Down to the river

One thing my driving has done is make me look more at the area around me. It has made me look for places I can maybe get to. In my mind what was once a drawer full of a multitude of single scraps of places this process has begun to stitch them together into a map that I am starting to see clearly. The world outside as a result doesn't seem as daunting.

About a month or so ago I was thinking about what I would like to experience most locally. There is not a lot to choose from if I'm honest. Then when I looked at the map one thought came strongest of all. It may sound silly to some but that thought was of a river. When was the last time I saw any body of water? At least three years but probably more. It began to play on me. The serenity of watching the water flow- always flowing. The tranquil sound of it gently passing. To touch the cold water and let it trickle through my fingers. Yes down to the river is where I wanted to go but alas it is out of my reach.

Believe it or not it was only in my first week of driving again, 17 June, I saw water again after over 3 years absence. Even in my good spell 18 months ago I was driving during the day but never out of town and never anywhere where I would see the river. Passing over the river Clyde last month I glimpsed it. I have seen it many times since but for me it doesn't really count as it is a short distracted moment from afar in a car. What I want is to be up close to it. Lingering there. To see it near, hear it and touch it.

For most the great stretch of water would be close enough to walk to from my house. For me though it is not. At first viewing on the map I was full of heart. It appears to show a road all the way up close to the river. I asked my wife about it she told me she's never been down there so didn't know if it was a through road. So off I hopped in the car one night drove down by the council building to be met with the road ending abruptly. Where the road stopped a path started which is shown in the top photograph. Not good as it is a 'keep clear' area so I couldn't park the car there.

For me there was no way of walking down there. The best I had achieved walking so far was walking around the council buildings and I had done that only once as physically it was a struggle. Last night I walked down there again soaked in the pouring rain. When I got to the end of the road anxiety was so high that I wanted nothing more than to turn back. But I didn't. The torrential rain also made the area people free and I had a strong pull of curiosity to see what was beyond the path. So with jelly legs and struggling to regulate my breathing I walked on knowing that every shaky step was one more away from the home. I cannot emphasise enough what that means to the anxious brain. When you are already struggling to move the last thing you want to be doing is moving further away from home.

An underpass leading under the railway line. I actually forgot it was the railway line in my confusion until shortly afterwards a train roared over at full tilt. At least now I knew what was here. A woodland path tailed off to the left into somewhere like a jungle labyrinth. Quite inviting in the wet but I had other plans. I had to see what was on the other side now that I was here. If only I could click my fingers to get back home but I was already too far so went on into the darkness.

To say the least I was disappointed. Two paths led off to the right into more woodland and for as far as I could see as I walked further and further forward were trees and more greenery. No sign of the river yet it was there on the map.

The last path sank my heart. Already I'd pushed myself further than I should have and was feeling it. Before me lay a way to get down to the water but I was already well spent and contemplating how I was going to make it home. Regret was what I turned to now. What seemed like a good idea has now left me exhausted and breathless with anxiety far from home.


Before I headed home though I moved forward again to the very edge of where I was and through the trees finally glimpsed the river. I had done it. Not as close as I wanted but I had at least done it. The easy part was over and for a moment it felt worth it.

Strange that as well as anxious I felt so paranoid. There was no one about that I could see but I had to force myself to take photographs and take them quickly as I didn't want to look like a loon. Then it was all over. Then it sunk in where I was and how far from home I was. My limbs now lead and the journey home all on an incline. It would take gritted teeth and head down with force of will to get back to the house. This I did but as most will know that is not where it ends.

The after effects lasted throughout the night and today on my walks I have felt tired and like I am in some sort of weird dream. With my curiosity satisfied and the momentary bliss of achievement passed I don't know when I will get back down there again. I hope soon. As always I am left frustrated that doing it once does not make returning any easier next time- in some ways harder because the initial push is no longer there. Was it worth it? At the moment I am not sure but maybe when the exhaustion passes, and it will, I will be able to feel a bit of pride looking at the photographs again.

Rex Nemoerensis

Coward

At 6 a.m. on 18 October 1916, at Carnoy on the Western Front, Private Harry Farr of the West Yorkshire Regiment was shot dead by a British firing squad. A volunteer with six years service, not a conscript, he had twice been withdrawn from the front line suffering from shell-shock. On the third occasion he had been refused treatment at a medical station, since he had no wounds, and, after resisting the Sergeant escorting him to the trenches, was arrested. He repeatedly said, 'I cannot stand it'. At the court martial, the general commanding XIV Corps said that the charge of cowardice seemed 'clearly proven'. This was confirmed by Commander-in-Chief Douglas Haig.

In due course Farr's widow, Gertrude, received a letter from the War Office: 'Dear Madam, We regret to inform you that your husband has died. He was sentenced for cowardice and was shot at dawn on 16 October'. She received neither a war widow's pension nor an allowance for her daughter. But she did receive a message via her local vicar, from the regimental chaplain: 'Tell his wife that he was no coward. A finer soldier never lived.' She lived to be 99 and to read the papers of the court martial, which were not released by Britain's Public Record Office until 1922.

Private Farr was one of 3,080 British soldiers sentenced to death by court martial in 1914-18, mainly for desertion, and one in 307 who were not reprieved. In rejecting the plea of mercy in a similar case, Douglas Haig minuted: 'How can we ever win if this plea is allowed?'

In the Second World Was, some 100,000 British soldiers deserted, but none were shot. Recaptured deserters from the Red Army or from the Wehrmacht were not so lucky.

A while back I read a fantastic book Europe: A History by Norman Davies. In 1200 pages it concisely covers the history of Europe brilliantly with a whole host of subjects including religion, politics, health, music, art, writing, numerology, spirituality, horticulture and fashion to name but a few. Included within are an array of well over 100 capsules which in themselves make for interesting reading and like the book itself cover a wide variety of subjects.

Today I was looking through some of these capsules again as they are a short read but very interesting. I've transcribed one of them above- a very poignantly sad tale about misunderstanding and trauma. Following is another I find interesting too so thought I would post it. A bit of a diversion from the the normal stuff posted here but I thought it would be nice to have a little break.

This capsule is actually rather big so I have only included part of it. It is about the legend that inspired Sir James George Frazer to set out on a quest of understanding. It sent him travelling all over the world collecting mythology and piecing the threads together which seemed to be constant in varying cultures despite being located far apart. He wrote about his findings in the rather large but hugely interesting The Golden Bough. This is the legend which got him thinking:

Aricia

A dozen miles to the south of Rome, in a crater amidst the Alban hills, lies Lake Nemi, the 'lake of the grove'. In imperial times, the nearby village of Nemi was called Aricia; and throughout the Roman era the woods beside the lake sheltered the sacred Arician Grove, home of Diana nemorensis, 'The Diana of the Grove'.

The Arician cult is known both from the writings of Strabo and from modern archaeology. In many ways, it was unremarkable. It involved the worship of the sacred oak, whose boughs were not to be broken, and a sanctuary of perpetual fire. Apart from Diana, it addressed two minor deities- Egeria, a water nymph, and Virbius, a fugitive from the wrath of Zeus. As shown by the surviving mounds of votive offerings, its main devotees were women who hoped to conceive. On the day of the annual summer festival the grove was lit up by a myriad of torches, and women all over Italy burned fires in gratitude.

In one respect, however, the cult was exceptional. The Chief Priest of Aricia, who bore the title of Rex Nemoerensis or 'King of the Grove', was obliged to win his position by slaying his predecessor. At one and the same time he was priest, murderer, and prospective murder victim. Stalking the grove with drawn sword, even at the dead of night, he awaited the hour when the next contestant would appear, break off a twig of the oak and challenge him to mortal combat.

There are so many other capsules I could have included but have held back so as not to completely bore the pants off everyone. I would though urge anyone who has an interest in reading about European history to have a look at this book. It is amazing how much has been crammed into the book beginning in ancient Greece up to the modern day and not a taxing read either. The variety and depth contained in short a short tome in comparison to other books on the subject is brilliant.