New Year and New Reading
The Fenscapers first public reading had to be held online due to Covid restrictions but was an online success. Invited by Fascinating Fens to read texts and poetry as part of the launch of our wonderful audio collection.
Read about the event here and click on this link to watch the event on YouTube.
Please find the texts read during the evening below:
A Walk Around My Garden
by Barbara Grafton
"Life is sometimes sad and often dull, but there are currants in the cake and here is one of them" - Nancy Mitford
Part-way down our garden lies a unique mass burial of eight cattle and six horses - adult, immature, neonatal and unborn - mostly arranged nose-to-tail. They were discovered in a ditch during the archaeological dig prior to the building of our house on the “high lands” of the fen. They have been radiocarbon dated to 40 to 230 AD, the very Late Iron Age to mid Roman period. It is speculated that their burial represents a highly significant event in the lives of the ancient fenland people, possibly a votive offering or sacrifice. No close parallels have been discovered anywhere else in the country. The burial site and its mysteries are shrouded once more in Jurassic clay. Probably from the air we could detect the line of the ditch, but from ground-level there remain no signs.
To reach the burial site, I pass beds of shrubs, roses, honeysuckle and clematis. I stoop to enjoy any detectable scent from each flower or the leaves, careful in case I disturb any of the webs that spiders are spinning amongst the foliage. I am walking on the lawn, mainly rye grass and meadow grass, plus mosses and fungi. There is also a medley of commonplace plants. Those I can identify include bristly ox-tongue, buttercup, ribwort plantain, groundsel, dandelion, daisy, and ragwort that have blown in from the surrounding fields, or hitchhiked on birds and other creatures. Amongst the plants are scattered dozens of grey and white feathers, evidence of an unwelcome pigeon struck down by a welcome sparrowhawk.
The ground slopes gradually to the boundary hedge of hawthorn, dog rose and dogwood, which my husband planted in February sleet in the year after we moved in. In contrast, this is an exquisite mid-September day of cloudless blue sky in which a solitary buzzard floats on the thermals, the afternoon quiet pierced only by the scolding of an unseen blackbird.
The spindly branches of the crab apple are weighed down with deep rosy pink fruit. Rubbing off the waxy bloom on one with my thumb reveals a shine like patent leather. The many species of birch we planted in a small copse, under-planted with narcissus and snake's head fritillary, lean from the prevailing winds and interlace their branches. The leaves of the field maple are mottling and drooping from drought. The autumn raspberries have almost stopped fruiting, although a few hopeful bees and hoverflies are still casting about them for flowers.
I pause to look beyond our garden and across the miles of open fen, one of the most beautiful views in the county. Straight ahead, opposite the house, prominent on the clay ridge which is an ancient cliff edge, sits the four-storey tapering stone tower of the 1803 Great Mill. Its impressive sails were removed about a decade ago for safety reasons, but successive owners have dreamt of restoring them and setting the three pairs of millstones grinding once again. To the west lies a patchwork of pastureland and ancient multi-species hedgerows in countless shades of green and brown. This fertile land, unless inundated, has been under cultivation or pasture since Neolithic times, at least 6,000 years. In prehistoric times, this valley was flooded. The archaeologists also discovered a few Plesiosaur vertebrae in our Jurassic clay, such a common find in Cambridgeshire that our builder was able to keep them.
In the autumn, milky mists can fill the low lands so that only the crowns of the tallest trees are visible for miles. Today the air is as clear as I have ever seen it and the Sandy Heath TV mast and the eight wind turbines on the horizon at Graveley stand out sharply against the sky.
I find two raspberries and hold them in my palm as I
complete the circuit back to the house. To them I add a late strawberry and a small
ripened fig from the greenhouse. I linger there for a few minutes, breathing in
the fragrance of pelargoniums and damp soil, and listening to the scratching of
numerous crane flies against the glass. I place the fruits in my mouth, all
together, and relish their distinctive hits of flavour. I resist swallowing
them for as long as I can, still walking, looking down, up and around at the
landscape I am so fortunate to call home.
***
Mycelium
by Janet Curtis
The first wet diamond drops to the ground. A light breeze shakes the branch and a whole shower of diamonds falls onto the leaf-laden soil, mulched and mellow. Sparkling rivulets momentarily form before seeping into the city below.
Absorbed, the diamonds penetrate the damp dirt, soaking downwards towards minuscule towers and turrets. Castles and cathedrals of fungal eminence are connected by microscopic bridges and filamented walkways which span the miniature city. Darkness is no barrier, neither is humidity, and so the concealed structures curve and stretch around the scaffolding of roots above them.
With the passing of time, the sparkling wetness dulls to mud, evaporates, condenses and falls again as wet diamonds in another place.
Hag Stone
by Janet Curtis
My single eye observes through time,
(Hollowed witness of enchantment and fae;)
A discreet portal from your world to another,
Take care! along this alternative way.
My single eye protects believers
Who repossess me from coast or river’s bed,
After water has worn my eye smooth
Claim me! for shielding against the dead.
My single eye, mysterious and mystifying,
Warding off evil, safeguarding you.
Good fortune for the wearer, keep me close -
Believe me! and only good will pass through.
My single eye when hung from above
Brings health and good luck to your home,
Hang me over your lintel, and make the wish
Trust me! you need never be alone.
My single eye reviews the invisible world;
Guarding you from unwelcome spells.
My eye will protect you from bad luck.
Find me! Hidden deep among the shells.
***
He Drowned in Dublin Bay
Curated by Roger Mitchell
Conversations heard
at the Fen Edge, quoted verbatim but reordered.
We've
had a nice time
And
we didn't talk about it all day
But
one’s on guard the whole time.
As
I was yesterday!
When
they first made a fuss about it, you used to do it, I know you did!
I'm
legally retired now.
They
say that soon retirement will last for infinity.
When
are you going on holiday?
Thursday
– we’re going the day before, as the first fright(sic) is early Friday.
She’s
gone home for Ramadan
So
she doesn’t have to starve for so long each day.
I
can have as much fun at home as going there by train.
You
know my husband Mike, don’t you?
He’s
got big hands too!’
I
didn’t say anything, but……..!!
You
remember what happened.
He
drowned in Dublin Bay!
But
can you drown in Dublin Bay?
Well,
if you can drown in a bath, I'm sure you can!
I'm
just pleased it's all sorted now, and I know how he really died!
Is
she coming? Is she coming?
Yes,
but she didn't say why.
Neither
was much cop,
So,
she took to the bottle.
Only
that last year, though.
Only
that last year!?
Oh,
I'm not sure that's right!
We’ve
got. We’ve got. We’ve got some things
But
nothing with nozzles!
That’s
still 3.8……I think
So,
what are you saying?”
Mc
Cain’s roasts – they’re so unbelievably beautiful!
I'm
going to have six hash-browns when I get to college.
Why?
Why
not - they're only 50p for one!
Now!
Give me some money!
Would
you like all of that?
Yes
please!
I
saw that lonely little package sitting in the tray.
I
was surprised! But that’s what he came
back with!!
No-one
gives you a bloody thing these days
You
have to work for everything, in'it!?
And
my cat really wanted to have kittens'!
Have
you been up the turkey sheds?
Yes
– and I saw George up there
How
are you? Ready for Christmas?
Yes!
All done and dusted!
***
St Francis faces the end of the world
by Sarah Tickle
‘Can I have a word please?’
Francis had known there would be repercussions. He swallowed the rising feeling of trepidation.
But hadn't God delegated his authority – left the entire matter in Francis hands?
It was all very well observing things from afar in Paradise. It was also all very well having 800 years of experience and the title of Patron Saint of Ecology and Animals but that didn't prepare anyone for a visit to Earth. Glasgow 2021 to be precise. Taking on the climate crisis that could end the world - with a bunch of overworked, tired world leaders reeling from the shock of COVID, hosted in the country that voted for BREXIT to boot ( although Scots might disagree). God just hadn't realised the enormity of the task they'd assigned to him.
Francis tightened the rope around his waist and hitched up his habit - mentally preparing himself for God 's disappointment and the inevitable dressing down. He silently listed arguments about how fast the Earth was heating up; the extinction of millions of animals, birds, insects and plants; the environment breaking down; weather extremes - forests burning, floods, sea levels rising, the Arctic melting; economic disruption, food and water scarcity, conflict, terrorism....
When his chance to speak at COP 26 had come up he had been impassioned. He had gone to town citing the greed and selfishness of modern society; moral corruption; neglect of and disrespect to God's beautiful planet, the finite resources, the need to live sustainably alongside nature. He had even got in his trump card mention of Sister Bodily Death....
It had gone well - even if Francis did say so himself. The plights of walruses fatally jumping off cliffs, lonely sad orang-utans in disappearing forests and of course polar bears stranded on melting ice islands floating helplessly away.... He had the audience in the palm of his hand.
He'd received a lot of praise from several of the other delegates. He enjoyed the banter - the irony of being a Franciscan monk called Francis etc etc... He'd felt like he was an accepted part of the movement for change, respected and, crucially, that he'd made some headway.
So, it came as rather a shock on the final day when the votes hadn't gone the way he'd anticipated. In fact, the commitments were just not there - it was patently all talk. Just like one of his new contacts Greta had predicted - blah, blah, blah....
And well, since there was clearly no getting through to these people, Francis decided to take drastic action. He was a revered saint in whom God had vested the ultimate power. (God had made that very clear by the way - '..whatever it takes Francis, I give you my full authority and the power that comes with that. You will have my full support....’). Francis felt completely vindicated.
As Francis headed over to the soft seating area that God reserved for his most ‘special’ chats, he peered into the courtyard behind St Peter's Gate.
St Peter and his team were extremely harassed - the processing of new arrivals had grown exponentially. Francis had to admit that there was an awfully long queue of surprised, indignant, pompous world leaders. He conceded to himself that, despite feeling justified in his actions, he really hadn't thought through the consequences for Heaven's administrative system or the paperwork involved.
Whisper, shimmer, whisker-like on the breath of the wind; shape shifter; preening beak, wing or feather.
Hipperty hop, bibberty bop, pippety pip, what staccato breaks this fluidity, me, me me…pippet!
Rhythm restored, pulsing heart, pumping life, ebb and flow, underworld, outer world, in the world, of the world.
Squid propelled, to or from, enters my sight.
I follow, fins and flipper footed, accepting your invitation into the depths, to dwell a while in your watery world.
Rising to the surface for air, the pitter patter, pitter, patter of water on water, rain drops of heaven joins oceanic expanse
Snail takes cover, withdraws, retreats, hides
Bats, elastic shudder in flight, overhead, on the night shift
Moon, star, sun, you rise you fall, things come, things go, time and tide, time and tide, eternal, eternal…
days of isolation
there
was a time just once
fog
still like smooth glass
flattened
and stretched
distant
and timeless...
a
resting place of angels
tired
and breathless
from
fighting and tyranny
fog
pulling my eyes
to
find reflection at the centre
in
the silence of a moss lined cave
the
dark figure staring back
the
more I wipe to clear the glass
the
more it smears and clouds
what
lies beneath falls away
sinking
into the depths of a dark hollow
there
was a time just once
fog
descending like a blanket
walking
through a soft cushion
seeing
- not seeing the fen
stillness,
icy fingers resting on my face
in
the centre of soft still translucent space
no
wind, no rustle, no snap
no
flush, no flutter
feeling
the memory of fen flat
mapped
by the hum and drone
of
slow wheels
over
there
I’m here
over there
Shaggy ink cap, trumpet chanterelle, slippery jack and bay bollette
With your gilled petticoats, speckled domes, woody parasols and velvet jackets
You invite me to enter your webbed world of connected wonder
Like Alice, I stand on the edge of the unknown, the ‘to be discovered’
Who am I, who are you, what do I know and what, my new found fungi friends, what teachings do you hold?
‘One side will make you grow taller, the other side will make you grow shorter’, said Caterpillar
As I enter on, venture on my woodland walk…
Speaking to a neighbour recently, I mentioned the ghostly figure of a monk I’d seen crossing a road in the village when driving home at dusk some months ago.
“Oh,” she said, “we’ve all seen him – we think he’s a monk who taught at the local school and was buried near here.”
And this evening, I thought I saw him again as I headed towards my favourite contemplation spot – a five-barred gate overlooking a broad meadow and west towards the sun setting over the tree-lined river. Leaning on the gate, I looked to see if I could spot any deer or foxes on the jogging track mown around the meadow. As I prefer to be alone with my thoughts, I was perturbed to see someone, or something, across the other side of the meadow coming towards the gate. I couldn’t see clearly what it was because it was silhouetted by the setting sun. Two long ears waggled – could it be a donkey. I stepped to one side of the gate out of sight and looked through a straggly hedge to see what it was as it drew near.
It was a man, a monk of sorts judging by his habit, with a hare sitting bolt upright on one of his shoulders waggling its long ears. And as he came closer, I could see small birds fluttering around his head. And walking and scampering alongside him all sorts of shrews, mice, voles and also several weasels and stoats; a polecat, fox, badger and roe deer too. Then as he leaned on ‘my’ five barred gate, a buzzard floated down and perched there – followed by a crow and a red-kite. What an earth was I witnessing!
I was wondering what to do when the monkish man looked straight towards me in in my hiding place, and said: “Hello, come and join us.” I offered a weak “Hello” and approached. He and his wildlife gathered around him one side of the gate and me the other. As I still thought this might be some sort of apparition or trick, I didn’t offer my hand, and nor did he to me, but he spoke again: “You and many others like you have a passion for nature, and I sense and share your concerns about the natural world being impacted by the biodiversity and climate crises. I empathise with your struggles to find solutions, especially in the fens out there.”
I was bemused, how did this strange man know of my concerns? He paused as if sniffing the air and continued: “That rich, organic soil is oxygenated and wasted by drainage and intensive farming and releases as much carbon dioxide as the rest of the emissions from the whole of Cambridgeshire. These fens are pleasing in their own way – big skies – but not a patch on the landscapes where I come from – but attractive to you I believe. Aren’t you one of the group promoting a Fens Biosphere so your lovely fens are managed more sustainably?”
“Well, yes!” I responded, before he went on: “I visited the fens near what is now called Peterborough about three thousand years ago and stayed with the fen people in their round houses and went fishing with them in their log boats – the place absolutely teemed with fish and fowl. And even a couple of thousand years later, Hereward the Wake showed me the fens around Ely, and what a thrilling sight it still was then to my eyes as a lover of wild places and wildlife. But only a few hundred years later, I was there alongside one of your ancestors who was, under duress, digging a new waterway to drain the fens – what a disaster that was for those vast wetlands and those that previously lived in harmony with them.”
This was strange and perplexing, and as I sought to understand and frame a response, he continued: “The solution is quite simple, just get the drainage pumps turned off, that’ll save a lot of energy, and the fens will quickly revert to the magnificent, wildlife rich wetlands they once were.”
I found my voice: “Your solution would be a bit drastic, to say the least, what about the farming and all the people that now live in the flood plain of the fens.”
He replied: “Well, my saintly purpose is to champion ecosystem restoration. I leave it to others, like the groups to which you belong and those you try to influence, to find a sustainable environmental balance with the cultural, social and economic needs. So, my friend, get on with it and I wish you well and success.”
With this command and encouragement, the monk smiled and began to turn away. I found my voice again: “Are you an apparition? The former schoolteacher monk that we see around the village?”
He looked back at me, chuckled and said: “What, you mean Father Ambrose? No, he’s a real ghost in his own right! I’m just Francis, Francis of Assisi”.
And with that response, his shape dissolved into the streams of orange light coming from the setting sun and all the animals with him dispersed into the meadow and woodland.
I made my way home with new resolutions triggered by this extraordinary encounter. Or was this just my fantastic imagination running away with me? Was it a dream? Had had I been talking to myself?
As I walked back to my house, I heard a laughing cackle, and there perched on the apex of the roof, illuminated by the last rays of the sun, was a sea-eagle – I’d never seen one near here before. It fixed me with one eye, nodded its head and I clearly heard it cackle: “Flood the Fens! Flood the Fens! Flood the Fens!”
At that moment, my neighbours’ black cat caught my attention by rubbing figures of eight around my legs. And when I looked up, the eagle had gone. And when I looked down again the cat had run back to the lane and was there picked up by a man who gave me a friendly wave and walked on, whilst the cat, comfortably on his shoulder, reached out a paw to try and pat the man’s shining halo.
***
The Web
by Sarah Tickle
Stools and rooms
The internet miracle of
Sitting and talking
In remote rooms across zoom
Is nothing
To the ancient rejuvenating funghi net
Which vitally feeds, protects
And connects the giant and the microscopic.
Preceding human cleverness and showing us up.
Big time.
Transformation CONVERSATION
‘Why are you hanging on so long?’
‘I can’t bear the idea of falling. Falling is the end of me.’
‘You’ve been hanging there for weeks now all on your own.’
‘The others all left. One by one. I watched them give up. And fall.’
‘Aren’t you lonely?’
‘Sometimes... then again you learn to embrace the isolation and the emptiness. and the silence of the missing. The ones who’ve left.’
‘But you hung on.’
‘Waiting until I can do so no longer. Till the strength and stubborn-ness is gone and the mind begins to fade. Waiting. In the long moments of waiting just soaking up the sun, tracking it’s fading heat as it moves behind the cloudy skies, letting the rain and the morning mist soak my skin, drenching my soul in wet. Yet, somehow, I always thirst for more. The dry always returns too soon.’
‘The ground is wet. Most of the day now.’
‘Yes, but
that’s different. A sinking, invading wet that punctures the skin, bruises and
flushes my flesh to a pulp.’
‘You join the earth.’
‘I suppose so. But when do i stop being this... when do I stop this life and begin something else? And will I know that moment? Once I’ve fallen, I’m unconnected, I’m still and helpless with the air around me so dank and heavy, and pearls of water on the grass seep toward me... will I know that moment? Will I feel that second of leaving this and landing in quite another way of being? Will it be a sudden sharp jilt or a slow oozing away from this to another place? These thoughts come often in these days of short light. They slide in with the changing colours around me.’
‘Thinking colours.’
‘Hmm... colours filled with thought and wondering. Will we remember the old when we become the new?’
Light leaks in
levers out reluctant
sight-severing shadows
clinging to the night.
Like leaven
lifting lumpen
dead-dark depths
of deep time secrets,
sheltering
from the piercing eye
of truth.
First filtered rays
coax earth-fast shoots,
waking to warmth,
reaching up to greet
the sun-
source of exuberant light.
defining day, month by month,
sufficient for millions
of plants and trees
to stand tall and grow.
From this light,
black dissecting
those that love the dark
must hide and rest,
conserve, repair -
for in the darkness, too,
comes healing,
restoring strength,
new season's rising.
And in the depths,
new knowledge is gained,
garnered for growth,
understanding is revealed,
in a cycle of gift and loss,
light' absence
welcomed
for its promise
of life begun
again.
Image by Ben Wicks on Unsplash
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