We were out of the hostel early and wandered about in the sun once more; we visited the Museum of Folk Magic, which was quite interesting.
I bought a copy of Sounds and read about Mood Six, Le Mat, and the London psychedelic revival which is really good in a way, but in another it seems like they’re all missing the point by turning what should be an attitude, a way of life, into a veneer of deliberate fashion-mongering. For the rest of the afternoon we sat by Spriggan Rock and I read John Wain, Kingsley Amis, Colin Wilson, and John Braine in Protest (I didn’t really get the Colin Wilson), or talked about music and the attitude of people in general, which we do a lot. I bought Fabian Essays in Socialism (1908) for 75p from a pottery shop and sent Claire a postcard.
After tea we had another highly enjoyable sojourn wandering up the little country lane I spoke of yesterday, but this time going even farther up, past fields of wheat stained by the late-evening sun and then down through dark trees and a desolate graveyard. There was a church that was straight out of a Hammer horror film, surrounded on all sides by gloomy trees. The whole place was incredible; dim, green, and utterly silent, tombstones decaying quietly amid shadows and long grass. Not a bird sang. The sunset was incredible, mackerel clouds lit from beneath by the sun.
The Bucca Morris Men were in full spate down by the bridge when we got back to the main road and we stood for a while, enjoying the scene, feeling almost patriotic, but a pride in tradition and custom which I like to think is healthier than jingoistic flag-waving. The whole evening was really quite good and would have been bettered only if, as Grant put it, “there were two friendly girls” with us. . . .