Jeb Loy Nichols and Turley Richards move through beautiful autumn business in the hills. 

Beautiful Country
Turley Richards
1971
Warner Brothers

Last week I walked up to a favourite stand of oak trees, a couple miles from my house.  In the middle of the trees is a mossed and worn grave stone.  When I get there a rook is sitting on it, flapping in the dull light.  The stone, a waist-high slab of grey granite, was carved by someone who knew what they were doing; there’s a ring of oak leaves around the edge and, at the top, a sheep dog.  Beneath the dog is a name, Gruffydd Jones, and some dates, 1822 – 1871.  Below the dates are four lines; Byth/Ar Ei Ben Ei Hun/ Pwy Wedi/Y Bryniau Hyn.  And beneath that a further sentence: Gladdu Gyda Mes Ym Mhob Llaw.

My neighbour, years ago, told me that the first four lines translate to, Never Alone Who Has These Hills; and the second line to, Buried With Acorns In Both Hands.

I wonder, not for the first time, what kind of man Gruffydd was, what colour his hair was, where he lived, what his house looked like, what he ate for breakfast, what he felt about his parents, what he named his dog, how he filled his evenings.  

When I get home I stop for a minute and look at the pasture behind my house, at the border of red and near-red trees, at the browning grass, at the fleeing pheasants, at the single green pine in the corner; I smell the damp and composting earth; I listen to the slap of the swollen stream and wonder if this is where autumn begins.  If perhaps this field, this forgotten corner of the hills, this fenced realm, is the universal wellspring of autumn.  Perhaps this is the spot from which it all oozes up and, on an appointed day, spreads around the globe.  Perhaps I’m The Keeper Of Autumn.  This is my gift to the world.  This is what I offer.  I could, should I feel like it, pave it over and entomb autumn forever.  The world would spin in a perpetual summer.  The birds would never leave, the days would never shorten, leaves would never fall, chill winds would never blow.  Winter would never come.  

An unspeakable horror.

There are two trees, in the corner of the pasture, that cling to each other.  Rowans, heavy with berries.  They cling in the way that mountain trees do, grabbing hold of anything that’s solid.  Each tree, though, has miscalculated, for neither the field nor the other tree is solid; the earth is boggy, a nearby spring spits water constantly.  The trees, birthed in a swamp, lean to the left.  A little more, it seems, each day.  The clumps of red berries will, by year’s end, touch the mud.  

I check their downward progress daily.    

Perhaps a high wind will finish the job.

Am I saying something here about human coupling?  About clinging, about miscalculating, about building lives on shifting sands, about a downward progress?  No.  I’m looking at trees and talking only about them.  Trees are trees, people are people; let them each be different.  

To the left of the trees is a clump of borage.  The borage, even now in autumn, attracts a few bees.  I listen to the uneven buzz; the day offers little else.  I stand and wait while the wind keeps at me.  

Then I go inside and, as I often do, put on a record to cheer myself up.  I don’t plan it, I don’t seek it out, but the first record that my fingers find is the perfect record.  ‘Beautiful Country’ by Turley Richards.  It suits my mood.  Turley knows.  Let’s go out to the beautiful country.  Let’s smell the green grass air.  Let’s get the hell out of the city.  I bought it 30 years ago in Nashville and I play it once a month.  When Turley sings “c’mon everybody, come jump on my train”, I’m there.  I’ve got my ticket.  Me and Turley moving through all this beautiful autumn business in the hills.  

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