Tubing and Touristyness.

"Don't worry, the helmets are one size fits all," they said  "I've never met anyone they didn't fit."
Chris and I look at each other, knowing full well that they have clearly under appreciated the Ashdown Cranium Gigantis.
"Well, you're about to see something really special then," we think. But alas, they did fit - albeit on the absolute maximum size. Orange helmets on, we were ready to go.

After hauling my hungover ass out of bed at 8:00am that morning, and inadvertently becoming an emergency alarm clock for an oversleeping Chris, we had hammered it to Goytre for our day of tubing.

After a haphazard introduction, safety briefing and typo-laden disclaimer, we were invited to own up to any recent surgeries or injuries.

*2 second pause*

"No one? Ok, let's go."

After laughing at Chris trying to jam himself into a somewhat inaccurately chosen size M wetsuit, we jumped into the car and drove convoy for a whole 20 minutes to Dinas Rock. We lost the end few cars on the way there due to a particularly and ill-advised slow acceleration through some traffic lights, but they were eventually rounded up.

Buoyancy aids were donned and rings were selected, we began the walk to the entry point, see below:

It turned out to be an awesome day; sunny, dry and such a laugh. See photos below:

Chris getting jammed on a rock.

Us at the end.

Here's a link to the company, Liquid Friction.


It made me think of the last time I went tubing, which was in Guatemala, an experience that I referred to in an earlier post.

Basically, we had just complete the bikini-clad, candle-holding, bat-brimming caving trip and were floating down the river to La Puente, the bridge.

It is the time that I felt the most touristy.

Ever.

So, they we were floating along really, really slowly, there's people on the bridges watching us gleaming western-white in the afternoon sun. We float a little longer (by the end it felt like we'd been floating for hours) and turn a corner. There is a few families of indigenous people watching on the river bank, washing their clothes. The men sit back and keep an eye on the children whilst the women scrub the clothes, little babies strapped to their backs.

They look up to see us pass, clothes in hand. We float by, excruciatingly slowly, the contrast was stark.

At that point, I felt like a big, arrogant and ignorant tourist, probably spending more in a day than they earn in weeks through farming or selling homemade chocolate to tourists. I may as well have been smoking a giant cigar, wearing a golden crown and waving a Union Jack sewn out of bank notes.

They resumed their washing, it was humiliating floating there in ultimate leisure over exposed in my bikini whilst they went about their daily chores, covered up in traditional dress. Us, on a Brucey conveyor belt of Queen, Country, Capitalism and Empire. I was embarrassed.

The current seemed to dwindle almost to a complete stop and the children climbed out along the rocks to us.

"¿Cómo se llama usted?" they giggle, the people in this region speak Spanish and Mayan dialects.
"Jodie," I reply. They giggle again.
"Jooodddiieeee," they repeat in a comically British accent.
We look at each other for a minute or so, laughing and trying to communicate through my rubbish Spanish.
"Adios!" I say, as we begin to drift away.
"Adios!" they chant.
I wave as I watch them disappear around the corner.

And that was it, the moment of sobriety from the cocktail called Wanderlust.

It really put things in perspective.

x

Shipwreck Poem

There's a shipwreck called The Lucy off the coast of Pembrokeshire (near Skomer Island) which I dived a couple of years ago, you can find out some more information about it here.

I remember the day quite vividly as on the dive after this, a seal swam up to me and was playing with my fins for about 5 minutes, it was amazing! Then he swam to the surface and just floated there watching us - incredible.

This poem is actually inspired by the poem 'Inchape Rock' by Robert Southey, which was written in 1820. I remember hearing it as a child and was always struck by the imagery of the bell floating deeper and deeper. Creepy.

So here is my take; due to artistic licensing I left out the fact that once I got the surface, I was really seasick and puked and puked and puked.

So, without further ado (feel free to comment, I don't think you need to join anymore!):

Me in my dive gear on a different dive but you know, it sets the mood.

The Lucy

You tumble back into the waves,

forty metres down, Lucy waits.

She’s sat there since the 60s,

but you’ve never met before.

The hazard orange, floating bauble

sits as surface evidence,

of the hidden, deeper secrets

to which it is shackled.

Her name is scrawled across the buoy

that marks her final resting place,

which you’ll use to navigate to her

in the brimstone treacle depths.

So, you slip beneath the surface

where the warm sun cannot follow,

and from red the colours fade.

You plummet slow to shaded depths.

When you have no point of reference

your mind struggles for a mark,

to put its worried self at ease

amongst the silted, gravy water.

Imagined creatures spiral

in the gloom just out of view,

tantalising your periphery,

fabricating looming shadows.

Your left hand feeds the buoy line,

ripcord-taut against the tide,

its recurring jerks and bucks

warn of skyward rolling swell.

As you sink you feel the fingers

of a seeping thermo cline,

its slicing cold snips at the skin

that sits exposed around your mask.

You see the signal trail of bubbles

from your buddy just below,

this cyclic clue of exhalation

becomes a welcome sign of life.

Down here the only discord

is the rasping of your breath,

through the tanks and tubes and pipes

of your artificial lungs.

As you descend you check your gauge,

work out depth, air and direction.

Take out your torch, its blade of light

blunt insufficient in the smog.

And then,

Her rusted bow.

She seems so solid in the dark,

sat blinking from your torch,

in her nightgown of anemones

that soften all her corners.

The crab and wrasse and dogfish,

are her pelagic chaperone.

She’s tickled by Bristle star,

and flanked by hurried cuttles,

the sea fans hide her blush.

A lace of Dead Man’s Fingers.

In ascent I train my torch down,

to watch her evanesce.

Until she fades from my beam,

And shuts her eyes once more.

x

Barney and the Wenallt.

"I know what'll be nice" I thought, "I'll take Barney up the Wenallt".

So I put him in the car and off we go.

He is loving it; frolicking in the bluebells, prancing in the wild garlic, feeling the breeze in his nostrils. Here is a video of Barney enjoying himself, my favourite moment is when he notices the other dog behind him and jumps around (I apologise for my dog voice):

So there he is loving life when suddenly, he gets a little overexcited and disppears.

Gone.

I call his name, shake the treat box, whistle. I think I was ruining everyone elses' quiet morning walk by polluting the silence with:

"Barney!", "BARNEY!", 'a-chuk-a-chuk-a-chuk-a-chuk' (the shaking of the treat box) *whistle* "Baaaaaaaaarney!".

Nothing.

"No worries" I think, "I'll just do a loop track". So, off I go. 10 minutes in, no Barney. I can hear the cars on the nearby road thinking, "please don't be on the road!".

I imagine him chasing butterflies, hunting squirrels, lapping from a babbling brook, generally having the time of his life. All in slow motion with some sort of string quartert backing track, the heady sun beaming through the trees. I get annoyed.

I walk a bit more. "Baaaaarrrnnneeeyyy!"

Nothing.

15 minutes later I'm nearing the car park, ready to loop again, when suddenly he appears out of the foliage.

He looks happy to see me.

"There you are!" I say, clipping him onto his lead, "Damn dog."

Once we've walked the short distance back to the carpark, the woman in the car next to us (who I was chatting to earlier) says, "Oh, he found you then. I thought he might have run off."

I look perplexed.

She says, "He's been sat by your car for about 20 minutes."

It turns out that after realising he may have got a bit out of control, ran too far and lost me, he circled back on himself, found the car, sat by it and stayed put.

A far more sensible option that wandering around in the trees shaking a treat box.

I think I've made my point.

Well, at least one of us had a good walk...

x

Steel Rimmed Glasses - a poem.

So this is a poem about Keith Bennett, the fourth victim of Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, whose body has never been found.

You'll find more information about him and the other murders here.

The first verse is set just after Keith was dumped on the moor, and the surrounding nature is seeking to comfort him.

The second verse it about Keith's body resigning itself to the moors due to a loss of hope of ever being discovered.

So, tell me what you think....

Steel Rimmed Glasses

You found a hillock for a pillow

When they said they couldn’t find you,

And in the marsh laid down to rest

let the heath land slowly claim you.

Purple moor grass bent,

in murmured conspiracy.

The stagnant ponds and flushes

Seep underneath your chamber,

the tenderfooted bracken

weaves your comfort blanket.

The lichen covered boulders

form a mossy, cryptic cairn.

The rushes whisper in the wind

that they know where to find you.

You slowly sank into the earth

and shed your doughy flesh,

the perfect dome of your skull

holds your spotless, milky teeth.

The crowberry weaves its roots

into the hollows of your ribs.

Peat resides inside your head

fell through socket hollows

You came apart piece by piece

Mineral by mineral.

Your bones, bleached and brittle

are the only clue of you,

aside from steel rimmed glasses

which lie broken on your chest.

x

Sleepy pictures.

Here's some pictures of Barney sleeping/looking cute. Too nice not to share!

 

Awww.

PS I'll put a poem up tomorrow, it's about a dead body. Yay!

x



Prof. Barnabus von Chocolate - video debut.

Well guys, look at what we have achieved:

He's like a finely tuned obedience machine! Check him out!

And, when he's in the trees, copse, grove, thicket or woody hollow, he even comes out intermittently to check if I'm still there. Awesome.

The only problem is he runs in one bit and then reappears somewhere completely different. A few times, I've been stood there waiting for him and he comes bounding out of the bushes in a completely different area. I think he gets onto a scent trail and goes nuts.

A cyclist was laughing at me as Prof. Barnabus had run through the fence to go for a drink/quick dip in the river, and I was calling and calling him and then I heard him bark, and he was right behind me. He'd found a different hole in the fence to come back through. Tricksy hobbit.

He looks so stoked when he's running around hunting for squirrels, total blissed out expression on his face. Amazing.

x

Operation Australia

Today is Friday (day off!) and on Sunday, my Mum and Mike left for a month long trip to Australia. Which leaves me and the Professor alone - for a whole month...

If I'm going to be honest, the operation did not start well. In an effort to alleviate the stress, I moved my laptop and all my books downstairs so Barnabus has some company. I have now completely taken over the kitchen table with all my texts, save for the space left for the massive chocolate egg which I have to 'share with the others'. At this point, Barney had not come out of his bed.

So, Sunday night and first walk time. I had to reach into his dog-cave, as he pressed himself up against the back wall, and attach his harness while he was in there. Once attached, he came out willingly, but eyed my over his shoulder the entire walk as if to say 'she is STILL following me.'

I did try and take him out into the sunshine as I was making poetry notes in the garden, but as you can see below, Barney was not in the mood for socialising.

Not in the mood at all.

The week seemed to continue this way, until on Tuesday night we had a break through. I went to his bed (where he has taken up permanent residence), and showed him his harness and he jumped right out! Amazing!

So, yesterday I think - 'this is it, he is finally used to me' and after a few experimental, but successful, 'Barney come here!''s I decided to let him off the lead. It initially went well; he ran off, I called him, he came back, I gave him a treat, he ran off, I called him etc but then, he ran off.

Like, properly ran off until he was just a brown blur with a little white bum bouncing around in the distance. I called and called, but he would not come. Off he went, into the bushes, out of the bushes, into the river, under the trees.

'Great' I thought 'half an hour before I have to leave before work and Barney has done a runner'

And it was then I heard the train. I was instantly reminded of the fact that two dogs had been run over on the tracks just recently and was convinced that Barney was careering towards the same fate. My heart began pounding and I felt panicky under my sweltering hot, gigantic winter coat.

And then, he appeared. Looking rather sheepish I might add. I put on my best 'come hither' expression and called him over, handing out a treat.

And over he came.

I clipped the lead on his harness and went to stroke his head but he jumped away, cowering.

It was a stark reminder of the treatment Barney might have suffered at the hands of his previous owners.

So, today I didn't let Barney off the lead. He was calm with the other dogs, let some little kids stroke him and even posed for a few photos:

And then, disaster. Literally seconds after these pictures were taken, two labradors came running over growling and bowled Barney off his feet. He was understandably upset and tried to run off at full pelt, but when the lead reached its maximum he was flung up into the air.

The owners apologised but Barney was terrified. I caught up with him and his heckles were up, his pupils huge and he kept trying to escape. I stroked him for a bit and calmed him down but on the way back, he kept hiding behind me at the approach of any other dogs.

It's a shame that the walk ended that way, just when we were making progress in his confidence.

He's out in the garden now, mulling it over in the sun with his peanut-butter-filled Kong.

Poor pooch.

x