#night-walk

[lonelyumbrellamen]

🌙Night-Walker

[nightrangers]

Through the forest - first night part 2

We drove around for a little while, looking for a place that sold coffee. Our extended 6 hour walk had left us out of many supplies but in our midnight picnic we’d replenished most of our energies apart from our caffeine-driven desire to live. We found a little kebab-shop on Whiteladies Rd, manned by a sweet Asian man who instantly mistrusted us. I guess we did look pretty strange with all our hiking paraphernalia, head torches and walking books, but most strange of all, with most of our sobriety intact. We bought cheap Nescafe and went back towards the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

The next part of the night was going to stretch us a bit. It required that we walked through Leigh Woods until we’d had enough, no one had actually said that we should stay there all night, in fact a few comments had alluded to the uneasiness of hiking through the forest in absolute darkness, we might just be there for a couple of hours or so, who knew?

We parked up near by, got extra layers of clothing on, sorted our media capturing technology and got out of the car not before listening to Hot Pants by the B52s, somehow extremely apt for this occasion. It made things light and exciting, slightly alien too. I could sense some kind of vibe that I can only describe as excitement due to the uncertainty of what lay ahead. We instantly went into hysterical laughter as soon as we left the car. Jono was changing the batteries of his recorder and it reminded us of someone changing a baby’s nappies, the Zoom recorder soon took the personality of Don King, with its furry muff for a wig and a bright-red Terminator eye looking at us. Standing there on its tripod, this inanimate object became the fifth Night Ranger, ready and wild.

We found a bridge that was empty and dark, after 1am they turn the lights off. There was something calming and post-apocalyptic about walking along a tourist attraction when it’s completely empty. We walked on the road where otherwise cars would have passed by. The bridge was and will always be ours.

We stopped in the middle as Laura told us the story of the two giants, battling each other for the love of a maiden giantess. They were brothers and one of them died. Out of the fight the Avon gorge was born, yet the giant’s sadness could be felt throughout the night. It was then that a police car came by to see what we were doing so late at night on a bridge renowned for attempted suicides. All our anti-establishment talk went out the window, we greeted them with gleeful joy and after they saw our cameras they themselves stated: you are taking pictures, fair enough. And left.

We walked towards the woods but found it a little difficult to locate the main entrance, we didn’t just want to go through the first edge we saw, but at the same time we had no clear idea where we were going: we were being led by a non-Bristolian. We walked along an A road until we found a tarmac road that took us to the very centre of the forest. We talked about how genetic information, our experience of having been other creatures, was reflected in the stories and essences of humanity.

The full moon was bright and friendly, in the shadows, silhouettes of chicken-like trees and hairy branches, began to add to a quieter atmosphere amongst the group, some tension, nervous laughter, not so many cackles, our senses were listening out for danger.

After some equipment adjustments and a few swigs of whisky, rum and vodka, we ventured into the forest. All lights out, we let our eyes adjust to the darkness and guide us through. We walked through paths up to a T-junction and plowed on through wild territory. We stopped at a spot where to paths merged and for the first time we were completely silent.

The forest was silent too. It was a cold night and I became aware that I had expected a lot more sound, noises, rustling, fauna doing its thing: the silence was unnerving and my mind began to play tricks on me. From then on I inhabited an inner space where I tried to stay calm and remind myself that everything was ok. There were times when I was able to do this but I also sensed some kind of tension in the group.

Billy kept on wanting to talk and joke, which meant I couldn’t really listen out for danger. Jono and Laura were silent so it became impossible to gage how they were doing. I thought it couldn’t just be me who was freaking out. Sounds were so rare and quiet that at one point where we’d stood still for a while to listen to the forest I was certain that a voice had spoken to me from behind my shoulder. Immediately I realized it was the strap of my back-pack rubbing against my jacket.

I was somehow familiar to this kind of paranoia. It has to do with attempts at reconnecting with the Everything, really letting go and trusting in whatever happens. What is it though, inside of me, that is full of fear at so much space, that allows the imagination to paint all kinds of strange images and make terrifying suggestions? Is it the fear I feel for the path I have chosen in life?

On one occasion we were all quiet and a breeze blew through the forest. Everything creaked and for the first time in a long while I realized the forest was alive and we were not alone. The thought both terrified me and calmed me down. It was a night for contradictions.

We were walking on another path when we heard a clear rustling through the leaves in close proximity. Jono said: I think that was a person. Laura made a funny face but instantly began moving towards the opposite direction. Billy became quiet and his face betrayed some inner instinct to flee. We all did just that. Keeping our cool, but just about, we continued walking until we found an abandoned hut that in the shadows looked even more creepy than anything we’d seen before. There was wood cut and laid out in organized piles. The certainty that there were humans nearby was accepted by all and somehow added to our unease. Laura was looking over her shoulder and admitted she felt someone was following us.

At that point I felt it was necessary to deconstruct the situation. I suggested that we were all freaking out, myself included and that this could be due to the fact that we hadn’t taken any breaks for two hours to drink coffee or water, even to eat something, this meant that our bodies were feeling under siege. I suggested we did what humans did, that maybe this was why fires existed and why songs had been invented, to keep the fear out and connect with our inner human worlds. I felt it was good to begin talking about this, and so we went about looking for wood to make a fire, still a little nervously and looking over our shoulders.

The wood was too damp and the fire wouldn’t light. But we stayed there and spoke, explored our fears and tried to decide why we had all freaked out so much. At what point had paranoia seeped through the entire group? How come, if we thought there was a human around, we hadn’t spoken out, made some connection, extended a friendly hand? The dawn seemed ever so distant then.

-Pablo

April 2013

[nightrangers]

Pilgrimage is premised on the idea that the sacred is not entirely immaterial, but that there is a geography of spiritual power. Pilgrimage walks a delicate line between the spiritual and the material in its emphasis on the story and its setting – though the search is for spirituality, it is pursued in terms of the most material details – of where the Buddha was born or where Christ died. Or perhaps it reconciles the spiritual and the material for to go on pilgrimages is to make the body and its actions express the desires and beliefs of the soul. Pilgrimage unites belief with action, thinking with doing, and it makes sense that this harmony is achieved when the sacred has material presence and location.

Solnit

[nightrangers]

Night Walk 1 - first half

That first walk was indeed an interesting one. It was very cold and a late winter breeze made everything feel colder. We were however in high spirits when we met at the bus station. I’d been on a mad mission trying to find a parking spot for the car somewhere in the city, so that the car would become our base 6 hours into the walk.

The night didn’t quite go according to plan, but what occurred was possibly much better. We had scheduled the night in such a way that we would all lead 3 hours of the walk in the following sequence: Laura would take us on a tour of central Bristol exploring its darker historical links, the Jono would take us into Leigh Woods and out, Billy would then guide us from Colston Tower up the Avon and back into the centre, and I would then get everyone lost somewhere in the suburbs. 4 neatly packaged parcels of time through which to explore the city.

However, it became apparent that things weren’t going to work like this. We were standing in front of the Crown Court, debating about whether this institution was worthwhile or not, when we realized that time had flown by, having spent at least an hour at our first destination.

The debate was necessary; it seemed crucial that we explored all emotions and thoughts relating to the court, the establishment, the rule of law and our relationship to it. Was this not why we were engaging in the city through such abnormal ways, to step out of our comfort zones and experience the city a little closer to the bone?

At each place that Laura chose we would tie a ribbon to represent whatever it was that as a collective we felt about that place. For the Crown Court we all felt ambiguity: respect for Human Rights defense at home and keeping us safe, but disrespect for Human Rights abroad and contributing to an atmosphere of fear through colonialism.

We eventually continued moving to the Seven Stars Pub, where the first abolitionist began gathering evidence against the slave trade. By then we had decided to just go with the flow and abandon our schedule. The night was time-less and so we could inhabit it like that, which meant that we wouldn’t have to worry about getting to places for this or that time, we could just drift and experience.

It was in this state that I was able to see Bristol in a new light. It made a big difference that I had company. I felt supported by the group yet also felt that we were in a little bubble, walking in a different dimension from all the other people we passed by on their way home, jogging, en route to somewhere… I began noticing buildings more, details from ancient architecture that survived, the layout of the roads and how this affected me, how it made me feel safer or exposed.

We walked through empty streets to Temple Meads and pondered on travel and love. After a coffee we went to St Mary Redcliff and looked at the way the stone building, reaching out into the sky contradicted an urge to be more grounded and connected. In the sky the almost-full moon was still and silent, the air crisp and cutting but for the first time, neutral streets became playgrounds, bridges became sci-fi walkways, grand buildings became museums.

We finally made it to the top the foot of Cabot Tower. On that Hill you could almost see the whole of Bristol and I thought of how much I preferred this view at night than in the day, with the little lights and intense colours from the estate windows and the haze blurring the amber light onto the horizon. I must come back more often.

We were in great moods then and we laughed like mad people. Billy told us the story of how he broke both his arms dunking a basketball into the net at school. It was so horrific I laughed hysterically. But I think the group was happy, I think we were all aware that we were sharing a unique experience this night, a powerful reconnection to something and it made us somewhat giddy.

We jumped over the wall and sat under the gazing eyes of Moloch, Cabot Tower looking down on us. I remembered that passage in Howl and read it out loud whilst we stared down the mechanical eyes of the beast. For me the poem represents everything about why this kinds of experiences are important, its about experiencing existence with your clothes off and your eyes, nostrils and mouth wide open, taking it all in and as far away from the auto-pilot button as you can get. With Moloch we laughed and dared to believe that for now we were winning, that Moloch’s hands hadn’t quite embraced us into a sleepy comfort.

Home made vodka, coffee and biscuits: fuel for the last few miles across the Caged Garden and the slave-built houses of Clifton past the zoo.

We’d made it to the car, our base. Almost in silence we devoured our packed lunch whilst listening to white man blues. Such a strange scene. If there had been anyone around they would have laughed, but the streets were completely empty by then, so we laughed at ourselves instead.

  Pablo

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