I think perhaps I have been avoiding something all my life.
On the surface I have all the attributes.
Once, long ago I was marginally good looking - yet I never really gave a stuff. I am tallish, moderately well apportioned, wear a suit quite well. Have gentlemanly qualities that I can call upon. All backed up by an expensive boarding school education.
I have captivating blue eyes; or so I was once told by a young Norwegian girl of intimate acquaintance who imagined the blue of my eyes as the skies and the dark surrounds, the fjords of her homeland.
As an exponent of the middle class manly arts - I ride, I ski, I sail, I mountaineer and so on. Then there’s the gift of languages, bestowed upon me by my own Father.
That’s the faded parchment that I see when I look in the mirror. In truth that vision is long gone and in it’s place inhabits a tired and frail old man, whose fires have dampened down to mere glowing embers, whose once luxuriant hair is now a tangle of dry and lifeless straw. Whose long gone power is mourned as he contemplates the future. Whose plans have been scattered hither and thither, as if a flock of chickens disturbed by a fox.
A question arises in that eerie early morning light in the space between awake and asleep.
Who would I be if I wasn’t me?
As with many things of great depth of meaning, this question seems almost facile.
On the surface it appears to be an extremely self-centred fancy. Yet dip beneath the stream and mingle with the minnows. A myriad shapes weave and writhe in the filtered light. Showing first this cheek and then that. Fragments of meaning gaining momentary exposure.
“I am who I am. I can’t change that!”
And yet…
“I am who I am because of those experiences I have enjoyed that have informed my world view, and thus…”
And yet…
Am I truly who I think I am or is there somewhere in this battered and abused shell I call home a place where I am truly the innocent soul that I know that I am. A place of grace and purity. A place of redemption?
It’s a misty night as the sea-breeze blows steadily from the south west, bringing with it that fine rain that devours the streets of the towns on the south coast of England. The pub on the corner in an otherwise deserted street. An evanescent glow emanates from the blue painted walls, hanging baskets of plastic flowers swaying in the damp breeze. The double half-glazed doors of heavy oak with their brass furniture. Handle, push-plate and kick-plate. A heavy brass escutcheon disguises a simple lock. That familiar sound as the doors open, we squeeze through together.
Inside, to the left and far end, most of the wall is taken up by a long polished Japanese oak bar, faced with copper panelling, together with a brass foot rail; adorned with the handles of the various beer engines dispensing frothy, hoppy goodness takes up a good two thirds of the room. Behind which, at head height, a long horizontal mirror engraved with flowery designs and the words: Buckingham Arms. Below, a row of optics; Whisky, Gin, Vodka, Brandy. Vermouths, Cordials and so on. The staples of any top shelf in Britain. Underneath, a narrow counter, above shelves of brown bottles of beer, displays the traditional accoutrements of drink mixing; sliced lemon and glacé cherries. An ice bucket. A cocktail shaker. On the bar a selection of sandwiches under a glass dome, slowly curl in the warmth.
In the gap between the bar and the front window; a window with stained glass lettering claiming the ownership of a now long defunct brewery; the panes of which window are diamond cut, to refract the sunlight and enhance the inner world of the pub with rainbows of natural light that play in the dust motes and tobacco smoke. Along the wall, a bench seat upholstered with a dark tartan of dubious origin. In fact, aside from the island of light that the bar makes in the corner the whole room has a sombre vibe. A few round generic bar tables are scattered here. The bench occupied with shadowy personages, taking advantage of the anonymity, curls of smoke writhing like dragons from their outstretched fingers. A low murmur and susurration thickens the air
To the right, three rectangular tables, each with four stick back wooden chairs. A round, green ugly ceramic ashtray sits in the middle of each; proclaiming the brand Worthington Pale Ale.
This is where we spend many an hour, around the third table. Four young men; a Bricklayer, a Gardener, and two makers of Oboes. There is an Oboe factory just a few doors up.
Several pints of Flowers Original and many cigarettes into this session the talk comes naturally around to the question of what we want from life. I remember the usual, house, kids, car, money, good job, decent pension, travel. Me, being my usual self, said simply;
Wisdom.
The thing is, I truly meant it. At the time I was torn between the pursuit of the material, the thrall of hedonism and the desire for inner peace.
The subconscious is a strange beast and once that seed had bloomed, there was no stopping its growth. Over the decade that followed there were countless opportunities for wealth and unreconstructed behaviour that I grasped with alacrity, and yet beneath it all….
Shortly after, I acquired a career in London which took me all over the British Isles at a time of great social and financial change. I saw the old trampled under the stampede of the new. I participated gleefully in the New Economy, making and spending money in equal measures.
Travelling back to London on the night ferry from Northern Ireland. Trusty Capri rumbling down the A5 from Holyhead and then a cut through the mountains, heading for the A470.
The sun was beginning to rise in the East as I left the mountains of North Snowdonia behind.
Breakfast called.
Pulling off the main road I entered a small, long thin village next to a lake and just south of Britain’s only inland nuclear power station. A small village shop beckoned. I grabbed a sandwich, a Mars bar and a can of Coke, not forgetting to stock up on cigarettes and headed back on to the main road to Dolgellau.
Further along, just where the old road crossed the river by a small stone bridge that only allowed one car at a time. I pulled off and went up a forest track about 50 metres. Parked up and wandered down the slope beneath the redwoods and sat on the riverbank just below the bridge.
The sun was just beginning to warm the trees, releasing their scent. A fine mist from their outgoing breath hung around and filtered the light. As I sat there, I drank it all in and pondered.
I had long held the desire to live in a National Park and maybe even be an Outward Bound Instructor. The place called to me. Of course I didn’t heed the call and jumping back in the car I headed for London and home. More important things to do...
“Some day I shall live in a place just like this”
Some years later, unemployed during the recession that followed, an opportunity arose. Just a small acorn of hope. A newly started outdoor activities provider near Machynlleth was in need of someone mature, with some people skills and the ability to drive a minibus. All in exchange for a subsistence wage and a load of training. Surprisingly I seemed to fit the bill.
Leaving behind a flat that was now worthless and whose mortgage was seriously in arrears, I moved. All my belongings in my old school trunk and a building society pass book stuffed with money. £423.70 to be precise. Such a magnificent sum….
A new life and a new way of thinking began.
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