Three green woodpeckers feeding on the ground by the woodland near the station. On a wet morning or at twilight this is a ghostly enough place as it is. For a moment one of the little paths of opportunity that crisscross the common will seem to lengthen out in front of you into deep heath & distances not at all possible. This morning the woodpeckers were at the gate of one of these distances, part of a frame which implied I could now run forever into a “landscape” which would both recede infinitely & offer me infinite accommodation. Which would be in essence penetrable yet unchanged by penetration. In the endless scratchy observations which went together to make up Climbers, The Course of the Heart & Signs of Life, I often noted this: in the bad art of 1980s seaside cafes or pubs in deep Lancashire, Victorian & sub-Victorian twilights recess endlessly plane by feathery plane wrenched by failed technique into something more. As if failed technique could demonstrate some proposition otherwise undemonstrable. Now I destroy this perspective as I did then, by moving smartly on into it, & I wonder: why a group of three ? Is one of them a fledgling ?
Also I think: I’m hungry again. I haven’t been so hungry all the time since I was last young.
Off camping again tomorrow. The Peak District. It’s due to rain, but it would rain in the Peak District even if it wasn’t, if you see what I mean. I’m going to climb, & who knows maybe write that down. I’ve noticed that I get bad feedback from climbers if I actually try to describe my experience of climbing; but I’m ok with them if I just use the cliches. So what I mean is, I’m going to try & tick a few low grade trad solos, guys. Does that allow you to dismiss my efforts–simultaneously pensionable & puerile–with a smile instead of the usual frown ?