coronach...
Grey the mist --- cold the dawn;
Cruel the sea and stern the shore.
Brave the man who sets his course
For Albion.
Over the hill and away into the distance, they fly. White robed and ancient standing stones in the morning mist, they stand looking out over the sea spray, white cliffs at their feet. History beneath the roots of the climbing rose that clamors over the garden wall, ancient guard tower crumbling under the strain of ivy. The sky so blue it glows with clear radiance over yellow rolling fields, the bulging roundness of elderly oak forests in the distance wherein hides fanciful faerie worlds and dragons.
Sweet the rose --- sharp the thorn;
Meek the soil and proud the corn.
Blessed the lamb that would be born
Within this green and pleasant land.
Hi-o-ran-i-o
Hi-o-ran-i-o
Talk and laughter inside darkened pubs under thatch, hearty meals after long days of simple work. Simple rough calloused hands clasping in greeting, talking at the old post office of births, deaths, weather and crops.
With the wind from the east
Came the first of those who tread
Upon this stone, this stone of kings;
This realm, this new Jerusalem.
Hi-o-ran-i-o
Hi-o-ran-i-o
These proud people, these green lands, these lofty mountains and cold lochs, these homely hearths and sweeping histories. These are the things that draw me in, invest themselves in my mind and rule my imaginations of this place that I've never been.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England...
Photo courtesy Marmitetoasty
Lyrics: Jethro Tull - Coronach
Poetry: Shakespear, Richard IILabels: anglophile
roadside apocalypse...
When all the nations have gasped out their last and have finally failed...
When the seas have boiled and the ice caps melted and the coastlines eroded and changed and washed away millions of lives...
When the sky has turned blood read and the ozone layer has evaporated into the vacuum of space leaving us defenseless against the never ending onslaught of solar radiation...
When the four horsemen have left, and all is dark and quiet, and the earth is nothing but an empty shell, there will be, somewhere in England, a sign reminding us, at this very time, and for this very time, to "please drive carefully."Labels: anglophile
english dreams...final
It's one o'clock and time for lunch,
When the sun beats down and I lie on the bench
I can always hear them talk.
I'm not sure where it comes from, all these English dreams. Perhaps it's too much Monty Python, too much Genesis, or too much Miss Marple. It's definitely too much Dr. Who. But what is it that drives me, causes me to warm to, all things English? Is it the history? Maybe. The richness of the history is a big draw, that's for sure.
There's always been Ethel:
"Jacob, wake up! You've got to tidy your room now."
And then mister Lewis:
"Isn't it time that he was out on his own?"
Over the garden wall, two little lovebirds - cuckoo to you!
Keep them mowing blades sharp...
Perhaps it's the people. They come in all different types, just like here, so what's the difference? Truth is, I don't really know. I've only known a handful of English people, all quite nice on their own. What I get regarding the English temperament I get from television and books. Fortunately, I get it from more than just bad television. Dickens is one source, albeit archetypical in many cases.
Sunday night, Mr farmer called, said:
"Listen son, you're wasting your time; there's a future for you
In the fire escape trade. Come up to town!"
But I remebered a voice from the past;
"gambling only pays when you're winning"
- I had to thank old Miss Mort for schooling a failure.
Keep them mowing blades sharp...
More than likely, it's just a complete fantasy world that I've built up in my head. One that includes such figures as those inhabiting the charming Village of Dibly. A fantasy that is full of tea drinking doctors who disappear into a "Police in a Box". A strange fantasy where grown men wear costumes to make themselves look like famous philosophers and play soccer, or do commentary for a side-table and Victorian furniture derby.
Then again, it could be any of those things, or none. It doesn't really matter anyway, the fantasy persists. I suppose I have to accept the fact that I am a die hard Anglophile, and there's nothing I can really do about it...one of these days, my wife and I'll visit. One of these days, I'll sit in a proper English garden, in front of a small thatched roofed garden, and be able to experience it as it actually is, not as I think it is. We'll travel the north country as well, visiting Scotland, and it's rolling highlands. Maybe I'll die while I'm there, because I'll think I'm in heaven, or that I've finally come home. So strong is the fantasy, that my eyes will likely be clouded with unreality and falsehoods...I'll see things differently than everyone else. But it doesn't matter. As long as the locals are friendly, the bitter thick, the fire warm, and the conversation interesting, I'll let the fantasy persist.
This post is dedicated to the two servants of Her Majesty who have recently begun frequenting this blog and commenting. Thanks! You know who you are.
Labels: anglophile
At the end of the road, there would be a little quaint village. In it, there would be a dark wood paneled pub where people would gather for warmth, and friendship, and a good long chat on cold rainy evenings by a roaring peat or oak fire. The port or stout would be as thick as syrup. We'd sing songs together, drink each other's health, and walk home smiling and content under heavy fog or drizzle.
There would be the eccentric Lord of the Manor who's family had lived in the manor house in the center of town for a thousand years or more. He would rule as the Mayor of the town. There'd be the town council, holding irregular meetings in the church hall. People would talk and lean against the stone walls that demarcated their patches of grazing lands, raising up their gumboots on the fallen stones for support as they did.
The lovable and young vicar would make his rounds each day, fearlessly working with some on their farms, and just talking with others in their little shops or houses. On Sunday, we'd all let him talk to us in the church built so many centuries ago, about things that happened even further into the mists of time. Afterward we'd smile at each other and invite one another to Sunday lunch in the town square that is encircled by an ancient ring of stones built by our druid forefathers.
The children would have grown up in a fanciful world of Watch With Mother shows like The Flowerpot Men, and Andy Pandy. They would believe in a world of rabbits who squeeze under garden fences only to lose their little jackets and shoes after almost getting caught and put in a pie. They would believe that frogs sat on lily pads in their mackintoshes trying to catch minnows, only to leave after an incident with a fish, and carry on in spite of it all with the dinner party with the tortiose and the newt.
Each little thatched roofed house would have a flowering garden, full of rosemary and thyme, and bright faced daisies. The undergrowth would be covered with thick moss that invited fairies and mushrooms and the occasional hedgehog gathering garments that needed to be mended. The silence of the hillsides would only be broken by the intermittent braying of sheep, and the standing stones and ruins of ages past.
There we are, sometimes. But I'm dreaming again. This place isn't real, is it? Someone tell me why we can't live there?Labels: anglophile
