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Coming here to get away

There was a time not so very long ago when a sweet voice would occasionally ring out on the rock of Bowen. In cafe and pub, in living rooms and on lawns.

There was a time not so very long ago when a sweet voice would occasionally ring out on the rock of Bowen. In cafe and pub, in living rooms and on lawns.

The figure who produced these simple loving sounds would be dressed in creases crumples and corduroy. His worn and handsome face expressed the thoughtful and the playful which made up the duality of his nature. It was nature that brought him to the island. He sought solitude, waves, moss and rock - trees and trails and winds and skies and these things Bowen gave him in abundance.

John Bottomley came to the island to get away. Eventually, he had to get away from his getaway and now, ultimately, he has gotten away from it all.

When John died this past week, we lost a beautifully true soul. He was loved and admired by so many through his music, his poetry and his thin whimsical drawings but the admiration he received seemed to be confusing and unsettling for him.

Compliments had the effect of pushing his gaze away while he would explain slowly how the thing he had tried to create was quite interesting but really not so terribly good... but thank you.

I can clearly picture him under a blue-grey Bowfest sky sitting alone on the stage with his guitar. His amplified self washed over the field and gradually head after head after head turned to watch and hear him. Nothing wild, nothing flamboyant, just purity of musical expression.

John Bottomley sang of mist and silver, of monkeys and hermits, of loss and of love. To think of his grin and his laugh brings tears to my eyes now but these are not tears made only of sadness, they are of something far more sweet and complicated much like John himself.

CHRISTOPHER MOLINEUX