COVID-19 risk. Be aware! Cover your mouths. Do not scare.
It’s tick season. Take care and reason.
Traffic is heavy and bad. Stay home and be happy or glad.
QR Code, vaccine history. Where to go is no mystery.
Foreigners not welcome here. Sit home with a cold beer.
Camping is strictly not allowed. The Policeman shouted rather loud.
Didn’t you hear me? You need a permit to travel, not free.
You’ll be followed around. Don’t make a sound.
The trains are all booked. My plans are royally…
Good evening,
Relax. We’re halfway between October the 28th 2020 and the same October date in 2021. It’s my 38 and a half year birthday. I had candles. The kind that deter mosquitoes. I had cake. A great student kindly gifted me a cupcake. Technically, it was a cake placed into a paper cup. Below the cake was a selection of fruits. Thank you Sofia!
There were horns. It was a video about a foghorn in Cornwall. There was even a card! I had to use my swipe card to print and photocopy. Several students even sang “Happy half birthday to you… ” which was rather creative and humorous.
Well until the 38.75 birthday…tally ho!
The Cafe Book: Engaging All Students in Daily Literacy Assessment and Instruction, by self titled sisters Gail Boushey and Joan Moser, attracted me in library. Or because of the literacy element. Nor so that of instruction. The word cafe stood out. Its abstraction and my liking of coffee met perfectly.
Hoisting the 204 paved softback down, I noticed the bump in the cover. A CD-ROM. I haven’t used a DVD or CD for so long. The Tungwah Wenze International School staff-issued iMac doesn’t come with a drive. I don’t have one on my personal laptop. The TVs at school, my TV at home and all the smart board systems at school don’t have a place for discs. Printed in 2009, I started to wonder if the contents would have dated as fast as the technology they employed. The longevity of books however remains stalwart.
Seven sturdy chapters opened before me. I skim read the acknowledgements, unable to connect to the names on the page, but fully aware such matters as teaching and writing needs a cast of many. Last Friday, Grade 4 had a COLA (Celebration of Learning Achievement). Mr Jaime, Mr Richard and Miss Aria with support from Miss Keats and Miss Belinda set our class on a good course.
Chapter one asks why and what are assessment systems. It refers heavily back to the authors and their previous book, Daily Five. The general idea being: students read to self, read to someone else, write something, use word work and then listen to reading. In an ideal and disciplined world, it makes a big difference. The appendix of the book I had in my hand though made more sense. I could see how CAFE system could be of use to the busiest of teachers. It is simple.
Notebooks are often overlooked in these times of electronic record keeping. These can be filled by simple strategy forms. Students set their goals and post to a classroom chart. Small group work is encouraged, much like what I’m trying, time and time again. Whole group instructions and flip charts caught my attention. I’ve neglected flip chart paper for far too long.
By the time I’d reached chapter two, the key details that came across were that teachers want to do more; the importance of scaffolding; and teachers take offence to be told to follow a set template. They want to find their own ways to adjust the scaffolding needs of individuals. Can’t say that I disagree.
The evolution of a calendar from post it notes and scribbles on paper has certainly met all the best teachers. Our methods evolve and practices adapt. Reading literacy takes time for monitoring. Tabs, pages and menus of reading form. A bulletin board showing comprehension, fluency, accuracy and expanded vocabulary certainly feels like it should be at home in every classroom. Just like a daily ongoing story book. A chapter and day helps work, rest and play.
To get students to know their target, classes often need exemplars. These set a clear visual goal for their work ahead. The CAFE book covers familiar grounds of observation, encouragement, tracking and how to push interest. It develops wall display ideas and recommends strategies to develop readers. There are bucket loads of suggested reading books, group activities and then reference forms. Before the evening expired, I had read the book cover to cover. Ideas will have sank in. But, first, just one chocolate Hobnob biscuit…
Eck and Timu, otherwise known as Echo and the late Tim Mileson, can be found in a book just shy of sixty glossy pages. The compact pocketbook is presented through poetry and story alike. It is conventional and yet unconventional. Interpretation is a skill you can choose to use, or just float on the muse.
Sandwiched between Tim’s personal writing, Eck explores emotions such as loss, belonging and echoes nature throughout. Cute eye-catching illustrations using a variety of sketching styles follow an imaginative route to deliver a peaceful and loving tribute in the form of a poetic manuscript.
There are lines throughout that transport the reader, catch them, hold them and bring them downward. There are uplifting words, moments of hope and flashes of light. It’s a sweet little book deserving of a wider audience. The book comes in both Chinese and English editions. My grade four students at Tungwah Wenze International School greeted that with joy. Next up they’ll interview the author…
They could be seeds of new growth;
or water to the roots of the tree.
They could be dusted on shelves;
or taken away by borrowing elves.
They could be friends in a pocket;
or maybe passed on from brother, to sister to brother or cousin or read by many a dozen.
They may become forgotten in time;
or triggered memories by one rhyme.
There are 14 of them, plus two and two more. Two for over there too. For Kitty. For Harry. For Jim and Kim. For Jimmy and Marline. For Alex, Sofia, Alice and Jerry. For Angela also. Not forgetting Amir and Owen. And last but not least Lucy.
One for me. One for the library.
Either way, I wish their echoes go on. And on. And on. And on and on. Ripples in a pool.
The Little Picture Book: Lost and Found arrived. Thank you Echo. Tomorrow I’ll sit in a tree by Songshan Lake or a cafe (if it rains) and soak up all the words, with illustrations. I can smell the spirit of Tim Mileson and the lively love of Echo. Mr Bee is happy.
PEACE AND LOVE 心
Good whatever time it is,
“She used her body just like a bandage;
She used my body just like a wound” – Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are, Meat Loaf
I’m lay watching The Big Lebowski. I’ve finished three seasons of Fargo in the last few weeks. The original series based on the movie was fantastic. The second was equally addictive viewing. The third starring Ewan McGregor (from Perth) and David Thewlis (of Blackpool) was less enthralling but largely watchable. The black comedy crime drama is certainly well filmed, scripted and produced. Martin Freeman (from Aldershot) stars opposite Kirsten Dunst (Small Soldiers and Jumanji) reminds me that some child actors go on to better things. Allison Holman, Colin Hanks, Ted Danson and a host of others make for great casting. Billy Bob Thornton definitely gains points for portraying the word sinister.
This week has seen my first wild tortoise spotting. I moved the miniature mobile speed bump off the road to about twenty metres into forest grasses. I have the mosquito bites to show for it. That evening’s wander sighted many toads, frogs, moths and a few mantids.
I wasn’t going to watch the fourth series of Fargo until I spied Ben Whishaw (from Bedfordshire) is amongst the Star-studded cast. Killarney, County Kerry, Ireland is represented by singer Jessie Buckley. The original Joel and Ethan Cohen brothers have a long list of great movies as directors, producers and so on. What makes me a great fan is their script writing ability. They’ve written the script for Bridge of Spies for Steven Spielberg, and rumour has it that. a Scarface remake is under their pens. Joel, without Ethan, will be involved in The Tragedy of Macbeth. Denzel Washington as Macbeth is intriguing.
Anyway, when you can’t ride a bike, kick a ball and feel utterly energy – devoid, then movies are a good escape. That and the musical writings of the late Jim Steinman. No matter what, Jim Steinman’s music is all coming back to me now. Those who haven’t listened to his works, sang by others, should read ’em and weep. Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart and Meat Loaf‘s Bat Out of Hell are essential playlist features. Steinman was a highly influential lyricist, playwright and composer. He dabbled as a solo artist and expertly produced Sisters of Mercy and Take That amongst others.
“There are times I think I see him peeling out of the dark,
I think he’s right behind me now and he’s gaining ground” – Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are, Meat Loaf
Jim Steinman, 1/11/1947 – 19/4/2021
Enjoy your [insert time period]
The chocks are not moving. The engine is keen to roar into life. It wants to roll, taxy and take-off up into the sky.
The engine started purring, then growing. Now snarling. It begs to be released. The wings are strong. The body is ready. Yet, something is holding back.
There’s a loose wire, you see. There’s a rattling song. It threatens. The flight may get cancelled. The pilot’s navigator is absent. Some of the ground support are there, but not quite there.
The pilot is distracted. He’s taking readings, throttling too soon, and forgetting his instructions. The flight check sheet has been misplaced. Take-off is scheduled.
Will the flight happen? Will the aircraft lift up or skid to a perilous doom? Will the aircraft pilot be told to turn off its engine? Will gremlins strike in the cold internal wiring?
Like the pilot, doubt covers my mind like the storm clouds gathering beyond his airfield runway. Our intended pathways have obstacles. We must overcome. We must.
We shall. We will. We will never give in. We’ll be relentless. We’ll find a way to soar. Or, go for a pleasant enough sandwich with a beer.
Words have souls. They have sounds that draw our attention. Punitively sounds so much more than a word about punishment or arduous tasks. It could mean much more. It could be formed of other words. It could be that within the word, there are words that aren’t really used. Punitively. An adverb .
Passively.
Unilaterally.
Nourishingly.
Intelligibly.
Tremendously.
Ideally.
Vociferously.
Efficiently.
Lifelessly.
Yawningly.
Persist, insist, never desist. Let others resist. They won’t be missed.
Move on, it’s gone, voyage of bon. New days don. Move off the con.
Wrong ways, long days, hard plays. Some card lays. Time to seek a raise.
Tough path, don’t laugh, hard math. Take a hot bath. Sometimes you can’t get the staff.
Taken aback, forced whack, cut slack. Lives matter, white or black. Why’d do racists offer a crack?
Equal opportunity, low equity, not pretty. Rappers ditties. City’s witty and gritty.
Division here, always fear, hollow ear. Hate of queer. Too much abuse of beer?
Overgenerous happy, angry snappy, feeling crappy. Invalid invaluable emotionally. Tippy on the tappy.
Authentic prick, red brick, held trick. Fargo, Groundhog Day, filmed slick. Breaking Bad sequel filmed quick.
Persist, insist, never desist. Let others resist. They won’t be missed.
It must be there, I swear.
Over here wouldn’t be so queer?
This is rare and surely will bare?
I fear it can only be near.
Under that, that makes sense?
From he to where did it went?
Up there? I’m so dense!
I will find it. It is meant!
Down below, it has to show.
In the cushions of the sofa, can I see?
Behind the bookshelf, yes or no?
In the freezer, it cannot be.
Behind my shoes? No! No! No!
In, on or by my big blue bag?
This hard hunt is making me sad.
Not here. What a drag!
Where it went is driving me mad!
Ah…
There…
Got you…
Surely…
Yes.
My pocket.
The day that football died could have been avoided. Instead the fans of Manchester City in the outer rims of Mongolia smiled at news they were now able to wear their Bayern Munich third kits twice a season, and quickly switch at half time to sky blue. They’d been loyal, ever since their birth into watching Arjen Robben wear the famous red of Munich. Sadly news filtered through. The German giants hadn’t joined the Super League.
The then reigning German Champions, and European Champions, and not to mention World Champions couldn’t qualify for the new European Super League. They had morality problems to overcome. Instead a team from Manchester who failed to win the Champions League ahead of being appointed to the European Super League would join a team fourth in their Italia league (at the time). There certainly had been no mention of FC Santa Claus or Aberystwyth Town. Not super enough.
The identity of football hung on a knife edge for a while. It was played in the shadows of Norwich, the villas of Aston, and islands such as Majorca. Even little old disputed Gibraltar was hoofing sacks of air around. For a while the purists switched off their television subscriptions and players ran down their contracts. Some desperado types willfully cheered for Glasgow Celtic and Rangers. They tried, with false hope, to end Secretariat ways. They begged Muslims and Jews to merge Palestinian fields with Israeli values. All was in a false belief that football could be repaired.
Mitre died first. Their football’s deflated and panels fell off. Nike prevailed with their colourful balls. Humphrey Brothers bowed out. Umbro fell to Nike and Nike sent them packing. Death arrived. Nike fired up the football kit photocopying machine.
In China, prestigious sponsors gathered around the H&M Morality Stadium to watch the Super League launch. Liverpool Red beat Liverpool Yellow by two goals to who gives a crap in the ‘The inaugural prestigious opening kicking of the ball for make benefit Great Football better at escaping Informative information technology work time tournament 2021 (postponed from the 2020 edition) Super League cup‘. You had to be there for the halftime video promotion of sunny Wuhan. The whole world gazed on in wonder at the Public Relations dream team in action. The new republic of football had found its launch moved the global online viewers to tears.
The irreparable damage to the national leagues of European professional football was not slow. Falling live viewing attendances from January 2020 ensure more people chose to watch online than be at the game. Some were even threatened by fines if they attended their local team done good. Wembley Stadium finally placed restrictions on visiting teams from Manchester and London, ensuring 70,000 seats couldn’t be purchased at their fair and reasonable set prices. Lord Carabao was perturbed but rode out the storm, only to give up hope when Red Bull F.C. Paris Saint Germain was announced. Emirates Airlines gave up the F. A. Cup and opted for a more traditional European Super League Cup Winners’ Cup deal.
The European Super League hit its first stumbling block when it announced clubs would continue to ‘compete in their respective national leagues’. The leagues sharpened their axes and expelled the 12 brave clubs. They awarded past titles and trophies to their historic runners up or whoever was closest. And then they went to court. Leagues versus the European Super League. Fans versus clubs. Clubs versus nations. FIFA didn’t recognise anyone. The new Super League Clubs had teams filled with Sepp Blatter. All unrecognised. Fans washed their hands of years of history. The suicides began. Shirts were burned. Civil war. Hooligans apologised and made up. Millwall F.C. adopted displaced Chelsea, Arsenal and Tottenham fans. Manchester City and United fans formed a breakaway club, F.C. Manchester of Manchester. FCMOM rose a few leagues but couldn’t afford the hefty burden of solemnity. A funeral for football was held in Preston.
The football museum in Manchester was archived away. England F.C. were on the brink of winning the FIFA 2022 World Cup in Qatar. They let Germany have a penalty in the final minute. As piped chanting of Three Lions ’22 blazed over the public announcement system, Germany missed the penalty. The game went to a penalty shootout in front of the English Sponsorship Corporate End and there it remains to this day. Neither side has scored a winning penalty… Each refused and refuse to be part of this game. Raheem Sterling just can’t hit the target.
At the time Manchester City’s Official Supporters Club said the move showed “those involved have zero regard for the game’s traditions”. It didn’t matter. They had added it was, “determined to fight against this proposed Super League”. The Paul Dickov knee slide and the moments of May 2012 faded fast. English Premier Boris Johnson warned his government would do everything possible to stop the renegade football league. Like Darth Vadar’s Death Star plan, it was a glowing end. Atletico Madrid started their 90 minute game (plua VAR infomercials) against Real Madrid and Barcelona in the big weekend opener. All the English teams had their visas denied. The league didn’t survive one full season.
The last known football in Europe was kicked by Sir Alex Ferguson to his new assist Jose Mourinho.
You should eat something. You really should. You must. Why don’t you eat some little? You could try this. What about that? Try some soup. It’s piping hot. Some other goop? A stew? Hotpot used to make me feel better. Feeling cold? Put on a sweater. Eat this now!
Don’t drink that! Cold water? You just be crazy. Don’t lay down. You’ll get too lazy. Go rest. Try a nap. Wake up. Too much sleep! Trying to get up? You’re not feeling it, yet? You need hot water. Take a sip. Take a gulp. Swig it down. Drink it all.
We’ll fix you up. You’re not dead yet. Look. We believe you’ll be right soon enough. We’re asking you to believe. We can do it. We’ll get you shipshape. We’ve got this! We’re already making strides. What do we want to do?
Please read this disclaimer (“disclaimer”) carefully before using [website] acton28.blog (“website”, “service”) operated by [John Robert Acton and his hands] (“us”, ‘we”, “our”).
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Feel free to copy this.
I ache. I throb. I hurt. I feel my pulse in places I’ve never felt the beat. I find I don’t want to eat. The face I wear is brave outside. Inside is different. Inside, I want to cry. I’m beat.
I slouch. I trust. I turn. There’s pressure in my muscles I’ve felt before. This time it’s different. The shapes I move are difficult. Inside it burns. Outside, it darkens and bruises. I’m beat.
I blink. I squint. I scratch. I’m restless and mindful I don’t want to be beat. at hey say rest. I know I must rest. I feel lazy. I feel guilty. I lay down. The day is going. I’m beat.
I hop. I twist. I hope. I know it’ll be better soon but I can’t feel then what I feel now and I can’t feel now what I will feel then. When? Oh, when, Oh. When. I’m beat.
How do / 你好
My mentor and colleague Mr Ben recommended a heap of movies and TV series to watch. One such collection was series one to three of Deadwood. Followed by the movie, of the same name. For reasons that I can’t explain, I had, until this year, not watched a single episode of this period drama. I knew it to be a western (that is cowboys and settlements) within new territories or the U.S.A. I also knew Ian McShane to be a lead actor. That was pretty much it.
Set in the real town of Deadwood, South Dakota during the 1870s, the TV adaptation features many legendary real life legends such as Wild Bill Hicock, the brothers Earp, and Calamity Jane. It also features a tonne of bad language, nudity and violence portraying a town’s foundation and fluctuations. The series throws in gold Rush stories, smallpox, Cornish miners and a whole host of historic visitation to the region.
Al Swearengen played by Ian McShane is a lovable villain. At times a hero, at others a demigod. Swearengen’s real life twin brother doesn’t get a nod in. McShane had a few changes from his real life character, accompanied by monologues and dialogues to twist a thousand twirling tongues, went on to win a Golden Globe Award. 36 episodes and a movie filmed a decade after the last TV show, stand in good faith. It’s a sizeable dramatic American Western. Brian Cox, the actor, alongside Timothy Olyphant, Titus Welliver (Borsch) and an ensembles of familiar faces deliver rousing performances throughout.
HBO also shot Rome, a TV series set around Roman time Italy and its empire. National Geographic TV had Vikings. Deadwood slots in nicely as a part historic, part fictional account of civilisation coming together (like they did in The Gem saloon). The finale of the Deadwood TV series never came. Closure would take a movie some time later. Mr Wu’s pigs needed feeding after all.
The movie ditches history entirely. It’s a TV series sequel, complete with flashbacks. Deadwood is dead. Long live the Western. The finale movie was more like a nostalgic Christmas special. It didn’t have as much bite as the original series flow but it had warmth and heart. It displayed great progression in the growth of the town. However it was most enjoyable. I’ll miss the varied closing credit music pieces.
再见 / Goodbye
Good evening from China.
I’ve received many complaints (3 or so) from bloggers in relation to the post: plagiarism. I’ve copied the link so you don’t have to. Perhaps some are of the feeling that my brand (style) of writing to be offensive. Good. I had to write a disclaimer. I’ll write a better one after researching disclaimers using valid sources. I’m surprised that a piece of free thought slapped down as writing and labeled as ‘creative writing’ gathered such impassioned battle cries.
I started blogging to document a journey and as a diary. It began as a replacement for letters that I used to write to my grandmother on an infrequent basis, but still they were important. I used to anticipate her replies and love opening a letter to her magnificent hand writing. Gran was truly remarkable in her writing. Every sentence pushed wonderful words through my chest an into my heart. It was here that I learned creative writing was about feeling. Not through many books. Not through documentary or textbooks. I long for the return of letters from my grandmother. It’ll never happen.
At first I had to check if their replies came on April the 1st. The upset parties to my post even worried that I’d censor their disgust to my attempt at creative writing. Last time I checked I thought satire, humour and mock documentary sat within the scope of being creative. At home with poetry, short stories, novels, movie scripts, plays and so on. Then I started to think about mythical and known internet trolls. Perhaps their wonderful work was too of a search engine result and suddenly ousted for the briefest second by a piece penned as a thought after school. It was a busy Academic Integrity Week at school. Maybe, it influenced my thoughts.
Gallows humour has allowed countless opportunities to tackle tough subjects through making light of that problem. It’s got people in better spirits to engage (research and debate), inform (discuss and present), and educate (probably through pie charts and digital presentations. British people use humour often, rightly or wrongly. Censorship is something that is opposed. Freedom of thinking and expression is celebrated. The hook of some writing can appear strong. It can be on varied emotional levels to draw in a reader.
Not all creative writing follows the same pathway. Nor should it. Diversity spins new genres outwards. The line between visual art and poetry can be transdisciplinary. I’m not saying that anything I write is entirely original in thought or movement. Everything I write is either from my head, thought about or to encourage further thought. Quotes and citations come often. Anyone can blog. Many copy and paste quotes, create graphics and most adhere to respect of the original writer. Some do not. This mirrors a world that is neither good not bad, just merely grey and blurry.
Blogging and writing is a free outlet for many people. Some can. Some do. Some cannot. Freedom to blog is arguable in some boundaries. Adding a note at the end of a blog that says: feel free to copy, following a tongue in cheek stab at the serious subject of plagiarism is acceptable. It was and remains my work. If someone can find identical work predating it, well done, and how did you change the web date stamp?
I know that I often write nonsense, gibberish or poppycock. I like words. I like language. Please don’t ever think I’m looking to cause offence. Even if my tone is perceived as aggressive, I won’t hide faceless behind a username or in the murk of the internet. I’m me. If I slate a world leader, or berate a popular celebrity, it isn’t something I wouldn’t do face to face. Give me ten minutes with former President of the U.S.A. Trump, and I’ll treat him as a human but roar like a lion.
So, was I wrong? Or was I right? I sure as hell don’t feel like I did something wrong. What bothers me, is that somewhere three or four (or more) people feel that I wrote something ‘disgusting‘, that made someone so ‘angry’ that their blood was boiling. Worryingly, this came in a world of racial and gender inequality, poverty and careless environmental attitudes. I’m thankful I didn’t denounce COVID-19 as a conspiracy or talk about lizard-people overlord kinds. Still, not could be the next topic, providing CTRL+ALT+C works. Just kidding. Seriously, feel free to copy my thoughts. Use them as our own but never ever believe plagiarism is good.
Tally ho and away I go.
DISCLAIMER：THIS COULD BE MY FINAL POST EVER!
Additional disclaimer: not bloody likely!
If you checked out now, how would you be remembered? Fondly by some? Infamous by others? Perhaps. Not. At. All. Maybe you’ll be forgotten, like a lost teddy bear on a train bound for nowhere in particular.
What’s your legacy? Did you do something good? Did you make someone better? Maybe you broke a heart, or a string of hearts. Maybe you’re but a regret to most and a faded memory to another. Perhaps. Nobody. Will. Recall. You.
What did you do right? How did it go? What did you leave behind? A divorce? A fatherless child? A mother grieving over an unborn dream? It could be that words won’t be spoken about you. Perhaps. Silence. Is. Best.
Who’ll be there? At your funeral. Will there be shadows cast from people? Or the shapes of memories dancing in fading lights spun by the branches of trees dancing in the wind? Perhaps. No one. Will. Know. When. You. Go.
Will you get a choice when to go? Unlikely. Most never know. Some expect. Some arrive at an unfortunate moment. Some prepare well ahead but it arrives far too soon. Some get through extra days and leave as heroes. Some die another day. Some have no time to die. Perhaps. You’ll. Never. Know. Until. It’s. Over.
British life had the The Duke of Edinburgh Awards which was a most unique bond between the Royal household and common people. He was a refugee, raised at a school in Scotland and experienced a fairly good life after the Royal Navy. He did marry his third cousin though. Never shy of controversy and bold in his outlook he followed a great Jewish German educator from Germany to Scotland. His mentor Kurt Hahn gave him stability at an early age. I’m by far not a Royalist but his ethos reached the Air Training Corps and the Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme rubbed off on me.
As a key reformer of a ruling monarchy he served the nation for many years. He also tried to give something back.
Rest in peace to the former Prince Philip of Greece and Denmark. 10/6/1921 – 9/4/2021.
An incredible story and life.
His hands grip around my throat. He’s strangling me. Trying to choke my last breath out. I struggle. Twisting and turning. I try to raise my left open palm upwards to force his vice-like grip to release me. I slap. No change. I use both flailing hands. Nothing.
Still he pulls his chest towards his hands. My throat trapped between his intended route. I slide and writh but I get nowhere fast. I twist my aching legs, trying to backwards kick his kneecaps. Anything. Any little hope. He grabs tighter. I know I don’t have long left. My throat is burning. Every gasping breath I take could be my last. I push my body forwards trying to open a space between his chest and arms. The Steel-like bicep is sweating on my neck. I open my mouth wide forcing little air in.
I’m beyond desperate. I feel woozy and clouded. My brain is losing a battle. He slides a few millimeters along my throat. That marginal gain gave him the extra he needed. He already had the upper hand. I feel his chest muscles stretch and tighten. He takes a tired deep breath. One heavy pull and I resist the extra force. He loosens his grip by the slightest of pressures. A budgie feather in a fight fit for an ostrich. Can I escape now?
Good evening, day, night, morning or afternoon.
Walking from Dongchong village to Nao’an or something like that, I passed a scene of struggle at the roadside. I didn’t call the police. I began to intervene but stopped myself as the majestic Under-sieged victim lifted itself up. It landed on a perch of twigs and then in some high grasses. Beating its wings with all its mighty energy
This may seem like a dead butterfly. It was battling to fly away against many ants. Eventually it made a tree but once I looked closer I could see the ants had mortally wounded it. It never seemed to give up trying to fly. Using every part of its fading energy. It twisted. It turned. It pulled itself away. Until the ants entered its body through their gaping infliction of a sound.
The magnificent coloration of its wings, a fluffy white underbody and shiny black to red legs made it look unearthly. The ants didn’t see beauty. They computed it as a meal and opportunity to support their queen and nest. Life is brutal.
Until the next battle.
你好Hello
The voice came from the ground. It was a single loud clunk. Clunk! It sounded like localised thunder. It’s waves shot upwards towards my ears. A metre away in any direction it would be inaudible. Almost imperceptible that a large rock could move and create such a loud static sound. The eagle spotted a kilometre overhead may have spotted it. The black kite perched nearby definitely did.
Distracted by a pretty and handsome young couple saying, “Hello tall man”, I slipped on the loose near-horizontal dusted ground and hit my armpit on a pointy-up blunt branch. After all the near-vertical declines and sharp jagged spines of rocks, it made sense to slip on an easy area of walking. The now vanished chains of support weren’t there. Drops of suicidal angles had scattered behind me. Plain and simple became my hazard. Complacency in action. Or inaction in complacency. Anyway they looked a happy and cute couple. They witnessed a size-fifty shoe slide and a tall man wearing a Dal Bhat power 24 hour T-shirt ram a tree branch by armpit. The girl spoke, “Xiaoxin”. That means careful. So, I stumbled past them, 小心 indeed.
Today, marked a walk starting at 07:30 from Dongchong to XiChong and back, on the DongXiChong trail. I started with Dong (east 东) and ended west at Xi (西) but liked it so much I returned for a second helping of Dong. Like you do. This classic coastal pathway was at times stunning, at other times saddening. The mountains meeting the sea formed a terrific seascape. Clear blue seas and grey skies that eventually turned blue made trekking easier than being under baking sun rays all day.
The nearby Pingshan mountain and a view of Sanmen island did little harm to my vivid impressions of DaPeng peninsula. Cliffs and rock scrambling have long been my thing since experiencing it with Grylls Head outdoor adventure centre and Chapel Street Primary School in year 5. Rocks, holes, tiny islands, bridges, stacks, columns and landforms made by sea erosion towering over sea reefs and the omnipresent imposing tides of an angry sea can’t be a bad day out. It certainly perks your ears up for the cry of seabirds and the crash of countless waves. I wondered, as I wandered, how many stories can each shell tell?
Between the coastal villages of Dongchong and XiChong it is mostly undeveloped, save for the XiChong observatory and three small beach shacks. A few steps and chains have been fitted but nature mostly rules the route. There’s litter, at shameless quantities and annoying spray painted signs pointing out numbers for boats, lodges and so on. I’ve heard it compared and listed as one of the top ten routes in China. Perhaps that needs confirming. Also, that’s a worrying statement about the state of coastal routes. Yes, there are beautiful near golden sands at either village and some great pebble beaches between, but surely there’s more?!
The potential for ecotourism is high provided the litter mountain can be contained. If you can’t carry it back, why carry it there? Discarded wrappers, bags, drinks bottles, beach mats, hats, parasols, gazebos, barbecues and more were seen. Almost all was made in China, so no blame can be sent across the South China Sea. The blowing sea breezes and tides can only be responsible for so much. Humans as a disgrace for the rest. The National Geographic Magazine may need to review their write-ups. Although this walking route is not far from Shenzhen bustling centre, it feels remote and relaxing. Just about two hours from Futian via Yantian port!
16km of up, down, sideways, forwards and back ruined my Altra walking trainers. They’ll need replacing. They’re good for rough wear but not for smartness. This highly scenic route is dusty and tough at times. I enjoyed the 8km walk there and around XiChong so much that coming back made sense. Meeting nobody for three hours on my outbound journey was rewarded with meeting many friendly faces on the return journey, even if I was turned away Mary and Joseph-style by two coffee places in XiChong. On returning to Dongchong a kind shopkeeper pointed me to a shop selling Nespresso coffee. Not a bad end to a walk.
Finishing the day following a video call could only be done one way. Seafood. The local barbecue restaurant was perfect. There’s a few places to choose from. Most feature the animal kingdom, well the aquatic part, anyway. Reflecting on a day well spent, I thanked the trekking gods that I didn’t encounter whatever or whoever left behind all the crap that local village volunteers were bagging up.
再寄 goodbye
There’s probably a name for it. It’s got to be called something. It’s like a swirling swishing sound. The sound of wind under the sea. Billions and billions of grains of sands colliding and pushing and being pulled by unexplainable quantities of sea water. The rolling continuous sound that goes up and then down, over and over again.
The fragrance from the shore has a name too. I’m sure of that. I can’t place my name on it. I breath the fresh salted air in. A gentle gust rides off the waves up the freshly – dampened sand and over the lighter drier plains of the beach. It makes the hairs on my body move ever so slightly. I feel it without seeing it. I’ve always loved the smells and feel of the seaside.
My mouth is moist from water. I needed to swig bottled fresh water. The gritty sand accidentally blown to my lips grinded away in a glassy sound. I sipped to quench my newfound thirst following the blast of salty unwelcome taste.
The clouds surrounding this bay are grey and slated. Like the dark blue grey of a mine. There’s a haze in the air. It’s not bright enough for sunglasses but equally not comfortable on the naked eye. The sea reflects green and blue in multiple shades but mostly those of dull. Each wave like a white horse folding in on itself, breaking the dull monotone.
Sandwiched between my toes is a thick kind of sand. Chunky yet fine. It covers the hundred metre beach sea to land. It spreads a good kilometre of this bay. I watch as piles dry and gently roll into a pit. The pits dug by children have washed away. Trenches by men have also gone. Peace has returned job this beach. Only the sound of waves and passing sandpipers.
Dongchong beach cost 20 yuan to enter. Today, in Guangdong Eastern flanks of Shenzhen city, I’m relaxed. It’s been worth the walk.
I can’t roll my eyes. Nor can I change my seat. The old man besides me is yelling like thunder. His voice so loud that my chest is shaking. His young grandson is shaking a phone, striking it on my legs. He’s but a year or two under half a decade of age. He’s just watered the seat too.
I can’t change my seat. Nor can I stand up. The elderly man has boxed me in. There’s a stack of mangoes, sticky and sweetly overpowering in fragrance. They hide the wretched stench of urine. They boy ignores every dramatically loud instruction. “DO NOT PLAY!” “BE QUIET!” “DO AS I SAY!” His flabby chin wobbles with every wasted forced breath.
I can’t silence the noise. Nor can I use my earphones. I’ve dropped them onto the floor. Into the piss. The gray old man, swats his grandson’s head but still the boy persists in screaming and cheering. “Automan! Automan! Automan!” One superhero and his name rattle throughout the coach. The smell is getting warmer now. The heat of the coach’s overworked air conditioner is vaporizing the urine. Breath it in.
I can’t understand the old man. Nor can the old man see I’m annoyed. The child suddenly stops. He ceases all noise. His grandfather keeps hitting his head. Not gently. There’s a slapping sound. Thud! Thump! Slap! He shouts and balls at his prey. I kick my bag to try and stop the flow of warm stinking yellow waste water finding it’s way to my bag. The bag skips a beat and lodges between the old man and his grandchild, now sat on the floor. The grandchild looks up and strikes the old man with my bag. Oh! My! Gosh!
I can’t understand what the old man is shouting at me. Nor can he catch my look of innocence. He spits between his words and I suddenly want a rain jacket. The flow of words and abuse rains down on me. I’m thankful for my face mask. He prods a finger at me. I understand a few words. Foreigner this. Foreigner that. America or something. Go away. Get out. And that’s when I decide I’ll never use a public coach again. The end.
He’s not gapp
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