Back to solo travelling for my visit to Chantry. Ok, just one last church. It is Easter after all.
Sometimes the songs are reflections of the villages. Other times the villages reflect my own troubles back at me. In Chantry I was glad to find the church open so just sat down and sung this into my iphone. I wrote the lyrics in the visitor book.
They have made an effigy of the crucified Christ, from pieces of B and Q battening and used barbed wire as his crown of thorns.
In fact I do not recognize it as Christ at all immediately. The church itself is as intricately carved and crafted as I have now come to expect Somerset churches to be.
Sometimes I look into the villages, sometimes they stare hard back at me. Sometimes I just look hard at myself. Sometimes I could be anywhere. The journeys are long and lonely and I am prone to introspection. I am selfish; I probably let you down Chantry.
I shrank into myself.
This is song about turning back time, but you can’t. Then you try and persuade people to make everything like before, but it’s impossible.
Flixborough has an extra reason to be thankful. It is strangely sited, perched on a hill high above a tired looking industrial park. There are wind turbines surrounding the village in every direction.
In 1974 a chemical plant on the industrial site exploded leaving 28 people dead. It was one of britain’s largest ever non-nuclear explosions. Every roof in Flixborough was lifted or set ablaze, yet no villagers were killed. Barely a window remained in tact.
On my first visit to Flixborough I left with only a pocket full of music and pictures. The disaster proved hard to pin down in song.
The people of Flixborough and those that remembered the explosion were reluctant to speak to me. The media descended on the village in 1974 and local press often mark the anniversaries.
I returned a year later to speak to Derek Green and his son Andrew. Derek has lived as a farmer both before and ever since the Nypro disaster.
I arrive early as I do everywhere and circle the village, trying to understand the relationship between the slightly broken settlement and it’s equally crumbling industrial half sibling.
The pub is dead, the building is on offer to the community to make something of it. I find a small gauge railway track with a cat skeleton by it’s side. The disused line takes me to the industrial site, much of it padlocked and rusted, though some of it still working. Everything is 1980. I record the rain on a Coke can. I have mud on my shoes and I worry about the first impressions I will give Derek.
We talk of nothing other than thankfulness and gratitude. Their world exploded and they survived by chance.
The day after Cundall, me and Emma drove to Norton Le Clay. The church was decommissioned, there was a sharp bend in the road and almost as soon as you entered the village you were driving out of it.
I was thankful to be there though. I didn’t want to be at home anymore and Emma was being an exceptional friend. We found a huge greenhouse with shattered, glass and shards hanging from it. It was sitting there right in the middle of the village like a broken temple.
During this project I have often felt it important that you hear that I am outside and therefore included the random sounds that bleed into the microphones, birdsong, wind rumble and the chance meetings with people. However it’s still easy to make music that sounds close and near even when you are outside. We laid out a blanket and plugged iPads into our recorder. It was raining so we cocooned ourselves in blue plastic ponchos. With our heads encased in headphones and hoods, we felt incubated from the weather.
We made an odd hiccupy tune in a perculiar key.
Then I let it lie there on my hard drive for almost a year. I knew I wanted to write something about a Belgian refugee who had ended up in the village during the war. She became accepted in this place and stayed here until she died. Her name is on a bench.
A year later the EU referendum was taking place and it is on the eve of that referendum that this is being written. I finally wrote a lyric and twisted the chords into a more conventional sense. I wrote a song about opening doors and letting people in. Helping those that need help.
It’s what we used to do. It’s what Norton Le Clay did.
The sun is already low as we approach Cundal but that’s ok, we’re staying over. Sleeping overnight in a Thankful Village is a special treat as so few have guest houses. We are staying on a farm. Me and Emma are given tea in the living room and clearly thought of as couple. That’s ok, we only need the double bed to lay out our synthesisers and make them hum whilst the village sleeps.
Emma catches the last of the sunlight on her Diana camera, judging the exposure with her finger on a small plastic lever. It’s as random and fault laden as any other part of the Thankful Village project and luck has stayed with us so far. We double expose. We shoot ourselves in domed safety mirrors.
We eat in the next village in a pub and continue to not correct people who assume we are a couple. It’s a pointless and rubbish deception. We go to our room and decorate the divan with keyboards and patch leads. We wear headphones and no one knows the noise we make.
We make the oscillators sound like trees and leaves and incongruous new builds. We make music by accident, just like the accident of us even being here.
(photos in video by Emma Winston)
I drove to Bradbourne the day after Butterton. It took me half an hour. I wound my way through the narrow lanes. It was raining heavily.
Bradbourne is a lop-sided village. Many of the buildings are on one side of the main single road and overlook a beautiful view of rolling green fields. In the church yard there is a rare Saxon Cross dating back over a thousand years. The church door was unlocked and I sat inside.
A neighbour noticed the lights were on and looked in and asked if I was all right. I said ‘yes’ but I wasn’t. I was unshaven, I had egg on my chin, I was crying. I was all over the place and didn’t really understand what I was doing in these villages.
I tapped out a rhythm on the pew in front of me. There are many things that a church can be in these small places, but the one thing it has almost consistently been for me through the first phase of Thankful Villages is a refuge.
I’m not religious and never have been but I’ve felt safe in every church in every Thankful Village and I don’t feel safe very often. I sang selfishly for, and about, myself. When will my heart be still.
There are two Buttertons in Staffordshire. I had to be careful to find the right one.
I arrived as light was falling. There were some small patches of melted snow still on the ground. I was tired and heart broken. I shuffled around in my dirty green coat and filmed the amber glow of the streetlights.
I found a plastic lamb in the graveyard and a small group of goats behind some barbed wire. I thought at one point I heard a howl or a cry of the animal.
A dog walker asked what I was doing and as always I reply with the truth. “I thought you might be a journalist”, she said. “About the abattoir.”
The landlady at my guesthouse filled me in further, “It was a local scandal, a few weeks ago a film was leaked of the animals being treated horribly.’
I walked several yards to the village pub and had dinner and beer on my own. I couldn’t sleep at all that night. For reasons outside of the project I was emotionally fraught, although the tales of the abattoir didn’t help.
I rigged up a studio in the guesthouse bedroom. I had recorded loops of gates shutting and metal creaking. I thought about the last days of snow. I thought about all of the blood in the abattoir.
I tried to make a slow, uneasy, dissonant melody.
The road plummets down into Herodsfoot. We drive past the church and the houses until we reach a small green by the stream. I’m here with Johny Lamb who lives close by.
Herodsfoot is ‘doubly’ thankful which means that all the soldiers returned alive from the Second World War as well as the first. It also has a war memorial.
Me and Johny walked around the village. We found a small chapel that had been converted into a house. The first floor could be seen bisecting the long tall arch windows. All Saints Church overlooks Herodsfoot from a steep hill. It shares a rector with three other villages. A leaflet in the church said, ‘Herodsfoot, fortunate in more ways than one.’ We started to talk about things that were split in two or shared. Herodsfoot itself is cut in two by the Looe River.
We returned to the green and sat under a chandelier of burnt out candles and a row of broken fairy lights. We sang about safety and what things used to be. A gunshot rang out in perfect time.
No-one hears us. No-one stops us.
Johny and Emma Easy added soft brass and harmonies later.
Langton Herring, Dorset
Langton Herring is the only Thankful Village in Dorset and sits up high on a perch over looking Chesil Beach and the English Channel.
Chesil Beach is a natural, swooping arc of shingle that looks like it must be man made. It provides shelter from prevailing winds and rain and often pulls away completely from the coast to form a neat line through the sea.
Langton Herring stays hidden above it amongst small lanes and signs that beg you to go elsewhere; ‘No parking’, ‘Private Land’ and ‘No Access to the Beach.’ The pub was closed and so was the church so I took the signs’ advice and walked out of the village along a high windy lane towards the sea.
The sky was grey and the wind was fierce, almost blowing me from my feet. The trees and hedgerows were contorted from years of this onslaught.
I tried to shelter amongst some bushes and paint the weather with my shaking fingers.
The only instrument I had with me was my little concertina. Recording in the wind is notoriously difficult. The wind makes hardly any desirable sounds as it hits the microphone. I pumped on the bellows and added more noise and wind to the scene.
After I left Langton Herring I contacted my friend Mark Brend who lived not too far away. I said, go to Langton Herring and see what you can find.
Mark went down a few weeks later and found a story on a gravestone about four children who died whilst playing near a lime-kiln in 1830. The fumes overcame the four young boys and they quickly perished.
Mark found out about the funeral where 18 children dressed in white led the procession.
Mark took the wheezing bellows of my concertina and made them represent poisonous gasses. The first half of the music symbolises the fumes smothering the children. The second half is a funeral march. I wrote a nursery rhyme and Mark’s children read it for us.
I arrived and parked at what used to be the Chelwood Primary School. The ‘C’ had eroded from the stone.
I kept taking pictures of the sky with just small parts of the village intruding the composition. I photographed the edge of roofs, the tips of trees and the tops of gravestones.
There was a stream of well dressed people walking from their shiny cars to a function of some kind. There was a magnificent horse who kept coming closer to me whilst it’s owner hollered and shrieked a field away.
Chelwood was a village where I had arrived with no plan or strategy. My mind was blank. I let the sky lead me.
I was drawn to the crooked gravestones and then thought of the clouds in the sky. I considered how the clouds made the rain, that made the ground wet, which made the graves lean away from the heavens. I considered that every grave is destined to be untended eventually.
The church door was locked, so I sat in the porch of the church.
I wrote about death and the sky and the ground.
It was recorded on a cassette dictaphone. It’s supposed to sound like this.
I had been visiting an ill relative in the north. I should have driven straight home but Scruton called out to me. It was an unusually sunny autumn evening and the village was a stone’s throw from the A1. I promised myself the briefest of stays in Scruton. I would catch the last of the light and hang on tight to whatever idea came to me.
Scruton is neatly kept and the houses are surrounded by neat hedges and flowers. I find red berries and pink houses. Dog walkers take their last opportunities before dusk. Huge four by fours purr as they crawl on to the loose gravelled driveways. People are coming home after Sunday errands and visits.
There is a pretty heritage railway station on the edge of the village. It was closed to passengers in 1954 and re-opened by rail enthusiasts in 2014. This is the first village I’ve come to that sometimes reverberates to the sound of steam trains.
In the middle of the village is a triangular green covered with golden, fallen leaves. Bare trees are scattered across it and cast long, dark shadows. A lone swing stands in the centre and I find a bench at one side next to the vicarage.
For once I leave the church be and decide that this might be my last chance of the year to record outside.
I tap out a rhythm on the bench and strum out lazy major chords on a Spanish guitar. I start to sing but the only word that comes out is ‘oh’.
Photography by Helen.