A September to Remember
Let’s make some memories, I said to my lad. And so we did. I made a few individual memories of my own too.
Let’s make some memories, I said to my lad. And so we did. I made a few individual memories of my own too.
As a young child growing up I seem to remember that from the final bell of the school year right through until that awkward and unwanted return six weeks later, it was wall to wall unbroken sunshine, with never a cloud to be seen. This is of course a mere trick of the mind and patently false, however, growing up as I did on the sunny South Coast (and as I’m wont to say to strangers I’m just a sliver of a waterway from being French), it’s maybe not as far off the mark as it may originally seem. I do distinctly remember leaving the flat in central Portsmouth and getting from under my Mother’s feet most mornings in the summer holiday’s with just a deflating football, a cricket bat and a ragged tennis ball and searching out friends for a game, any game, to while away the hours in the warm sunshine of my hometown. I would be gone all day, nearly every day, and the only surprise being when I returned early during the day and that would only be to beg and scrounge 50p or so from my beleaguered Mother for some “ice poles” as we called them (or at least I did). Now these have been firmly branded and you would need far in excess of 50p to keep a young sporty kid happy with those plastic wrapped melting poles of ice cold delight. A quick sandwich, hopefully an equally quick spotting of my Dad between working shifts if I was lucky and I was back outside and primarily either running around in the “concrete jungle” of the council flats in our local district, a game of cricket in the “Flower Park” (which wasn’t particularly a park and it was almost always completely devoid of flowers) or the occasional ultimate treat, the short bus ride to the seaside. Whether it was football on the occasional strips of green field within the cramped confines of the flats, hitting a six into the adjoining Whitbread alcohol factory from the Flower Park or seeing the beautiful coastline from the top deck of a bus (and this always thrilled me), it was always sunny growing up wasn’t it?
The reason I posit this slightly tongue in cheek question is our Summers in the UK now seem to be split into two distinct periods every year whereby for a 7–10 day period in early Summer we experience a blistering heatwave that has all of us spread-eagled in the garden like lizards, lapping up the continental weather for a day or so before we complain at the intensity of the heat and quickly reach for the fans and for our mobile phones in order to complain about it on Twitter and then, seemingly every September, we experience a late burst of beautiful unbroken sunshine for another 7–10 day period which we used to call an “Indian Summer” and which whilst I regard this as a quaint old fashioned term of affection, is probably now deemed politically incorrect. In between these two bursts of Summer, we can all be found complaining that yet another English Summer had petered out under darkly black skies (“If the sun don’t come you get your tan by standing in the English rain” as The Beatles crooned) which threatened constant rain and many of us will again log into Twitter to complain about the lack of another Summer.
September is always particularly poignant for me as it’s the month of my beautiful lad’s birthday and this year he turned from youth into an official adult as he entered his 18th year on planet earth. Growing up, though he barely remembers such milestones we as parents would always have a family UK holiday to coincide with our lad’s birthday and so September would always start with long trips that were both enjoyed and sometimes endured to Cornwall (couple of occasions), Bournemouth and particularly the North/West Wales coast (3/4 occasions). Older year birthdays have been celebrated in individual visits to London, theme parks or film/TV inspired “worlds” (Harry Potter/Dr Who) and following the humdrum and downright soul destroying experience of the lockdown(s) I suggested to my lad that we should make it a September to remember and “make some memories”. I’m renowned for suggesting such cliched nonsense such as this, of “embracing the experience” and other such balderdash and usually my lad looks at me like I’m a piece of mouldy cheese! But surprisingly, and considering I/We have barely left the small local suburb of Telford where we live for the 18 months of tedious lockdown, he eagerly agreed. He’s a trooper my son, and I love him dearly for it.
Our first joint point of call was the magnificent market town of Hay on Wye on the English/Welsh border and residing next to the meandering River Wye. After two previous singular visits to Hay I wanted my son to experience the aura (a term I will return to a number of times if I manage to keep this rambling train on the tracks) as places, people and particular areas resonate with me as having an aura all of their own, it’s soulfully and spiritually fulfilling and Hay on Wye certainly has all of those in spades. We also “found” a spot I hadn’t on previous visits which I’ll come to. But as well as being a twinned city with Timbuktu, Hay is also known as the “Town of Books” and to say there are books available in nearly every nook and cranny of this magnificent town would be a huge understatement. There are of course bookshops, innumerable bookshops, dotted throughout the town but what makes this town entirely unique is that even in the more regular/bespoke and typical market town shops you will find at least one bookshelf with books to peruse or buy. The simple pleasure of a quiet hot drink and sandwich in a Cafe is brilliantly enhanced by there being a shelf, a bookcase or a vast array of books dotted around the establishment. For a bookhound such as myself, this is manna from heaven and a wonderful tale of a bygone age now replaced by the ever quickening pace of life and the incessant hum and beeping of mobile telephones that litter our sonic and scenic landscape.
Now dear reader, I have to admit I have obsessions. I even have obsessions about my obsessions. One could almost label me as obsessive and if you did, I’d be obsessed about that too. But come on! An old cinema that has been converted into a bookshop! And, not to put too finer point on it, a huge old cinema that is crammed full and bulging at the seams with books of every possible description and a maze of floor to ceiling books that a bookhound like me could get lost in and possibly never leave? Well, it puts the maze in “The Shining” to shame! Thankfully, where huge snowdrifts and a deranged lunatic carrying an axe and deadly thoughts were the preserve of the mind of Stephen King, here we have the rather old fashioned and jolly lovely past time of British folk strolling in awe of the dusty beauty that is The Hay Cinema Bookshop, eagerly seeking out additions to their own particular bookshelves and libraries. I can’t possibly recommend this place enough, nor the town of Hay on Wye itself and we also “found” a place called “The Warren” too.
I’d obviously been lazy on my previous individual visits to Hay as a simple and beautiful 15 minute riverside stroll from the town centre led us to The Warren and as the sun was beating down beautifully on us on this day, it couldn’t possibly have been any better. I would describe it as a perfect blend between a typically British rolling and ambling river set against a stony seaside eerily reminiscent (but much, much smaller in scale) than that of my hometown of Portsmouth. Which is probably why I felt so at home. Sunbathers were lapping up the last of the summer sun, numerous dogs were enjoying a river paddle and a game of “fetch”. There were paddle boarders, canoeists and a host of others enjoying the simple pleasure of a paddle in a cold river on a hot day. I joined them, albeit briefly, as I simply couldn’t resist but my son firmly resisted and with aching bones and wide smiles, we bid farewell to this beautiful English/Welsh riverside town, with memories firmly made.
The month of memories rolled on as we jointly visited Ironbridge in Telford, Shropshire on three separate occasions. One was as a mini birthday treat, the other two simply for the sheer hell of it as given the opportunity I’d visit Ironbridge every day and, for four years between 2012 and 2016 I did as I was lucky enough to live there. For those four years my son and I strolled alongside the river Severn, basking in the serene and beautiful surroundings as we forged our own path along the wharfage, past the famous and World Heritage Site bridge, past the high street shops that still remain in a character reminiscent of a bygone age, a throwback to a century earlier, amidst the locals lucky enough to live and/or grown up here and whom remain fiercely proud of their tiny hamlet/town, onward to our favourite duck feeding spot beside one of the numerous museums and through a local park to the rowing club and the peace and tranquillity of a quiet spot beside the river. My son and I enjoyed this stroll (and it’s equally beautiful return trip) hundreds upon hundreds of times in my four short years of living here and it never aged (certainly not for me) and in all honesty I could and should be doing that exact same stroll at the very minute I’m sat here drinking tea, hitting these keys on a laptop and rambling on, and on, and on.
Ironbridge, and the neighbouring hamlets of Coalbrookdale, Jackfield and Coalport all sit on the banks of the river Severn and all share that rarefied air and aura all of their own. I took residence mainly on the square platform that faces the iron bridge itself and is a magnet for visiting locals and tourists alike. Armed with a book, a mug of freshly brewed tea from my flat nearby, I cut a strange figure at the height of summer as I descended the steps towards that platform, that beautiful sight of a centuries old bridge and “Stephen’s Bench” which faced it. Please excuse the narcissism regarding the naming of the bench, it’s an in joke but also with more than a grain of truth to it, for I spent countless hours simply enhancing a burgeoning suntan as well as drinking in the magnificent sight. It is but an old bridge over a gently rolling river, but to me it’s so, so much more than that. Equal parts oasis of calm, a spirit enhancing aura, a quiet place of reflection, THE perfect spot for reading a book, the place I called my Mother on numerous occasions, a meeting spot for friends (as they always knew I’d be there!) and a place I cried more than a bucketful of tears. It was also the spot whereby I became an unpaid and very enthusiastic tourist guide for Ironbridge, picture taker, smile collector and discussion host. Putting my book down to take someone’s picture often developed into conversations for innumerable fellow human beings drawn to the magnificence of Ironbridge and from all points on the compass from around the world. I blagged my knowledge, as although I may have been a “local” I was born 200 miles away on the South Coast of England and just a brief ghost of a resident for a short while, but it’s amazing how a short conversation on the age of the bridge and it’s creation quickly develops into varying and multiple tangential ways with fellow humans regardless of age, colour, creed or societal disposition. I used to revel in this, the simple tenet of human interaction in one of the world’s most beautiful of spots. I won’t be remembered, just a ship passing on a river underneath a bridge, but that’s not important. It’s the memories, and last month my son and I made some more of these in one of my many spiritual homes and whilst I don’t believe he’ll ever see Ironbridge in quite this particular light, maybe one day he just might.
It is here that my son and I’s joint memory making drew to an end for the month of memories for September and there are varying reasons for this. The trips to both The Stiperstones and Carding Mill Valley which follow would’ve been too physically arduous for him and my return home to Portsmouth (covered in my blog here entitled “My Hometown” would’ve also been too physically demanding as well as emotionally draining) so I pick up the baton alone to briefly sound the tourist horn for my adopted county of Shropshire and The Stiperstones and Carding Mill Valley. They are separated by just a five mile stretch of winding and (if you travel across the Long Mynd) a perilous looking car journey seemingly way up in the clouds!) but once back on level ground, both are places of real beauty to appreciate, though should you venture to either of these locations outside of Spring or Summer, do ensure you have walking boots!
The Stiperstones date back over 480 million years and are apparently made of innumerable amounts of quartzite rock(s) in varying formations over a hilly and often steep climbs over a five mile radius covering the Shropshire hills. I have now been on two separate occasions and have yet to cover every allocated walk/climb but once you are situated at a central point there are rock formations in all directions and all with the incredible backdrop of the Shropshire hills and (on a clear day) you can see as far as your eyes will allow. It’s a spectacular sight, a strenuous enough walk, a tough climb in places, but I found a particular rock formation that fitted my bodily frame perfectly and lazed like a lizard in the blazing sun for half an hour and it was as peaceful and perfect as perfect can be. I also drew the attention of the many professional and avid walkers rambling by and smiles and jokes littered the beautifully fresh air!
Carding Mill Valley is another National Trust site of natural beauty carved beneath that treacherous stretch of the Long Mynd above and another beautiful, if strenuous in places, walk through and up the Shropshire hills. There are numerous off piste walks you can explore or if you prefer there are guideposts directing you to the reservoir or New Pool Hollow walk, The Burway Loop, the Pipe Walk or especially the walk to the Lightspout waterfall. I tackled three of these four main walks and as stated above, bring your walking boots if going outside of Spring or Summer, but this is again another beautiful place of nature, calm and beauty and walking alone, I received so many smiles, conversations and acknowledgements from fellow members of our human family. Twas quite the afternoon. It was even remarked that I bore an uncanny resemblance to a visiting school party’s Headteacher and they first feared my approach (thinking I was indeed their dreaded Headteacher) before being giving a hearty cheer when it was obvious I was not! Being given a round of applause and thunderous cheers for being someone I’m not. Sometimes reality is too, well, real.
I seem to have somewhat drifted off track and begun sounding like a cheerleading tourist for the English and Welsh countryside, so what was the point of this photo laden ramble? Well, in keeping with the ethos of this blog it is purely my recent attempt at improving my mental well being and by escaping the horrendous nature of the lockdown(s) that have been foisted upon us and I was determined to create a September to remember and a month of memories. I give myself a 7 out of 10 as I didn’t include my son in everything that I/We wanted to do and I certainly didn’t venture to a place called Aberdovey on the seaside coast of Wales which was a prime location I desperately wanted to visit and with my lad too. By all accounts it’s another picturesque and beautiful place with another aura all of it’s own and having never been before I wanted to accomplish this in September, but didn’t. But I will. Then again, with the current restrictions in Wales it was probably a good idea to avoid here at present as I understand that as soon as you pass across the border into Wales at the moment you are immediately sprayed with disinfectant and hosed down with fresh seawater!
But seriously, I’ve always been a free bird and one who’s more at peace outside, preferably next to a body of water (almost every location here you’ll notice contains a stretch of water — it’s my South Coast genes) and just simply walking, enjoying the open expanse of a coastline, riverway or countryside, and I’ve missed such simple, near cost zero pleasures. The absence of these pleasures, together with my own inner demons and the daily anxieties of not knowing in which direction my life will be heading continues to hit me hard and personally speaking, it’s the not knowing that kills you. I haven’t done anything particularly ground breaking and nor have I gone walking around the mountains of Peru. But I have done something and something is better than nothing. I’m trying to be a better and happier me. For me. But also for my son. I’ve had the darkest of all thoughts in recent months, and in recent years if I’m truly honest and that can’t continue. Portsmouth. Ironbridge. Hay On Wye. The Stiperstones. Carding Mill Valley. And now this blog.
7 out of 10 Stephen. Well done.
