I remember the excitement of leaving,
an early eighties early morning,
my eighteen hour odyssey unfolding,
to a College no-one had heard of,
somewhere between Snowdonia and the Irish Sea. The train carries me in the footsteps of Boudicca through Colchester,
where the monstrous carbuncle of the temple of Claudius came to an ugly end,
not long after it was built. Destroyed by Luddites, who stated
very firmly, with fire, (and according
to certain obstinate historians, the sword) that they wanted none of that modern nonsense here, thank you very much. And so to London, where the ashes
of their arson slowly compacts to coal
beneath my feet. Two days beforehand,
the Roman Governor had arrived.
his press secretary announced, Following "consultation" that London
could not be defended, alas. Collateral damage,
which could not be avoided, was, "and I want to make this clear"
to be blamed on the Celts. The Army, away fighting fanaticism in cold Cambria,
would deal with the revolt in due course.
They would naturally help to sweep up the ashes,
and assist where possible with the subsequent urban re-generation. So I stand on a Welsh hillside, overlooking the Irish Sea, hoping to spot the young Agricola in among the Legions passing beneath my feet.
I reflect on the European union of men marching past, Italian, Dutch, Dutch, Nineteen hundred years before my birth: yet more real to this nineteen year old dreamer
Than my future, today decided, as a Hotel Manager, and my imminent replanting from one place
To another, connected by death in A.D. 61. In the year 2001, the phone rings.
I answer, looking out once more
Over soaring Suffolk skies,
my eighteen year odyssey over.
(In case you're wondering, Penelope didn't wait) "Hello, it's your mother on the mobile-
we're driving through Colwyn Bay
en route to Anglesey, and I thought of you".
Some connections never go away.
they're just re-made with new energies. |
