Every Grain of Sand

She sells sea shells on the sea shore.....

In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need

When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed

There’s a dyin’ voice within me reaching out somewhere

Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair

Bob Dylan

Every Grain of Sand

(1981)

December 12th, 2024. This would be my (Amanda's and my) fortieth wedding anniversary, but, hey!  Every day is something.  Every day is someone's birthday, someone's death day.  Time spins on, picking up fluff, leaving stuff behind.  

What you can do?

I set out from home, in Snettisham, and walk over Ken Hill, and across the marsh, filling now with wetness, becoming slowly impassable, to the shore of the Wash.

The sky is heavy, though clouds and azure vie for attention. The tide is well out and there is no one about. I head towards Hunstanton, a six and a half mile walk, to make the best of a winter's day.  

The recent storms have caused havoc amongst the inhabitants of the estuary, and there are hundreds of lost-life forms. Starfish, wrecked and lifeless abound in different configurations:

Their 'little' (what does that say?) lives drowned away by the whipping of the wind and the turmoil of the sea.  

Youthful flatfish, maybe dabs, or immature plaice (help me someone?) turn their right-sided eyes to the sky in premature oblivion:

Razor clams:

Whelks:

Their spent seed-cases:

Crabs:

And urchins:

All lie exhausted and empty on the beach, the impulses and instincts of life extinguished by the very nature that gave them being.

Human intervention makes no difference:

The sky lowers. Drizzle blurs my vision. A flag shrugs in the distance:

Someone wanders into my sightline, another lonely figure in an empty seascape. It could be good to exchange thoughts, but there is some unspoken barrier between us, so I keep moving on:

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea

Sometimes I turn, there’s someone there, other times it’s only me

I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man

Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand

Forty years ago today something wonderful came to pass, but now it is over and the world spins on. I am so grateful for the love we had, and for all that is still good in this world.

Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake

Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break

In the fury of the moment I can see the Master’s hand

In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand

Bob Dylan

Every Grain of Sand

Copyright © 1981 by Special Rider Music

Now, please repeat after me, one of my paternal grandfather's favourite tongue twisters:

She sells sea shells on the sea shore......

Stormy Sunday

I Like It When It's Stormy

When I woke up this morning, Stormy Darragh was on my mind..... So I barred the door behind me against the wind, and saddled up my pinto for a wild ride.....

Rode down the shore apiece, where the Wash was blowing foam:

Then kicked off across the drainage ditch where the reeds were going mad:

Over the marsh the geese were lying low:

But a red kite was hanging in there over the field up beyond the old railway line:

Then the wind picked up, and spooked my horse, who threw me down on the track, tearing off like a National winner, leaving me lying in the mud.....

Stormy weather, stormy weather

And I just can't get my poor self together

Harold Arlen / Ted Koehler

Stormy Weather

Well I limped on into the woods, trees crashing all around:

Lord have mercy on me

Though I'm tryin' and tryin' to find my pinto

Won't somebody please send 'er home

Aaron T-Bone Walker

Stormy Monday

But then I saw a glim of light:

Just past my favourite tree:

Despite the debris all around:

The mashed up waste of winter weather, the death of life, the mess of autumn, I found some signs of hope.  A tiny fungus here:

A larger one here peeking through the litter:

And there were leaves that had clung on:

Brave, lonely leaves that would not give in to the forces against them:

And then there were catkins, the male flowers of the hazel, early this year, but strong and healthy, ready to give new life in the spring:

And then, above the gale, I heard bells ringing, the bells of St Mary's, calling the faithful to prayer, a lovely sound.....

And, even though I walked on by, I knew that, somehow, somewhere there was some good in this world.....

I like it when it's stormy

'Cause it reminds me of my life

When lightning strikes without warning

Like it has in my world once or twice

I hear the thunder rolling

Feel the icy, cold hail storm

I like it when it's stormy

But I don't like being alone

I like it when it's stormy

Blowin' a hard rain

Looking out my window

Wishing you was coming back again

Hank Williams Jr.

I like it when it's stormy

*****

[Please note that quoting Hank Williams Jr. in no way endorses his political views.]

*****

Maybe I will find my horse again some day....

Wishing you a Spectacular Christmas

Ho Ho Humbug!

If I make it this could be my LXXIIIrd Christmas, and all I can say is that I am relieved it only comes once a year..... 

A rather premature, and hirsute, Baby Jesus at Thursford

{By way of a spoiler alert, I would also like to tell you that this year there will be four full shopping moons between Christmas and Easter (Wolf, Snow, Worm and Pink to be exact)....}

But that is beside itself....  I am writing this in Polish - Polish Pure Christmas Spirit that is...., to wish the world well, inspired as I was, by my first visit to Thursford, yesterday (the day before Thursday, that is).

Welcome to Thursford!

And what, pray, I hear you cry, is Thursford when it's at home?

Ah, you are as ignorant as I were.... or was? 

[Before you saw the light?  Ed.]

Exactly so.

Let me put it like this. In a vast (1,400 seat) shed, in a field, in Norfolk (somewhere between Fakenham and Holt, though it is difficult to be precise in the dark) there are currently c120 performers and a 32 piece orchestra doing their damnedest, upon a 130 foot stage (and in the aisles), to entertain a sea of grey hair and Christmas jumpers.....

The Thursford Christmas Spectacular blows its own trumpet thus: [It] is an extravaganza of non-stop singing, dancing, music, humour and variety. It’s a fast moving celebration of the festive season featuring an eclectic mix of both seasonal and year round favourites.

And they go on: Thursford’s Christmas Spectacular has attracted over 5.8 million visitors to date and is the largest Christmas show in the country.

It is set in the magical surroundings of mechanical organs and fairground carousels, 

with a cast of 120 professional singers, dancers and musicians – most of whom are straight [Perhaps that is a matter of opinion?  Ed] out of the West End. The three hour performance delivers an extravaganza of non-stop singing, dancing, music, humour (adult [Or possibly geriatric? Ed]) and variety. It’s a fast moving celebration of the festive season featuring an eclectic [? Ed] mix of both seasonal and year-round favourites, with famous and much-loved chart toppers being performed alongside traditional carols. 

Please note the finale of the show includes a fly over of  [Very peckish? Ed] white doves across the auditorium. 

Word of this amazing show has spread and it is now generally recognised as being the largest show of its kind in the country, if not Europe. Up to fifty coaches per day travel from all over the country and many of our patrons have visited year on year, turning the trip into a mini holiday staying in the county’s hotels, guest houses and holiday cottages.

Well.  I was (and still am) blowed!

Being a naturally generous paternal figure  and with Christmas heaving up on the starboard bow, I felt it was only right to treat a convenient daughter (sorry, Sarah, but you will live in Australia!) to this extravaganza of non-stop singing, dancing, music, humour and variety.....

And we was/were certainly entertained, (particularly by the finale fly over of white doves.....)

The whole thing is chaperoned by Lloyd Hollett, who is 'apparently' The Comedy Wordsmith [Me neither. Ed].  There is also Robert Wolfe, who has 'apparently' been playing the Wurlitzer here for 44 years [Has he won yet? Ed] although he lives in California [He must have long arms?  Ed]  {Give it a rest.  R}.

And there are special performers....  Danny and Ash Butler dance with their mountain bikes across the stage; Michael and Dario Togni (from the famous Italian circus background) are what may once have been called "tumblers"?  Ukrainian Contortion Act, Anna Biseva and Sofiia Soloviova, demonstrate some acute angles and precarious balances, and Rody Olivares Fernandez is an award-winning Diablo artist [What the devil is that?  Ed].....

[By the way, photography is not permitted during the show, but if you go to Thursford's own website or to their Facebook page there are lots of pictures and a promotional video....]

And as if that wasn't enough there are Christmas carols, numbers from Riverdance [I believe that is an Irish thing?  Ed] The Sound of Music [Something from Austria?  Ed] and even a rendition of John Lennon's Happy Christmas, War is Over.....  And, just for a moment, with a mug of mulled wine and a mince pie, surrounded by tinsel, traction engines, flying reindeer, dancing girls and jolly young men, you could almost forget the world outside, and the proximity of war.....

Almost......

It really is a fine show, and the hundreds of happy pensioners who bussed in from all over the country (some from Teignmouth, some from Bradford) certainly seemed to enjoy themselves, rising with their walking sticks to a standing (well, almost) ovation at the end..... before creaking out into the foggy night, back to their cosy buses.....

*******

But, then, back home, with an eclectic mix of both seasonal and year round favourites gradually fading into the grey, and some of the joys of the festive season dissolving like slush, I find myself about to post my wife's Christmas cards, painstakingly pasted together from cut ups of older ones, and handwritten with messages during lockdown, over four years ago now.  

Dear Amanda.  

She would have loved the Thursford Spectacular - her feet would have been tapping and she would have laughed and smiled along with everything.  It is/was absolutely her kind of fun.  But she isn't here, even though she wrote cards to her friends for every year up to and including 2029.....

It makes me sad, though I know I should rejoice in her memory.

Ah well, Ho Ho Humbug!  Enjoy!  This could be my LXXIIIrd Christmas.  

I wish you all well.

Pax vobiscum.....

And if you haven't ever been, it really is a Christmas Spectacular!

As reviewed in The Guardian (a little read and hardly known northern newspaper) a few years ago:

Thursford Christmas Spectacular review – a sugar rush of festive cheer

Thursford Collection, Norfolk

A fever-dream of outrageous talent and suffocating joy, this extravaganza must be seen to be believed, albeit just the once......