Sweet blackberries and a change of heart
Two days of narcolepsy. Then this morning woke up feeling perkier than I have for at least a month. Sloped off to have a kipper for breakfast, which gave my throat a good scratching as it went down, so much so that when I was in private I had to have a proper peer to see if there weren't kipper bones lodged in my throat.
Back to my apartment for a bit of thinking about poetry, finishing the truly brilliant Catching the big fish by David Lynch and then strapped on my walking boots. My ankle is still a bit rubbish but I managed a long, if slowish, walk anyway from the hotel, to Jerbourg and then along the cliffpath to St Peter Port.
I picked some blackberries from the bushes and these were the sweetest blackberries I have ever tasted. Without doubt, the Platonic ideal of blackberries. They gave me a kind of Proustian moment, and they reminded me of the sweet and yummy blackberry jam mum used to make when I was a kid.
I spoke to a few people on my mobile. Sent Kate her now traditional aural postcard from the cliffs, and also spoke Bob and then to Diane who phoned me. I was pleased to hear how positive she was after a recent operation. She told me that beyond fear lay courage, and this was an excellent thing to hear. And chiming in nicely with what I've been reading lately about fear.
The day itself was beautiful. Sunny conditions with a cool breeze and the occasional big white scudding cloud. Castle Cornet looking lovely by the sea, and all the islands and the coast of France clearly visible. As usual I walked through St Martins and wondered what all that ridiculous stuff on the mainland is all about.
Once I'd reached town I went to the Italian cafe by the market where I had a fairly good bowl of bean jar and a pot of tea. On the next table was a very elderly man who was busy taking his pills and hiccuping loudly. He was something of a joker and wandered about at one point with a teatowel over his head, and came over, not entirely welcome, to tell me a rambling, and mostly indecipherable joke about taking Viagra as I was eating my bean jar.
A spot of shopping in town, buying a book about the early history of the Channel Islands, and then back to La Barbarie for a quick snooze. Woke up and self-catered with some cheese and onion sandwiches, and looked at poems for a bit before deciding to take myself out for the night, as my first two nights I simply stayed in, sleeping an enormous amount.
Later I hobbled through the dark lanes under a full moon which, when it emerged from behind the big cloud castles, cast a shadow behind you as you walked. And I popped into the Captains for a couple of bottles of Pony - looking at the sign that is still on one of the doors for the now vanished Patois bar, where I played Euchre with my grandfather once.
Pony ale doesn't taste the same as when I was a younger gentleman - in fact it seems to be a completely different beer now. Realising I had no more money I repaired to the bar at the Barbarie where I fell into conversation with some nice Germans (which made me think of Anton) and an Irish couple. The man had difficulty remembering some things, which apparently is a symptom of having a heart transplant. Why this should be is quite fascinating. I've heard of muscle memory, could it be the heart in some ways actually remembers things?
Then blessed bed again.
Two days of narcolepsy. Then this morning woke up feeling perkier than I have for at least a month. Sloped off to have a kipper for breakfast, which gave my throat a good scratching as it went down, so much so that when I was in private I had to have a proper peer to see if there weren't kipper bones lodged in my throat.
Back to my apartment for a bit of thinking about poetry, finishing the truly brilliant Catching the big fish by David Lynch and then strapped on my walking boots. My ankle is still a bit rubbish but I managed a long, if slowish, walk anyway from the hotel, to Jerbourg and then along the cliffpath to St Peter Port.
I picked some blackberries from the bushes and these were the sweetest blackberries I have ever tasted. Without doubt, the Platonic ideal of blackberries. They gave me a kind of Proustian moment, and they reminded me of the sweet and yummy blackberry jam mum used to make when I was a kid.
I spoke to a few people on my mobile. Sent Kate her now traditional aural postcard from the cliffs, and also spoke Bob and then to Diane who phoned me. I was pleased to hear how positive she was after a recent operation. She told me that beyond fear lay courage, and this was an excellent thing to hear. And chiming in nicely with what I've been reading lately about fear.
The day itself was beautiful. Sunny conditions with a cool breeze and the occasional big white scudding cloud. Castle Cornet looking lovely by the sea, and all the islands and the coast of France clearly visible. As usual I walked through St Martins and wondered what all that ridiculous stuff on the mainland is all about.
Once I'd reached town I went to the Italian cafe by the market where I had a fairly good bowl of bean jar and a pot of tea. On the next table was a very elderly man who was busy taking his pills and hiccuping loudly. He was something of a joker and wandered about at one point with a teatowel over his head, and came over, not entirely welcome, to tell me a rambling, and mostly indecipherable joke about taking Viagra as I was eating my bean jar.
A spot of shopping in town, buying a book about the early history of the Channel Islands, and then back to La Barbarie for a quick snooze. Woke up and self-catered with some cheese and onion sandwiches, and looked at poems for a bit before deciding to take myself out for the night, as my first two nights I simply stayed in, sleeping an enormous amount.
Later I hobbled through the dark lanes under a full moon which, when it emerged from behind the big cloud castles, cast a shadow behind you as you walked. And I popped into the Captains for a couple of bottles of Pony - looking at the sign that is still on one of the doors for the now vanished Patois bar, where I played Euchre with my grandfather once.
Pony ale doesn't taste the same as when I was a younger gentleman - in fact it seems to be a completely different beer now. Realising I had no more money I repaired to the bar at the Barbarie where I fell into conversation with some nice Germans (which made me think of Anton) and an Irish couple. The man had difficulty remembering some things, which apparently is a symptom of having a heart transplant. Why this should be is quite fascinating. I've heard of muscle memory, could it be the heart in some ways actually remembers things?
Then blessed bed again.
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