Is Your Journey Really Necessary?

There's a potentially fascinating event taking place in Cardiff tonight. Some former members of the Black Panthers are giving a talk at Butetown Community Centre, about the Black Power movement of the 1960s and 70s. Tom F. sent me an invitation a couple of weeks ago, and I was very tempted to go. I shouldn't be at all surprised if my friend Leon C. was involved with organizing it. I haven't seen him for ages, but he's passionate about history and politics, and as a Black Cardiffian he's almost certainly had a hand in putting this occasion together. I'd love to have gone to the talk. It's an aspect of modern history which has interested me since I read an interview with Jalal Nuriddin, the founder member of The Last Poets, when I was about eighteen. Martin H. fancied the idea too; he used to send money to the Black Panthers when he was a radical young Oz -reading hippy. It would probably have appealed to Lew M. as well, and I can think of a few more friends w...

I was awake early again on the Monday morning, after my rather haphazard exploration the day before (see  …And Also The Trees .) When I looked out, a good number of the other tents had gone, and my own looked rather sad and lonely in the field. I gathered a few things together and walked down to the farmhouse for a nice hot shower. There were a couple of children playing in the next field, and there were signs of life in a caravan parked next to the fence. The chickens were roaming around in the yard, and I muttered a quiet curse towards the cockerel, who had woken me for the second day running. I emerged from the shower room refreshed and ready to face the world. It was only about eight o'clock. I decided to hit the road early and aim for the 0925 bus to Monmouth. Even though I wasn't in a great hurry to get back to Aberdare, I could feel the usual post-trip-away-comedown coming on. I wasn't looking forward to the next job of the day – dismantling the bloody tent. It was s...

Having breakfasted in fine fashion at the Log Cabin near Symonds Yat Rock (see Rocking Around the Forest ), I retraced my steps through the trees and eventually emerged onto the minor road to Coleford. It didn't take me long before I found a signpost. It wasn't a great deal of use, to be honest – I already knew where I was, and travellers wouldn't exactly be spoilt for choice. To the north lies the village of Symonds Yat; to the south lies Coleford. There's not much in between, unless you count Berry Hill/Christchurch. But it confirmed that the strange twisting path through the forest hadn't totally confused my sense of direction. I was heading south, exactly as planned. The signpost also advised me that Coleford was two miles away. Once again I found myself in the unenviable position that Achilles had been in when racing the Tortoise. I was pretty sure that I'd walked a lot further than two miles to get to Symonds Yat in the first place. I looked at my phone an...

I've been planning a break away from Aberdare for the past few weeks. The stifling, small-minded, and claustrophobic ( polyphobic , in fact) nature of the place has really been getting me down lately. I'm bored to tears with seeing the same bloody faces and having the same mind-numbing conversations day in and day out (see A Brief Interlude .) Last weekend I decided to do something about it. I've had a tent for a number of years, but I've never actually used it myself. Mother bought it for me as a Xmas present after I went to Cropredy with the boys one year, and it seemed as through I might be doing festivals more often. In the event, that was my one and only festival. For various reasons I never bothered going again. Leafy borrowed the tent one weekend when he went camping, ages ago. Other than that, it's lived in the cupboard under the stairs for its entire life. I decided that it, and I, could do with some fresh air. I had a bit of money from a proofreading job I...