Tree in the Enchanted Garden, Sheffield Park Garden, East Sussex. More photos on Flickr: Enchanted Garden.

Viaduct in Eynsford, Kent.

Other things I did in the last week of December, according to Twitter:
December 28th: Searched for grotesques in a graveyard.
December 31st: Played in the snow at Kew, while taking a break from triffid hunting.
1. I was on TV last night, in a penis documentary, albeit briefly, in the background. (This was filmed during my birthday celebration in February at the Foundry. [ profile] wintrmute, [ profile] renegade_badger and [ profile] antipodienne were also definitely on TV, but I shall watch it again and look out for anyone else who was there!)

2. British Gas believe my name is "J. Christ".

3. Today, my mum and I laughed at Iain Sinclair's description of the church where I was christened and also the village where I grew up:

"The church of St Martin runs with the theme of heads: detached and poking out of walls. As if these gargoyles, shrunken saints, were abandoning Christianity and reverting to paganism. Eynsford, according to Arthur Mee, has claim to 'a straight mile unique on the map of rural England, beginning with the site of a Roman house, passing a Norman castle, and ending at the site of a Saxon settlement'. Fifteen chill faces peek from the plaster, measuring their mile, the lost alignments. Green Men, May Queens. The energy is in the stone, the natives can't compete. They do their best, medieval carvings brought to life (with some reluctance). They move slowly, in case their limbs should crumble into dust. They stare."- Iain Sinclair, London Orbital.

Am I a medieval carving that stares and whose limbs might crumble into dust if I don't move slowly?

Hay Bale

Aug. 20th, 2007 10:48 pm
Hay Bale
Road to Beachy Head
I arrived in Eynsford at dusk and plunged my feet into the long soft grass. I then tip-toed along the yellow line that had been painted across the garden. My dad explained the line was to mark the location of a fence that will be taller than me and will surround the new house he intends to construct. I began to mourn the separated land, laden with childhood adventures and secret camps amongst sumac trees, but I don't live there anymore anyway. I have my memories.

I saw the sunset traipsing across the sky above the hills every evening I was there. When dawn came, I was woken by birds chirping, singing, bleating and then again, soon after, by my brother, lost, or checking who was sleeping in his sister's room. He does not remember.
Saturday at Beachy Head, Monday in the woods )


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