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Our walking group met Dean by Lowestoft old Town Hall in the pouring rain. One or two were dressed for the weather in sou‘westers and wellies!

Dean began by setting the context: here on the site where we stood, the old Town Hall no longer used, is covered in large colourful words created by local children, inspired by Dean in workshops he’d led at their school. Dean recently wrote and produced a play Pearls from The Grit and a published the book The Grit – the story of Lowestoft’s Beach Village, these both tell all about the area we were setting out to explore.

[Read more…] about Walking Right up your Street with Dean Parkin

Mill Street Studios held two print workshops in the Summer and Autumn of 2021, which were run by Fine Artist and Printmaker, Catherine Greenwood who has a wealth of knowledge and expertise in printmaking and was an inspiration to all in her printmaking. We were able to learn and gain printmaking skills throughout the two-day workshop in hard and soft ground etching and collagraphy.

The second workshop was an Aquatint course lead by Fine Artist and Printmaker, David Stubbs, and was an introduction to aquatints over two days.  This was truly inspirational and has given us more possibilities of what can be achieved with aquatint in several ways with our newly purchased aquatint box.

Redwings and Cuckoos

October – nights now longer than days, mists sneaking around the hedgerows, birds beginning to arrive from Scandinavia – even Radio 4’s The Archers included the arrival of redwings. The first week of October brought some welcome rain to eastern England and with it a change in birds being seen. The last of the summer warblers have slipped away. My two chiffchaffs, living in the Hebe for the last month, disappeared leaving the garden to the robins. The tagged cuckoos are now in Africa along with the swallows and swifts. In place of them, around the coastline wildfowl and waders arrive in ever-increasing numbers. Soon there will be redwings and fieldfares flying in to hunt the hedges and field for fruit.

Redwings are the herald of winter – they migrate at night and you can hear their thin calls as they fly over unseen, moving south and west. A few years ago, I found a tired redwing sitting in the road.  I drew near but he stayed put. It is rare to have such a close view of these shy birds. I could see his cream eye stripe. I tried to flush him away from the road concerned for his safety. He moved a few steps. I tried again and this time he flew to a nearby bush, showing his rich rust red underwing from which he is named.

This October starts with a new moon and meteor showers. Looking out at the pinpricks of starlight  I think about migration. The magic of the appearance and disappearance of birds as they move between continents across the seasons lies deep within our culture and our DNA. The arrival of the cuckoo, the swallow and the swift, bringing their promise of spring, is celebrated in literature and song, retold in myths and now studied by scientists. In a generation we have witnessed dramatic declines in the numbers of birds arriving here. There are parishes now where the cuckoo, the turtle dove, the nightingale are all absent. There seems to be far less story telling about the winter migrants.

Scientists can study these birds and gain an understanding of the perils that they face as they make their long journeys. Landscape change, wars, forest clearance, changes in food production, droughts, storms and human predation all combine to threaten birds as they move across traditional migration routes each year.  Science can give us the facts but it does not touch us in the way that story, myth, song and art do.  A few years ago I saw an innovative performance about the cuckoo, part of the British Trust for Ornithology’s (BTO) FlightLines project.

FlightLines endeavours to use the creative arts to emotionally connect us back to our migrant birds, to remind us of their music and their magic and to inspire us to care again. Story-teller Michael Green and his son, Joshua, an accomplished musician, gave a compelling and engaging account of the cuckoo. Michael had seen one of the BTO tagged cuckoos receive its radio transmitter at Fylingdales and he tracked its journey on migration into Chad and the Congo. But he did not just sit with his laptop monitoring the progress. He linked with photo-journalist, Toby Smith, and set off for the cuckoo’s African homeland, the Batέkέ Plateau in eastern Gabon. They spent time in this oppressively hot country but failed to spot the cuckoos although their GPS tags located them here.

Gone Cuckoo relays Michael’s experience of his year with the cuckoo. He morphs into cuckoo, as only a story-teller can. Flying above Africa we look down with him across the Sahara, and stop with him in Cameroon, a beady eye glancing upwards and outwards for danger. Joshua sang old folk songs, mixed with the rhythm of African chants, reminding us that these are not our cuckoos but they link us across Europe and into Central Africa.
Such performances make us think – think about the meaning of the cuckoo and other migrant birds that appear each spring or winter. But it also warns that such birds may soon only be heard of in myth, and their calls, their flight and their global journeys may soon end.

As the moon hangs above the horizon, I reflect on all these journeys and the wonder of a world that still contains so much mystery and magic. We must use all the creative arts we can to galvanise action, to make sure we are not the last generation to hear the cuckoo. Well done to the BTO for taking this initiative.
Here now at the beginning of October, I wait for a different migration – the quiet tseep tseep calls of the redwing as their night time flights bring them here for the winter, migrating under a hunters’ moon.

Melinda Appleby October 2021

https://www.bto.org/our-science/migration/flight-lines

Ah – September – the golden month when low sun slinks across fading gardens, hedgerows hang heavy with fruit and the arable  harvest is almost done. The last two wheat fields are being cut today, the huge thumping combine knifing through the silvered crop, leaving  stubbles glowing yolk yellow. As we watch the tractor pulling alongside to take off another load of grain, a rat leaps for freedom. Already on the rest of the farm young oilseed rape is emerging from barley stubble and sugar beet is the last crop left to cut.

At the end of August over 30 house martins appeared, sunning themselves on the east facing roof, preening, swooping up at the old nest site, reconnoitring, remembering, gathering friends and family. They stayed 30 minutes and were gone, drifting south, heading for France and onwards. No-one knows quite where the house martins spend our winter.

One afternoon I watched as over 70 birds whisked across the garden – a flock of blue, great and long-tailed tits. A steady procession, some stopping off for a quick feed, others keeping to hedgelines, little contact calls filtering through the window. There have been other visitors to the garden – chiffchaffs, willow warblers, lesser whitethroats – often juveniles in very dapper plumage. It has taken some patience to identify them – leg colour, eye stripe, eye ring – I check through the key features. They spend most of their time in a giant Hebe bush, its raspberry flowers spilling petals like confetti, hovered over by bees.

This movement of birds between the seasons brings to mind other migrations, migrations of people. The world seems to be on the move.

Walk past any tree covered in ivy and the humming note will make you pause. Yellow green domes of flowers, so easy to overlook, are laden with insects feeding on late flowering blooms. There is a sense of urgency. Jays screech through the oak trees carrying a cargo of acorns, birds fatten on blackberries, wood mice hoard the hazel nuts before I can collect them and squirrels are searching for walnuts. Have you watched a squirrel at work? He digs a neat hole in which to conceal the walnut, from which he has already stripped the green husk.  Then he back fills with soil and using both little paws, pats and pats away to secure his larder.

In the mornings the stubble fields are netted with silver and the orb spiders’ ornate webs, slung between seed heads of thistle, sparkle with dew. Thin spindly spiders hang out in the bedroom stretching their hammock nets across the ceiling and feasting on the large house spiders that come looking for warmth and a mate.

September was made for artists. The colours, the contrasts, the movement of birds, the feeling of fullness and maturing. Whether you paint with a brush or with words it is a month to go out and be inspired.

September – A Harvest of Spiders

The moon sulks, full and yellow,

over the harvest fields. In its weak

light the combines race across

wheat. The pulse of cutter bars’

rhythmic turning vibrates through

the land and busies my heartbeat.

At intervals the chamber-full signal

beeps to call the tractor, feeding

alongside like a whale and its calf.

They roar on the road to grain bins,

pushing on as the moon slips

its berth, foreshadowing rain.

Now morning lays the harvest dust

in a cloak of mist. Phosphorescing

over the stubbles, spiders have set

their  nets or crafted pitfall traps.

Wrinkling their way into houses,

through crevices, looking for love

spiders live in the shadows until

low sun plucks their spinning

threads as they move unseen or

emerge, helping Robert the Bruce,

hanging over Miss Muffet, or guarding

the sacred mountain in secret realms.

On 9^th July Ivor and Jean Murrell led a group of eleven on the Savour the Sandlings walk.

We took a circular route of 11 kilometres from Westleton village across Westleton Common and Heath then through footpaths around Dunwich forest stopping at the Potton Hall café for refreshments.

Along the route Ivor stopped at various points to show sites of special interest.

On Westleton Common the cobble stones worn to a smooth round by the movement of ice age glaciers.

Besides this site were Silver studded blue butterflies, bee orchids and beautiful clumps of heather in full flower.

Everyone was interested to hear about the massive military activity in 1943 on Westleton Heath when the British army were given training in the then modern-day trench warfare. The scene of thousands of soldiers, flame-throwing tanks and explosions were recorded by the well known East Anglian war artist, Edward Bawden.

Stopping periodically, Ivor recited his published poems about the landscape, its special characteristics and the unique birds that live here like the Nightjar and Dartford warbler, also the more common Crow.

Corvus corone corone

I see you Crow.

I watch your studied nonchalance.

Your oil drip eye gives nothing back

green gleam on midnight feathers

steals surrounding light.

I know you Crow.

The trickster who can count

 gifted master of the false feint

when paired and stealing food

from the unsuspecting.

I hear you Crow.

Not for you the Rook’s ‘Caw’

but a raucous shout for meat

with your ‘Pawk  Pawk’

and your butcher’s beak.

I fear you Crow.

I feel your dark slow strut

feather ancient memory of the hunt,

the unknown made gravid

by the eater of the dead.

Ivor Murrell  

After a long working life, with experience as a maintenance engineer, a sugar industry trouble shooter, a maltster, some involvement in ladies fashion and finally as Director General of the Maltsters Association of Great Britain, Since retiring Ivor Murrell has found more time for his writing, has achieved a BA Hons Humanities degree with the Open University and has been Chairman of The Arts Society East Suffolk.

http://versifier.co.uk

“What a very successful walk!  Ivor was so knowledgeable and his interest and delight in his local landscape made it even more enjoyable. “

Sculpture in the Valley at Potton Hall on the edge of the Blyth Valley was a dramatically different venue to our previous homes at Earsham and Raveningham in the Waveney Valley.  The area immediately behind the coastal Sandlings region of East Suffolk is one of sloping landscapes, dense woods, flower meadows, little streams and open heathlands.  Potton Hall’s 10 acre site gave access to all aspects of this diversity and the creative installations – sometimes consciously but also perhaps unconsciously – responded to this variety in form and shape.  What emerged for me was a feeling of creative generosity from the 40 participating artists, whether in the form of conceptual, abstract or figurative art, all of which were well represented.

Something else that emerged over the period of the exhibition was the involvement of other creative disciplines, something to which we have not given too much thought during earlier Trails.  True, Mel Horwood has run dance workshops at previous venues, but the one that she organised at Potton Hall ended up being particularly expressive – even therapeutic – for the smaller number of participants involved.  Members of the Suffolk Poetry Society also came together to compose and perform in situ poems written directly in response to the artworks which affected them, with startlingly original and moving results.  Finally, and for the first time, we contacted local musicians to come and informally busk near the café in order to create more of an ambiance, especially at weekends.  Their contributions were quietly appreciated by customers and passers-by alike, and the musicians themselves enjoyed the opportunity to strut their stuff after such a long period of not being able to play for live audiences.

Another important aspect was the willingness of Waveney & Blyth Arts’ members and friends to give generously of their time and energy to help manage the resulting ‘show’.  I calculate that somewhere in the region of 55 volunteers gave more than 500 hours over a period of four weeks and five weekends.  And these figures do not take into account the enormous number of paid and unpaid hours spent in preparing for the Trail – meetings, phone calls and emails; contacting artists; booklet design and marketing activity; making technical alterations to the website box office; preparing templates for recording daily actions, bookings and sales; preparing information and safety notices and numbered posts; organising volunteers and researching the constantly changing Covid requirements.  It was an enormous effort!

And what do we have to show for it?

Well, most importantly the pleasure of receiving a huge number of positive comments from visitors, all of whom commented on the quality and variety of the art works and the beauty of the setting.  This translated into ticket sales to nearly 2,000 visitors as well as one of our best sales of artworks since our Trails began – good for W&BA and good for the artists who sold their work!  And also good for John and Priscilla Westgarth (our hosts at Potton Hall) who benefitted from a massive increase in visitor numbers, especially to their Yurt Café, with the result that they experienced a significant increase in footfall and café sales.

However, the exciting news is that John and Priscilla have decided to offer interested artists an extension to the sculpture trail in the form of a ‘Silent Auction’.  This is taking place over the next two months ending on 12^th September when sales will be confirmed to the highest bidders above the artists’ declared reserve prices.  In the event 20 artists showing 35 sculptures/installations are taking part in this arrangement which will include new works in addition to ones already previewed during Sculpture in the Valley.  So, tell your friends and neighbours about this extension and encourage them to discover the delights of Potton Hall and experience the continuing ‘afterlife’ of all our creative efforts!

Simon Raven

Site Manager for the Trail

On a cool June afternoon, seven poets gathered at Potton Hall to visit the Waveney & Blyth Sculpture Trail and trace its path of artistry and inspiration.

“Be inspired!” was the exhortation from Suffolk Poetry Society, of which they were all keen members.  And indeed they were inspired!

Some had visited the outdoor exhibition previously and some had visited the website photographs to gain their inspiration.   The poems, some of which you can read here, responding to the sculptures and installations, all demonstrate the magnificent individuality, the creative quirkiness of the human mind, its intuitive sensitivity and its sense of humour.  The poems also demonstrate a poet’s love of language and how art in whatever form it manifests connects the heart of the viewer and listener to the heart of the creator and his motivation, to his thoughts, materials and, in this site-sensitive exhibition, to the location of the piece or installation.

Another Use Of Chicken Wire

After The Bitterest Pill by Nick Ball

The plastic bottles are empty, the tins are without

their food contents and the beer cans have been drained.

Soon they will be welcomed at the re-cycling centre.

And that is how it should be.

But in the real world that nice garden over there,

that beauty spot by the river or that playground

provide spaces for the chuck-it, ditch-it, drop-it brigade.

After all it’s not on their patch, not in their backyard.

The environment isn’t their problem; it is someone else’s.

They’re not responsible for the greenhouse gases,

the threat to the ozone layer, the climatic changes

or the export of litter to third world countries.

So where does this leave us, the ones that care. How do we

get the message across? Tell them to Keep Britain Tidy,

Take Litter Home or Bin It. More fines? More sanctions?

Or maybe Nick Ball has shown us the way?

That chicken wire is shaped like a cod liver oil capsule.

Perhaps we could all take a responsibility tablet once a day-

after breakfast maybe. So, come on GlaxoSmithKline.

Come clean, go green.

 John Vaughan

Tablets

After Litter by Dide Siemmond

I’ve just thrown away a finished pack.

I hope the pills have done their job,

those cocoons of potent drugs,

small sarcophagi nestled in foil.

I press them out, swallow in one gulp

with a glass of cold water from the tap.

Sometimes they refuse to leave my mouth

or get stuck half-way down my throat.

I have to schedule the day to take them

at the right time, one hour before a meal

or two hours after, evenly spaced between

morning and night. No sign of side effects.

I take for granted their power, fling away

the empty shell without serious thought.

Sue Wallace-Shaddad

After Cynosure by Mark Goldsworthy 

Her smooth rounds,

her voluptuous curves

relaxed with a sigh into the marble.

This marble has waited for eons

to express the sigh of a woman

who has waited for eons

to relax into marble.

And time still passes by

without stopping to comment

or to make its mark.

No further mark to make.

Lynne Nesbit

Find out more about Suffolk Poetry Society here.