On the why ...

Walking.

Isn't that a wonderful word - so full of promise, and delight, and fulfilment? Walking is one of my favourite things. Along with eating, and fucking, and reading. Each has its own delights, but walking is special. Unlike most of the others, it's often best when done alone. It is good day or night, in any weather. And all you need is a pair of shoes. 

I'm not talking about walking around the house, or down to the shops. Nor am I talking about walking with an agenda - like "getting fit", or "training for the City to Surf". Those LOOK a bit like the walking I'm talking about. And are important. I should be doing more of both. I'm talking here about walking to a wider horizon. Walking with no purpose, beyond just getting out into the world, walking across it, and seeing what's there to be seen.

It can be a short walk. But really, I'm thinking here of a walk of AT LEAST a few hours' duration. Preferably all day. And, most preferably, one of a few days together, dedicated to podial locomotion. For when you walk long distance, with no great agenda, or schedule, things start to happen. Your mind opens up. You start to relax. You get time to think, in an unstructured way - noticing the body's steady rhythm, the wind at your back or the sun on your arms. Seeing the various sights along the way - trees, and rocks, and soil; animals, vegetables, and minerals. Watching the landscape unfold before you, at walking pace, from ground level, is one of the most luxurious and relaxing things I can imagine.

Given that we can hold several thoughts in our minds at once, and that, at walking pace, there is time for these thoughts to ferment, mature, evolve - it's a fine opportunity to mull over the problematic items of life. When the going isn't too difficult. Moss forest, tropical karst, button grass swamp, horizontal scrub - all take their toll on progress - and need your full attention to traverse. But when there's open forest or - joy of joys - a track, a fire trail, a back-country road, the walking doesn't interfere too much with the mental journey.

And so, we plod along, in the moment, thinking deep and shallow thoughts. Building to those rewards granted the walker: the view from the top of a hill; a thirst-slaking beer at the end; the joy of a hot shower (or even, if you're lucky, a bath); and that delicious, slow descent into deep sleep that is the reward for today's effort, and the preparation for tomorrow's journey.

For a field geo, walking is part of our stock in trade. We are on our feet from the start of day one. But it's different in ways, that I'll talk about later. But, for now, just know that we walk a lot. And so, we have plenty of time to think about stuff. 

After a long career as a field-based mapping geologist, my work started to spiral inwards, to become more constrained. I've walked a lot as a geo, in eastern and southern Australia, northwest Queensland, Papua New Guinea, Fiji, Burma, Bangladesh. But over the last few years, with inevitable career changes, the focus has changed. I've moved from doing regional mapping, where the canvas, the area of interest, may be 100 km wide, to looking at dams. The focus is usually a hectare or two immediately around a dam wall, which may only be a hundred metres long

So, all this has led to a growing sense of claustrophobia. The need to break out, and put some kilometres under my feet.

What I'm going to do - well, that's the subject for another story. I'll tell you another day. Now - I just want to be somewhere, walking towards an open sky.

I'm back ...

Walking the Great Wen was a blogging project I started when I went to London and Paris in 2014 with my charming and delightful girlfriend Annie. I had hoped to make a travel diary.

The software wasn't up to the challenge. As we were on the go, I had an iPad and a phone. No laptop. And I found it impossible to do what I wanted - write stuff, interspersed with photos I had taken, to record our travels. It's a long, dull story, that you don't need to know. But it quickly became obvious that, away from the technological sophistication of a full (heavy!) laptop, the travel blog as I envisioned it  was a dud. Writing stories on Facebook became an easier option. And that's what I did.

Anyway, now I'm planning to resurrect WtGW as a continuing travel diary, with some imminent software/platform changes. In the interim, I'll struggle along here.

I'm excited to be working on a new travel writing project. I hope you follow me.

Alarums, excursions. Hautbois under stage - part 3

Love's Labour's Won (aka Much Ado About Nothing)

Royal Shakespeare Theatre, RSC, Stratford-upon-Avon

The conceit behind the current RSC pairing of Love's Labour's Lost and Much Ado About Nothing is that they are a matching pair of plays. Apparently, there is some historical support for the existence of a "missing" play called Love's Labour's Won. The two plays are similar romantic comedies, and LLL ends with the men departing for a year of absence from their lovers; MAAN starts with the men returning from war. Whatever the reason, RSC have programmed the two to run in rep over their current season. The plays are performed by the same company - we saw them as a Saturday matinee and evening show.

As well, this is the centenary of the start of WWI, and RSC has made the decision to mount the plays in Edwardian dress. The generally light tone of the plays fits well with the decision - with the somewhat darker moments of MMAN coinciding with the return from the Great War. The setting for both plays is the same - based on a local grand country house, Charlecot, near to Stratford-upon-Avon. In MAAN, it has been pressed into service as a hospital for the war-wounded, and the women of the play are in service as nurses. A touch of Downton Abbey comes to Shakespeare.

The performances are beautifully measured, with some great clowning and slapstick in several scenes. Whilst I love the play, it remains problematic in my mind. The savage denunciation of Hero by Claudio, that lies at the dramatic heart of the play, is so unaccountably savage, and his later recantation so immediate, to strain belief. As well. He gets away with it. In this production, once again, I find it hard to buy Claudio's labile  behaviour. However, the chemistry between Beatrice and Benedict carries the day.

Alarums, excursions. Hautbois under stage - part 2

Love's Labour's Lost

Royal Shakespeare Theatre, RSC, Stratford-upon-Avon

Another unfamiliar play; but this is Stratford, and potted, pre-digested anything about Shakespeare is easy to find. The story is slight - silly men renounce wine, women, food and sleep for three years (WTF?). The most worldly of them thinks this is a crock, but goes along with it. Then, unexpectedly, temptation arrives in the form of four women. Big surprise. The blokes are smitten. Again, big surprise.  Follows a section stolen from Cosi Fan Tutte, involving dressing up as Russians to test the affections of the ladies, but with the men in disguise directing their affections towards another than the one they really favour. You can't make this stuff up. Anyway, after a bit of this shenanigans, everyone is paired up, but the men agree to wait a year, to prove the mettle of their love. A more-or-less happy ending.

Except ...

This is England in 2014 - the centenary of WWI. References to the Great War are everywhere. RSC is staging this play, in company with Love's Labour's Won (aka Much Ado About Nothing - more on that to come). Both are set in Edwardian times, with LLL taking place immediately before the onset of war. When the men return on stage to take their leave for their year of exile, they are in uniform. In the background, just visible, are the red poppies of Flanders field. I found this moment intensely moving - we know what is coming, in a way that these young, innocent, unworldly men do not.

The play is delightfully performed, with a light and dexterous touch, and played for the laughs in the script. The verse is well spoken - which holds for all the plays web see in Stratford - so that the result is very intelligible, sounding like natural speech. A lot of fun.

The Wonder House of Spitalfields

Dennis Severs' House, Spitalfields 

"Authenticity" is a curious thing. A Holy Grail of house museums, but an elusive quality. Some house museums take a very prescriptive, purist approach to their collection, and others end up being a random selection of flat irons, old cricket team photos, and dusty snake skins. Dennis Severs' House in Spitalfields is a unique house that subverts conventional museums, yet creates a sense of domesticity that is remarkable. Created by Dennis Severs over an extended period, he sought to create "still life drama" that taxed the viewers' imagination and immersed them in a total experience.

It lives in an 18th Century townhouse in a quiet street in Spitalfields, in the inner East End. We are met at the door and given a brief intro. Turn phones to silent; no photos; no touching; the tour proceeds in silence; the house is lit only by candles - don't set yourself on fire. The conceit behind the experience is that the house is that it is lived in by a family of Huguenot silk weavers - the Jervis family; each room is set as though the occupants have just stepped out. We hear them, but never quite see. Thus we proceed, in silence, through rooms from basement to attic, through set pieces - kitchen, where a pudding is in preparation and a loaf partly sliced; parlours for both the men and the women of the house, where both genteel and riotous behaviour is underway. Bedrooms for the family, servants, and, at the very top, lodgers - taken in when the family has fallen on hard times.

The rooms are a series of sets with detailed, intricate art direction. As well, each room has a distinct soundtrack - of muffled voices, pets, passing foot and horse traffic, clocks. Most unusual and involving is the "olfactory" landscape - the smells of cooking, fires, mould, damp, and dust, that change from room to room.

I loved this place. The soft candlelight seems gloomy at first, but our eyes soon adapted. We visited at twilight, and the soft, gentle dusk filtering in the windows was entrancing. The total experience was unlike any house museum I've visited before. The sense of habitation is palpable. Authentic? I can't say. Effective? Definitely.

Alarums, excursions. Hautbois under stage - part 1

Three plays in two days at the Royal Shakespeare Company,

The White Devil

John Webster

Swan Theatre, RSC, Stratford-upon-Avon

A dark, brooding vision of evil. 

Webster's play is completely unfamiliar. The plot is very complex, and at times I found it hard to follow some of the intricacies of the action, but this wasn't a major turn-off. In this way, it reminded me of some of the more Byzantine film noir plots, where, unaccountably, yet another armed man enters the room. The detail stops mattering - it's the developing mood of dark and disquiet, pessimism and cynicism, that counts.

The plot flows around a high-octane lifestyle party set, fuelled by power, sex, drugs, rave parties. There's adultery and cuckoldry, the selling of favours and influence, and the manipulation of others for its own sake - the naked exercise of power and ambition. The body count is Tarantino-high. What's more, it effectively conflates sex and violence, in a very effective and chilling way. At the end, we see this whole rotten world being absorbed by the younger generation. Violence and the abuse of power becomes an inherent part of the human condition.

I liked this production a lot. The play is notable for some very strong leading roles for women, and Kirsty Bushell and Laura Elphinstone bring great power to the main roles. Set and costumes are slick and very stylish - performed on a very pared-back stage, in modern dress - the play clothes of the Über-party set. The Swan theatre is a great space, reminiscent of a Shakespearean theatre, with its deep thrust stage, tiered backstage chambers, and tiered seating on three sides. Every bit of the room was used, with action coming on from the wings, from the balconies, and from the auditorium. Impressive about this production - and also Julius Caesar at the Globe  - is the number of actors on stage. These are casts of over twenty players. That's a lot of actors getting steady work 

The production is spectacularly full of life, imagination, excitement. The on-stage sex is hot, exciting - something we rarely see. Vittoria's incarceration occurs in a monochromatic, slow motion, phantasmagoric space, eerily reminiscent of the world of Marat/Sade, given life by this same theatre company 40 years ago; Camillo's murder happens at a BDSM party. Everywhere is a heightened world of corruption and systemic abuse. The connection made between sex and violence is especially disturbing.

I felt that John Webster would have been very pleased with this production.

The Beat Goes On

It's Literature Week at London's Southbank, and there's a bunch of events with a literary flavour. In the serendipity of travel, we went to a poetry reading that had, we were told, potentially good DNA.  From the blurb: 

"The world premiere of a specially commissioned new poem, read by the poet herself. In Greek mythology, the Dawn fell in love with Tithonus and asked Zeus to make him immortal, but she forgot to ask that he should not grow old. Unable to die, he grew older and older, until at last Dawn locked him in a room where, several thousand years later, he still sits babbling to himself. This is an account of his babbling, written in real time, through a series of dawns from spring to midsummer 2014. It is a poem about survival. The performance begins in darkness and lasts 46 minutes (the length of dawn in midsummer)."

So - some promise, perhaps. What we got was one of the more curious moments of theatre I have seen for a while. The first 5 minutes were conducted in total darkness. A lone voice in the darkness. The poem owes a lot to the beat poets, and was clearly partly improvised, with lots of repetition about a theme.

The idea of coming out of darkness was potentially effective, except I nodded off after a few minutes - it had been a long day. So did a number of audience neighbours. I missed the transition to half light - the start of dawn - but am reliably informed that it was clunky and not particularly effective. Under the gradually brightening lights, the poet persisted on her chosen course, interrupted at times by improvised music from a bowed dulcimer-like instrument, fitted with various electronic delays and loops. It was as soporific as the verse.

After 46 minutes of this, it just stopped. No sense of climax, or arrival. No sense of "performance" either. A production desperately in need of some theatrical direction. The most telling thing, for me, was that, despite a few startling images captured in the moment from the incessant word stream at the time, a few minutes late, I couldn't recall a thing.