So anyway, the cat died. We inherited her with the house. She was old. Some advice: if you want a cat to die on a Thursday, buy a lot of cat food on the Wednesday.
Also, out of the blue, a friend from back in the day died. I’d not seen him for quarter of a century but he’s the sort to have stuck in the mind – while everyone was being wild and crazy (or at least desparate to look like they were) he was bold enough to just be himself, a sort of Devonian John Hurt. More than quarter of a century ago – a third of a lifetime if you’re lucky; less than half if you’re not.
And then yesterday, the insanity of Charlie Hebdo.
Quite the gathering of New Year reminders that we are not immortal. This is not something I like to dwell on for too long – there’s tea to make, deadlines to meet, the dog to walk – but once in a while it’s something we should allow to swoop through the window and slap us around the face.
I – we – are all going to die. This – as far as we can know – is it. We will, in a blink of an eye, become little more than worm food and a pile of fillings. And, if we are lucky, a few warm feelings left behind.
Even in the time it takes to scroll past that picture, our brains are back pretending this isn’t so in order to be able to put one foot in front of the other, to keep getting up and doing whatever, to not be swallowed by the existential fog. So we quietly pretend tomorrow is a day like today, and that there are an infinite number to come.
It is easy to become inert, in denial that the egg timer is running. Or to become too busy, perhaps in quiet rage against negligibility – against our whole lives having been an irrelevance, without meaning. We might attempt to achieve something, even if that is as simple/impossible as leaving happy offspring. Yet we can be so intent on passing that happy baton that we forget to run with it a while ourselves.
Death can’t help but fire up the passing of time in the mind. As I’ve written before, time is best measured musically, as years are clearly unreliable. Years used to be longer: what other explanation can there be for the fact that The Beatles could have released all their albums twice over in the time since the millenium changed*; that the 15 years starting in 1959 took us from rock n roll, through the Beatles, the Beach Boys, psychedelia, the summer of love and all that hippiness/west coast stuff, through glam and metal to the start of disco; yet the same span of time since 2000 has produced precisely no new musical genres.
Yesterday was, unbelievably, 43 years since Bowie’s Changes was released as a single. 43 years. 43 years before that it was 1929.
It is 30 years since the greatest year in musical history**. 30 years since Rain Dogs, Steve McQueen, Low Life, This Is The Sea, Slave to the Rhythm, This Nation’s Saving Grace, Rum Sodomy and the Lash, Hounds of Love, Cupid and Psyche, Meat is Murder. This is, of course, impossible…after all, 30 years before that it was black and white telly, only was a decade since WW2, and people wore hats unironically.
Happily, this time/music conversion means that the time since the millenium approximates to a year in old money, and we are now due some seriously long, slow years (and some top music).
In all this impossibility of time and death, I resolved to not resolve. Instead of resolving, I walked. I rose early, took two trains and got to the beach for sunrise. On the way I passed the cashpoint where my dad withdrew money and just about managed to resist the ludicrous urge to take out money I didn’t need just to stand in the place he’d used to so often.
I was born within a mile or two of this beach, and in the mad summer of ’76 got so burnt on it that I couldn’t raise my arms to put a shirt on. This early, even stepping out at a fair pace didn’t warm through the cool air. Perfect.
I’d intended to go past the cliff-top schools camp where I’d washed up, cooked and otherwise idled my way through a few summers, but the tide was out and the beach was too wide and empty to leave.
I went to see Damon Albarn at the Albert Hall just before Christmas – he was brilliant in a way I didn’t think possible, given that I wasn’t his hugest fan. His recent album is largely about our relationship with technology.
Like most people lucky enough to have the legs of life’s stool on the floor more of the time than not, technology runs through most of my life and shows every sign of becoming an even greater part of life on earth. It can be hard to step outside its informative, connective, helpfulness once in while, but when the wind’s blowing and every part of you is working, and you strap that phone in your backpack, there’s nothing usual for your brain to do.
Thoreau wrote in his journal that “…the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow…” but he wasn’t blessed with Twitter, smartphones or the potential for a life as long as ours in the early 21st century that could afford such easy distraction***. It took a while of hard walking, sea air and silence for my brain to stop looking for something for me to do; to realise I was already doing it.
Once the usual ropes have been cut, your mind will sometimes hook on to the odd thing; equally, a gorgeous emptiness can happen along if you’re lucky. Either way, walking settles out whatever sediment is hanging in your blood.
Since a midsummer conversation with a friend, I’ve been faintly, back-of-brain aware of something that needed space to ponder on. He’d turned down a promotion that would have been great career-wise and financially as it would have kept him too busy. I prodded him about it, and it pretty much boiled down to the fact that he only eats animals that have lived the life they were meant to: he’ll eat fish if it has lived a fishy life and been caught properly, etc – and that he’d realised there was little point in doing that if he didn’t extend the same respect to himself.
Dead cats, dead friends, dead cartoonists and policemen. Somehow, as Bukowski said, one by one, those days run away like wild horses over the hills. That day, it was me heading over those hills, taking one back from the great bank of work days, sedentary days and other oknesses. I was a freerange human and it felt good.
A breakfast, two hard hours of walking in to it, was as close a last-meal amazingness as I can remember. A handful of nuts and raisins with a huge glug of water at the top of the penultimate climb hours later was, genuinely, as good as anything I ate over Christmas. Perhaps everything tasted so good because, for a short time at least, tasting it was all I was doing, and that doing exactly that is maybe the best way of thumbing your nose to the egg timer.
I meant to walk for 12 miles but Strava tells me I did 20.9, arriving at the beach nearest home for sunset. 8 hours from start to finish. I can lose 8 hours in an instant, prevaricating over a thing I’m writing, yet this felt like a week away: a week where I’d been doing one thing – and only one thing – at a time.
As Geoff Nicholson wrote in The Lost Art of Walking, “Writing is one way of making the world our own and…walking is another.”
* If there’s anything more ridiculous than coming up with such a wave of musical evolution as The Beatles did in those few short years, it’s remembering that they did so without The Beatles to influence them.
** I will accept arguments only from 1966, 1971 and 1979
*** Hemingway walked a lot, and as he wrote in A Moveable Feast. “It was easier to think if I was walking” and, even more air-punchingly insightfully “…or seeing people doing something that they understood…”
This read so easily for me. It was a feel good melancholy..like so many good lyrics . I live in the countryside in south east Ireland, and find myself telling me how lucky I am to look out my door and see trees and fields and how good it is that we loose wifi in the house on very windy days.
Im very overdue a visit to SE Ireland…such a fine place. I usually come over for GIY in September but had to miss it this year and I can’t wait to come back later this year. One of the few places I can imagine living.
I walk on the Malvern hills when I need to clear my head and I suppose re-centre and remember what is important in life which of course is not all the day to day hum drum things we fuss about but simply being and being at peace with yourself – as you say being free-range.
When my sister died I was acutely aware of my own mortality and went a little hell bent on trying to get the best out of life feeling that I owed it to her to live life to the full some how. But now having just lost my father I don’t feel the same, I am more philosophical.
I appreciate each day I have but hopefully in a calmer way and I remember that living life to the full can sometimes not actually be that good for your body or more importantly your mind.
Thank you for this thoughtful post while the rest of the world seems to be a little mad.
Sorry to hear about yr father. How good to live near the Malvern Hills to walk in, such a beautiful part of the country.
Lovely piece of writing. I’ve been saying to myself for a few months now that I really want to get back to going for long walks (well, about two hours long, not your kind of long) on Sunday mornings. This describes really well how it always made me feel and why I want to do it again and reminds me that I’m not going to experience it again unless I actually get out and do it.
Thank you…and yes, too easy for tomorrow to be the day to go walking
Nice blog but one big Ahem…..
1977 was the year that changed everything.
For example…
The Clash open the Roxy
Studio 54 opens
The Supremes together for the last time
Donna Summer releases I feel Love
Never Mind the Bollocks released
Elvis dies
Marc Bolan dies
Lynrd Skynrd die (to follow your theme)
Saturday Night Fever released
Bing Crosby and David Bowie’s Christmas song
That was the year…..
x
Yes a rightangled turn of a year – Low, Spiral Scratch, Marquee Moon, The Idiot, Trans-Europe Express, Pacific Ocean Blue, In the City, Death of a Ladies Man too – but, I’d contend that this was an incredibly innovative year, but as with most innovative things, it leads to something even better (if less innovative) to follow. Then again, I do talk shite most of the time.
I was going to put forward a case for 1976 (post “O” & pre “A” level) as a “transition” year until, upon checking, I found the following unforgettable hits.
Brotherhood Of Man – Save Your Kisses For Me
Elton John & Kiki Dee – Don’t Go Breaking My Heart
Showaddywaddy – Under The Moon Of Love
The Wurzels – Combine Harvester
Demis Roussos – The Roussos Phenomenon
Hank Mizell – Jungle Rock
Memory certainly plays tricks.
Jungle Rock was, and remains, a cornerstone of our evolution as humans. And as you know, I’ll never hear a bad word about Showaddywaddy on account of having TWO singers and TWO drummers – bold in austere times. And as for the The Wurzels, nothing will ever touch ‘I’ll never get a scrumpy here’ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nh3PVloWpT8 with possible the finest lyric ever: You never get surprises, livin’ in Devises
Errrr….. 50 years next year since the greatest year in music ach’ly
Just listening to the Kinks’ Face to Face, but it was the year of Revolver, Paint It Black, Revolution by Q65, Love’s first LP, the kicking off of everything in San Francisco, Beach Boys getting less surf obsessed, Small Faces got more flowery, The Byrds getting more freaky etc, etc.
Also year the mighty Ebbot of The Soundtrack of Our Lives was born.
AND the first series of The Pogles – not totally music related, but indicates how creativity was reaching a certain peak.
2014 was a bit of a doom laden year for me. Sheba the cat died in February, then we lost the last remaining of our first batch on hens towards the end of the year (daft thing broke her neck trying to see off some garden invader or other). Add to that construction work in the next street sending an infestation of rats into our gardens, sending the resident mice into the house, other construction work restricting access to the allotment and assorted stupidity at work – not the best of years.
Then in November I went to get a haircut and came home having agreed to adopt another cat. Two weeks later she moved in, two weeks after that she caught her first mouse.
Now feeling far more positive and raring to go for this year.
It can’t get much worse anyway.
I walk on the South Downs every day and find its the only thing that really clears my head of the negative news we are bombarded with every day. Life is indeed short but oh so sweet if we can just hang on to that thought.
Another beautiful part of the world. Happy walking
Born 1968 : only 14 years after rationing stopped and 22 years after the end of WW2. Seemed like deepest darkest history when I was little. 1st listened to music properly in 1982 so clearly I can’t join in the ‘best year’ conversation. Just reading your blog from the start, as an antidote to not getting ‘A year…’ for christmas and being told I’ll get it for my birthday – in March…grrrr. Anyway, it’s great (and sobering) following the development of the farm. Adrian
Cheers Adrian…v kind of you. And of COURSE you can get involved in the argument…! Am v similar aged to you…and besides men just make it up til theyre caught out
Initially sounded like ‘Justify the Unjustifiable’ from Fighting Talk, especially as my first few references turned out to be 1983 🙂 OK, Number of the Beast was released, Diamond Head released Borrowed Time, which influenced Metallica who still include a song from this album on their tour sets, Marillion release Market Square heroes, I still remember being sat in the back of my dad’s MGC going down the Fosse Way hearing this on the Anne Nightingale show. I suppose you have to say ‘Culture Club happened & Thriller was released… My first concert – Tygers of Pan Tang 🙂 Yep a good year.
Beautiful piece. So well written and easily read. I live on the Cooley Peninsula on the East coast of Ireland, a beautiful corner of our country. I can never spend enough time appreciating where I live. It is only when I get out amongst nature that life and time appear to make perfect sense.
I’ve yet to visit the peninsula but I must, hopefully in Sept
I stumbled across your blog today as am planning a veg patch for the coming season and found your site at the back of your book. I walk when faced with death too; find it helps to concentrate the mind on earth and nature rather than letting it contemplate the heavens and the existential awareness that comes with it.
I should really incvlude more actual *info* here shouldnt I rather than mither on so much
I very much enjoyed your post as it reminded me that I am not the only one to face the incomprehensible. Must say I’m currently totally absorbed with planning my first ever veg patch (following many of your recommendations) after years of dreaming; feels like it’s good for the soul!
I’ve often wondered why music blossomed then went stale. And wonder what a new blossoming would be like – as exciting as the first?
Been thinking a lot about death – and just read this: “Being Mortal: Illness, Medicine and What Matters in the End”
Atul Gawande. I’d recommend it.
Xxxxx Anne
I wonder if its lack of courage that makes everyone ape those before rather than break out into new music? There some great stuff around but largely not that original nor a wave of new sound. Strange. I shall look for that book, thank you
I read your blog with sadness, 1 for being born 1960 and only being 9 when the hippys were around 2 having loads of good music in the 60 and 70 only to be drowned out by disco 3 I miss my misspent youth, but most of all I miss my mam who died in 1997 and my dad who died in 203 , I find comfort in walking my rather large dog who seems to take on my parents personalitys,my mam by being grumpy when told its walky time and my dad whentold to leave the young ladys dog alone and come home, life is so full of surprises
I tink it may be best to have been born a little too late to have been fully immersed in the hippy thing in person, that way we can imagine it was amazing rather than a load of arses singing If Yr Going To San Francisco around a joss stick. Or maybe Im just bitter
‘So, anyway the cat died’ is probably up there as one my favourite ever opening sentences. Thank you. And also thanks for reminding me of what I need to do which is go for a long walk. Maybe it’s my own Devon upbringing but I do need the sea on a walk or at the very least some proper hills. London parks don’t do it in quite the same way. Have you read Somewhere Towards The End by Diana Athill? I think it’s a glorious book about being old and about death – witty, true, wise. Thank you for this post, Mark.
Hello Sophie. Hills and sea, one or the other for sure. And no, I don’t know that book but I’ll look it out…thank you
Really resonates with me that. Very poignant. By coincidence there was a Pinter quote tweeted earlier, life is beautiful, even though the world is hell, something like that. You and Pinter uey?
There was always music in our house, the radio was always on, but I never had music of my own until my dad let me in on his John Peel secret in 1977. My dad worked nights often and John Peel has the highlight of the shift. I was crap at school so there were lots of late night’s struggling with homework. One night he came into the gas-ring heated kitchen with a brand new Hitachi brick radio with extending antenna. Bit of company for you, son. It was as you know a good time to get into music and explained my dad’s very eclectic 8 track stereo collection, Scots Guards, Herb Alpert, Leonard Cohen etc etc. I’ll always have Stiff Little Fingers and The Ruts, thanks to him and JP of course, and a similar eclecticism.
You’ll notice the big pause before replying….that was me being Pinteresque.
The brick radio…what a thing…as good a friend as you an get when yr that age. Did I let you have the link to Andy Kershaw’s tribute show the day after JP died?
I didn’t at first, I’ll admit I said God!Oh! a few times then realised it was only a Pinter Pause and not a Beckettian Hiatus.
If you have the link to hand it would be much appreciated.
Here you go squire, a fine entertainment http://bit.ly/1ms2pOa
Beautiful blog. It strikes a chord with me as just before Christmas I gave up my job as a solicitor to be an intern in the kitchen garden at Chartwell, Kent. I’m loving being free range and reading your book that I got for Christmas is giving me some handy hints. Life is too short to waste doing something you no longer enjoy. My family may be financially poorer for a while but I figure we’re richer in other ways and as long as I know how to grow a few veg we won’t starve!
P.S. We have a very old wonky cat who is currently weeing everywhere. I might pop out to buy some cat food.
Ha, that’s the truth. You got to do something you love, if you can. And poor cat…fingers crossed
You do write well. Having grown up close to the sea but now living in a sea-less country, walks are not quite the same.
For some reason it seems that we mostly find the music of our youths to be the best, or at least that what has come after is often just a pale-ish comparison. I used to have a good friend about 20 years older than me, he found that good music stopped with the Doors and early Stones. I mainly find most stuff that has come after the early 80s is not much worth listening to, but do love the much of the earlier stuff. So I could imagine that people younger than me/you find the music of their youths to be very listenable to.
Are you calling me an old fart? Thought so
;-))
Remember I told you I spent a week with the NT trying to impress girl from Herefordshire. I believe that one of the fences that we mended is visible in the third photo from the end. Very thoughtful of you to include it in this post, thank you.
The lump I had in my throat after reading this was actually caused by the 7up I drank too quickly. And that was a bit of dust in my eye……