Silloth

As you can see my broken camera is doing something interesting in it's blue phase.
And to add to the surreal I ended up in Silloth today - a culture shock and a challenge to meaning on a rather pointless errand and an extended trip down the coast to Maryport on a dull Saturday in November worked well to reinforce it. The advantage is the feeling of relief driving away and a sense of a narrow escape.
The little memorial on the sea front built by Year 6 of Silloth Primary School has a plaque saying 'Looking in all directions towards a bright future'. It felt like a triumph of hope against reality especially as I had just watched a couple of blokes reverse up to the dock in a white van, open the rear doors and ditch stuff into the docks and disappear sharpish.

It made me think of a post-modern west coast Cumbrian interpretation of Keats ...

Ode on Melancholy - John Keats

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.