12 / 05 / 2011.
‘“Concrete turns to Chalk dust, London fades” reads the first postcard in the Walking Home series. Out here London faded, but not to Chalk dust, here it faded to Spaghnum Moss and little rivers, bluebells and a slight touch of winter. And the grand soft evening, rain falling straight down, only slightly to the side like. But the feeling was the same. That deep, tense, exhaustion falling off, flaking like sun burn on a train journey across coasts.’
13 / 05 / 2011.
‘The camping position was not perfect. Really, it was aggressively, not perfect. It was damp and cramped, sloping, and all for the first time in a long time. Slipping into a crumpled damp corner of the tent, I slept just a bit, and kept on. I realised for the first time I had no real food with me. A useless stove, and no matches.’
14 / 05 / 2011.‘Saturday morning and after better sleep. One of those secret campsites I’ve developed a knack for finding. Just under the eaves of a deep pine wood, years of needles forming a deep mattress and I, I could have been in Somme Vesle again somewhere, half way across northern France, walking to Switzerland, the day after the long rain. I am trying to use this week to develop parallels of sensation, echoes in time and that style of living again. Today I am scheduled to walk, away up the glen, to camp in a corrie the other side of a mountain.’
Bram Thomas Arnold
Resting Place (After Somme Vesle)
Tent, cremated remains, polkadot handkercheif, pine forest
photo Bram Thomas Arnold