I started to watch the first of a new series of ‘Coast’
tonight. It used to be a favourite programme of mine, but not any more it
seems. I turned it off after about ten minutes. I’m becoming ever more
intolerant of chirpy TV presenters, and even more intolerant of the constant
pushing of those chirpy, trivial and trashy preoccupations sadly (to me) endemic
in modern western culture. Saunas indeed!
I longed to take the arm of some rare and special person,
grab a couple of stray dogs in need of love and care, find the way to Avalon,
and bring the mist down so nobody can follow us. I went for a late walk
around the lanes instead, since this place at twilight is about the closest I’m
ever likely to get to Avalon.
No rare and special person, I’m afraid, and no stray dogs.
What I did encounter to my great delight was a thrush, singin’ on yon bush, only a few feet away. What music that bird
makes, and what unfettered confidence she displays in making it. No wonder she
inspired the classic Irish folk song The
Jug of Punch.
And when I’m dead, aye
and in my grave
No costly tombstone
will I have.
Just lay me down in my
native peat
With a jug of punch at
my head and feet.
And since I’m in the mood for quotations, how about this one
from Sir Thomas Mallory. King Arthur’s final words before being taken to Avalon
by the three queens:
Comfort thyself, said
the king...for I will into the Vale of Avalon to heal me of my grievous wound:
and if thou hear never more of me, pray for my soul.
Lucky old Arthur had three
rare and special persons. No mention of dogs, though.
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