Arbor Low: A sense of place revisited

Sense of Place Arbor Low Artist Keith How and photographer Billy Bye held an exhibition of their work at Upper Oldhams Farm, Arbor Low this weekend. I wrote some words.

Mysterious and awe inspiring for thousands of years, folklorists, antiquarians and archaeologists have their own theories about its historical and cultural significance. Whatever might be their truths, those ditches were dug, those stones were shifted for a purpose. Nearby Gib Hill has its own story, dating back to the Bronze Age. Roman soldiers gazed in wonder as they marched past on their way North. What did they make of it? Did they recognise something and compare it to Stonehenge and Avebury, or the Bull Ring, its sister henge in Derbyshire? Before the stones were laid, before the cove was created, before this plateau of Middleton Moor found its level above the sea, tropical lagoons covered this landscape, sea creatures lived and died, their skeletons forming the beds that became the limestone rocks, now fissured and worn, with their own rock pools of rainwater. Bones and stones. A human skeleton was buried in the cove, the group of rocks in the middle of the circle. Another was cremated, ashes buried in the kist at Gib Hill. Look around and notice the lie of the land, the shapes of the henge echoed by the far horizons of the surrounding hills. Look above to the heavens. Enter the spirit of the skylark and see the shapes from the air. It could be a clock face, it might be a heart, it’s an oval, an egg. Timeless and eternal, in the present it’s a focus for awe and love, pagan spirituality and nature worship. It’s a portal and a place to connect with people who share a common purpose and a shared love for the environment and wild places, who care about the spiritual and natural environment, who need a sense of belonging in their local landscape and the cosmos. This place has had its champions and custodians over the centuries. There is a welcome to enter in from those who live here. They understand its importance. Solstice celebrations at the turnings of the year bring visitors. Ice sculptures are created from blades of grass in December, paths are hidden in the mist. In June the sound of drums accompanies the skylarks’ song and the planes flying overhead. Throughout the year, in any season, there are those who find their way here with a bunch of wildflowers, a crystal, a drawing, an offering left in a cleft of the stones. It’s a place of pilgrimage and a place of deep connection.

1966 and all that

So it's 50 years since England won the World Cup. This morning the presenter of Radio 4's Thought For the Day harked back to 1966. He described it as post-war, with bomb sites undeveloped among the city and suburban streets. I remember it well. Manchester's Arndale hadn't yet been built. The city centre was Dickensian. There was a bomb site where my sister and I played near our house. Close by was an area of devastation known as Swinton Fields. We rode our bikes there, up and over embankments for long demolished railway tracks. On July 30th 1966 my sister and I were staying with my godmother, my aunt in the Isle of Man. School summer holidays, we were aged 11 and 12. Normally we would have been down on the stony beach at Port Jack, skimming stones, climbing rocks and making use of the disguised sewage pipe to walk out into the waves, past the cave in the cliff. But for some reason, though we weren't football fans, we stayed in, watching the game on her small black and white television. My aunt's flat was on Royal Terrace.The first floor living room had a bay window overlooking Douglas Bay from Onchan Head. While she lived there, I've seen the Red Arrows fly so close over the headland and past that window that you could imagine you saw the colour of the pilot's eyes. It was a sunny afternoon. We watched with concentration and fascination, calling my aunt in to join us for the last fifteen minutes. It was impossible not to get caught up in the excitement of the result, and in my mind's eye I see it in glorious colour.