Note Archive: Frolics

The Little Things

Life, with all its funny twists and turns, often leaves me confused. Perhaps it’s due to my constant thinking or perhaps it’s just that the world can be shambolic, and negotiating your way through it isn’t always a barrel of laughs. Nevertheless, we continue forth because Pandora’s box let hope escape too, so we can believe that things have a strange way of working out for the best.

To quote the ineffable Monty Python:

“…when life looks jolly rotten, there’s something you’ve forgotten, and that’s to laugh and smile and dance and sing”

Truer words never spoken.

Sometimes, the smiles come from the little things. The quirky details in an outfit. The glow-in-the-dark face on your watch. The unexpected card from a friend at a difficult time. The funny little late night conversations. The spontaneous dances. Sharing music, books, knowledge, thoughts and ideas with other souls. Making things. And really, just being a little bit more bloody grateful for everything you can surround yourself with.

The only other thing is time. Time to figure out who you are and what you believe, and the things you hope for. Words are the easy bit really, but the time it takes to understand the pieces of your puzzle? That is invaluable.

Transitory

Moments of Awe
Various places in the UK, over the last few years.

Rock Salt


My friend Emma’s family have a house in Devon. It’s nestled away next to a quiet little cove, across the water from Dartmouth castle – and it is spectacular. Especially, as you’d expect in Britain, during the Spring.

The first year we stayed coincided with one of those sunny spells that climate change has probably created. After a few hours travel from Bristol, we found ourselves gazing onto a glorious sea view, lit up by sun rays as dusk descended. Beach House wafted through the air, and my friends alternated between sipping on drinks and scrambling across rocks. I stayed watching the waves, divulging my then frazzled emotional state into a furious pen scribbling over paper.

The Southwest and I have a small catalog of connections. From my childhood best friend moving at sixteen, to former housemates and futile crushes during university; the associations lie in amusing contrast to my landlocked Brummie hometown. It’s here that I wrote. Everything and nothing, in a little nook of South Devon. Emptying the metaphorical salt from my wounds, for the simple need to do so.

Once my pen ran dry, I stole an idea garnered from stories: I folded the sheet into a boat and let mother nature wash it away. It was a kind of private ritual I suppose; one of letting go. After that, I noticed the blue glint of the neighbouring rock. The dark cracks shooting across a shallow pink one. The curves and crevices, and the strange beauty in barnacles upon a crab. Both country and city have their quirks, but the therapeutic qualities of nature are unmatched for many.

My ink-soaked paper boat probably (hopefully) disintegrated after a few days, but looking at these images transports me to that moment. It reminds me that thoughts sometimes need to occupy a space, before they can begin to disperse. That perspective is useful, and that choice is really everything.

Saltwater, in reference to Beach House, can be a cathartic action when required.


By the Sea
In the South Hams, Devon

Happy Accidents

Summer of 2012
What you get when you combine the mishaps of expired film and the Highlands of Scotland.

A Temporary Fix

Last month saw a snap happy trip to Oxfordshire. In lieu of words today, I'll share a few photographs from Upton House with you.