Foxtrot

A quiet night beneath the stars,
No clouds in sight, a view of mars.
A fox awakes, the night is hers,
For food and frolic, before all stirs.

From her den she does exhume,
Through dug tunnel, to the moon,
Mouth agape, yawn to share,
Into night, into air.


Waking done, the hunt is on,
She takes all in, fore marching on.
Under hedgerow, over wall,
Our vixen stalks, at a crawl.

Cunning guile: a trap is set,
Pouncing frame: the game is met.
In rejoice, the catch is hers,
“No scraps tonight”, she keenly purrs.


Freedom now, time to dance,
A wild twirl, a playful prance.
Night ablaze, sky her crowd,
Red coat gleaming, moonlight shroud.

Bushy tail, pointed face,
Solo foxtrot, full of grace.
Dancing there ’til morning choir,
Dusk and twilight passing by her.


So it is, that night is done,
Final bound to hole, in one.
One last look upon the day;
Sunlight rays chase dark away.

Underground, as golden rises,
In her burrow, sleep reprises.
One last thought: what a night!
Fade to dream, out of sight.

Into The Cacti Nest

Blobster no longer wobbles! The addition of some topping gravel (I’m sure it has a more technical name) has evidently done something, stabilising chief blob in line with his friends. Now I’m only not sure how much water they all need in the same pot together – there’s a lot of soil in there! Nonetheless, all is good in cacti world for now.

Until next time…

Parlour chair

Edgy.

Sam Fowler

The parlour chair is broken,
And yet to speak its part.
The parlour chair has spoken,
The outside must now depart.

The parlour chair is broken,
Inside with soul curved tight.
The parlour chair is oaken,
Sat still through pain and plight.

Cacti and I

A heartfelt tale of a wobbling wayward cactus.

Sam Fowler

I have a cactus. Three, in fact. Three cacti, I suppose. But one of these cacti – Blobster, as he is anthropomorphically named – has a problem. He wobbles. Any movement of his pot, and he wobbles. Now, “Cacti aren’t meant to wobble!” I hear you exclaim. Exactly, that’s his problem.

I must admit, however contritely, that this wobble was caused by my own hands. For, you see, I was repotting my plants. Specifically, I repotted my family of three cacti – Blob, Blobby, and Blobster – into a new shared abode: a snug glass plant pot for a shared, intimate life. I had never repotted before, but upon viewing a quick video explanation I considered myself skilled. And so it was that I plucked their poor clogged roots from their suffocatingly small pots and placed them within their new, comparatively spacious, glass tank.

As I loaded the family’s new habitat with the requisite soil, I realised a mistake – something I’d forgotten from the video I had viewed. I needed to discard some of the old soil from around their roots! And so it was that I plucked Blobster from his new home, struck the dense root soil off, and placed him back in. Following measures to compress the new compost about his origin, Blobster – I thought – was settled.

And so it was much to my chagrin that upon picking up the glass plant vessel, Blobster began his startling sway back and forth in quick motion. With his brothers strong and stable, he alone would waver. I could only count my blessings that I hadn’t chunked off the soil of his well bedded brethren.

Maybe it was the right thing to do; the loosened earth may concede the spread of new and stable roots. In time, Blobster may flourish whilst those of less blob and original dirt struggle. And, in truth, it is only time that will tell: I will not know the true error or success of my experimentation without the progress of time. I have done what I considered best in the circumstances; I must hope the culmination of this work will be three happily resettled blobs.

A Recognition of Enjoyment

I hope this writing to serve a different purpose than my daily journaling. Already, having spent but thirty minutes sat down at my laptop, I can recognise that difference. I can recognise it, but I can’t put my finger on it. My mind is flowing in a new, different, manner. Is this the flow, the thinking, of a “writer”? I have no idea, I’ve never been a writer. All I’ve been is just seemingly quite decent at writing on the few occasions I’ve put my mind and my hands to the task.

My first recollections of this are a few short stories throughout my secondary school English education catching my teacher’s eye; a short piece describing a quiet forest scene particularly sticks in my mind. My mum has, throughout my life, regularly and positively reinforced that I have a good turn of phrase and a natural aptitude for writing. But, whilst my mum was an English teacher before progressing to “teaching head teachers” as I so simplistically describe it, I generally considered – and likely unconsciously dismissed – such remarks as the natural pandering of a mother to her child. And yet, my mother’s words were found to be consistently correct throughout the time of my PhD (surprising everyone but herself I might add).

It was during my PhD that I personally recognised my natural ability to write. Whilst this recognition was discovered through the eyes of others, the recognition did occur nonetheless. As part of a PhD, a student is expected to investigate a topic and hopefully discover new facets of information within it. This is, obviously (I hope), a major simplification of the doctorate process; I’m sticking to it for now so I may make my point: how is the world to know of the novel contributions that each lone student does make?

Through presentation of that work of course. And so each demonstration of contribution is written, generally, to present that work in a clear manner that can be picked up and understood by others. On-stage or poster presentations may also be required, largely to provide a summary of the work, but a written document is commonly considered the best approach so others may fully grasp the intricacies of that work. And, in most cases, this leads to a final thesis: a written amalgamation of that student’s work throughout the whole PhD process, a single document describing the impact and importance of their work over the last however many soul-destroying years. And still, the thesis cannot simply describe the work. It must be – should be – a storybook, in its own way; a representation of that person’s learning, just written in the context of their research.

I’ve gone passionately off topic here so I’ll bring it back around in the next paragraph, but I first want to make two points that I hope the previous paragraphs have demonstrated:

  • The doctorate process is largely one of learning, of expanding your ability to do independent research. Whilst the knowledge presented in ones thesis work would ideally be both impactful and important, unexpected or negative results can easily hold their own significance if presented well and, importantly, within the story of that work.
  • Whilst not least excluding the skills required to research the actual doctorate topic, my simplistic PhD overview has introduced but a small subset of the skills utilised throughout the experience. The lessons and competencies a PhD will teach one are both immeasurable and immense, extending beyond what the student will ever recognise they have learnt; this is why they are so great a learning experience, and why, I believe, they are near unfathomable to fully comprehend.

So, anyway, I wrote. I wrote to present my work, writing in my natural academic writing tones to be as clear and concise as I could. And it was recognised, my ability to depict contributions through writing was recognised. It was recognised by my supervisors, it was recognised by unknown reviewers of my work, and it was recognised by my thesis examiners.

It took work: I took time over my sentence structure and choice of words, but it made an impact on the quality of my work. And, you know what? I enjoyed it. Perhaps the most enjoyable parts of my PhD were, in fact, when I had finished my experiments and I could freely write them up in my own way. My supervisors loved it: less editing for them. The reviewers appreciated it – enough, I believe, to carry me through a borderline acceptance in one case. And the examiners recognised its impact on the clarity of my story. It was fantastic to hear “One of the most clearly written theses I’ve read” during my viva voce, and I gave myself a happy pat on my back upon hearing they’d found no typos in the whole thing!

With the reinforcement of these writing achievements behind me, I truly clicked onto my ability and enjoyment of writing. I still didn’t do it much (still don’t!), just when required, but I learnt that it was a skill that I had and one that I enjoyed.

I’ve been writing this piece and I’ve come to the end, I’m still not entirely sure why I’m writing this. What does it achieve, to tell the world, “I am good at writing!”? To toot my own trumpet? Any writer with any experience reading this might think I’m trash at writing. Other’s might think me egotistical and self-centred to proclaim this “fact”. I think what it comes down to, again, is the story. The story of my self-recognition, of me learning this about myself, through trial, error, luck – who knows. But it is learnt, I have discovered that I enjoy writing. And by writing this drivel of a piece I am practising what I enjoy.

Maybe the real why of this piece is to take a step back, to listen to what people are telling you, to remember when you have enjoyed yourself. Take those moments and cherish them, and then build on them. Expand on what you enjoy and you’re probably doing something right. We live this life – might as well enjoy it, right?

The State of Me

Well, where to start?

I have finally put a blank page in front of me on my computer, all this empty space to fill. And yet I still don’t know where to start, or what to write about. This unprecedented time has left me in odd state of emotions, ruining my self-important plans whilst millions struggle with larger problems, leaving me feeling simultaneously frustrated and guilty; an odd emotional cocktail resulting in a grumpy mess of me. My emotional control has left, my self control has gone walkabouts, and the shell of me is left to pick up the pieces and carry this body about the indoor space I’ve been allotted. Even this writing is melodramatic! Still, though, I must allow myself to feel this way; it is a natural feeling and it is the one that I am having. It is nobody’s fault that all this is happening, it is just the way of things: the course of nature. And I, nor anyone else, can change that.

One thing this situation does afford me though, is time. And, as my old school motto has stuck in my head: “whilst we have time, let us do good”. Thus far, this time has not been spent well. Instead I find myself mulling in my own self-pity or, in a word, sulking. I have been ill, admittedly, with reoccurring headaches and a horrible effort to wake up past my sore throat each morning. Yet still, I have the power – the power in my head, my thoughts, my actions – to be and become a better person through this challenge. Yes, I have been ill, but no, I don’t need to wallow in self-pity, no, I don’t get to use this quarantining as a time to mope about and “chill-out”, and, certainly, no, I don’t get to grump at my parents for all the efforts they do for me. This writing is a way to get through this, to reach my sense of action, and to work on myself and the things I can control.

Having said that, it’s all up in the air. I don’t know what to talk about, write about, think about even. When time is slowed, as it has been for all of us, it leaves us with the time to think, to reflect on who we are, where we are, what we’ve done, what we want to do, and I think most frustratingly of all, where we want to go. There is no “going” now. There’s going to the toilet, going downstairs, going to the kitchen, but that isn’t going. With all this time, potential adventures surface, plans coalesce in our minds. But the road cannot be walked. It must wait. The adventures cannot be begun, they must remain within our minds and within our hearts, until nature allows it. Until the world has had its rest from our survivalistic minds, had its breather, and decides to let us into our playground once again. And once we’re back – allowed back – we can be reconnected with what we, we who pander for the escape of the outdoors, love.

After Work Adventure #1

A wee wander after work to stretch the legs and explore the nearby landscape. I ended up getting sorted pretty last minute so I didn’t have a particular route or area in mind. Instead, I drove myself to a nearby village – Pucklechurch – which looked to have a decent amount of footpaths and greenery surrounding it, and went from there.

I often use the app and web app Komoot to plan and track my little adventures. In this case, Komoot came in handy as – with no route in mind – I selected a nearby “highlight” – Brandy Bottom Colliery (what a name!) – and routed a circular path to and back from it. This was only a little jaunt – about 5km or 1 hours worth, but this fit perfectly before the setting of the winter sun.

I took a mini circular route heading out of The Rose and Crown pub of Pucklechurch, through some fields and past a stinking rubbish dump to the Brandy Bottom Colliery. After some exploration, the route headed back along flat, water-logged, and muddy paths back to my van.
A rather flat walk all-in-all, walking at 5.4km/h according to Komoot.

I began the tour parked up at the Rose and Crown pub, sneakily avoiding the relinquishment of my patronage to hit the nearby footpaths. I first routed over a large field, the first taste of the muddiness that was to come. Though it wasn’t too bad here, I took a step off the path to the less churned up areas of the field.

Stepping through the quaint hamlet of Parkfield, I turned off onto another path and quickly encountered a horse-churned mud bath of a field. This was quite an adventure: with no solid pathing, my luckily-waterproof trail shoes sank to their limit as I skipped and invariably slipped across the disarray. It is my belief that the horses native to this field quite enjoyed the spectacle of my struggles.

A horse-churned field of mud

Jumping a stile to escape the slop, I got turned around and walked right past the occupied shed of a rather surprised man. Upon recognising my error and mumbling an inaudible “sorry”, I turned down the correct drive to a further stile preceding a steep but thankfully less muddy hillock. Joining a more formal path, I squelched past flocks of birds investigating and presumably dining upon the rubbish of our lives. In this case the trash was piled high and was being covered in dirt by JCBs scooting around the rubbish ridges. Past this mess, I rolled into the destination – Brandy Bottom Colliery.

Sliding towards the Colliery

The remains of the Brandy Bottom Colliery demonstrate our industrial past, with ruined buildings once applied to the coal industry of the area. I ended up not spending much time at the Colliery as the light was fading and I needed to get back, so don’t have much to say on the place! But it was a window into history that I should probably do better to remember and respect.

The Brandy Cottom Colliery
A slug and a spire
A very square building

The theme of the walk – mud – continued as a turned back towards Laffy (my van). I just caught the glimpse of the setting sun across the tops of the rubbish peaks and so scampered up a nearby hill to get a better look. This scramble didn’t particularly pay off mind, as the sun was nearly gone and not all that impressive. My route took me into a huge barren field and then directly across it, with a strange feeling of openness surrounding me as I headed to the other side.

Rubbish sunset

The final section had me head towards a road which lead back to the pub. Thinking myself clever, I instead headed up a nearby canopy covered path for a more scenic route back into and through the village of Pucklechurch. Turns out this was a terrible idea as the recent weather had completed waterlogged the sun-starved path. As I tip-toed through, regretted my decision more by the second, the sun fully set and put me in darkness – further adding to my predicament. Nevertheless, I pushed through, nearly swimming, back to the village. A short jaunt along the road and a quick interaction with a friendly dog later I was back at the pub, bee-lining for the warmth and transport of Laffy.

Back to the pub and away!

All in all, a great little walk! Oh, and I saw some deer! (This is a very rushed ending)