When I was 13, a friend whose family was part of a music and dance group called Cam Kernewek invited me along to a ceilidh. I don’t remember the first, but went back for more, and over three decades later my body knows how to dance to and play some of those Cornish and Irish and Scottish and Breton tunes—almost, it seems, of its own accord. I’ve come to think that being welcomed into that group was an incredible opportunity to learn not only to dance and play music by ear but to be part of something – a tradition, a community, something more than any individual that you can lose yourself in – that saved or at least served me well in the years to come.
My book Rocks of Nation discusses Cornwall’s geology and poetry, its mining and folklore and fiction among other kinds of literature. It is at times critical of Cornish literature when it is exclusive, when authors seek to reject incomers in terms of birth or blood for example, but what that book left out were dimensions of Cornish culture that can be the opposite to all that, embodying a way of being equal as one among others. As part of the Cam Kernewek dance group, we were patiently taught how to be part of circles and squares, to move together in time with a greater whole. As the tunes became familiar, I was also encouraged to have a go on the tin whistle and flute and bodhran – losing myself in the blended sounds of accordions and violins and mandolins and the rest – without seeing any of it on a page, learning it all “by heart”.
Rocks of Nation’s acknowledgements mention Cam Kernewek all too briefly, and it has taken another decade to realise how very important such early experiences have been for me (of singing in a Methodist chapel, too). It felt such a privilege to have some of that group of brilliant musicians come to play at my recent 50th Burns Night birthday. I would also like to acknowledge others who are exploring identity and Kernow beyond academic or literary discourse, such as Sovay Berriman in her inclusive and wonderful Meskla project.
Those early musical experiences led me to carry on playing music in various bands in my later teenage years and then in my 20s to my PhD, that eventually became Senses of Vibration, at the heart of which is bodily sensations of music as sound.
I’ve just finished reading Bessel van der Kolk’s The Body Keeps the Score, which discusses how trauma can have long-term effects on the body, and how traumatic memories can be preserved with “astonishing freshness”, which often cannot be talked about, existing beyond logical narrative. It strikes me that the body can remember music and dancing from younger years in a surprisingly powerful and non-linguistic way, too, that could be an antidote to trauma—a positive remembering. However hopelessly naive in such times as these, my dream is also that it could be an antidote to capitalism in being traditional (recycling as well as innovating) and collective.
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Other books I’ve read recently and recommend – all brilliant novels narrated by women in the first person:
Sarah Bernstein’s Study for Obedience - at the core of which is suspicion of and hositility to incomers
Jacqueline Harpman’s I Who Have Never Known Men - an imprisoned group of women with memories of the world they were taken from--memories that the narrator doesn't share
Charlotte Wood's Stone Yard Devotional - like Harpman's novel set in a community of women, in this case a convent, but leading very differently to memories of a world/past the narrator has tried to escape
Chelsea Bieker’s Madwoman - memories of a violent childhood keep erupting into a very different present.
As this post indicates I am as ever interested in the narration of life stories whether non-fiction or fiction (and having mentioned the first two may as well mention my third monograph about life stories in the form of oral history, Sound Writing).
This short piece has rambled out in a break from my novel writing, having just submitted my manuscript for the first-person narrated Ghost Snow & River to The Literary Consultancy for an assessment following considerable revision in light of brilliant mentoring from Charlie Carroll - author of another Cornwall-based first-person novel, The Lip - all thanks to DYCP funding from Arts Council England.
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