Tuesday, and today the ‘Creative Footstep’ walkers are walking the Lyme Regis part of the Wessex Ridgeway, that path or rather the web of tracks, roads and footpaths that crisscross the line of hills stretching along back from the south coast of England from Wiltshire to the Devon border. And I am not going with them.
I was attracted by the idea, especially the idea of walking the Ridgeway, of finding a way along the spine of the hills. And in the company of kindred spirits. Writers. It seemed close to the ethos of walkingtalkingwriting.
And under the guidance of our old friend James Crowden, Walking with Words; local writer and enthusiast of locality, local bookmaking, local printing and publishing.
And yet. Last Tuesday I went with the walkers. It was a lovely day, bright sunshine, an energetic enough walk in beautiful countryside, the discovery of the Blackdown Ridge behind Pilsden, and pleasant company. Then it came to the writing part in the afternoon. A poem, or whatever you want to do? No? Well try some ‘speed writing’. So we did and I composed an obscure and complex series of sentences in the 2 minutes we were allowed for writing.
– Today Galla walks on, it began. Or Julia as she said she preferred herself to be named. But it is Galla, in the presence of her ancestors, as the deep blue velvet curtains closed… –
And so on. I have a habit of mine of writing in obscurity if I am uncertain what I am writing. And I was feeling uncomfortable about the ‘speed writing’, if you understand what I mean. Which of course you dont. An avoidance strategy. Some explanation is required.
On the Monday morning, the day before the Creative Footsteps walk, we had attended the funeral of J_. Not Julia, but J_ had said that if I was to use her name in my writing, she preferred Julia. I had suggested Galla, but she thought that was too foreign. But she gave her permission for Julia, and names like it – Giullia, and Galla if you like.
"Do you know Dr Max", her daughter said to me at the lunch and wake after the funeral, "you were the last person to speak to her". Something I had not expected to hear. And I remembered the final words she had said to me that time the week before – "Remember to bring your writing when you come to see me on Friday. And I will read it to you".
And I had asked her permission to do so, and she had given it.
– Postscript, I wrote yesterday. This present tense, falling into and out of consciousness, although it was not sleep, Julia was speaking the whole time, a stream of words, and I could feel the gentle pressure of her grip as I held her hand. It was only her eyes that signify the changes of her being, the both being there and not being there, eyes that were sometimes shielded, like cats at rest, something akin to sleep or belonging to a dream state, and sometimes bright. And then speaking about the doctor, the one who had visited earlier in the day, and was also concurrently both there and not there, as she turned her head to look to her left, towards the doctors, towards an an empty space the above her left shoulder, this odd kind of present tense.
– And who are you? she asks turning her head to my side of the bed in recognition.
mmj