cliffs, white cliffs looking south. And Iâd go in summer, really late on, because those June nights donât get properly dark until after midnight.
Iâd go to see Antares. You know what that is? Antares is a star. A red star. In the constellation of the scorpion. Most times, I canât see it. Nobody can. Itâs too southerly, even from Beachy. But sometimes â yes, if Iâm lucky, if itâs a perfect night â Antares is there. So I just look. I sit on the grass, that bitten down grass on the chalk, and look out into the night. The night thatâs like the ocean.
Yes, as big as the ocean. And those June nights full of cockchafers. Big bugs, scary at first, but just clumsy. Flying around at the edge of things. Back and forth over the precipice and into thin air with the sea three hundred feet below. The sea milky with the chalk. So at night, itâs a white sea.
Then low down, if Iâm lucky, thereâs Antares. There it is. A dusky red like a pheasantâs eye. Red as the dust of Morocco. A star red as chili oil. A glimpse of Berber gold.
And I think, Christ, Iâm alive. Alive! Alive in all this, with these bugs divebombing and the sea a white mist, and the Milky Way a net in the sky, and the June night hardly a night at all. And a star like a ruby. Yes, a ruby in the navel of the night. Because I was sure I was done for. I was gone. Finito , Iâm telling you. Over and out. I couldnât believe it.
When it happened everything seemed in slow motion. I could look down and see myself in the water. On the black swell. And my boat disappearing, with no-one on board who knew what had happened. Yes I looked down at myself â a man overboard, a man waving, a man calling. In the black swell.
And soon one red light on the stern was all I could see of that boat. Thatâs all there was. The boat chugging away and me left behind, shouting, waving. That one red light on the horizon, down low. Not even a star can get any lower than that, I thought. But Antares can. Iâve learned that now. Because there it is, tonight. Antares on the southern horizon.
And then that red light vanished. Christ, I thought. Iâm done for. This is it. Here I am on the shoulders of the swell. Thirty minutes is all I have. And the boat disappearing out of sight. Gone. Gone absolutely.
But what Iâm trying to say is, that light vanishing was a good thing. Because it meant the boat was turning. The red star had vanished because the boat was coming back for me. Me on that big swell. In the white line of the wake, out in that immense clean blackness. No wave breaking. A world of black glass.
And I suddenly knew, yes, that theyâd missed me. That the boat was turning. Because the star had vanished. Because the light was gone.
And thatâs why I come up here. To look out at the ocean and the sky, another ocean. And sometimes I see it and sometimes I donât. Antares, that is, the red star. The star of the stern.
I Know Another Way: Walking To The Rhondda
âI know another way.â
He would say that. Wouldnât he? The thin man.
I knew he was going to say that. The moment Iâm sure of the route, north and north-west, past the Butcherâs Arms in Llandaff, or off the cathedral green, along by the BBC, or maybe across to Whitchurch and the house called Khasia , north and north-west anyway, he has to offer his own alternative.
Which will involve roads not marked on any maps. Not that the thin man ever consulted a map, not in his own country. Those roads frost-heaved and rutted by the iron rims of hay-wagons and death-carts. Roads with burned-out Cavaliers on the corners but always an absence of traffic. Roads with pink armchairs abandoned under oak trees. Roads where buzzards wait like dismal pensioners for the bus that is a century too late. Roads that turn west when youâre seeking the north. Roads that pass farms with ragwort in the beilis . Roads that are
Iâd go to see Antares. You know what that is? Antares is a star. A red star. In the constellation of the scorpion. Most times, I canât see it. Nobody can. Itâs too southerly, even from Beachy. But sometimes â yes, if Iâm lucky, if itâs a perfect night â Antares is there. So I just look. I sit on the grass, that bitten down grass on the chalk, and look out into the night. The night thatâs like the ocean.
Yes, as big as the ocean. And those June nights full of cockchafers. Big bugs, scary at first, but just clumsy. Flying around at the edge of things. Back and forth over the precipice and into thin air with the sea three hundred feet below. The sea milky with the chalk. So at night, itâs a white sea.
Then low down, if Iâm lucky, thereâs Antares. There it is. A dusky red like a pheasantâs eye. Red as the dust of Morocco. A star red as chili oil. A glimpse of Berber gold.
And I think, Christ, Iâm alive. Alive! Alive in all this, with these bugs divebombing and the sea a white mist, and the Milky Way a net in the sky, and the June night hardly a night at all. And a star like a ruby. Yes, a ruby in the navel of the night. Because I was sure I was done for. I was gone. Finito , Iâm telling you. Over and out. I couldnât believe it.
When it happened everything seemed in slow motion. I could look down and see myself in the water. On the black swell. And my boat disappearing, with no-one on board who knew what had happened. Yes I looked down at myself â a man overboard, a man waving, a man calling. In the black swell.
And soon one red light on the stern was all I could see of that boat. Thatâs all there was. The boat chugging away and me left behind, shouting, waving. That one red light on the horizon, down low. Not even a star can get any lower than that, I thought. But Antares can. Iâve learned that now. Because there it is, tonight. Antares on the southern horizon.
And then that red light vanished. Christ, I thought. Iâm done for. This is it. Here I am on the shoulders of the swell. Thirty minutes is all I have. And the boat disappearing out of sight. Gone. Gone absolutely.
But what Iâm trying to say is, that light vanishing was a good thing. Because it meant the boat was turning. The red star had vanished because the boat was coming back for me. Me on that big swell. In the white line of the wake, out in that immense clean blackness. No wave breaking. A world of black glass.
And I suddenly knew, yes, that theyâd missed me. That the boat was turning. Because the star had vanished. Because the light was gone.
And thatâs why I come up here. To look out at the ocean and the sky, another ocean. And sometimes I see it and sometimes I donât. Antares, that is, the red star. The star of the stern.
I Know Another Way: Walking To The Rhondda
âI know another way.â
He would say that. Wouldnât he? The thin man.
I knew he was going to say that. The moment Iâm sure of the route, north and north-west, past the Butcherâs Arms in Llandaff, or off the cathedral green, along by the BBC, or maybe across to Whitchurch and the house called Khasia , north and north-west anyway, he has to offer his own alternative.
Which will involve roads not marked on any maps. Not that the thin man ever consulted a map, not in his own country. Those roads frost-heaved and rutted by the iron rims of hay-wagons and death-carts. Roads with burned-out Cavaliers on the corners but always an absence of traffic. Roads with pink armchairs abandoned under oak trees. Roads where buzzards wait like dismal pensioners for the bus that is a century too late. Roads that turn west when youâre seeking the north. Roads that pass farms with ragwort in the beilis . Roads that are
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