Wysis

I walked through Henley-on-Thames a few years ago and spotted Isis House, an old name with a new connotation. With a bit of internet searching, I gleaned that Tamesis is an old word for Thames and the shortened versions Wysis or Isis are in common use among rowers. Which gave me the idea to visit the head of Isis.

A few months ago, I was lucky enough to read Thames Way by Diarmuid Fitzgerald, a book of haiku and tenka inspired by his walk from the Thames Barrier to the head of the river. I have less time than needed to begin at the sea, so I thought to start near the Cotswold Country Park, and maybe make it a 25 km round trip and leave the other few hundred km for another life. And then this weekend became 'free' so it was time.

I spoke notes into my iPhone as I walked from the Saxon town of Ashton Keynes, mapless, reliant on the Thames Way signage. A lone cuckoo calls. Coot, mallard, pheasant each reply: no competition. Later I noted The damselflies here. Sheep bleat where Isis springs, swans groan, content. I was trying to keep Fitzgerald's excellent haiku in mind, hopeful of being joyously unlost, finding inspiration for my own thoughts. But in truth, I was bored by the riverside flatness after just a few kilometres. And I made a few basic orienteering errors, bringing new life to one of his haikus.

in the marches

without my map –
joyously lost

Diarmuid Fitzgerald

So I snapped photos to capture ideas and memories for consideration later. 

One of my navigation errors was a classic. I'd digressed to Kemble to see a Norman church door but my arrival coincided with a mass exit from Sunday services. Standing in my hobo style walking gear, surrounded by tied and frocked worthies, I asked for directions to the river. Not so much the penitent's selfless request of "Where should I go now?", more like finding the inside track with "What's the quickest way back to the river?". They smiled tolerantly. "You won't find water you know." "You do realise it's an hour to the source from here?" "There's nothing to see other than a stone."

Resolute and sensing a little condescension, I overlooked a personal workplace mantra, "Trust, but verify." I failed to verify and it cost me at least five extra km because Mr Betied Worthiest said left was right. And he meant my right but called it left because it was behind him as he faced me. And the curve he suggested I took did lead to a bridge but it was a railway bridge that led to a PRIVATE trail. A map I saw later confirmed the road curved in the other direction too, before meeting a bridge across the river. And indeed, that was how I made the return journey once I visited the head of Isis.

I'm a bit ashamed at the number of mistakes I made. I've come to expect signage on national trails and I adhere to the principle that you don't change bearing until the next sign. Walking until the next sign isn't reliable even on The Thames Way National Trail. But I was tired after walking 20 miles yesterday. And prone to errors. Only now do I accept the sign reading "you're crossing the river Thames" was an admonishment rather than a direction - and the Thames paid me back for crossing it. I noticed potential for other forms of payback too - the Lower Mill Estate is actually lower than the lake across the road. And I crossed from Wiltshire to Gloucestershire, where new roadside signs confused me. What exactly does Quiet Lane signify? There were sheep bleating and the first sign I noticed was underneath crackling and popping electric wires draped from ugly pylons, these all under a busy flightpath for light aircraft heading to the nearby Cotswold Airport.

And in Kemble, silent Lycra clad, bike borne assassins kept me vigilant after some lessons yesterday in Box Hill. Had I witnessed both Giro de Box and Giro de Glox? I could see big, partly scrapped planes at edge of the airfield from down in Kemble. 

What's the meaning of Keynes (pronounced 'canes'? Milton Keynes ('keens') is one example but it's a long way from here where there are Ashton Keynes, Somerford Keynes and Poole Keynes. I read that Somerford Keynes was where beavers were re-introduced to Britain about ten years ago.

I made it back to Ashton Keynes, walking at a purposely sustained pace of more than 6 km/h for the last 8 km. From there, rehydrated, I drove to see some extraordinary pieces of glass in the studio at Avening Glass Art. And I know the folk there so they let me shower and then they fed me. Excellent sponsorship, thank you. 

In summary, I covered some 27 km in five and a half hours. So I was pleased to have walked 50% of my goal for May in the first week. Now, here are some scary aggregated stats to ponder. I've spent 73 hours walking on 36 walks and covered 336 km which is 67% of my goal. And I blog the walks, and each blog takes about an hour, so I've dedicated at least 100 hours to training so far. That's already 8 times the duration of the Yorkshire Three peaks itself. At this rate, I've another 50 hours to find. So, please help us help Care.

Arise

This morning I have woken up to a bright day. There's enough light to facilitate photography. Encouraged,  I look. And I'm in catch-up mode. After a very short walk we did this morning, a day after rugby results went our way.

A dusting of ice runs along the ridgeway of the neighbours house, a line of warm white smoke emerges from their chimney, rising vertical into still cold airs. A hooded crow, maybe two, is hammering something on the flat roof above my head. Or perhaps our neighbour will see there are a couple of crows dancing.

There's finely macerated leaf material wind splattered and rain smeared on the bedroom window. Memories of the fierce storm just a couple of nights ago. Last night's excitement was a police helicopter whose searchlight passed through our garden at 2 AM. Z watched it from beside us as we slept, oblivious.

Below my third story perch, a domed green-grey acacia has budded with an explosion of spring yellow that contrasts with the open nature of the blue Douglas fir and vertical funeral green of the Italian cypress. A small garden that may be too full.

with a crunching sound

the praying mantis devours

the face of a bee

Yamaguchi Seishi

The sea beyond looks calm. The bay appears blue. Calm and blue, cold. Ferries and freighters cut across the bay. The brown trees, leafless, frame the view yet flicker with magpies, jewel like in the low winter sun. Another ephemeral shimmer in the far distance, sunlight reflecting from a glazed surface that I know to be at least 25 km away. Half way there is a friend's house I could see with the right lens.

A photograph might bring any of these things to reality better than the words I have used. The smoke will be frozen, like the ridgeway. The rattle of the magpies, the thrum of the helicopter, the mantis crunch, the hammering of the crows you'd have to imagine.

The air is always still in a photo so you'd need visual clues to imply / sense movement. The temperature of the sea becomes irrelevant unless the image includes something like dinghies crewed by the hardy in wet suits. The dirt on the double glazed window will disappear in the deep depths of image field or emerge pin sharp if it becomes the object in focus.

Such ambiguity of content is in stark contrast with the precision of technique in its portrayal.

The pleasing photograph pleases whom? And how much time will the viewer have? What does the image need to hold the viewer a fraction longer? If the Namibian Himba tribe have five words for the colour green, what do they see so differently to the rest of us?

Depictions and contradictions.