Green Knight – Debbie Cannon (Review)

The story of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight dates from the late 14th Century. Originally, a poem, it tells the story of a knight’s quest. Two main themes thread the entire story – the courage needed to face a seemingly unwinnable challenge and Sir Gawain’s struggles with temptation.

Talented performer, Debbie Cannon, returns to the Buxton Fringe Festival after winning the Best Female Actor (2018) for her performance of the same show. It is easy to see why she won that accolade. From the moment she appeared in the room at the Green Man Gallery, the audience became totally immersed in the story and her performance.

This is no ‘Jackanory’, style rendering, where the storyteller is rooted in a chair. Debbie utilises the entire space. Her voice and physicality are enhanced further by the use of just a few props including a sheet, an apple and a spoon.

She is mysterious, feeding us little clues here and there as the story progresses, never uttering her name, although by the conclusion of the show we know who she is and the role she played.

She sings, dances and jokes with the audience – there are some very funny moments, but there is also introspection. We care about this narrator and how things will turn out for her.

In one of Debbie’s opening lines she told us, “I love these stories”, and her enthusiasm and skill bears this out. This fantastic story has endured for centuries and Debbie has taken the source material and created a completely unique and accessible version for the modern audience. I would urge you all to take advantage of her return to the Buxton Fringe and see this show. It really is unmissable.

The Mermaid’s Pool and Other Stories – Raintown Seers (Review)

Tucked inside the Old Clubhouse I had come to see the Raintown Seers, an acoustic folk band who hail from the High Peak area.

The hour long show sees the trio play all eleven tracks from their highly acclaimed album and also the show’s title – The Mermaid’s Pool and Other Stories.

Prefacing each song, guitarist and song writer Neil Fisher gives a brief introduction telling the audience what inspired its lyrics. All the songs are original, bar one excellent cover version of a song by Ewan McColl.

The subject matter is varied with many songs referencing local legends or stories, but there are also sea faring tales and a poignant opener about the thousands of GI brides who made the trip across the Atlantic to the USA and those who didn’t find their partner waiting for them.

The lyrics have been written from a variety of viewpoints including a ghost and a murderer, but I won’t say more as I don’t want to spoil the enjoyment of having the tales and music unfold in front of you.

Neil is accompanied on vocals by the excellent Eleanor Ludlow. The enthusiasm of their performance shines through the entire show. Their gentle reminders as to the key of the next song or the albums’ familiar theme of murder and macabre subjects makes the performance even more intimate. The band’s percussionist and drummer stays low key on stage, but also plays a pivotal role in bringing the compositions together.

Throughout the show, the stage is backlit by projections of original art work designed by graphic artist, Deborah Fidler. There is a different hand drawn picture for each song and this extra touch makes the show a real feast for the senses.

If you like stories that are well told and music that is performed faultlessly then I would heartily recommend this show. My only regret was that it wasn’t longer.

Vrångö – A silent paradise

We board the ferry at Saltholmen, jumping the gangway as it nudges the jetty – a crew member consults a stopwatch before closing the barrier and we are on our way.

There is a cafe on the top deck, but we don’t investigate.  We are glued to the views that are opening out before us.  Low strung islands on a calm sea with crystal blue sky above.   Outside small boats clip past, their sails impossibly white.  We stop at closer islands on our way, Styrsö Bratten and Donsö.

On one island we see rusting wheel barrows of all hues lining the winding hill from the jetty.  I think of the passenger with the washing machine we saw board earlier and hope he is fit enough for the climb.

On a lone islet the heads of two sea birds are just visible above the low rocks, nesting undisturbed, while nearby, seven swans float serenely on the undulating tide.

At Vrångö the few remaining travellers seem to melt away once we alight.  We spin round to take the view in.  The vista in front of us is low and rocky.

We start walking – a thin road leads away from the harbour flanked by coloured clapper board houses in the distance. Here and there it branches off into other silent paths.  We see no-one.  The pilot house lies ahead – a small red hut atop the island’s one high point and I feel a childish desire to reach it before anyone else.  There are no signs and no-one to ask, so we track round to the back of the hill and start climbing.  Hopping from rock to rock, I reach the top dizzy with excitement.  Framed against the bluest of skies the hut looks like a 3-d postcard.  Vrångö stretches out beneath me, its houses hugged on either side by nature reserve. It is so quiet. A makeshift bench at the summit gives me time to consider what it would be like to live here.

Having scrambled up the rocky side avoiding bog and fissures we laugh as we discover the neat wooden staircase to the quay, on the opposite side from our ascent.  In the cove below we stop to dangle our feet from the end of a wooden jetty.  Two seagulls are reluctant to move from their noisy perch, but eventually leave us in peace.

Later, as we walk back across the island towards the ferry we pass a deserted play area.  The school was closed on Vrångö due to the dwindling population which now stands at around 300 and we wonder how many children get to use this space.  We find a small beach – this is one of Gothenburg residents’ favourite spots for wild swimming.  Having experienced the cold refreshment of our foot bath earlier, I admire their enthusiasm.

Ashford Black Marble – A Unique Collection

Collections in the Landscape

If you visited the Wonders of the Peak exhibition before it closed in January this year, you may recall that towards the end of the gallery, there was a replica ‘Petrification’ Shop.  Its dimly lit interior was a showcase for the Museum’s collection of household and decorative items made from locally quarried materials.  Examples of the items on display included, but were not limited to: tables, urns, thermometers, crucifixes and obelisks.  The majority of these items were made from Ashford Black Marble and had come to the museum when Derbyshire County Council acquired the Tomlinson collection in 2005.

To the modern eye, the contents of the displays might have seemed dour and funereal and a world away from the light and airy interiors that society favours at present, but these items deserve closer inspection as they not only reveal exquisite workmanship, but also the Victorian’s obsession with ancient civilisations and…

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The Drover’s Way

A burnished meld

Glints green, bronze, yellow.

Hedgerows bristle beneath the blue

Blackbirds forage for berries, red and ripe while

Bees lift into momentary clouds, before settling again on flowering ivy.

A butterfly suns itself.

Across the valley, sheep graze on fields that run up to the canopy

Pines edged by gold.

A vista so perfect, that in time to come

You would wish yourself, upon the drover’s way to Clun.

Let Go — Eyes + Words

10/29/2016 “Learning to let go should be learned before learning to get. Life should be touched, not strangled. You’ve got to relax, let it happen at times, and at others move forward with it.” – Ray Bradbury Photography by Restless Soul

via Let Go — Eyes + Words

Lost

34 years, 4 months, 6 days
Severed with a short
I do.
You walked away
Beaming.
You flew to Italy
A honeymoon beginning.
Left behind, I struggled.
Stuck with you so long, I’d lost
All sense of me.
Just…. a maiden name now
When you write me
There is no moment’s reverie
For who you once were.

Margot and the Armada Medal

Inside this velvet pouch

Is a medal – a memento mori

To salve the loss of someone dear.

When I hold it in my palm

I am a child again

Riding the funicular with foraged tickets

My hand is warm in hers.

As we descend, ascend and repeat again

The cars draw level and I hold my breath.  Mesmerised.

When I hold it in my palm

I remember the last visit.

There is no fire

Its absence makes the house feel chill

The radio tuned, or not

Is strangely silent.

I realise there will be no drawing today

No return for me, now Margot’s gone away.

When I hold it in my palm

I see her once again and my mind

Brims with memories

After all this time, she still imbues encouragement and calm.

The face on the medal

Rubbed to a soft sheen

Holds me in her gaze

Just one of many she has seen across the years

I am transported.  I am safe.

Poem about my childhood bedroom

Four flights up.  My room

Is bathed in light.

A school made shelf where rainbow spines jostle.

Each inscribed 606d

A gift to me.

Fairy tales reliant, on being good and kind.

A wooden maiden laid on its side

Whilst I drive

Inanimate friends fill the rungs

Following me

Never questioning our destination.

Pink Panther beams down, as beneath ridged blankets

I dream.  An only child then, but

Never alone.

Kingfisher

Orange and blue

Halved the horizon

Down towards the steaming flow

A fragment of fire in the brightening sky.

I am stillness.

My breath

Patient, silent.

From the flow the glistening bird erupted

Climbed and turned

A dream

Kindling towards a memory.