Ready for my close-up

If you don't mind my asking, when did you last take a photograph of yourself? In other words, when was your latest selfie? I asked myself that question earlier this week and struggled to come up with an answer. After a few minutes' thought I reckoned that the last time I took a photograph of myself was last August, i.e. August 2015, i.e. (if a further 'i.e.' is allowed) 15 months ago.

That realization produced two near-simultaneous responses in me:

1. I couldn't believe it.
2. I could believe it.

Of course, I realise that we take selfies all the time: it's now second nature to point the camera at oneself and capture a pose. I realise also that I am of the generation that has come to mobile technology 'second-hand', as it were, having lived my teenage and early adult years at a time when mobile phones and even digital cameras did not exist. But now that smartphones are available to all and that 66% (and rising) of UK adults own one, my 15-month selfie no-show feels somehow odd. I can't quite believe that I don't do what so many people readily do. What don't I get about this everyday ritual? 

But, then, perhaps I do believe it, after all. I am, by preference, a strong introvert and so tend not to feel drawn to putting myself 'out there' online or in group chats. Also, I spent the formative years of my life in the era when taking photos happened at 18th birthday parties or weddings or, perhaps, on Christmas Day. When I was a teenager, if someone came along to a party with a camera, it became something of a talking-point. Now, if someone comes along without one, it's weird. As a result, I never developed (pre-digital-photography joke, there!) the mindset that taking a photo on the spur of the moment is something that I would do.

And I do worry that I'm missing out, I really do. I don't have a smartphone full of snaps of my family and friends. And I worry that I'm the only one of my peers that doesn't. Will I regret this in five years' time? What about in ten years' time? Twenty years? And what about when it's all too late?

To end, I should own up to the fact that I don't actually have a smartphone. I did, once, for about eight months, but I found it overwhelming. I spent ridiculous amounts of time downloading apps which didn't quite live up to the hype, or occasionally taking photos which never saw the light of day. It all just felt like too much hard work. And so one day, when the battery ran out, I just didn't plug it into the charger. And I replaced it with a phone which cost me £9.99 and had no camera.

And that selfie I took 15 months ago? Well, I actually took it on an old Polaroid camera, and it was a picture of only my feet, as I walked through an ancient forest in Devon. Why I felt drawn to capture that moment, I'm not quite sure. Perhaps it was to prove, as perhaps all our selfies are, that on a particular day and at a particular time, I was here.

Under the hood

I spent my teenage years in the 1980s, a modern era which had no mobile phones and no internet. Thus our media focus was pop music and TV. The music is still with us, thanks to YouTube and Spotify, but the TV programmes have faded rather more into the background. And the one which sticks in my mind the most is a show I never actually watched whilst I was growing up...

In 1984, a show came onto our screens which felt very much out of sync with the styles and aspirations of 1980s Britain. This was no flashy magazine-style production promoting the trends and fashions of the decade. Rather, it was a thoughtful reinterpretation of a centuries-old figure of English folklore, Robin Hood, in an adaptation called Robin of Sherwood.

Of course, Robin Hood had made many previous screen appearances but this adaptation seemed to indicate a move to a more realistic, 'grittier' son of Sherwood. The production is authentic, with practically all of the scenes shot in outdoor locations and in genuine historical buildings. Outdoors, the natural light fills the frame; indoors, interior shadows heighten the drama.

Whereas a modern director would shoot digitally, Robin of Sherwood was shot on film. However, there is nothing pedestrian about the camerawork in Robin of Sherwood: the director, Ian Sharp, makes very creative use of camera filters and of angles which would not look out of place in any modern film.

I have discovered this telling of the story of Robin Hood only in the last couple of months. I cannot now remember why I never watched any of it the first time around, but I'm thoroughly enjoying it now, thanks to the purchase of DVDs of the show.

At the moment, I'm halfway through the first series. I'm struck by how quiet the show is compared to modern fantasy films: the dialogue is wonderfully written, but sparing; in the woodland scenes, birdsong fills the air; the actors use facial expression and movement to convey much of what they need to say; and, often, as the drama builds, there is silence. It is almost another world.

The show, though now over 30 years old, still has a devoted fan-base. Much more about the show and its creation can be found online. A good place to start is the Spirit of Sherwood site, and there are many others.

There is much more to say about this wonderful production and the themes which it draws together. For now, though, I will simply recommend you seek out an episode or two. And if you're ever up in my neck of the woods, as it were, we can wander into Sherwood together.

(Radio) Silence

I was listening to the Today programme on R4 this morning. Just before it ended, there were a few seconds of silence which were, in fact, part of the link to a brief article about silence.

The bulk of the article was an interview with Dr Helen Lees who spoke about the importance of silence in our lives. In her responses, Dr Lees mentioned a forthcoming film about this topic, called In Pursuit of Silence, in which she features. The trailer for the film (below) is astonishing...



Just watching the couple of minutes of the film trailer started me on a train of thought in which I realised how little silence - real silence - there is in my life. There is, I suspect, a strong link between that fact and the lack of stillness, peace and 'belonging' which I often feel.

The film is due to show in only one place in the UK, and I think that a trip to the US to see it is probably beyond my means. I wait for the film to be released on DVD in due course and, in the meantime, seek out some of the silence which it celebrates.

The Old Straight Track

Over the last few months, I have been obsessed with roads. And not just roads, but also tracks, lanes, byways, and paths - in fact the smaller the road, the more interesting it seems to become.

It really all began with two things: a holiday in Devon and Robert Macfarlane's wonderful book, The Old Ways.

In his book, Macfarlane tells the stories of journeys he has made along some of this land's oldest paths, such as the Icknield Way and the Ridgeway. As he walks he discovers the events, people and tales which have shaped (and been shaped by) the landscape through which the paths run.

It's a beautiful book: a mixture of poetry, documentary, history, cartography, nature-writing and autobiography. I read it with a sense of yearning for the road, and for the mystery into which the ancient paths lead us. And now that I've finished the book, I find myself poring over maps to discern where these old roads run, like pencil lines half-erased from tracing paper.

Mid-way through Macfarlane's book, I spent a week in Devon, where single-track lanes are the everyday highways for local residents and tourists alike. On turning right out of our cottage door, we quickly became the lone walkers on a track through an Oak wood. In response to the silence and the coolness of the mossy path, I took off my shoes and walked the track barefoot, as one would a medieval labyrinth.

At the sound of the Wren, I stopped, and immediately became aware of my role as the visitor, and her place as the resident. I made an offering to the wood and its creatures from my flask of water, the only gift I had with me, and felt at once both at home and a stranger there. The path led on, but I had come far enough for now, and turned back for home. As the Summer fades and the seasons turn, I feel that must go back again, to walk that path into the past and into the future.

Walking back to happiness

In the last few weeks, something in Nature has changed. Or, rather, practically everything in Nature has changed. Alternate days of very warm and wet weather over recent weeks has notched the setting of the garden up to 'lush'. There is now so much more of it! Every branch is feathered with leaves, and blossom hangs heavy, tempting sleepy bees and promising fruit.

Something changes in me, too. Outside is now where I want to be. This desk, which was a welcome observation point in the winter and early spring, is now a burden. The Earth is trading its energy with the Sun, and I feel that I want in on the deal.

So I take the quickest and easiest route I can think of: I head out into the garden, barefoot. I've been doing this for several weeks, of course, but only as far as the clothes-line, with the washing basket in my arms. The feel of the damp grass has been pleasing, but the trip has merely been a means to an end. This time, the journey is the beginning, middle and end.

Onto the grass - in the presence of Dandelions

In a sense, that is the most important part: I am walking for the sake of walking, and for the sake of knowing that I am walking. I am not going anywhere, I am just going. And I want to feel the journey, however short it may be, and to feel myself present on the earth.

As I walk, I feel the transaction between my feet and the earth. I feel that there is an energy, a presence, a life beneath my feet. I am aware of temperature, texture and traction. There is a give and take, an adjusting of pressure in each footstep, an awareness of the difference between stone and leaf. 

In the wood, with holly leaves, humus and stones

There is a sense also that I am empowered: I have chosen to walk barefoot, and to attempt to become more conscious of the natural environment. The busy world laughs at those who go barefoot, or is embarrassed by them, but those who choose to do so discern something of the richness that is gained only when we remove our shoes and dare to stand barefoot on sacred ground.

The earth leaves its imprint on us, too

Walking barefoot reminds us that we are part of this world, connected to this earth. It makes the link that is missing when we wear shoes - that there is a slower, more mindful way of going through life, one that takes notice, one that feels, one that concentrates on things one step at a time.