Martin Harley

Ok I know it’s been a while since my last confession….The thing is I’ve been recording an album out in sunny Texas. An exciting adventure in it’s own right. More about that later. Now that I’m back on the sunny shores of Old Blighty…….where was I? Oh yes.

7 Am broke sharply, as sharply as dry leaves from the cherry trees under the feet of children herding goats twenty feet below the window of our lodgings. The faint warmth of the fire in the corner whispered at my chilly feet as the cold matting stung them. Lugubriously I dressed and shuffled my way to breakfast dragging the world of sleep behind with the taste of a deep and unnerving dream still biting at my heels. The smell of hot coffee beats back most demons and I felt the excitement rise in me as we all talked of the days to come and the mountains. Suddenly and without mercy, the excitement that I had felt turned out to be a very upset stomach. Making my excuses I hot-stepped to the nearest bathroom for what could best be describes as an exorcism. Hoping for the best and fearing the worst we re grouped only to find out there were a few debatable motions being passed by this early morning court. With no option available other than to get on with it, we set off into the mountains with loo roll close to hand. Within two hours I was doubled over at the side of the track throwing up violently and unable to retain any water in my system. Dehydration and altitude are not the best combination and the rest of the day involved a nervous climb up to the refuge at around 3200 meters. A few large rocks were visited that day.

The refuge is a collection of stone huts in the valley below Mt Toubcal. Our hut was heated only by a fire in the common room downstairs. Heating was provided in the bunk areas by sheer numbers of bodies. Sixteen people in each room shuffling, farting and snoring in their sleeping bags as the condensation dripped slowly from the ceiling like light rain. My night sleep was punctuated by sub zero visits to the bathroom in the basement which requires full clothing to visit. I’m not sure weather Quentin Tarantino has ever designed a bathroom…but If he had I’m pretty sure it would look like this. Cold and stained loosely tiled walls, freezing dripping taps and the feel more associated with an abattoir than a place of cleanly ablutions. I wondered outside in the early hours to watch the dawn arrive with a welcome sigh as it bled from the bottom of the valley and showered me in warmth and hope for the coming day.

Attempting humor on route to the refuge.

Early evening in the foothills.

Leaving the hustle and bustle of Marrakech behind, we headed out of the old city and through the dusty arid plains. The snow capped High Atlas slowly came into focus on the horizon and soon enough we were winding through the foothills. Guesthouse Samra sits in the foothills just above Imlil and is a civilized affair run by a very hospitable French lady named Jacqueline and manned by the multi talented Mohamed. Rumour had it that Mohamed was an expert at rustic Hammam, which is essentially like a Turkish bath and a massage. How could we refuse? After all we were about to surrender ourselves to freezing cold alpine trekking with no chance of showers or luxury for quite a few days. Mike, Seb, Alistair and I got dressed n the requisite onsies (see picture) and made our way to what could best be described an unlit stone igloo above a pizza oven. Having stripped to our underpants and sat cross legged in the humid steaming room we watched with nervous anticipation as Alistair…our first victim was subjected to boiling hot buckets of water, violent scrubbing and a display that resembled a wrestling match in which he had been heavily drugged and was basically non compliant. Limbs cracked, muscles popped, necks twisted and skin reddened (during Mikes bout he lost so many layers of skin on his arm that the injury was still visible some weeks later). Despite the aggressive nature on this experience I have to say that I felt very relax afterward……or maybe just exhausted. The next morning we would be trekking through the snow up to the refuge.

My Backpack had been sitting patiently in the corner of my room for a week begging to go. It’s been ten years or so since I pulled on the straps and set off without a phone or laptop….and how reliant I have become upon them. I’m often bemused on arriving in new and amazing locations to find travellers scrambling for reception or wi fi to update social networks. On this trip I wanted to be without that technology. Maybe it’s a foolish notion but being un-contactable installs a certain feeling of distance and removal from the buzzing, beeping, texting, ringing everyday life that has become so normal.

Fresh coffee and early morning goodbyes at the airport gave way to meeting old friends and climbing aboard a New Years Day flight to Marrakech. The plan; to climb the highest peak in the High Atlas Mountains named Mount Toubkal. December’s strict training regime of touring and catching up with friends over the festive period seemed the obvious choice for a climb to the summit 4167 meters above sea level. With New Years Eve still just about fresh in my mind we stepped from the Taxi into the pulsing madness of Marrakech with its snake charmers, monkeys on chains and the ever present hum of mopeds. The call of the hawkers in the square….. Bonjour, HELLO, MISTER, hey MISTERS… you want smoke the good shit, hotel, how much you wanna pay….mista. Good price. The main square Djamaa El Fna buzzes late into night with music, story tellers, stalls and all kinds of food sizzling in cast iron pans sending thick smoke and steam into the night air.

Stray cats nonchalantly weaved through the square like wide eyes scruffy ghosts. We find our lodgings for the night and prepare for the mountains.

Sooner or later (if you fly round the world with international playboy and music photographer Nigel ‘ the Attorney’ Crane) you’re going to find yourself semi naked on a beach in the West Indies being asked to touch your knees and look back over your left shoulder. In this incidence we protected ourselves with some dangerous looking brooms.

Hello,

I hope you’re all well.

I’m on the road for the next five nights playing solo shows so come and keep me company if you like.

DEC 7th Half Moon – Putney 08700 600 100
DEC 8th Star Anise – Stroud 01453 840021
DEC 9th Plough Art Centre – Great Torrington 01805 624624
DEC 10th Devonport Guildhall – Plymouth 0845 621 288
DEC 11th Old Grammar School – Truro SOLD OUT

All the best,

Martin

The sun rises silently and wishes us out of our beds, shoos us like crumbs from the table to the edge of the island and gently sweeps us in. Salt water washes the sleep from our eyes as we paddle for the point and the bright new sky burns it’s reflection into the ocean. The swell pulses like electricity on the horizon as we sit and wait, laughing like impish creatures from the depths set free every morning in this unattended playground. Paddling and surfing until tired complaining shoulders can take no more. Climbing ashore, eating , laughing and eating more until the energy comes back. This is how the days spend themselves upon us and how grateful we are. The sun sets low on the west coast and sky bears its crimson teeth and we wait until the last breath before heading in. With Cold beers and tired heads we climb aboard complaining rusty cars to seek the closest bed, dizzy and drunk with childish notions, still feeling the swell rising and falling in our blood. The night whispers us into a long, dark and silent sleep as the sound of the ocean drowns out the curious world.

Here’s a few vids taken at Live In The Vinyard.

OK I know…. Flying around the world is not the best thing for the environment and driving around in a Dodge Challenger is a twist of the knife….. but look at it, it’s got skulls on and it goes really fast and after all I’m still just a child pretending to be grown up. (skull courtesy of Jerry Garcia’s personal assistant who just happened to be having a yard sale as we drove past)

The cult movie ‘Vanishing Point’ had a fairly large impact on me as a young man. A car delivery guy named Kowalski takes a bet to deliver a Dodge Challenger in record time from Colorado to San Francisco with help from a blind radio DJ and gets into some pretty impressive high speed tussles with the law, meets a naked lady on a motorbike and some gay hitchhikers. I’m pleased to report that I haven’t received any speeding tickets during my time in the US so far and the car made it back to it’s rightful home in one piece and not in a ball of flame like Kowalski, there’s always next year I guess. It’s also too cold for naked motorcycling in California at the moment it seems.

I do however plan to take on another bicycle trip, although I might have to go round the world a few times to even start to make up for the carbon footprint. The Band are keen and we’ve certainly met a few likely candidates on our travels who are up for the challenge. (or the Challenger) Watch this space.

We have just been up in California playing a magnificent event called ‘Live in the Vineyard’, played some amazing unplugged shows in wine caves that stretch on forever under the fertile soils of the Napa Valley and seen some amazing artists. I thoroughly recommend looking up the Barr Brothers. I’ll post some footage form the show at the Miner Vineyard cellar. I hope you enjoy the slow version of honey bee which was helped along by a few nice bottles of ‘Oracle’.

The band and I are off to sunny Barbados this week for the Virgin Atlantic music festival. I know some of you guys are coming so we’ll see you there.

All the best,

Martin

I dip the clutch and drop into third gear and peel round a long left hand corner to see the A360 stretch out towards Devizes bathed in the glorious honey gold sunlight of a late Indian summer afternoon. The combination of light, the lack of traffic and the intoxicating sound of a V twin engine throbbing away in the wide open landscape settles me into a satisfied mood as I chase the horizon. From the opposite direction and almost dreamlike in the golden haze weaving off the road, a big black Yamaha R1 appears, it’s engine howling as it winds down through the gears from high speed. As it comes past, the rider raises his hand to the front of his helmet and imitates the classic Italian hand signal for bellisimo, I have tasted and I have enjoyed, this recipe is divine….. a kiss to the tip of all the fingers and thumb followed by a swift wave up to the left with an opening hand. My laughter booms deeply inside my crash helmet. I drop my chest down towards the tank and twist the throttle open. For the next 15 minutes I’m the only person on earth. The road, the bike, the world and everything in it is undisputedly mine. like all the great pleasures of life…it’s short lived, bright, rare, fleeting, unpredictable and soon enough my bum hurts as I plough through the rush hour traffic back home looking for a tea stop…… smiling.