Greendale tarn 24th August
We ascend the beck from near the edge of Wast Water. Dramatic waterfalls are disclosed by the curved valley and we stop frequently to look. Neither of us has visited this tarn before so there is more charge and anticipation in the air.
Finally we see it beneath the cliffs on one side and the curve of Seatallen on the other and in the distance Haycock and beyond Steeple.
Each tarn feels special and unique, each has its own valuable personality. Many tarns have the circular shape of a corrie – but then there are tarns like Sprinkling (sparkling) tarn and Angle tarn (at Patterdale) that are full of bays cliffs etc where the direction of exploration is not so much down and under as round the edges, into the inlets, and across to islands – these are reasons to linger, de-focus from any particular goal, leaving room for the aesthetic experience to enter which otherwise fails to appear in the presence of a too-insistent-objective . If we’re too focused on the goal we end up with the feeling of an immanence of something that fails to come to pass.
Greendale is the sort of tarn that lies between the two – not circular but nor is it as intricate as Angle tarn.
Another realisation occurs at this tarn – my/our style of art has changed as a result of the swims; but not only style – the format, for me, has changed from rectangular to circular. ( I think that Paul’s idea for the ‘Full Circle’ project on Morecombe Bay, which we completed two years ago, put the circle on our agenda.)
But there are further ramifications of the performance of ‘Swimcircle’ which are relevant – complete immersion in the subject of the art, immersion in the forces and sensations of the water; dissolving into the physical world rather than looking at it from a distance, from dry land; viewing the world from a horizontal swimming position, rather than standing; complete mingling with the subject matter rather than looking at it through the window of perspective produces a different art, necessarily involving the forces experienced in the immersion. Maybe this is all stuff already written in academic studies of performance art but this felt first-hand and therefore had depth to it.
Paul swam up and down, while I swam less this time having to adapt to the cold. Finding a small rock to use for the next post proved difficult as the tarn had a dark weedy bed strewn with boulders, but we finally locate one near the outlet just as we leave another fabulous body of water.
Richard
Burnmoor tarn
Another chance to enter what for me is an enchanted domain above Eskdale and this time the weather is brighter. We weave our way through the furns past Eel tarn and on towards the horizons that we looked longingly at last time, knowing that over the lip of one shoulder lay hidden Burnmoor tarn – infact it lay hidden for most of the journey there. Something about the shape of the hills round here, their lazy slow curves and unobtainable colour I find hypnotic. Later I read that Burnmoor refers to ‘Borrans’ or burial mounds on the moors. We cross a bridge over the river before the final slope to the edge of the tarn. I long to linger and somehow penetrate and possess the secrets of the place, where the river divides. This must all constitute the aesthetics, the art of the project and yet it remains terribly elusive.
Arriving at the edge of the water and looking across, the need to deal with practicalities steals the moment. We have a good and relatively easy swim despite a breeze wiping up some waves and emerge tired.
Afterwards the magic qualities of the place give way to a more mundane effort to get ourselves back, carrying packs that get heavier by the moment, and down for refreshment and rest.
Richard
30th July 09 Burnmoor Tarn
Another long, soggy underfoot climb up from the The Woolpack Inn, this time arrived at via the extremes of Hardknot Pass where the lesser motorist reversed gingerly from inclines and bends that proved too great. Richard, however, knew the road, although I was glad to arrive and park up.
Walked up passing Eel tarn again, now seemingly nearer in the brighter light. We likened it to a daily commute along a familiar route.
New boots bore me well along sodden floating ground and running streams. Black beetles fought battles for control of small piles of sheep shit in heroic struggles that had the appearance of mating rituals.
Before we set off, Richard shared with me the fact that there were pike in the tarn. He said he did not want to carry the knowledge alone. I thanked him for sharing the information. All the way up, my brain could not let drop the image formed and it was only when I had entered the water – clear and brisk under the westerly wind – that I let go the anxieties with more immediate, existential matters on which to focus.
The walk back down was twice as hard going and we both felt the distance after a good cool swim. A chilling breeze, even in warm weather, makes demands that are not always immediately apparent. We wore warm hats and jackets where other walkers out that day looked sideways at us in their short sleeves.
The pub was consistently refreshing and we made the return route via a different, easier road.
Two days later my legs still struggled up and down stairs.
Paul
