There’s an island on a river, accessible only by a few rickety old steps, on which I first met my tribe. A solitary patch of muddy grass. One tree leaning exhausted over the running water. A small weather beaten town sloped up, and away from the shore, with castle ruins illuminated at the highest point. An unlikely and unique location to get wasted at the weekend, protected fiercely by those in the know, but still on display and open, easy to find.
Home was far away but my cousin was making me feel welcome, introducing me to the locals; Angus, the journalist; Suzanne, the baker; and Simon, a lost ex-marine, about to leave on his own travels. A rag-tag bunch of country minstrels thrown together because there was nowhere and no-one else. In small towns you have to do that; you have to befriend everyone, there is no space to be selective and picky. It’s truly all for one and one for all. To find a group of people so alike in their space and time is rare, and in the same small town even rarer. Here were close friends, whom I’d never met before, but who treated me with a welcoming hospitality befit more than family.
"Angus never smiles - look," my cousin said, pointing at him. Angus was smiling.
"It's a good night for it," he said. "Can't you feel it?" he asked, wrapping his arms round himself and shaking to show he was freezing. The air was white-grey.
"I'm feeling it," Suzanne piped in, jogging on the spot. She was looking up at the night sky. Simon joined her, bouncing from one foot to the other like a wrestler.
We all danced a little tribal kinda thing on the island, laughing from the ridiculousness of it all; a crew of midnight people writhing and exercising some demons. "Shake off. Shake off," Suzanne was saying, and we all followed, spazzing out. Angus slipped on the mud and fell down into it. He laughed. We helped him up, handing him the bottle as he got on his feet. "Ah!" he gulped. Things continued in much the same vein; moving around to stay warm.
What didn’t we talk about, that would be the question to ask. I felt not only as if I had known them, but they had known me for years. We were one and the same, I realised; lost, out in the world, looking for something to do, waiting around fretting and thinking about the future, driving ourselves mad in the process. Spending a lot of time alone, and a lot of time surrounded by people – an upsetting balance which seems to confuse one beyond even sociability. A tribe of worriers, we were, battling each trouble as it appeared, unaided, twisted on drugs and books.
At that point in life I could have not met anyone so in tune with my own resonance. Another droning sitar to play with my own. Imagine meeting a whole bunch of people with the same troubled temperament, the same negative outlook and who also had ten rough, bitten-down-to-the-nub fingernails. All self-effacing, self-contained, self-sacrificing. It was like meeting oneself in every respect, apart from looks. I thought the timing was particularly strange, almost other-worldly; as if we were meant to meet that once, share our similar souls and never meet again. It was cathartic, that’s for sure.
We drank and talked, smoked and drank, talked and smoked, with the river sloshing past, calmly running away with the worries we set adrift that evening. For me, it was a lack of direction, of purpose; always spending more time dreaming and thinking than actually doing. “You’ll figure it out,” they used to say, but I still haven’t managed. It’s not enough for me to simply live. I have always felt there was something bigger and better out there waiting for me. I’ll never find what I’m trying to look for – mostly likely it doesn’t exist, it’s just a vicious circle that I’ve been chasing. Simon understood. “I’ve come to the conclusion now that the void is only filled by having a partner, that’s the one thing I’ve always missed out on, being in the force for so many years.”
“Same, but the harder you search the more impossible that seems.”
“Tell me about it!”
“Contentment only comes momentarily. Happiness is so far off its unachievable. If you have a brain and use it you’ll never be happy again.”
But what about those people who were around whilst I wondered what I was missing out on? What about my friends who were uninterested by travel and experience – those who were content to get on with things; to live undaunted and un-haunted by these troubles? What effect must it have had on them if their friend was being constantly dragged down by his lofty dreams and ambitious hopes? This startling thought racked me. People live differently. People live their own lives. I may strive for something more but they were happy already. How could I be more like them? How could I shake this off?
That question is still unanswered. Things are easier now. You learn to live with your troubles, as impossible as that had once seemed. I’ll never forget the revelations of that evening, and I hope the tribe won’t either. Maybe it was a commonplace and regular occurrence for them to actually talk about the things that were bugging them? It wasn’t for me; I was a professional bottler, stashing onto these things and sitting on the lid until I could feel it being forced to pop open. No longer. Now, if engaged properly, I can admit the worst things and talk you to death. You’ll want to get far, far away. Now, you know the small Island and the running water you can blame for that.
We never stayed in touch. We didn't even exchange contact details. They'll be out there now - getting on with things. I'm only a faint, fading memory they may recall from time to time. It's impossible and best not to even try and re-live our only meeting, it'll only disappoint. Better to hark back and think of it fondly on occasion. Better still to look forward - life is too fleeting to backtrack and sigh about it all. We may or may not meet again - we may or may not have already passed on the street and not recognised each other.
There’s an island on a river, accessible only by a few rickety old steps, on which I met Lea. “Lost?” her voice asked out of nowhere. I spun around. Then through a shaky bush she appeared; brushing twigs, leaves and petals from her hair. Bits of plant life.
“Kind of,” I told her, starting off a friendship that flourished and finished within three short hours. We'll never meet again, I'm sure of it. She’d just landed from Mars, or the Land of Oz, or a planet further out than either of those. Somewhere exotic and other-worldly, that's for sure. Somewhere I'd never been and would never go, it seemed. Somewhere intriguing.
"Well then, what are you doing here on my island? I'm the only Robinson Crusoe on this baby," she said, by way of an introduction.
"Or Selkirk?" I said.
"Who?" She screwed up her face, but quickly morphed back to a careless grin.
"It doesn't matter."
"I've been coming here for years," she revealed, "and I've never seen another person down here. How did you find it?"
"I saw the alley and walked down there, noticed the gate and ended up here. Kind of an accident, really."
"A happy accident!" she smiled. "It's a bit tucked away for anyone to find. And you just happened upon it?" The tone of her voice said she didn't believe me, but it was the truth.
"Yep."
"Yeah right."
"Honestly. Seriously. I'm not even from here - how would I have known about it? I'm telling you I stumbled upon it. And what a find! I think I'll bring people to show next time."
She slapped me playfully on my forearm. "No you won't."
We sat down whilst I rolled a cigarette. I folded the packet away. She took it and rolled one for herself. She must have had somewhere else to be, but like me, happened to find herself in limbo. This was her city, I slowly sussed out. Better not to ruin the moment with personal facts or passions. Better to have a simple verbal trade. We both steered away from talking personal, as if it were an unwritten rule, choosing instead to exchange knowledge and show off our interests. If I’m away from home, anywhere, and I meet a local its questions straight away. They have the key to the local knowledge – their local knowledge. Their keen sense of humour, their anecdotes, their perspective on the areas exports, imports, problems, triumphs, or lingo, where the parks are – always very important, and whether the library is well stocked.
Lea knew it all. Bit by bit she answered my questions about this city I hardly knew. She loved it. "Why go anywhere else? What do you fucking want? We've got laser quest here, and three Smith's," she laughed. She gestured, waving her hand flat out in front of her as she rolled through her animated ramblings. She was gutsy, and loud, brash, daring, unable to keep track of time - all the things I never could be. That, I must have recognised in her then. Lea and I, like Huck Finn and Jim, hid out on the island, talking away.
After a while it dawned on me that not only was this girl’s whole aura alien, but she was like an encyclopaedia when it came to this particular place. Her local history was impeccable, her geography flawless and her interest totally unwavering. "See that place over there," she pointed across the river. "Pottery," she added simply. "That one - look at the windows. Completely symmetrical." It was - it was clearly an expensive build intended to display affluence and wealth. Those who benefitted from the industrial revolution were so predictable. "A cotton house. Storage. There is one identical to that in Manchester, I'm told. Though I've never seen it."
Lea and I were different. Whereas I thought I would understand the world better by experience, by travel, she was satisfied and more-than-happy to stay in one place, seeming to gain her world-view safely from there-out. I tried to search out-to-in, always returning home from my travels to question why I’d returned. I always wanted more, I could never satisfy myself. I tried to channel “that feeling.” I thought it could be likened to a pressure valve; that you could let off that steam by playing drums, writing, reading, riding my bike, talking. I had all these outlets for that steam that seemed to be constantly building up and up. Yet it changed nothing. The steam valve was broken; it could blow and shatter at any moment, but it never did.
Three hours passed and we were still sat on this lost island, an inner city river moved gently by - cleaner now than it had ever been, but still thick and dark. She stood up first, brushing the crusty twigs from the seat of her jeans. I gazed down her legs slowly for a moment before waking myself up with a shake and standing up next to her. She'd gone quiet all of a sudden. What had happened? "Alright?" I asked, giving her a gentle nudge with my elbow.
"Oh yeah. Fine," she said, also waking up to the world beside the island and the two of us.
She was one of those people who rubbed off on you. Her enthusiasm was hard to ignore.
"You saved me from today," she said.
"Likewise."
There’s an island on a river, accessible only by a few rickety old steps, where music brought us together. I'll never make it back there, but that night sticks vividly in my memory forever. Between a rock and a hard place it is lodged firmly, and I want it to stay there. I enjoyed many nights of roughly the same union through live music but that one night was particularly special. Hospitality made it so.
The venue for our meeting and coming together was a disused rowing club, taken over for one night only. I don't recall doing much socialising until the band had finished, but we were there together in a beautiful unison, socialising without using our own words. Their lyrics were the only words we uttered, and they broke the ice well. If we all believed in their words so unwaveringly then we must have at least that in common, which seemed good enough for all of us. We were all thoroughly preoccupied by the music, which seemed to pull us all into a tight, unspoken bond.
Had the electrics have been out it wouldn't have mattered - any member of the band could have sang any one of their opening lines and we would have all taken it up and finished the song off acapella. Probably making instrument noises with our mouths anyway. Our eyes closed, our faces turned towards the ceiling, fists clenched, pounded against our hearts, or upwards in the air, arms thrown over strangers shoulders. A good sing-along is a really cheap thrill, but an undeniable one. It gives a sense of unity, of something that can transcend.
I was in such a good mood, so excited and revved-up, running between people and shaking hands with everyone. I must have introduced myself to every person at the gig in turn. Very out-of-character and rare. From time-to-time all the elements are just right, all the stars align and shine through an overly, outwardly-friendly glow for me. People asked how we had ended up there. Others offered floor space for the night or shared their beer, before even introducing themselves. With each person I learnt something new about civilisation, and in turn about myself. Meeting people was easy, and you suddenly realise there is a world beyond oneself; that the world is much bigger than your own bubble. It was the first time I’d come across that thought, and I remember being floored by the revelation. It clicked. The un-learned became learnt.
We all shared a passion for the same band, which was obvious to us all. But above and beyond that it seemed to be the same lyrics and bands that turned us on, allowing us a collective agreement on music, politics, travel, what we felt we were missing and our outlook on life, whatever that may have been at the time. Our tastes had driven us into becoming similar minded people. It seems cheesy to have the lesson that hospitality is important appear at a punk rock gig, but it’s true. Cometbus couldn’t have written it better. “Have you got a place to stay?” people asked, until something had been arranged in some hippie bus with a French couple. I slept on a bench by the river in the end, which is another story.
For the next couple of days we followed the band through rural countryside, singing with them and crashing wherever we fell. Vague or non-existent plans seemed to magic themselves together, proof that humans can adapt, that I can adapt, and that people are more welcoming and friendly than you'd ever believe. You should never under-estimate the help and support offered to you once you are far away from home, and out on a limb with no plans and no clue. Things can work themselves out.
Why then is the modern world against that hospitality? Could it be that it is not the norm – that it is not safe and comfortable? It’s unstable and wavy. Best really to find a job and stay home in the evenings. Best not to think but to simply live, or not live? Back then, instability seemed oh-so appealing. It was somehow honourable.
I’ve put people up on various sofas over the years, but people have put me up plenty more. After your mid-twenties you don’t tend to want to crash in an endless succession of uncomfortable, makeshift beds. As I approach a whole winter of self-imposed homelessness I wonder how tired of it I'll be by the time spring comes round. It's likely I'll want to settle a little and get a steady job in a nice cafe somewhere. To try and adhere to a more common way of existence; earning money to live more comfortably and learning to be more content, rather than wanting, wanting all the damn time. The majority of people go on holiday, proper, with their other half once or twice a year. They relax. It'll be Spain or any old English beach to start with. The Caribbean or the Mediterranean for the honeymoon. Florida or Butlins once the kids arrive. The discomfort of traipsing around town all day, dragging your bag behind you and waiting for your host to finish work is not too appealing, I can see that, but it’s second nature now; benefitting from someone’s else’s welcoming hospitality, a second nature I ought never to have desired and lived through, but gently allowed.
* Taken from issue #22 - 'Life Lessons to Ignore'
