraught and frustrating kind of experience. It also means I don't have to get up until 20 minutes after I usually would, since the roads are so quiet: well, relatively quiet anyway. Even the bus drivers are uncommonly cheerful, which is actually quite unsettling, so rare is it.

But - it's more than just a case of being quieter on the roads either side of the working day. Nor is it merely a case of the change in atmosphere being due to the unexpected sensation of the city being drenched in glorious, golden sunlight.

What has struck me, as I've walked along at the beginning of my day, is that it reminds me of a very early morning in late spring or summer: bright, pleasantly warm, and almost eerily still. Stop walking and, save for occasional birdsong, the quietness has been amazing.

The equivalent happened as I headed through the backstreets of town on my way from work this afternoon: it felt like a late spring evening, and the atmosphere practically demanded of me that I take my time and enjoy the moment. Even the car parks and industrial buildings, the alleyways and the canal where the drinkers congregate seemed pleasant enough places to take pause for a few moments (I could be cynical and say that this was because the sun was in my eyes and it was difficult to see at all, but I'll let that pass).

I suppose the slight feeling of eeriness that I'm getting at is because, whilst in no way unwelcome, it's way too soon for us to be having such a spell of weather. At this time of year, such conditions seem to alter the sense of time, so that my first couple of waking hours feel like 5am in June, and the late afternoon sun feels like 9pm midsummer. Take the school run away from the equation, and that just intensifies the whole feeling.

Mind you, thinking about it, this state of affairs also reminds me of the opening weekend of the 2002 World Cup finals. That was over the course of a bank holiday weekend in May (I think) and, since the tournament was in Japan and South Korea, many of the pubs were opening at ridiculously early hours of the day and serving breakfast for those who wanted to watch the first games. Come 3 o'clock in the afternoon, the legions of diehard footie fans (and drinkers), spurred on by fine weather and a long weekend before they had to return to work, were as inebriated as they would be at the end of a hectic Saturday night.

I remember wandering through the locale and feeling like I was walking through the village of the damned (I haven't seen the film of the same name but the phrase seemed to fit): all the carnage of a late night illuminated by the bright afternoon sun. A couple of inert bodies lay in the gutter; two people were stood in the middle of the road (there was barely any traffic since everyone appeared to be in the pub) trying to have a fight, violently swinging punches and looking puzzled as to why they didn't connect.

The fact was that these inebriated adversaries were a good ten feet away from each other, and it would have been amusing to watch - were it not all so odd and faintly grotesque. Further down the road a man in a similar state of intoxication tried and utterly failed to jump over the wall, 1ft high as it was, that stood between him and the entrance to the off-license.

Well, back to this week and its altogether more pleasant sense of disconnect. May as well get used to it, I'm sure we'll have much more of this kind of thing in the years to come; on the other hand, I may as well make the most of it for now, since the forecast indicates rain and snow come the weekend. At least it'll actually feel like February.

Sober reflection

Yep, I pledged to myself (as I do most years) that I would remain alcohol-free in January, and that's been the case. Not that it's a big thing, or anything to make a fuss about - he notes as, ironically, he embarks on writing a post about it - but it does bring up some interesting stuff.

For instance, when it's cropped up in conversation with anyone, pretty much the standard reaction has been, "I wouldn't have the willpower to do that". Well, neither would I. If it was about willpower I don't think I would even consider it. The point is that I enjoy it, it's something to look forward to. When drinking has become so much part of the routine, in this case over Christmas, then the change in that routine is welcome (and, in turn, the prospect of drinking becomes a novelty again).

Nor have I felt tempted in any way to drink during this time: the bottles of whisky on top of my fridge seem to have blended (no pun intended) into the background; there's half a bottle of red wine in there as well which a friend brought round last night, having forgotten that I wouldn't be joining her in sampling it. I had no problem with her drinking it herself, and I'm not tantalized by the notion of pouring myself a helping from what remains.

If I'm painting myself as being completely and utterly (and sickeningly) virtuous with the words above, or like I'm trying too hard to prove a point, then I must admit that the prospect of a really good pint of a quality beer is a welcome one. I'm not sure whether the alcohol content is part of the equation, but I do miss the taste and texture of, say, a glass of Leffe or Theakston's Old Peculier, it seems warm and welcoming whereas I've not really given any other types of booze a second thought.

The most obvious benefit of this abstinence is the quality of sleep (saving money doesn't count, because what I save always ends up being spent on more music). The prospect of, say, a Friday night without booze - especially if I'm not planning on going out either - might initially seem a bit of a drag, but is always more than compensated for by waking up the following morning after a good, solid night's sleep, without even a hint of any after effects of alcohol.

I did have an odd couple of days where I felt like I was slurring my words: make of that what you will, I'll just put it down to tiredness and catching up on proper sleep.

The main thing which I tend to notice however is far more subtle. It's a fine line, but I end up feeling much calmer, more even, more self-possessed. It manifests itself in different ways but, for example, in situations where I might normally be clock-watching and willing the time to pass, I'm much more patient and able to sit back and just let it happen by itself: I'm much more tolerant towards things which otherwise seem like a chore. It gives rise to a certain stillness or quietness which seems to refresh me and give me renewed strength. There seems to be a sense of more time in which to think and to act. Worries subside; I'm less likely to avoid things.

Having said all that, then it seems pretty ludicrous that the chances are I'll be enjoying a couple of drinks at my local tomorrow night. But still it has to be said: the chances are I'll be enjoying a couple of drinks at my local tomorrow night. They serve Leffe by the pint, after all.

Still walking

I've been tagged again courtesy of wayfarer: I'm going to do this one for a number of reasons, though overall I'll continue to politely decline tags unless it's something that really grabs me (which is why this one looked interesting). Thanks to wayfarer for that: it's an end of year meme and, while I'm cynical about the whole New Year's Resolution type of stuff, wayfarer rightly pointed out that this isn't really about that as such.

But! (it's not a big but....this is a big but) it will have to wait until tomorrow since there are plenty of questions to be answered and I'm not in the frame of mind just now, having come back from yet more walking. This time I was out with a couple of friends in the Malverns, having a very bracing two hours or so in the hills, which I really enjoyed. So, yet more photos for your edification.










We also found this obelisk (though to be honest I've a suspicion that other people may have found it before we did) and decided to recreate the tower in Mordor from Lord Of The Rings, the
one with the big evil all-seeing eye on top of it: I haven't linked to any photos of the one from the film since I think you'll agree that this is a supremely convincing mock-up, without any tinkering on Photoshop believe it or not.


I'm in a pleasantly drowsy state following the walk and a welcome pub lunch and a pint of Old Speckled Hen, though I'll be heading out again later for a gathering round at someone's house: I'm sure it'll be pretty hellish in many of the pubs this evening. I'll take this opportunity to pass on my best wishes for the New Year to those of you who stop by to visit the Press. Hope you have a good one.

Miracles

Yes, they do happen. One happened just yesterday in fact.

Late afternoon, I was walking home from work and I bumped into a friend of mine. We stood chatting for a couple of minutes, then he suggested we go for a pint. I was dubious about whether I wanted to, since I was looking forward to a quiet evening in, then he came out with the classic line "go on, just for one!"

How many times have you gone for "just the one" drink, only for it to turn into several, after which things start getting very hazy and then the following morning you wake up and think, oh shit, I really don't feel very good?

Guess what?

One solitary pint of beer later, I got another round in and that one was followed by another and we didn't fall out of the pub til midnight and threw up all over the pavement NO! we left the pub, I went home, and had the nice quiet evening that I'd originally planned for myself.

Like I said, sometimes miracles do happen.

Days

....four working ones before I finish for Christmas. I'm trying not to wish them away too quickly. The last three years I've not had much of a break, but this year I really felt like I needed it and so, after Friday, I don't return to work until January 3rd. That's still only a week and a half but it's the longest time off I will have had since I started this job.

Which will make it hard to start back again.

That's the negative stuff out the way: whatever happens or crops up this week, I'm off at the end of it and that's that. I'm not really looking forward to anything specific with my time off, just the time off itself. I'll be spending some of it up in Derbyshire, which means peace and quiet (and booze) and plenty of long walks. Last year - or was it the year before? - it was magnificently foggy some of the time (as in the weather, not my frame of mind), and there was a pleasant eeriness to wandering around the lanes and pathways with hardly anyone else in sight. I'll be taking my camera with me and will post any worthwhile pictures up here once I'm back.

I remember last year having a long walk while I was in a mild stupor, and feeling a sheer sense of relief at being temporarily free from the rigours of the daily routine. I summed it up with a rather grandiose phrase which I saved in my mobile phone: the freedom from everyday restrictions tempts me to do what I consider to be normal. Which doesn't necessarily mean I automatically want to do something "weird," but serves to indicate that a lack of externally-imposed structure gives me more space in which to clear my mind, be myself.

Am I thinking about this too much? Perhaps, but these lanes and paths are the same ones as described here, and which carry a lot of resonance for me. I used to also spend time out here late at night with paints and sketchpad (and cans of beer), and it would be so dark that I would have to have a system of remembering which paints I'd used so that they didn't get completely muddled up. The results - when they actually turned out alright - were a sort of cross between what a late Turner seascape might have looked like were he very drunk and very arthritic, and the visual equivalent of eating spaghetti. I'm sure that's not too hard to imagine is it? Probably the above also serves to add context to "what I consider to be normal."

Actually it used to be very enjoyable to go out and paint late at night, though occasionally the sense of eeriness would get the better of me and I'd have to pack up and head back to somewhere slightly less off the beaten track.

Well, following on from the previous post, I would enjoy it if we had a proper fall of snow: but some heavy fog would be enough for me. On Saturday I'll hopefully be meeting up with some friends for the revival of an old tradition, they used to get together on (or as near to it as possible) the shortest day for a walk in the Peak District, with mince pies and mulled wine for refreshments. Followed, hopefully, by a stop in a decent pub with a real fire, good food and some real ale.

Weekend (3)

I had a shit weekend.


Far from being in a pleasant rural area, it was a place of unrestrained urban sprawl.









There was no atmosphere.









The local buildings had no character.









The scenery wasn't much cop.









There was nothing worth going to visit.









Not even any decent walking routes.









The weather was terrible.









The pace of life was way too hectic.









I couldn't relax.









My accommodation was nowhere near a pub.









Thank goodness that wasn't this weekend though - as you can see from the photos everything was just fine and dandy. I found out when I arrived that I was staying at Willersey, a charming little place: pleasant, scenic and very relaxed. The last picture is through the doorway of my accommodation (which was lovely) looking across to the pub. I'd thought I was staying inside the pub but it was a separate little building less than a weakling's stone's throw away. I'd warmly recommend it to anyone.

The only odd thing about the weekend was, as I went for a late night wander round after several delicious pints of ale, I was sure I could see sparks and flashing lights in a clearing in the trees. In my semi-inebriated state, the only thing I could think was that this seemed to be consistent with spot-welding or arc-welding.

Weekend (2)

I'm off again, until Sunday. I'm not entirely sure where I'm going but it looks nice. Maybe I'll have some photos of I'm Not Sure Where This Is and the surrounding area to post up when I get back. Main thing is, I'm staying in a pub, so I'm sure I'll manage ok. Once again, have a good weekend all ye whomsoever enter here (eh?).