I recently endeavoured upon a trip from my current residence in Sheffield, North England, to my family home in St. Clears, South Wales, equipped with only my bicycle and pannier to mark my 25th birthday on the 21st of April 2013.
A few days prior to setting off, I found both comfort and inspiration in stumbling across a reference from the Canterbury Tales that claimed April to be the fairest month for a pilgrimage. This sentiment was welcome as I began to stress over the prospect of cycling amid the never-ending 2013 winter of zero-degree temperatures and heavy snowfall.
I therefore took it upon myself to snap out of my early-April shivers by basking in the sense of optimism that spring was nigh, and decided to recite Chaucer's 'Preamble to the Canterbury Tales' to myself as a source of inspiration [I also bought a pair of lycra cycling leggings as back-up].
However my enthusiastic planning for the trip may have blurred my interpretation of the original poem, as you may be able to spot in my own adaptation of it ...
Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury
Tales
The Prologue in Modern English
The Prologue in Modern English
The Preamble [Adapted]
When fair April with his sunny
showers sweet,
Has swept the snow of March to its old retreat,
And bathed each vein in liquid of such power,
Its strength creates the newly springing flower;
When the West Wind too, with his sweet breath,
Has breathed new life – in every copse and heath –
Into each tender shoot, and the young sun
From Aries moves to Taurus on his run,
And those small birds begin their melody,
(The ones who 'sleep` all night with open eye,)
Then nature stirs them up to such a pitch
That folk all long to go on a bike pilgrimage
And wandering travellers tread new shores, familiar strands,
Seek out far shrines, renowned in many lands,
And specially from every shire's end
Of North England to South Wales he will wend
The abode of his family there to seek,
Where the young son will end his weary week!
Has swept the snow of March to its old retreat,
And bathed each vein in liquid of such power,
Its strength creates the newly springing flower;
When the West Wind too, with his sweet breath,
Has breathed new life – in every copse and heath –
Into each tender shoot, and the young sun
From Aries moves to Taurus on his run,
And those small birds begin their melody,
(The ones who 'sleep` all night with open eye,)
Then nature stirs them up to such a pitch
That folk all long to go on a bike pilgrimage
And wandering travellers tread new shores, familiar strands,
Seek out far shrines, renowned in many lands,
And specially from every shire's end
Of North England to South Wales he will wend
The abode of his family there to seek,
Where the young son will end his weary week!
Chaucer feat. Bowen
Subsequent blog post and weather report to follow in due course ...
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