Miscelanious

A Hike at Edale with my 15 year old Phone

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All Photos taken on the Sony Ericsson Cyber-Shot (2008)

I went to Edale again. It had been almost a year since my last visit. I was supposed to go with a friend but because she fell ill, I had to travel Solo (I’m not talking Han). I knew the journey there all too well. Board the train to Sheffield that leaves Manchester Piccadilly every hour at ten-to, 45 minutes later and you’re there, slap bang in the Peak District. A short walk from the train station and I found myself on the same route that I had walked before. It was a fair, old trek from what I remember clocking in at about 15KM’s but the weather was perfect, so I was here for it.

Whilst Ascending I got a call from my mate in London. The Daily call to talk about the curses and blessings of life seemed all too familiar. The subject of this conversation revolved around me convincing him to pay for my night out in London with some of his illustrious and well-paid friends. The exercise seemed futile and resulted in a strong no, however it helped me forget about the ascent, so proved useful. As I got to the top, it was very evident that my t shirt was soaked through with sweat. There hadn’t been much of a breeze so cooling down was proving particularly challenging. I tied the t shirt to my backpack and decided to let it dry off in the suns heat. This worked well as by the time I was ready to descend Jacob’s Ladder it was nice and dry. Making my way around the circular trail above, I recalled the footsteps and particular rocks that I had passed by a year before.

It had been hatching season from what I could see as all the flying ants were crawling about the rocks. They didn’t prove to be much of a nuisance in the end, making only for the occasional swat of the hand. Not having done much trail running in the months previous I only dabbled in that form of exercise on the hike. I was cautious of not twisting an ankle as the lack of practice could have rendered them weak. To make the walk harder, I decided to hold off on any food or beverage until I had hit the 10KM mark. Making up to the point of ascension was nearly 5KM so doing another 5K seemed manageable.

My favourie picture from that day. The rock formation, the sweeping grass and the clear blue skies leave me feeling peaceful.

Once I hit the 10KM mark I immediately stopped for a heavy gulp of water, a cliff bar and a very timely banana. Whilst trying to enjoy the view and the recently consumed nutrition, I became a local hot spot for the flying ants so decided to go on my merry way. I still couldn’t quite see Jacob’s Ladder so I asked two on coming hikers if they had ascended that way. They replied with a kind “Yes” and after bit of map-pointing later, we established it was about another 3KM.

A quick 3KM later and there I was once again, at the top of the Ladder. I had just missed two mountain bikers who had begun their descent. I would poop bricks if I had to descend by bike, it certainly wasn’t for the faint hearted. Making my way down, I let myself gather some speed as I’d recently found out that stopping your momentum too much on a downhill section was quite bad for the knees. This seemed to work well because not 5 minutes later, I raised my head up and realised I was at the bottom. Strava seemed to back up my quick descent too, receiving a shiny Gold Medal for my quickest descent to-date. Sure, I was far off first place but that was nae bother.

Unfortunately, the walk back to Edale seemed to drag on as I would usually have run this section in order to make it for the train. However, I had time to kill, which meant a pint at the Ramblers Inn. I had always walked past the pub but never stopped for a libation. My casual drinking days were few and far between but today seemed like a perfect day for a pint of cider. “Pint of water and a pint of cider please mate”. He looked at my ‘Another happy climber’ Frog T shirt and proceeded to pour me my liquids. Waiting for my drinks, a man seemed to struggle keeping control of his dog. He’d lost the lead at the top of Mam Tor and wasn’t exactly keen to go rushing back for it. I didn’t mind and neither did the other people dotted about the pub. The dog was just having a nose about as it was designed to.

I sat down alone and sank the glass of water so as to not finish the cider off too quickly. It didn’t work. Although I was no longer as thirsty which was nice. With time to spare, I strolled to the Train Station which was literally round the corner. The sun was setting as I sat down on the gravel platform. Another successful hike, another solo hike. A few hours to think and gather my thoughts. It was quiet up there on the hill tops, which reflected the current noise levels in my head.

The train ride back was fun. All the windows were open, so the breeze was more than pleasant. There was another curious dog lay down in front of me. He would scan the carriage, but I couldn’t make of what he saw. Sometimes I wasn’t sure of what I was seeing myself. I could see it but often wouldn’t give it much more than a fleeting thought. I’d save that for the more important things, like where would I hang up my 6ft, French Lord of the Rings poster. A thought that frequently crossed my mind these last few weeks. I suppose I’ll stop wondering once I’ve figured it out.

I was at Piccadilly now and my thirstiness has subsided into hunger. I headed to Ancoats Square thinking a Rudy’s would sort me right out only to change my mind. A burrito seemed more fitting. Wolfing down this burrito with a two-litre bottle of sparkling water whilst trapsing along Oxford Road, was the last image that stayed with me that evening. The Bus didn’t really seem with today’s trip, so I walked home instead. I headed for the shower and hit the hay. ‘A good day wasn’t it’, I thought, drifting off to sleep.

Click here to check out another post full of pictures taken on the Sony Ericsson Cyber-Shot

Poetry

August Poetry: Brazil is Blue

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The skies seemed 
	more blue 
in Brazil. 
The birds seemed 
	more flighty. 
Unwilling to land 
or even comprehend 
the idea of closing 
	their wings. 
To do so would be unjust. 
To do so would mean that 
	they were no longer 
	souring. 
A part of the clouds 
Overhead and the 
	Fish that naively 
		swam below. 
So many of the two legged beings 
	seemed happy. 
	static on the hot sand 
that stopped the Sea in its footsteps. 
	To them being still was 
	part of life. 
a life they so often didn’t question. 
So few knew what it meant to Soar. 
	so few cared to find out. 
They left the flying to the birds 
and the dying to themselves. 
	The skies seemed 
	more blue 
	in Brazil, 
but the people died all the same.
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August Poetry: 4 legs and a seat

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That chair in the corner
looks comfy,
he thought,
or more,
he had thought
and continued to think.
Its brown leather 
had been worn in
but by who?
The previous owner?
who was that?
he wondered.
It looked so far away,
like it had 
hopped backwards 
only moments before.
It’s almost like it’s scared
but it’s a chair,
	so that’s not possible.
If it were it would make noises
Or give some sort of 
Impression that is was.
	Suppose it did look a bit
	frowny, come to think of it.
“Tea’s ready”
	Who’s this?
Fiction

Short Fiction: London to Peru

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He had parked his car on the edge of the street outside of the bakery. This was not his local bakery; in fact, he had never been to that particular one before. The cakes all danced in the shop window, each trying to sell themselves through their array of colour and sugar content. He had never been one for the sweeter things in life. Rather the thought of strong wooden chair, visible in grain and all it’s modest joinery would have truly made him feel content. That and large Cigar. Putting his keys away in his large pockets he proceeded to make his way to this appointment. Pausing for a moment, he turned his head slowly in order to look back at the fine motor parked outside of Pemberton’s Bakery. The afternoon sun glistening off its dark green chassis, a wonderful display of British engineering. His Uncle was a kind man but even he had outdone himself with this kind gift. Although he had earnt it, all those years tucked away in Peru had made him a slightly hostile man. It had only been two months since his return to the concrete streets of London but he could not have been happier to be back. A Tweed suit was fastened round his body. Long had it been since the weather had permitted him to don a suit without it sticking to every part of his body. It was not the fact that he was away from home for all that time that had made him upset but instead the little things that made him feel at home that were absent. The Amazon, had no room for error let alone the small markings of comfortability. The tall rubber trees were not your like your friendly Oak tree in Holland Park. In fact, nothing in the entire Amazonia was comparable to a stroll through Holland Park. Not even the sighting of a frightful looking dog could come close to the general looming danger that followed everywhere you trapesed. 

Realising once again he was in the safe streets of South Kensington, he walked towards his meeting with Dr. Shaw. Impressed by the natural looking finish on the door of 22 Debbing Street, he knocked on. It wasn’t but a moment later that large square panel of wood creaked open and the sight of a rotund gentleman greeted his view. Dr Shaw was everything you would want and expect from a professor. A gold pocket watch hid in the breast pocket of his well-tailored suit, a suit that did well to provide some elegance to his large frame. Round spectacles clung onto his nose, an aid to his expansive yet Eurocentric mind. It was no doubt that he was a highly intelligent man but tainted by his own awareness of that thing deemed him an equally ignorant man. 

“Well do come in Mr. Drift” said the Doctor. 
“Gladly” replied Arnold. 
“I don’t suppose the underground was too busy at this time of day”
“I drove actually”
“Is that so? Well a fine day for it at that”
“Truly. The weather has been kind to me since my return”
“London has truly missed your presence in that case. Either that or you have brought the Peruvian climate back with you.”
“I’d rather it stay where it were if I’m honest.” 
“I can imagine. A Savage climate over there” Dr Shaw said, shaking his head as if he had remembered the weather from personal experience. Yet he had only known of such information through pages of writing and the cosy confinements of his study. “If you’d like to follow me.” 

He slowly walked back to his leather chair. A cane in his left hand supported the slight waddle he had obtained from his hip injury years ago. Dr Shaw had previously been a huge Polo player, having traversed the professional scene in London almost twenty years ago. Once a sporting man, the lack of movement had allowed his body to decline, yet his mind was all the more active for it. The large oak desk not only did well in breaking the room up of its empty space, but also excellently exaggerated the importance of Dr Shaw’s intellectual findings. Upon browsing, Mr. Drift glanced over a whole host of artifacts sitting amongst the different book shelves which made up the outer portions of the study. Focusing now on what he knew to be an Amazonian Spear leaning over in the corner, his mind was instantly fogged by the many daunting memories he had experienced during his time in Peru.

“Isn’t that right Mr. Drift… Mr Drift?” asked Dr Shaw.
“Sorry, yes of course” he replied not entirely knowing what was being asked in the first place.
“I thought as much. A three week trip back must have been exactly what you’d hoped for after being in South America all that time” chuckled the Doctor. His sense of humour had quite often surrounded the misfortunes of others. That and the comic strips in the News Paper, a fascination of his that had been passed down through his father at the breakfast table.
“One would have hoped for a more forgiving journey back. Nevertheless, I am back in one piece and that’s all I could ask for” said Mr. Drift, not knowing himself whether or not what he just said was true.  
“I suppose you’re an adventurer now then aye?” questioned the Doctor with a child like smile on his face. 
“I do not think I am cut from that cloth. It was merely reconnaissance for a client of mine.” Drift replied with a deadpan voice. 
“Modest too. Lucky the client has such a hard-working researcher such as yourself in that case.” Shaw said trying to provoke some information from him.
“That I will take credit for.” Hard work had been instilled in Arnold from a young age. Growing up as the youngest in a heavy male dominated family meant he had to grow up fast. The small village of Keswick had meant learning to love the Countryside of the wonderful Lake District.
Music Explored

A look at Grime Fashion in the 2000’s

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I spent a big part of my teenage years in TK MAX. Specifically the one in Woking’s Peacock Centre. The one on the bottom floor next to the food court. I’m not sure if it’s still there because I haven’t returned for over a decade. I wonder if they’ve still got the same kind of stock as they did back then. There would be Ed Hardy, Nike, New Era hats and those Pharrell cartoon character T shirts every time I would go. That era of TK Max stands out to me because it’s also one’s I see Grime Artist’s donning in the first ciphers and music videos they released. I’m talking Wiley wearing a T shirt with the Basketball Team logos on it, the Air Max tracksuits bottoms that used to be uniform, Skepta’s Ed Hardy era and more. Granted Skepta was probably not buying his Ed from TK and in fact probably was picking it up from the more expensive shop where Boss man was selling those Money Jeans with the Gorilla Logo and Crooks & Castles T shirts. If only I had a time machine so I could go back and pick up a stock load of t shirts to rock, not to mention it would be every Depoper’s Y2K dream to shop there.

It’s strange because I don’t remember the shoe selection in that TK Max but I was definitely scouring those isles as well. Perhaps because I had less of an idea of what I was looking for back then. I wonder if I glanced over some ridiculous pairs that I would be kicking myself about now. Like some Fragment Jordan 1s or some Red Octobers just laying there. Suppose it doesn’t do any good to wonder but it’s a fun idea.

G.B. ENGLAND. East London. Youth club emceeing session. 2005.

I think that’s one reason why I can enjoy Grime so much as a genre. The Culture and uniform that surrounds the artist are what normally deepens the bond between music and listener. That’s why you see so many Indie people rolling around the streets of Manchester, each one trying to live out their Brit Pop fantasy, imagining that they must be part of a hypothetical Gallagher Trio. For myself, having those first hand memories of all the clothes that used to be worn by the MCs, all dotted about a shop I used to spend so much time in only made the connection stronger. It makes all the references a bit more personal. Obviously, just because I may have worn the same tracksuit bottoms as an MC from back in 2008 doesn’t mean I relate to every reference, think that goes without saying. For example, I didn’t have “gyal on my Ericsson, gyal on my Nokia” as Chipmunk claimed on his Westwood freestyle, far from it in fact. I suppose I did get my sisters hand-me-down Nokia that I made fun noises with through its tonal keypad. Although I don’t think that’s what Chip meant all those years ago. I can however relate to Skepta’s “it’s time to rise up the cricket bat like Bryon Lara” line as my Primary school friend used to bring round the Bryan Lara Cricket game for PS2 back in the day. Many bats were electronically lifted no doubt. Whilst Skepta wasn’t directly referring to playing a PlayStation 2 based Cricket game and more likely referring to the preamble which would lead to Devilman being hypothetically “buried in Neasdon”, I think parallels could be drawn.

I don’t think I was listening to the genre at the time that all these said experiences were going down. In fact I don’t think it was till 2014 that I started delving into the genre in a serious way. Before that, the closest thing I got to the genre was watching the Roll Deep music videos on repeat on my 2010 holiday to Cyprus where them and Devlin were taking over the Summer charts. The fact that the genre captures a certain snapshot in terms of the streetwear scene back then is what added to my connection to the music.

It wasn’t till I saw Skepta’s RedBull interview that I found out how Manchester influenced the more “British” look in Grime’s early history. You can see from the early Ciphers that a lot of NFL and NBA merchandise was still being worn. This was because London was still massively influenced by the Hip Hop scene where artists over there were the closest things to what Grime MC’s could look up to. Just look at those iconic Simon Wheatley photographs for example, it’s all there to see.

Cities like Manchester and Liverpool were almost anti-American in the way that they were proud of the culture their City was forming and had been formed. Perhaps it was also a case of disconnect, with no internet and lack of artists visiting the Northern Cities at the time. No doubt the US artists came over to do shows in London, I mean you even had Jay Z performing at Notting Hill Carnival at one point. I can’t imagine Tupac having a pint in Northern Quarter at any point during his career so perhaps that’s why British culture was a lot stronger up North. I mean that isn’t a direct reason but it does come with its inferences. As Skepta said about the North, “It’s just greezy up [t]here”.

Check out other Grime Related pieces here!

Poetry

July Poetry: a misplaced sofa

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All her life 
	she felt 
	like she was abstaining from 
	something.
the adult magazine 
	that stood
	readily available at
her local supermarket
had almost guaranteed her 
moralistic downfall.
She was young,
	too young,
	but she remembered how 
	she’d felt.
Perhaps she would have forgotten
had it not been for her 
parents shouting,
cold brother,
constant slamming doors.
Every day there seemed to 
be a ‘who could be the loudest’
contest at her
	house.
it was too disorderly to be called 
	a home,
although it lay host to a whole
	heap of problems 
		that imbedded 
	themselves in 
the purple dining room walls
and tht horrible 
green sofa that 
her grandma had 
left behind.
It seemed so out
	of place in the context
	that surrounded 
it
but still she felt 
like the sofa 
had more of a place 
in the mother’s heart 
than she ever could.
Perhaps that’s why she 
never took to it
like a new born baby
sucks all the attention
away from the older 
sibling.
It wasn’t even comfortable,
that was the worst part.
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July Poetry: the moon that smiled

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I hadn't seen a smile like that before,
Not round these parts,
It felt like something familiar.
What's worse was I never saw it again.
I never felt it again.
Not in that way at least.
It didn't bother me though,
At least I knew that feeling was out there somewhere on this earth.
Like how you can see the moon,
but will never experience it up close.
Appreciating how it makes the dark
slightly less scary
but will never get a chance to truly say thank you.
That was her smile,
A memory I would reflect on 
whilst walking the streets,
whilst in the shower,
whilst carrying out the mundane tasks of life.
That's when I remembered.
That's why I'm glad,
I saw her smile.
Even if it was just that one time.
Poetry

Throwback Poem: Walking [06.21]

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Today I enjoyed walking 
The slowness of it 
Giving me time I needed 
Even wanted.
The surroundings help 
People walking by help 
Not literally 
But like characters in a movie 
Other stories in motion 
Most likely never engaging with one another 
At least not in my case. 
I don't mind,
I make friends with the buildings I pass
And the song in my head. 
They're company enough.
Poetry

July poetry: a cities people

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Sirens scream past
like and ice cream van
looking for the spark in 
children's eyes 
when he hands them
over a sense of joy 
packaged in a pyramid
of cold, sugary bliss.

Birds carve the skies above
like the butcher artfully,
following lines in the dead animal,
lay in front of him.
It's blood 
a river 
flowing off the wooden workbench
full of etchings 
that falsely portray 
the presence of nature,
yet only reveal the use of a 
cold, 
sharp, metal blade.

A taxi cab,
turns off its glowing sign,
telling the world
it is once again full of purpose 
although the sigh from the 
driver would suggest otherwise.
A life long education
of street names and landmarks 
makes him the closest thing 
to the City,
not the men in suits who sit
in powerful huts
and navigate their post code 
pretending to do good.

A chef wipes his hands after another shift being done.
He spent most of his day
in one spot, one location,
hesitant to break from his role 
whilst 
tomatoes from Cornwall,
truffles from Italy,
cuts of meat from Argentina,
all passed underneath his own very nose.
He would have the world at his
fingertips,
although his feet refused to move
more than 5 meters away,
the occasional pause to
fill his lungs with smoke.
The ingredients in his kitchen
were forever at his mercy
yet they were more well-travelled 
than him.
Poetry

July Poetry: why passion?

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why do I get teary when I eat good food?
why do I get emotional when I hear a wonderful piece of music?
why do I get overwhelmed when I see something beautiful take place on the screen before me?
passion.
simply put, passion.
that glimpse into someone’s soul.
a snapshot of their most
ideal self.
their best creation.
where body, mind and countless of hours honing in that skill comes into
play.
into fruition.
it lays before you in whatever form
it belongs to.
it says 
“here I am”
“this is me”
all at once 
in a nicely packaged,
consumable form.
if the person on the receiving end
has the capacity to admire the beauty that lays before them,
then that results in something
equally as profound.
acknowledgement.
a response
“I see you”
we say back.
not directly.
more often than not, 
through a lack of words.
	              sometimes we miss this.
    we walk past it.
a man playing a violin in the underground,
we catch the distinct smell of an extravagant dish,
we aren’t present enough,
to acknowledge its beauty.
and that’s okay.
the world is full of missed opportunities,
just make sure that when you 
feel it,
that overwhelming,
profound beauty,
just sit with it.
let it stir inside of you,
let it draw out any emotions that
it so chooses.
          surrender to it.
                     or choose a life without it.

Check out my last poem here!

: thoughts on footwear and fleeting poems