Off to Guernsey
Felt curiously exhausted and nauseous this morning. Rushed about in a disorganised way until it was time to leave. Beth arriving just as I left, to accept the furry cat shaped baton. Flight fairly execrable. Bouncing in the air, and a long climb through drizzly clouds to a short sojourn in the sun. I was on Mr Beanish form, trying to oust a nervous flier from her seat thinking she'd taken mine, dropping stuff out of my bag, and repeatedly getting up to grapple in the overhead locker and making the man next to me tut.
Richard collected me from the airport in his van, and we headed to where he and Jane live behind Bordeaux Harbour up in the Vale, in the north of the island. Strange not to be going instead to St Martin's. The afternoon spent talking and walking around the harbour, and looking north at the grey, white horsed sea. The dogs running about gleefully in the rain, and rolling in the seaweed.
Jane back from a hard day's work. Despite this, and me lurking in the kitchen chatting to her about island news, such as a local school rumpus with children refusing to wear their school uniform she produced a hearty beef casserole. Richard told me that when he first moved here he cut out a story from the press about a man being knocked off his bicycle by a seagull. Fortified by food and wine, Richard drove us off to the Fermain Tavern. Richard giving Rufus one of the terriers, his insulin injection in the back of the van before leaving them to snooze happily.
Much discussion about today being declared the most depressing day of the year, and this contributing to a lower turnout than normal. Nevertheless, there was some excellent poetry from Jane and Richard. Lester Queripel ran the night in an engagingly casual way, and read from his collection 50 of the best. I also met Joan Ozanne, and Catriona popped in too.
Although somewhat rusty, I enjoyed myself reading some of my newer Guernsey poems, and later a short excerpt from This concert will fall in love with you. Richard finished with his werewolf poem, which invites the audience to howl periodically in the style of wolves. Lester's guitarist brother Lindon taking the opportunity to miaow and so on. Jane reads excellently, and treated us to some funny and absorbing poems, I particularly enjoyed one about patron saints and a translation she'd made from the Italian, about about Venetian masks.
Home and in the tiny car park behind their home, which is overhung by rock with a warning about falling rocks on it, and sniffing the good sea air on the tip of the island before bed.
Below on the horizon from Bordeaux Harbour left to right Herm, Sark in the distance, Jethou, and distantly Jersey. A rock, a warship in the rain, white horses, Richard and Jane reading.
Felt curiously exhausted and nauseous this morning. Rushed about in a disorganised way until it was time to leave. Beth arriving just as I left, to accept the furry cat shaped baton. Flight fairly execrable. Bouncing in the air, and a long climb through drizzly clouds to a short sojourn in the sun. I was on Mr Beanish form, trying to oust a nervous flier from her seat thinking she'd taken mine, dropping stuff out of my bag, and repeatedly getting up to grapple in the overhead locker and making the man next to me tut.
Richard collected me from the airport in his van, and we headed to where he and Jane live behind Bordeaux Harbour up in the Vale, in the north of the island. Strange not to be going instead to St Martin's. The afternoon spent talking and walking around the harbour, and looking north at the grey, white horsed sea. The dogs running about gleefully in the rain, and rolling in the seaweed.
Jane back from a hard day's work. Despite this, and me lurking in the kitchen chatting to her about island news, such as a local school rumpus with children refusing to wear their school uniform she produced a hearty beef casserole. Richard told me that when he first moved here he cut out a story from the press about a man being knocked off his bicycle by a seagull. Fortified by food and wine, Richard drove us off to the Fermain Tavern. Richard giving Rufus one of the terriers, his insulin injection in the back of the van before leaving them to snooze happily.
Much discussion about today being declared the most depressing day of the year, and this contributing to a lower turnout than normal. Nevertheless, there was some excellent poetry from Jane and Richard. Lester Queripel ran the night in an engagingly casual way, and read from his collection 50 of the best. I also met Joan Ozanne, and Catriona popped in too.
Although somewhat rusty, I enjoyed myself reading some of my newer Guernsey poems, and later a short excerpt from This concert will fall in love with you. Richard finished with his werewolf poem, which invites the audience to howl periodically in the style of wolves. Lester's guitarist brother Lindon taking the opportunity to miaow and so on. Jane reads excellently, and treated us to some funny and absorbing poems, I particularly enjoyed one about patron saints and a translation she'd made from the Italian, about about Venetian masks.
Home and in the tiny car park behind their home, which is overhung by rock with a warning about falling rocks on it, and sniffing the good sea air on the tip of the island before bed.
Below on the horizon from Bordeaux Harbour left to right Herm, Sark in the distance, Jethou, and distantly Jersey. A rock, a warship in the rain, white horses, Richard and Jane reading.
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