Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 4 (Vanlife and Newbury)

 As it happens I was so energised by the adventures of the day that I just kept driving and hit Newbury in the early evening. I had expected to flake out long before then, but the route I chose is rarely congested and I made much better progress than I expected. I went through the town in the direction of Basingstoke and turned off the main road in search of an overnight park up. I like to choose a quiet place away from habitation where the verge or field entrance is wide enough for me to pull off without the remotest possible accusation of obstructing other traffic. Finding a good spot can take a while, but eventually I found my overnight place. Again my technique is to arrive late, leave early with no trace that I’ve ever been there. I woke up before six am to beautiful sunshine. I was able to wash, dress and breakfast on the last of the food in the cool-box and bask for a while in the glory of the morning sunshine. A Land Rover drove by, so that was my cue to get ready to leave. A few other vehicles, mostly of agricultural appearance, also passed me before I set off. I don’t know whether that was normal morning traffic on that road or whether the word had gone out of an impending invasion and people were checking out the hippy who’d turned up in an old van. I imagine there could be sensitivities about these things since I was so close to Greenham Common and not unimaginably far from Stonehenge or The Beanfield. 

Oh what a beautiful morning!

No one stopped to challenge me and the authorities weren’t summoned, so I started up the van thinking I could turn up at my daughter’s house and offer to take my granddaughters to school. I sent a text message warning of my intention and, on arrival, was greeted with relief and jubilation. Seeing family during these last eighteen pandemical months has not been easy. There are times I miss the ritual of the walk to school and the beautiful weather made this walk even better. I was happy to see that I remembered the habits the girls followed, such as balancing along the brick wall that follows the pavement for a few yards. What was new this time was that crossing the road with the lollipop man’s assistance signalled the need to mask up like a posse of bandits in an old western. 

Granddaughters safely delivered, daughter packed off to work and it was time for me to explore the busking opportunities that Newbury offered. This involved sitting in a queue of traffic, the like of which I’d hitherto not encountered on this trip, as I wound my way in and around the town centre. I found a beautiful place to park under a tree next to the river in a car park near the bus station. The parking charges were a bit steep, but I’d been advised by a few people that the good folk of Newbury would see me right. Since I didn’t know the layout or the direction of the town I thought I’d take an exploratory wander before loading up my trolley with my instruments. Several wrong turns later I realised the main shopping street was the best option and that it was closer than my extended walk had suggested. I returned to the high street with my trolley, but by the time I had got to the suggested “best spot”, between Boots and the river, someone else had already arrived and had begun to set up what looked like a large p.a. system. I searched out, and found, a roadside place a couple of hundred yards further along the street which would hopefully be far enough away from what I assumed was some corporate venture. The road was actually a pedestrian precinct during shopping hours so it all looked good.

Being completely acoustic I think it takes people a while to register I’m actually there, but I was aware that people were sitting and staying for extended periods on the municipal benches within sight of my spot. I can never be certain how far my music carries, but I refuse to use amplification because I personally find it so intrusive. When sitting nearby, many people seem to pretend they aren’t interested, but this time I was aware of people loitering with intent to listen. On the periphery of my vision there were people on a bench to my right. Across the street there was another bench, but also there were a few people who took turns at leaning against the wall of the shop opposite for quite extended periods. After a few songs most of them eventually crossed the gulf between us to drop money in the hat. My voice lasts for up to a couple of hours at the moment, but in that time some people were generous while others put what change they had into the hat. Some people thanked me and said they enjoyed the music, while the usual majority walked by as is absolutely their prerogative. One older woman pointed out that she would have given me money, but “no one carries cash these days” and she wasn’t going to the cash point to get ten pounds just for me. She listened for a while before moving on. I smiled; people are interesting. As my set was coming to an end, the sky grew darker. It was a good time to stop. A woman kindly dropped a five-pound note in the hat and sat down on the adjacent bench. I felt obliged to continue. Suddenly there seemed to be a lot of insects flying around. I thought for a moment that today was probably “ant day”, the day in the year when every ant in the world grows wings and swarms simultaneously. As I looked more closely these were not ants, but bees. I looked up and the sky was black with a slowly descending swarm. Many of the bees landed on me and on the guitar and trotted around as I continued playing. Noticeably they were not interested in the drum kit. I carried on and enjoyed one of my life’s most magical experiences. I was making music in the middle of a town centre high street in the midst of a bee swarm. They seemed quite chilled out so I carried on. They started moving away and began congregating on a cycle rack to my left. The woman who’d given me the five pound note agreed she’d had her money’s worth and that packing up was a good idea. I gave her a Marshlander greeting card that I have for sale in addition to the CDs I carry with me. I’m going to discuss these further in a future post.

After packing up among the residual bees, all without a single sting, I pushed my trolley back along the high street towards the giant p.a. that had been blasting out 80/90s rock ballads and indiscernible speech from whatever had been happening outside Boots. Now in addition to the p.a. there were three large hoops on stands set at very specific distances from each other. A rope marked off a large area around the whole “arena”. The hoops were curious. One was lined with metal triangular “teeth” that reminded me of the inside of a pike’s mouth. Another was set all around the inside with daggers pointing menacingly towards the centre. The third was lined all round with small, soot-blackened pots. This would explain the smoke plume I’d seen in the distance a couple of times during my set. Clearly this was a “spectacle” so I stopped and watched. I was approached by a tall, topless, improbably ripped young man whose eyes twinkled with the promise of mischief and who addressed me in a light Irish accent that sounded like aural honey. “I’m just about to do my last show,” he exuded. Eyeing up my instrument-laden trolley he continued, “You can have this spot when I’m finished.” I explained, I’d just finished a two-hour set myself, so I was done for the day. “I’d love to be able to play an instrument,” he soothed. The charm kept on coming. “If I could do what you do I’d give this up in an instant,” he gestured towards his extensive performance rig. “My name’s Ryan, by the way. What’s yours?”

We chatted for a while as he kept one eye on a slowly gathering crowd. He excused himself and switched on his headset microphone to invite his audience up to the rope. Then the performance began. He charmed, he flattered, he appealed, he confessed and at some length he explained his act. This was to be his third and final show of the day and so far he had managed without injury. He hoped he would continue his record. I recognised the style and the routine. I’d seen this set-up many times, particularly in New York’s Battery Park. A short act would be padded out by audacity and blarney. The set-up was the show. This was something I found endearing and admirable because such a spiel was as much an impossibility for me as playing three instruments simultaneously might be for him. He explained his intention to run, hurdle-style, through the hoops lined with metal blades, metal daggers and flaming torches and that he was going to do this blindfolded - yes, of course he was! He changed the music to some big-haired rock and made his way to the start of his run. All part of the show he ran back to the p.a. at the opposite end and picked up a lighter with which to ignite the third hoop. He leapt on top of the speakers and with arms raised he made his final appeal to the under-sized audience of mostly older shoppers and disenfranchised furlough victims on this sunny, bee-swarming Wednesday in Newbury. He leapt off the speakers, changed the music to something even more portentous and jogged back to the start of his obstacle course where he carefully tied and arranged his blindfold before standing quietly for a moment of attunement, concentration and tension-building. Then he set off. Like a hurdler he flattened himself against his leading leg as he made it through the pike’s mouth with its vicious-looking metal fangs. His run continued, but he seemed to catch his shoulder on one of the daggers in the second obstacle before hurdling, without further incident, through the flames now engulfing the third hoop. He was still alive, but he kept touching his shoulder and looking at his fingers to check for blood as he gave his final triumphant speech and appealed for donations for the show. It was a great performance. Ryan had it all, except for two things I had observed in Battery Park. Firstly his audience was tiny in comparison, which was probably just as well because, secondly, he didn’t have a support team that ran out through the crowd to encircle the audience after the performance, eyeballing each person with the kind of glare I’ve only ever seen among New Yorkers, defying them to refuse to tip. 

“I’m going to try my luck in Basingstoke tomorrow,” he winked at me, “I’ve heard it’s better. Have you worked there?”

“Not yet,” I replied, dropping a two-pound coin into his somewhat optimistic sack. I really hope he made more than the £12 I was left with after paying for my parking. Still, it’s not the money … is it?

Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 3 (Lock Fiasco and Bedford)

 I’m working my way backwards with these essays. A couple of weeks ago I had a ticket to see a show at the delightful Arlington Arts Centre near Newbury. It was to be a reduced-seating, masked and socially distanced audience. Normally I would drive there on the day, but I thought that I would take a couple of days and find some places to busk on the way. 

I decided my first stop was going to be Bedford. Bedford was the town of my first appointment as a newly-qualified teacher in the late 1970s though the school itself has long-since gone. I thought more houses were built on the site, but a quick look at a satellite view of the area suggests the building is still there. The school where I worked only had a life-cycle of a couple of decades. I’ve rarely had cause to return to Bedford, so I thought I’d give it a try and see how what was described to me, at my induction into the employ of Bedfordshire County Council, as “the second most multi-cultural town after Greater London” might react to Marshlander’s songs of death, dissent and living on water. The description I was given as a new teacher was accurate. I worked at the school for two years and I remember going through the register and counting six children of white, British ethnicity in my class of thirty pupils. It was a tough, but instructive and enriching, period of learning. I had some great colleagues, but I often wonder what became of the children whose lives I hope I didn’t ruin too much. I have often told children and teachers of two boys, inseparable friends Mohammed and Jaswinder, who decided one day that I should learn to count in Punjabi (or Indian as they called it). For the next few days they approached my desk immediately after registration with, “Sir, it is time for your Indian lesson!” I wish I’d been able to learn more from them; it’s not as though we had the National Curriculum to worry about in those days, though the school did have a timetable. I enjoyed my time living in one of the villages near Bedford. When in town I would often go to one of the town’s green spaces and stare at the Great Ouse. I never imagined I would one day end up living near the other end of navigation where it flows into The Wash. So Bedford it would be. I nearly didn’t make it. 

As I was closing up the boat, and transforming my van into my house on wheels for the coming days, two hire boats went by. There were three women on the stern of the bigger boat. One called to ask how long it would take to get to the lock. I told them, “Thirty to forty minutes,” and bade them bon voyage. I didn’t give them another thought and carried about my preparations. By the time I eventually got away I had no idea they wouldn’t have got through the lock, but as I drew closer I saw a lone woman wandering along the road with a windlass in her hand. Something didn’t look right so I slowed down and asked if she were okay. The lock was full and set against the two boats. They had breasted up to each other with the larger boat tied to the lock landing. I have often wondered how a few minutes tuition at the marina prepares newbie hirers for their time on the waterways. Now I realised the answer - it doesn’t. Between the two boats there were seven crew members. Not one of them had grasped the principles of how to operate the lock! The smaller boat was one of the fleet’s two day boats. The male crew were on a tight timetable - chip shop, pub, turn round and back to the marina by six. The other boat was crewed by the three women who had enquired about the distance from the lock. They didn’t recognise me at first. They were out for a few days and were aiming to get to Ely. I couldn’t possibly leave them in their confusion and asked if they wanted any assistance. I was expecting a refusal as they probably wanted to try and work it out for themselves, but they almost bit my hand off. “I can’t see how we get the boat up to that water to go out through the gate that keeps swinging open,” said the distraught windlass wielding woman. They clearly had no idea about the way a lock works at all. Staff at the boatyard had given them a video to watch, but these folk were clearly more of the kinaesthetic learning type. I explained how they had to empty the lock first to bring the water down to their level. Windlass woman had the wrong type of windlass. Locks on the Middle Level use a particular “pyramidal” style of key and she had the standard one for Environmental Agency waters. After she went back to the boat to get the other windlass I talked them through every step of the process, checking the upper penstocks were down, the gates were closed and how to empty the lock through raising the lower penstocks until the pressure was equal on both sides of the lock gates and the lower ones could be opened to allow access. They were all my seniors, but I made them do the donkey work. They needed to know what to do by experiencing it. So far so good. They emptied the lock and opened the bottom gates. The smaller day boat chugged in. To conserve water two boats often share the lock, so the bigger boat was going to come in too. This is where it all became more complicated. The “driver” at the tiller met my nemesis, the wind. She was struggling to line the boat up with the lock and she was in danger of crashing into the concrete wall having missed the lock completely. She realised she needed to reverse, but I could see she was at risk of grounding on the far side of the river where the water is unexpectedly shallow. I rushed down to the lock landing and, after being assured she wanted some guidance, I tried to call helpful instructions - reverse, push the tiller hard over to me, short hard burst of forward, reverse again and so on over the wind. It took ten or fifteen minutes, but we kept at it until she lined the boat up with the lock for another go. Eventually she managed to get the boat in and I hope I didn’t overdo the praise, but the way she managed to keep her cool in a really challenging situation was very much to her credit. I hope her travelling companions were impressed. They should have been. It wasn’t my place, but inside I was simmering with anger at how unprepared these innocents had been for their holiday. It wasn’t their fault either. How can we know what we don’t know?

So, some forty-five minutes later, I finally set off for Bedford. I’d be lucky to get there before the shops closed now. 

The rest of my journey passed without incident. Bedford was mostly recognisable from my time there, but there were road closures and one-way systems that were were new to me. I missed a car park and ended up diverting through an area I recognised as “Black Tom” - I guess it’s still called that, although it was never signposted. After parking the van I thought a quick reconnoitre was called for. That turned out to be quite useful and I located a good spot to aim for in a now pedestrianised area near the library and the Harpur Centre. The sun was shining and the busking session passed without incident. I noticed many people changed their walking to step and move to the music as they came within earshot. There were lots of smiling faces too and donations into the hat paid for my parking with a little towards fuel for the journey so I was happy. As the footfall slowed down I came to a stop, packed up, returned to the van and set off west and south. I didn’t know how far I would get towards Newbury, which was going to be my busking target of choice the following day. 

Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 2

A (his given name's initial not his condition) was not the only long-term listener that day. A man found his own spot sitting on the same steps where I had had the delightful surprise of seeing, a few weeks ago, the London friend from my teens whom I thought was in Hungary. This man stayed seated. He didn't approach, he didn't leave, he didn't speak, but he did stay within earshot. Meanwhile a woman approached somewhat gingerly. I can't remember what began the conversation, but it was undoubtedly her response to a song after which she confessed an interest in Fenland history. She asked where my boat was moored and I gave the non-committal answer I reserve for this question. I would not dream of approaching a stranger in the street and asking for their address, but people don't appear to see that asking where my boat is moored amounts to the same thing. Seeking a diversion from the ensuing silence I talked about how the banks that held these waterways in place constituted the longest cemetery in the country. She sounded doubtful. I got on to the subject of the slave labour used to build the Fenland waterways and explained how Rex, the late husband of one of the lock-keepers, found the skull of a young boy at the lock. I asked her if she knew about the numerical nomenclature of several of the Fenland drains - the Sixteen Foot, the Twenty Foot, the Forty Foot, the Hundred Foot Drains or Rivers. She tried out the usual responses - width, depth and so on - but in the end I told her I would sing a song to explain it all, "Every Foot Of Progress". She confessed to not knowing any of this and asked me for my sources. I suggested she look for Trevor Bevis' little book, "Prisoners Of The Fens", which was my source and basis for much of the historical information in the song.

She was grateful for the reference. She later wrote me a message on Facebook admitting that she had missed many of the words. I sent her the lyrics. It seems that A had found a new person to talk to and was trying to get her attention right through the song. At least that meant he was no longer standing directly in front of me and other people could see and hear me more clearly. 

The town was beginning to shut down for the day and it felt like it was time to call a halt to this session. As I began to pack up the silent man on the steps approached and said how much he'd enjoyed the songs. As we talked he said he'd only been there to pass the time while his friend was having his hair cut at the barber shop across the road. There must have been a very long queue or his friend was enjoying the most high-end coiffure available because the silent man had been there for at least an hour. Quietly he told me that he thought I'd been very patient "dealing with" A. 

"I don't think I'd have been as patient," he confessed.

In my turn I confessed that I didn't know what else I could have done. I don't know how much of the conversation the silent man had heard, but I don't suppose A chose his alcoholism. Alcoholism chooses its victims and doesn't care. It ruins lives indiscriminately. A may have made it harder for me to concentrate, but he wasn't doing anyone harm. He was also very apologetic when I asked him every now and then to stand to one side so others could see and hear more clearly. It was interesting how he kept creeping forward like a moth to a flame, but he was very biddable when I reminded him. The silent man took this in then dug into his pocket for some change which he dropped into the hat. He also asked to buy a CD, which made me very happy.

"It's for my mum", he said, "I think she'll really like it."

Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 1

My last essay on here described the unexpected joy I have discovered in busking. That joy has continued although events have conspired to keep me away from it. A couple of weeks ago I had a problem that kept the van off the road for the best part of a week. Currently I have a cold sore. I don't get them very often and I don't know why this one has chosen the present time to appear. It is often stress induced or perhaps when I'm feeling a little under par. Neither is the case at the moment and it's simply a nuisance. The herpes simplex virus type 1 is also sometimes encouraged to put in an appearance after exposure to the sun or the wind and such exposure is definitely a hazard of my way of living. I sometimes get the feeling that other people think I am being a baby to let a cold sore interfere with my plans, but I do have my reasons. Firstly, I know how this works. I've been dealing with sporadic cold sores since childhood. It will have cleared up in a few days and I'll pick up where I left off at that point. In the meantime it is unsightly and I cannot help but be conscious of it in addition to all the other complexion issues I live with. The farmer laughed at me when I answered his question about not going out busking yesterday. Bleeding into my harmonicas is never going to be a good look and having to clean the poison out afterwards is an even less attractive proposition, not to mention how sore it would make my lip. I'm not medically qualified so I've always been cautious not to let the infection spread to another nerve pathway. I don't know if that's a thing that could happen, but that's why I remain cautious. Fortunately P gets where I'm coming from although as the two of us continue to be stuck in different countries any form of intimacy a non-starter.

However, between such events the busking has been an amazing experience. It hasn't filled the coffers by any measure, but it has brought in about £100 over the month of June. Unfortunately nearly £20 of that income has gone straight out again in car-parking fees and I've not always earned the fuel money to get to my chosen town, but it is nice to see a little money in the hat averaging around £10 for a session lasting up to a couple of hours. Of course, if I sang more I'd probably earn more, but I'm trying to listen to my body tell me when enough is enough. I overused my voice in the early 1990s and was actually mute for five months. I do not ever want to go through that again. I have taken some vocal coaching since starting this whole Marshlander project and that has helped. I think my voice is probably in better shape these days than at any time since the great and horrible silence. That was terrifying. I didn't sing for years afterwards and thought I would never sing again. However, I know when enough is enough. Singing outdoors without amplification is hard on the voice, so a couple of hours is usually my limit, even with frequent sips of water. Where possible I try and leave a day between sessions too. I know some singers continue in fine voice well into later life and still manage to tour. The great Arthur Brown is approaching his eightieth birthday and his voice is still in excellent shape. He once told me he sings every day. He used to live in a yurt and he would walk daily into town coaxing his voice to do its incredible thing. I have also spoken to Russell Mael who undertakes a routine that can be very wearing on his voice. He is well into his seventies. Strangely, Sparks, the band he runs with his brother, Ron, is entering into a period of popularity unlike any they have experienced in their fifty year career and it will undoubtedly bring them a lot of live work. His recommendation for voice care is plenty of sleep. I do know this, but sleeping well is a skill I have yet to acquire. That may explain the present episode of herpes labialis or maybe it is just the weather, and being under it!

I have mentioned some of the people I have met through busking. There is a balance to be struck. On the one hand I am there to perform, to sing my songs and to earn what contributions I can with the time I have available. On the other hand, people want to interact. Many have probably been cooped up for several months and may simply be venturing out into the world. On Thursday my new friend from the mobile food wagon wanted to shoot the breeze. A woman emerged from the shop where she works and asked to take my photograph to add to the local Facebook page, at least she was polite enough to ask. A young man came up smiling and put a couple of pounds in my hat and held out a sausage roll he had bought for me from the nearby bakery. Such generosity that has happened on more than one occasion, is the only thing that makes me feel uncomfortable about my exclusively plant-food diet. I don't want to appear ungrateful, so I usually accept proffered gifts with a smile and a thank-you. If I can't give them away to a more deserving person the fish are usually grateful.  

Wisbech is currently fighting off the imposition of a mega incinerator, the proposed structure is one of the largest in Europe, so I have undertaken to go into Wisbech once a week while the weather remains good and carry some information to try and raise awareness. Amazingly many local inhabitants do not know how this monster will affect their lives. I shall also have a separate pot for campaign contributions. I suspect many people have no idea how expensive this campaign is likely to become.

Thanks to Ruth Freeman for this photograph

Returning to another recently visited town brought three interesting encounters in one afternoon. A young man, younger than me anyway, clearly wanted to talk. He stood in front of me while I was singing; he swayed and asked questions. Concentrating on remembering song lyrics and chords while playing three instruments became an increasing challenge so I stopped and he chattered on. He asked if I knew any Pink Floyd songs and preceded to list a few of his favourites. I explained I felt on safer ground singing my own compositions. Then he went on to talk about Queen, clearly another of his favourite bands, David Bowie, The Rolling Stones ... Then he returned to Queen and Freddie Mercury and then Kenny Everett who, according to him was "bent as a bottle of crisps". That is one phrase I'd not heard before, but I wasn't going to let it pass.

"So am I, but it doesn't sound very polite."

He stared at me with a little uncertainty.

"You're gay?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied - more staring.

"You're an actual homosexual?" I guess he wanted to make sure I understood his terms of reference.

"Yes."

"And you're not afraid to say so?"

"Not these days. I wasted a lot of my life worrying about it, but life's too short for such things."

"You like men?" No harm in making sure I suppose!

"I like one man," I said.

"I don't know what I am," he confessed, "I've been with women, but I think I might prefer to be with a man." Mixing the + categories in LGBT+ he confessed, "I think I'm bi-questioning. I don't know how I would know for sure ..."

"You might have to try being with a man and see how you felt about it ..."

"I'm sorry, I'm an alcoholic and I really need to have a drink."

He wandered off. I carried on singing.

About half an hour later he returned. I thought he'd been to one of the nearby pubs. He took up a position right in front of me and swayed slightly more noticeably than previously. Then he reached into his bag and took out a small bottle of something that looked like a white wine although I'd never seen this kind of bottle before. He unscrewed the lid and underneath that was a seal that he peeled off so he could get at the contents. I asked him if he would mind moving back a little in case the contents splashed on to my instruments. 

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry. Sorry. I'm really sorry."

He was contrite and sincere. I felt quite sad. This man was not really in control. He returned to his previous theme.

"I don't know why people say 'backs to the wall' when there's a gay around. You don't want to bum me, do you?"

I confirmed that I didn't and we had more conversation about manifestations of sexual attraction in the human species. I have never imagined busking could be an opportunity for counselling and after a while he retreated into the world of his own thoughts. As I started playing he crept closer again. I think he may have been a contributing factor to the reason there was no one else around to put money in my hat. 

"Would you like me to sing you a song about someone who doesn't really know if he is gay?"

He nodded. I struck up with "Cruiser" This time he joined me in singing. Obviously he did not know the song, but he was like a child who liked to guess the rhymes and at the end of every line he tried out some of his ideas. He was here to stay.

He needed a few reminders to move back a little so that other people could see, hear and approach to drop a coin or two in the hat, but he was definitely there to stay. The afternoon had more to offer.

Of A New Direction In A Third Age

I have a new career! The months of lockdowns, scaremongering, lies, isolation, separation from my partner and barely believeable truths in the news media have taken a toll. I had no idea that I had lost so much of myself during this pandemic. As already reported, all the work I had in the diary disappeared over a three-day period in March 2020. It was not replaced and 2021 has been very bleak professionally. 

I have always been a nervous performer and every gig I have ever played has involved an effort of will. Of course, once on stage some inner monster takes over and, once it's all over, I have been glad to have seen it through. I rather thought that making an effort to perform online like so many others have managed to do might help, but it didn't ... not at all. If anything it compounded my sense of insecurity. Pretending to project to invisible people was frustrating because I made just as many (if not more) mistakes. I tried recording videos to share online, but that hasn't worked either. The same holes in my memory manifest themselves no matter how well I think I know the material. I can lose a word, a whole line, a chord, even a rhythm and the whole edifice wobbles alarmingly. Any improvement has come with the speed at which I can manage to recover. Strangely, these losses are not predictable. They never appear in the same places. I've come to the conclusion that it's not actually having to face the audience that I find difficult, but something much more subtle and I have never really been able to pin it down. This is one of the reasons busking in the street has always seemed a masochistic way to behave. I have always admired people who have the courage to do it and wished I could be one of them, but I'm not ... or so I thought. 

A couple of years ago I was booked to play on a busker's trail for a local festival. I was surprised to find I enjoyed it, but I could never undertake it again without having somebody's "official" permission to set up and play. Then, ten days ago, something snapped. I had a moment of insight and sadness that so much of me that had been invested in working as a musician had been stripped from me. I had also lost what was left of my mojo and creativity. Very few new songs have been completed and only a few new ideas have been started in these lockdown months. I have been becoming even less visible than the singer of "Grey". No new work was being offered and I was slipping into retirement as an ex-musician. 

It was a beautiful Saturday, so I loaded up a guitar, drumkit, harmonicas and guitar-stool and drove the twelve miles into the town where I no longer hold the monthly Songwriters & Poets evenings of the pre-pandemic era. By the time I arrived the market was packing up. I thought I could just set up outside the Bookshop, but when I walked across town, the Town Square was almost empty and, better still, not on a slope. I rolled out my Ghanaian mat, made from recycled plastic bags, set up my drums and stool, slipped on my harmonica harness tuned my guitar and, for the next couple of hours, sang and played to my heart's content. It was such a liberating experience and I was not expecting that. This felt like the start of a new chapter. I cannot believe how much fun I had playing to mostly indifferent people. A few of them took a few minutes to sit on some nearby steps or on a bench just within earshot. Some people stayed for a few songs. Small children danced and jiggled, one was pulled on to the dance floor by a grandfather. A few people dropped coins into my hat and in that couple of hours I earned enough to cover the cost of the fuel for the van to drive there and back again to the boat or nearly enough for my next order of organic vegetables. I had gone over much of my current repertoire and I was thrilled. This was the first time I had played in such a long time that my voice was going and my fingers were sore. When I arrived back at the boat I realised I was also physically very tired. Although most people walked across the Square completely ignoring me that actually felt significant and important. They were completely at liberty to listen or not as they wished. Additionally I was not beholden to any promoter or event orgamiser and had no cause to feel the overwhelming responsibility of trying to ensure that whoever had engaged my services was getting their money's worth. I have always felt this responsibility to be a huge burden over decades of performing and I think it has been a big factor in ensuring I never sleep well the night before any booking. 

In the nine days that followed that experience I have been out busking six times and have loved each experience. I also took up an unexpected offer of a pub garden gig. Each time I've gone out I've met many new and interesting people. Some days have brought unexpected reconnection with old friends. Some people want to come and chat, to discuss my unusual instruments or tell me about themselves (Pink Floyd's lighting engineer, anyone?). Some people walk jauntily through the precinct in time to the music and with a spring in their step; some acknowledge with a nod, a smile, a wave. In addition to some generous coinage from a few passing folk, I have been offered food, stories of incredible adventures, the aforementioned gig (no money, but food and great publicity ... oh right, that old chestnut 😆), an ice lolly to cool me down when it was very warm yesterday and one person even bought some merchandise! Quite by chance one of my oldest friends, who's been living in Eastern Europe for years, happened to walk across the town square in West Norfolk on Saturday while I was singing. We first met some forty-nine years ago when he lived in London and this was the first time he'd been to Downham Market ... 

I'll never make my fortune busking, but it is good the days I break even. Only one day saw no money in the hat. Unfortunately I had to part with all the previous day's earnings to pay for parking. However, with magic like I've experienced so far I shall keep this new gig going while the weather is in my favour. 

Frustratingly, my van has developed a fault, which cannot be addressed until at least the end of the week, so I'm stuck on my mooring at the moment when I want to go out and play in the street. However, at least I can take some time to tell you about it all. For the first time I feel I am able to acknowledge myself as a musician rather than a fraud with musical aspirations and I love being completely independent as a performer. I have also started work on a couple of new songs. They may even get finished ...

Of TGIF, Monumental Weeks And A Move Afoot.

Friday is the day I go to an organic farm a few miles away to collect my week's order of vegetables. Most Monday evenings an e-mail arrives detailing what will be available that week. The weather has been challenging over the past few months and on this last day of April the ground in the Fen is caked dry and cracking. This follows the very wet and sometimes very cold winter. We've had very little rain and the temperature has been dipping into low single figures for weeks. 

Not a satellite view of an alien landscape, but the farm near here

Gardeners will know that they have not been able to risk putting out anything liable to be affected by low temperatures. I collected my order of carrots, cauliflower, beetroot, celery, spinach, purple sprouting broccoli, kale, leeks, rocket, turnips and potatoes, most of which were plucked from the ground yesterday. When I had a garden I never managed to grow anything nearly as interesting. There is an increasing variety available. How can I choose between the amount I can eat in a week and the variety I would like to buy?

Since lockdowns began over a year ago, my weeks have not really changed, but just occasionally a week crops up with a few differences. This week has been one of those different kinds of weeks. In short the following happened:

I had my second covid vaccination. I am now among the growing population quoted in the nightly news bulletins. I know of and have read about people who have experienced painful, debilitating symptoms after either the first jab or the second. I noticed nothing at all after the first and about twenty-six hours after my second one earlier this week I felt tired enough to retire early to bed. All now seems as back to as normal as anything gets in the marsh. 

I applied and paid for my boat licence six days ago. This is nothing new for most boaters, but it is a new requirement in the Fen and it is my first time. Licences only became mandatory here following the Middle Level Act (2018). I have mentioned many times the disagreements I have had with the stewards of these waterways, The Middle Level Commissioners, and the fun and games I have had taking my grievances to both Houses of Parliament. If you've forgotten you can try to pick up the pieces here. The Byelaws with which I also take issue have still not received the approval of the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. It has been my contention that the licence cannot be imposed until the byelaws are in place. I've taken soundings from a number of authoritative sources and my contention may be built on sandy foundations according to some. The whole miserable process has been drawn out over the past few years. I had some pre-conditions which I felt were fair before I parted with my money. While the Byelaws are still not in place, including some dangerous requirements for single-handed boaters, there is evidence that work has been carried out to make safe some dangerous public moorings, while the navigation authority has actually constructed its first public moorings. These are four "rural moorings" - overnight stopping places in four locations. It will be interesting see how these are maintained. They do not consist of solid landing stages, but rather a reasonably straight piece of riverbank with the normal jungle of reeds and nettles cut back and into which five stakes have been driven - hopefully at a depth to hold fast when mooring ropes are tied to them. Here's how the one on the Sixteen Foot Drain, far from anywhere, looked last weekend.

 

The Rural Mooring on the Sixteen Foot Drain

At an estimate there should be enough space for two boats the size of mine to moor. I'll give it a go sometime soon I hope. The fact that similar moorings have apparently been constructed near Ramsey Forty Foot and further away from my home mooring and adjacent to Yaxley Lode and New Lode near Holme give me reason to venture further into areas hitherto unexplored, boat engine permitting! I just hope there are places to turn the boat round, because those last two places don't actually lead anywhere.

International Workers' Memorial Day was a couple of days ago. I was one of six people who gathered at the foot of the Thomas Clarkson Memorial in Wisbech to remember our fellows who have particularly suffered as a result of the covid pandemic. Socially distanced, restricted in number and fully masked we observed a one-minute silence and listened to some short deliveries of heartfelt sentiments. Last week I was working in a school for the first time in five months (which was itself the first time in nine months), so I wanted to remember in particular school staff who have worked right the way through the pandemic, putting themselves at risk with no sense of government priority in terms of protection for the workers, just the shrill cries of politicians wanting to get schools open again. Well here's the thing - for the children of non-school-based frontline workers, schools have never closed. Teachers have worked right the way through and many have had to learn new ways of working to provide remote learning opportunities for those pupils who stayed at home. I also felt I wanted to continue to draw attention to self-employed, sole-trader musicians who have not been allowed to work and are among the three million workers who have fallen through the safety nets of the furloughs, grants and loans the government has made available to the employed. My work supporting a teacher last week meant that the total of my earned income since January 2020 has come from four hours work and half a dozen album sales. I am lucky to have had sufficient savings to help me survive. Next month I'll be old enough to receive my state pension.

This week I have been working on a Marshlander website. Until now I have only been using Bandcamp, a couple of social media platforms and this blog. The new website is a new venture and coming along very, very, v-e-r-y slowly. Eventually I plan to migrate this blog and other information to the new place and, if I can get my head round how to do it, open up a Marshlander shop too. It's one of those "don't hold your breath" situations. When it's ready to share I'll put a notice to that effect on here.

Letters To A Kingfisher - 10

Dear Kingfisher,

Is this fate? I was sitting at a blank page giving some consideration to the title and you flew in and settled on a post about a metre away on the other side of the glass. I sat very still as a gust of wind blew you backwards off the post. It took you no time to recover and you resumed your spot. I reached very slowly for my phone to try and take a photograph, but you were too wily and leapt off the post veering over your left wing to dart along the top of the river again. This essay therefore has to be a letter to you.

I am aware that my letters to you are generally quite bleak. After more than a year I am tired of my own company and would love nothing more than to be able resume real contact with my lover, my family and my friends. Some of them are three miles away and others are thousands of miles away. P. is only seven hundred miles away, but he might as well be on the moon for all the likelihood we have of being able to see each other in the near future. However, I don't want this message to be bleak. My health is good, I have been out for a few strolls along the riverside, but most importantly, in the past few days I have been easing myself back into rehearsing and a little bit of composing too. An occasional melody has lodged in my brain just long enough for me to scribble it out in my manuscript book, something I always keep to hand, although it has not been required for much of the past year.

The thing I dislike most about depression is the way it drains the will to do anything useful. I guess I've experienced a very mild dose recently, which meant that I did no playing. After a pause of several weeks it takes a little while for my guitar-playing fingers to start working through the stiffness, the tips to toughen up and my legs to build up enough muscle strength to be able to play some of the more demanding rhythms on my footdrums. I have a system for this. The first day I play two or three songs. The next day I might manage half an hour. By the fourth or fifth day I'm easily playing for at least an hour, but my fingers get sore if I go on too long. Once they are sore that makes the recovery more complicated. So it is a balance between regular and often as I build towards performance quality again. Of course, not speaking to many people, I can go days without using my voice, so that too needs rebuilding. I try to remember everything I learned from my friend, L., who took on the job of coaching me when I was taking on more Marshlander gigs. She has a lovely singing voice and has been trained by excellent teachers herself. Her lessons were both inspiring and helpful. I just wish that what she tried to teach me was firmly enough embedded in my practice so that I had passed the point of having to employ all the tricks consciously. Sometimes in mid-song I catch myself not breathing efficiently from the diaphragm or slumping into a poor posture as I balance the guitar on my lap and lean to allow my legs and feet to work efficiently on the drum pedals. I have spoken to the great Arthur Brown a few times over the years and his voice in his mid to late seventies is still in great shape. He used to have a routine for keeping his voice in good working order. He lived in a yurt at the time and would walk down the hill into town every day and exercise his voice as he walked. I wonder what the trees made of a burst of "Spontaneous Apple Creation", "Fire", "Time Captives" or "I Put A Spell On You". These days he lives in bricks and mortar, so I don't know whether that has affected his practice regime.

Anyway, after a phone call from a friend who lost his partner at the beginning of the year I have now forgotten what I wanted to tell you. So here are some photographs from some recent expeditions along the river bank. You'll know exactly where these places are.

                

                        

Love as always,

marsh