“the summer is ended and we are not saved”


Royal Mail ‘Lammastide’ stamp – originals in the Postal Museum

Gradually, over the past 10 years, I have come to think of August as the start of Harvest season – following the Flowering season of late spring to midsummer. When I sat down to write today (an essay about ontologies in information science, as it happens; not a blog post) this title came to mind: a line from the Bible, but more especially from Oranges are not the Only Fruit. You know I’m not a Christian, but I’ve always loved the aesthetic: the bathos of apocalyptic visions realised in fading needlepoint, the frankincense and brimstone odour of the language. There’s something strangely comforting about it.

The flowering season has ended and this is the season of gathering in. The heatwave is over and the rain has started falling once again. My mental health has tumbled down an unexpected hole. I am indeed not saved. Any latent psychic powers I may have are limited to my (unconscious) ability to sense a coming stressful period at work and get ill just before it starts.

It started with a missing Sunday. I wrote nothing in my journal, posted nothing to social media, just did… nothing at all, that I can remember. A missing day in the patchwork of my memory.

The next day, at sunset, I ran out of a marquee behind the Bronte Parsonage in Haworth and over to the furthest corner or the field, where I climbed into a gnarled old elder and hid for the interval of Emily Bron’s 200th birthday concert. I felt like an overfull glass of water, liable to spill at any moment, and I didn’t want to spill on other people. After the interval, revived by the break, I managed to come back inside to watch The Unthanks play a beautiful, intimate set inspired by the poetry of Emily Bron, the songs of Molly Drake, and the testimony of Patience Kershaw. I left without talking to them, in spite of K’s encouragement and in spite of Becky smiling over at me, in friendliness or recognition. I would have told them that the singing weekend they ran in Seahouses was one of the best of my life. But, for now, it’s enough just to know it.

Last Wednesday, on the train home from York, I stopped in Bradford and spent a while wandering around. Wandering helps, especially in unfamiliar places, and I would like to get to know the city better. I have a soft spot for Bradford. Its wool-and-coal history reminds me a little bit of Wales, and makes it a little less green-wellies-and-shotguns than other parts of Yorkshire can be.

As I walked down Ivegate, a man in a natty purple bow-tie held up a sign saying “it’s a bar!” and called out to say hello: “we’re a safe space for women on their own, LGBTQ+ individuals, anyone who needs to find a friendly place,” he explained.

I came inside, sat at the bar, got out my crochet project and started stitching with a glass of Dandelion and Burdock on the side, while he told me stories of growing up in Bradford. At one point he called me ‘Myfanwy’ – then paused and asked himself “why did I call you that?” “Maybe you were thinking of the song,” I said, and sang the first few lines. He listened intently, then found a recording online (Treorchy Male Choir, at my insistence) and played it over the stereo in the bar. “I think I used to sing this in the choir as a boy,” he told me. He had lost most of his memories in an accident. Most of the memories he had shared with me were reconstructed, stories his family told him after the amnesia.

K came down to join me after work and ended up in the ‘Electronic Music Booth’ swapping survey answers for a free pint of Barnsley Bitter.

On the way home, we saw a hare in the fields outside Oxenhope. My dull brain stared, uncomprehending, while whatever part of me is not that brain (please, we need more philosophy of mind around depression: which ‘me’ is always ‘me’ regardless of this illness? And who is the ‘me’ that gets ill, if this other ‘me’ is watching?) danced around until the words came: smaller and squatter than a deer, bigger and more upright than a rabbit. A hare!

And then up into the moors, a journey I will never get tired of, where we saw grouse gliding down the hillsides on their short, sharp wings, and an early evening owl fly by.


on the edges of the moorland

This is stony ground, it’s hard to put down roots here, but it’s so beautiful I want to keep on trying.

That is what I really meant to say.

Life is so beautiful, I want to keep on trying.

Nothing has hurt me and yet there’s no part of me that doesn’t hurt right now. And still. I want to keep on trying. I want to keep on trying.

And I want to keep on writing, even if I don’t have anything to say. These moments feel like foraged treasures – the shards of pottery and stones and shells I gathered as a child and kept in pockets or on windowsills. They matter to me. Perhaps, if I can gather them together, they will help me understand, or at least keep going.

And on that note I should get back to my essay…


1997 / 2007 / 2017

A retrospective.

Content warning: if you’re suffering from poor mental health, sometimes reading the experiences of others can send you into a tailspin. Please take care when reading this. It’s mostly reflective, but still pretty raw.

Continue reading


Acronyms are wonderful things. They can make the raw and the clumsy sound efficient and businesslike; and they can make everyday suffering sound neat and manageable. I am taking a MHD, a Mental Health Day. It feels less shameful than explaining that I’ve burned out, had a meltdown, stopped functioning, or any of the other dramatic, messy-sounding metaphors for why I can not be a productive member of society today.

Continue reading

a year of writing honestly

I hate writing.

There, I said it. For something I have done compulsively almost all my life, nothing causes me quite so much anguish. It’s only in the last few months I’ve started asking: why? Why do I do it? And why does it bother me so much?

Writing is another way of thinking. For me, it can often be the clearest way of thinking, a way of working towards ideas or insights I could never reach without it. The pile of scrappy notebooks filled with scribbled thoughts gets bigger every year, and I find it hard to shake off the idea that I should DO something with it all – be more organised, write more neatly, have better ideas… “This time,” I tell myself, stroking the uncreased cover of my new moleskine, “I’ll write something worthy of this lovely object.” And then I sit feeling miserable and paralysed, unable to think of anything worthy, depriving myself of the obvious route to feeling better.

Writing here is doubly difficult, because anyone can read it. I started this blog as a way of keeping track of ideas, inspirations and projects from different parts of my life, as my unruly interests kept spilling over the boundaries of more defined blogs (www.incidentaldruidry.wordpress.com and www.fromtheedges.wordpress.com).  But it’s hard not to be conscious of potential readers. I spend so much time hiding different aspects of myself. I’m a pagan druid, a folklore enthusiast, an archivist, a bit of a muso, a depressive, a budding stitcher, a Welsh speaker, an amateurish linguist, a rambler… Without knowing who might be out there reading, how should I know which bits of me to hide?

Yeah, I know what you’re probably thinking. I’m thinking it too.

For 2017, I’ve set myself the challenge to be honest. The plan for this blog is to write about things which genuinely interest me, for their own sake, without worrying what people think (ha!). This is likely to include crochet, folklore, our new hometown, politics, songs, my newfound interest in speculative fiction, poetry, random observations, Eurovision, the industrial revolution, and anything else for which I develop a sudden enthusiasm in the next 12 months. If you’re reading this, hello! And thank you. If you’re not reading this, good, it’s a strictly non-compulsory activity. But writing it is turning out to be a very useful thing.

Acres of Ground*

*incidentally the title of a great Eliza Carthy/Imagined Village song.

Deep breath.

So this is what it feels like:

the helpful young doctor pauses for a moment, sits back in his chair and sighs before broaching the subject: “it’s not easy to walk in to an appointment and just start talking to some stranger about how you’re really feeling, is it?”  And I sit staring at my shoes.  I’m not well.  We both know I’m not well.
Continue reading