The Old School is delighted to showcase the work of Giles Davies, a new and welcome discovery for our little gallery in Swaledale. 
Through the medium of collage Gile’s creates images reminiscent of the fells and mountains that surround us, carefully matching the colours, textures and shapes of the scene with cuttings from colour magazines. Look from a distance and the collage blends together into a wonderful, vibrant landscape. Study more closely and you’ll find crowds of people, roads, cafes, flowers, lily ponds and tens of other abstract images, combining to create a whole much greater than the sum of its parts.
We think it’s wonderful, magical and quite unique stuff, and we’re sure you’ll think the same.
Richard & Polly
The time is 7:25 pm GMT. This blog has been published to just as the wheels of an Airbus 330-200 leave the tarmac at Manchester Airport, England. Onboard the aircraft are 262 passengers everyone of whom has survived the airport’s human processing machine and, apart from the odd pair of Tommy Hilfiger trousers, resisted the temptations of the brightly coloured, scandalously priced, duty free shops.
Suspended in mid-air by a perfect differential in air pressure between the shorter lower surface and longer upper surface of those sticky out things we call wings, and largely oblivious to the truly remarkable and unnatural situation they find themselves in, our 262 are likely to be feeling bored, restless, dehydrated and slightly grumpy; eating, sleeping, monitoring the engaged sign on the toilet, toying with their smart phones, and wondering when the stewardess will finally notice them. They will have already ignored the safety briefing and quickly exhausted the entertainment offered by the in-flight magazine. Though cacooned in their metal bubble, isolated from the rest of humanity, they’re not alone. Buzzing around the globe at this moment are perhaps 10,000 similarly shaped, sealed, metal tubes; perhaps 2 million fellow human beings in transit, waiting to set foot back on terra ferma.
Wind on to 13 days after publication, a small party of trekkers, tired, aching, and headachy, after 10 days of walking, reach a height of 5300 metres and make their way into Everest Base Camp. Barring avalanche, earthquake, injury and sickness, I hope and aim to be among them. Having reached our goal, the group won’t stay long. We’ll take a look around, take some photos, and head back down the hill. As I look around my thoughts will be of those for whom the trek is just the starting point, those folks for whom the real business begins here. Over 11 days we’ve climbed 2500 metres; to summit Everest there’s another 3,500 metres of serious climbing to go. Whatever your thoughts about organised climbing parties, and tourist climbers, you need to have balls to take on the pointy end of journey. My thoughts will also be of those for who the real business ended here, on this mountain. It’s a dangerous place!
A slightly dishevelled person heads out of customs and into the arrival hall at Manchester Airport, a stone lighter, more tanned and slightly fitter than when he last was here, adventure completed. Around him the good folk of Manchester will be absolutely indifferent to this one arrivee (they have their hopes, dreams, worries and stories to tell) accept perhaps one. That one will be be Polly, my fiancé and partner for the last 5 and bit years. I’ll have missed her massively in the days I’ve been away, and when I’m back it will be time to begin another adventure together; to find our perfect home somewhere in a village (with pub) in the Yorkshire countryside, where we can chill and walk, find true contentment, and plan our next trek together.
