from ushant to scilly
There are two specific and perhaps unusual practices I engage in while travelling, that connect me to a place and let me feel myself to be part of the grand history of the world.
There’s sketching, as you know.
But also, I sing.
It generally isn’t planned. I’m not great at it and do it only for my own ears. But it’s fun to learn songs, and natural to seek out songs about places that hold personal interest. When arriving at a place that has been calling to me for many years, there usually turns out to be a relevant song on my lips to gift to it.
Glenfinnan Monument and Loch Shiel
I’ve sung “I’m in a New York state of mind” while hoofing it on the streets of Manhattan. I’ve fumbled through “Rocky Road to Dublin” on a tin whistle from the banks of the Liffey. And I’ve sung odes to Prince Charlie Stuart from the marshy trails around Loch Shiel, where he garnered the allegiances of the clans in 1745 leading to their massacre at Culloden.
If you had seen my Charlie at the head of an army
He was a gallant sight to behold
With his fine tartan hose and his bonnie round leg
And his buckles all a pure shining gold
Dragonfly resting on my sketchbook at Glenfinnan Monument/Loch Shiel
Both sketching and singing are offerings that can bind a person to a place. I let the place in through my senses, gift it with my whole attention and all my love for beauty, and when I walk away it comes with me.
When singing a song within the place that inspired it, it feels like whoever wrote that song is right there with you, separated only by time, which hardly matters. And all the other people who have loved this place and sung this song are related to you not by bloodlines but through something weirder and deeper - we’re the blood kin of those hills and that loch, and the blood is made of song and story and attention and love.
We have the power to eschew the crowds, put away the phone, wander along an abandoned trail, and bond ourselves to a place in a way that will stick with us forever. And all it takes is paper, pen, and a song.
Sketch of the Glenfinnan Monument, 2011
On that “note”…
I’m starting to learn the 18th century naval song Spanish Ladies, as the perfect accompaniment for crossing the English Channel by tall ship next summer. I’m sure to see Ushant, and perhaps Scilly as well!
Farewell and adieu, to you Spanish ladies
Farewell and adieu, to you ladies of Spain
For we’ve received orders
For to sail for Old England
But we hope, very soon, we shall see you againWe’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors
We’ll rant and we’ll roar all on the salt seas
Until we strike soundings in the channel of Old England
From Ushant to Scilly is 35 leaguesWe hove our ship to, with the wind at Sou’west boys
We hove our ship to, our soundings to see
We rounded and sounded got 45 fathoms
Then we squared our main yard and up channel steered weWe’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors
We’ll rant and we’ll roar all on the salt seas
Until we strike soundings in the channel of Old England
From Ushant to Scilly is 35 leaguesThe next land we made ‘t was called “The Deadman”
Next Rams Head off Plymouth, off Portland and Wight
We sailed by Beachy, by Fairlee and Dungeness
‘Till we came abreast of the south foreland lightWe’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors
We’ll rant and we’ll roar all on the salt seas
Until we strike soundings in the channel of Old England
From Ushant to Scilly is 35 leaguesThen the signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor
All in the Downs that night for to lie
Then it’s stand by your stoppers, steer clear your shank-painters
Haul up your clew garnets, let tacks and sheets flyWe’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors
We’ll rant and we’ll roar all on the salt seas
Until we strike soundings in the channel of Old England
From Ushant to Scilly is 35 leaguesSo let every man toss off a full bumper
And let every man drink of a full glass
We’ll drink and be merry and drown melancholy
Singing, here’s a good health to each true-hearted lassWe’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors
We’ll rant and we’ll roar all on the salt seas
Until we strike soundings in the channel of Old England
From Ushant to Scilly is 35 leagues