Gold I bring

Once again, I'm confined to the Settee of Suffering with another flare-up of shoulder impingement syndrome. I'm trying to get myself into a mindset where I can advocate, in the New Year, for finding a longer-term solution to this than missing work, not doing any long drives, and stuffing myself full of painkillers.  

In the meantime, since I'm not going anywhere, here are some photos from a recent walk on Lawrence Weston Moor, which I was visiting for the first time.

I tend to think of hills topped with granite outcrops when I hear the word moor, but here we're on the Severn floodplain, where moors are low-lying basins into which the river spills at times of flood - or did, every winter, before the rhines were dug in - probably - the 15th century. (And still do, on occasion, when they are overwhelmed.)

In any event, it's a welly walk in all but the driest months of the year.

Our route took us in a loop around the nature reserve. Although it's right by the M5, it wasn't too hard to blot out the sound of traffic. 

A short stretch of boardwalk takes you over the wettest section of the walk.

Haws

Old Man's Beard

Reedmace

A dewy leaf on dark winter water

Under the mistletoe

The road leading to the footbridge over the motorway

I was so glad to be there when it was bright and the sun was turning the reeds to gold. It made me want to pocket the whole day, to take out and remember on grimmer winter days. 

A Winter Solstice Advent Calendar ... and a road trip to Wiltshire and Wales

I suffer with the dark in winter, and December can be a real struggle for this and other reasons, so this year I decided to post a Winter Solstice advent calendar on my Facebook, to keep myself focused on the brighter days.

Here are the photos I chose, all taken in Bristol: at Blaise, Stapleton, Badock’s Wood, Horfield, the Floating Harbour, Filton, Purdown, Eastville Park, Lawrence Weston moor, and Three Brooks nature reserve in Bradley Stoke. 

The astute will notice there are only 20 photos and this year’s winter solstice falls on the 21st. This is because on Day 6, I couldn’t resist posting my little video of the Santas on a bike in the Floating Harbour.

One morning there was a stunning sunrise. I was headed due east and utterly mesmerised by it, but couldn’t take a photo because I was driving. Here’s what it looked like at daybreak, just before I left home.

I was on my annual Christmas trip to Wiltshire, to pick Jinny and her dog Millie up and take them to meet her parents at Pont Abraham Services in Carmarthenshire, who would drive the third leg of the journey to New Quay. 

By the time I arrived in Hilperton, the sun had risen into the thickening cloud and it looked a lot less stunning, but the canal, and Jinny and Millie's company, was anything but drab. 

It was great to be on a road trip and outside of Bristol for the first time since August, when my shoulder flared into huge pain that lasted for weeks. Sadly, there are no more photos, mainly because I was driving, but also because the weather took a drastic turn for the worse, and by the time we passed Cardiff, a very wet and sticky rain was falling - the sort that throws up a blinding spray and requires you to put the windscreen wipers on at full speed. At times standing water crashed across the carriageway like Hokusai's wave, but my charges were deposited safely and I made it home in one piece too. 

Millie, who is a very good dog indeed

Poetry byways and desire paths

I've taken some time to regroup lately, following a year of readings from Love the Albatross (IDP), my collection about estrangement. Engaging with such personal poems in front of an audience takes a big emotional toll, so a break has been due, and really welcome.

That said, I have been involved in a couple of group readings, both of which allowed me to read some of my (less exhausting) Bristol poems, from earlier collections. The first was a rerun of last year's 'Ten Bristol Poets' at the Bristol Literary Film Festival, in aid of St Peter's Hospice. This time we were promoted from the cafe to the main hall, where the lighting wasn't as conducive for taking photos; nevertheless, here's a few of the poets involved: clockwise from left, Tim Burroughs, Melanie Branton, Pete Weinstock, me, Charles Thompson. 

The other reading was with the IsamBards at Brunel's Underfall Yard in Bristol's Floating Harbour. 

The Matthew, seen through the round window

Fellow IsamBards, Pamli Benham and David Johnson

First set, with David, Dominic Fisher and Pameli

During the interval between sets, I took the opportunity to have a wander along Baltic Wharf, with its view over to the painted houses of Cliftonwood. My route took me past Albion Dockyard, with its familiar clock tower and the Banksy, Girl with pierced eardrum, which is now, sadly, beginning to fade. 

After our second set, it was home on the bus, via Hotwells Road and Jacob's Wells Road, where we had the delight of seeing a fleet of Santas on a bike, raising money for West Country children's hospices.

Elsewhere, I've had some of those aforementioned Bristol poems included in the Street! project run by Ralph Hoyte and Bristol Libraries, which has created soundpools containing site-specific poems outside various libraries in the city, which people can listen to through an app. Obviously I haven't, because even the thought of downloading an app brings me out in a rash, but I understand the soundpools are a joy and a delight, so that makes me happy.

Finally, after three long years of 'not writing any poems at all', I was shocked at the end of August to realise that I have actually produced some this year. Most of them appear to be on the theme of neurodivergence, and the first of these has now been published in Jawbone Journal, which I'm so pleased about, not least being amongst my friends-in-poetry, B Anne Adriaens, Melanie Branton, Rosie Jackson, Clare Morris, Alasdair Paterson, and Susan Taylor. Truly an honour.

Druids, a urinal and frost on the Frome

I usually make promises to myself and promptly forget them, but the one about trying to walk somewhere new at least once a month through the winter, even if it's just somewhere in Bristol, I have remembered; not only that, I've exceeded my goal, as I've walked to two new - well, newish - places in the last month.  

First, the Bristol suburb of St George, in the east of the city. I parked next to St George's Park, which I don't think I'd been to before, though it's hard to be sure, as it reminds me very much of nearby Eastville Park, which I definitely did visit as a child. 

After walking through the park, I headed for Troopers Hill, but detoured slightly on the way in order to walk along Marling Road, where, for a couple of years, as a very small child, I learnt to ride, thanks to two elderly women who lived in our street but who kept a stable of ponies across the city. The lock-ups just visible through the gate in the photo below occupy the site of one of the stable blocks. I can still remember some of the ponies' names: Chloe, Penny, Buttons, Dinky, Bambi, Oberon, Bubbles, Aramis ... 

Before I got to Troopers Hill, I accidentally got locked in at some allotments, through which I thought (mistakenly) that l could access the hill. Luckily, my incarceration didn't last long, and I did see some quite picturesque sheds.

please don't make me go there!

Cwtch was keen to go down the track into Crews Hole, but it looked steep and slippery to me, so I promised her we'd go there next summer.

It wasn't the first time I'd been to Troopers Hill, but it was a much brighter, clearer day than my previous visit, so I took a few minutes to enjoy the view of the Avon valley and the centre of the city in the distance. 

We made our way along a couple of footpaths and then emerged into Avonview Cemetery, which doesn't actually have a view of the river, at least not while there's (still) leaves on the trees, but which was nevertheless quite beautiful in the November sun.

This is the grave of Henry Hodge, who died aged 65 in 1912. It was, it tells us, 'erected by the officers and members of the Bristol and West of England United Ancient Order of Druids, in recognition of faithful services rendered for 30 years as District Secretary.' Even Druids need administrators, it seems.

A cast-iron Victorian urinal, uncomfortably close to the chapel and bearing - on the inside - the legend 'Please adjust your dress before leaving'. 

Back at the entrance to the park, I noticed a plaque commemorating the pub and florist just over the road, the Elizabeth Shaw chocolate factory, and one Bob Hope - yes, that one - who was born in London and lived briefly in Bristol, on nearby Clouds Hill Avenue, before emigrating to the United States with his parents at the age of four.

My second walk took me to Winterbourne, and down the footpath to Huckford viaduct. I've been there a few times this year, but the prospect of getting to the hill fort at Frenchay always lures me downstream; this time I headed north towards Frampton Cotterel.

Strange how trees you walked past without noticing in summer are suddenly stunning in early winter

It was a frosty morning, which are just rare enough on the edge of a southern city to bring out the child in me who thinks it a bit magical. Even better, the sky had just enough cloud in it to make it interesting, and the sun was bright but not so high that all the ice had melted.

Our walk took us past fields on the opposite bank of the River Frome where I went riding for a couple of years as a teenager. And yes, I can still remember some of the ponies' names: Musket, two Cognacs (one bay, one skewbald), (Puffing) Billy, Jamie, Buster, Treacle, etc ...

Our walk came to an end when we got to a wooded area near Watley's End. The path by the river was blocked by a fallen tree, which meant we had to take a higher path through the wood. After about twenty minutes of scrambling up steep muddy slopes in my wellies, I remembered I'd have to slither back down again, and decided that maybe that was enough for one day. The Frome is definitely best walked in the summer.

Mist rising from a little stream in the wood ... 

... and from the Frome

A foliage-bombed kissing gate

The Frome encroaching on part of the path

The path back out of the valley