I can't tell you how relieved I am that spring is here. Actual light! Actual warmth! Actual greenery! The world is waking up and I am cheering up.
And so, for no reason other than I'm happy, let's have some April photos. These aren't masterpieces, just a selection of pics from the iPhone (some mine, some Dan's), but does anyone really care about that when there are blossoms and blue skies and sunshine to be enjoyed?
(Just a little tune to look at photos by!)
Stuck in traffic around the back of Lewes, we decided to stop and explore Malling Down Nature Reserve. A brilliant idea, it turned out!
And so, we head into May. I want to gobble up as much lovely springtime I can, and I'm looking forward to some nice walks and trips to Wales, Oxfordshire, maybe Bristol . . . What are your plans?
Queer Out Here Issue 01 was released in February. Woohoo! It’s been a really exciting project - starting from deciding to put it together, to creating the structure to support it, asking people to contribute, then working on the episode. My co-editor Allysse and I have each answered a few questions about the process so far - you can read mine below and Allysse's at Beste Glatisant.
Did you have any expectations for Queer Out Here - and how did they match with the reality?
I tried not to have too many expectations, but I did have hopes!
I had no idea what kind of response we’d get to our call for submissions, so I was really happy with the number and range of pieces we received. We ended up with enough content to make a nice, fat Issue 01 - longer than I’d expected - with creative writing, sound art, conversations, field recordings and monologues/musings all represented. Overall, I probably expected more stories about specific events or activities, and possibly a few more essays/academic approaches to the theme, but it was a pretty good balance.
The process of putting the issue together was more time-consuming than I’d thought - but it was fun! Allysse and I spent a lot of time building the infrastructure and doing background work, chasing up submissions, choosing the running order, recording the links and transcribing. We’ve also learnt a bit about the technical side of things - especially the distribution of podcasts (or things-that-are-kind-of-like-podcasts).
Are there any podcasts (or other media) that inspired you more than others for the creation of the zine?
The initial spark came from listening to the Tough Girl podcast by Sarah Williams and wondering if there was anything similar for queer/LGBTQIA+ adventurers (there isn’t, as far as we know!). Allysse and I didn’t have the time or energy to do weekly, long-form interviews like that, so we knew we'd have to take a different approach. We’re also both really interested in the more creative side of audio as a format, and from that perspective I took inspiration from the creative journals I remember from uni and the collaborative zines I’ve enjoyed or been part of since then.
When it comes down to it, we had a hankering for stories of queer folks doing stuff outdoors - we wanted something like this to exist, and sometimes if you want something to exist you have to create it (or facilitate its creation) yourself. And that is quite a zine-y attitude.
How did you go about organising the pieces into a coherent whole for the issue?
Ooh, this was interesting! Obviously, until we passed the submissions deadline, we couldn’t really decide on a running order. Once we had all the pieces, Allysse and I both went away and created our own track lists (I made some colourful spreadsheets, of course), then reconvened the following weekend to talk through our ideas. We’d independently come up with some of the same notions - like a preference for Adele’s piece coming first and Wendy’s coming last, and about the links between some of the pieces. A few pieces were harder to place than others - for example, Belinda’s poems are so powerful that we felt the piece following them needed give the listener a bit of space to come down.
Doing this was a bit like curating and planning an exhibition, with questions about theme, tone, format, creator and length all playing a part. We tried to mix things up - for example, not putting all the poetry, or all the American accents, or all the long pieces together - but we also wanted the zine to have a momentum, and to flow from one piece to the next rather than chopping and changing. In the end, we kind of created chapters within the zine, like rooms within a gallery - sections of about four pieces each, which we felt spoke to each other in some way.
What has been the most interesting thing about making Issue 01?
Is it a cop-out to say “the whole process”? Like I said above, we started Queer Out Here because we wanted to listen to something and we couldn’t find it - and it was exciting to learn that other people obviously wanted to share and listen to these stories, too. I loved hearing all the pieces that were submitted - the range of topics, the different styles, the personalities of contributors, all of it! Overall, though, project is something of an experiment, so I’ve tried to approach without too many preconceptions and it’s been wonderful to watch it take shape so far.
What has been the most difficult thing about creating Queer Out Here for you?
Luckily, we didn’t encounter too many snags and hitches. Sure, there were a couple of technical concerns, but overall I feel like the two of us - and various helpful friends - managed to sort them out.
The hardest thing for me, personally, was the process of approaching people and asking for submissions. I’ve never enjoyed cold calling, fundraising, and the kinds of things that mean asking people to do something for you. Although I am obviously invested in the idea of Queer Out Here, I still find the approaching-and-asking process rather anxiety inducing. Issue 01 features several friends and acquaintances, but outside of my usual circles I took quite a scattergun approach, which didn’t work so well. This is something I want to focus on for Issue 02 - finding new people and groups to approach, and doing that in a more personal way.
What are your hopes for future issues?
My main hopes are that people keep creating and submitting interesting pieces and that Allysse and I continue to enjoy working together.
As well as more of the kinds of audio we feature in Issue 01, I would like to hear from people of colour, from Indigenous people, from people in countries outside of the UK, Australia and the USA, from older folks, from queer families and youth. I’d like to hear music, essays and documentaries, pieces about sport (team, solo, extreme, everyday), epic journeys, cultural geography, homelessness, relationships, ecology and conservation.
One thing I loved about Issue 01 was getting submissions from people who hadn’t created much (or any) audio before, as well as from people who do this professionally. I hope that mix continues. It would be amazing to hear from previous contributors as they continue to explore the possibilities of the medium, too.
You can listen to Issue 01 here, and on iTunes, PlayerFM, Stitcher and a few other places. Let us know what you think! Submissions for Issue 02 will open in May 2018.
What are you working on? What do you want to achieve by the end of the month? And what do you need to do this week to reach those goals? I wrote about our online goal-setting group The Monthly Weeklies over at The Research Whisperer . . .
Many people are familiar with this approach to time and project management - figuring out your big goals and breaking them down into smaller steps. But sorting out what you need to do is one thing, while actually following through is quite another!
This can be especially difficult if you operate in a more solitary environment, as do many writers, artists, researchers, and people involved in projects outside of their paid job or formal study. Without the everyday structure of collaboration deadlines, team meetings, and so on it’s pretty easy to let the weeks slip by, to transfer an item from one to-do list to the next, to de-prioritise your own goals in favour of things that other people want from you. It can be hard to hold yourself accountable.
I started The Monthly Weeklies online goal-setting group with this in mind. My aim was to create a structure that would help me think seriously about short and medium term goals, a place to record those goals and my progress, and a team of people who could help keep each other focussed and celebrate each other’s successes.
The group started in September 2016 and, as the name suggests, it runs in monthly cycles with weekly check-ins. Members come and go, finding the structure useful in different ways. Benefits might include:
The fairly simple format of our group should be easy for others to replicate. If you're interested in setting up a group like this, or in learning about ours, please do pop over to The Research Whisperer to read more. . .
Thanks to Tseen Khoo for inviting me to contribute to The Research Whisperer blog - the closest I've been to an academic publication for many years!
After leaving the high country and passing through the reservoirs, weirs, tunnels, pipes, pumps and dams of the hydro scheme, the Snowy loops through the Monaro High Plains. Our exploration of this stretch was very non-linear: we spent a few nights in Dalgety, canoed the river upstream, wandered down dirt roads and did some (very tame) 4WD exploring of the remote, arid pasture hills to the south. I hope this post gives a flavour of the Monaro, especially around the Snowy.
NB: This post contains photographs of a dead animals and bones.
Dalgety Bridge over the Snowy River, first erected in 1888 to replace the previous punt that crossed a little upstream. Most people who see the Snowy as it travels through the Monaro see it at Dalgety.
The Snowy emerges from the steep-sided gorges of the high country into the rolling farmland and grasslands of the Monaro. (The photo above was taken before we reached the Monaro proper, as we were hitchhiking to Dalgety - but you can see the scenery is already changing from the previous section.) “Monaro” is - or at least used to be - usually pronounced more “m’n-air-o” or “m’n-air-uh” than “mon-ar-o”, in keeping with previous spellings like “Menero” or “Miniera”. The range of spellings is a sure sign that the name was transcribed from one of Australia’s Indigenous languages, and most sources give the meaning as something like “high plain” or “plateau” or “breasts” - referring to the smooth, undulating hills. Christine Frances Hansen discusses the name in her dissertation Telling Absence (pages 26-27), which charts many possibilities, including the option that there wasn’t a language name for the collective area now known as the Monaro - rather, when asked, a local person answered “manyer” or “I don’t know.”
Geographers usually describe the Monaro as a plateau, sitting above the eastern seaboard escarpment and below the Great Dividing Range - you can see the difference between the wooded hills of the Divide and the grasses of the Monaro in the photo above. Geologists (who apparently can never agree) generally think the Monaro High Plains are a basalt lava field formed sometime in the last 50 million years, when lava from small volcanoes flowed over the landscape, filling in the low-lying areas and valleys to create a gently undulating plateau. The rounded, Henry Moore-esque boulders which you can see scattered across the plain are granite. They are what has remained after water and naturally occurring acids have eaten away at the surrounding rock, turning it into gravel and clay which is in turn has been eroded by wind and rain.
More striking than the rolling hills and granite boulders, though, is that the Monaro is virtually treeless. The photo above, taken as we started our drive downstream, is a fairly typical example. I remember staring out of the car window on many trips between Orbost and Canberra as a kid, comparing this landscape to the tall, straight, densely packed trees of East Gippsland and thinking I might as well have travelled to the moon, it was so different. You might assume that the lack of vegetation here is a result of colonial/white settler damage as it is almost everywhere else in Australia: clearance for crops, over-grazing, logging, or a combination of all three. In fact, the Monaro was treeless when non-Indigenous people first moved through and settled here and scientists believe the phenomenon is caused by a combination of heavy basalt soil laid down by those ancient volcanoes, low rainfall (the Monaro mostly falls in the rain shadow of the Great Dividing Range) and the fact that the cold air pooling in the valleys makes it too cold for seeds to germinate (in winter, the Monaro is the coldest part of the country outside of the Alps), but the plains are not high enough for cold-resistant alpine vegetation to grow.
We loved seeing these emus - including some young birds and a completely white adult - near Beloka, west of Dalgety. We wondered if the white feathers are leucism (which I learnt about after seeing white-winged crows in East Sussex) or albinism, but we weren't close enough to see if it had pink eyes. The first emu photo above contains a lot of clues to the use and mis-use of the Monaro - non-native hawthorn trees and weeds all over, signs of bad erosion, and yet these emus thrive on land that seems barely able to sustain farm stock.
This would once have been underwater. Around here, the Snowy of old was a natural stock boundary for nearby stations. When the river was dammed, farmers were informed they might need to extend their fences, but the local belief was that the scheme would only ‘skim the snowmelt’ from the river, keeping anything over flood level. In reality, Jindabyne Dam stopped the river almost entirely. Photos of the river at 1% flow show that it could hardly prevent a determined sheep from straying to greener grass. The difference between the Snowy of old and the river in its dammed state was, and is, most keenly felt in this stretch. Here, joined by the rushing waters of the Thredbo and Eucumbene, the river would once have swept clean a wide path over the stones lining the riverbed. These days, that path is much narrower, the water slower, the stones often covered with a thick layer of sediment. While canoeing upstream of Dalgety, we enountered a long stretch of reed-clogged river. The water moved from side to side of the old riverbed, meaning we had to paddle back and forth, searching for a gap in the reeds. We often had to jump out of the canoe to drag it down rapids between each reed-walled pond, trying not to fall and twist our ankles, hoping we weren't annoying any snakes in the reeds!
Despite the reduced flow, the Snowy River around Dalgety is meant to be a great spot to see platypus. One evening we wandered up from the campground, following the handmade signs to a riverside spot recommended for platypus sightings, and sat in a pair of plastic garden chairs provided for just such occasions. We were instructed to sit still and silent for as long as we could, as platypus are rather timid animals. I was enchanted by the delicious sunset light playing on the river (above). As we waited, a flock of galahs provided a soundtrack - screeching to roost on one tree, then swirling away behind us to another. We saw no platypus, but it was a relaxing end to the day.
Dalgety sits on a natural crossing place over the Snowy, which has been used for thousands of years. The first non-Indigenous settlement here was known as Buckley's Crossing, uncreatively named after a colonial settler-farmer in the area. The present day pub (built 1889) is still called Buckley’s Crossing Hotel. Buckley’s Crossing became a key point on the droving route down into Gippsland and back, being one of the easiest places to ford the Snowy. It was sometimes called Barnes’ Crossing from the mid-1800s (surprise, surprise, after another settler). The name Dalgety was not applied until the early 1870s, when the town was formally surveyed. Before the bridge was erected in 1888, there was a punt in operation - I think from the bottom of Barnes Street, pictured above left. The Catholic church, Our Lady Star of the Sea (above right) opened in 1878. I think the outdoor dunny opened more recently. (There was another outhouse a bit further away, made of stone and stuffed so full of hay or grass and other organic material that the door couldn't open properly.)
Did you know that, for a few years, Dalgety was set to become Australia’s capital city? Here’s a history lesson for you. After European invasion but before federation in 1901, settled Australia was not a single nation but a series of British colonies. Victoria and New South Wales were the two largest and most powerful colonies and there was a deep-seated rivalry between them, partly based on their differing trade policies. This proved to be a hurdle on the track to federation, as both colonies believed the new nation should follow their trade practices. In addition, a new nation needed a new capital city and bitter debates raged over whether that should be Sydney (the older city, in New South Wales) or Melbourne (then the larger city, in Victoria). This disagreement called for a compromise - and section 125 of the Australian Constitution states, “The seat of Government of the Commonwealth . . . shall be in the State of New South Wales, and be distant not less than one hundred miles from Sydney” but that “Parliament shall sit at Melbourne until it meet at the seat of Government.”
Thus began the search for a suitable location for Australia’s new capital city. In February 1902, senators made a trip to proposed sites. Climate, soil fertility and the ability of locations to support major industries were paramount - though it seems that the majority of sites failed the first test, providing sweltering summer heat, threat of bushfire and dust storms. After those experiences, it’s no wonder that the cooler climes of Dalgety provided a smidgin of relief. There’s a famous photo of senators swimming in the Snowy at Dalgety during the tour. They’re chest-deep in smooth water, flanked by the area’s characteristic rocks and dark shrubs. At bleaker times of the year, Dalgety was buffeted by bitterly cold mountain winds, but at the time a “bracing climate” was considered an ideal environment for producing healthy, intelligent people. Two years after federation, in 1903, a Federal Royal Commission named Dalgety as the optimal site for the new capital city, and this was formalised the next year in the “Seat of Government Act 1904”.
I wonder if the Snowy’s fate might have been different if Dalgety had indeed become the capital city. Would the river have been turned into a large ornamental lake, just as in the Griffins’ winning design for Canberra? Or would it have been redirected and sculpted like the Yarra through Melbourne? It’s likely that the Snowy and Mowamba would have both been dammed - when Dalgety was being staked out for the capital, the surveying team noted the Snowy’s potential for hydro electricity, and part of the reason for the Snowy Mountains Scheme was to provide power for Canberra. But I doubt that the Snowy and its tributaries would have been so mercilessly strangled if their damming and diversion inland for irrigation might have had a visible, tangible impact on the aesthetics and lifestyle of those in the capital city. As it stands, a small weir just upstream of the Dalgety Bridge (above) only gives an illusion of fullness.
For a couple of years, over a century ago, Dalgety must have felt like it was near the centre of Australian culture. But the New South Wales politicians kicked up a stink about the site - they thought Dalgety was too close to Victoria and too far away from Sydney, too cold, too dusty, too sparsely vegetated, too wild. In addition, there was concern from the powers that be that placing the capital at Dalgety would draw sea trade to the port at Eden on the south coast of NSW, which might eventually supersede the harbour at Sydney. To be fair, there were also some practical objections, such as Dalgety’s distance from the main Sydney-Melbourne railway line and how much it would cost to build a branch line to service the proposed capital. And so the search began afresh and the “Seat of Government Act 1908” named the site of present-day Canberra as the location for the new city.
So in the end, Dalgety did not become the Australian capital; it lost the race. And then, sixty years later, it lost most of its river - and thereafter much of its irrigation and tourism from fishing, its two general stores, butcher, market gardener, service station and police station. It still has a school, caravan park, hotel and small store/cafe but there are only a few dozen houses in town: it's not a lot, considering it might have been the ‘bush capital’.
Amusingly, despite the story of the dams and the rain shadow of the Great Dividing Range, it absolutely pissed down on our first evening in Dalgety. But during our few days there, I was lucky enough to see the famed rain shadow in action. I walked out of town and headed down a long gravel road to get a glimpse of the Snowy downstream (above). I watched as a huge rainstorm billowed over the Divide, while only a few dark clouds sporting small skirts of rain made it onto the Monaro.
Ironmungy Nature Reserve, about 20km downstream of Dalgety, conserves an area of ridge and hilltop bush in the naturally treeless surrounds. The area around Ironmungy, as across the Monaro, has a long history of Indigenous use. Artefacts have been recorded in the reserve, in similar densities as other sites around this part of the Monaro. It’s thought that these spots by the river, with their easy access to water, materials and food combined with the warmer shelter of the woodland environment, would have made good winter campsites. The name itself originates from an Indigenous language, possibly one of the local Ngarigo dialects. (If you’re interested in this kind of etymology, check out Harold Koch’s 2009 article “The methodology of reconstructing Indigenous placenames”.)
We visited Ironmungy Nature Reserve on our 4WD day downstream with my dad. Some of the side roads were closed so we headed straight down to Bairds Crossing on the river, spotting a big wedge-tailed eagle as we went. This area was declared a Forest Reserve in 1875, and a State Forest in 1917. NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service is fighting an ongoing campaign to control serrated tussock and willow in the area, as well as blackberry and African love-grass, while rabbits have munched away at the botanical diversity of the reserve and foxes on the prowl have destroyed much native wildlife. But down near Bairds Crossing the Snowy River Rehabilitation Project has replanted the riversides with various native trees, shrubs and grasses. Bairds Crossing itself featured a crunched up, broken concrete bridge, with mangled ironwork poking out the sides. A hand painted sign on the approach, dated from earlier that month (March 2017), warned: BRIDGE COLLAPSE. NO HEAVY VEHICLES.
You can see in the photo above how reeds and other vegetation encroach on what was once riverbed. I have to say that, while small, the river was livelier than I expected - perhaps due to the recent rainfall.
We drove past many farms and talked with Dad about the history of sheep farming and shearing in Australia. It plays such a big part of the country's colonial (and racist) history, and as we travelled through the Monaro we could see signs of a much more prosperous past - a time when wool was a key part of the Australian economy. There was shearing at a couple of the nearby farms/stations when we were staying in Dalgety; we heard a few people at the pub talking about it. And it was pretty interesting to see this old corrugated iron-clad building a way outside of town. We presumed it was old shearers' quarters. The smaller structure looks like a meat shed - before refrigeration, this is where carcasses would have been strung up and butchered for consumption. The top half would be covered in flywire/mesh to keep the insects out and to let the cooling breeze in.
The roads took us through grasslands choked with lamb’s ear and thistle and hoarhound, past neat, abandoned farm houses. Perhaps the successful graziers are those who have land elsewhere, somewhere the grass can catch a coastal rainstorm and cattle can put some flesh on their bones before market. Somewhere the local council hasn’t given up on spraying the worst of the weeds. Somewhere the wild dogs don’t terrorise the ewes into miscarrying, or pick off the calves with the tiredest mothers.
They say there’s no such thing as a pure dingo around here. Two hundred years of domesticated dogs - run off bush, abandoned, dumped, gone feral - and interbreeding has seen to that. But the dogs we saw strung up from trees and fences, despite the palimpsest of decay, had the typical yellow and cream colouration of dingoes. In the photo above, you can see a jaw that could bite the throat out of a smaller animal and the big, triangular ears that would have pointed, alert and incongruously fluffy, when it was alive.
In the hills near Bungarby, tucked away down a dirt track to the river, secluded amongst the trees and granite, it’s astonishing yet strangely understandable to find a monastery. Understandable, because isn’t this precisely the half-wild, hard landscape, sitting on the edges of formal civilisation that people seeking spiritual nourishment have been inhabiting for thousands of years? Astonishing because, in an area colonised by Protestants and Catholics, this is a Russian Orthodox community for women, established in 1999. Finding this community, with its connections to far flung places and famous political revolutions, reminded me once again that the Snowy River’s colonial history is not homogenous. We wanted to go down to the river, but thought we'd ask permission first. I ducked out of the rain under a vine-covered verandah and spoke to the Abbess/Mother Superior through the window to the kitchen. She told me the track was pretty sketchy (well, she didn't use those exact words) after the recent downpours and that she didn't fancy having to come to our rescue if we got stuck.
We'd had a bit more luck getting down to the river earlier in the day, right on the extremities of what could be described as the Monaro. The road we were following veered into a paddock beside a small, old farm house and became barely more than a smudge in the grass. I knocked on the door, but the house was empty. Halfway up a nearby hill, we could see a couple of people on a bike rounding up cattle and we waved to get their attention. A few minutes later they came down to chat to us, to let us know they were only here for a couple of hours to pick up their mob and take the cattle down to their paddocks down on the coast, a property with more rain and more grass. It was lucky we’d caught them on the right morning! They doubted our car’s chances of getting to the Maclaughlin, but suggested we could drive up and around through their property, park near an old sheep run and bushbash down to the river at the top of Stonebridge. My ears perked up at that, because I’d read about it in George Seddon’s book Searching for the Snowy and knew it's a place not many people get to see. Thanking them, we headed off, following one of the aforementioned unmaintained roads, going slowly - very slowly - over the enormous waterbars until we came to what we thought must be the place they said to park the car.
We left the car, crossed through the paddock (full of mullein and horehound) and over the ridge, then used the fence line and feral goat trails as our guide as we bush bashed down the steep hill. In the photo above, I think that the dark green trees are the native black cypress pines - quite distinct from the duller colours of eucalypts surrounding them.
Our friendly guides had told us to look out for goats and for a big stone outcrop that they called Goat Rock, which they said always had goat poo on it. We knew we were on track when Goat Rock appeared as promised. We'd caught glimpses of the river before, but the view from the top of Goat Rock was pretty special. We scrambled down and across the rocks, made slippery by the drizzle, until we stood beside the river at Stonebridge.
George Seddon describes Stonebridge in Searching for the Snowy (1994:71) like this:
It consists of a drop of perhaps twelve metres over a distance of about 200 metres, but it is not an ordinary rapid so much as a massive and intricate piece of rock sculpture. The rock is a hard, dense and mostly fine-grained granite, with many inclusions (xenoliths) of a dark rock that had been shattered by the molten granite as it was squeezed into place below the surface of the earth. This granite has a massive jointing system, planes of weakness set at right angles, three or four metres apart. The rock has not weathered into the usual rounded boulders, but into great cubes, although the edges have been rounded and under-cut. The result is a series of almost horizontal rock pavements, almost vertical rock walls, and deep slots. At one point, the entire river disappears into one of the slots, where it can be heard and sometimes glimpsed moving with great force some four metres or so below, eventually to emerge from fissures and slots lower down. There is no real ‘bridge’, and it is quite difficult to clamber across because of the changes in level and sheer faces, but the river itself is well out of sight.
The photo below shows the river disappearing under the granite, and the sculptural dips, curves and wells created by the action of water over millennia. It felt like a very special place. I would have loved to spend a few hours or even a whole day exploring the rocks, but the rain started sheeting down and lunch was waiting for us back up the hill in the car. This was the last point we were able to access the Snowy for a good long way and, as such, it symbolises to me the river's gateway out of the Monaro High Plains. Beyond here, the river gorge becomes ever deeper, the hills larger, the roads and tracks less accessible . . . Next time, our attempts to see the Mysterious Middle Snowy!
It's been a year since we set off on this adventure, and several months since I said I'd be "back in a couple of weeks" with this batch photos - sorry for the delay! The next bunch of pics will probably also take a month or three to appear. In the meantime, check out my overview of the trip, the photos from the high country and pics from the Snowy Mountains Scheme/Snowy Hydro.
Day 3, Challenge 3: Moods
After such a beautiful afternoon yesterday, today is bleary with mizzle. Clouds are low on the hills. I head out into the smudged middle distance and pay attention to the details, trying to get into a good mood. Water drops on spider webs and fence wire, the shining colours of wet leaves on the path, the trickling sound of a hidden stream, sheep emerging from the fog like woolly boats . . . There is something very beautiful about this quiet, close world. I walk softly and hear the scuffling of little animals and birds in the hedgerows. I surprise several pheasants, which take off in noisy bursts, their chok-chok-chok alarm call trailing them into invisibility.
Dampness clings to every surface, just enough to feel unpleasant. Damp shirt, damp spirits. After a small, unintentional detour, I climb what I presume is the North Downs. There’s no view to speak of, so it could really be any old hill. My feet are wet from the grass. Not worth the effort, I think.
Still, I take enjoyment from the otherworldly appearance of an overgrown brassica patch, the pearly drops of water decorating crinkled leaves. I see just how close I can get to the pheasants on one bare field - they don’t seem to be able to comprehend that I’m a human, or they can’t see me in the dense fog, so they go about their business within a few metres of the path.
I come to a field filled with looming cattle and decide to bail off the path. It looks like steers, not cows with calves, but I can’t see more than 10 metres ahead, so I don’t know how far the exit to the field will be, or if there’s any other way out. Usually I’m not too bothered by cattle, but I worry that in the fog they’ll get surprised or spooked when I appear in their midst. I take my chances with the road running parallel to the field. It’s not fun - high hedge, fast cars, no shoulder, very poor visibility. I’m thankful that I packed my little LED torch, which I shine into the oncoming traffic. It seems to work, but I’m pleased to get back on the footpath, wet grass and all.
One point in the day really stands out. The path tips into a secret dip between some hills, the Postling Downs, and the low rumble of traffic suddenly disappears. The noise of the M20 and A20 has been almost constant for the last couple of days, so it’s sudden absence is slightly eerie. I think of Allysse and how she describes her enjoyment of Richmond Park in London being mitigated by the flight path overhead and the busy roads cutting through (in Issue 00 of Queer Out Here). This traffic noise hasn’t ruined the walk for me, but it’s made me appreciate how motorways can affect an environment not just from visual or physical perspectives (e.g. by cutting off animals from their territories or blocking migration paths), but can be really disturbing from an aural perspective, too. The sonic environment of this part of Kent has really been screwed over, I think.
I’m too busy with my own thoughts and I somehow miss a turning and veer off track. My feet are cold and wet, I can feel the plaster on my blister coming unstuck, the traffic noise is irritating and now I’ve gone the wrong way. I’m altogether in a good state for a bit of a strop. And yet . . . I’m not grumpy. I’m the only person here, I’m the only person my mood is going to affect in any way, so what’s the point? And after all, there’s no wrong way when you’re not heading anywhere in particular. I pick and eat a mushroom and make tracks for a nearby village.
My plan is to sit in the church for a bit to dry off. The church is locked, but the porch is open, so I wring out my socks, tend to my blister, have a bite to eat and ponder my options for the rest of the day. There’s a village with a pub on the other side of the next hill - or at least, so the OS map says. I check online and see that the pub is (a) still there and (b) open, and decide to head over for a loo break and a bit of warmth. I’ll make my next decision then.
The pub is the carrot I dangle in front of myself as I climb to the top of what feels like a big hill and toddle down the other side. I’m not really enjoying myself, and the thought of climbing up an even bigger hill into even more cloud after the pub doesn’t sound great. As I sit with my half pint of cider and bowl of chips, I realise I’ve already made my decision. Instead of following the North Downs Way, I’m going to take the easy path along an old railway line to Peene (Peene!). There might even be a bit of shelter. I call Dan to arrange a new pick up point.
It turns out to be a good decision. It's raining, but I meet a friendly ram, pass a few happy dogs (they don’t care if it rains, they’re just full of joy to be outside) and enjoy the last bit of my walk along a flat, pretty trail. Dan’s waiting at the end next to Peene Railway Museum (unfortunately it’s shut) with a choc orange flavoured cupcake. We drive up to the place I was planning to finish and spend a few minutes looking out over Folkestone to the (barely visible) sea. It's a bit of an anticlimax, but that's OK - it's not the destination that counts. I'm feeling pretty Zen.
Then it’s home time. All in all, I’ve had a great few days. Dan’s enjoyed doing his own thing, too. Hopefully we’ll do it again one day.
This was the third day of a three day walk in October 2017 from (approximately) Maidstone to (pretty much) Folkestone along (mostly) the North Downs Way.
Day 2, Challenge 2: Stamina
I cheerily wave goodbye to Dan and set off with anticipation and curiosity. What will the day bring? How far will I walk? This was always meant to be the longest day, but I haven’t planned a precise destination. This is deliberate, because I don’t want to get caught up in reaching or exceeding a certain mileage. As I follow the track, leaves of rust, yellow and chocolate beneath my feet, I try to find some markers on the horizon to gauge my process. I think there are some wind turbines out there, but the rain in the distance makes it hard to tell. Where would they be, anyway?
I play chicken with the rain as it comes closer and I detour down into Charing. I’m envious of Dan’s cake exploits yesterday, so I’m pleased to find Mulberry’s Tearoom open early. Over a delicious and enormous slice of coffee cake, I watch the drizzle and chat to my friendly tearoom host. I mightn’t have seen many people on the path, but both the North Downs Way and the Pilgrim’s Way are very popular - especially with Dutch cycle tourists, apparently. The rain pauses and I head off, but not before Ms Mulberry (not her real name, probably) apologises that the scones aren’t quite ready for me to take away and admonishes me not to talk to strangers!
Of course, just as soon as I leave the shelter of the tea room, it starts tipping down. Oh well. It’s only water - and it’s not cold, either. I flip the my hood of my coat over my head and wear it as a cape. It works fine. I stick to the country roads around a ploughed field and secretly race a couple of walkers who are on the diagonal footpath through it. (I win - the field looks like hard, muddy going.) My shoes splat against the asphalt and I enjoy the feeling of water splashing up onto my legs.
I’m really appreciating the freedom of walking at my own pace. It’s not that Dan and I usually have an issue with that; we’re pretty well matched. But even so, without any other body’s input, I pay more attention to my own. I am probably walking faster than I would with Dan, but I can’t be sure. I’m also stopping to take photos without having to think about catching up, or being in someone’s way. I might be stopping more, but without having to negotiate with anyone, I feel more in the flow.
Soon, the way leaves the road and pops over a stile onto a farm track footpath. I greet two men, one with a radio, one with a gun crooked over his arm, and ask if it’s OK to walk through. “Go ahead,” jokes one, “but duck if someone starts shooting.” I send my best wishes to the pheasants for a safe and speedy escape as I trundle through the estate.
And there’s blue sky! I’m pretty excited about this, even as I realise I’ve left my sunscreen at home. As much as I’ve enjoyed the walk so far, everything’s a bit better when the sun comes out! I pass through a village that I barely remember (it has a huge green in the centre, and gardens bright with fuschia flowers) and then I find myself at the point where the North Downs Way splits in two - or into one big loop. One sign points towards Dover - via Canterbury, the other to Dover - via Folkestone. I stand at the post, suspended for a few moments within possibility, and misquote Robert Frost before I take the path to Folkestone.
The path to Folkestone goes to Wye first. Wye? Wye not. Wye sits on the same plain as Ashford, beside the River Stour, in an elbow-crook of the North Downs. In that analogy, this branch of the North Downs Way runs straight from wrist to armpit - along the bottom of the triangle. Down in the valley, I cross a busy road, cut behind an apple orchard, say hello to some donkeys, chooks and geese, then pass through a market garden field before heading into town. I stop in the churchyard for a much-needed lunch break and take a look at the blister I’ve been developing. I can’t really feel it, but it’s definitely there. I knew this last night and I really should have put a plaster on this morning, or when I stopped at Charing. “Oh well,” I think as I cover it up, “better late than never.”
It’s a struggle to get going again after lunch, but it’s such a nice day it would be a shame to stop. My motivation isn’t improved as the path heads straight uphill to the top of the Downs. I need the loo. I feel sluggish and slow. “It doesn’t matter,” I have to tell myself. “You don’t have to walk fast, you just have to walk.” This has been developing as a bit of a mantra today. As the Americans say, hike your own hike.
After a steep woodland path and a short road walk, I’m standing on top of the Wye Crown, a shape carved into the chalk hillside. I can’t make out the crown, but the view more than rewards the climb. Oh, it’s amazing! I can see Wye, and the hills I was on this morning, and the outline of Ashford and those wind turbines . . . They must be the ones near Rye, I suddenly realise, and yes, there’s the Fire Hills and, perhaps, beyond, the South Downs at Eastbourne! It’s all so much closer than I imagined. The sun is out and everything is shimmering. I wander along the top of the escarpment, peering down into tiny fields and woods below.
If I wanted, I could stop and call Dan to pick me up. I don’t want, though. I’ve still got a couple of miles in me, and there’s no rush. I don’t have to walk fast, so long as I keep walking. The view is a great distraction, while it lasts. Soon, though, the path turns away from the edge and trails along country roads through plateau-like farmlands. I am now busting for the loo and eventually find a quiet lane with a notch in the hedge. Thankfully, nobody comes along!
My legs are getting stiff, now. I look at the map and weigh up my options - there are two villages, a mile or two apart. I decide to aim for the closer one. There are no worries, though, no anxiety. I’ll get there. “You don’t have to go fast,” I say as I hobble along, “you just have to keep going.” There’s a trig point to aim for, too. When I get there, a grey-haired man is leaning on his van, looking at birds. I tell him about the wildlife I’ve seen, he says he walked the Pennine Way years ago. Now he has plans to kayak around the UK. “Some people say I’m too old. But the people who really know me just offer to bring me supplies!” We chat for a while, before I go down the hill into the village and wait for Dan to pick me up.
“So, how far did you walk today?” Dan asks.
“I really don’t know. It felt quite a bit further than yesterday. Twenty kilometres? Hopefully at least twenty, or I’m less fit than I thought.” I calculate it when we get back. Twenty seven kilometres. Sixteen miles. That counts as a long day for me. And I could have stumbled out another couple of miles if I’d needed to. It would have been slow, but, hey, you don’t have to walk fast, you just have to walk.
This was the second day of a three day walk in October 2017 from (approximately) Maidstone to (pretty much) Folkestone along (mostly) the North Downs Way.
Day 1, Challenge 1: Anxiety.
I start the walk angry. I am angry because . . . I don’t know why. There are a series of niggles, but nothing to upset me this much: we had to drive miles past our destination and use a roundabout to turn back on the highway just to get into the carpark; there are no toilets at the reserve and I’m busting; the weather was fine this morning and now it’s overcast; the velcro on my camera case is coming unstitched so I can’t keep it on the hip belt of my bag (I leave it behind and rely on the phone). I’ve been looking forward to this walk for a couple of weeks, but now it’s about to start, I’m unhappy.
I’m going to be walking by myself. This should be exciting, because it will be my first multi-day solo walk. Well, “solo” to a certain extent. Dan’s dropping me off and picking me up each day, but he’s doing his own thing while I’m hiking. If this goes well, it might be the start of a new era of holidaying, where I walk (which is fun and relaxing for me) and Dan relaxes/mooches around/doesn’t do much (which isn’t usually my bag) and we meet up in the evening for dinner and sleeping (which we both agree are excellent). Dan thinks he wins because he gets to do whatever he wants; I think I win because I get to walk - and I get a personal taxi service.
It’s great in theory, but now we’re about to wave goodbye to each other I’m both angry and sad. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” I try to coax Dan. He doesn’t - he wants to eat cake and read, which is exactly what he’ll end up doing. “You’re always a bit like this at the start of a walk,” says Dan. “You’ll feel better in a little while.” We part ways and I turn around every few steps to wave, as if I’m heading into some vast wilderness rather than taking a stroll on the North Downs near Maidstone.
Five minutes later, Dan’s out of sight. So, this is it for the afternoon. Not much I can do now except walk. I put down one foot and then the other foot. I look out at the view on my right, keep an eye out for the National Trail markers. It’s just walking. I can do that.
Soon, I’m at the bottom of the first flight of steps. Ugh. Who ordered this? I’m annoyed all over again. I mean, sure, the North Downs are a range of hills, but who would have thought the North Downs Way would go up and down them? I give myself a talking to. “There’s no one else here. You can go up this hill as slowly as you want. It really doesn’t matter.” So that’s what I do, And, of course, it isn’t so bad. The hills aren’t big. At the next flight of stairs I think, “OK, this is how it’s going to be,” and adjust to the reality of the path. The view is good from up here - the slope sweeps down to a wide, low plain with fields and villages and roads - and when there’s no view it’s because the path is a half-magical tunnel through shrubs and trees in autumn yellow, orange and brown.
After 20 minutes or so, I still don’t feel great. I ask myself, “What’s wrong?” and then, “OK, but what’s really wrong?” until I hit the core of it. Anxiety. I’m unreasonably anxious. Last time I went on a real adventure, on the Snowy River, I developed a lot of anxiety. I became scared of everything. I worried constantly about our safety. And I didn’t deal with it then, so now, on my first multi-day walk since, it’s reemerging. I’m trying something new, I’m by myself, I don’t know what’s going to happen . . .
“What am I worried about?” I mutter. I list a few things, but it boils down to: “Something might go wrong.”
And what if it does? If I hurt myself, mobile reception is fine, so I can call someone. If a dog chases me, well, I’ve had dogs growl and snarl and bark at me before - generally they stop once you’re off their territory, plus they should be used to walkers on this well-trodden path. If the phone dies and I can’t check the map, the North Downs Way is very well waymarked - and I know there are villages nestled at the foot of these hills, so I can go to one of those and phone Dan from a pub or a random person’s house. If someone attacks me . . . OK, the chances of that are very slim. And there’s nothing I can do about that, really - the decision to assault someone is the aggressor's decision, not the victim’s. Really, the two things most likely to go wrong are: 1, it rains; and/or 2, I don’t enjoy myself. Those are some pretty low-stakes problems to have.
As I’m climbing another hill, it dawns on me that some of the physical symptoms of this anxiety are similar to the markers of physical exertion. My heart is pumping overtime, I’m a bit out of breath, my chest is a bit tight, my limbs a bit wonky, adrenaline is working its way around my body - it’s fight or flight-y. I wonder if I’ll feel less anxious when path is flatter. I reach the top of the hill and, sure enough, this turns out to be the case. Huh. So, where usually I feel anxious and as a result I get these symptoms, today I’ve got the symptoms and my brain has converted them into “I’m anxious”. Perhaps . . . actually, yes, I think this is true: I’m not really that anxious after all! This realisation amuses me so much that I laugh out loud and disturb some pheasants.
One hour in and I take a moment to appreciate that everything is now great. I’m relaxed and happy (ahh, endorphins!). I feel like I could keep going for hours. I’ve found my stride. The well-marked path dips in and out of the trees, and I can see the flowing skirt of the escarpment slowly receding behind me. I love walks like this, where you can look back and trace your progress, look forward and wonder where you’ll get to today. It’s very satisfying. The only people I’ve seen so far were two riders racing their horses along a gallop below the hill. This is what I was hoping for. This is the life!
I get lured into Hucking Estate by the Woodland Trust’s signs. They seem very clear, directing me to a viewpoint, but I somehow manage to go the wrong way. Ah, but no way is really the wrong way, is it, if you’re just out for a wander? I meet a shepherd carved out of wood and climb over a locked gate to get back onto the North Downs Way. I pass through a beautiful section of grassy glades and hawthorn thickets, where white cows seem to glow in the muted afternoon light. I watch a kestrel - suspended, a silent focal point in the midst of a frantic wind that gusts up the slope at Eden’s Hole.
The path tips me off the hills and I’m almost disappointed. But now I’m walking along the Pilgrim’s Way, an ancient trackway and road system that stretches from Winchester to Canterbury. Two cyclists pass me and, as they pass, one exclaims how amazing it is to be following the route that people have been following for a thousand years. I stop for a Snickers and a loo break. Later, I sit with a pilgrim (once again, carved from wood). But mostly I breathe deeply, open my stride and put the miles behind me. Chalk cross, chalk path, chalk cliffs. Any anxiety I had is a distant memory. Here I am, walking. I love walking.
This was the first day of a three day walk in October 2017 from (approximately) Maidstone to (pretty much) Folkestone along (mostly) the North Downs Way.
I’m hardly going to turn down the offer to review a book, am I? So: straight off the bat, The Swiss Army Knife Book: 63 Outdoor Projects by Felix Immler was sent to me for free in exchange for an honest review.
Content note: there is a gif near the end of this post.
Initially, I was meant to get the book before our summer holidays, but it disappeared into the Royal Mail ether. Aimee from The Quarto Group very kindly sent me another copy, which, because we moved house in the meantime, ended up languishing at the post office for a while before we were notified. But finally, finally, I had it in my hot little hands.
My first thought was that this is the kind of book I might give as a gift - perhaps to friends with kids who enjoy spending time outside and might want to get their teeth into a few projects when camping or on a day out in the woods. It’s a hardback, with a tactile, cardboardy cover and a nice bit of utilitarian graphic design on the front.
My second thought was, "Uh, I don’t think my Swiss Army Knife is the right one."
Fortunately, Dan had one of those super duper practical Swiss Army knives kicking around. You know the ones - they’re too heavy and bulky to carry with you, so they end up in a drawer with some bits of stationery, a few badges and old buttons, a tape measure from a Christmas cracker and the jar of elastic bands you keep saving but never use. (Not this one, unfortunately - read the reviews!)
I leafed through the book, hoping my eye would alight on something I really wanted to try. As well as the 63 projects, there was info about using a knife and about the kinds of natural construction materials available in the woods. The book is packed with lots of colour photos to illustrate each project in its various stages, which should be helpful for anyone planning a bit of bushcraft.
I noticed, though, that it was Felix Immler himself doing most of the work - and the work looked quite complicated to my inexperienced eye. After a couple of casual rounds of page flipping without success, I wondered if I’d made a mistake offering to review this book. I didn’t feel like I could review it properly without trying at least one project, but a lot of of the projects looked a bit too big or time consuming or complicated - and the ones that didn’t seemed a bit . . . stick-y?
“It’s just a stick!” I exclaimed over the first project - a wooden mallet. Then I turned to the second project - a digging stick. “This is . . . just a stick!” I repeated. Shovel, pickaxe, wood splitter - sticks. Clothes hook? Stick. Table fork and barbecue fork? Sticks. Rolling pin? Definitely a stick.
On the other hand, some projects seemed enormous, like a huge sloping-roof open shelter (first, construct a ladder and a leaf rake…) and a stone oven (“To carry the heavy rocks from the streambed to the camp, I made a hauling mechanism out of two small logs and a sturdy crossbeam”). I wondered, is a pocket knife - even one like Dan’s - really the ideal tool for this kind of thing? If I wanted to make the kind of bench that would require sawing through multiple small saplings or large branches, maybe I'd get a hand saw instead of using a knife.
I treated Dan to a rant. (Lucky Dan!) "Consider the leaf rake," I offered. "Do you really need a leaf rake in the woods?" I’ve never owned a leaf rake, let alone thought about procuring one when camping or picnicking. This is what the author actually says about needing a leaf rake:
Leaves are crucial for all sorts of bushcraft and survival projects, especially for making insulation, padding or sealing in the roofs of shelters. In all of these cases, large quantities of leaves are required. It is therefore worth having a tool that allows you to rake up large quantities of leaves effectively.
OK. "But I can buy a leaf rake for £10," I said, "or borrow one from a neighbour for free, so why spend hours of frustration trying to make one out of twigs and branches and twine?" That odd survivalist undertone of bushcraft doesn’t make much sense with regards to leaf rakes, either. We’ve evolved our tools and tastes for thousands of years until we’ve ended up with what we have now, i.e. a specific rake for leaves. Fine. But if the apocalypse happened tomorrow, I don’t think the majority of people would be specifically concerned about the leaf rake factory ceasing production. If we wanted some leaves off our patch of post-apocalyptic forest floor, or if we wanted to collect them to insulate our dystopic dens, we’d probably go back to simpler solutions, like, I don’t know, using a branch? Or we’d pop into town to loot the abandoned hardware store.
(Just watch me, now I’ve said this in public, I’ll probably become obsessed with leaf rakes. Look out for my next long distance walk, where I’ll be trying to find a good, lightweight leaf rake to strap to my pack.)
But the main problem I had with the larger projects was this: I don’t have anywhere to try them out. I mean, nicking a couple of sticks from the woods to make a fork is one thing, but building a large stone fireplace (with a wattle-and-daub-style light and heat reflector behind it) is really upping the ante.
To undertake some of these projects you need to find a place with the right materials nearby, a place where you’re allowed to use those materials and where you can spend a decent amount of time. Most of the timber used in these projects is soft, European, forest wood - this is not a book that’s particularly relatable to, say, an Australian environment. Some of the projects use a lot of wood and other natural resources, and I think most people in the UK would be hard-pressed to find a campsite or woodland that would allow them to gather and process that much material. A one night camp is probably not enough time to build a stone oven or a stationary bench - and it’s certainly not enough time to truly appreciate your achievement.
Perhaps I wasn't giving this book a fair chance. I went back one last time to find a project for myself.
Despite everything I’ve just said, I can definitely see the appeal of crafting something from scratch - just for fun, or with a practical purpose in mind. I can also see how doing a bit of bushcraft could really change your view of the world around you. Suddenly, all kinds of things can be purposed and repurposed into tools, the woods become a hardware store, the river becomes your electricity supply.
There are some projects in the book that look like they’d make a fun and productive day of work for my hypothetical outdoorsy-family-with-a-couple-of-kids. Imagine making a three legged stool, sitting on it as you construct a bark ladle or whittle a spoon, building a pot holder to cook your soup over your wood fire, then serving the soup using your ladle or eating it with your spoon. Pretty cool! There are a few projects that would be great to do with kids as a way of learning about early humans, too. (I mean, yes, making a stone or wood knife using . . . a knife you already have . . . seems a bit redundant, but it’d still be quite the learning experience.) Plus, some of these projects look like a lot of fun to attempt, even if the likelihood of success is relatively slim - one that springs to mind is creating a water powered rotary spit for your campfire!
Trust me, I'm a doctor; this won't hurt a bit. Also, note I am still wearing the Buff from my last review post. (Photo by Dan.)
So, what did I end up choosing? I liked the idea of basket weaving (in the end, this fell into the "too time consuming" and "too hard to get the materials" categories), a resin candle (too finicky) and wood gas stove from tin cans (I’m totally planning to try this as an alternative to the drinks can stove, but I wanted to keep in the spirit of the woods rather than using mainly bought materials). In the end I went for the bark spoon or ladle.
Dan and I went for a walk one crisp, frosty morning (I tweeted about it and my tweet ended up in an article on The Guardian’s website!) with the aim of collecting materials. We found a decent ladle-handle stick without too much trouble. We also spotted some bamboo growing beside a pond in a wood, and I took a bit of that on the off chance that it would make a good string substitute. The bark for the scoop, however, was impossible to source. In the book it looks like Immler uses something like silver birch bark from a fallen or previously cut down tree. The only likely tree we saw was standing happily in someone’s front garden - not a prime target for bark harvesting! In the end, I decided I’d try making the ladle with some greaseproof paper. For form, if not for function.
A week later, I set up in the living room, prepared to make a mess inside to avoid the freezing temperatures outdoors. I split one end of the stick (using saw and knife attachments), peeled strips of bamboo from the stalk (fingers), cut and folded my greaseproof paper (scissors attachment) and assembled a ladle. It took me around a quarter of an hour, and I was pretty pleased - especially with the bamboo ‘string’, which worked quite well. I felt quite a sense of satisfaction!
The book says this spoon is good for getting water out of mountain streams (if your cup, hand and water bottle are all out of order, I suppose). The photos show people happily ladling stew from a pot. I didn’t have a mountain stream or stew to hand, so I attempted to ladle some dish water.
Fail ladle! (Video and gif by Dan.) View on GIPHY.
As you can see, my implement failed absolutely as a ladle - I should have used something other than paper! - but that’s not the fault of the book. Nor is it really the point of the book. The point is to try something new, to create something with your own hands, a pocket knife and a few bits and pieces. And, of course, to spend a bit more time outside. Now, that? I can relate to.
All in all, I stand by my initial impressions. The Swiss Army Knife Book is a good looking, nice feeling book that would make a fine gift for an outdoorsy person or family that might like to try out a few new things. I'm gifting my copy to Dan's school library in the hopes that some intrepid teenager will make something wonderful from it!
I hope you found this review useful. As noted elsewhere on this site, when given products to review, I review honestly and retain authorial control; I am not interested in publishing promoted content.
Look, it's another audio post. It’s almost as though I like the sound of my own voice. (I don’t, particularly, yet here we are again!)
If we’re connected on social media you’ve probably seen me mention Queer Out Here. (For good measure: Like our page on Facebook! Follow us on Twitter!) Queer Out Here is an audio zine that explores the outdoors from queer/LGBTQIA+ perspectives. I’m co-editing it with Allysse from Beste Glatisant. The idea is that queer/LGBTQIA+ folks create outdoors-related sound pieces and submit them to Queer Out Here, then we collate them into an issue of the audio zine. (What’s an audio zine? Think of it as a sort of cross between an art journal, a zine and a podcast.) We launched the Queer Out Here website and call for submissions a couple of months ago and I am super excited to hear what people create. (Fellow outdoorsy queers, please submit something! Deadline is 2 January 2018.)
Here was our initial mini-introduction and invitation to contribute.
Queer Out Here - Issue 00
And now, Allysse and I have recorded an interview with each other as a kind of pre-zine introduction, or Issue 00, if you will. You can listen to it here (includes content notes and links to transcript on Google Docs and as PDF.)
Click the button below to listen to Issue 00 on the Queer Out Here website.
I was nervous about recording this. I usually redraft my blog posts a couple of times and have Dan proofread them before I publish because I don’t like to make mistakes, say something that hurts other people, or something I’ll regret. So the idea of talking unscripted, then recording it and putting out there for everyone to hear - ugh! Add to that my self-consciousness about my speaking voice . . . Well, I almost didn’t do it at all.
“But, hey,” I thought, “If I want people to make audio for Queer Out Here - people who will also have their own hang-ups and anxieties about various elements of it - the least I can do is face my own discomfort.” And of course, it didn’t end up being as horrible as I feared. In fact, it was quite fun. As Allysse and I live in different parts of the UK, we played tag with questions and responses, recording our sections then emailing them over to the other person for their answers. I looked forward to hearing Allysse’s thoughts and the sounds of wherever she was recording. It wasn’t so bad doing my own parts, either, because I got to think about my responses before recording, make a mental (or written!) note about how I could answer the questions and re-record something if I stumbled badly over the words, or went off on a wild tangent or really couldn’t stand the way I sounded.
The interview is based around four questions:
So, please pop this on your listening device and let Allysse and me chat to you for a bit. Issue 00 comes in at a bit over 50 minutes, which might suit your commute, or perhaps you could listen while making dinner . . . or maybe it’s something that will send you to sleep.
We’d love to hear from you - about this interview (content or format), about ideas for your own Queer Out Here submission/s, about our RSS feed (does it work for you), about groups and/or individuals you think we should get in touch with. You can leave a comment here, or contact Queer Out Here on Twitter, Facebook or by email.
How amazing are holidays? During our much needed October break we went to Holland and stayed with my cousin in Roermond for a few days. (He was a great host - thanks Peter!)
I have a bit of a treat for you and I really hope you enjoy it! I’ve created a 20 minute audio documentary about our journey that weaves field recordings taken during our travels with narration and some brief snippets of music. A transcript of the narration (it doesn’t include the conversations in the field recordings) is provided below. You can read along and look at photos as you listen. Headphones are recommended.
London - Harwich - Hoek van Holland - Roermond
We leave for Holland on a still Sunday morning. The rooks and jackdaws have begun to jostle through the trees. The sky is blushed with pink. A heron passes over, weighty, silent.
Our taxi weaves through London as the city starts to stir and deposits us at Liverpool Street Station. There is a bus replacement service from London to the ferry at Harwich. It is not as uncomfortable as I feared.
On board, the ferry feels like a very comfortable airport, with wood panelling and armchairs. We set up in a sunny corner beside a big round porthole to watch England drift away. The sea is very calm. The crossing takes several hours, so we do a few laps of the deck, visit the lounge, read our books, lie on the couches for a nap.
We arrive at the Hook of Holland during the golden hour, and disembark as the low autumn sun coats the terminal in honey light. Border control here is much less stressful than at an airport. I’ve now crossed from the UK to mainland Europe by plane, by train and by boat.
My cousin Peter (he’s my first cousin once removed) picks us up and drives us south, through the sunset, into the evening, to his house in Roermond. Our window looks out across the rooftops to the cathedral, with its golden statue of St Christopher lit up on top of the spire.
Holland and Belgium and Germany, oh my!
In the morning, after a proper Dutch breakfast with cheese and stroop and spice cake, we drive to Zutendaal in Belgium to walk a barefoot path. This two kilometre path is dry in some places - with sand, pebbles and woodchips - and wet in others - with mud, puddles and running water. There are obstacles, hanging bridges and a lookout tower which gives us a view out over the autumn trees to the fields and villages and wind turbines beyond. At the end of the path, we wash our feet and have a drink and a slice of vlaai (sweet tart) in the warm sunshine.
We then drive right across the Netherlands to Vaals to enjoy a longer walk - not barefoot this time - through woods, along fields and down country lanes. We end our walk at Three Country Point and Dan takes a photo of me standing in Belgium, the Netherlands and Germany at the same time.
The hills of Zuid Limburg (yes, they have a few)
Our second day starts in much the same way, but this time we pick up my other cousin’s black labrador, Pippa, before Peter drives us to the hills of South Limburg. It’s wonderful to explore a new country on foot. We climb up through an autumnal wood to a farmland plateau. I can’t resist sampling a carrot from the field by the path - it’s delicious. We wander down a valley on neat tracks. Pippa runs ahead and returns, munches on grass and rolls in good smells. A buzzard cries in the distance. We climb up again, then back down through the woods to a wonderful view over the valley and the castle below.
I forgot to mention in my documentary that the skies were reddish from Saharan sand picked up by ex-Hurricane Ophelia.
We stop at the castle for a drink before heading into Maastricht for lunch and a spot of sightseeing. There, we visit a huge bookshop in an old church and a bakery in an old mill - and we pause to sample their vlaai.
In the evening, Bart (my second cousin) comes over for dinner and to take Pippa home. We have a few glasses of wine and Peter pulls out photo albums from his trips to Australia in the late 1970s and early 1980s. We laugh - at the clothes and at Peter’s moustache. I take photos of the photos to send to my parents and sister.
Zoom, zoom, zoom
On Wednesday, we hire electric bikes and ride from Roermond to Thorn. In the morning, the mist is so thick we can’t even see the boats as we pass the marina, and the cormorants drying in the trees create ghostly silhouettes.
The mist has burnt off by the time we get to Thorn, and we wander around the picturesque streets in the sun. We find a little garden gallery where a woman has created clay models of all 15 chapels in the village. For lunch, we sit on a busy terrace and eat hearty Dutch pancakes.
We head back a different way, past Peter’s old house, down tree-lined cycle paths, across the river, through farms and industrial areas. I enjoy increasing the electric support on the bike while cycling uphill - it makes everything so much more pleasant. I think I’ve converted to electric bikes!
That evening, Dan and I take Peter out for dinner. As we walk home, the church bells chime and the town hall bells tinkle their tune. We’ve heard so many bells in every town and it will be one of my lasting memories of this visit.
Home again, home again
We spend our last day in Holland making our way slowly back to the ferry. We stop in Rotterdam and catch the tram to Market Hall.
Our lunch consists of several snacks as we graze our way along the aisles. We buy food for the ferry crossing and visit the English language section of a second hand bookshop. I read my book in the park, then in a cafe in the train station, then in the ferry terminal.
Once on board, we find our cabin and change into pyjamas. The day fades outside our porthole and the lights of the industrial area across the water begin to twinkle. It looks much nicer in the dark.
During the night, I wake up and stare out the window. Lights of ships. The froth of disturbed water as the ferry ploughs through the swell. Mist whipping past in plumes and skeins.
The morning announcement about breakfast is preceded by a few wake-up bars of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”. The boat has already docked. We shower and head to Deck 9 for croissants, tea and coffee.
Too soon, we’re on the train, annoying commuters with our luggage. I’m tired. I close my eyes and remember squelching mud between my toes, crunching a stolen carrot, whizzing along the cycle path, and the bells ringing out into the night . . .
Goed zo! You are at the end. Did you enjoy this audio journey? Please leave me a comment to let me know. Dank je wel! I've also made a slow, short film from our ferry crossing.
The music used in this piece is "Caazapá (Aire Popular Paraguayo)", composed by Agustín Barrios Mangore and performed by Edson Lopes - sourced from musopen.org and used under a Creative Commons license.
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