Dear Readers, yesterday my friend A asked if I’d thought of personifying my broken leg (which is doing most excellently by the way). I hadn’t thought of doing that, but it struck me as an excellent idea, and I had no hesitation in saying that I would name my leg after Galla Placidia(392-450), a most robust and resilient Roman woman who, in the course of her lifetime, was kidnapped by the Visigoths (and married off to one of them), managed to place her son on the throne of the Western Roman Empire, and survived a whole variety of court machinations. She was a fervent Christian and patron of the arts, and amongst her many achievements was the finding of the sandal of John the Baptist. Relics could raise huge amounts of money for a church which owned one, and in the relief above Galla can be seen prostrate before St John the Baptist, who appears to be dropping the sandal on her head. Such was life in the fourth century.
Coin showing Galla Placidia
So, it was with some excitement that we headed off to the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, built between 425 and 450. As you might have guessed from the fact that it was built before Galla Placidia’s death, she isn’t actually buried here (she’s probably buried in Rome alongside her brother Honorius). The building was probably originally dedicated to St Lawrence, and the mosaics inside give a good idea of why this might be the case.
St Lawrence was said to have been martyred by being roasted on a gridiron. In fact, he’s said to have quipped ‘turn me over, I’m done on this side’ part way through his martyrdom, which might explain why he’s the patron saint of cooks, chefs and comedians. In this mosaic he is positively skipping towards the gridiron, his clothing flapping around him.
In the corner of the mosaic is a book ‘case’ containing the gospels – the books are stored flat, not on their ends.
Other mosaics show scenes of paradise, with deer coming to drink, but they were clearly not by the same mosaicist. Have a look at the pond in the mosaic below…
…and then the detail of the pond in the mosaic that faces it.
Our guide explained that mosaic-making was a seasonal art – the plaster that the tesserae (the ‘stones’ that make up a mosaic) was embedded into wouldn’t set if it was too cold and wet. So it was possible that the mosaicist who had made the first image wasn’t available the next year, and so the subsequent artist came up with his own interpretation. It was a fascinating insight into how the best laid plans of emperors and bishops still have to contend with project-management issues, differing views of how something should be done, and staff shortages.
As you leave the mausoleum there’s this lovely, gentle image.
Jesus was often shown clean-shaven at this time, and he often looks very young. The long-staffed cross is also very typical of this period. But I love the gesture of him feeding the sheep.
I can imagine how the mausoleum would have looked in the candlelight, and how comforting this final image would have been. As I found out in other churches, things were often a lot more martial.
Dear Readers, after a 4 a.m. start we caught our plane to Bologna, and were treated to some stunning views as we flew over the Italian Alps. There have been times this year when I wondered when I’d be fit enough to travel again, so I must confess to having a tear in my eye as I looked out of the window to see the view below. What a stunningly beautiful world we live in! And maybe next year my leg will be healed enough for me to walk in those mountains (or at least the Austrian equivalent).
This is a group tour with Sally Dormer, who runs courses for the V&A and is an expert in the field of Late Antiquity. As is often the case on these historical/cultural tours, our fellow travellers are a really interesting bunch, and I anticipate a lot more conversations along the lines of ‘so, who is your favourite 19th century author?’
But we’re really here to see what the Romans/Goths/Byzantines got up to here in Ravenna, which used to be an important port until everything silted up. First stop is Sant’Apollinare in Classe, consecrated in 549 AD. Like most churches in Ravenna, it’s brick built (lots of clay soil to remind me of home). And some pigeons and magpies. And just look how the brick glows in the setting sun.
But the name of this tour is ‘Mosaics and Marbles’, and so the first thing that we see inside the church is this…
What a sensational mosaic this is. It shows Saint Apollinaire with twelve sheep, representing the faithful or the twelve apostles. This is a depiction of paradise, with trees and flowers and little grassy mounds. I’d like to think of them as anthills – surely there’s space for hard-working ants in paradise?
What’s interesting to me is that this is a very early stage in Christianity, and the Ostrogoths, who ruled Ravenna at the time, were still defining the symbolism of their faith. There is a looseness and creativity to the mosaics here which I find very appealing – for all their sophistication there’s something rather cartoon-like and appealing about them. For example, the cross in the centre of the apse has Christ’s face right in the middle of it (here, the bearded Christ that we usually imagine as being typical, rather than the young, beardless Christ of other depictions), and a wonderful ‘right hand of God’ gesturing down to it.
It’s hard to imagine how magical the mosaic must have looked by candlelight, with the gold twinkling.
There are mysteries here too. When mosaics are created, they are first ‘drawn’ onto plaster to create something called a sinopia. In this mosaic, where the sheep are now was originally a motif of birds and fountains.
Sinopia (under drawing) of the mosaic at Sant Apollinaire in Classe
One theory for why the pretty birds and flowers were replaced with sheep is because, just at the time that the mosaic was being finalised, Ravenna got its first Archbishop Maximian, who maybe wanted to emphasis his role as head of the church, surrounded by his ‘flock’. It’s only a guess, but these churches were often as much about politics and power as they were about religion.
And I would be remiss if i didn’t mention these ladies outside the church,
Female Mediterranean Water Buffalos by David Rivalta
These statues were so realistic that when we approached the church I honestly thought they were real, and got very excited. Rivalta specialises in life-sized animal sculptures, and seems to have a gift for placing them in unexpected places – apparently in Ravenna there are gorillas in the courthouse and a rhino at the Port Authority. I shall have to keep my eyes peeled. There is another example of his work below. One to watch, I think.
And just a quick leg update – it seems to be holding up well so far – I am taking paracetamol and ibuprofen when I need it, but I think the antics of the Ostrogoths and the Byzantines are distracting me quite well. Fingers crossed for the rest of the holiday!
Dear Readers, we will shortly be heading off for my first overseas trip since I broke my leg – we’re going to Ravenna in Italy for a few days. It was the capital of the Western Roman Empire, and has been ruled by Goths, Byzantines and Venetians, but for me the mosaics are the main pull – I doubt that they’ve ever been bettered, and I suspect I’ll come home with an urge to mosaic the bathroom/kitchen/my husband if he stands still long enough. We’re on a tour, so my main concern is being able to keep up with the pace. However, if I have to sit in a café somewhere to have a rest and watch the world go by it won’t be a disaster. It’s one of those situations where if I don’t go, I won’t know, so I am putting on my Big Girl Pants and heading off.
I hope to be able to do a bit of blogging while I’m away, but if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry! I’ll be up to my ears in pasta and tiramisu.
Dear Readers, it’s certainly the time of year for Japanese Acers – there are several around the County Roads in East Finchley which are truly spectacular.
Japanese Maple on Huntingdon Road
Japanese Maple on Twyford Avenue
Japanese Maple with ‘Keys’ in July 2021
However, all these spectacular trees make me think about how temperamental Japanese Maples can be. They seem to like sun (most of the ones in the photos are in south-facing gardens) but not too much, they like to be damp but not too damp, they seem to like to be sheltered (but see previous re dampness). Clearly some people have found the idea spot, and the trees are delighted. I’ve tried once or twice, but it’s always ended in disaster – the leaves dry up and drop off, leaving a sorry collection of twigs. Sigh. I think I’ll leave this plant to people who know what they’re doing, but any advice would be greatly appreciated. I’ve always dreamed of having an Acer next to the pond.
Anyhow, have a look below for my previous posts on Acers. They are clearly something of an obsession.
The Summerlee Avenue Acer. What a plant….
Dear Readers, I wrote a long post about Japanese Maples last year, and such is my enthusiasm for them that I almost did it all over again this afternoon, having forgotten that I had featured it previously. However, I couldn’t miss the chance to share one of my favourite local trees with you. This Japanese Maple has burst into such extraordinary colour this year that it draws the eye as soon as you enter the street. It is the only substantial plant in the front garden, as there isn’t room for anything else, but at the moment it glows like a beacon. My husband got this (admittedly blurred) photo of the tree when it was absolutely at its height last week, and while the colour might look a bit over-saturated, I’m sure you get the idea.
Although today the plant is very slightly past its best (it was very windy over the weekend) it is still touched with fire.
There is something to be said for allowing a single extraordinary plant to take the room it needs to be truly magnificent, even if it means that for the rest of the year there is a more subtle display. There is an elegance about this Acer that I’m sure will make it noteworthy at any time of year. I admire the confidence of this home-owner, and their willingness to let this beautiful tree slowly develop over time, and take up so much space. Nearly every Japanese Maple that I see is wind-damaged, with the delicate leaves pinched and dried out, but I suspect that the hedge is protecting this one from the worst ravages of the weather.
Having not noticed this tree until this year, I am again thankful for the way that the lockdown has encouraged me to get out and about every single day. I have lived in East Finchley for ten years and yet have never seen this tree in all its peak autumn glory before. For all the miseries of this terrible year, there are still moments of joy to be had.
And now, back to my previous post. If you haven’t read it before, I hope you enjoy it, and I really do recommend the Clive James poem at the end.
Dear Readers, I have always been entranced by the delicate beauty of the Japanese maple (Acer palmatum) but have never had much success with growing them. My first attempt was on my balcony in Islington, which is a most unhappy location for a woodland plant – the poor thing was alternatively blasted by the wind, baked by the sun and then nearly knocked flat with rain. The leaves shrivelled and fell off, and I soon realised that I’d need to grow something that liked being exposed to the elements. A second attempt, in the heavy clay soil of my current garden, also produced a sad specimen rather than the glorious autumn-hued plant that I saw on the label. Oh well. Recently, I have spent a lot of time admiring other people’s plants instead. Sometimes, one knows when one is beat.
Our local garden centre certainly has a wide range of very tempting cultivars, nearly all of which have the ‘hand-shaped’ leaves which give the plant its species name ‘palmatum’. Japanese maple comes originally not just from Japan but from the areas roundabout too: Korea, China, eastern Mongolia and southeastern Russia. In Japan, the plant has been cultivated for centuries, and has the alternative names of kaede (‘frog-hand’) and momiji (‘baby-hand’). In ‘the wild’, Japanese maple grows as an understorey shrub or small tree in woodland, rarely getting to taller than 10 metres. When mature, the tree has a characteristic dome shape, which is sometimes also emulated in Bonsai.
Japanese maple showing its characteristic dome-shaped canopy (Photo One)
A +112 year-old bonsai in Brooklyn Botanic Gardens (Photo Two)
Even in the wild, Japanese maple is a very variable tree, with different leaf-forms, habits and colours. It also hybridises with other species. It is therefore no surprise that there are hundreds of different cultivars of the tree available today, with hundreds of others lost during the years. The photo below gives just some idea of the variety of leaf-forms alone.
Japanese maple leaf-forms (Photo Three)
For most people in the UK, the delight of a Japanese maple comes from its autumn leaf-colour. The saplings in the garden centre were largely dropping their leaves, but enough were holding on to get some idea of what the plant would look like in its prime.
I wasn’t aware that you could also grow Japanese maple for its bark colour, in much the same way as you would plant dogwood, but here is a cultivar that I’d never come across before. Apparently ‘coral-bark’ or ‘golden-bark’ Acers are ‘a thing’. I live and learn.
The flowers of the Japanese maple seem to be the least interesting thing about a plant that certainly punches above its weight in all other aspects. The fruit produces a winged seed, or samara, that needs to be stratified(frozen for a time) in order to germinate.
Japanese maple flowers (Photo Four)
Reading the Royal Horticultural Society website on Japanese maples, I start to see what I’ve done wrong in the past. The trees need shade, which is obvious once you know what their natural habitat is. They also need consistent water conditions, and loathe being water-logged. All this makes me think that maybe I’ll try again, in a container this time. I have a shady garden, after all.
In Japan, the planting of a maple tree indicates that autumn is seen as a friend, as part of the cycle of life. People in North America often make special trips to view the ‘fall colour’, and a similar expedition may be made by Japanese people, although the viewing of the maples has more of a spiritual component: it is seen as a way of communing with nature, and with the spirits of nature. There is a fascinating discussion of this, and of the relationship between the Japanese maple and art, on the prints of Japan website, and I would like to quote just a smidgen here;
‘Bruce Feiler in his 1991 volume Learning to Bow describes making friends with a Japanese fellow who explained the background and significance of maple viewing to the Japanese: “Certain natural phenomena because of their splendor and singular beauty, developed almost a religious significance in ancient Japanese culture, where Shinto beliefs held that nature was the home of spirits who lived in the water, the land, and the trees. The mysterious transformation of green leaves into fiery reds and frosty yellows around the time of the harvest every year inspired awe among superstitious farmers. Just as a protocol around making tea… or painting calligraphy… so a proper form of viewing nature eventually evolved.” Feiler continued: “According to the Shinto code, the viewer on a proper leaf-viewing excursion should try to achieve a personal communion with the leaves, in a bond akin to the private communication between man and god at he heart of many Western religions. As Prince Genji once wrote to a lover, ‘A sheaf of autumn leaves admired in solitude is like damasks worn in the darkness of the night.’ By entering nature, one hopes to internalize the beauty of the leaves in one’s heart. Man enters nature, and nature, in turn, enters man.”’
The idea of the interconnection between nature and humanity, the notion that we don’t just go to admire the leaves but to internalise their beauty, seems part of what is missing in our lives these days.
The gardens in Kyoto are especially famous for their beautiful maples, and there is a rather fine little film here, which I guarantee will reduce your resting pulse-rate.
I was surprised to find that Japanese maple leaves are deep-fried and eaten as a snack in Osaka, and have been for at least a thousand years. The ones from the city of Minoh are especially prized – they are preserved in barrels of salt for a year, then dipped into tempura batter. Apparently the tree can also be ‘tapped’ for maple syrup, like its North American relatives, though the sap is not as sugary.
The leaves were thought to have preservative properties, and apples and root vegetables were sometimes buried in them in the belief that they would last longer.
Fried Japanese maple leaves (Photo Five)
And finally, friends, I cannot end this piece without including the poem ‘Japanese Maple’ by Clive James. When I was growing up, he was a constant feature on TV shows such as ‘Clive James on Television’, which introduced the UK to such shows as ‘Endurance’, a kind of Japanese precursor to ‘I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here’ and possibly even more sadistic. But later, I discovered him as a poet, and a philosopher, and grew to see beyond the ‘larrikin’ exterior to a man of great nuance and sensitivity. He was diagnosed with cancer in 2011 and wrote this poem as a farewell in 2013. He then survived a further six years following an experimental drug treatment, and in an interview described himself as ‘feeling embarrassed’ to still be alive. He died earlier this week, and I hope that he was able to see his tree aflame against the amber brick.
Japanese Maple by Clive James
Your death, near now, is of an easy sort. So slow a fading out brings no real pain. Breath growing short Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain Of energy, but thought and sight remain:
Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls On that small tree And saturates your brick back garden walls, So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?
Ever more lavish as the dusk descends This glistening illuminates the air. It never ends. Whenever the rain comes it will be there, Beyond my time, but now I take my share.
My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new. Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame. What I must do Is live to see that. That will end the game For me, though life continues all the same:
Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes, A final flood of colors will live on As my mind dies, Burned by my vision of a world that shone So brightly at the last, and then was gone.
Photo Credits
Photo One by By Rüdiger WölkThis photo was taken by Rüdiger Wölk. Please credit this photo Rüdiger Wölk, Münster.View all photos (large page) of Rüdiger WölkI would also appreciate an email to rudiger.wolk@gmail.com with details of use.
Dear Readers, when I was growing up we often went to Wanstead Park as a family – we were all crammed together in our little house in Stratford, East London, and it’s the first place where I remember feeling that I was really in ‘the wild’. There was a rabbit warren, and you could hear cuckoos in the spring. There were a series of ornamental lakes that used to belong to the Wanstead Estate, and there was a heronry tucked away between two of them. But most of all, I remember the water voles – as you walked along the bank you could hear the ‘plop’ as they dived, and if you were quiet and lucky you could watch them grooming or nibbling away on a plant.
Alas, last time I went there was not a single water vole. The M11 (built since I was a child) was an incessant roar in the background. Where the water voles had gone I had no idea, but they have very specific requirements: they need marginal water plants, which provide cover from predators and food, and they need banks into which they can dig tunnels for breeding and sleeping. Furthermore, they are predated by American Mink, some of which escaped from fur farms and some of which were ‘liberated’ by well-meaning animal rights activists. And finally, in some areas the animals are constantly disturbed by dogs, even where these are meant to be kept on leads. What chance is there for beloved ‘Ratty’?
Here’s a description of ideal habitat from the Water Vole.org page. Actually it sounds lovely. If I’m ever reincarnated as a water vole, I’d like to live here…
“It is easy to provide a home for water voles, so that populations can thrive or expand and move into your waterway, pond or lake. They prefer soft, undisturbed earth banks which they can burrow into with wide margins which have tall grasses, stands of rosebay willowherb, purple loosestrife, meadowsweet, or nettles, often fringed with emergent rushes, sedges or reeds, to give them food and cover. They will gnaw on the roots and bark of sallow and willow, as well as the rhizomes, bulbs and roots of herbaceous plants during winter. Water voles also inhabit extensive reed-beds where they weave rugby ball-sized nests made of reeds. They will avoid sites that are heavily grazed, trampled or over-shaded by dense scrub or trees, but will happily live underneath the light shade of brambles and like to eat the leaves and the berries. Thorny brambles also give them protection from their many predators which they can hide beneath, although these need some management over winter to make sure they do not completely block passage through the stream for any kingfisher fishing there. It is worth bearing in mind that some solitary bees overwinter in the hollow stems of bramble, so when any management is undertaken it is best to leave the cuttings in a pile in an area which will not flood (if possible).”
Sadly, my pond isn’t big enough for water voles (and being a pond it doesn’t move), which is a shame, but on the other hand I suspect that the cats would make quick work of the poor little things.
And, judging by a survey conducted along the River Lee in 2022, they are actually making something of a comeback. This is particularly true in the northern part of the range, which goes from Ware to Waltham Cross, but to my amazement there are also signs of water voles in the Coppermill Stream, which flows through my beloved and much-visited Walthamstow Wetlands.
The water vole survey was previously conducted in 2012, and, when compared to the current survey the results are hopeful. Although water voles have disappeared from some stretches of the Lee, they seem to have popped up in sites where they weren’t present in 2012, especially where habitat has been improved for them. But the most surprising thing is that at the Coppermill Stream, not only were there signs of water voles, but also of at least one otter.
Who would have thought, back when otters were critically-endangered in the UK, that they’d make such a comeback that they’d be living in the middle of London? Very exciting and, as otters mostly eat fish, not a big threat to the water voles. I can’t help thinking that the fact that the London Wildlife Trust are actively managing Walthamstow Wetlands (which is still a working reservoir) for biodiversity, and that only assistance dogs are allowed on to the site, has made this place a sanctuary for both water voles and otters. Long may it continue, and here’s hoping that public pressure to reverse falling water quality all over the UK will succeed in ensuring that rivers can support water voles, otters and all the other creatures, big and small, that depend on them.
Dear Readers, it’s a grey, quiet day here in East Finchley, ideal for a slow hobble to see what’s going on. And there’s a surprising amount in flower at the moment! Plus, there was a wren singing so vigorously from a plane tree on the High Street that you could hear it above the traffic, quite a feat.
So, what’s going on? Close to the bus stop opposite the station, the Choisya (Mexican Orange Blossom) is in full bloom – they often flower in ‘late summer’ but November is just an indication of how wacky the weather has been. The scent is very heavy, almost jasmine-like to my nose.
Choisya
And in the planted area by the gate to Cherry Tree Wood, there are still a few things in flower, including this Borage, one of my favourite plants for bees, though I didn’t see any today.
I am so pleased that there is some dead-hedging in one part of the wood, to protect the Wood Anemones – as in Coldfall Wood, the pandemic saw a lot of soil compaction as more and more people discovered these little patches of ancient woodland, so this will hopefully restore some of the biodiversity.
And then it’s out of the gate and along to the unadopted road – I haven’t walked here since I broke my leg, so I couldn’t wait to see what was going on. The Ivy flowers are gently turning into berries – if you hear a scuffle in the trees at this time of year, it’s often woodpigeons trying to eat them.
There are some new metal shutters protecting the garden/garage of the house on the corner, and some new Winter Jasmine just coming into flower…
And the Hollyhock has one single flower left, with a single banded snail inside. Why didn’t I think of coming here when I was looking for a snail sample for my Open University course? I ended up with my tutor sending me a photograph of a sample of snails. Someone had found 136 snails. Lucky old them.
And there is a fine array of White Dead-nettle too. Incidentally, don’t forget the Botanical Society of Britain and Ireland’s New Year Plant Hunt – this year it runs from 29th December 2024 to 1st January 2025, and it’s a great way to get out and about in the middle of all those liqueur chocolates and turkey/nut roast sandwiches. You can find out all about it here. All you are basically doing is going for a walk and taking note of what plants are in flower. If you end up in a cosy pub with an open fire that’s all to the good!
White dead-nettle (Lamium album)
There’s some Purple Toadflax, always a favourite – I had some in the front garden, and now it’s colonised practically all the pots. The bees love it though, so I don’t mind.
And the Green Alkanet of course, Borage’s more rough-hewn cousin. I think this plant is perpetually in flower somewhere in East Finchley.
And then there are some more flowers that look very similar to those of the Ivy – this is Japanese Aralia/Fatsia japonica, a useful source of winter pollen/nectar for any queen bumblebees.
Mahonia is another invaluable source of food for queen bumbles at this time of year, right into January before the crocuses come into flower. This one is particularly fine!
It’s funny what you don’t notice – I’ve lived in East Finchley for nearly fifteen years now, but I’d never noticed these plaster shells on some of the houses around Baronsmere Road. I suppose I’ve spent so much time lately watching my feet that I’ve not been looking up.
And then it’s back into the County Roads. My legs are tired, but I’d say that the pain is only about 3 out of 10, which is pretty good going. And the Ginkgo tree always cheers me up.
And so does this Fuchsia bush, so full of flowers! I always have a quick look in case there are any late Elephant Hawk Moth caterpillars, but none so far. Still, it’s a very impressive hedge.
And then it’s home. We’re having a trial pack today for our trip to Ravenna in Italy which is coming up soon: we’re going to see if we can get everything into one suitcase so I have less to carry. There’s always a temptation to stick one more jumper in, but the weather looks promising – mid 50s Fahrenheit and sunny. It will be nice to see some sun!
Dear Readers, frogs are amongst my favourite animals, and I’m not sure why. Partly it’s because they make the work of looking after my pond so worthwhile – their eager faces peering up from the water is often the first sign of spring, and the sound of their half-hearted singing as I toddle out to the shed always cheers me up. Then there are the masses of tadpoles, and then the tiny frogs, and then they seem to disappear, although there’s often the tell tale ‘plop’ of a late frog diving for cover as the days lengthen. Plus, they have such terrible habits, what with mating with anything that stands still long enough although female frogs have come up with a variety of ways to deal with all that testosterone-fuelled nonsense. Well, this week New Scientist reports the finding of the oldest fossil tadpole in the world, dating back some 161 million years. The scientists involved were searching a rock formation in Argentina for feathered dinosaurs, but I hope they were just as delighted with the world’s oldest fossil tadpole.
Fossil of Notobatrachus degiustoi tadpole (Photo by Mariana Chuliver et al, from Notobatrachus degiustoi)
The tadpole measures about 16 centimetres/6 inches long (comparable with the largest tadpoles found today), and it is so beautifully preserved that scientists can tell that it was just about to undergo metamorphosis when it met its untimely end. There are lots of adult frog fossils in this particular rock formation too (the La Matilde Formation of the Deseado Massif in southern Patagonia) , so it’s unclear exactly what happened to cause the tadpole’s demise. However, the climate was warmer, wetter, and there were few other frog species or fish around to act as predators, so you could describe it as ‘frog heaven’.
What’s interesting is that the frog’s form of metamorphosis hasn’t changed in all these millions of years – it’s proved to be a robust method of reproduction despite all the changes that the Earth has gone through. When the frogs gather in spring we’re watching something that has been happening for time immemorial, which I find strangely comforting. And how adaptable these creatures are, from frogs that lay their eggs in pitcher plants in tropical forests, to desert frogs that bury themselves for most of their lives, only emerging during the wet season. They are truly extraordinary animals, and I always feel so privileged to live alongside them.
Frogs in my pond 2023
You can read the New Scientist article here, and the research paper is here.
Well, Readers, after all the excitement of the past few days I thought it must surely be time to bring things back to the personal, so here is a photo of what is possibly the most unattractive footwear that I’ve ever owned. But Readers! These boots, which make my size eight feet look even more like flippers than usual, are possibly the most comfortable things I’ve ever worn. Furthermore, I took them for a road trip today – down the hill to East Finchley Station, along Upper Street to pilates and back – and for once I could feel the ground under my feet, which made me feel much more confident.
I definitely have some form of neuropathy, but I’ve found that this is exacerbated by thick soles – shoes like that might protect my ankles, but they make my feet feel more numb than usual. With these barefoot shoes, my feet spread, and the soles are both thin and very slip-resistant, so I can feel the different levels on the pavements and surfaces. Plus, they are warm – my feet get cold very easily, which adds to the numbness, so being toasty is a nice change.
Finally, they seem to encourage me to move my ankles – they are pretty flat, so I have to roll through the foot and use it how it’s meant to be used, if that makes any sense. My legs are tired now I’m back home, but I do think that they’re marginally less tired than they were last week.
The only drawback is that they’re not waterproof, which is a shame. I shall have to keep my eyes open to see if I can find some that are.
Anyhow, thanks to everyone who was enthusiastic about barefoot shoes – if these help me to stay vertical for a longer period of time, they really will be a gamechanger.
And in other news, my appointment for a nerve conduction test came through – it’s for the 3rd February. It seems like a long time away, but the speed that the months are going past I’m sure it will be here in no time!
Dear Readers, believe it or not I read the first book of Maya Angelou’s autobiography, ‘I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings’ not long after it had been published in 1969, so I was only about 9 years old myself. It tells of Angelou’s childhood, which included rape and a period during her adolescence when she was electively mute, following the murder of the man who raped her. Strong stuff for a child, but I was I loved it much more than most of my other reading material (‘1984’ by George Orwell, for example). She filled me full of hope, and a sense that troubles would come, but could be overcome.
In all there are seven volumes of autobiography, and she needed it because she had an extraordinary life: Wikipedia tries to sum it up with:
“She became a poet and writer after a string of odd jobs during her young adulthood. These included fry cook, sex worker, nightclub performer, Porgy and Bess cast member, Southern Christian Leadership Conference coordinator, and correspondent in Egypt and Ghana during the decolonization of Africa. Angelou was also an actress, writer, director, and producer of plays, movies, and public television programs. In 1982, she was named the first Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Angelou was active in the Civil Rights Movement and worked with Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X. Beginning in the 1990s, she made approximately 80 appearances a year on the lecture circuit, something she continued into her eighties. In 1993, Angelou recited her poem “On the Pulse of Morning” (1993) at the first inauguration of Bill Clinton, making her the first poet to make an inaugural recitation since Robert Frost at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy in 1961.”
I am particularly interested, however, in her writing routine, which makes me scratch my head about my own. Clearly I need to go to bed with a bottle of sherry, instead of hunching over my laptop.
Beginning with I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Angelou used the same “writing ritual”for many years. She would wake early in the morning and check into a hotel room, where the staff was instructed to remove any pictures from the walls. She would write on legal pads while lying on the bed, with only a bottle of sherry, a deck of cards to play solitaire, Roget’s Thesaurus, and the Bible, and would leave by the early afternoon. She would average 10–12 pages of written material a day, which she edited down to three or four pages in the evening.She went through this process to “enchant” herself, and as she said in a 1989 interview with the British Broadcasting Corporation, “relive the agony, the anguish, the Sturm und Drang“. She placed herself back in the time she wrote about, even traumatic experiences such as her rape in Caged Bird, to “tell the human truth”about her life. She was quoted as saying: “The way I deal with any pain is to admit it – let it come.” Angelou stated that she played cards to get to that place of enchantment and to access her memories more effectively. She said, “It may take an hour to get into it, but once I’m in it—ha! It’s so delicious!” She did not find the process cathartic; rather, she found relief in “telling the truth”.
If you haven’t read any of Angelou’s books, I would highly recommend them – she has a very distinctive voice and nobody can tell a story better than she does. But for me, there’s something about ‘Still I Rise’ (which I blogged about yesterday), and one of my poetry-loving readers, sllgatsby (thank you!) pointed me towards this short video of her reading her poem. There is such power in it, and I suspect that’s what many of us need as the world goes to hell in a handbasket. See what you think. If you don’t watch anything else today, make some time to watch this.
![Photo Four by Sten Porse [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)]](https://i0.wp.com/bugwomanlondon.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/acer-palmatum-flowers.jpg?ssl=1)
