A perfect day for Vogon poetry
Woke to a perfect day. This is my favourite time of year, and today, a sunny October day in Guernsey was a perfect temperature for walking for four hours. (My knee hurty and slightly swollen, but holding up). First I took myself to the graveyard to put some flowers on my Grandparent's grave. After buying some yellow carnations I discovered that the bowl in the gravestone, made out of some sort of metal, had rusted so that the bottom dropped of as I picked it up. Spent some time in the graveyard. I like graveyards, not in a ghoulish way, but they are so peaceful. I shared out some of the flowers to others I knew who are buried there.
I walked down to Moulin Huet and took the cliff path. It is difficult to describe just how beautiful this was. The cliffs are reddish in patches where the bracken is turning, and the sea its usual turquoise and Prussian blue, with cloud shadows passing over, a warm sun and a cooling breeze. And as I walked my fingers became purple, because I'd been plundering so many sweet rain washed blackberries as I walked. Stopped at Jerbourg, and identified the islands for some tourists and had a cup of tea looking out to sea. Shortly after, as I was walking back along the Jerbourg Road, a man clearly from Birmingham asked me in French where the Auberge restaurant was. Without thinking I replied in French too. Perhaps he thinks people in Guernsey still speak French.
Back to the hotel eating couscous and Guernsey vine tomatoes, past children in the playground of my old school, back to La Barbarie. Then a bus into town to meet Richard in Le Petit Cafe run by several authentically rude Frenchmen. This of course rather enjoyable, and Richard and I shot the breeze in there for an hour or so. After reflecting on our own big and cleverness, we'd enlarged on the loathsomeness of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society. Richard roundly denouncing an audiobook version he'd begun, where of course nobody had thought to employ an actual Guernsey accent. Richard said they were speaking like something out of Thomas Hardy. I clearly remember suggesting a fatwa against the misbegotten book and its perpetrators.
Once Richard left, the two retired women on the next table told me they'd flown all the way from Australia to visit Guernsey on the strength of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society. This made me feel as if I had been caught punching kittens. Naturally I also plugged A Guernsey Double, and told them some of the delights they should visit.
I stayed put in the Petit Cafe and was joined by Jenny, fresh from a day at the Radio Guernsey coalface. We drank large glasses of Chardonnay and quickly got down to some no-holds-barred gossip. Much of it so good, that it sadly can't be put in this blog. After a few glasses of wine, her husband John, who is a writer who works as a taxi driver picked us up, and dropped me off at Les Douvres where there was a poetry night.
Due to lack of food it became clear to me I was drunk, but this only increased my desire to read several poems, as did Richard and Jane who I met there. Lots of the usuals. I experienced what must be one of the single worst poems I have ever heard. This was read through a reverb mic so that it sounded like a slightly adenoidal voice of God. So toe curling that you are left with Catherine Wheels in your socks. Worse than Vogon poetry from the Hitchhiker's Guide.
Jane off to Alderney early, so once the poetry had abated, there were fond farewells to Richard and Jane. I slunk back to La Barbarie where I spoke to Jenny, who suggested I write a poem and come and perform it tomorrow lunchtime on the BBC before flying home. Jenny is an insistent sort of person, so I agreed. Then went to the bar and sensibly had a couple more drinks before hitting the sack.
Below views of Petit Port and Moulin Huet Bay.
Woke to a perfect day. This is my favourite time of year, and today, a sunny October day in Guernsey was a perfect temperature for walking for four hours. (My knee hurty and slightly swollen, but holding up). First I took myself to the graveyard to put some flowers on my Grandparent's grave. After buying some yellow carnations I discovered that the bowl in the gravestone, made out of some sort of metal, had rusted so that the bottom dropped of as I picked it up. Spent some time in the graveyard. I like graveyards, not in a ghoulish way, but they are so peaceful. I shared out some of the flowers to others I knew who are buried there.
I walked down to Moulin Huet and took the cliff path. It is difficult to describe just how beautiful this was. The cliffs are reddish in patches where the bracken is turning, and the sea its usual turquoise and Prussian blue, with cloud shadows passing over, a warm sun and a cooling breeze. And as I walked my fingers became purple, because I'd been plundering so many sweet rain washed blackberries as I walked. Stopped at Jerbourg, and identified the islands for some tourists and had a cup of tea looking out to sea. Shortly after, as I was walking back along the Jerbourg Road, a man clearly from Birmingham asked me in French where the Auberge restaurant was. Without thinking I replied in French too. Perhaps he thinks people in Guernsey still speak French.
Back to the hotel eating couscous and Guernsey vine tomatoes, past children in the playground of my old school, back to La Barbarie. Then a bus into town to meet Richard in Le Petit Cafe run by several authentically rude Frenchmen. This of course rather enjoyable, and Richard and I shot the breeze in there for an hour or so. After reflecting on our own big and cleverness, we'd enlarged on the loathsomeness of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society. Richard roundly denouncing an audiobook version he'd begun, where of course nobody had thought to employ an actual Guernsey accent. Richard said they were speaking like something out of Thomas Hardy. I clearly remember suggesting a fatwa against the misbegotten book and its perpetrators.
Once Richard left, the two retired women on the next table told me they'd flown all the way from Australia to visit Guernsey on the strength of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society. This made me feel as if I had been caught punching kittens. Naturally I also plugged A Guernsey Double, and told them some of the delights they should visit.
I stayed put in the Petit Cafe and was joined by Jenny, fresh from a day at the Radio Guernsey coalface. We drank large glasses of Chardonnay and quickly got down to some no-holds-barred gossip. Much of it so good, that it sadly can't be put in this blog. After a few glasses of wine, her husband John, who is a writer who works as a taxi driver picked us up, and dropped me off at Les Douvres where there was a poetry night.
Due to lack of food it became clear to me I was drunk, but this only increased my desire to read several poems, as did Richard and Jane who I met there. Lots of the usuals. I experienced what must be one of the single worst poems I have ever heard. This was read through a reverb mic so that it sounded like a slightly adenoidal voice of God. So toe curling that you are left with Catherine Wheels in your socks. Worse than Vogon poetry from the Hitchhiker's Guide.
Jane off to Alderney early, so once the poetry had abated, there were fond farewells to Richard and Jane. I slunk back to La Barbarie where I spoke to Jenny, who suggested I write a poem and come and perform it tomorrow lunchtime on the BBC before flying home. Jenny is an insistent sort of person, so I agreed. Then went to the bar and sensibly had a couple more drinks before hitting the sack.
Below views of Petit Port and Moulin Huet Bay.
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