n.b. American Bison / also known as buffalo / Bob Marley / Buffalo Soldiers / African-American regiments of the US Army / Civil wars of the USA / Indigenous Americans* / First Nation / slavery / colonisation / land grabs / exploitation / What is freedom? / What do we love and whom do we love? / Who pays for prosperity? / Is a life survived best left unexposed? / ethics / Trace’ by Lauret Savoy.
* I am uncertain how to collectively name the people who populated The Great Plains of the North American continent. Advice happily received.
n.b. The old English game of twisting signposts around, or even removing them in case any odd foreign types think of invading, continues. I think some of us are beginning to realise that the reason these islands have not been invaded for such a long time, at least not overtly since the Welsh Tudors took over with the help of the French in CE 1485, is that nobody can be bothered with us…except Alexander Johnson’s Russian exile backers.
There will be some sadness as the EU waves the UK au revoir, but I am sure they have bigger fish to fry. They’ll get over it soon enough. It was a bitter-sweet affair from the start. Stuff happens; move on.
Cycling through the country lanes of Norfolk I found myself at this footpath. The English knew the money lay on The Continent in the C13th. The Weavers’ Way is a long-distance tourist footpath acknowledging the importance of the wool trade with Europe in the historical development of England’s economy.
If you would like a copy of the route so you can follow this path yourself, download a .PDF from Norfolk County Council here. The countryside of Norfolk is beautiful.
Purple bougainvillea tumbling from baskets decorated our way In those hours without shade in the hottest heat We found a route to that other bay soon enough With its crumbling Crusader castle cut from a cleft in the high valley Guarding over the café, squared-off with bleached tarpaulins Sitting like a brig roped to the quay, its skeleton crew manning the gangway You sheltered at a table with red chequered cloth A lemonade to hand, listening to the dulcet whispers of cypresses As I walked out over the heavy stones into the impossible blue Where I heard that dolphins play at sunrise
With an eye to the Sun’s shifting, we shook off this dream Stumbled into the bright, cicadas burring louder still Untrusting of time, we chose a more direct path Though paused to squint at the white-washed chapel on the cliff Before we cut between concrete-terraced allotments Their rusted-wire fencing caging yellow trumpets of flowering zucchini Fig trees fit to drop, propped, tied up; files of leeks with folded leaves. Bees hurried by, leading us via lemon scents through an alley To the square, where the old man limped from his coal-black cupboard of a corner-shop To bring chilled beer and green olives to our off-balance, plastic table Where we could watch the porters making ready for the ferry back.