Image kindly reproduced courtesy of Michael Tanner.
The track scores rustily through the countryside exposing the backs of things; the backs of houses with windows that rattle with each passing train; the backs of timber yards, factories and scrap yards, where rows of pallets, crushed cars, mangled metal, timber and old bricks breed. We pass piles of burning things and watch as the acrid grey smoke floats towards us like fleeting cataracts covering blind eyed windows. We pass, we pass. And the dull thrub of the engine is our afternoon lullaby. We glide along tracks that shine when the sunlight hits them before we enter hushed through tunnels. Our eyes get accustomed to the darkness a split second before the sky returns. As does the landscape blur of quarries and fishing ponds, allotments and flytipped furniture. Next to the new housing development; a selection of three and four bedroomed homes with ensuite bathrooms and off-road parking. And rattling windows.
All a pattern of disorder. A jungle garden tries to encroach upon a clipped elderly garden, filled with riotous bedding plants and more than one shed. We pass by two empty deckchairs positioned to take advantage of the afternoon suntrap. Although, the sun has disappeared behind flat clouds for now. There is unfinished paving, unloved furnishings, overwintered outdoor toys and washing lines dripping with threadbare towels.
The views flatten; now there’s just the occasional spire or poplar tree to pierce the firmament. A row of willows even dip down to drink thirstily from a river. And here, we are fast now. Whirring empty stations into the past. Charging past rolls of hay and dead farm machinery, past barbed wire fences and guard dogs, past soot, dirt, mould and the dying of things. The truth of things.
April 2010
The track scores rustily through the countryside exposing the backs of things; the backs of houses with windows that rattle with each passing train; the backs of timber yards, factories and scrap yards, where rows of pallets, crushed cars, mangled metal, timber and old bricks breed. We pass piles of burning things and watch as the acrid grey smoke floats towards us like fleeting cataracts covering blind eyed windows. We pass, we pass. And the dull thrub of the engine is our afternoon lullaby. We glide along tracks that shine when the sunlight hits them before we enter hushed through tunnels. Our eyes get accustomed to the darkness a split second before the sky returns. As does the landscape blur of quarries and fishing ponds, allotments and flytipped furniture. Next to the new housing development; a selection of three and four bedroomed homes with ensuite bathrooms and off-road parking. And rattling windows.
All a pattern of disorder. A jungle garden tries to encroach upon a clipped elderly garden, filled with riotous bedding plants and more than one shed. We pass by two empty deckchairs positioned to take advantage of the afternoon suntrap. Although, the sun has disappeared behind flat clouds for now. There is unfinished paving, unloved furnishings, overwintered outdoor toys and washing lines dripping with threadbare towels.
The views flatten; now there’s just the occasional spire or poplar tree to pierce the firmament. A row of willows even dip down to drink thirstily from a river. And here, we are fast now. Whirring empty stations into the past. Charging past rolls of hay and dead farm machinery, past barbed wire fences and guard dogs, past soot, dirt, mould and the dying of things. The truth of things.
April 2010
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