The Oasis of Edge Hill
Sudden panic erupts as soon as I sit down at the lake. A group of students throw some scraps of bread into the water. Seagulls swoop down almost instantly and swarm the area. Ducks speed as fast as they can to the water’s edge, clumsily tripping over their own feet.
Some of the ducks are uninterested in the thought of bread and remain asleep on the grassy bank. They sleep perfectly perched on one leg. They hold as much grace and stamina as a flamingo and don’t even falter when the harsh wind ruffles their speckled feathers.
A duck nearby catches my eye. He waddles over, occasionally wagging his curled black tail feathers. I notice that his face isn’t as emerald as the others, but he still holds an air of regality. His small beady eyes study me. He turns away; clearly disgruntled at the lack of bread I have to offer. He stretches out a couple of feet away and folds his matted emerald face behind his wing. He falls asleep instantly and seems oblivious to all around him.
I find it quite sad that he sleeps alone. All the ducks around him sleep in twos. Yet that solitary regal duck looked peaceful and contented with his own company.
I write a couple of poems, taking advantage of the silence of my surroundings and try to make myself comfortable on the cold bench I have taken as my workstation for an hour.
The silence is cut short by a group of nearby geese. Water clatters and splinters like glass as they flap their great Canadian wings and lift their huge bodies out of the lake and into the sky. Their takeoff is anything but graceful, and yet once in the air they glide softly. This of course is ruined by their noisy honks of excitement. Perhaps they are just so relieved they managed to all takeoff.
I then notice the soft trickling sound of water running into the lake. I hadn’t listened to it properly until now. The continuous sound is so calming and peaceful that it blends into the background of the lake. But the noise is definitely there. It can’t even be drowned out by the chatter of passing students, or the loud hysterical laughing of nearby ducks. It slowly carries on running in the background. The steady stream at the campus’ heart.
- Becky Hayes
Untitled
Beer, spirits are advertised but the smell of coffee is overwhelming as students try their hardest to wash away their hangovers and the stale alcohol from their mouths. Groups of students walk to and from various different places with new friends and equally new conversations on the go, all corresponding with the new buildings, trees and paving stones. There are people without belonging, a blur of fluorescent yellow and diggers, wires that trail along the floor threatening to trip the new students with their brand spanking new folders and books. Tattoo’s and dyed hair seems more at home here amongst the modern architecture of the Hub, rather than with the old fashioned styling of the main building, but valued so equally and respected in awe. So much contrast surrounds the new building, old and new, complex and simple and silence and noise.
So much noise, a rattling cage and a chainsaw, such a racket so out of place in what should be a peaceful learning experience. Disruption in a place of peace.
Jordann Chetwynd
Watching the Hub
The builders are preparing for another hard day’s graft, conveniently situated by the café. Freshers dart frantically, probably victims of the late trains this morning. Nearby, a group of Southerners discuss the events of the night before, shame has no bounds; although judging by their hungover state...
An older woman’s eyes meet mine as she scampers past clinging to her handbag for dear life, sometimes a smile can mean so much. It's funny how strangers can remind you of loved ones. A hard-nosed student glares as he waltzes in front of me, the thought of me also wearing sandals in this weather! Pah! A good old fashioned Northern accent draws my attention as a builder walks away in old wellies, battle scarred with a light brown mud, oh the contrast. One of the 'chief exec' builders barks instructions across the yard that are so Scouse, only those accustomed to the accent could interpret.
Looking around at the modern buildings, those being constructed and the new faces; I feel a sense of pride at being part of this, and I also feel at home. I know the builders are envious of this by the way they look at me with my messy, windswept hair bobbling as I scribble away in my pad. The hub certainly lives up to its name, it seems to be the busiest part of the campus. Inane chatter, a squeaky wheelbarrow and an eye-catching advert on the newsagent window would all draw your attention, not forgetting the aroma of those tasty hot dogs too.
A young lad in a Newcastle United shirt walks by, hands fastened to his hips. I feel a sense of happiness and nostalgia at the memory of my team beating his 4-3 in an epic encounter many moons ago. His current stance would probably be the same in reaction to that defeat. A member of staff forces a 'meals on wheels' type tray up a path, this evokes my mental note of what to have for lunch today, how the mind of a hungover Scouser wanders.
As images of the ultimate fajitas run through my mind, I notice a lad about my age on a nearby bench also writing. His eccentric green hoodie ever present in the corner of my eye. I wonder if he'll be my first creative writing buddy. I wonder if he has also noticed the comings and goings which occur when sitting outside the Hub.
I soon see a group of girls. I reminisce to 2.20am the night before, and the sight of intoxicated revellers singing whilst leaving the student union, if only those mild mannered and cautious young women could see themselves a few hours previously. This cold bench has become too uncomfortable and I eye up the orange swivel chairs inside the Hub, they seem a more attractive and comfy prospect.
Peter Hughes
Mass Observation
I am sat to the left of the revolving doors of main reception, my first thought is to have a cigarette, having already observed three other smokers huddled in the corner. So here I am, in a good position, coffee from the hub and a cigarette, pure bliss. The sky is heavy and slate grey, but no rain as yet.
Several of my fellow students congregate at the main gate like survey takers, waiting to pounce, all scanning their vicinity for an observation of note.
The now familiar parking attendants are busy directing cars, trucks, visitors, and deliveries, only able to grab snippets of conversation between instructions. There is a girl in a white t-shirt with large red lettering and a number" 85852 "; apparently she can answer any Q". She looks lonely eager for victims and if I look too long she will get me.
The Grounds men arrive on an impressive bright orange digger hauling an array of plants to further enhance the already fabulous grounds, getting on their hands and knees giving us the age old view of "the builder’s bum”.
The main building reminds me of a stately home, aged and full of character, blighted only by the bright green revolving doors, the main gate opening to a circled drive
Like an image from a Jane Austin novel. A tree, magnificent stands to the right, majestic and beautiful swamps a bronze statue that disappears against the trees splendour.
Workmen are now sporadic having completed most of the vast renovations that have of late dominated the campus, one walks past, his drill in hand like a cowboy ready to shoot. Laptop man wanders about trying to capture something everyone else will miss; the coffee is good, time for another fag.
I wish I could sit crossed legged on the wall, a girl is writing and looks comfy, I imagine the pain that position would cause me. Bright blue hair and typical student attire she fits like a round peg in a round hole as opposed to me square. Another workman using a
Plastic mat as a batman cape flapping in the wind emphasising his perceived status as a super hero, his massive boots caked in mud. A sudden flurry of jcbs building trucks and skips
Trundle past, big, loud and cumbersome. I can hear talk of a massive satellite heading not for earth particularly but a girl in a bright red coat.
Laptop man lights up a cigarette; great, he has vices too, the sun is really trying to burn up the clouds with some success, the heat getting through warms my skin and all feels well.
Denise Walton
The road of a scholar
The campus is alive, it breaths, it sleeps and it consumes them in a wrapping of modernisation. It has been good to those who have ventured its path and relentless to those who dare mock its velocity. It is a fresh year and the campus is accompanied with fresh people. The nervous walk down the path of academic establishment is imprinted upon the faces of many, the subtle wind flows through each and every individual in a haunting manner; mocking them as they walk. The sun shines through a manic moving pattern of clouds, highlighting the dominating landscape of old and new. The ear piercing sounds of man-made machinery float forcefully through the grounds; it is an invasion of noise pollution attacking the silence with the force of a million Spartans. The coldness creeps into their bones and lingers like the smell of raw meat.
People pass by gradually with time and so does the looming darkness of the blocked out sun; it begins to shine upon the faces of many, allowing hope to penetrate the soul. It shall not rain. The surroundings become a welcoming sight of beauty, the structures glisten like supernovas dominating the sky. The scent of winter is dancing upon each and every breath; delicately exposing its magical gift of creation.
The mood changes upon the faces of those who pass by. Promising smiles of excitement manipulate the fear of the unknown, the illuminated buildings begin to re-tell the same story of the scholars who walked this path once before.
Aaron Robinette
Zone 3 – The Lake
The smell of fresh air, the taste of September, the sight of softly flowing water, the feel of a light breeze upon your face, the sound of a mixture of students and construction work in the distance, the feel of an Autumn morning – a treat for all the senses. The sky is a dirty shade of grey, which contrasts greatly with the striking greenery surrounding the reflective pool of water, ducks swimming on its surface. A voice comes loudly from behind, followed by the very loud and almost angry noise of a Goose; “If you have £2.10, goose, I’ll go and get you your own sausage balm, get out of my personal space!” That was followed by the laughter of everyone in ear shot of said voice. The only noises that could be heard were the ducks, geese and the occasional outburst of ‘Don’t bite my leg, goose!”.
People of all different ages, sexes, races and sizes walk by, each talking among their friends, only snippets of their conversations can be heard before they walk away. A total of 7 benches sit beside the water, each one telling a different story with each unique scratch and carved word. The picturesque landscape creates the image more of a botanical garden than a university campus, a privilege each student should count themselves lucky for. Looking to the right, a cafe filled with students on different courses with different dreams sharing coffee and conversations, new friends being made and old friends conversing about their day. The amount of people who have walked these grounds is a mystery, each step of each individual imprinted into the history of the concrete and soil. The laughs shared, the cries comforted, the coffees drank and the conversations united among students sitting by this lake, all represent thousands of degrees in the making.
Louise Strefford
Mass Observation: Friday 23rd September 2011
Edge Hill Library
Silence is apparently golden,
In this place of tranquillity.
But isn’t it unnerving,
How silence cannot be?
Because when you think it’s quiet,
And can hear a pin is dropped.
That young man in the corner,
Has thoughts which can’t be stopped.
Are they ideas for an essay?
Maybe a worry or a fear?
Or is he simply thinking,
Should I go and have a beer?
Or that girl who’s at the table,
Her mind is lost in space.
For the notebook she was reading,
Is now the book of Face.
For amongst the sea of pages,
Are the thoughts in us that grow.
And if they had a voice at all,
Our minds would simply blow!
So instead we all just sit there,
With pens and laptops in our hands.
They say silence is golden,
I truly think it’s grand.
Tasha Williams
Making an entrance
The symmetrical ‘art deco’ building is the hallmark of Edge Hill University. It is the first obvious symbol that greets newcomers as they arrive on foot, by car or on the vinyl emblazoned shuttle bus.
From my vantage point, I observe the comings and goings of the newcomers. Curiously, many pay little attention to this noble structure as they wander off, left and right to their assigned departments. This is a shame as this is the focal welcoming point.
Spread out like an apron in front of the building are carefully manicured flowers, bushes and lush green lawns – green being the house colour of the university. Statues of varying styles punctuate the gardens.
The main entrance is flanked by pairs of ‘Doric’ columns above which there is the institution’s carved crest, higher still, on the roof, a squat belfry tower. Lead grey clouds cast a sombre mood over what should be a day of celebration.
Entering the reception area there is a feeling of warmth and calm efficiency. I take my seat on one of the muted brown chairs and pause to collect my thoughts. In the corridor beyond, staff and students are coming and going, all with a sense of purpose. I gaze upwards and am fascinated by the embellished ceiling, wondering how many have passed this way before, never paying heed to the art of the long forgotten designer.
What lies beyond this lobby? A sense of vitality, new companions and most of all, a quality of education that is fresh, unstuffy, constantly on the move.
As I retrace my steps into the open, I am aware of many contrasts: orange construction vehicles and bright coloured hard hats still in evidence – the renovation is still incomplete. High visibility jackets of the car park marshals, then another bus arrives – yellow this time, disgorging even more eager but confused students.
Standing alone, a red pillar box is ready to receive letters to parents from homesick ‘freshers’. Despite the technical revolution, the art of letter writing is still with us.
I look towards the sky. The clouds are dispersing on a westerly breeze. Patches of blue emerge, Peggy’s Blue Skylight, perhaps?
Rodney Cotter
Mass Observation
An old majestic stone building engraved with traditional crests depicts the scene where thousands of eager, energetic yet nervous faces enter in awe of the huge sight in front of them. The country ambiance around the place is emphasised by the mass of large trees and vegetation around the building; yet the place is alive with the sound of autumn. Reddish brown leaves are scattered across the green grass and two large ancient trees stand impressively at the entrance of the university.
A lawn mower outside churns up the long grass as a pigeon bobs up and down foraging for worms. Mixed with the natural beauty of the area comes large building machines whirring and beeping. Loads of cars of many different colours and shapes roam backwards and forwards across the campus and the place swarms with activity and energy.
A tall construction worker roars to his mate whilst clouds of dust and dirt swirl into the autumn air. The new buildings are as modern as the old stone main building is impressive, overlooking the large field opposite under the cloudy grey sky. Students gossiping about subjects and nights out in Ormskirk; a typical day from the perspective of a student on the university campus.
Matt Palin
Creative Writing Year 1 warm-up exercise
As I took the time to stand and observe the surroundings of the university’s main entrance, I initially saw objects as mere objects. However, after a number of minutes of observing, I saw a deeper meaning behind all of these so called ‘things’. Each of these meanings oozes optimism.
There were many people walking in different directions, all with different goals and aspirations. I noticed numerous windows on the main building. These must surely represent ‘windows of opportunity’ that the university offers?
Many trees have been grown there, much like the many futures grown at this university. There was a great sense of new beginnings, aided by the peaceful, tranquil atmosphere in the air.
All of the several signs and symbols in the area were assisted by the yellow-jacketed wardens pointing students in the right direction. Although they were pointing to the right department physically, I feel that the staff here will point in the right direction on a deeper level in all areas of study and university life.
I found the ‘ten miles per hour’ sign quite ironic. Despite there being a limit on how fast a car can travel upon entering the campus, there is absolutely no limit on how much a student can learn whilst here.
My eyes were drawn to the large, temple-like beams by the reception doors. Is this a reminder to us students to ‘worship’ every minute spent at this organisation?
The scenery was very pleasant there, with much greenery. The colour ‘green’ being the operative word. Alike the traffic light system, the greenery was telling me to ‘go’ and don’t look back.
There was even a small ramp sloping upwards upon the main entrance door. I interpreted this to indicate that by entering university you are most definitely being elevated.
Admittedly, I could be labelled as mad for reading so deeply into such simple imagery.
Nevertheless, I could also be labelled as mad for classifying all of these metaphorical ideas as simply coincidences. I choose to follow the bolder, more encouraging notion as I am catapulted into such a daunting new experience. What is the worst that could happen?
Phil Richardson
Untitled
Sitting on a very cold copper coloured grid on this almost bright, yet cold Friday morning, I am trying to get my new short cardigan to become my new long cardigan, as I pull it underneath myself to separate me from the cold hard ground beneath. Always the confused student, I ask the girl huddled up in her long coat beside me for more details of the task, she very politely explains the assignment we have been given, it seems confusion is compulsory to all new students at university. I hear the din from the workforce just around the corner but it feels like it’s coming at me from all directions. I am wondering to myself if it is actually possible to even put pen to paper amidst the noise and the shuddering of the cold concrete ground beneath me.
I am surrounded by plants and shrubs of all different descriptions, all of which I have seen before in my life and yet still none I know by name. I glance briefly to my right trying to establish some comfort from the unfortunate position my bottom seems to have found itself in and I see, attached to one of the windows, a poster from a film I recently saw about an Alien named “Paul”. It makes me smile and as I look away a boy sitting close by looks up at me, does he now think I am one of those deep intellectual types, at one with nature type people, smiling at my surroundings?
There is some sort of brick monument with metal sheeting attached to it to my left, and I am trying very hard to think of a way to describe it creatively but nothing comes, and I worry once again what I am going to be able to write about for the next three years of this creative writing course. A workman walks by in the distance; he is wearing one of those high visibility jackets and I only catch the side of his face but he seems transfixed on something ahead of him, like he knows exactly where he has to be and what his next job is. Some student girls come out through the doors behind me chatting, one of them sounds like a Geordie but I am not sure and ask the girl (who is probably wishing by now she sat somewhere else) besides me, she agrees and I laugh quietly to myself, for whoever reads this can hardly correct me.
There is a beautiful tree at the side of me with hanging branches and slightly tinted brown leaves; it is blowing just enough to convey its beauty even more. I feel sad when I look at it but have no idea why and as I ponder over this and try to come up with some deep and meaningful reason, a bright yellow digger comes trudging past it and I realise how close to the truth of me this whole situation is. I am sometimes like that tree, just there, still and unknowing but most of the time I am like the digger just trudging along trying to get to my next destination.
Sarah Billington
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