dock by Kirsten Svuure
I'm almost never in the mood for drone - my own or other people's. But I like this one. I don't think it's the music - I think it's the day - my mood, my tiredness, my slight high. It's a natural high. I have it most days. Yesterday I did it - walked all the way from Christchurch to Salisbury - sort of up the Avon, but cutting corners and/or veering off to go where the view was better.
Arrived (by train) at Christchurch station at exactly 7am. And left (on foot) at exactly the same time. I'd done this first bit to Ringwood already and barely needed the map. Cheese and fruit and liquid bought in Sainsburys, I sat in that grim shady concreted area in front of Ringwood Meeting House. It's exactly where you'd expect the town's alkies to sit all day - and in lieu of any real ones, I pretended I was one - drinking from my big glass bottle of Appletiser - and no one looked twice at me or was friendly, I played the part so well - helped by the fact that I always dress hugely scruffily when out on a long walk.
Truly, I did look a state. My bare arms had strings of dried blood all over them from where I'd earlier walked down brambly-overgrown paths. Wonderful. Life is worth hanging on to. I mention it because this morning, while sorting thru today's ration of my mum's memories I came across what appears to be a suicide note from my father. I will say more about this when I know quite what I think about it. This is the first I know of it. Dad didn't kill himself. He died helpless and incoherent of dementia. The letter must've been a draft or a failed attempt or ... no idea. The note isn't a joke or anything like that - dad never joked in his life.
I stopped off to eat again at Harbridge Church in one of the day's three showers. Appallingly, it has no seats in the churchyard. But it is forgiven - because it has the church door propped wide open and is very welcoming. I couldn't of course eat inside the church, heathen though I am - so I sat out on that very convenient grave just to the left of the path up to the doorway - it's comfortable and it's high enough to allow the feet to dangle freely - very good exercise for joint-repair.
More food buying in the Co-op in Fordingbridge, more food eating. And then I forgot the Avon entirely and chose to walk up some of the long straight beautiful bridlepaths that edge Cranbourne Chase and made me heady with some of the vast views in the day's first sunshine of yellow dry harvested fields patterning the hills every which way.
I didn't flaff about in Salisbury - I seem to be visiting the place every day now - I walked straight to the station, arriving at 4-10. I think that's pretty damn good for someone who has arrived at the age of invisibility - unseen by people I'd like to have sex with, unseen by a society that now just wants me to die. But no, there will never be a suicide note from me - if you ever find one it will be a fake. I want to do that walk again. Or another. That one was 34 miles. Or it would've been if I'd followed the Avon River Path properly. But ha ! - bugger that ! Whatever distance it was - and it might well've been more than 34 miles - it truly feels like one of the best things I've ever done - and then I accidentally make this piece of drone that I like.
Recorded today, photo from the train yesterday of Southampton docks.
