This term has been hectic and wonderful and the last week
even more so as I’ve frantically taken out every book I could carry from the
University library. If anyone is looking for criticism on the importance of
English Country Dancing in Jane Austen, I have a wide selection.
Reading Pride and Prejudice for my Jane Austen and the Novel module and visiting King’s College
archives for my dissertation on E. M. Forster has been heaven, but it has meant
that writing and reading has taken a bit of back seat. I’ve managed (tried) to justify watching a few
adaptations - Helena Bonham Carter tumbling through violets (A Room with a View dir. James Ivory), Felicity
Jones hiding under the covers from her own imagination (Northanger Abbey BBC) and Rupert Penry Jones staring moodily across
the drawing room (Persuasion BBC) - I
recommend them all, but now it’s time for a break that has nothing to do with Austen, Italy, or even adult literature.
For the first time in weeks, I have picked up a book not
related to my course, Michael Morpurgo’s Listen
to the Moon. I have always loved a Michael Morpurgo. Private Peaceful had me in tears at the age of 8 and is still one
of my favourite books, but his Cornish novels have always had a special appeal
and I cannot wait to begin Listen to the
Moon which is set in the Scilly Isles.
Cornwall is enjoying a surge of popularity with the new
series Poldark gracing our screens.
Its popularity most probably lies in the excessively attractive Aiden Turner,
but as Demelza lies in the long grass of the Cornish cliffs, remembering what I
imagine was a spectacular night, the scenery of Cornwall is just as stunning as
the rugged man traversing its plains.
Photocredit: Mammothscreens.com
Cornwall has long inspired writers from Thomas Hardy to
Daphne Du Maurier and as spring approaches I thought I’d share my
favourite of Hardy’s poems, “Beeny Cliff”. I first read this whilst sleeping on
the floor of the attic in Thomas Hardy’s house, Max Gate, in Dorcester. It was
an experience to say the least, and if I hadn’t had a fellow student to comfort
me, the spider graveyard next door would have probably had me sleeping on the
kitchen table. I thoroughly recommend a visit to Max Gate, which Hardy designed
himself, and the cottage he grew up in is only a 5 minute drive out of town. Nestled in the
family orchard with its own bee hives and wild flowers, it’s not hard to
imagine where Hardy’s love of nature came from.
Photocredit: Tripadvisor
I’ve been feeling a little afloat on the “wandering western
sea” as I apply for jobs left, right and centre, whilst hastily finishing my
essays, but a quick walk along the beaches of Devon with their imposing
“chasmal beauty” puts things nicely into perspective.
Beeny
Cliff
O the opal and the sapphire of that wandering western sea,
And the woman riding high above with bright hair flapping free—
The woman whom I loved so, and who loyally loved me.
And the woman riding high above with bright hair flapping free—
The woman whom I loved so, and who loyally loved me.
II
The pale mews plained below us, and the waves seemed far away
In a nether sky, engrossed in saying their ceaseless babbling say,
As we laughed light-heartedly aloft on that clear-sunned March day.
In a nether sky, engrossed in saying their ceaseless babbling say,
As we laughed light-heartedly aloft on that clear-sunned March day.
III
A little cloud then cloaked us, and there flew an irised rain,
And the Atlantic dyed its levels with a dull misfeatured stain,
And then the sun burst out again, and purples prinked the main.
And the Atlantic dyed its levels with a dull misfeatured stain,
And then the sun burst out again, and purples prinked the main.
IV
—Still in all its chasmal beauty bulks old Beeny to the sky,
And shall she and I not go there once again now March is nigh,
And the sweet things said in that March say anew there by and by?
And shall she and I not go there once again now March is nigh,
And the sweet things said in that March say anew there by and by?
V
Nay. Though still in chasmal beauty looms that wild weird western shore,
The woman now is—elsewhere—whom the ambling pony bore,
And nor knows nor cares for Beeny, and will see it nevermore.
The woman now is—elsewhere—whom the ambling pony bore,
And nor knows nor cares for Beeny, and will see it nevermore.
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