From the Mystic East ...

[tamaranth]

Sometimes the British summer does happen. It's 5 o'clock in the afternoon and I'm sitting in Greenwich Park, just feet into the eastern hemisphere, listening to the drums.

Today is the last day of the Greenwich & Docklands International Festival, the advertising for which has passed me by (although as I don't buy a local paper or watch TV or listen to local radio, this may not be entirely their fault). It's gloriously sunny, and there are thousands of people slowly going pink on the green slopes of the park.

And there's drumming.

No, really: it's Chilay (?will check this), an Indonesian drum and vocal group, who I'd ignorantly have taken for North African from the nasal, ululating vocals. Their sound is reminiscent of some of the tracks on the Arabesque compilation, if you've heard that, and also of Dead Can Dance in their more Moorish moments. Chilay have just finished playing, and next up we're promised a group from Zanzibar.

There's been drumming since I got to the park around an hour ago: it's echoed around the park, and Greenwich park is big and is surrounded by Famous Old Buildings (TM) off which the sound bounces like a tennis ball. I'd come to sit in the park with the intention of writing, hence I'm able to compose this on my Handspring Visor and Marvellous Folding Keyboard, the only drawback of which is the need to scowl at curious tourists who keep blocking my sunshine as they creep closer to admire my superfluous technology. I'd wear my headphones, which usually discourage casual enquiries, except that they would be superfluous, considering the noise level. But it's good noise.

Greenwich Park is usually a haven of peace from the moment I walk through the gate, and at first I assumed the noise was coming from somewhere outside on Blackheath, though I hadn't noticed anything but a game of bowls on my way in. I sat down near the Henry Moore sculpture, looking out over the Thames: swatted flies, decided the noise would stop soon enough, began to write.

After a while the noise stopped being a noise and became music: music, what's more, that was remarkably good background to my writing and definitely helped it along. Seven hundred words later, I decided to go seek the source. What with the echoes, it took me quite a bit of wandering around to locate the sound. I wandered all around the park, east to west and back again, across the tumuli (grassy knolls levelled by time) and past the Roman temple (some stones in a clump of grass) and Queen Elizabeth's Oak (the first Queen Elizabeth, that is) and the Victorian bandstand and the Observatory Gardens and dear old General Wolfe: and finally I'm here, due south of the power station, ensconced on the hillside above the natural amphitheatre at the heart of the park, watching small children hurl themselves gleefully down the slope and listening to excellent music provided free of charge. Feeling pretty smug about my 700 words, too.

It's a shame I never bring money to the park, though: I could murder an ice cream.

Oh, and apologies to sbisson and marypcb: I did mean to call, but didn't bring my phone ...

Comments

[sbisson.livejournal.com]

S'okay. We spent a good afternoon exploring the market, nibbling stuff, and then coming home (via Rob and Den's) laden with good stuff - cheese, bread, vegetables, syllabub... Glad you had a good afternoon in the sun. Tomorrow I think I may be posting lots to LJ as I have to write a column...