Cornered!

Having not played much music recently, this week was a blast - two opportuinties to play and enjoy myself!

The first was on Monday night at a pub in Waltham Abbey. The acoustic evening is run by a nice guy called Keith and I surprised him by turning up to play - for the first time in about six months. I was on my own as my music partner now works in London and can't do weekday gigs, but I didn't mind.

But, there I was, in a rough (almost London) pub, on my own. OK, I know Keith, and a couple of other musicians to smile and wave at - but that was about it. However, the last time I had played I had briefly chatted to one of the bar's locals. A gentleman we shall call 'Mr F'. I remembered him from last time - a tough guy, probably about 60, with grey hair and a criminal record (he'd told me before that he'd been inside). He was a man no one messed with - he has a reputation.

He remembered me, and was the most charming, polite and careful companion for the evening. He didn't want me to sit on my own, asked me to join him at the bar along with Bear (who was a very tall and quite large guy). We chatted quite a bit, about different types of music and the like, very amiably.

Keith sang his songs, then one of the others got up with a cut finger so he karaoke-d his way through some pub standards. Another lad got up and sang my favourite 'Hey There Deliliah' as well as some other good standards. So, noisy, pubby type music - but when I got up to sing, I did my usual quiet folksy stuff. They listened. Keith said to me 'you want someone to hear you, whisper'. He was right.

At the end of the evening Mr F saw me out to the car, carried some of my gear for me and gave me a polite and friendly peck on the cheek goodnight. We'd had some interesting conversations where I'd learned a bit more about his life. He was a man who had lived violently - where survival was directly related to strength. But the interesting thing was I saw something different, I saw a man who looked back on his life and wished that he could have done it differently. Maybe I am wrong, but even if the hard nuts of Waltham Abbey are afraid of him, I felt completely safe.

Last night (Thursday) I played at the Corner House in Cambridge following a quick plea over Facebook. When I got there the pub was quiet, but soon two other performers arrived too (Meg and Mark). Oh, and about five other people in the pub including the barman, the sound engineer and his girlfriend. We three musicians chatted easily, all different but it was very amiable.

I was due to go on first at 8.30 but there was still hardly anyone there. Mark suggested that we wait a bit longer as he had some friends coming - which we did and they duly arrived. So I managed to perform my half hour spot to a slightly fuller room than I first feared. I nattered with Tim and Cheryl, two of Mark's friends, and then more of his friends came too - and earlier he'd moaned how no one came to see him. 'Can't be a prophet in your own land' I said, when he told us how he played to packed houses in Manchester and Liverpool.

My performance was, again, very folky - but I actually got them singing choruses! It was a lovely atmosphere, friendly and - due to the lack of huge numbers - quite intimate. After my performance Meg went on - she has a lovely voice and writes fun, quirky songs. After Meg was Mark and I thoroughly enjoyed his performance. He engaged the audience with engaging casual chat, and sang some really nice songs.

So, all three of us were singer/songwriters with guitar. But the combination of the three styles was actually complementary - working excellently together. The audience were appreciative and the evening relaxed and pleasant.

I couldn't find Meg's myspace page, but you can hear Mark here: http://www.myspace.com/markellissolo

The Corner House is a nice venue - with a mix of clientele and nice food (I'm told) and a good place to play or listen to a variety of music. I certainly enjoyed my evening there.

(PS: photo is not taken at either of these two venues, but I didn't have any appropriate ones)

I'm not a burglar

I do have strange dreams - picture this, I'm in my dressing gown in a house in New York. I've broken into the house as I need somewhere to stay with two other people (one of whom is a friend's daughter, and is about 10 years old instead of her actual 15). And my cat Toby (who has in fact been dead around 15 years).

I'm in the kitchen looking for something to eat when the owners of the house come in. "I'm not a burglar, this is a banana". I say, holding up the banana. The owners have children, four boys I can tell from their family photographs, but they are older and the children left home.

The family are understanding, and wait while I go and get things packed so we can leave. We need to find a vet though. The cat needs to be treated.

The whole story is very vivid and I can picture the people, the cat, the banana... I guess it's no wonder I wake up so tired!

Trains and stations

This morning I was reading a book on the train. I was on a chapter called 'attention' and I thought how the many things I'd noticed about the trains and my journey go unremarked except in my skull. There's no need to share my observations, but there's no harm in paying attention.

Today I was on the 'Buddah' train. This particular train, when idle, makes a soft bell-like noise similar to that of a wooden mallet being gently tapped against the side of a brass prayer bowl. It's quite a restful noise compared to the rest of the squeaks, groans and grinding noises it also makes.

I was on a singing train the other day. In London, the underground train made a squealing noise as it hurtled down the tracks that was light and musical as opposed to harsh and irritating. I christened it the 'singing train' in my mind. You don't talk to people on the underground (well, sometimes I do and I am always amused by the look of panic on their faces). But on this journey, I remember, I was talking to a family from Hungary who had enjoyed a tremendous day in London. They were glowing with fun and delight and the daughter, who was about 15, enjoyed translating for her happy parents and siblings. So, sometimes talking on the underground does work; but I still enjoy freaking out the regulars occasionally by offering a small mote of conversation.

Each morning when I get on the commuter train to Cambridge there is a woman I have known for 14 years. She steadfastly ignores me - has form the first friendly smile I gave her when I knew she was on the same commuter run as me. I don't know why. Perhaps I committed some grave offence, perhaps she'd just like her mornings quiet, and to herself please. Either way that's ok with me, I enjoy the opportunity to read in the bright morning sunshine, lulled by the rocking (and sometimes belling) of the train.

When we get to Cambridge there's a struggle to get past the bikes stacked at the doors, some folding some not. Then there's the sheep-like trail as we head from the platform to the exit, funnelling through the 'dip' (exit gates) dutifully and emerging into a crowded main hall. It's not a big hall, and not always crowded, but most mornings it's a throng of people headed into London or to Kings Lynn, or arriving at Cambridge.

Then I walk up Station Road towards my place of work. And the faces coming towards me are a mix of excitement (off for a day out?) and panic (my train leaves any moment...) and intense concentration (I am a commuter, don't bug me!). Sometimes I notice odd things about people.

For example, the impossibly muscular calves on that woman walking ahead of me - and her nice black skirt and... total lack of hips. Long blonde hair, feminine walk, but in a hurry. She stayed ahead of me. And the cyclists who think that riding on the narrow pavement is safer than the road. Well, it's not safer for the pedestrians. The confused tourists who don't understand the bus stops (actually, they change so often no one understands the bus stops any more). The tall, incredibly student looking guy who, when he turns around, is probably at least 40.

Cambridge is stuffed with youth and life. There are hordes of language students chattering away in various tongues, all 'cool' with eachother and their temporary displacement. There are business people in suits (and some really bad mixes of stripes!) and the wonderful eclectix mix that is Cambridge - from floppy hats to sandals, kaftans to kilts. You will, if you stand at Cambridge Station long enough, see just about every kind of person it is possible to imagine.

So my day starts out with a visual and auditory feast. Perhaps that's why I like to delve into my book. But more often than not I'll be distracted by the view as we trundle along - watching the fields turn from green to gold, from gold to brown, and eventually to white (when the winter comes). Being a commuter is not so bad.

Tiger Day

Yesterday was the 12th birthday of a captive tiger called Amba. She was born in captivity, probably the descendant of circus animals. She shares her enclosure with a male tiger called Rana. They are the most amazing, beautiful and impressive creatures ever!

The reason we (my colleague and I) were there was for Shepreth's 'Tiger Day' - a day spent celebrating these amazing animals (and Amba's birthday) but, most importantly, raising funds for work with tigers in the wild.

Shepreth rehomed the tigers from Paradise Wildlife Park, several years ago, and though locals were somewhat dubious at having these huge predators in the neighbourhood at first, they have proved to be a great attraction. And seeing them - who can but be moved to want to preserve this wonderful great cat in it's native home? The nice thing about Shepreth is they are not only a visitor attraction, but they are active in conservation work in the field too.

FFI work with tigers in Sumatra and Becca, from Shepreth, had spent five weeks out there recently. She didn't see any wild tigers, even though she was with our top tiger team (the rangers do an amazing job out there, protecting the tigers from poachers and protecting their habitat from illeagal logging and agricultural encroachment). Rob, however, my colleague who went out for a week earlier in March, saw one more or less on his first day!

I think I'd like to see a tiger in the wild - provided there was suitable distance or protection; those teeth are huge! Whilst the environmental enrichment (hide the tiger food) programme was underway in their enclosure, the tigers were briefly locked into their night dens. We were situated right next to one of the dens and could look through the window at the tiger. He would often come up to the window and look out at us, just inches away (reinforced glass, of course).

There were a number of events, most of which we didn't get to see as we were on our stand (actually a little table under a kindly loaned gazebo - it rained and rained!), and I got to meet wildlife vet John Lewis who was a very interesting guy to talk to indeed. I first saw him on Monkey World on TV many years ago - but his main interest now is big cats. He's invented a field anaethstics kit (probably a much better technical name for it than that) and soon he's going out to work in Russia.

I asked him if he'd ended up doing wildlife veterinary work by accident or on purpose - he said as he'd started out in zoos, it was a natural progression. He also mentioned how many children die because of rabies, and how veterinary care of domestic/working dogs could so reduce this. Simple things we can do that could change the world. We didn't talk for long, but he covered a lot of ground in a short space of time.

We had a successful day, lots of visitors, a very happy child who won our toy tiger, and some really good contacts. We talked to one of the keepers who'd been out in Africa and found a human foot in a wellington boot the morning after some lions visited. He doesn't like lions so much... but the little mountain lion at the park purrs as soon as she sees him (or is it the green uniform = food response?).

It was a different day to working in the office - spending the day next to tigers, talking to people about our charity, and watching kids look in awe at these beautiful cats. Oh, and at the end of the day, there was a kerfuffle over at one of the monkey enclosures. Some bright spark had put his posh mobile phone out really close to get a good photo (over the barrier) and smart monkey thought 'oy! I'll ave some o that' and grabbed said fruity mobile phone (which did not taste as delectable as the fruit which gives it name) and chewed it up.

The phone-owner was furious (but insured), the phone was retrieved (broken), but more to the point, the monkey was ok (the batteries are poisonous).

All in all, a successful and pleasant day, despite the rain.

Click here to see some great tiger pictures

Click here to sponsor Becca on her 'Tiger Swim'

Top photo of tiger eyes (C) Fauna & Flora International

Broken dreams

To 'break a dream' is when someone says something to you that makes you recall a forgotten dream. This happened to me this morning, but only regarding part of a dream.

Let me tell you a bit about the dream first of all. There was a man with no shirt on, half his body sun-tanned, laying on a wall by the river. He fell into the river where he was already swimming. The two versions of him became one, and then he turned into a mer-man. He swam down the river, obviously confused at the transformation. He was curled by the bank.

I was looking down into the water, from a height. The wall above the river was maybe 20 feet high. But then I was also in a small rented flat with two metal beds, one atop the other. Behind the bed were sweets and other rubbish on the wooden floor that the renter had not cleaned up properly. I know, because I pulled out the bed to look, then put it back again afterwards. Outside the window, a big wide double doors window, was a path and then immediately a lake. A nice view from the bedroom, but no privacy. Children walked by and we thought that it was a shame you couldn't cordon off your piece of path to the lake.

I went into the sweetshop to buy some sweets. It was old fashioned - wooden display units at child height.

But the bed was towering high - and I was swinging on the metal edge, knees folded over, encouraged by someone - a women (a pop star even) who watched me as the edge of the bed became a towering structure from which I could swing out over the river. I swung deeply forward over the river, and back again. And the most amazing thing about the dream is not the detail or the colour - but the sensation of swinging. That heart swooping rush you get when swinging on a rope, or a trapeze (though I've never done that) or dived off a high board. That adrenalin high that is part fear, part excitement.

The sensation was very physical, and I realised after the first copule of swoops that I could actually enjoy the rush.

Now to the breaking of my dream... what I had forgotten (with all above details still fresh and visual in my mind) was that I was also learning Polish in this dream. Sat in a cafe with a young man, who was - I think - going to teach me to speak the language.

And this morning, my friend sent me a text saying I was 'not Polish enough' (I won't explain) and so I remembered that part of the dream.

All this must have taken long, interminable seconds between the alarm going off and me waking. But the sensation, the physical sensation of swinging, was very powerful indeed. I enjoyed the dream - the colour, the variety, the incongrouous nature of all the different parts. And the sudden remembering of one part of it, that had slipped my mind until an innocent text arrived.

What did you dream? Can you remember? Have you had very physical (clean answers only please!) or emotional dreams? Do please post a comment, I'd be interested to know. You can post a comment anonymously, you don't have to belong to Blogger to join in.

Photograph courtesy of http://www.onebooktwovillages.org/whs/pages/image23009.html

The Curious Tiger

(C) Carolyn Sheppard.

I feel the earth beneath my feet, damp and soft. It smells warm and familiar – comforting. My claws sink into the ground and I move quietly through the forest. I am not hungry; only yesterday I ate very well indeed. But today I want to walk through my domain and mark my territory.

I tread softly, for I sense a change. There is a tang in the air – a smell I do not recognise. I stand still and listen, my whiskers twitch forward, my mouth slightly open, my ears attuned to every crackle and creak. Standing still, I am invisible. Small birds and animals fly and scurry round me. They know who I am, and rightly fear me. That which is ahead of me is new, unknown, and I am cautious.

I am also a curious tiger, and instead of avoiding this uncertainty ahead, I move steadily forward. My presence is undetected, I am sure. The heavy forest air brings me scents I know and many that I do not. It is the unknown, which draws me.

I enter a small clearing and smell wood moke scented with the ripeness of burnt flesh, and of many other things I do not recognise. I am intrigued. I move closer and see a small fire in the clearing, but not fleeing through the forest as it may do on dry, dangerous days. It is controlled, restrained. I look carefully about: next to the fire is something I have never seen before. It smells of rotten plants. Next to that, is the monkey.

I call it a monkey for that is what it most closely resembles. It is decked in something that is not fur and does not seem to be a part of it. It smells of plant, and of bitter things that make me open my jaws widely so that I may detect their taint more clearly.

My ungoverned movement has given me away - the monkey has seen me! It stands with a strange stick in its hand as if in defiance. Puny creature! I lift my head – the stick exudes its own unique odour: It smells of wood, of the caves, and it the air about it tastes hard and sharp like the red rocks in the mountains.

The monkey is afraid. It waves the stick hesitantly in my direction and I can taste the odour of fear. This is reassuring; the creature is not so foreign, it fears me. Yet as well as fear there are many other smells and tastes that cling and cloy my senses – that of the creature itself, and many more that surround this strange animal. I decide that its signature is as distasteful as if it has dived into every kind of excrement it could find.

I gently pad a little nearer. The monkey sits down upon a rock, but has not stopped glaring at me, or pointing its stick - as if that might stop my progress! Its pale skin is damp, slick with sweat – in its fear. This is as it should be.

I do not wish to eat the monkey. But I am curious. I have heard of these creatures in the forest before. I have smelled their flesh-burning fires. I have tasted them upon the wind before. Like most, I have avoided them. But this is just one, on its own.

I move closer. The monkey is now shaking, trembling beneath my gaze like a found calf. Its legs have a very fine fur upon them, and each hair stands on end at my approach. Still it points the stick at me. Now I am nearer, I detect something else – further pungency from the stick: it stings my nose and I twitch in disgust. The stick smells hot, and it smells cold. It smells … of death.

I am now near enough to kill easily. But first, to try and understand this creature, I lick its nearest leg with my long rasping tongue. I can taste it completely now: Piss and sweat, strong, natural odours, combined with a myriad of other strange tastes that are sour and rancid. The creature shivers. It does not look nor sound like any monkey I know. I do not think it would be good to eat.

I look into its eyes, trying to fathom exactly what kind of creature this is? It has the tang of carnivore, yet is rank. I do not understand - as I look into its eyes I see nothing – no connection, no life behind its small, frightened white and blue eyes. It is almost like a dead thing. If I look at any other creature, or they look at me, we see that we are one. We know that whether we are predator or prey, we are all part of the same. We all know what we are and where we belong in this world. This creature – this upright, smooth skinned, foul tasting monkey – does not have a place.

With its acid taste lingering in my mouth, I yawn (for effect, I admit), and the creature waves its death stick at me again. At any moment it may fall back off its rock, its thin legs waving skyward – that would amuse me. But it does not. It just keeps watching me with those dead eyes. Bored, I turn my back on the thing – it is not worthy of my time or my interest.

I walk away, swaying my tail in contempt, letting the monkey see my strength and power. of course, it does not understand, it does not realise that I have given it the gift of its own life. that gift is a waste - I am sorry for such a thing that does not belong to the world.

My curiosity is satisfied. I move on, knowing that such creatures will not warrant any further investigation should they ever cross my path again.

Written in 2007. If you like tigers, then check out Fauna & Flora International and their work with the Sumatran Tiger

Earth Wake

Here's the first chapter of one of my short stories.

Captain Jamieson jumped down from the ship, his feet crushing the long, spiky blue grass as he landed. He scowled as he looked around and spat out a wad of well-chewed tobacco.

“Welcome, Captain.” Ricard looked at the shining, foamy brown lump the Captain had spat, which now slid slowly down the broad leaf of a low growing bush.

The Captain saw where Ricard was looking and had him sussed in an instant. An Indij-lover. He’d met a few on different planet hops – where they go ‘native’ and forget just who they are working for.

“Come this way.” Ricard led the way to a clearing. In the middle stood a sturdy hut that looked like it was made of mud, sticks and grass. This was Ricard’s home on the planet –in fact (since the first contact team had left) it was Homeworld’s planetary embassy. Ricard smiled to himself, thinking how unimpressed his visitor would be with the local facilities.

Jamieson spat again, the small blob raising a puff of dust as it landed on the dry, yellow earth. “Summary.” He barked as they entered the hut.

Ricard turned on the solalight with a wave of his hand. “Highly evolved society, good natural resources, simple balance of nature equation.” Ricard knew that the Captain would have had a full briefing already, what else did he want to know?

“Can we drill?”

A silence hung between them. Jamieson assumed Ricard’s reticence was his indigenous-loving attitude.

Ricard saw the greed and exploitative streak in Jamieson and didn’t like it. “No.” he said.

Jamieson snorted. An ‘I knew it’ type snort. A tiny dribble of brown liquid ran from his nose into his grey moustache.

Ricard’s stomach clenched in revulsion. Even though Angolican tobacco wasn’t carcinogenic, the habit of chewing or smoking the stuff still disgusted him.

“Why?” said Jamieson deliberately.

Ricard let out a huge sigh. “Geo. The ground isn’t stable.”

“Evidence?” Jamieson said.

Ricard had already sent reports to Homeworld that he knew Jamieson would have seen, but he also knew they would just consider his reasons ‘excuses’. “No solid evidence. “The locals talk of regular earth wakes…”

“Earthquakes?”

“No… earth wakes. No matter how often we ask or whatever the context, our translator says they definitely call them ‘earth wakes’.”

“And?”

Ricard was beginning to feel irritated by Jamieson’s brusque manner, but he had expected no less from Homeworld. Despite thousands of trans-world treaties, one way or another they usually found a way to exploit new planets and tap into their natural resources. No matter how carefully phrased to protect the indigenous species, planets usually ended up in a sorrier state for their alliance with Homeworld Federation.

....

I need to work on the rest of the story - it's finished,just needs polishing. Any comments welcome.

The most excellent illustration is from Kellie Kougioulis - found here: www.photoshopcreative.co.uk/show_image.php?imageID=16757

Georgia on my mind

What do you think of when someone says 'Georgia'? The songs? The American state? The ex-Soviet state? Well, it's the latter on my mind for this post.

The other day we had a 'download' at work from one of the guys who works out in Georgia. He works with the Tusheti people and the local Government organisations and NGOs to help preserve some of the most amazing wildlife.

They have bears, wolves, jungle cats, lynx and tortoise as well as an amazing array of bird and plant-life. Gareth works particularly on the carnivores (them what has sharp teeth as detailed above). The project, funded primarily by the EU and in partnership with local NGO, NACRES, is designed to protect some amazing rich habitats near the Caucasus mountains and in the south-east.

Of course Georgia was in the news most recently because of border disputes and political 'chest puffing' (I would say willy waving but that's not very PC) that has resulted in conflict. But the Tusheti shepherds still have to take their herds of sheep from the lowlands in the winter to the mountains in the summer - and still have to feed and care from them and protect them from the carnivores that live there too.

It's a challenge - especially as the deconstruction of the USSR has meant that the support infrastructure has disappeared along with the Russians. Part of the work Gareth and the team out there are doing is to help the shepherds with veterinary care - reducing disease in dogs (so it doesn't get transferred to wildlife) and increasing herd survival rates so that loss to predators is not such a great impact. One of the things Gareth is trying to raise extra funds for is salaries for vets who can work in the mountainous and arid regions of this extraordinary landscape.

So why am I writing about it when there's perfectly good information all about it on the FFI website? (here ) Simple - the one thing that is missing from the information on the web is the passion and knowledge that individuals like Gareth share when you meet them in person. I consider myself extremely lucky to be able to hear first hand the stories of the conservation work these folks are doing all over the world.

He told us how hard the wolves are to trap, so you can't do accurate research on them, and how hunting, poaching and over-grazing are serious issues. He also had some amazing photographs (I've chosen one of his bird photographs, well, I would, wouldn't I!)

I have to say my geography has improved too!

Photo: Hawfinch, (C) Gareth Goldthorpe - check out more of his work on Flickr www.flickr.com/photos/garethan/

In the pink

My girls did the Pink Ribbon run yesterday - it was an amazing day weather wise.On the way back after seeing 1,000 people dressed in pink I saw a swallowtail butterfly on the heath - first time I've ever seen one. It was too quick for me to photograph, but I found this one from the RSPB so you can see what it looks like.

Photo credit: Swallowtail Butterfly at one of the few sites in England that they breed. © Copyright Janet Richardson and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

An Odd evening

Well, not that odd really, but I like playing with words. We had an event last night at the Middle Temple in London. This amazing place is the haunt of the London legal profession (part of it, anyway). I was given a potted history by one of the nice gents serving us wine:

The land was given to the lawyers by King James I on condition that they kept teaching law there. When Queen Elizabeth I came to visit she wanted a table that she and all her entourage could sit at, so the hugest oak was found and floated up the Thames (which originally came right up to the buildings) and a table was made that is 26 feet long - all from a single tree.

There is so much oak in these old buildings - you can't really see it that well on the photo above, but the ceiling was amazing - huge swathes of black oak.

Unfortunately I didn't get to learn much more (but if you want to know more, just check good old Wiki: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Middle_Temple) but then I was there to work! It was a garden party, with two wonderful speakers. The first talked about his discovery of a unique species of butterfly, the second was the excellent Mike Dilger who not only entertained our guests, but also drew in passers by (who I made sure got some of our leaflets). He described himself at one point as 'Bill Oddie's researcher' only he used a word to replace researcher: the word is usually applied to a female of the canine species.

It was all very good natured, and in fact Mike's ex-boss was present. Hence the cheesy photo of me and Bill. The important focus of the evening was conservation and all those present that I talked to were interested and engaged. Even three guests who had actually come to the wrong event went away with membership forms... it's the killer instinct in me!

There was a most wonderful guitarist playing for us too, the gentle sounds of his gorgeous Taylor guitar adding the perfect backdrop to an English Summer evening.

The train home was packed - I sat next to a man with a cricket hat in his lap. Once I'd had a brief look through my photos, he talked to me. He had been to the cricket, watched MCC beat Kent. Now he was on his way back to Cambridge, to his daughter and his four year old grandson who has cancer. Doesn't life like to give you a 'perspective nudge' at just the right times?

I've lots more to blog - an evening with Stephen Fry (my friend Heather says I am too posh to talk to these days, but honestly she knows me better!) and lots more on my trip to Arizona. I must start to write again - I miss the simple act of playing with language to tell a story. Even if no one is listening.

Arizona Travels - episode 1

Here I am back in Arizona again - it's been two years since I was last here. This time I came in a warmer time of year - I say warmer, it's 98 Deg F as I write! Well, outside, I'm in the shade inside of course, with AC and cold drinks on tap.

Actually the heat has not bothered me at all, I've covered up in sun cream and worn a hat and cool clothes, always had plenty of water and my asthma has been absent! This climate suits me (mind you, not sure how I'd cope in the summer as the temperatures soar above 100...)

Nadine's house is in San Tan Valley, to the south west of Phoenix. It's an hour to downtown along the freeways, and round here it's pretty much scrubby desert with houses and towns plonked in the middle of it all. Nadine's yard (garden to you and me) backs on to a golf course and there is a metal rail fence so you can see the golfers as they play. You hear 'shucks' (or words to that effect) as they thwack the ball off to the next tee, you hear '*&*&*' when you hear a whack as the ball has hit some house, and lots of happy chatter as women, men and children send their balls off on the appropriate trajectory down the course.

Golf courses here are green - but only green in patches. In between it's coarse desert - yellow brown dirt with the odd seguaro cactus, mesquite tree and some other little bushes. Dashing about between the sparse vegetation are the ground squirrels - dust coloured rodents who live in little holes in the non-green golf course. They are driven to dive for their holes not only when speedy golf carts shoot past, but when the shadow of the Harris hawk flies overhead or a rather ardent grackle (like an all-black magpie) gets a little too close.

So, sitting in the garden alone I see lots of things - including the little brown lizards who scoot along the walls and, when they reach a sunny spot, stop to do little push ups to keep their bellies from burning. There are quail who wander past, verdin (little greenish birds) and finches, mourning doves and white winged doves too. I could sit all day in the yard just watching.

The multi-coloured golfer is, of course, the most amusing of these creatures, but I do prefer the wildlife.

Improbably Nimble...

Improbably nimble... that was a description offered during a conversation about some Morris Men. Not, as it happens, the ones I spent this weekend with. But pretty darn accurate.

We set off Friday night for Dranouter - five of us in one car, the rest all making their way across the channel (none of us by air, thank goodness, as the Icelandic volcano put paid to any flying this weekend).

We arrived in good time and (nearly all of us) met up for an evening meal. There were 18 in the crew altogether - that's musicians, dancers and support team. I was in the band (I've never really been much of a dancer, alas), on the bass in place of their regular chap who was off in Singapore or some other far flung place.

We had a superb meal and the menu had about 40 different kinds of beer. I looked at the wine list - it simply said 'Glass, 1/2 carafe, full carafe' and prices - not so much as a 'red' or 'white' let alone any kind of further descriptor or choice! I guess it shows pretty much where the Belgian loyalties lie.... beer!

The following morning I abandoned my room mate (Natalie) and went for a wonderful walk in the woods just by the hotel on Mont Noir. It was beautiful! Sunshine, birds singing... the perfect morning. And a pretty good start to a rather good day. The reason Albion Morris were playing in Dranouter is that they had appeared at the Festival for something like 35 years! And some of the original dancers were still in the troupe. They were booked to play their last official gig at the Folkcentrum, which is a cultural centre and includes - as well as a super little venue and restaurant - a folk museum. So - how old do you think the guys felt when, watching a historical film, they saw themselves?! I guess when you find your childhood memories in a museum it's nostalgic enough... but to find yourself in a museum? That's a little scary.

In the afternoon, four of us went into Ypres (but spelled the Flemmish way) to the exhibition in the town hall: "In a Flanders Field". It was intensely moving and quite extraordinary. The first world war has shaped this country. Ypres was occupied, not by the Germans but by the British. And we brought with us Chinese, Australians, Sikhs and Moors... the whole city turned into a massive military camp. The terrible conditions are described often enough on screen, but to see the conditions and the photographs of the actual trenches, the bodies, the gas masks, the total destruction that hit the city - it's mind warping; and soul rending. If you go to Belgium, visit this exhibition if you can.

The afternoon we had a workshop scheduled - teaching non-morris dancers how to do some dances. Some local folk dancers joined, as well as some very small children, and they learned three dances (one of which seemed to take forever and by the time we played the tune for the 17th time we were quite ready to murder the dance teacher, Ada). We then had a meal and a chill out before our performance in the evening.

I have to say the dancers excelled themselves. Considering the team was augmented with members of Brighton Morris as so many of the original Albion crew couldn't make it, some of whom had not danced those particular dances before (or in those particular traditions), they did fantastically. I certainly didn't spot a wrong move, but then again I was concentrating like mad on the music.

I did hear that Stuart got hit on the head, but I missed that particular event. All I saw was some great dancing, a very enthusiastic audience and enjoyed the fantastic atmosphere.

At the end of the gig - which was quite emotional for everyone really - two 'Albion groupies' sang a song they had written especially for them. They'd been to see the team for more than 20 years... that's loyalty! And the song was very funny too.

Our hosts were amazing - always looked after us with drinks vouchers (thankfully they had an excellent cider) and made sure we had a superb sound and generally looked after us. You couldn't ask for more as a performer.

After the gig finished the evening continued with a song session led by Ian from Brighton. It was very entertaining - loud sing-along songs which perhaps bamboozled the locals, but entertained them none-the-less. With a most bizarre version of 'Music Man' and many other shanty type songs, I had a wonderful time singing along and relaxing after the intense concentrating of playing (the morris tunes are not one I'm really familiar with and I had to work hard!).

The session ended at around 1.45am, and it was weary, emotional and happy we all returned to our hotel rooms. Mind you, one member of the cast was poured into his room - having eventually been prised away from his best friend, the pillar, without whom he would have been bereft (or just in a heap on the floor). One of the dangers of so many beers and so little time.

The following morning I went with Stuart and Daphne into Popperinge where we visited Talbot House. This building was run by a military cleric, 'Tubby' Clayton and was a haven for the troops. No matter whether you were a colonel or a private, within its walls there were no ranks and everyone was treated equally. Tubby built a chapel in the roof, and his services were always full. So many of those men he ministered to came once, and never came again - never breathed again. Whatever your religious beliefs, he performed a great service, and you can understand why, in such terrible times, people clung to any belief that offered hope in such circumstances.

There was a beautiful garden, a concert hall (from a nearby house which Tubby comandeered without permission from the absent owners), a contemplation room, a billiards table, piano (which is still played today) and an opportunity to return to sanity for an all too brief moment.

We headed home Sunday afternoon after another lovely meal at the Folkcentrum - the trains were crowded with people. It was the end of the weekend, the end of the Easter break and also full of people desperate to get home because of cancelled flights. All in all I had a terrific weekend - excellent food, drink, company, music, dancing and singing. I saw long tailed tits, and heard the most wonderful song from a blackcap. I visited two museums and also the small cemetery at Dranouter. I had plenty of opportunity to contemplate, and to enjoy. A perfect weekend.

I'll post a link to my photos as soon as I have uploaded them.

Species Conservation

As you may have noticed, I am now working in the field of conservation (and loving it!). This weekend I am engaged in some exciting fieldwork! I am travelling over to Belgium to work with a highly endangered British species called Dancus Morrisus.

This unusual creature has been seen all over the world but is indigenous to the UK. However, sub-species have been identified in America, Canada, New Zealand and as far south as Antarctica (though the Antarctic sub-species is now known to be extinct). They are fairly easy to identify as they are extremely colourful, and the variants such as the Black Face, Rapper and Molly are all very distinctive.

The conservation team are heading over to Dranouter with the highly endangered 'Morrisus Albionus' - this is not an attempt at species bolstering through cross-fertlisation with the local Dancus Contradancus, but an opportunity to introduce the British variants to a more diverse food (and in particular beer) supply.

It is hoped that the trip will put some new life into this fascinating, if slightly weird, flock and either prove that the Dancus Morrisus Albionus is still viably sustainable or, which is the conservationists fear, heading for extinction. Despite some integration with a regional but quite robust variant (Dancus Morrisus Brightonian) we are still fearful that it may go the way of the now extinct 'Dansus Sloshus' and 'Dancus Charleston'.

So - wish me luck! I will be using my technical expertise (and my complex field equipment - a bass guitar and amp) to provide a suitable background environment to make the Dancus Morrisus Albionus feel right at home. Oh, and a few beers are certainly going to help!

For more information on Morrisus Dancus, visit The Morris Ring

For information on the sub-species Albionus, visit Albion Morris

Tiger tiger!

2010 is 'International Year of Biodiversity' and also the Year of the Tiger. For my colleague, Rob, it was fortnight of the tiger.

Rob works in our office in Cambridge and had the unique opportunity to visit FFI's project out in Indonesia where they are working to protect the rare and exquisite Sumatran tiger. There is a huge national park called Kernici Seblat and Rob went to stay with the FFI head of the project, Debbie (click here to read her tiger blog).

So why am I blogging about it? Because Rob just gave us a 'download' at lunchtime, where he talked about the project and the amazing bit of luck he had in actually seeing some tigers in the wild, and his admiration and enthusiasm for the team out there. The Tiger Protection Unit are local people, all with a real passion for conservation. Poaching is still a problem - but it's not poor local people who are poaching, it's rich businessmen who fund highly dangerous teams to go and snare and shoot tigers for the skins and body parts.

Rob's exploits (highly edited) are on the FFI website, but you should also check out the info on the site about the Tiger project, then I highly recommend it.

Photo (C) Fauna & Flora International

From Shamrocks to Daffodils

This week saw St Patrick's night - and Shani and I had a gig at a local village pub. Bryan said he may come and play some tunes with us, but not if there was just 'two men and a dog' in the audience.

Don't you just hate flip comments that turn out to be accurate predictions?! OK, at one point there really was just two men and a dog - the pub dog and the two landlords, but at the most I would say there were probably only 8 people in the bar.

This did not stop us having a grand evening though! We played and sang and generally enjoyed making music. At 11pm two ladies came in and, up for a grand evening (it was the birthday of one), we played and they danced. The two ladies and the landlords all dancing round happily whilst we sang some hackneyed Irish songs and a few other standards, for good measure (they loved our rendition of 'Let me Entertain you').

The birthday girl asked us if we'd play at her birthday party on the Saturday night, and we turned up but the way things turned out we didn't actually perform (apart from three and a half songs).

Sunday, however, was Thriplow Daffodil Festival and we played to a nicely full tea tent on a sunny, English spring day. The daffodils, however, were reluctant to perform (given the cold and long winter) but that didn't spoil what is a quintessentially wonderfully English village festival.

We played our set, then were asked for more (not with raucous encore shouts, but because there was more time to fill) and had a thoroughly pleasing little afternoon gig.

Next? Well, there is talk of a beer festival at the village pub ...

The Toad Charmer

Did you know the toad belongs to the anuran family? No, nor did I. But as these engaging creatures seem to be attracting my attention a lot recently, I thought I should look up a little more about them.

The common toad is not particularly rare, but less common than good old frogs! The natterjack toad, though, is not only rare but endangered. I have had three encouters with anurans recently (hey, isn't that a great name for an alien in Dr Who?). The first was a frog. (see my previous Frog Blog for more froggy tales and my own pictures.)

It was a rainy night a few weeks ago, I was walking back from the station along a main road. It was dark, drizzly and I was thoroughly fed up. Winter blues in full swing. Next to the pavement I was walking on was a wall, atop the wall an old metal railing fence. Behind the fence was a hedge, part of the garden of a house. I was looking down, keeping the rain out of my eyes, when I noticed something unusual. A huge frog! He was gorgeous - green and brown and shiny in the rain. But on a pavement next to a busy road he was likely to get squished - either by unnoticing pedestrians or, should he(she) venture the wrong direction, by unseeing traffic.

I stooped to pick him up and he scrambed towards the wall. I held him in my hand and he settled immediately (perhaps the warmth of my mammalian hands was actually rather nice to a cold frog). I lifted him to the top of the wall where the greenery poked through and the earth and safety beyond beckoned.

I held my hand flat on the wall. He turned, and instead of leaping off, just looked at me. "Go on" I said. I swear he winked, and then he hopped onto the wall, and then off into the undergrowth.

The other day, cycling back from the station (instead of walking in the rain), I came via the Heath and as I trundled over the earthy heap that separated the open paths of Therfield Heath from our road, I noticed that at the side of the path one of the brown leaves was the wrong shape. I swerved the bike so as not to squash the toad who, nicely camoflaged, had chosen a pedestrian pathway to sit upon.

I picked him up and gently set him down further in the leaves, off the main path, so that he should not get squished. Hopefully he took the hint and stayed clear of the cold tarmac. He didn't seem to object to me picking him up. Toads excrete a rather nasty substance from their skin making them unpalatable to most predators. Perhaps that's what gives them their confidence when being handled?

That was encounter number two. This morning, however, the toad came a-knocking at the door. Well, not literally, but pretty close. I opened the front door to head for the annual Thriplow Daffodil festival and there upon the doormat was a huge, swollen bellied toad. Yellow, brown and with bright eyes, it looked at me. And then continued as if to enter the house.

Now I know that yon toad would not have had such a warm welcome from other, more squeamish, members of the family, so I picked her up. Again, totally unconcerned at my touch (she didn't even puff herself up, as some do), she settled in my hand. The answer was obvious - I took her round to the back garden and set her down on the greenery next to the pond.

Toads return every year to the same pond if they can, I just hope ours was the pond she was heading for. I am sure we will be able to tell as our little pond fills up with skaters and other wiggly pond life, and -without doubt - it's annual quota of frogs and spawn. I'll keep my eye out for the strings of spawn which mean our garden toads have decided to bless us with their warty, pleasing presence once again.

Photo from BBC, more info on toads: http://www.herpetofauna.co.uk/common_toad.htm

Spring?

Spring raised it's head briefly yesterday, uncurled from the frozen brown earth to take a breath of sunshine, then disappeared again today under the coverlet of clouds.

The birds are silent today, yesterday's enthusiasm dampened by grey skies and chilly air. But there are small white buds on the magnolia, and the primroses are struggling to open. Snowdrops, white and green against black, hard earth, are trembling in the rush of wind caused by the speeding, dirty busses that trammel the brittle tarmac.

Spring is on its way, reluctantly. But we are eager with anticipation, and optimism. The slightest bit of blue sky brings a smile, the instant of sunshine warms more than its thin heat radiates.

On the train, in the evenings, the sky is a riot of reds. Scudding clouds are daubed with vibrant colours, and the sunsets cast dramatic silhouettes of bare trees, farm buildings and scrubby fields that are slowly, slowly challenging the winter to turn green.

And this morning, as I came in on the train, into the city, the arms of a huge yellow spider clawed their way from the mound of earth that is the rebuilding of CB1. Three diggers looked like arachnid limbs, and the devastation surrounding their industry is like another spring - the bare field soon to sprout the concrete shoots of new buildings.

Change is a constant, and the cycle of the seasons and the cycle of development is as unstoppable as each sunrise. Though some days start grey, there will be sunshine one day. Remember that the sun is coming, that the wreck of land will soon be something new and shining, that the broken earth will soon blossom. It's hard to keep a positive attitude sometimes, but all we have to do is look around. And remember.

Changing Paths

I’ve spent years behind a desk for my job, and I’ve always been extremely lucky to have jobs that I have enjoyed and, most recently, that contribute directly to the wellbeing of others (healthcare, education, training). Though my ‘ideal job’ as a youngster would have been to be a forest ranger (I worked briefly as a volunteer on a nature reserve in North London), my career path took a very different course. This time I’ve definitely hit the jackpot as far as jobs go – and I don’t mean financially, but in terms of fulfilment and engagement. Around me my colleagues talk of their time in Kenya, India, America, Alaska, Indonesia, Viet Nam and Antarctica. I am in fact now working for a conservation organisation where the employees are not just dedicated but hands-on experienced.

The Membership Secretary used to be an Antarctic Scientist, the Comms Officer use to work with endangered Wallabies in Australia and the Fundraising Officer (who I am slightly worried to find out loves dressing up as a gorilla) has spent time in Swaziland. Next month he is going out to Indonesia for more hands on conservation work (hopefully not in costume, he’d have some problems at customs). There are 60 people working for the charity in nearly every corner of the world.

The work I’m doing now, a change from my previous employment, means I need to learn (and quickly) about Fauna & Flora International’s conservation projects: the work we do with (to name but a few) gorillas, trees, people, habitats, bats, carbon emissions, global warming and – crucially – how to fund the work we do all over the planet.

In short, every day I work here inspires me (and also stirs some previously suppressed wanderlust). Most of the people round me are younger and have done or are doing their travelling now (for work, sabbatical, or just for the hell of it). I would love to travel more and even do some field work myself, but I do know that it’s not all ‘cute cuddly animals’ – oh no! The work this fantastic organisation does is much more varied than that – they work with Kyrgyzstani women to help manage the sustainability of their fruit and nut forests, help farmers build buffalo fences to protect their crops (and the buffalo) and help local communities to develop tourism and other forms of enterprise to reduce the impact on their environment.

The dedication of the people in the office is just a reflection of those out in the field – and I am very proud to be part of the oldest conservation charity in the world. I may only be here for a year, but you can bet your last pound (please make sure you tick the ‘gift aid’ box on your donation form!) that I am going to put everything I can into it – I’m already getting so much out. I’ve never been afraid to get my hands dirty, so who knows, one day I may actually do something a bit more adventurous with the rest of my life.

I do, of course, still run the training business, which I enjoy thoroughly, but there is something to be said for working in an evironment where you know you are contributing real value beyond your own existence.

A midwinter night’s drive

My mother has been working on hats for the Rose Theatre’s production of Midsummer Night’s Dream. She made four lovely Elizabethan style hats for the fairies (and the frames for some of the collars, like Oberon's in this picture). The play is one of my favourites by Shakespeare I have to say and it was wonderful to hear the language, the voices and to engage in the action and the story.

The star of this production, to my mind, was not the ‘big name‘ (Dame Judi Dench) but Bottom. Of course it is a role which begs indulgence, and he played it to the full.

The costumes were effective, the staging simple but atmospheric and the theatre, full to bursting, had a natural ambience that felt redolent of a much older building. There was floor space in front of the stage filled with audience sat upon cushions or the polished boards, we sat in the second row on the extreme left. This gave us a close but angled view of the action.

The sound system didn’t really meet the standards of the rest of the production (and being a musician I would, of course, have preferred live musicians), but the music was appropriate and worked well. The actress who played Cobweb had a very clear and pretty singing voice, and one of the fairies (a solid looking guy with dreads) had the most amazing ability to drop what sounded like two octaves in one verse.

The performances by all were, without exception, entertaining. Dame Judi was a wonderful Titania, and her wonderfully tall (by comparison) Oberon was elegant and an excellent foil.

I highly recommend this production (but you'll be lucky to get tickets) and if you haven't been to a play in a while - go see one. The lights, the people in front of you speaking real words from memory (not an autocue) and performing for you, to you, not a camera.

The drive home was much quicker than the drive there which took three hours from Cambridge to Kingston via Temple Fortune (to pick up mother). I drove through sunshine, rain, snow, sleet and hail at various points of the journey (some of these meteorological events lasting only a few minutes), but it was well worth a winter night's drive.

Production photos by Nobby Clark - no rights are exerted over these images which remain the property of the original copyright holder.

Snow days

Well, the country is covered in snow from top to bottom! Looking at the satellite pics on the TV yesterday, there was barely an inch not covered in fluffy, white snow laden clouds. And though it's not actually snowing here now, outside the temperatures are making sure that the snow does not melt in the weak winter sun.

I went on to the heath when the snow started and took a few pictures.