The Long Cold Sunday Morning of the Soul*

Early morning at Beautiful Days

Its 6:30 in the morning, I'm cold despite two facts firstly; its August and secondly; I'm using two sleeping bags and wearing a fleece. I've just woken up, although waking implies being asleep which I haven't done a lot of in the past four days, two of these due to being camped out a cold hillside at the Beautiful Days Festival.

I'd been looking forward to it for ages, My first festival: but the previous two nights I might have managed 2 hours of poor sleep consisting mainly on sliding down in my tent and then pushing myself back up again so I exhausted.

I try to get back to sleep and I listen to Lisa Gerrad on my iPod hoping this will help bring sleep. It doesn't and hour and half later I give up trying to sleep, I dress and crawl out of my tent.

All around are a sea of tents with coughing and snoring emanating from many of them. As the rain has finally stopped I decide to have a walk and find the Tiny Tea Tent and have a fresh cup of tea to try and rekindle my atrophying brain.

As I wander through the slopping mud toward the village shop tent a few other bleary-eyed people are also awake at this time, either coming back from partying or other insomniacs.

One of them is walking in the same direction carrying a case of beer, she says 'Hi', she's about my age and looks like the kind of person that wouldn't look out of place at a environmental protest, and we start chatting about festivals and I tell her this my first festival and its a lot noisier than I'd thought it would be, she laughs as she thought this has been a really quiet festival and was looking for more music. At the village shop tent we parted company while she tried to sell the cans of beer and I slip and slide on the way up the hill toward the Tea Tent and my goal of a cup of tea.

I round the corner to the Main Stage and it looks like a very wet ploughed field, ploughed by thousands of people dancing to Gorgo Bordello the night before. Litter blows across the area like synthetic tumbleweed it the cold wind.

Despite this, the wind blowing and only a few people around I remember why I like this time of the morning, the freshness of the day, the secret time before most people are awake and the day seems bright, new and full of possibilities, but the cloying mud soon makes me wish I was fast asleep and warm in my tent.

I finally trudge up to the Tea tent, outside sat around an open fire of burning bits of timber that someone must have found somewhere are people who've been up all night discussing everything and nothing, they all seems to have the same type of baggy, loose knitted jumpers and ripped jeans almost like a uniform. I go on into the Tea Tent but realise I've no money, I swear and squelch off back down the hill until I meet the woman I'd spoken to earlier, I mumble about forgetting my money and she offers to buy me a cup, I gratefully accept saving the long walk back to the tent. We exchange names and she tries to sell more beer to other people in the people in the tent.

I go to the counter and get poured a mugfull of the sort after brown liquid and sit at a bench and sip it. The mug is filthy and I think it hasn't been washed up since the start of the festival, this would normally bother me but I'm so tired and thirsty that I just drink down the tea at the rickety table in the tumbledown tent.

The woman who bought my tea is still deep in conversation and negotiating beer prices, I'd like to stay and talk more but in my sleep deprived state and annoying shyness feel like talking even less than normal and anyway can't think of anything remotely interesting to say and I think chances of managing to hold a coherent conversation are beyond me, so I say goodbye and start to make my way back down to my tent.

I start to wonder whether it would be a good idea to drop out, nearly all the people I've met who most people would think of as drop-outs have been some of the friendliest and easiest people to talk to as strangers, but thinking further, while in theory I'd love the freedom I'd probably hate it, I'd worry about everything and generally hate the uncertainty of it and also I've no idea how to go about it and as I'm just about to buy a flat its probably a very odd thing to think about. As I trudge on back passed the Main Stage I release I've forgotten her name, I get back to my tent and wait for everyone else who can sleep to wake and I sit feel more tired than I can remember.

*Title:With apologies to the late great Douglas Adams.

The Brandy Run

After the dropping of the smugglers off the Brig turned back out in to the bay. The ship dipped and rolled in the increasing wind, spray crossed the desk dampening the spirit of the captain, money was one thing but spay soaked clothes on a cold night could make anyone miserable. The wind groaned in the rigging and the sails creaked against the breeze. Up in the Crow's Nest a sailor called down, it was all clear ahead.

The Captain stumbled down the narrow stairway, and along the companionway to his cabin, He sat down and looked at his charts spread across his desk, he need to get across to France to pick up the next consignment of brandy, but he was worried about the weather and the about the brandy smugglers. He'd heard stories of them beating those who had been late with collection. But the halo around the moon he'd seen on his way down to the cabin was a portent of a storm.


However after reading the barometer and seeing it set at Fair, he needed time to think of the gamble ahead an whether to risk the crossing. He selected a quill, sharpened it and started writing in his log and tried to think. Finally he decided go for the crossing and anyway what sort of Captain would he be if he didn't take risks. After telling the men of his decision, retired back to his cabin.

The wave that hit knocked the captain out of his bunk. He scrambled up and went out into the companionway as another wave hit as he looked at the stairway water was cascading down the step like a series of waterfalls, up on deck spay lashed, around water crashed over the side again, The Boson tried to tell the captain how the storm came out of nowhere, but the wind carried his words away along with spay.

It was pitch-black and the only light was from the ships lanterns, a mere flicker in the black void. The crew hanging on to the yards trying to reef the sail while the wind screamed though the rigging and sails started to rip, the mast was bending.

“Cut the mainsails away” yelled the captain. He had no alternative, if he didn't cut loose them he may loose the ship and everyone to Davey Jones' Locker, The men in the rigging started hacking at the ropes to the and as the sail ripped away it hung on the last rope for a second flapping like a sad flag before ripping away and disappearing in to the darkness.

With the mainsail gone the ship was a lot more calmed down but the wave tossed the around ship like a cornered wild horse. Wave after wave broke across the deck every few seconds and the crew were getting knocked off their feet and were likely to swept overboard. As the crew could not do much now expect hope the captain ordered them below, he was was captain and it was his ship the boson stayed above deck too and they lashed themselves to the wheel and tried to keep the ship facing into the wind and ride out the storm.

After about hour the wind dropped and quickly as it had risen, and eerie silence fell across the ship. Looking a ghostly blue glow started to appeared the top of the masts and end of the yards. The crew who were slowly emerging from below and looked in awe at the display, many of them fell to their knees and prayed.

On the horizon lightning flickered and played between clouds but over time the storm disappeared and the lights faded.

The captain called up his men and set them to work making good the storm damage, most of the sails had been torn, but they had enough canvas to move, however they had no idea where the were they could be anywhere in a within 50 miles. The captain having had this much bad luck decided not to attract any more and decided to limp to France and pick up is cargo, He headed South East and hoped to soon see the French coast and work out where they were and from there head into port.

The Winter storm

The moon shines down through the trees casting its chill shadow across the ground. The wind crashes through trees sounding like a storm-tossed ocean, sailing on this ocean are ragged clouds, tinted silver by the moonlight, ghost ships of the sky passing silently by. Through undergrowth darts a hare by now exhausted, close behind, gaining, is a fox, they pass out of the woodland onto the heath.
The moon disappears behind bank of cloud.
Across the moorland where the dragon used to live the pair chase. Panic and fear courses through the hare’s body pushing it on, behind the fox determined, pursues it sensing the feast ahead, not long now, it’s waiting will soon be over. Now the rain starts and lashes across the plain, the wind rages across the moor and in the forest leaves fill the chaotic air as the wind rips them from their trees, a few cling on to their trees like survivors from a shipwreck.

Out onto the moorland, follow the chase: the hare heads for a lone tree. A once mighty oak stands straining, blasted by lightning many times, past storms having broken it boughs, but still it stands proud, another winter to see through, resting until spring returns. The fox chases on but as it passes the oak it feels a presence and looses concentration in the chase. Suddenly the wind stops and a silence falls, the fox cowers, above the clouds still rush by, the heather all around thrashes about. The fox feels a chill run through it and there is intense cold the grass all around turns crystal white.
As suddenly as the calm the fell, the storm returns fiercer than before.
An old tawny owl feathers ruffled by the storm shelters in a tree at the edge of the forest looks over the moor can all this happening. It sees the effect the presence as it appears to be rushing around the moor searching. The storm all around is reaching its height lightning dances around the hills, the searching spirit stops an intelligence is there sensing, questing, travels off at speed toward the lightning, when it reaches the hill it surrounds the tallest tree on the hill, the bark around the trunk crystallises with frost the spirit waits in its self made calm.
Suddenly a silver ribbon shoots down from the sky, the lightning strikes the tree bark and wood explode, the spirit flies skyward.
Silence falls all around and the rain stops, the wind ceases a sense of expectation fills the moor and forest, all the creatures fall silent. Gently out the sky frosted flakes fall. All across the landscape millions upon millions of flakes fall, slowly the country is covered in snow, deeper and deeper, ice forms on pond and lakes.


Winter spreads out across the land and the trees of summer sleep, only the pine trees and hollys are awake for this time of snow and ice. As dawn approaches high in the sky geese can be heard calling escaping the winter farther north.

In this time of cold the distant expectation of spring keeps hopes alive.

Smugglers' Moon

The wind blew across the moor, it could be best described as lazy as for the line of men walking across the moor is seemed to blow straight though them too lazy to go around. Each man had a lantern and as the moon hid behind a cloud each let his lantern shine out for they know the revenue men are elsewhere tonight and hopefully their trade won‘t be interrupted. Far across the valley toward the sea a associate sees the line of lights and signals out into the bay.

A galleon at anchor, sails reefed against the storm, her lookout perched precariously in the crows-nest fighting the feelings of nausea, sees the flash of light. He shouts down to Boson.
Five minutes later the splash of oars can be faintly heard. The captain is happy is now going to get paid, and relieved the contraband is off his ship.

A hour later the oarsman rowed in the harbour and landed the brandy.
In the dark town somewhere nearby a dog barks, the men disappear into the shadows of an old building, they look up and down the winding street but, see nothing, waiting in the silence a little longer, they then go back to the business and loading the cart, covering the loot with hay. They set off north keeping to the secret paths know only to a few of the more villainous professions. Travelling though the dark tree covered lanes and keeping close to the river they travel on, as they are close to river, if they are disturbed they can quickly abandon their cargo into it.
Ever alert to the noises around them, the sound of the wind in the trees blocks out any warning but they keep going. Past a manor house, nearly there now.

The sun starts to rise bright after the storm, they hide the horse and cart in a barn and head into town.
It’s market day, so business can be done, in the hustle and bustle they soon make a deal. Its to a pub for a lunch and the back to the barn to wait till night to recover the goods and close the deal.

Aggghhh I’m becoming addicted to iTunes.

I seem to be buying more and more music lately, and with sites like www.last.fm and myspace it’s become more and more easy to find great bands or artists and more and more difficult not to buy music. This evening I have bought two albums one called ‘Waking the Mystics’ by Sophe Lux, the second ‘Fox Confessor Brings the Flood’ by Neko Case. (Si, she’s not Japanese or a cat). I found Neko Case by Last.fm recommending her and Sophe Lux sent a friend invitation through myspace. The trouble is both are very good and I ended buying both from iTunes. Great music is now only 2 mouse clicks away. You don‘t have to make a trip to town and suffer crowds and idiots it just there.
I have recently brought the following


Fox Confessor Brings the Flood by Neko Case (Country)

Waking the Mystics by Sophe Lux (She seems to have a toned down Tori Amos/Kate Bush/Bjork thing going on )

Remnants of a Deeper Purity by Black Tape for a Blue Girl (Dead can Dance stylings surprisingly they’re not produced by 4AD)

Has a good home by Final Fantasy (Crap name but a great violinist somewhere between Seth Lakeman and Badly Drawn Boy (yes I know Badly Drawn boy is not a violinist but it's same sort of thing) )

Gravity’s Rainbox by Klaxons (Okish Rock I won’t by buying more)

The Worst of Jefferson Airplane by Jefferson Airplane (Old but still good)

The Silver Tree by Lisa Gerrad (Excellent to listen to when writing Mind-Dribblely blogs. The songs get my mind in the right place)

What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong (Obviously a vital addition to all music collections)

I have bought all these in the past month. And there’s always more great music to find.

And as soon as Alpiano gets it together and releases Alphino’s Lens Flare that’ll be added too!
Above my Last.fm recommendation for this week and I'm think of buying a Joanna Newsom album next. Click Click oops T'is Done!!