Wordsmith
the man with the worlds ’ best job
Kev Reynolds talks about the didgeridoo on a misty hilltop...
C
linging to the southeast slope of the Downs near
Chichester, the ancient trees of Kingley Vale
are among the oldest living plants in Britain.
Gnarled and twisted, it was winds off the sea and the
steepness of the slope that limited their development,
so instead of growing tall and straight, many of the
yews have abandoned any attempt to reach for the sky
and instead have plunged their branches downward,
burrowing underground and then re-emerging as
other trees nearby. There is no undergrowth, for the
sun is unable to penetrate the mess of tangled limbs,
the lack of light creating a wild and bewitching scene,
whose tunnels, archways and caverns recall the silence
of a cathedral after nightfall. Disney could set it to
music, the curious branches becoming arms that wave
and dance; faces appearing to haunt your dreams.
It’s his job, his business. He’s a professional
didgeridoo maker. Sells them on the internet
and at craft fairs.
Above this dark and mysterious grove the downland
crest reveals a panoramic view that takes in Chichester
Harbour and Hayling Island in one direction, and a
distant fold of hills in another. On it there’s a row
of Bronze Age burial mounds, raised like the humps
of a camel that elevate the view that is all the more
welcome by contrast with the forest gloom below.
Out of the darkness into the light; from mystery to
revelation.
We emerged onto the first of the mounds one
morning and there was no view. Mist had drifted in
from the sea and with not a breath of wind there was
no likelihood of it lifting any time soon.
Out of the mist from the landward side appeared
a solitary walker. A woman in her late-forties, I’d
guess, she had a cheap waterproof jacket slung over
a shoulder, and muddy trainers on her feet. She was
red-faced from the uphill effort, but a bright smile
stretched across her mouth.
‘Pity about the lack of view,’ I said by way of
greeting. ‘Without the mist you can see a long way.’
‘Oh, I know that. Been up here many times.’ She
bent over to catch her breath, then stood upright
and rolled her shoulders. The smile remained as she
ran her fingers through a mop of unruly hair, and I
thought: here’s a woman determined to enjoy the
moment. No amount of mist will dampen her spirits
today.
‘You live nearby then?’
‘Not now. But I used to. Born and raised down there,
I was,’ she nodded into the gloom. ‘Devon’s home
now,’ she volunteered. ‘Dartmoor.’
‘Back here to visit relatives, are you?’
‘No. There’s no-one left. Dad died years ago and
Mum passed away a while back. But we come back
every year to collect wood, me and my husband.’
‘That’s a hellova way to come looking for wood,’ I
said.
‘Ah, but this is special. Yew,’ she confided.
I was concerned then. The yew trees of Kingley Vale
are protected as part of a nature reserve, and I was
about to remind her of the fact when she continued:
‘Don’t worry, we don’t cut anything. Just take pieces
of deadwood – and keep well away from the nature
reserve.’ She nodded in the opposite direction. ‘My
fella - he’s down in the valley right now.’
‘But why yew?’ I asked. ‘What’s so special about
yew?’
‘It’s for his work.’
‘What work is that?’
‘He makes didgeridoos!’
She said it so matter-of-factly I thought I’d
misheard, so asked her to repeat it.
‘Didgeridoos,’ she said. ‘He makes didgeridoos.’
‘As a hobby?’
‘No. It’s what he does. It’s his job, his business. He’s
a professional didgeridoo maker. Sells them on the
internet and at craft fairs. He’s the best there is. He’ll
never make a fortune, but who cares? If he’s happy, so
am I.’
Now I once went to Australia and saw and heard
didgeridoos played by Aborigines. There, with the hot
Australian sun beating down and the sandstone cliffs
of the Blue Mountains nearby, it was a memorable
experience. What’s more, it was part of the indigenous
Aboriginal culture that belonged there. But didgeridoos
on Dartmoor? Come on!
We looked at one another, face to face. She was still
smiling. It was the smile of a contented, middle-aged
woman. But was she having me on?
Don’t ask me how he came to make his first
didgeridoo, but he was so chuffed with the
sound it created, that he made another...
‘Tell me this,’ I asked. ‘I’m intrigued. How did he
become a didgeridoo maker? I can’t imagine that was
his ambition when he was at school. And I’ll bet his
career adviser never suggested it!’
‘Not at all,’ she replied, and looked down at her feet
as though she had a confession to make and needed to
avoid eye contact. ‘When I first met him he was a drug
dealer. A real mess. I was his probation officer.’ Then
she looked me in the eye once more. This time her
expression was more serious, and I detected a slight
watering of emotion. ‘I brought him up here one day
and it changed his life. He said he realised then that
there were other ways of getting a high. He cleaned
himself up and a year later we crept off to a registry
office, got married and ran away to Dartmoor where he
discovered he had a talent for working with wood.’
She brightened then with the memory. ‘Don’t ask
me how he came to make his first didgeridoo, but he
was so chuffed with the sound it created, that he made
another. And another. Now that’s what he does for a
living. He’s even exported a few to Australia.
‘I told you he’s the best there is. And it’s all because
of the view from here that we can’t see this morning. It
works miracles.’
You know what? I believe her.
www.kevreynolds.co.uk
autumn 2019 | Outdoor focus 9