Monday, 25 June 2018


The Great Exhibition of the North was launched last Friday from the Newcastle/Gateshead quayside on the banks of the Tyne.  I hope it's going to a be a celebration of the North of England, and not just the North East.  The only mention of Cumbria I found in the media coverage was about the animation of Postman Pat (the stories' setting is based on Longsleddale).

Not all reaction to this latest creative industry razzmatazz event has been positive.  "The money the government has given the Great Exhibition is a drop in the ocean compared with the cuts local councils here have had to make as a result of Tory austerity". (Frank Styles, reported in The Guardian "Look North: Festival evokes long history of innovation and ideas" 23 June 2018).

In a somewhat perverse train of logic I found myself thinking of the idea of West.  West is the direction of sunset, of another world.  Facing his last voyage, Tennyson's Ulysses declared:

    "Tis not too late to seek a newer world
     ... for my purpose holds
     To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
     Of all the western stars, until I die"

Here on Penllyn, itself a finger of land pointing south-west, the sunsets can be spectacular.  Sometimes the whole sea is a blaze of magenta, reflecting the colour of the sky.  Norman Nicholson's poem, "Sea to the West", looks west from Cumbria.  It begins:

    "When the sea's to the west
      The evenings are one dazzle
      Waves of shine
      Heave, crest, fracture,
      Explode on the shore"

and ends:

      "Let my eyes at the last be blinded
       Not by the dark
       But by dazzle."

From the British Isles West has been the direction of emigration - those driven by poverty, eviction, famine, discrimination or adventure to board ships crossing the Atlantic in the late 18th and 19th centuries.  Now, in the 21st century there are still people heading Westwards across Europe driven by the force of terrible circumstances.

The West has been a place of pilgrimage - Bardsey Island, Whithorn, Iona, The Skelligs.  John Donne's poem "Good Friday, 1613, Riding Westward" is a meditation on the poet's turning his back on the East, the place of the rising sun.  Paul Muldoon adapts  Donne's title in his "Good Friday, 1971, Driving Westward", a poem in which "all might not be right with the day" and going from East to West in that part of Ireland is also going from North to South.  Amy Clampitt's poem "Westward" describes her slog to Iona from London ("Iona an indecipherable/blur" in the rain) and ranges widely from St Columba to the Prairie

     "rimmed by the driftwood
      of embarkations, landings, dooms, conquests,
      missionary journeys, memorials".

There is a distinctiveness about the rocky Atlantic edge of the British Isles - it's where the strands of Celtic language survived in Irish and Scottish Gaelic, Welsh, Manx, Cornish.

Gwyneth Lewis in "The Flaggy Shore" writes "Even before I've left, I long / for this place" and says the ephemeral landscapes in the clouds "make me homesick for where I've not been."  Her poem is in part a response to Seamus Heaney's "Postscript" (from his collection The Spirit Level):

     "And some time make the time to drive out west
       Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore".

This is a place where

     " ... big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
       And catch the heart off guard and blow it open."

No comments:

Post a Comment