Meavy Lane is the winding path to the Royal Oak Inn which - up until the day I left England seven months ago - I walked the length of each day. It is a calming place, the patchwork of green fields which line its sides dotted with littlewhitesheep. As you make your way down into the valley, you pass beneath a canopy of branches through which dappled light spills onto the tarmac. The spots of brightness play across your skin as the sounds of the rustling leaves and the birds nestled amongst the branches float down between the hedges. The canopy continues as you cross over a small stream, the soothing sound of running water beneath your feet as you start up a steep incline. You burst into sunlight as you reach the crest and in the distance the spires of Meavy’s church reach into the heavens. Horses trot past you, their riders waving their thanks as they go on their way. Cyclists greet you with a sharp smile and a wave as they pass you by. Cars…

Well.

Cars either slow down enough so that you might have time for a full-length discussion on the morals of human cloning or they speed toward you. At this point you jump. Into the hedge. The hedge is not quite as picturesque when one of the bramches is poking you in the eye. I have had a number of experiences with the hedge, the foremost of which involves a (rabid) dog.

It was a lovely morning and I was on my way to work. I had just popped round the pharmacy for some effervecest vitamin C flavoured beverage to fight the off the bout of flu which I could feel coming on. I was early. The bus must have been confused by my prescence, but it did not comment. I walked out of the pharmacy and onto Meavy Lane. I had passed the bowls club and started down past the last of the houses before I started to fish around in my pockets for my MP3 player. That was when I heard the barking.

This came as a surprise to me. I did not realise that dogs actually had this ability on mud island. I had simply assumed that generations of crime-free living had resulted in a genetic mutation which stopped them from doing it completely. I was wrong, apparently. At least they weren’e like those nutty ones back home, I thought. Much more personable animals. The barking grew louder as I halted. The MP3 player appeared to have chosen a hibernation spot in my jacket. I caught hold of it and jerked it out of its slumber. I placed the earphones in my ears and the sounds of the lane were dampened.

Except the barking.

It appeared to be getting louder. And angrier. I looked up, in the act of turning on some angry music and noticed the same hole in the hedge that I had noticed every other day. The bush had thinned over a large rock where the hedge met up with the wall bordering a lovely stone house. Today, a spindly looking creature was standing in that gap, glaring at me and attempting to bark, growl and be menacing at the same time. The effect was rather spoiled by the inconsistency of the sound, but i got the message. I crossed onto the opposite side of the road, hoping that Spindle Legs would take this as a sign that I had no intention of weeing on his lawn.

The gesture was lost on Spindle. It went completely off the handle when I started forward and jumped down the six foot hedge, blocking me from continuing. My heart started to hammer in my chest. Animals like me. They may growl at other people, but they wine and ask for cuddles when they see me. Spindle wasn’t a dog, I decided there and then. It was an alien apparition which had made a pact with the devil before swallowing him whole. I backed away slowly.

“That’s okay,” I cooed. “I’m just going to walk past. Not going anywhere near your house!”

It rushed forward, barking so hard that I had cause to hope it might choke and die on its own saliva. I backed into the hedge. Why, oh WHY, did I mention his HOUSE! Bark bark. Bark bark bark bark bark. It rushed even closer, shooting a stone up onto my jeans. It was going to eat me. People were going to find my tattered jacket ten years in the future and realise what had happened to the missing South African. I turned to the hedge and flattened myslef against it. I could hear Spindle behind me. He stopped barking. I assume the fact that I had become suddenly faceless upset him. I chanced a look over my shoulder. He had backed away and settled in the middle of the road. He was growling with marked suspicion.

Little fecker. I looked down at my watch. If ass face over there didn’t get out of my way pretty quickly, I was going to be late for work. I slid along the hedge, hoping that I could make it past Spindle and continue on my merry way. Spindle was not fooled. He barked at full volume, rushing forward. I cringed into the bushes. Someone had stuffed a Twix wrapper between the leaves, it was scratching my cheek. Spindle backed off again, panting. I slid the other way instead, putting as much distance between myself and Spindle as possible. The hedge rounded and Spindle was out of sight.

I was on a gravel driveway. There was a round, white marble fountain in its centre and perfectly manicured green lawns on either side. This looked like the house of someone so anal they would have a heart attack if they saw me on the driveway. I was desperate, though, and caught by the notion that Spindle was not going to move, even if I threw something heavy and sharp at him. So, feeling like a Jehova’s Witness worried about the dwindling space left in heaven, I approached the front door. It had several panes of stained glass arranged artfully around a knocker. I lifted my hand and the door opened. I was left looking rather foolish with my hand hovering between myself and a petite blonde woman wearing Armani sunglasses. I turned it into a wave, hoping I looked friendly.

“Can I help, you love?” the woman asked. I saw her eyes narrow with suspicion behind the tinted blue lenses. She too thought I was a desperate Jehova there to harvest her soul.

“Um, yes. I’m so sorry to bother but…”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” she said suddenly, looking at my hand as though I might try and present her with a pamphlet. She was still holding the door knob. I suspect she wished she had never opened the door.

“Um, no,” I reply carefully, thinking that my South African accent may just have worked in my favour. “Which is why I don’t know how to get past the dog in the street. Do you by chance know the owners? I need to get to work and it won’t let me by.”

She looked down the drive toward the Lane. Her face became a mask of fury. I probably dislodged one of her pebbles, I thought irrationally.

“If I catch you, you little fucker, I will tear you in half!”

Oh god. I picked a crazy person to ask for help. Just my luck. She lunged forward and I cringed. Nothing happened. I opened one eye. She had sprung directly past me and was stalking down the drive. Spindle had started to follow me. 

It might have been Spindle’s last mistake. Blue Lens Lady flapped her hands at him, breaking into a run. Spindle, seeing me behind her, must have been trying to save face - growled at her. In my opinion he needed to start worrying about saving his ass. I wasn’t sure if the dog was the dangerous one anymore. She was within metres of him. His tail dropped to between his legs and he bolted, whimpering.

“That’s right!” Blue Lens Lady yelled, kicking the air behind him with more fury than a flaming lion. ”Bugger off. Go crawl into a hole and die!”

Wow. 

“Don’t worry about that mean little rat. He’s all bark, no bite.”

I thank Blue Lens and hurry away before she can start the twenty questions about my accent. Its tiresome, and she terrifies me a little bit.

Back on Meavy Lane, things are just as they should be. The birds twitter and the sun is filtered through a canopy of leaves. Spindle is gone. I doubt he’s coming out of the hole any time soon. Mu ha ha ha ha ha.

Goodboy.

=) 

Moshing : activity in which audience members at live music performances aggressively push or slam into each other. Moshing is frequently accompanied by stage diving, crowd surfing, and headbanging. It is commonly associated with concerts by heavy metal, punk rock, and alternative rock artists, although it occurs at performances by musicians of all sorts of genres.

All sorts of genres… Whoever got excited and wrote this Wikipedia entry obviously didn’t realise just how stretched the word ‘genre’ would be. To this person (unnamed), I have three things to say:

1.Folk Rock

2. Mad-Dog Macrae

3. An eighty-year-old woman in a mosh pit.

(There was also a scotsman. But he deserves only a mention, if not a number.)

On a Thursday night, which is Quiz Night at the pub, Darren comes in with Kate & co. to compete in a men against women stand off of general knowledge. As most of the group appears to have absolutely no knowledge, this often turns out to be quite challenging. Though very entertaining - especially when the Australians are unable to name the Great Barrier Reef.

One Quiz Night, not so long ago, I caught a lift back into Plymouth with Darren after work - and we got to discussing music. This is, at best, a very precarious thing to do in a place such as Plymouth, where the people refer to one another as ‘Lovers’ and comment that you are ‘fit’ without having seen you run ten centimeters. As it turned out, Darren is quite clued up on the live music scene here and was happy to share titbits of wisdom. This conversation spanned the remainder of the journey. He dropped me off at my house and drove off, with me not knowing what was to be in store for me in the near future.

Less than a week later, I received a text message from Darren inviting me to join them at a Folk-Rock gig in Tavistock, a fifteen minute drive from where I work. Ever the cynic, I agreed, warning him that I did have to work that evening. Ever the gentleman, Darren dropped off my ticket at the pub on his way in and supplied Jimmy with directions to Tavistock Wharf. I was to arrive there at 9. At 9:30, I was to be found tearing from the pub with Jimmy in tow, my shoulder bag swinging wildly behind me as I dove into the car. Upon leaving the dead-zone (Meavy has no cell-phone signal) I received a number of texts confirming the location of the group I was meeting. We made our way into Tavistock without incident and Jimmy dropped me off outside the doors to the Tavistock Wharf.

At first, the woman at the ticket counter was most unhelpful. She seemed to want to sell me a ticket, but did not actually have any tickets to sell. This was upsetting her immensely and causing her accent to become incomprehensible. To ease her mind, I explained that I already had a ticket and did not, in fact, need to buy one. She was unable to understand, so I shoved my grammar aside and threw my t’s away and rephrased my situation so that she might understand. It ended up as.

“I go’ one, love.”

…which she understood, and quickly pointed me in the direction of the stage. The place was heaving. People EVERYWHERE. It was like walking into a sardine can. Laughter, people pushing and shoving one another to make their way forward. Shouting. Singing. Too close, unable to breath. Nudged with a walking stick (yes a walking stick). I was trapped. Reckless, I charged forward and I broke through the barrier of people into a suddenly much emptier space.

Surprised, I looked back. It took me only a moment to realise that I had passed through the queue for the bar. The stage was directly ahead of me, and the floor before it much less crowded (as the entire crowd was attending the mass exodus of Guinness from the bar - St. Patricks Day.) Finding Darren was simple enough. He had with him Karlee - Kate’s friend from home, Martin, the drinker of Guinness with longer hair than a samurai warrior, and the Scotsman - who was holding a drink in either hand. He quickly donated one to me and proceeded to glug the remainder of his own. Refreshed, he headed back to the bar for round (unnumbered).

I had arrived during the interval, and did not have long to wait for the band to once again take their positions. Here I must once again pause the narrative for a second definition.

Folk rock is a musical genre, combining elements of folk music and rock music.

Hardly descriptive, but there it is in a nutshell. It is the rest of the acorn tree, however, that must be discussed. The band we went to watch is a well known folk-rock group called Mad Dog Macrae. They have an Irish lead singer, two fiddles, a drummer and another instrument of unknown form and function. They also have on stage with them three bottles of whiskey (to keep their throats from getting too dry) and at least thirteen pints of mixed description between the five of them at any given time - this to keep them from getting too hot under the stage lights (there were only two lights, and they were not very bright).

The music was great, like up-tempo Braveheart after lots and lots of Guinness. The Scotsman started to jive after a while - spilling drink on everyone in the surrounding - and bumping into two old ladies making their way to the front of the crowd. I call them ladies at this point, because I was balefully unaware of the fact that they were proceeding in the direction of a teenage group head-banging and jumping soberly (ha ha - under-age) into one another. As they passed, the Scotsman collided with the more tipsy of the two. The woman shrugged off his apology, inviting him to join her and her companion in the mosh-pit. The Scot quickly advised against this, indicating that her life might be cut short by such a endeavour. The old nan said that it was her eightieth birthday and that if nothing else had managed to do her in by now, there was no harm in entering a mosh-pit. Intimidated (or possibly just very drunk), the Scotsman backed down. The old woman danced away, wiggling her hips like a fifteen-year-old until she reached the group.

Nan entered the mosh…

…and everyone stopped moving.

Which was pretty damnfunny.

Do not fear, dear friends! Do not hasten to assume that the mosh was thus prevented! The Nan managed to get them all moving again, and downed a good deal of whiskey from one of the bottles on the stage.  She did then, as the ever elusive ‘they’ say, get down and boogey. The rest of her adventures must go uncharted, because the band played their first encore (and were too drunk to play their last) and the crown dispersed, taking with them the nuttiest old person I have ever seen.

The rest of the evening was spent laughing at the Scotsman as he hiccuped repeatedly.

Folk-rock mosheep out

=)