For the classical Greeks and Romans, Thule was the furthest known land, lying somewhere in the icy ocean North of Britain and Ireland. Its existence was believed for centuries, before Atlantic exploration proved otherwise, and it slunk quietly off the map. Mysterious Thule may have been an invention, a misidentification of or early name for Iceland, Greenland, Faroe or Shetland amongst other contenders.

In the North, where the ice and water are one, 
We’re sailing to Thule.
Over Ice floes and through frosts and snows,
We will toil in the twilit midday.

Sailing to where the Pole Star shines,
Guiding us to the coldest climes,
We reach the ends of the Earth in time,
The white whales and all the snow white bears,
Heralding our arrival there.
Shadowing our voyage to Thule.

Glassy waters reflect our daughters and sons,
Moonlit on the deep.
Who could look back from that dark inky black?
Are they ghosts or our cold-addled minds?

Sailing to where the Pole Star guides
Us to a world of freezing tides,
Washing the hard coastline of Thule,
Narwhals and all the snow white bears,
Reindeer, arctic fox and hare,
Hailing the late departed to Thule.

In the port, welcome all ashore,
Stalwart heroes of voyages passed.
Through long nights we will sing the songs of the seas,
Voice lost on the deep.

Sailing to where the land and sea,
Blend into an eternity,
One world becomes another in Thule.
If I have been lost at sea,
You’ll know where to come and look for me,
Crossing the icy waters to Thule.

Thule

On the edge of Sansom Wood in Sherwood Forest, an imposing victorian pumping station, nicknamed the 'Cathedral of Steam' rises above the treetops. 
When built in 1881, it represented an internationally significant leap forward in public sanitation, reducing cholera outbreaks in overcrowded Nottingham by supplying clean water from beneath the bedrock.

Unfortunately for the people of Sherwood Forest, Papplewick Pumping station (along with later mine-workings) had the unintended consequence of lowering the local water table, altering the landscape and drying up local rivers and springs. This song is written from the perspective of those affected.

Running through the forest,
It floods the woodland floor,
It sank into the mineworks,
They piped it to your door

They pumped it from the bedrock,
They sent it to the town,
And now the wheels of progress 
Go round and round and round and round.

The Cathedral of Sansom Wood
The saviour of us all,
If it hadn’t been for Papplewick,
There’d be no town at all,
And though Nottingham Ale is the very best of brews,
We need clean water too.

Rising like a spire,
The chimneys in the sky,
Watch as the big beam enines,
Turn flywheels as they fly,
Round and round like circle dancers,
In the month of May,
Taking Sherwood's water,
And pumping it a way away.

And watching as the river levels 
Drop way down below,
The water table falling 
As the city starts to grow,
And though Nottingham’s health is the very best of news,
We need that water too. 

And poverty comes calling in many funny ways,
But to’ve lost our source of water never ceases to amaze,
The saviour of the city can be no awful thing,
But how can we keep our livestock, if there’s nothing left for them  to drink?

Billowing her blackened smoke in to the forest sky,
The cathedral of Sansom wood, so mighty and so high,
Sometimes the best intentions have the very worst effects,
And ones you didn’t expect.

Cathedral Of Sansom Wood

Walking up hills and straightening lines,
Tidying mills. They’re open to the public. 
Bring it all out in national pride.
And nobody can tell you what it’s for. 

And out of the town there’s nothing that’s real,
And everything lost is poorly reinvented,
And out of despair, the bunting goes up,
And nobody can tell you why it’s there. 

Surveyors survey and planners delay,
Development stalled, we’re going to make a deal,
One National Park for a national loss.
And no one here remembers who lost what. 

This is my land and this is my theme.
We came here to play, now put on a performance,
Disneyfied land a marvel indeed. 
And no one here will tell you it’s not real.

And who will replace the miners and mills?
Who will replace the ones without a skill-set?
Never embraced, with nowhere to run, 
And none of them can tell you they don’t care. 

What is this place but somewhere to live?
Another commute? Another second home?
And dressed in a flag, but hollow and tame,
And no one here can tell you who’s at fault.

Community faked. A little Provence. 
Britannia dreams of barn-converted headstones.
Spending our cash and washing our cars,
And watching for the neighbours you can’t trust.

Believe in today. Believe in what’s real.
A decadent life in the old converted workhouse.
Creating a truth by selling these lines,
And no one here will tell you they’re to blame. 

No one here will tell you they’re to blame.

Land of the Perma-Bunting

A song written during the Covid 19 Pandemic.

On a sofa Sunday,
Sitting by a struggling houseplant,
Dirty cups are piling up where they shouldn’t be
And I’m watching things not going past, from many dirty windows,
Watching things upon a multitude of screens.

And there's hope in the afternoon,
We might be going out again,
There’s hope in the afternoon,
We might be walking free,
And we’re down to the last of all the things that we can take for granted,
Down to the last of all the things we shouldn’t be.

The Things We Shouldn’t Be

I wish for sun upon my window,
I wish for clouds to hide the moon,
I wish for days to pass so slowly,
Don’t let the future come too soon.

Man overboard, keep your head above the waves. 
Man overboard, something tells me you’ll be saved.

I wish for something in the news.
I wish for something passing by.
I wish for lands you cannot sail to. 
I wish the bar was set less high.

Man overboard just keep treading you’ll be fine. 
Man overboard just keep drifting take your time.

Take your time in all endeavours ‘cause you’re all you have to blame.
You’re only in the wake because you couldn’t  play their game.
Take note of your position, possession of the stars. 
Drifting past directed by the lies you’ve read so far.

Man overboard,  why d’you never learn to swim? 
Man overboard, did you fall or did you get pushed in?

Man Overboard

In a precinct dying on its arse, can’t level this shit up,
The concrete failed so long ago an half of it’s boarded up.
And bypasses to retail parks might make for stronger shares,
No Mayor of Greater nowhere standing up for God-knows-where.

In the make-believe of Rubberstamps-ville, no one’s going to mind,
As the wheels of fortune turn again and see requests declined,
No Mayor of Greater nowhere, 'cause the voters don't turn out
Because the bus no longer runs, and the streets are paved with doubt.

When the trains run fast to cities, but for you they don’t slow down,
Just a vortex on a platform where the station was pulled down,
And can you hear the lonely screams of a thousand God-knows-wheres?
And each of 'em has certain charm, come build a theme park there. 

Come visit Greater Nowhere see the art centre go up,
Go up for someone else who never came until it shut,
They see it got closed down again and say we did not care,
And use this as the evidence; No hope in God-knows-where. 

Well they keep us fed on pot holes just to keep the anger tamed,
Its almost got too easy now,  I’m sure  that they’re amazed,
There’s nothing like forced ignorance to keep the people sweet,
There’s nothing like community and nothing like my street. 

We’re the Mayors of Greater nowhere taking charge of destiny,
No need to put up barricades, they’ve been put up for me, 
And now as I peer over them to see what I despise, 
They’re laughing at me heartily and feeding me with lies. 

They were laughing at your ancestors, they’re laughing at you still,
They’re laughing to the bank just as they laughed you into mills,
They laughed you down the mines just as they laughed you stacking shelves,
They laughed so hard they even had you laughing at yourselves. 

So this is Greater Nowhere, come and join these little dots, 
We’ll show em we are powerful, we’ll show em what we’ve got, 
Come level this shit up my friend, come level if you can, 
You’d never take these places, like that ever was your plan.

You'd never take these places, like that ever was your plan.

Mayors Of Greater Nowhere

I remember dreams on a Friday night,
I remember howling gales and ice,
All the oceans crashing on the harbour wall, all at once. 

And by the concrete flank of a cheap hotel,
The drunks there will fight for their piece of hell,
And I can’t recall whether I was one of them, or not. 

In a dim-lit alley by the city wall,
Illegally parked cars and the shit of gulls, 
Where the traders of the night are heading to the merchant ships.

And she screams and swears in a kebab-stained dress,
Her drink down her front and her hair’s a mess,
And they say “He’s not worth it.” and you get the feeling that they’re probably right. 

And we give our thanks for the drinks we drank,
The laughter of lovers at the taxi rank. 
Yes, we all had a good time tonight, but we’re going home. 

Yes, we all had a good time tonight, but we’re going home.

Grand Harbour

Just to conclude, 
There’s no reason for waiting, 
All down, down to the river,
Anyone drowning is surely delivered,
All down, down to the sea,
All aboard the reasons to dream.
Keep on drifting with me its alright,
Sing Fatalist Anthems tonight. 

Come and unite,  
On a most fearful morning,
All down, down to the river,
Watch as the stones are rolled smooth in the water,
Down, down, down to the sea,
Keep faith whatever you dream,
Blind luck, the good and the bad, wrong and right
Sing Fatalist Anthems tonight.

Whatever will be, will be so whatever,
All down, down to the river,
See Newton and Schrödinger dancing together,
All down down to the sea
Drift on, cause drifting is free,
Don’t try to paddle against what will be,
Sing Fatalist Anthems with me

Fatalist Anthems

Last Orders 

We can’t ask for anymore than this,
We can’t ask for anymore that’s certain,
Like you’re staring into the abyss,
To face the final curtain. 

Keep me talking 'till the end of time, 
Keep me talking 'till the planets crumble, 
And I meet your gaze at every closing time, 
As from the pubs we stumble.

Closing time, you can’t get an Uber to the city,
They don’t work these streets,
Hand in hand, we’re falling again and it’s a pity, 
The night’s incomplete,
Are we incomplete?

Rain is falling on an August night, 
Autumn’s dagger to the throat of summer,
And the gutters flowing like so many pints,
We sheltered from the thunder,

Broken windows and there’s broken Homes, 
They shattered visions when they broke our bones,
And I can’t escape the words we never spoke,
Can you break free I wonder? 

Closing time, you’re closing your mind to all the beauty,
So whats wrong with me? 
We’re out of time, to help fix the flaws in our society,
So what’s wrong with me?
So what’s wrong with me?

Plenty more fish are swimming in the sea,
But this little pond we’re in is drying up,
And I gaze on the surface and see you and me,
Two goldfish round in circles. 

One more chance to see what we can be, 
The bells are ringing out for our last orders, 
And the leaves are falling off of every tree, 
And they’re closing down the borders. 

Closing time, you can’t get an Uber to the city,
Cause they’ve blocked the streets,
Walls fall down and waters are rising from the pity,
I will not compete, 
I cannot compete. 

Making plans you are the future’s ghost, 
Making plans you’re falling into reason, 
One more drink and we’ll be on the ropes, 
I'll have half whatever she’s on.

We can’t ask for any more than this,
Why think big if it is so damned scary,
I’d rather faithfully return to this, 
Let’s get drunk and get lairy. 
Just get drunk and get lairy.
Let’s get drunk and get lairy.

Last Orders

On the motorways,
And the dimly-lit streets below, 
A mist comes rolling,
Where the centipedes of the morning they crawl to work, 
The queues are forming,
And I don’t belive in ignoring,
All the emptiness that they left behind, 
The Emptiness.

There’s a metaphor in a fallen down tree, 
Brought down by stealth one morning,
And a taste of more in the history raised 
Well sure, They don’t need permission,
And the fires and quick demolition,
Left an emptiness for the left behind,
The Emptiness.

There’s a man who waits and he’s loosing his mind
To what he’s not even certain,
He’s so fortunate, 
He is always reminded when his world is hurting,
Can’t hear the distant screaming,
Of the emptiness of the hinterlands,
The Emptiness.

What to do with us?
What to do with this place?
Cut down to size by morning, 
Remebered once every four or so years, 
When Red and blue come calling,
And it wouldn’t be quite so galling, 
If the emptiness was to be addressed, 
The Emptiness.

The Emptiness

Don’t apologise, There is no second nature,
Don’t think twice before you jump, both feet before you,
I can see in your eyes the trust is gone.
And no surprise it was the lies that did it for you. 

You woke me up to tell me what I wanted to hear,
Make things up to take them so far out of here, 
That I can’t make head nor tail,
And still you tell me,
Its my life I need to make my own decisions,

Keep my bike, yes you can keep my rail card,
And keep my likes, yes, you can keep my data guarded
Where I’ll never retrieve an ounce of it,
But I believe that nothing good will come of it,

I pick you up and you alert my whereabouts, 
To every clown I’ve ever met, and hearabouts,
I have met quite a few, 
And that’s the truth,
They’re thick and fast as they are thick and quick to judge you.

And I’m surprised theres any room for this debate,
I thought It obvious theres little to be gained, 
And are you following me, or are we going
Where you told me to be, because I wasn’t looking

So who’s the owner of who? Or is it mutual?
Because I feel somehow abused by a chunk of metal, 
Ten million criminals living in my pocket,
And I’ll fend them off with an air of nonchalance, 
We’re normalising perpetual interference.

Living in my Pocket

Born of the coal seam and raised from the dust,
There's a concrete tower. The ironworks rust,
In time for a shower, come in from The Peaks,
There is a patch for the flower, and one for the weakling,

We know who we are, and we'll do what we can,
To be safe tonight in a hollow town.

Breaking the earth, forever unbound,
We are undefeated, the hollow town,
Hive educated and sorely deceived, 
We were blind to the plague as we underachieved

We know who we are, and we'll do what we can,
To be safe tonight in a hollow town.

Bypassed and broken, a spirit enforced,
By a false sense of history, a national divorce,
A brook overflowing, cascades in the streets,
There is an end to this evening, a hollow release,

We know who we are, and we'll do what we can,
To be safe tonight in a hollow town.

Black in the moonlight, the shadows embrace you
Like the shattered windows, the crimes without trace,
A scent of betrayal, a pinch of despair,
Wails out of all these morals that no one could bear.

We know who we are, and we'll do what we can,
To be safe tonight in a hollow town.

To be safe tonight in a hollow town.

Hollow Town

Lately everyone’s been falling asleep,
It’s alright to deny it, but it doesn’t make it okay.
Lately something has just started to creep,
Like a hole in the soul digging deeper down all the way.

Acting like it’s going away,
Saving up when it’s raining today,
Later maybe we can all start to be clear,
There’s something wrong round here. 

Lately nothing has been going as planned.
Lately all we get is white noise and hissing.
There’s friendly words and there are gestures ‘hello’
But behind the stranger’s eyes, well, there’s something that’s missing.

It’s no surprise if you let your guard down.
We’re not hard-wired to live in this town.
Later maybe we can all start to be clear,
There’s something wrong round here. 

Lately I patrol the streets in my dreams,
Lately I became the agent of everything.
Expert advisers can be out on the streets,
Call ‘em back with a clap when the shit hits the fan again,

Acting like the tyrant’s a clown,
A fever dream taking over the town,
Later maybe we can all start to be clear,
There’s something wrong round here. 

Lately I’m becoming things I am not,
Head down, mouth shut and I try to please everyone,
Sailing blindly into apathy’s rock,
Tolerate intolerance. “Keep calm and carry on”.

Lately I’ve been lost in their trance.
Dancing to the devil’s own dance,
Lately I would hold up my hands as they sneer,
I am what’s wrong round here.  

There's something wrong round here.

Something Wrong ‘round Here

In 1853, a ship load of Scottish coal miners bound for a new life in Canada put in to Valdivia, in what was known to them as Araucanía (Now in Chile’s Región de los Rios). After a shocking voyage, they refused to continue with their increasingly unhinged captain, and were swiftly offered work in Chile's coal mines, including the infamous Chiflón del Diablo (Devil's Blast) Colliery, which stretched out beneath the Pacific, relying on sea breezes for ventilation. The Scots permanently settled in Chile, accidentally founding one of its largest British expatriate communities.

The Colinda left the Clyde in 1853,
She was bound for Vancouver, for the mines sailed we,
From Crosshouse and Kilmarnock, from the coal mines to the sea,
We were following our New World dream.

And it's on the shores of Araucania, 
When the ice-capped isles we'd passed,
Said "We won't go no further with this captain, no."
Now we're working in the Devil's Blast.

Our Captain had a temper, and a pistol-o,
And he duelled with the surgeon out at sea,
He accused that brave crew of plotting piracy,
And his passengers accused of mutiny.

After rounding the Horn, we were just half way there,
To our fortune in Vancouver Island's mines,
When the drinking and the madness took our captain hold,
We were growing fearful for our lives. 

And it's on the shores of Araucania, 
When the ice-capped isles we'd passed,
Said "We won't go no further with this captain, no."
Now we're working in the Devil's Blast.

And when we had reached the rainy Chilean shore,
At Corral, by Valdivia put in, 
We said 'We'll sail no more!" and we all swam ashore,
Leaving the only man aboard the Captain. 

In Valdivia town we met young Thomas Bland,
And he listened to the tale we had to tell,
He said to passengers and crew, "Well, if you all know how to hew, 
Then there's work for you in Coronel."

And it's on the shores of Araucania, 
When the ice-capped isles we'd passed,
Said "We won't go no further with this captain, no."
Now we're working in the Devil's Blast.

For two-hundred miles or more, We walked the long Arauco shore,
Where the shaking of the ground put fear in men,
Who'd set charges underground, but were now startled by the sound
When Mother Earth got her revenge upon them.

No we'd never learned the tongue of Indian or Chilean,
But we could all use a pick when we were three,
So when Lota mine we reached, that vengeful pit upon the beach,
We went down to work the seams beneath the sea.

And it's on the shores of Araucania, 
When the ice-capped isles we'd passed,
Said "We won't go no further with this captain, no."
Now we're working in the Devil's Blast.

So we're living in a country where the mountains reach the sky,
And we hew out the coal so fine and black,
But we all shed a tear for the land we once held dear,
For we know that we are never going back.

To the land of the Condor we have all sworn for good,
Thanks to a Captain who's the worst upon the sea,
And though they may be waiting on Vancouver Island's shore,
It's a place that we are never going to be. 

And it's on the shores of Araucania, 
When the ice-capped isles we'd passed,
Said "We won't go no further with this captain, no."
Now we're working in the Devil's Blast.

It is hot, it is breathless in this stinking pit, 
On the shores of the deep Pacific, vast,
Yet as the ocean winds keep us breathing deep within,
We're all grateful for the Devil's Blast.

The Devil’s Blast

Pepys Island is a phantom Atlantic island, said to have existed around 47' south. Had it been real, it would have been strategically important & European powers wasted a lot of effort trying to find and claim it in the 17th & 18th centuries. The legendary island was probably a misidentification of the Falklands, which lie 260 miles to the south. This was the opinion of the polymath pirate and scientist, William Dampier, who’s vessel recorded a visit to the non existent island in 1683.
For more south seas influenced folk songs, see the album 'In a Long Country.' :)

Old Billy Dampier knew just where he was,
Now our bloody captian’s got us searching in the fog,
For faintest trace of a godforsaken rock,
We’re all on the lookout for a phantom isle. 

Anson and Byron, Cook and Joseph Banks,
Spent years in these waters and never got no thanks,
Now we poor sailors have to join their bloody ranks,
Searching and searching for a phantom isle. 

Forty seven south and the winds will blow,
The spray beat you back and whip the ocean into foam,
And all we want to know is whether we are going home,
Instead of searching and searching for the phantom isle.

Its pretty damned clear Pepys Island don’t exist,
neither hidden in Sargasso, nor’s it shrouded by a mist,
It’s obvious to anyone it’s just a bloody myth,
Another cursed mission to a phantom isle. 

Yes old Billy Dampier knew just where he was
Anchored off east Falkland, with his navigator lost,
Maybe he was led astray by the compass or the stars,
But they never set a foot on our phantom isle.

Phantom Isle

Multi-instrumental folk. All songs and tunes are originals, with many lyrics inspired by history and folklore. Played on mandola, charango, mandolin, maulincho, whistles, melodeon, accordion, balalaika, glockenspiel, venezuelan cuatro, nykelharpa and streichzither amongst others. Recorded on a Boss BR-1200 12 track.

Drury Hill Ghosts

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