The Isle of Portland

 

Graphic in Portland: a Triptych by Susan Duxbury Hibbert

touchable stone(s) left in imaginations' flows to be, I hope, re-eroded by readers ... and re-built again by them ...

I'll take that invitation from the Author's Note by Mark Goodwin. In fact I'm not sure how else I would get to the quarry-face of Portland: a Triptych (KFS, 2019) without a weary trudge over explanatory ground.  

Mark Goodwin:

StPaul'sCathedralpartlycrushedbyTheUnitedNationsBuil

ding&otherNewYorkfacadesBigBenThePalaceofWestmins

ter&BuckinghamPalacejostlingonthetipofTheBillBigBeno

nitssidetrain-wiseorlikeapatientwaitingrocketasleeepall

spacesonTop&UnderHillsoccupiedbyallPortlandStonebuil

dingseverconstructedanywhereinaworldonanEarththeTo

werofLondonChristchurchPrioryLondonBridgemangledto

gethertoresembleanornateglacialmoraineyetwithenough

voidswallsfloors&corridorstodrawinmenwithstringinsear

chofbeastslikebullsPolaris&Persephonechattinginnumer

ouscoolwhitesepulchresasifomnipotentascenotaphsrisefr

omrubbleroundthemTheBritishMuseumTheBankofEngla

Tim Allen:

Psalm belly eagles onto platform. He's the train's draper.

For the wild crystal 14 year olds. Flamingo voiced.

Origin of Species inseparable from mum's separates.

Daemon's dropper glare. Kittiwake flounces whitefish skirt.

Morose old coal-horse in love again with a look-alike foal.

High Noon magi dust air shocks pink torchlight dust.

I ironed out helicopters. Any old raison against the current. 

The wood wobbled in the shorts and rotted in the longleg.

Lazy gamer snorts reasons for vandalising Auntie Oolite.

Bucketful of green drizzle makes room for orchard of crabs.

Monstrous tar flowers in Vestal temple. Romantic hate.

Phosphorescent trickle. Smell of the galaxy's dewy cleft.

Austere stillness drums in Austin 1100 as silent as lice.

Behind a veil of herring girt roots of sanity insanely shrill.

Stuff fester milk stiff saucer mould. Fitting room panic.

The young helicopter pilot posed as Aphrodite's owl.

The young helicopter's forearm posed in the owl's boots.

Poverty fox doubts that any of these riches really exist.

Norman Jope:

In this port of call

he paces like a prisoner –

distilled sea water

has turned to sweat,

in a place whose only resource

is salt.

The greens of Charleville are alien

to this place of doomsday fire

where Abel lies, an eternal creditor

in a squadron-whine of mosquitoes,

below Big Ben's dwarf replica

on the slopes above misfortune's well.

He has come to bury his past in gold,

to pay homage at the Tower of Silence.

He hates this horrible rock

but hears its call to prayer

above the muezzin

who marshals the inmates

against this interpreter,

this coxcomb lyricist.

He knows long residence

impairs the faculties,

and soon will dwell instead

amongst hyenas in Harar –

but he bides his time

as sunlight moistens

the harbour's eye,

its cargo of fins and maws.

*

A book about the Isle of Portland, so long as you don't take "about" in a narrowly discursive sense. A book that releases Portland, maybe. 

Extracts are always a violence, and the above samples don't come away cleanly: each is traduced in its own way. 

Mark Goodwin's block of text (from Portland Mix, p.14) is really meant to be black and grey and sideways to the page. Its buildings and monuments are made of Portland stone. Tophill and Underhill are topographical features dividing the island: Portland stone is quarried from the shallow strata of Tophill. 

Tim Allen's growing-up lines (from Pontoon 4, p. 22) are shorn of their marginal commentary. For instance, the first verse I've quoted is annotated Sermon on the Hump. That is, the Green Hump in Hallelujah Bay. Tim's questioning of his childhood faith is a recurrent theme, and hence I suppose the Darwin references. Kittiwake: they nest on the cliffs of Portland and are seen from the Bill. Tar Rocks: coastal reef in Hallelujah Bay exposed at low tide. Austin 1100: popular 1960s car. Little Owl: common on Portland, nesting in abandoned quarries. They are Athene's owl in Greek mythology, but in this memory they are Aphrodite's owl. 

The extract from Norman Jope (Veästa, p. 38) is the most violently decontextualized: this comes from the section about Aden (Aden Mix), and its intruder-poet (or rather, ex-poet) is Arthur Rimbaud, born in Charleville. That was in 1880, ten years before the completion of Big Ben Aden, never mind the "dwarf replica" in Arwa Street, Crater. "Misfortune's well" might refer to British colonisation or the Aden Emergency or the notoriously impoverished back-streets of Crater (Aden's arab quarter in colonial times).  But here as in its other armed service interludes (Gibraltar Mix, Maltese Mix) the poem keeps echoing the Isle of Portland, in this case the village of Fortuneswell in the steep Underhill part of the island. As per Mark Goodwin, Big Ben has a Portland connection too, though actually rather tenuous: Portland stone is in the Palace of Westminster's ancient foundations and recent restorations, but not the 19th-century work. Other Portland references are persistent: the prisoner, the harbour . . . The "coxcomb lyricist" refers back to the Veästa of Portland legend, "a mythical monster, like a red-bearded cockerel with half-yard legs" (Norman's Author's Note). 

Drawn by the unctuous snail

The Dandelion Fairy, by Cicely Mary Barker

[Image source: https://flowerfairies.com/category/collections/spring/ .]

In such employments, as rearing the drooping flower, and arranging the disordered chamber, the Fairies of South Britain gradually lost the harsher character of the dwarfs, or elves. Their choral dances were enlivened by the introduction of the merry goblin Puck, for whose freakish pranks they exchanged their original mischievous propensities. The Fairies of Shakespeare, Drayton, and Mennis, therefore, at first exquisite fancy portraits, may be considered as having finally operated a change in the original which gave them birth.

(Scott, The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802))

Yes, I get it, -- though the word "mischievous" led me astray for a moment, because since Scott's time its meaning has softened along with the fairies themselves. 

It was a line of winsome fairy evolution that  resulted, for instance, in the Langs' Fairy Books and in Cicely Mary Barker's lovely Flower Fairies. The once-daemonic spirits completed their long journey to the nursery,  as C.S. Lewis probably remarked. 

The development that Scott traced through A Midsummer Night's Dream and Drayton's Nymphidia was also a poetic escape of fancy crossed with nascent science, with huge influence on later poetry and across all the arts. 

But who's ever heard of  "Mennis"? The name meant nothing to me. 

So after an hour of café research, to which Al contributed nothing, I arrived at Vice-Admiral Sir John Mennes or Mennis (1599 - 1671), and the poem that Scott was surely thinking of, "King Oberon's Apparell", which appeared in Musarum Deliciae, or The Muses Recreation  (1656).  

KING OBERON'S APPARELL

When the monthly horned queen

Grew jealous, that the stars had seen

Her rising from Endimions armes,

In rage, she throws her misty charmes

Into the bosome of the night,

To dim their curious prying light. 

Then did the dwarfish faery elves 

(Having first attir'd themselves)

Prepare to dresse their Oberon king

In highest robes for revelling.

In a cobweb shirt, more thin

Then ever spider since could spin,

Bleach'd by the whitenesse of the snow,

As the stormy windes did blow

It in the vast and freezing aire;

No shirt halfe so fine, so faire.

    A rich wastcoat they did bring

Made of the trout-flies gilded wing,

At that his Elveship 'gan to fret,

Swearing it would make him sweat,

Even with its weight, and needs would wear

His wastcoat wove of downy haire,

New shaven from an Eunuch's chin;

That pleas'd him well, 'twas wondrous thin.

    The out-side of his doublet was

Made of the four-leav'd true-love grasse,

On which was set so fine a glosse,

By the oyle of crispy mosse;

That through a mist, and starry light,

It made a rainbow every night.

On every seam, there was a lace

Drawn by the unctuous snailes slow trace;

To it, the purest silver thread

Compar'd, did look like dull pale lead.

    Each button was a sparkling eye

Ta'ne from the speckled adders frye,

Which in a gloomy night, and dark,

Twinckled like a fiery spark: 

And, for coolnesse, next his skin,

'Twas with white poppy lin'd within.

    His breeches of that fleece were wrought,

Which from Colchos Jason brought;

Spun into so fine a yarne,

That mortals might it not discerne;

Wove by Arachne, in her loom,

Just before she had her doom;

Dy'd crimson with a maidens blush,

And lyn'd with dandelyon push.

    A rich mantle he did wear,

Made of tinsel gossamere,

Be-starred over with a few

Dyamond drops of morning dew.

    His cap was all of ladies love,

So passing light, that it did move,

If any humming gnat or fly

But buzz'd the ayre, in passing by;

About it was a wreath of pearle,

Drop'd from the eyes of some poor girle 

Pinch'd, because she had forgot

To leave faire water in the pot.

And for feather, he did weare 

Old Nisus fatall purple haire.

    The sword they girded on his thigh,

Was smallest blade of finest rye.

    A paire of buskins they did bring

Of the cow-ladyes corall wing;

Powder'd o're with spots of jet,

And lin'd with purple-violet.

    His belt was made of mirtle leaves,

Plaited in small curious threaves,

Beset with amber cowslip studds,

And fring'd about with daizy budds,

In which his bugle horne was hung,

Made of the babbling Ecchoes tongue;

Which set unto his moon-burn'd lip,

He windes, and then his faeries skip:

At that, the lazy dawn 'gan sound,

And each did trip a faery round.

[Poem source: https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uc1.b3539530&seq=89 .]

In Victorian times, when the poem attracted anthologists, it was sometimes assigned to Sir John Mennes and sometimes to his friend and co-author James Smith (rector of Barnstaple, etc), but it's somewhat untypical of their droll letter poems (the ones I like best are "Upon the Biting of Fleas" and "Upon Lute-strings Cat-eaten").

Perhaps for good reason: "Oberon's Apparell" seems to date from thirty years before, c. 1626, one early copy assigning it to the MP Sir Simeon Steward. (There are other un-accredited poems in Musarum Deliciae,  for instance Richard Brome's "Upon Aglaura In Folio".)

Steward isn't otherwise known as a poet, and many have supposed the real author was his friend Robert Herrick. Anyway it was evidently a companion-piece to Herrick's three other Oberon poems (Oberon's Chapel, Oberon's Palace, Oberon's Feast). But whoever wrote it, I hope you'll agree with me that it's well worth transcribing for the digital age.

For the Herrick connection, see the 1869 edition of Hesperidae by William Carew Hazlitt:

https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=SgNBAAAAcAAJ&pg=PA481&dq=%22crispy+moss%22+hesperides&hl=en&newbks=1&newbks_redir=0&source=gb_mobile_search&ovdme=1&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwit-pSG1b-UAxU0UkEAHfQwEPMQuwV6BAgIEAg#v=onepage&q&f=false

four-leaved true-love grasse: Herb-paris (Paris quadrifolia).

crispy mosse: Perhaps the red seaweed commonly called Irish Moss (Chondrus crispus), source of carrageenan. Gelatinous extracts were used as food additives as far back as the 15th century, and might be the "oyle" referred to here.

dandelyon push: a typo for "plush", I'm guessing.

tinsel gossamere: "tinsel" at this time referred to lightweight fabrics with a metallic sheen (as much used in the fancy garments of the nobility); "gossamer" to the floating lines of cobwebby material on summer mornings.

Nisus: King Nisos of Megara, whose purple lock of hair kept him safe from harm, until cut off by his daughter Scylla (who had fallen in love with his enemy Minos). The story is in Book 8 of Ovid's Metamorphoses: https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Metamorphoses_(tr._Garth,_Dryden,_et_al.)/Book_VIII .

buskins: laced boots.

cow-lady: ladybird, ladybug.

threaves: A threave or thrave is an agricultural measure, typically 24 sheaves; sometimes used figuratively to mean a large number or quantity. But here I suppose the threaves are knots or bunches.

amber cowslip studds: the five orange-brown dots in the cup of a cowslip flower. 

Sir John Mennes, portrait by Anthony van Dyck.

[Image source: Wikipedia .]

The Trees of Frome

When I first moved to Frome in 1991 my partner of the time said I should write a booklet called The Trees of Frome. In those pre-internet days that meant jotting down notes in a notebook, but I didn't get very far. I suppose I was always going on about trees, but I didn't have the required expertise then, and I still don't, though I've written about a few Frome trees over the years, particularly cherry trees. 

Anyway this post lists a few trees that would certainly need to feature in any hypothetical Trees of Frome. I've been looking at them for many years  but as you'll see I still can't necessarily name them! 

Huntingdon Elm, maybe. Frome, 7 May 2026.

Halfway along Spring Road, easy to overlook but locally well-known, this splendid mature elm in a private garden. 

Why it acts as if Dutch Elm disease never happened, I have no idea. 

The only elms I really know are English Elm and Wych Elm. This one is neither (the leaves are pretty smooth). A recent consultation with the Facebook tree group emphasized the formidable complexity of Ulmus but it's not unlikely to be a Huntingdon Elm (Ulmus x hollandica 'Vegeta'), much planted in parks and gardens in the 1930s.

There are other mature elms in the Frome area. There were at least two Wych Elms in the grounds of Marston House when I worked there 20 years ago, and there probably still are (it's now a private residence). Beside a Beckington layby there's a line of three healthy elms around which a copse has subsequently grown up: they are Field Elms at least in part, but I can't pin them down to a known variety. 

London Plane. Frome, 7 May 2026.

There's something inappropriate about London Planes being anywhere other than a city. Still, Frome has this one, behind Ellenbray close to the footbridge, and the massive bole, split into three or four, gets noticed by everyone. Like most London Planes it gives the impression of intending to live forever. 

Lime tree. Frome, 9 May 2026.

This lime tree, at Hillclose Farm, Spring Gardens, was already huge in 1991 and it's even bigger now. Like a mountain, you need to be quite a long way off to see where the true summit is. . 

It seems to be a Common Lime that looks very much like a Small-leaved Lime, if I can put it that way. For example the flower-bracts stick out in all directions, the leaves are small and matte. (But: impressed tertiary veins, off-white tufts on underside, strictly 6 flowers per bunch.)

Below, a view inside the canopy.

Lime tree. Frome, 9 May 2026.

Poplar tree. Frome, 7 May 2026.

Another mighty tree. This is the most impressive of several impressive poplars along the river. They are American hybrid poplars, but that's as far as my knowledge goes. This one's at Welshmill, just below the weir. It's across the river from the play-park, so parents and grandparents get plenty of time to look at it. 

Caucasian Wingnut (Pterocarya fraxinifolia). Frome, 20 May 2026.

If you walk around the perimeter of the Cattle Market car park, you'll be momentarily plunged into an exotic jungle, created by three wingnut trees. To the best of my knowledge (basically, none) these trees are Caucasian Wingnut (Pterocarya fraxinifolia) -- Other wingnuts are available!

Below, a shot of the ash-like foliage, the striking long female catkins and the shorter male ones. 

Caucasian Wingnut (Pterocarya fraxinifolia). Frome, 20 May 2026.

Ash (Fraxinus excelsior). Frome, 10 May 2026.

The magnificent ash tree in the car-park at Frome College. 

Most of the isolated trees in town seem unaffected by ash die-back, in contrast to the devastated ash-woods on the Mendips. 

Sycamore (Acer pseudoplatanus). Frome, 7 May 2026.

Every tree has its moment. This is a common-or-garden sycamore by the river, by no means an outstanding tree, but as I was taking photos for this post I was suddenly struck by the fabulous sight of all those hanging flowers at this time of year. So it snuck in. 

A puzzle. Driving from Beckington towards Frome, as you come down the hill on the by-pass, you see what appears to be a line of seven or eight Lombardy poplars on the horizon. I notice them every day, and after thirty years I still can't figure out where they are! 

The view towards Longleat and Stourhead. Frome, 10 May 2026.

Enjoy this view from the SE edge of Frome, looking over the valley to the greensand ridge of Longleat and Stourhead. Soon there are going to be 1,700 houses going up on these fields. There was strong local opposition to the plan ("Selwood Garden Community", it was called), the town council rejected it and Somerset Council were wavering when the decision was called in by central government, and now the planning inspector has done his job.  

*

'Taoyame' and a list of Frome's cherry trees:

https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2019/04/that-cherry-tree-in-frome.html

'Kursar':

https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2024/02/february-cherry.html

'Ichiyo':

https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2019/04/prunus-ichiyo.html

'Umineko':

https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2021/04/prunus-umineko.html

Norway Maple (Acer platanoides):

https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2021/10/norway-maple.html

Downy Birch (Betula pubescens):

https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2021/02/the-down-on-birch.html

Cornelian Cherry (Cornus mas):

https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2020/08/cornelian-cherry-cornus-mas.html

Western Red Cedar (Thuja plicata):

https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2021/01/western-red-cedar-thuja-plicata.html

Lime trees (Tilia species):

https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2022/06/midsummer-limes.html
https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2023/04/the-first-moves.html