Gateways and Boundaries

Do you like mysterious doors or gateways, maybe even to ways to other dimensions? Of course you do, everybody does! Here's a little tale for you. Of course it's all true, but maybe the contrast and brilliance have been turned up to eleven in places.

When you were in K???? I remember taking you along the road and through a field to go and look at the River A????, which flows down from F???? village to where the river joins the larger River D???? in K???? town. 

Every year, when I cut the hedge which forms the boundary of my place, I have to trek along the road and then back through the field, so I can inspect and cut the back of my own hedge. It's all a bit of a nuisance. The hedge itself is Leylandii and somewhere inside of that is a chain-link fence supported on concrete posts. As I'm sure someone must have said, sometime, "it ain't going anywhere". Fortunately, I took the growing heads off the plants shortly after we moved in, so it’s not going to get out of control. Now I wish that the people who built the house had used something other than Leylandii, because it's too vigorous, but I'm not complaining because it’s attractive and maintenance free apart from once a year. 

Last year, I cut the inside and top of the hedge and had got to the stage of thinking about going round to the back. Cutting my hedge takes several days, so the job can spread over weeks. For some reason, I cut a little deeper into the hedge than I do usually in one back corner, and I noticed that the hedge growth was a little less dense there than normal. I poked around a bit more and found that the posts for the chain-link fence had been arranged in such a way that they formed a gateway inside the hedge.

This potential gateway was intriguing, so I showed it to Noreen and said that I thought it would be practical to make a gateway out into the field. The effort of creating the gateway would make the exercise of cutting the back of the hedge a whole lot simpler for the current  year and all future years (no need to walk a hundred yards along a busy road and back through the field). Noreen agreed, and a day or so later I had a gateway. 

I think the background story of my gateway is that when my house was being built, the builders constructed the gateway for access. They even put a threshold sill stone in place. When they were finished with the house, the builders filled the gap with an separate bit of fencing and planted the hedge, which over time obscured the potential gap.

A little more work, and I had constructed a little wicket gate to fit the gap. I can even point to evidence of the gate being completed on 25th August last year. Gate construction was made easier by having square upright concrete posts to work to. Not only is the gate easy to open and close, but it is invisible from both my garden and from the field! From my garden it is camouflaged by a piece of trellis covered by plastic pretend hedge, and from the other direction it exits into a wooded field boundary and is invisible from the field itself. So, now I had a hidden, secure gateway between my garden and the field beyond. It’s the sort of thing children love (and that includes children of advancing years).

The gateway served its intended purpose in simplifying the maintenance of my hedge, but it gave more. Now I have the gateway, I'm in the habit of walking down to the river, typically once a week. The distance is 150 metres as the crow flies or 350 metres around the perimeter of the field (which is the way I go, 'cos I'm good). 

Nobody would describe my place as urban and to call it suburban would be a positive insult, but access to the river takes rural to a new level. All you can hear on the other side of the hedge are natural sounds and the gentle whispering of traffic on the distant road. 

It really is peaceful down by the river. Having access to the river is a great improvement to my amenities.  Come the summer, I may spend a bit more time down there. My neighbours don't mind (because they walk their dogs down by the river), and I don't think the person farming the field will ever know!

When I’m walking around the field something strange happens. The atmosphere changes and everything becomes much quieter. The sounds of traffic from the road cease completely. This always happens in the same place. The effect does not change with the weather, in sunshine or drizzle, the same peace descends. The silence is welcoming, waiting to be filled by the sounds of the river. 

When I reach the river the banks are clothed by mature native trees and beyond the margin on the far bank there is a dark plantation of commercial conifers. Upstream there is short length of rapids and downstream the river broadens and becomes much quieter. On the opposite bank a tree trails a dead limb into the water. When the river is high this branch is dragged forward with the current and flicks back when the tension overcomes the water. The motion is repeated rhythmically. The atmosphere is quiet except for the sound of water, no houses are visible, not even my own, which is only 150 metres away. I am in another dimension, separate to, and completely insulated from, the modern world. Every time I go there I pass through a hidden portal and traverse a zone of silence and when I return the experience is reversed.

I’m afraid there is a prosaic explanation to my inter-dimensional portal. The field has an uneven slope between my house and the river. The steeper slope in the middle means that when I'm at the river the houses are hidden and all the sound from the road passes above my head. Whatever you may think, unnaturally, I choose to ignore the obvious and continue to visit my magical realm via a hidden gateway and barrier of silence.

4th February 2023

Letter to Carol - Michael O'Conner

 Hello Carol, Happy New Year! I hope you and yours are keeping well.

As you can see, I've survived the festive season. I've eaten too much, drank too much (not too, too much) and not taken sufficient exercise, but I feel good. Siobhan and Margaret returned to base, so all four of us were there for an extended week. 

I cooked Christmas dinner. The frozen "three-bird-roast" took 3 hours to cook. That seems like a lot of work but actually it really wasn't; it was just a case of following the timetable I'd written out for myself, doing stuff and doing particular things when the alarm on my phone went off. There was plenty of time to do other things as well. 

As a family, we seem to have moved away from large expensive presents towards lots of small and sometimes silly things. There seems no point at all in exchanging vouchers. I do give Siobhan and Margaret (small) quantities of cash but that's different to me. There are lots of sweeties and biscuits as well! And chocolates!

I spent a fair amount of time over the holiday scanning photos and documents from the laundry box I told you about. Remember my brother James, the little boy I showed you some photos of? I've found another photo of him. I know I'm biased, and that the emotional associations will sway my judgement as well, but he was a handsome boy. 

One of the advantages of scanning things is that it makes it possible to zoom in on details and that can provide additional information: things like, two photos with the same background were probably taken at the same time. I've been constructing time-lines for the various characters in the story (My mother Margaret, her husband Alastair, James and my sister Catherine). Little details are coming to light and the story is taking on much more depth. The outline I told you was mostly correct, but even in a couple of months there is now so much more: some of it would suit a Boys' Own adventure, perhaps written by John Buchan, and some would suit a romance in a women's magazine, maybe by Barbara Cartland but honestly I've never read any of her work - maybe I should. I hope I can do the story, and my relatives justice.

Talking of stories, here's a sort-of "meta story". Cycling home from the surgery today, I stopped to exchange greetings with an acquaintence, Michael O'Conner. I am cycling home and Michael is walking home from tending to some horses he looks after. He walks the road twice a day, in the morning and in the evening, rain or shine. If I am cycling I stop and talk with him, if I am driving, heading in the right direction and especially if it is raining, I will give him a lift. Somehow, our meeting like this seems particularly Irish, or Scottish or "country". 

Michael will be a little younger than me, probably in his 50's. He is separated or divorced from a wife and has (at least) a daughter and one or two grandchildren. I know where he lives and where he is from (Castlemagner). His untidy hair is blonde which has turned to white and he's soft spoken. He wears heavy boots and a dirty black jacket. His face is weather-beaten and ruddy with a strawberry nose and hooded eyes. I would guess that he is a heavy drinker, quite possibly an alcoholic. I think he would be a handful if he was drunk. Honestly, if you saw him, I think you would avoid him (and in general, you might be right). Despite any of that, he is considered "reliable" and he looks after expensive horses. Once, when it was convenient for us both, he took be to see a mare who was in foal.

Michael and I are not friends but we are friendly to one another. We are an ill-matched pair. We would not meet socially but we meet on the road and exchange greetings and stories. I think our meetings serve some purpose but I do not know what it is: one for psychologists, sociologists and philosophers.

Must go. Got to have some sort of lunch before I collect my daughters from Cork.

Keep well!

Tom