I am born of the soils of Yorkshire. Nurtured in a landscape of evolving mood, dramatic with the seasons and the shifting light. Taught by a community heavy with history and empowered with a deep sense of right, a fellowship of us and a wry aspect of that which lay beyond our borders.
A child, encouraged. Taught a rare knowledge. Taunting risk to learn that which only risk might teach and better for it. Such freedom. Etching indelible rules onto the soul.
A respect for life. A respect for self and a respect for heritage. An eye for observation, an ear for respectful listening and a reserved comment on that which endures.
I learned to turn the soil and gather a golden bounty from the Wolds, heavy heads for millers sacks and brewer's customers. Cush cushed the cows through the lush pasture to the dairy and Wensleydale cheese. Sheep dagged and shorn and roast beef on Sundays.
Poaching. The gun's kick. Fingers trapped in the gin then bathed by tickled trout in the chuckling stream. And the larder groaned with Yorkshire's bounty.
Not so strange, then, that I should rebel against state education. That bland national curriculum, enforced, tailored to homogenise in a uniformed attack on individuality. Thou shalt...not. Where the cane and the slipper, the ruler and the strap slapped, cracked and stung. Regardless of culpability. To develop an obedience to authority. No. More sinister. This was oppression. An attempt to imprint a national identity of fashionable views and corrupted idealisms on maleable and impressionable minds. This was not learning. This was an attempt on the repression of the awkward and the uncomfortable questions.
My father was a printer.
He was taught his trade by his father. My Grandfather taught me how to print.
Quietly and surreptitiously teaching me how to command the language. How to replicate and distribute a thought.
I learned how to construct words. How to construct sentences and how to quoin a phrase.
(Under construction)
A child, encouraged. Taught a rare knowledge. Taunting risk to learn that which only risk might teach and better for it. Such freedom. Etching indelible rules onto the soul.
A respect for life. A respect for self and a respect for heritage. An eye for observation, an ear for respectful listening and a reserved comment on that which endures.
I learned to turn the soil and gather a golden bounty from the Wolds, heavy heads for millers sacks and brewer's customers. Cush cushed the cows through the lush pasture to the dairy and Wensleydale cheese. Sheep dagged and shorn and roast beef on Sundays.
Poaching. The gun's kick. Fingers trapped in the gin then bathed by tickled trout in the chuckling stream. And the larder groaned with Yorkshire's bounty.
Not so strange, then, that I should rebel against state education. That bland national curriculum, enforced, tailored to homogenise in a uniformed attack on individuality. Thou shalt...not. Where the cane and the slipper, the ruler and the strap slapped, cracked and stung. Regardless of culpability. To develop an obedience to authority. No. More sinister. This was oppression. An attempt to imprint a national identity of fashionable views and corrupted idealisms on maleable and impressionable minds. This was not learning. This was an attempt on the repression of the awkward and the uncomfortable questions.
My father was a printer.
He was taught his trade by his father. My Grandfather taught me how to print.
Quietly and surreptitiously teaching me how to command the language. How to replicate and distribute a thought.
I learned how to construct words. How to construct sentences and how to quoin a phrase.
(Under construction)