Ingoland, My Ingoland

I will arise and go now....

Roger McGough at St Mary's, Snettisham, September 3rd, 2025

Meteorological autumn already. Season of fruits and mellifluous substances.  I am up early and out, walking to the sea, breathing the fresh, slightly sharp air, 

enjoying a feeling of peace. Sometimes the world is too much with us, but not this morning. Sunflowers turn their heads to the rising sun, 

 

while berries ripen, grateful for the recent showers.

I love Ingoland (my name for the area of Norfolk where I live, drained by the river Ingol) or even Engerland, the land where my mother lay labouring to give me life.  I have always loved you.  From the days of branch lines, 

and steam trains, from the days of Winnie the Pooh, or where Trevor Dudley-Smith (Elleston Trevor) mused By A Silver Stream, I have lived and loved in a sweet bubble of family and friends, of farmers and hauliers in Sussex, of aunts and uncles and cousins in London and beyond.  I have loved Dame Edna Everage, Dame Kiri te Kanawa, Duke Ellington, Count Arthur Strong and others of the no(a)bility. I love village churches,

And old vicarages; Laurence Sterne and William Cowper, John Donne and George Herbert.

I used to drink in Levenshulme with Kendo Nagasaki and my friend Spen, who had done time for manslaughter as he came home from the army and found his wife in bed with another man, whose skull, it turned out, wasn’t adapted to a blow from a soldier.  I ate cow’s udder sandwiches with a workmate at Viner’s in Sheffield, swapped Raymond Chandler novels with Angela Lansbury’s uncle at Brown Bailey’s. I was a student when uprisings were de rigeur. I drank too much on occasions, and ate what I could from Lancaster market, wandered lonely as a clown in the Lake District, and fell into impossible love in Scotland, twice.....  Old flames, now dowsed.....

 

It was my country.  The country of Nelson.  The country of Shakespeare and Joyce and W B Yeats (You sure?  Ed.)

 

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

 

W B Yeats

He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven

 

 

We had Sooty and Sweep.  Andy Pandy.  The Flowerpot Men.  Bruce Lacey.  Mr Pastry.  We played in bombed out buildings and air-raid shelters.  There were two tv channels, and we only had one, and I had to go to Denys's house to watch The Lone Ranger....

 

Then, around the time that JFK and Pope Giovanni XXIII hit the big sleep, the Beatles wanted to hold my hand, and I grew a little bit up, (thank you Jackie Short, et alios....)

 

And along came the Liverpool Poets, Roger McGough, Adrian Henri and Brian Pattern, and her majester Lily the Pink with a scaffold to uphold her....  And life turned from B & W to colour.  From 350 lines to 525.  And, eventually, from analogue to digital.

 

  

 

And perhaps that’s where it went awry?  We used to drink ententes cordiales, and get along with our neighbours – after all, in 1966 we made amends for WWII in a penalty shootout, when I was at Warcop Army Camp.  What was going to go wrong?

 

Which brings me to Mr McGough....  

 

He has just been to stay.  He came to perform his show, “Alive and Gigging,” (not as some promoters would have it, “Alive and Giggling,”) at St Mary’s, Snettisham, the high church of Ingoland, and we had a wonderful evening.  Full house, many laughs, a few tears, much reflection on the world we have grown to inhabit.  

 

But there’s the rub.  

 

All the while, there’s an acid eating away at this world, dissolving the things we hold/held dear. My grandparents, and my parents, wore uniforms and lost their youths defending a world they believed in.  A generation stood against fascism and beat it back and proved it wrong.

 

But like the Hydra, it has come back, fag ash and Burberry, fake tan and golfing cheats, a creeping, crawling resurgence of things that ought to have drowned in sewers.  And we are all affected, all conflicted.  I want to love my enemas.  I could even give Nadine Doilies space (she, like me, never made it to the Hows of Lourds) but, like Martin Loofah’s reformation, the slate was not whipped clean and so there is still the seed of disquiet, the worm of hatred.  

 

Angerland, My Angerland....  So....

 

I must arise and go now, and go to Italy,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and bottles made:
Nine lean-tos will I have there, a cave for my honey-bee;
And live apart in the free-trade grave.

 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow.....

 

Who am I/are you kidding?  We are all caught in the sticky spider’s web of life.  We are as insects who eat the world and leave nothing useful behind.  It is too easily beautiful to walk out on the shores of Ingoland and to ignore what is going on all around.  

 

Ow!  Ow! brief candle!
I’m but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets my hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more.

 

 

Which is why we are off to Italy.....  Better the devil you don’t know.....

 

I love my Engerland.  I love my country of birth, but I am not English.  I am not British.   I cannot fly the flag of some obscure saint who was probably martyred at Diospolis, now Lydda, in what was Palestine, around the end of the third or the beginning of the fourth century.  I am as English as W B Yeats, as James Joyce.  I am a European, and am uncomfortably proud of that. Don’t paint my house with red crosses. Don’t paint the roundabouts with symbols of some kind of purity.  Around 12.000 years ago no one lived here.  We are all migrants or descended from such.  No one is pure anything.

   

And to return to the beginning of this piece.  I have just had the privilege, honour and pleasure of hosting Roger McGough in my house.  At 87 years of age, in that awkward period between birth and death, he still raises a giggle and pokes fun at the world.  Whether you would consider him a National Treasure or not, some have called him the Patron Saint of Poetry.  Others say he has done more for poetry than champagne has done for weddings.  I would say he has brought light into a dark world and made many many people feel better about their worries.

 

At breakfast he told me of a poem-in-progress. I don’t have total recall, but it was about the stink of politics, and the punch line (yes, poems are like jokes) was that the Speaker of the House of Commons was calling for quiet....  “O Dour!  O Dour!  O Dour!”

 

Arrest my case.....  

 

We are bound for Italy, where at least somethings are different.....

 

This is for Roger and my other fellow travellers through this world.

I am land.

I am happy for you live on me.

Till and plough, graze your cattle,

build your homes upon me.

I will feed, nourish, even bury you

But I am not yours.

Not yours to fight over.

To invade and plunder, divide and destroy.

I do not belong to you.

Even though you claim me, I am not yours.

I have no name, flag or anthem

Call me World.

Roger McGough

Call Me World

A Walk in the Park

Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale,

Yet will I fear none ill.....

 

 

 



It's first light in Liverpool.  I am here to help my daughter move, but she is immobile, stretched out on the sofa, and looking like another couple of hours is needed.  I said I might be up early, and she said the Park was nice......

 

 

 

So, despite a fleeting urge to steal the pink Chinese Vespa outside the flat, I head for nearby Sefton Park, to sample the delights of the city autumn.

 

 

 

And it is great to be on foot, without traffic, with sunlight uninhibited by buildings, streaming through the dying leaves.  The birds are up, the air is sweet with decay, and there is an atmosphere of tranquillity that inspires a sense of well-being. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Public Parks are relatively recent institutions, with the first use of that idea appearing in 1661.  The word park is very old, of Germanic origin (pfarrih meaning a pen or fold), and coming to us through Old English (pearruc).  The concept was of an enclosure, held by royal grant, for beasts of the chase, as opposed to an unlimited forest (or chase).  So we get to the notion of a large ornamental piece of ground, usually attached to a country house or mansion, and being used for hunting or recreation of some kind.  And thus to the public idea, when cities increased in size and confusion, with no space for the populace to take the air.  Sefton Park, in Liverpool, is no exception, as it was originally part of (the 2,300 acre) Toxteth Deer Park.  Then in the 1860s, the City Council managed to purchase 110 hectares (235 acres in alternatively incomprehensible land measurements) from the Earl of Sefton (for a quarter of a million quid - then) to exercise the hoi polloi.  Yea!  200 years ago or so the average life expectancy within a conurbation such as Toxteth was 32 years.  So it made good economic sense to look after the work force.

 

 

 

In November 1866 the Council issued a brief for a competition to design the park.  First prize 300 guineas.  French landscape wiz Edouard Andre (Gardener in Chief for Paris) and his chum Lewis Hornblower (local architect) won the comp with a design planned to cost £85K.  Guess what?  By the time Prince Arthur got to open the park in 1872 (dedicating it to the health and enjoyment of its townspeople), the budget had risen to £147K.  Is nothing new?

 

 

 

 

Anyways, they did a grand job.  No kidding.  The bandstand (purported to have been the inspiration for Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band....) on its island; the boating lake; the statue of Eros (a copy of Sir Alfred Gilbert's statue in Piccadilly Circus - actually of Anteros, one of Eros's brothers).  This figure, now a replacement made of aluminium, is the subject of the Shaftesbury Memorial, where the winged boy symbolises the selfless philanthropic love of the (7th) Earl of Shaftesbury (famous for his work to abolish slavery) for the poor.  Within the park there is also a copy of the Peter Pan statue (in Kensington Gardens), as well as monuments to Christopher Columbus and Highland Mary, the betrothed of Robert Burns.

 

 

So, here I was.  The bauxite bow of (Ant)eros missing me by a mile, but the greetings of fellow walkers, with or without dogs, bringing a cheer to my aluminium aorta.  A rainbow crowns the scene, and the autumn colours ginger life up a bit.  The via vai of early morning people, minding their own business, attending to their fourpaw companions, or just chatting their way through a shared cigarette, is like a gentle infusion of adrenalin.

 

 

 

 

Raindrops shiver me back to James Litherland's wah-wah solo on Walking in the Park on Colosseum's 1969 album Those who are about to die salute you. Jon Hiseman, Dick Heckstall-Smith RIP. Remembrances of a night in Wood Green..... There's something retro-hip about this particular Park. Every great city has at least one - Central Park in New York; the Tuileries in Paris;  the Villa Borghese in Rome;  the Buen Retiro in Madrid; the Royal Parks in London, or even the Embankment Gardens, so much enjoyed on hot summer lunchtimes......  An opportunity for space is so important.  The countryside is far away; there are no gardens for flat dwellers; allotments in cities are as sought after as the Hanging Gardens of Babylon..... 

 

 

 

 

 

So, with the waterfowl skimming across the reflections of a cloudy blue sky, I turn back.  Cycling is promoted here, as a cast milepost tells me:

 

 

 

 

 

 Though one young man has a different way of interpreting the idea of playground:  

 

 

 

 

For me, to sit on a bench and watch the birds would be ideal, but inclement weather is promising, so I'll not tarry long.  Walking in the Park is an active, not a passive occupation.  I wonder where my Tamoretti is now?

 

 

 

 

I am tempted by the opening of the Café, once known as the Aviary Café, whose primary colours are perhaps a reflection of my lack of caffeine, but the chairs and tables are only just coming out, and I cannot yet sniff the Arabica in the air. 

  

 

 

 

And I know that I am only steps away from Lark Lane, where Keith's, or The Moon and Pea (with celebrity chef Sarah G) might cater for me later, so I saunter on.....

 

 

But on my way my eye is caught by various notices, attached to lamp-posts and railings.  At first I think that Sefton itself is in peril, but realise that that might be a step too far.  Instead, what is at stake is a piece of land next to the park, which the Liverpool City Council want to sell for building development. This follows cutbacks to council funding and, from the point of view of a nicely dressed economist, with no social conscience nor long-term vision, makes perfect sense.

 

But I am reminded of the gentle condemnation of the late Margaret Thatcher's privatisation policies by the even later Harold Macmillan, in which he deplored the selling off of the family silver.  Open spaces, where children can play, and ordinary people can move around safely and freely, are vitally important to the well-being of society.  It was at great expense and with considerable foresight that Sefton Park was created for the public.  Some will argue that Sefton Park Meadows are an expendable extra, and that the Park itself will still be there, but chip away at these spaces and pretty soon there will be little left, and, with no benefit to the disadvantaged majority, the material profits will have been happily trousered by some unnecessary few.

 

Walking in the park and my feet just can't keep still

 

 

Morituri Te Salutant

 

 

 

 

Goodness and mercy all my life
Shall surely follow me,
And in God's house for evermore
My dwelling-place shall be.

 

 

http://saveseftonparkmeadows.org/

Merrie England - Part Three

Spring Watch

April 7th.  The road is blocked with snow.  It is cold and dull and winter has not yet given way.  A week after Easter and we are looking for signs of rebirth, regeneration, new life.  I have to say that England does not look very Merrie....

It is April. Where is the warmth of Spring? What is this never-ending winter? We withdraw from the drifted snow that blocks our way and find another route. But everywhere seems lifeless and cold. Is the world coming to an end?

We find an Inn, check in for the night and take a walk, and examine the prospects of a world in a coma. Little by little signs of life appear. It's not so much that it is cold, though the unseasonal temperatures have kept life safe in dormancy, it is more that it is dull. Where is the fresh light and the blue sky that cheers so much after the drear of winter?

There is a chill in the land, and it is hard to believe that Easter, with its resurrective spirit, is a week behind us already. It is hard to believe that the clocks have changed. The valley seems dreich (to borrow the Scots' favourite word) and I just want to curl up and sleep.

But in fact the land is slowly coming back to life.  Trees are beginning to show their buds and flowers are managing to blossom.  

There is a lot going on.  Lambs, the symbol of many things, are stumbling into life.  I am reminded of an Easter in the Peloponnese years ago, taking a bus on Good Friday, and finding the luggage racks full of loosely wrapped carcasses of lambs, tears of blood trickling from their open necks.  The sacrifice of new born flesh being one of the most primitive rituals of man, but the taste of spit-roast meat with marjoram and fresh bread takes some beating.

But eggs are another potent symbol of rebirth and it is the bird song I notice next. Rarely heard from within the confines of a car, walking in an otherwise silent valley I find I am tuned in to the chattering and chirruping of tiny souls.  There is a proud Great Tit, boldly atop a bush, vigorously practising his characteristic two tone call. Then a happy refrain above me catches my ear, and I search the trees to catch a glimpse of a cock chaffinch, whistling in cheerful territorial claim, or to attract his mate.

Twitching about on the ground, rustling under leaves and pecking at the moss, a busy Dunnock catches my eye, foraging for insects and spiders to keep his strength up and perhaps even to feed his young.

Not far away twiggy nests still stand out in leafless trees, soon to be camouflaged by expected growth.  There is a lot going on, and the longer days help birds enormously as their need to feed their families increases.  The cold winter has been hard on them, and the extra weeks will have exhausted many, but there is no mistaking the sound of Spring in the songs of the survivors.

We move on.  It's not quite the joyous riot of Spring I had hoped for, especially having just got back from being screamed at by swifts on a beach in sunny Sicily, where the roadside verges are amok with flowers, but the evidence is there.  Slowly but surely we are emerging from our torpor.  There is light at the end of the tunnel.

The celebration of a family 21st birthday, another rite of passage, takes us on to Liverpool.  I was not expecting Spring to be much further advanced here amid the walls and the roads, but I am in for a surprise.  The warmth of Liverpool is not just in the ocean tides.  The spirit is welcoming, and generous, and despite the litter that blusters around the waste patches, and the houses that have seen many better days, there is a colourfulness about the ambience and about the people, and, like the birds, there is an excited business of preparation for new life apparent.

There is sufficient sun to bring people, and their pets, out onto the streets, out of the confines of the winter home and into the public world.

And people are busy with decoration, either painting or planting, outside their homes.

I find myself in a pub, joining in the craic with two gentlemen of substance.  Mr Sixteen-and-a-Half Stone is telling his elder, Mr Twenty Stone and Rising, about his diet.  "They weighed me, like, and I was 16 and a half stone, which for a man of my height is too much."  We nod.  "So I'm on a diet - I was eating six, seven pieces of bread....  And I'm swimmin', go to the gym - but not the heavy things, just the light exercise to start with."

"It's the food," interjects Mr Twenty, taking a draft from his pint.

"It's self-discipline," I add.

"An I got a bike.  Not goin' to use the car.  Want to lose some of this before the sun comes out!"  Mr Sixteen-and-a-Half wobbles his tummy.

"Walking is good,"  I suggest.

"It's the food," Mr Twenty repeats, quaffing another draft of ale.  This seems to cause some thought, just as Mr Fourteen Stone joins us.  

"I'm givin' up my diet," he offers, cheerily, ordering a pint.  "It didn't werk.  Potatoes, bread, butter, milk, sugar.  Jest didn't werk! I'm back on the fresh fruit and veg, me!"

We sail on, reinventing ourselves, reconstructing, resurrecting our images.  I come home to find a blackbird singing his heart out in my cherry tree, the buds just forming ready to foam in celebration of the light and warmth.  The fluting song, and the waving daffodils in the evening light seem good to me.  It has been a long winter, but the world keeps on turning.  For now, at least.

Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world

And should you wish to hear the chaffinch (pictured above) - you won't see him here, but you can (just) hear him....