Cat's cradle

This Easter weekend is a time of reflection and new beginnings for many. For me it's the cusp between leaving one job on Maundy Thursday and starting a new challenge on Tuesday. A year as an archive trainee with the National Archives, based in Manchester. I had got my head round the commute - short car journey, long train journey through the Hope Valley, and short walk in Manchester. Then the snow started last weekend. It snowed, and snowed some more, and the wind blew drifts that cut off Buxton completely and Bakewell to some extent for days.I had thought that I would have a good six months of not worrying about the weather, and the blizzard conditions threw me. I realise that I don' t like to feel life is going out of control. I love change but not unpredictability! It's got to be manageable. I think it's because I have spent over 28 years as the responsible adult - a role that kicked in with my birth of my first child. I then remembered the events of my first honeymoon - in truth my only 'honeymoon' in spite of being twice married. We set off for a friend's parents' house in Burton Bradstock, Dorset in late June. The weather was lovely. We had an old Ford Corsair and a very pregnant cat on the back seat. We couldn't leave her behind. She gave birth to her kittens that evening, whilst we were staying in the best man's flat in London. Back in the car with the cat and kittens in a cardboard box, we carried on with our journey to Dorset. We were stopped by a policeman on the motorway. We had to explain that we couldn't open the window to talk to him because of the cat family on the back seat. In Chippenham an essential part of the car fell off. Somehow we found a garage. Somehow we had the phone number of the best man's brother in Bath. We found a phone box and called him.He came and picked us up in an MG Midget.Cat, kittens,cases - how on earth did we do it? The cat and her kittens were fine. The house was lovely, an old mill by a stream. Later that week we headed back to Chippenham by public transport, leaving the cat back at the mill. How did we find the timetables? How did we co-ordinate the journey? On the way home we stayed with friends in a rural cottage in Shropshire.The cat must have been stir crazy and she escaped overnight. Search parties went out.Food was left by the car in the hope that she would return to the only familiar object in the landscape. Our friends began to look for a foster cat for the kittens. She did come back, clawing our friends hand badly when he grabbed her. We got cat and car back home, the kittens thrived and found homes. I don't remember feeling anxiety at any stage of this scenario. It unfolded , we dealt with each aspect of it as it arose, and everyone survived, including the car.Don't worry, be happy!

Studio in the Sand

As I watched the snow fall yesterday afternoon, wondering if my son would make it to Leeds to see one of his favourite bands, Gaslight Anthem, I switched on the radio. The dial was turned to Radio 4, and coincidentally Robin Denselow was presenting Studio in the Sand, his programme about the music of the Sahrawi.I say coincidentally because many years ago, 1980 to 1981, I lived and worked in Morocco. Morocco had claimed the Spanish Sahara in 1975 and the Polisario movement for independence had sprung up as a response. The conflict was kept under wraps in Morocco, but we all paid an extra tax out of our salaries which we knew was going to fund the war. I had Moroccan friends who told me about the Green March, when young Moroccan conscripts had been mobilised into the desert. In pre Internet days it was hard to follow progress of the conflict when I got back to the UK. The Sahrawi had been under Spanish colonial rule in that part of the Sahara before this. I spent Christmas in Tenerife the year I worked in Casablanca, and the plane stopped in Layoun on its way to the Canaries. Whilst there I met Domingo, who wrote to me for a while when I returned to Morocco. He sent me a couple of photos of him as a child in the family villa in the Spanish Sahara. Imagine going from the green lushness of Tenerife to the Sahara for your holidays!So aside from an interest in the music, I knew a little of the political history behind Robin Denselow's inspiring programme. Music and culture is an important part of the Polisario stand for independence. Young people were being taught sound engineering skills, to record and perform their music.Women are important carriers of the cause and the culture, in contrast with what is happening in many Islamic communities. 'The Sahara is not for Sale' is the battle cry song. A half hour programme - 3.30pm on March 23rd, Radio 4 if you want to listen again - only scratches the surface. As I remember it, the conflict was about who had control of valuable phosphate deposits in the Western Sahara, and none of my Moroccan friends approved of the action. Conscription for an unacknowledged war brought its own difficulties. Perhaps the hope was to develop music festivals in the area. Sadly the recent problems in Mali and Algeria have put everything with the studio in the sand on hold. I am glad to be reminded of the successes and resilience of a people I once knew something about.

Blue sky thinking

This time last week I spent a wonderful afternoon at Tremenheere Sculpture Garden outside Penzance, with a newly discovered old friend who lives in the area. The sun was shining, daffodils were growing in the surrounding fields, and St Michael's Mount was a magical mirage out in the bay.The cafe and gift shop were in a simple light bright and colourful building, reminiscent of the Level Centre in Rowsley where I used to work. It had the same spacious, contemplative feel, almost a place of worship. Which is interesting, because the surrounding gardens were once the vineyards for the monks at St Michael's Mount. The sculpture garden is small and very beautiful. Different from the Bretton Hall sculpture garden, which to me has a very Yorkshire feel to it - sheep and rough pasture. This garden is exotic in its gulf stream lushness. There's something of a fantasy or faerie landscape there. The sculptures are amazing. A James Turrell skyscape, similar to the one at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park in the old deer shelter, but oval and mediterranean in it's white and sky blueness. His water reflective installation was closed last Saturday, but I have a sense of what it might be like. Many years ago when I lived in Morocco some friends took me to see a famous cistern in El Jadida. It had been used as an underground store for water since Roman times.As you stepped into the space, your mind played tricks. The water was so completely still that the walls and vaulting were a perfect mirror image and you couldn't tell if you were on your head or your heels. Unforgettable. David Nash's blackened oak trunks looked like a family group in a clearing. A camera obscure messed with our minds - slight panic as I tried to find the door handle in the pitch dark! The whole experience was a treat for the senses. Today I am looking at three foot of snow in my Derbyshire garden. Cornwall really is another world.

Ghost walk in St Ives

St Ives was full of memories - memories from the past and memories made for the future. We missed Shanty Baba's Sunday Ghost Walk, but we heard him perform his beautiful piece about the shifting times and tides of the town. I will never forget the Thursday night Frug at St Ives Arts Club, a place I had always wanted to visit. It exceeded all expectations thanks to the mix of artists, musicians, poets and players there. The Bootlegger DJ and his amazing collection of blues and psychedelic 45s, played on a customised record deck that featured mermaids and pirates. Natives of St Helen's connected in St Ives.Poetry was performed. Virginia Woolf's lighthouse could be seen from the upstairs window. Mere days before our visit the waves had crashed over the roof of the boat boarded building. Barbara Hepworth had danced on those floorboards, by the red velvet curtains. Who had babysat for the triplets that night? Every view of the sea was an artist's impression. I watched old cine films from the 50s and 60s, shown in a church with a welcoming congregation, braving the torrential rain for a fund raising evening. Many in the audience recognised friends and family, local characters and events. Fisherman in shirts and suits, baiting their lines. Little girls in white dresses dancing round the Knill monument to a tune played by an ancient fiddler. One of them grew up to become the wife of the man sharing his father's old cine films.Streets of fisherman's cottages still had lines of washing strung across them. Cats thronged the quayside. It was poignant, a time past, alive in the present for those watching. Perhaps film really can steal your soul.I stood in Bernard Leach's pottery watching old film footage of him at work, his boots in the corner of the room next to me. Dead man's shoes. We visited Barbara Hepworth's garden and studio, where her presence is palpable,not just in her work rooms, but in the simple single bed with its blue and white cotton bedspread, still made up in the summerhouse.There were postcards in a file, written by children who I am guessing must have visited with their schools. Arthur wrote in his newly acquired handwriting , after the heading 'Dear Barbara" - "I am sorry you are dead'. I know just how he feels, but the wonder of this liminal place on the cusp and threshold of so many worlds, sea and shoreline, past and present, land and sky, is that it's all still there just waiting to be recognised. I was sorry to miss the Ghost Walk. It was a ghost walk in St Ives many years ago that inspired me to start mine in Bakewell, and that in turn helped me to do an MA in folklore and cultural tradition.The rest is history.