"the leaves are very similar to those of a beech tree - it could actually be a beech tree - but the leaves are glossier. they seem somehow more robust. the branches, certainly, are more robust. a little lithe branch the size a little thicker than your thumb would hold your weight. however, its littleness and litheness does not compromise, by any degree, its strength. the whole tree in fact shines with robustness, exudes Robustness and Beauty and Grace. the tree rises to about, about the height of a three-storey house and then the big robust branches spill down gracefully like the water after an upward jet in a fountain, but actually growing gradually outward, in the shape of a steep pyramid. like a candle that severely loves to melt.
a noble tree. we climbed from the inside, never straying far from the dark trunk. friend francis cautioned against being spotted by the police officers, which we had just seen as we entered the park. what! i thought, how could they object to the beautiful action of getting close to such a tree? the inside of the tree is like a tepee because you can't see beyond the flowing curtain of glossy leaves on the outside.
being at the top gave an unparallelled sensation of being at the top of something really sacred and noble and monumental, like a little himalayan peak, in the shape of a tree, in a park in oxford. friend francis was like a monkey. he climbed down one of the downward flowing external branches. i didn't have enough confidence. i was archly aware of the distance separating me from the ground, and slowly picked my way down, keeping close to the trunk in the gathering gloom".
i was telling this to brother finlay as we were heading to the abandoned house, just outside st andrews, when suddenly we caught sight of exactly the same noble tree, only a little less tall, and a little less conical, its downward flow interrupted by the excrescences of exploratory uprising branches.
we set about climbing her immediately, unhurridly. the diaphanous daylight of the midafternoon was the ideal occasion to become aquainted with that tree. to become aquainted with a tree, to become intimate with her. to hug her branches with all of one's will, it is an embrace which is intimate and necessary for one's safe passage along her lithe but robust limbs.
a lithe tree, a beaming, green tree.
a tree growing exultantly.
a tree to be proud to be aquainted with.
another remarkable encounter was produced a few days later, after spending the afternoon hitch-hiking to aberdeen, after standing at a layby in the gathering gloom thinking: most likely i will head into those fields and pitch my tent somewhere, then being picked up by a geologist who told me about his project to build a house on the ruins of an old farmhouse overlooking the sea to the south of stonehaven, then walking through the streets of dark aberdeen, in the direction of seaton park where i planned to sleep by the river, and then catching sight of steve addy, an old acquaintance from the university of aberdeen climbing club, who strode past me in his characteristic brisk pace.
"steve!" i said.
"carson!" he said "i half wondered if it was you . . . fancy coming to my house for a cup of tea?"
a cup of tea, which turned into a plate of pasta, which turned into an evening of pleasant conversation. i told steve about my plans to head soon to Iona, and do a painting of the beach there, and steve told me about finlay wild's paintings of familiar scottish highland peaks, made unfamiliar through his use of wild flamboyant colours for sky and hill, only recognisable by the unique shape of the hills. at one point steve got out his african bongo drums and we had a session in his kitchen, which was very satisfying - feeling our way through a repertoire of rhythms recorded in our memories, looking at each other quizically every so often, wondering where the rhythm would take us. after a cosy night's dreaming on his living room sofa, and after some breakfast the next morning, i said to steve: "i am very glad to have been deflected on my route to seaton park."
another remarkable encounter had been produced when i was hitching to the vineyards. i got as far as reims, then misread the bus timetable, then spent a while admiring the imposing cathedral (see photograph below), then discovered i had missed the last bus and walked in the gathering gloom to the big road which leads to the motorway south and stuck my thumb out and thought: "most likely i will sleep somewhere in the park, then get the bus tomorrow, and miss the first day picking grapes" but very soon a sleek low-slung sports car stopped and a business-looking man ushered me in saying "it was only by faulty-route-finding that i was passing through the centre of reims". he was going all the way to geneva. he told me that he had hitchhiked in his twenties through USA and canada, and had lived in the USA for seven years. i told him that his english accent was incredibly english sounding, with no hint of US twang. he replied crisply: "yes, i was careful not to let myself become . . .
infected"
everything he said he said crisply and deliberately. he said that he commutes regularly between geneva and his company somewhere north of Reims, and every so often he stopped for hitchhikers, but added: "i do not stop for every hitchhiker that i see. there are some that would make my car . . .
smelly."
conversation was sparse. towards the end of the lift i asked him what he worked as and he told me that he had set up a company that gave pilot runs for the fastest newest cars on the market. he said that the car we were in was capable of doing 300km/hr, but that it often wasn't practical to go at such a speed. for me it was my first experience of sustained fast road travel, for he cruised along the motorway at a steady 180km/hr for over an hour, gliding easily past all other vehicles and very soon i had been dropped off near Troyes. there remained about 25km to the place where i would pick grapes, of which i walked about 10km along a quiet road under the stars until someone else stopped for me, having spotted my piece of cardboard upon which i had painted "Les Riceys." he said to me, "i knew you would be here for the vendanges, heading to les riceys with your rucksack."
it felt a bit miraculous to walk into the salon at 11:30pm and be welcomed by a little group of that year's grape-pickers, among whom was marie, who gave me a big hug and insisted that we had met at a party in paris back in february.
it took me about twenty minutes for the memory of that encounter to come back.
it is funny that it can take about twenty minutes for one's memory to dredge up an event which is actually lodged firmly in one's mind but which initially remains concealed from memory's probing feelers.
Reims cathedral
an exemplar of a tree of the same genus, here in Hyde park, London
(photo courtesy of friend francis)
(photo courtesy of friend francis)
man, what a tree.
a noble tree. we climbed from the inside, never straying far from the dark trunk. friend francis cautioned against being spotted by the police officers, which we had just seen as we entered the park. what! i thought, how could they object to the beautiful action of getting close to such a tree? the inside of the tree is like a tepee because you can't see beyond the flowing curtain of glossy leaves on the outside.
being at the top gave an unparallelled sensation of being at the top of something really sacred and noble and monumental, like a little himalayan peak, in the shape of a tree, in a park in oxford. friend francis was like a monkey. he climbed down one of the downward flowing external branches. i didn't have enough confidence. i was archly aware of the distance separating me from the ground, and slowly picked my way down, keeping close to the trunk in the gathering gloom".
i was telling this to brother finlay as we were heading to the abandoned house, just outside st andrews, when suddenly we caught sight of exactly the same noble tree, only a little less tall, and a little less conical, its downward flow interrupted by the excrescences of exploratory uprising branches.
we set about climbing her immediately, unhurridly. the diaphanous daylight of the midafternoon was the ideal occasion to become aquainted with that tree. to become aquainted with a tree, to become intimate with her. to hug her branches with all of one's will, it is an embrace which is intimate and necessary for one's safe passage along her lithe but robust limbs.
a lithe tree, a beaming, green tree.
a tree growing exultantly.
a tree to be proud to be aquainted with.
another remarkable encounter was produced a few days later, after spending the afternoon hitch-hiking to aberdeen, after standing at a layby in the gathering gloom thinking: most likely i will head into those fields and pitch my tent somewhere, then being picked up by a geologist who told me about his project to build a house on the ruins of an old farmhouse overlooking the sea to the south of stonehaven, then walking through the streets of dark aberdeen, in the direction of seaton park where i planned to sleep by the river, and then catching sight of steve addy, an old acquaintance from the university of aberdeen climbing club, who strode past me in his characteristic brisk pace.
"steve!" i said.
"carson!" he said "i half wondered if it was you . . . fancy coming to my house for a cup of tea?"
a cup of tea, which turned into a plate of pasta, which turned into an evening of pleasant conversation. i told steve about my plans to head soon to Iona, and do a painting of the beach there, and steve told me about finlay wild's paintings of familiar scottish highland peaks, made unfamiliar through his use of wild flamboyant colours for sky and hill, only recognisable by the unique shape of the hills. at one point steve got out his african bongo drums and we had a session in his kitchen, which was very satisfying - feeling our way through a repertoire of rhythms recorded in our memories, looking at each other quizically every so often, wondering where the rhythm would take us. after a cosy night's dreaming on his living room sofa, and after some breakfast the next morning, i said to steve: "i am very glad to have been deflected on my route to seaton park."
another remarkable encounter had been produced when i was hitching to the vineyards. i got as far as reims, then misread the bus timetable, then spent a while admiring the imposing cathedral (see photograph below), then discovered i had missed the last bus and walked in the gathering gloom to the big road which leads to the motorway south and stuck my thumb out and thought: "most likely i will sleep somewhere in the park, then get the bus tomorrow, and miss the first day picking grapes" but very soon a sleek low-slung sports car stopped and a business-looking man ushered me in saying "it was only by faulty-route-finding that i was passing through the centre of reims". he was going all the way to geneva. he told me that he had hitchhiked in his twenties through USA and canada, and had lived in the USA for seven years. i told him that his english accent was incredibly english sounding, with no hint of US twang. he replied crisply: "yes, i was careful not to let myself become . . .
infected"
everything he said he said crisply and deliberately. he said that he commutes regularly between geneva and his company somewhere north of Reims, and every so often he stopped for hitchhikers, but added: "i do not stop for every hitchhiker that i see. there are some that would make my car . . .
smelly."
conversation was sparse. towards the end of the lift i asked him what he worked as and he told me that he had set up a company that gave pilot runs for the fastest newest cars on the market. he said that the car we were in was capable of doing 300km/hr, but that it often wasn't practical to go at such a speed. for me it was my first experience of sustained fast road travel, for he cruised along the motorway at a steady 180km/hr for over an hour, gliding easily past all other vehicles and very soon i had been dropped off near Troyes. there remained about 25km to the place where i would pick grapes, of which i walked about 10km along a quiet road under the stars until someone else stopped for me, having spotted my piece of cardboard upon which i had painted "Les Riceys." he said to me, "i knew you would be here for the vendanges, heading to les riceys with your rucksack."
it felt a bit miraculous to walk into the salon at 11:30pm and be welcomed by a little group of that year's grape-pickers, among whom was marie, who gave me a big hug and insisted that we had met at a party in paris back in february.
it took me about twenty minutes for the memory of that encounter to come back.
it is funny that it can take about twenty minutes for one's memory to dredge up an event which is actually lodged firmly in one's mind but which initially remains concealed from memory's probing feelers.
Reims cathedral
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