I’ve found it rather difficult, creating new posts for “Digitao” as you can see from the few posts I have made so far. I think one of the reasons for this is that I have not clarified in my own mind what I want to say and how to say it.
Often I’ll have an idea, let’s say, writing about my adventures cycling along the canal tow paths. I go out, usually with my camera, and along the journey I feel inspired to write about it. When I get home I set the computer up and download the photographs from my camera. Then follows an editorial frenzy of deletion discarding photographs that are crapalicious while all the time thinking of what to say and how to word it.
Generally it goes from I am here I went there and there and this is what I saw and how I felt to, the history and social dynamics of change in the country, how the canals were built, the industry that grew and declined there and how that affected the society bordering the canal. The wildlife, the decline and renewal. I have gone from wishing to include the odd photograph of interesting or picturesque places I have cycled past through to videoing my journey by a camera gaffer taped to my head to a flying drone with video camera.
I just get overwhelmed, swamped with ideas and I stall.
All of this is before the harsh critic pipes up about grammar, worth and art.
So just like this little post here I have decided to just write what I like and how I like to write about it.
The song of Hiawatha is a poem I read as a young boy and loved instantly. The rhythm of it, trochaic tetrameter, stayed with me after reading and echoed in my boyish mind sometimes for hours after.
I plan on setting aside some quiet moments and reading it again in full.
Here it is on-line at the author Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s website.
I have tried over the past few years to accustom myself to the increasing usage of the word “So” when it is plonked at the beginning of a sentence.
I find it particularly distracting when listening to an otherwise intelligent and competent academic taking part in a discussion on any one of the BBC’s excellent factual programmes such as In Our Time, The Life Scientific, Inside Science and the like, reply to a question starting with “so”.
Why do they do it? It is unfathomable. It could be a discussion on the nature of dark matter or the possibilities of unlimited power through cold fusion. The presenter would introduce a knowledgable person in that field of study and ask them a question say, “What is dark matter and how is it measured?” Upon which the first thing uttered by the expert is, so! Usually this “so” distracts and confounds me to such an extent that I completely miss the explanation that follows.
I was encouraged somewhat to find John Humphrys also finds this invasion of the so and so’s equally baffling and irritating. Here he is discussing the matter with John Rentoul on the Today Progamme.
A couple of months ago on social media a cousin sent my sister a photograph of me aged about one or two. My father is holding me while I am playing with a football. This is the first and only photograph I have seen of me with my father, it was very moving. My father died in a motorcycle accident shortly after my third birthday. I am now sixty years of age.
I thanked my cousin Delia for the photograph and in conversation mentioned how I had lost contact with my fathers side of the family, Hodge, over the years. The next day she had managed to trace an aunt through an ancestry website and supplied me with her address. This rekindled my interest in tracing my family and with her help I found I could trace the Hodge side of my family back to 1659.
To say this piqued my interest would be an understatement.
If the research is correct it means my great great grandfather through to my 7th great grandfather lived and worked most of their lives in Cornwall. I had to investigate further. My bones wanted to walk the paths my ancestors bones walked upon.
You should always listen to your bones.
It was my G G grandfather Thomas Hodge who left Cornwall and made his way to Liverpool. He was born in Redruth so this is where I decided to head for and start my walkabout.
It was an eight hour journey by rail to Redruth station from Liverpool with two changes along the way. I had plenty of time to wonder how this journey may have been for Thomas and his wife Charlotte.
I booked a room in a local pub not far from the station and arrived there at about five in the evening. Time for a cup of tea and a wander about the town which is situated astride hills that can be quite steep. All about you can see remnants and reminders of the mining industry from the huge chimneys in the distance to the statue of a miner at the top of the local high street.
In the evening at the bar I was introduce to a chap who was a miner and is now retired. He told me a little bit about life as a miner in Redruth and suggested a couple of places to visit. He corrected me when I asked if the tunnels are crooked because they follow the seam of ore in the ground? He said no, the miners call it the lode not the seam and they are anfractuous because the miner will only cleave out of the ground the ore and enough space to work in. Anything else would be a waste of time and energy and you don’t get paid for that.
The next few days I set out to visit the towns, mines and churches I knew my ancient Cornish family had lived, loved, worked and died in. I found myself touching the old stone walls in country lanes where I imagined they once walked and the brickwork of churches where they were baptised and married. This was an instinctual thing I found myself doing, a primeval urge for some form of contact, a communion of blood and bones.
The last day of my wanderings I spent in Pendeen, staying at The North Inn. I could have quite happily stayed there a week. I visited Geevor tin mine which is only a short walk away from the Inn and has guided tours of the mine. Even though there were only the two of us, my guide and I, and there was not the noise and air pollution of rocks being wrenched from the earth and hauled to the surface, I found myself keen to get to the surface. I had only been down there for half an hour and thought never to do so again. These men and boys who worked down there hour after backbreaking spirit crunching hour have my total admiration.
I decided to walk the coastal path back to the Inn. The heavens were dazzlingly bright with clouds racing across an azure blue sky in the strong Atlantic wind. The noise of the pounding waves beating against the outcrops of granite and cliffs of Penwith and Pendeen formed such a contrast with the claustrophobic darkness of the mines, each emphasising the intensity of the other.
How many miners have walked the coastal paths after ascending from the dark depths of the mines? Paths which have since eroded with time and tide and fallen into the sea.
Following the Lode
Wandering about wondering. Wondering about wandering.