Walthamstow marshes in winter. This is part of my ongoing series about nature and survival in London.
My work on the Faroese postal workers and the important role they play in connecting both the Faroe Islands and it’s people has been published by the BBC today. Here is the link to the piece if you’d like to read it,
The German couple arrived in a small boat, the word is skiff isnt it? A boat for one or two. The bay was so still its surface was taut and oily like celluloid film. They sat by their fire drinking cider and wine, they played music on their iphone and it bounced off the smooth stones they sat on. They’d moved out of Germany and lived in this small fjord in Norway. She was the local shop keeper. They told stories of their neighbours having guns for hunting and dynamite for blasting the foundations of their homes. He recalled how someone once dropped dynamite whilst handing it to him. The sun was nearly set, it was past midnight. As I was walking back to my boat the German man jumped up and pointed to the sky. An eagle passed over our heads, it’s silhouette passed across the pontoon, over the mast and into the tree line.Continue Reading
I spent some time walking the waterways out of London or on the fringes, especially in winter and was particularly interested in the deep waters around industry and the way trees, birds and fish responded. There is something dark about these places even on the brightest of days. This photograph is included in my series ‘The Current’.
It makes me think of the pike in the river along this stretch and I was thinking then of Ted Hughes’s poem Pike.
Pike, three inches long, perfect
Pike in all parts, green tigering the gold.
Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin.
They dance on the surface among the flies.
Or move, stunned by their own grandeur,
Over a bed of emerald, silhouette
Of submarine delicacy and horror.
A hundred feet long in their world.
In ponds, under the heat-struck lily pads-
Gloom of their stillness:
Logged on last year’s black leaves, watching upwards.
Or hung in an amber cavern of weeds
The jaws’ hooked clamp and fangs
Not to be changed at this date:
A life subdued to its instrument;
The gills kneading quietly, and the pectorals.
Three we kept behind glass,
Jungled in weed: three inches, four,
And four and a half: fed fry to them-
Suddenly there were two. Finally one
With a sag belly and the grin it was born with.
And indeed they spare nobody.
Two, six pounds each, over two feet long
High and dry and dead in the willow-herb-
One jammed past its gills down the other’s gullet:
The outside eye stared: as a vice locks-
The same iron in this eye
Though its film shrank in death.
A pond I fished, fifty yards across,
Whose lilies and muscular tench
Had outlasted every visible stone
Of the monastery that planted them-
Stilled legendary depth:
It was as deep as England. It held
Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old
That past nightfall I dared not cast
But silently cast and fished
With the hair frozen on my head
For what might move, for what eye might move.
The still splashes on the dark pond,
Owls hushing the floating woods
Frail on my ear against the dream
Darkness beneath night’s darkness had freed,
That rose slowly toward me, watching.
I used to live in Deptford and at the time noticed the heron’s living along the heavily urbanised River Ravensbourne . The river runs through Lewisham and empties into the Thames at Deptford Creek. The bird became a bit of a symbol for me of nature living in the city and from then on I’ve become interested in London’s non man made world and how it survives and in some places thrives.