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Orford Ness & Game for Everything
Always an auspicious sign, the snail.
This one was living free on Orford Ness, in Suffolk, a blasted landscape in many senses, being a former military testing site and now a valuable nature preserve. A group of poets made a visit there on the weekend in search of inspiration.
It’s made up of 10 miles of seaward-exposed shingle, which we were told comprises 15% of the world’s habitat for coastal vegetative shingle (another 15% is at Dungeness). There are many signs pointing to its military past…
The National Trust man who showed us round told us the bomb disposal squad is still called out to deal with unexploded bombs some 15 to 20 times a year.
After our walk we returned to little Blaxhall
for some tea, and then made our way back to Orford for supper at the Butley Oysterage, where I dined handsomely on griddled squid
and grilled Dover Sole. A poetry workshop followed, accompanied by a very fine smoked salmon terrine with potatoes and leeks, and some of Orford’s best smoked chicken.
Then before I could turn around it was Tuesday, and time to join some of London’s Slow Foodies for a night of wild food from Mark Gilchrist, who shoots, butchers, dresses and cooks all his own game.
He started us off with a plate of assorted duck appetisers: Teal liver pate; Pintail confit; air-dried Pintail; salted, cured and smoked Widgeon, served with fresh brioche and kumquat jam.
Then a pan-fried fillet of Roe deer…
And then he put on his butcher’s coat and demonstrated how to skin and joint a hare, and told us how to make a ragout of hare like the one he was about to serve on freshly-made tagliatelli.
The ultimate dish was Conference pear tarte tatin…
which, containing molten caramel, must be turned onto its pastry base with care…
And of course it must be served with a drop of cream.
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Food Food Poetry Poetry
I braved the pelting rain to get to the Restaurant Show at Earl’s Court last Tuesday, where I saw lots of stands – including some small food producers I’d been learning about while working on our food producers’ database (which launched on Wednesday, yay!). It was lovely to meet the people and taste the food I’d been writing about. I then sat myself down at The Stage and watched some cooking demonstrations. The first was from Barny Haughton,
who talked about sustainability in the commercial kitchen: inviting people to use less popular, cheaper cuts of meat – if we’re going to be carnivores it’s more responsible to use the entire animal, which is a theme I’ve been hearing for some time – and sustainable fish varieties. He was followed by like-minded Cyrus Todiwala,
who was speaking on behalf of the Greener Food project. He’d been sent a big box of locally-raised, seasonal vegetables and told to make something of them. His beetroot with coconut salad was terrific, as was everything else he made. We were as heartbroken as he that he didn’t have time to make us his pigeon curry…
Then Ian Pengelley, another London chef, took the stage – by this time things were running very late and it got a bit chaotic. His aim was to show us how nicely champagne went with Asian foods, so we got to try a bit with some Thai beef salad, some sushi rolls and some seared scallops. And sure, we agreed! All very nice.
His sommelier was very entertaining – giving us a finale show where he decapitated the last bottle by strategic use of the base of a champagne glass. Definitely not one to try at home.
Then I had a couple of evenings to catch my breath before Friday’s Les Murray reading at Senate House – certainly one building that can accurately be described as neo-brutalist. This grey edifice loomed ahead of me in the dying light, and I sensed trouble ahead as I sought the room which my note to self said was “3rd floor Senate North”.
I entered from a sort of westerly door, I thought, so turned left, looking for north. I found a lift just around the corner, with a notice posted about talks and lectures — including the one I was after, so without anything more to go on, I entered and ascended to the 2nd floor, which was as far as this one went.
On the second floor there was another lift that went up to the 4th floor, but there was a 3rd floor button as well, so I pressed that and pushed my way out through a crowd of students to find myself on a near-deserted floor, where the only open door was to some special library – ancient civilisations or something, with an ominous No Exit sign on the entry.
Not a soul around, so I lugged myself and the bag I was escorting up to the fourth floor, where I found the crowd of students from the lift forming a lengthy queue for library card renewal. Beyond the security gates (only passable by library card holders of course) I spotted and hailed a friendly looking woman in a name badge who told me I wanted room N336. She told me to get back in the lift and go to the ground floor, along the hallway to a different set of lifts.
So back I got in the lift and descended to the ground floor where I found myself facing another set of card-operated barricades and a silver-haired defender of.. of.. whatever it was he was defending seated behind what I’m sure must have been a bullet-proof glass window. He told me I shouldn’t have come to the ground floor in this lift and that I should go back to the third floor as he presumed I was a member of the society for ancient civilisations or whoever it is who lives up there. No, I said, I was looking for the poetry reading in room N336. He said he knew nothing about a poetry reading or any such room, and couldn’t tell me whether I was actually in the north tower or not. After admonishing me again for coming down in that particular lift, and reinforcing his point that this was not an exit, he let me exit through the gate and I was back in the main hallway ready to search out the next set of lifts.
Which I found and ascended to find a big classroom with two doors (one marked 336 and the other 336A) but no other indication there was a reading there. I entered and found a bookseller setting up and three others sitting in wait, which seemed a bit sparse since it was only ten minutes to the reading, but down I sat. The room did in fact fill up nicely by the start time, and Les Murray started his reading. For the next hour, we were entertained by his poems and by the periodic rattling of the door knob closest to the reader (on the door labelled 336, in fact) followed by the covert entry of latecomers through the other door. There followed a wine reception and then it was time to slink off into the night.
I made a nerdy list of the poems he read, and here they are; rather unkindly he read from the Australian edition of his collected poems, so those who rushed the book table afterwards were not always able to find their favourites, but he sold quite a bit and did a little friendly book signing. I was happy he started us off with a food poem, and I liked (and remembered from past readings, I think), his cow poem, which he introduced by saying it was one of his favourite animals, and that he thought he was one of the few real Hindus of Australia. It was a poem from the point of view of the cow, which he observed is a ‘collective creature’ and thus difficult to find a pronoun for.
Beanstock Sermon; Glass Louvres; Words of the Glass Blowers; On Removing Spiderweb; Arial; Cows on Killing Day; Cell DNA; Contested Landscape at Forsayth; The Shield Scales of Heraldray; the Moon Man; Judged Worth Evacuating; Clothing as Dwelling as as Shouldered Boat; Visitor; Jellyfish; Reclaim the Sites; To One Outside the Culture; Melbourne Pavement Coffee; On the North Coastline; Me & Je Reviens; Japanese Sword Blades in the British Museum; The Mare Out on the Road; Birthplace; Sunday on a Country River; and then he finished with a few new poems.
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Poetry poetry poetry
Sunday was another one of those floor-to-ceiling poetry readings, with 10 on the menu. Luckily two were unable to attend (a third likewise but she’d enlisted her sister to read in her place) so it was a little shorter than it would have been otherwise.
I’m sure I’ve moaned about this style of reading before; it is, I feel, far too common in today’s poetry programming to attempt to squeeze as many poets as possible into a single event. The reading turns into a marathon, and the one or two you came to hear are lost in the numbing volume of the whole. You don’t get enough of the ones you want to hear, and perhaps you hear too much of those you don’t. And everyone else just doesn’t register.
Magazine launches – where 5 or 10 people come and read a poem they’ve had published in that issue, with perhaps one other – are one thing, and I’m ok with them as long as someone keeps the readers moving along (when faced with a long list of readers, the eye of the audience turns naturally to the clock).
But on Sunday, we were at this particular two hour event to hear a few minutes each of 10 first collections by 10 different readers. Another problem I have with these events is that the readers are introduced in volume, and if you aren’t familiar with them, as I mostly wasn’t, by the time you’ve heard the list of credentials and the readers take the stage you lose track of who of the five poets this half you’re hearing and what their background is. None of them thinks to say their name, or give the bridge into their work as a well composed introduction is meant to do. I’d rather each poet were treated with singular dignity – introduced one at a time, giving the audience a moment to change gears – instead of being bulk processed. There, that’s my rant done for today.
We did have an impressive list of readers, and – my grievances aside – I can totally understand why these 10 readers were chosen to celebrate the Poetry School’s 10 years; the numbers have a nice symmetry and you don’t have to narrow what must be an enormous list of achievers down quite so much to a more manageable number.
Here’s the list: Chris Beckett, Melanie Challenger (represented by her very able sister), Claire Crowther, Helen Farish (not present), Martha Kapos, Sharon Morris, Roger Moulson, Daljit Nagra, Anne Ryland, Greta Stoddart (not present). A new poem of Stoddart’s, called Drawing Breath, did take my breath away, but with my increasingly taxed powers of concentration I confess that was the only poem I heard that stays with me. And it’s not the fault of the readers or the poetry. I guess I needed to pace myself better. Live and learn.
Next up was a more manageable one-man show, by CK Williams, who led us through umpteen drafts of one of his poems. Fortunately he didn’t bring all 255 versions of this single poem (actually I don’t think 255 was the final count, more of a midpoint) which changed title several times, shape certainly, and whose themes shifted in and out of focus while he tried out different images, many of which he was so fond of he got new poems out of them. There followed a good substantial Q&A; session hosted by Fiona Sampson. One of the last questioners asked for advice about how to – as he’d put it (quoting others) – create the poet who was to create the poem. His answer was simple: read poetry. But not everyday stuff, he added: read great poets.
Well. That was good. Then Monday I wandered over to the Troubadour which has changed so much since my day. Today’s Troub is a young noisy place. Well groomed couples were canoodling over their two-for-one happy hour cocktails (cocktails??) to the sounds of Bob Marley. The dark wood twosome booths are mostly gone. The place is twice as big now they’ve knocked it through and put in a deli next door. There are semi-integrated toilets where the genders meet around a big round sink and take turns watching the skin on their hands flap in the high power wind of the hand dryer. Nothing so new here, really. It’s been like this for a few years, but I sat and really looked at it for a while on Monday.
The most shocking change is the basement, where the poetry happens, and which I reflected I’ve now seen in three incarnations. The first, which I remember from circa 1988, was a dark, smoky room with a blanket hung over the door at the bottom of some steep steps; on poetry nights it seemed to be always dim and full of random crazies. The second was a cleaned-up version with a small stage, but a door down from the kitchen that sometimes opened inopportunely, and a guaranteed interruption by emergency siren on the road above at least once in every reading. Now we have a big L-shaped space with odd little private rooms out of sight of the stage that are – in poetry readings at least – never used. And a bar, so you don’t have to rush upstairs at the break for replenishment. And quite a few benches or chairs with backs nowadays, not just back-breaking stools.
The poetry programming has put on a little heft here too: no more one- or two-poet nights; four readers shared the stage on Monday. The star turn and concluding reader was CK Williams, whose Collected Poems is a serious doorstop not realistically in the purchasing (or more accurately carrying) range of a migrant like myself. Roz Goddard, Birmingham’s Poet Laureate, read first; then a southern voice, Janice Moore Fuller; then Brightonian Jackie Wills.
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In her latest collection, Rhona McAdam navigates the dark places of human movement through the earth and the exquisite intricacies lingering in backyard gardens and farmlands populated by insects and pollinators, all the while returning to the body, to the tune of staccato beats and the newly discovered symmetries within the human heart.
“…A beautiful, filling collection, Larder is a set of poems to read at the change of the seasons, to appreciate alongside a good meal, and to remind yourself of the beauty in everything, even the things you may not appreciate before opening McAdam’s collection….”
Rhona McAdam is a writer, poet, editor, and Registered Holistic Nutritionist with a Master’s in Food Culture from Italy and a deep-rooted passion for ecology and urban agriculture. Her work spans corporate and technical writing to poetry and creative nonfiction, often exploring the vital links between what we eat and how we live. Based in Victoria, BC, and available via Zoom, Rhona is always open to new writing commissions, readings, or workshops on nutrition and the culinary arts.
