The Matrix - Blackhouses Village

‘Matrix – the cultural, social or political environment in which something develops.’

My first glimpse of Gearrannan Blackhouse Village on the Isle of Lewis was breathtaking, almost tearful. We were up a slight hill by the coast looking down on the cluster of thatched, shallow built stone cottages and a lane weaving through to the shore. It was idyllic. I imagined being settled there with all my family, away from the stresses and strains and everything I would like to escape from in the real world. Through my rose-tinted glasses we would have an endless supply of provisions and enough skills between us to look after each other. How cosy and warm it would be, by the fire, inside a cottage with its 3ft wide walls.  I wondered what the attraction was to the original settlers. It’s windy on the Atlantic coast. Surrounding hills offered some, but not much shelter. As I remember, the last inhabitants were re-housed as recently as the early 1970s. The cottages are renovated and well maintained. One is now a café and gift shop, two or three are museums showing visitors like us how people lived. More like how they survived. The other cottages are holiday accommodation. The revenue helps with the up-keep and nothing has been spoiled. There is running water and electricity. The village is perfectly saved for the likes of us to have a tangible insight into life through the ages, and on-going with the successful holiday lets. From an early settlement it has developed into the modern world and continues to be a conservation area. Perhaps I’ll have an opportunity to stay there and live my dream for a moment.

Matrix – ‘Something, such as a situation or a set of conditions, in which something else develops or forms the complex social matrix in which people live their lives.’

I found this, by Amy Lowell:

The Matrix

Goaded and harassed in the factory
That tears our life up into bits of days
Ticked off upon a clock which never stays,
Shredding our portion of Eternity,
We break away at last, and steal the key
Which hides a world empty of hours; ways
Of space unroll, and Heaven overlays
The leafy, sun-lit earth of Fantasy.
Beyond the ilex shadow glares the sun,
Scorching against the blue flame of the sky.
Brown lily-pads lie heavy and supine
Within a granite basin, under one
The bronze-gold glimmer of a carp; and I
Reach out my hand and pluck a nectarine.

                                      Amy Lowell 1874 – 1925

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Beach - South Shore

I was nine years old when my family moved to Blackpool. Dad took a pub on South Promenade and my playground was the stretch of beach from the north side of South Pier to the small, ornamental windmill that used to grace the promenade opposite Waterloo Road. I could easily find ‘home’ between those landmarks, though I didn’t venture out alone at that age. I haven’t been there for a long time, but it’s a place where I always feel spiritually ‘at one’ with my departed loved ones. My father exercised our dog there, at least twice a day, early morning and late at night. When I was older I’d go with him sometimes.  My mother often took me out for a treat when my younger sister was in bed. We would go to feed pennies into the fruit machines in The Beachcomber amusements on the pier, maybe play bingo for a bit, then walk along the beach to Central Pier and back again, if the tide was out. My grandmother spent hours in the bay window of our living room just watching the world go by on the prom and the beach. I’ve only got to stand there to feel the love and the closeness of the family and be thankful for an abundance of happy memories, gathered in a short time.

Throughout those childhood summers my sister and I would be taken to play on the sands by our mum, or Nanna when she was visiting, but more often by Auntie Kathy who looked after us. With buckets and spades, towels and sometimes a picnic in a hold-all, we would spend ages trying to cross four lanes of traffic then the tram tracks. The smell of hot-dogs mingled with candy-floss and fried onions. Our bare feet would be roasting on the hot tarmac and we’d be dodging the assortment of spills that messed the pavements. Auntie Kathy always had her sandals on and only took them off when she gave in to our persistent mithering to go paddling. She kept us away from the donkey ride areas, we laughed at her calling ice-lollies ‘lolly-ices’ whenever we had one and she taught me how to pull the heads and tails of shrimps as I ate a couple of ounces worth from the seafood stall. We loved her. She helped us to make sand-pies and castles then sat back to smoke a Park Drive while she watched us get water for the moat. It was much the same with our mum and Nanna and we survived those long, hot summer days of hours on the beach with no sun lotion. We tanned and didn’t burn. Things were different in the mid-60s.

On the gorgeous Pembrokeshire beaches with my children some thirty or so years later, it was jelly-shoes, tee-shirts, sun hats and lotion for arms and legs.

Wherever I go, I’m drawn to the coast and I’ve strolled on some fabulous beaches at home and abroad, but, so far, nowhere can match the stunning silver sand of the west coast of South Uist. It was my first breath-taking view of the Hebrides. There were many more spectacular coastal views, like my photograph of a beach on the Isle of Eriskay where I collected ‘whiter than white’ shells and a thimble full of shimmering sand.
 

My chosen poem was created by one of my favourite poets, Dr John Cooper Clarke, and members of the public who contributed their thoughts of the coast.

 

Nation's Ode To The Coast

Dr John Cooper Clarke

A big fat sky and a thousand shrieks

The tide arrives and the timber creaks

A world away from the working week

Où est la vie nautique?

That’s where the sea comes in…

Dishevelled shells and shovelled sands,

Architecture all unplanned

A spade ‘n’ bucket wonderland

A golden space, a Frisbee and

The kids and dogs can run and run

And not run in to anyone

Way out! Real gone!

That’s where the sea comes in…

Impervious to human speech, idle time and tidal reach

Some memories you can’t impeach

That’s where the sea comes in

A nice cuppa splosh and a round of toast

A cursory glance at the morning post

A pointless walk along the coast

That’s what floats my boat the most

That’s where the sea comes in…

Now, voyager - once resigned

Go forth to seek and find

The hazy days you left behind

Right there in the back of your mind

Where lucid dreams begin

With rolling dunes and rattling shale

The shoreline then a swollen sail

Picked out by a shimmering halo

That’s where the sea comes in…

 

Could this be luck by chance?

Eternity in a second glance

A universe beyond romance

That’s where the sea comes in…

Yeah, that’s where the sea comes in…

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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