writing, not drowning

On a January Sunday, 60 years ago . . .

 

Richard Burton was in a BBC studio recording his inimitable performance as the narrator of Dylan Thomas's Under Milk Wood. It was broadcast on what was then the Third Programme the following evening. At the age of six, however, I knew nothing of Dylan Thomas and no-one in my family listened to the Third Programme.

My introduction to Thomas came five years later at my primary school, thanks to a Welsh student called - yes - Mr Jones, who was completing a teaching practice with our forty-strong form. One wet, chilly afternoon, at the start of an English lesson, Mr Jones announced that he had a treat in store for us. Out of one of the classroom cupboards, he hauled a wind-up gramophone, whose prior use had been confined to providing the music for our weekly country dance classes. (Our form teacher was a very keen member of the English Folk Dance and Song Society.)

Then, from his briefcase, he produced a record . . .

'This,' said Mr Jones, in reverential tones, 'is something remarkable. We are going to listen to Under Milk Wood. Some of the finest words in the English language - and written by a Welshman, Dylan Thomas. The narrator possesses one of the finest voices in the English speaking world and he is a Welshman too, Richard Burton. So, I want you all to sit still, absolutely no fidgeting.'

I can't remember what my classmates did but, from the moment I heard the opening line:

'To begin at the beginning . . .'

delivered in those deep, rich, nut-brown tones, there was not the remotest possibility that I might fidget. I was somewhere else - hovering on the edge of Llareggub, looking down on Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard, Captain Cat, Rosie Probert, Mr Mog Edwards, Gossamer Beynon et al. It was the first time that I can recall shivers running down my spine while listening to the spoken word. Mr Jones also had the look of a man for whom, in the words of Louis Macneice, 'time was away and somewhere else'.

But, this being the 1950s and my primary school being run by a head teacher who was feared by all, our literary transports of delight were doomed. Half way through the lesson, our head teacher stormed in, red of face and teeth clenched. She almost wrenched the gramophone arm out of its socket.

'This,' she bellowed at Mr Jones, 'is NOT suitable listening for 11 year-olds. See me in my office at the end of the lesson.'

And that was the end of our introduction to Dylan Thomas and Under Milk Wood. And it was the end of Mr Jones's teaching practice at our school. But I thought at the time that he had been right  about the words and the voice. Sixty years later, I still think he was right and I have a much-read first edition of Under Milk Wood and a frequently-played copy of the BBC recording to prove it.

So thank you, Mr Jones, for that great gift. And here, to mark the 60th anniversary of Burton and the cast's magnificent recording, the opening of Under Milk Wood. 

You can find the rest of the recording on YouTube. Unless, of course, you have your own much loved and much played copy. 

The comfort of stories by the fireside - with Jackie Morris

I knew it would take something special to jolt me out of my seeming inability to write anything at all in recent weeks. I'd reached a point at which everything I thought of writing was dismissed almost immediately as trivial. Well, that is one of the stages of bereavement and one simply has to wait for the leaden feelings to lift and get on with life while waiting for them to move away from centre stage.

And, yesterday, there was something special.

It's five and a half years since I included one of Jackie Morris's exquisite paintings in this blogpost; discovering her work at that time was the source of immense pleasure. Since then I've followed and greatly enjoyed Jackie's delightful blog, We Three, Ginger Cats' Tales. There is now, sadly, only one ginger cat remaining - the redoubtable Elmo - but he and his elderly tabby companion, Max, have been joined by two Bengal kittens . . .

Apart from the feline tales, We Three and Jackie's other blog keep admirers of her work (her words are as inspriring as her paintings) up to date with what she is doing and, at the moment, she is very much on the road. As luck would have it, that road led yesterday to one of my favourite shops, the wonderful Number Seven, run by Jan, her daughter Davina and Davina's husband, Christopher, in nearby Dulverton. Jackie was spending the afternoon at Number Seven, giving readings, discussing her work, and signing copies of her books . . .

including the latest, East of the Sun, West of the Moon.

All of which explains why, an hour ahead of the first scheduled reading, two women of a certain age settled themselves by the fire in Jan's kitchen behind the shop, while Jackie read us The Seal Children, her first book*. I felt about five years old again, lost in the wonder of words and magical illustrations.

And we talked about books, painting, writing, children, travel, cats, the beauty of the Pembrokeshire coast, dragons . . .

and Tibetan bowls. I happened to mention cheetahs and told Jackie about the sanctuary I had visited in South Africa, where I spent time with an adult male cheetah and had fallen in love with these remarkable big cats.

'Have you seen my cheetahs and cherries paintings?' asked Jackie. She showed me one. That's it, I thought, I'm starting a cheetah painting fund.

If there had not been two dear dogs waiting patiently at home for their afternoon walk, I could happily have stayed by the fire listening to stories until teatime. 

As I left the shop, carrying a precious parcel of signed books, I saw Jackie's van parked outside Number Seven and just had to smile.

At four o'clock, the dogs and I walked up to the top of our hill and then had half an hour of what we call 'extreme retrieving' - the object being to tire out the seemingly tireless Miss P; even though it was wet and muddy, I didn't mind one jot. It had been such an uplifting day and a privilege to spend time with someone as gifted as Jackie. But not just gifted, warm, funny and approachable too.

By this morning, the emptiness of the past two and a half months had gone; the sun shone and the dogs and I enjoyed a long walk by the river. We went up to the hill again this afternoon and I stood in the top field and did a 360 degree turn, looking across to all the other hills, disappearing behind each other, in every direction and into the distance, just to remind myself of the beauty of this place. The dogs romped and rolled in the sun and were as happy as I was.

So, thank you Jackie and thanks also to Jan, Davina and Christopher for a memorable Saturday and for inspiring me to start writing again.

If you are visiting Exmoor, make a point of going to Dulverton and calling in at Number Seven - tell Jan I sent you - and don't miss Toy Ahoy!,their shop in Minehead.

*You can find a complete list of Jackie Morris's books here. And there's more to see on Facebook.

André Kertész - On Reading

I've always loved this man's work and his Birds collection was the very first book of photography that I bought. So, as soon as I've moved, I'll be heading off  to London and  the Photographers' Gallery for this exhibition. Great photographer; great subject. Can't fail really, can it?

On reading rooms

PhotoJane Parkin

When my Kalk Bay friend and I were staying in Fort Kochi on the Malabar coast earlier this year, we walked past this reading room several times a day. It was close to our hotel and I was desperate for a photo but every time we went past, it was full of men - reading, naturally - and we agreed that it would have been intrusive and inappropriate to stand there snapping away.

But after I had left for Mumbai, en route back to England, my friend returned to Fort Kochi and happened to walk past the reading room when it was relatively quiet. She took the photo I so wanted and it has just arrived, along with many others, on a DVD.

There are reading rooms like this all over the world; in England, most were built in the latter half of the 19th century and at the beginning of the 20th century. In rural areas and before mass literacy, they provided a link with the outside world and were one of the essential hubs of village life, along with the church, the school and the pub. One thing they had in common with the Fort Kochi verson is that they tended to be the province of the menfolk. Women, as this account (compiled from interviews made by Ambleside Oral History Group and originally published in weekly parts by the Westmorland Gazette in 1987) shows, ventured in only on special occasions.

Many of England's village reading rooms remain and have been lovingly preserved and restored. And although their original use has changed, they remain a vital part of village life. The reading rooms below, which date from 1909 and which you can read about here, are in Mary Tavy, West Devon, and are still in regular use:

as are these very jolly reading rooms in Dickleburgh, Norfolk:

As you'll see from the flags over in the right-hand sidebar, visitors drop in at 60 Going On 16 from around the world, most recently from Nepal, Costa Rica and Estonia. Do you have reading rooms where you live? If so, do email me a photo and I'll post it on the blog with full credits, of course. We could have an occasional series . . .

One thing is certain, the compulsion to read knows no national boundaries.