No, what I meant was… Or, why words can never be truly domesticated

Posted on November 19, 2023 by memoirsofahusk

I had one or two very strange responses (not online) to my recent post, the one ending (for now) this blog’s cataleptic period. They made me think thoughts I’d never really thunk before. Or not in this direction (I’ll explain in a minute) about writing, about reading, about interpretation and understanding.

I write. I’ve had a small amount of success getting small things published, in fact I have to admit it’s been quite a good ratio of submission to publication. But, the last two years have been a pretty fallow period. Illness, recovery, then the writing of a book that may or may not ever make it into print have set my record back severely.

But when things were going well a particularly supportive press, Black Bough Poetry, chose to feature me as one of its ‘Silver Branch’ writers. This was and is an honour. I was honoured and grateful. Still am.

As part of the process, I had to write about myself. Always difficult. Especially for someone educated in old fashioned Catholic schools where modesty was a prime virtue.

I looked at previous featured writers and was puzzled to see several writing about what they wanted readers to take from their writing, what their message to readers was as they created something new from words, gave life to ideas.

I thought about that, wondered what I would say. And I realised that I don’t write for readers. I write for the writing. It is what it is. Well, if I’m writing fiction I may have in mind what readers would expect of the genre but otherwise, no, I write. If it’s regarded as good to read,  good enough to be accepted for publication, then people can and will take what they want from it.

That was the direction I HAD thought about. I’m not writing something FOR the reader. If it must be written, it must be written.

Fast forward from 2022 to my blog revival. As a result of which one friend unfollowed me, having got the impression the whole thing was about her. It wasn’t. I hadn’t remotely thought of her when writing it. I didn’t understand, at all, why she reacted that way, but given it upset her I was at pains to reassure her. Agreed she must do whatever was necessary for her mental well-being. She is a very sensitive soul.

There were others who completely missed the points I was making. People who plainly didn’t recognise themselves, which both astounded and amused me. Yes, distance is a great healer.  But I will say no more about them, there have been enough misunderstandings and I have learnt a lesson.

What I write is beyond my control. No matter how clearly I express myself, what I say and any word-picture I create  can morph into something very different once the symbols on screen or page are translated into meaning in someone’s head.

You’d think I would already have known this – and I suppose I sort of did, but this came at me in a different direction. And now I know better.

I’ll just finish this short post by saying, again, that if anyone feels he or she was the subject of that post (you probably weren’t) and feels upset, I had hoped you would realise that, as I tried to explain, I understood. I was a pot calling a kettle. Guilty as charged myself.

But, ultimately, the words I wrote were there to say, hello everyone, this is where I have been, I’m back, it’s good to see you all.

All five of you.

[Please read those last four words again now, with a very big smile on your face.]

I may go back to writing about trees and the sea and birds and squirrels and sunshine  and moonlight soon. Or I may give up again. Who knows?

Not I.

Take care. Look after yourselves. Keep on reading.

Whatever it means to you.

Posted in Thinking, or ranting, or both, Uncategorized | 11 Comments

Where were we? Oh, yes, the prof’s news and my writing

Posted on October 25, 2023 by memoirsofahusk

Well, the prof’s news is much more exciting, so let’s get my writing out of the way shall we?

I don’t know if you noticed but I pretty much stopped blogging in 2019. It’d become a full-time occupation – but I felt like I was speaking to an empty room half the time. So I decided I’d try and write stuff that I could get ‘properly’ published.

I was working on short stories and a novel, then a lovely editor I’d asked to critique some stories asked to see my poems. I only had one! That set me off writing poetry and now I’ve got folders full of the things, some so awful they’ll never see the light of day!

Yes, I’ve had quite a few things published. In literary journals and anthologies. Short stories, some non-fiction,  poetry– and then there’s this:There was a competition for a ‘new alliance’ of poets. Alan got us together to enter and we won it. Belisama was the result. No, it’s not to do with beauty, it’s the name Ptolemy gave to an area south of the River Ribble in Lancashire, roughly where we all live, the place that inspired all our poems.

I think I’m prouder of the cover picture than my poems! Yes, I took that, but they forgot to credit me. Just as well. I’d be swamped with commissions, haha!

The best thing that happened, though, was in 2021–  I got shortlisted for a couple of prizes, the Bridport Poetry Prize, which is quite prestigious – and the Julian Lennon Poetry Prize.

Lovely to think Julian Lennon’s read a poem of mine! Yes, he definitely read the shortlisted ones. Of course that does mean he didn’t like mine best but hey, you can’t have everything.

What do you think, time for a glass of Cava? Or an Aperol spritz? People say it’s passé now but I don’t care. Great, give me a couple of minutes.

This is fun! Hope I got the proportions right.

Cheers!

The prof?  Yes, he worked all the way through both lockdowns. And how. Our daily routine in 2020 and 2021– even 2022 – was him working non-stop while I was ordering food deliveries and baking and cooking. And worrying. And acting as tech backup when needed.

Yes, all online, two-hour lectures, that ended up being double the work they normally were. They had to be recorded but you can’t record student interactions so, after the first couple he decided to lecture and interact then record the full uninterrupted lecture later.

Then there were regular meetings with a big national committee on top of the teaching and admin, all using technology that kept changing. He was forever learning how to use new systems. It was pretty stressful and very time consuming.

And did I mention there were about a million stone tools to be analysed?! Our dining table was covered in them. A surrogate lab for two years!

Blinded by the light!

See, stone tool!

But, the big thing he was working on was an article that’s just been published in Nature. The oldest wooden structure in the world – yes, that’s him. 476,000 years old. The wood, I mean not the prof.

The excavation team uncovering the wooden wedge

On site, not THE  big find but a big find (that’s the wedge they found under there)

Where? At Kalambo Falls in Zambia. Well remembered! Yes, I did write about the time I spent there, ages ago now.

Eighteen months of working like stink with his team of experts paid off in the end. He’s been having interviews with media all over the world – except South America for some strange reason. The Guardian piece was one of the best I think, when you have time it’s worth a look if only for the pictures!

https://www.theguardian.com/science/2023/sep/20/oldest-wooden-structure-discovered-on-border-of-zambia-and-tanzania

He’s made a little video with his university team that’s a really good introduction to it – only eight minutes. Now? Perfect. Here you go:

https://news.liverpool.ac.uk/2023/09/20/archaeologists-discover-worlds-oldest-wooden-structure/

– I know, poor thing was so exhausted, he looks wiped out because he was!

You know, this is one of my all time favourite pictures of him that I took in 2006, I love how tropical it looks. The other side of the river in Tanzania, amazing, isn’t it?

Washing artefacts in the Kalambo River

Actually, the day his Nature paper came out I got a rejection for a non-fiction piece. It was strange, it didn’t bother me, even though it’s the only thing I’ve submitted this year. In fact it worked out quite well really because now I can use it in my next book.

Yes, I wrote a book! No, non-fiction.

Well, in a nutshell, it’s me rambling around ruined monasteries wondering why we like them and failing to find a proper answer.

In the cloister at Whalley Abbey, Lancashire, one of my favourite places. Turner sketched it. The river runs right by it and it’s so peceful.

A very personal thing. Lots of nature, poetry, art, memories – and Catholic guilt. I finished it this summer, it’s been going through some literary gatekeepers and now I’m submitting it and keeping my fingers crossed.

Yes, I’m starting a new one while I wait, inspired by an exhibition I saw in Sweden in July. Very strange. The theme is power…  No, not political.

But listen, I’ve spent far too much time talking about me.

Let me top up your Cava then it’s over to you. Have some nibbles. No, you do not need to lose weight. Anyway, it’s a special occasion and they’re only small!

So, how are you? What have you been up to for the last three years?

Go on, I can still listen while I’m pouring…

Posted in Thinking, or ranting, or both, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments

How nice to see you! Come on in, the kettle’s on

Posted on October 22, 2023 by memoirsofahusk

 

I’ll get the tray. Piece of cake to go with your tea? Go on, sticky malt loaf cake, it’s yummy.

When was it we met for that meal in Krakow? Before the pandemic? No! Has it really been that long?

There were some pretty grim times. The prof nearly died in autumn 2020. No, not Covid, sepsis. Very scary. I don’t like to think about it.

Me? Well, a year after that I was recalled after a routine mammogram. I was lucky, they caught it very early but for four months I had to go to hospital appointments alone while I was being treated – successfully, thank goodness – for breast cancer.

IMG_20220112_161144

This is the only selfie I have ever taken, while waiting on a winter’s day, alone, for radiotherapy, in a very smart, Scandi-style cancer treatment centre in Liverpool.

It was tough, that loneliness. When I think about those politicians partying while I sat alone waiting for radiotherapy it makes my blood boil. And when I say alone, a couple of times I was the last person in the place, even most of the staff had left. It was pretty bleak despite the stylish surroundings.

IMG_20220111_164100

The lovely but very empty radiotherapy section of the Clatterbridge Cancer Centre in Liverpool in January 2022. The banner picture at the top of this piece is the area where people normally wait to see a radiotherapy centre nurse, I was the last person around and it was my last day so I was seeing her for lotions and potions. It was like a ghost treatment centre!

No, no, you couldn’t have known, I sent notes with Christmas cards but I didn’t send any abroad that year. It’s odd how people react. Or don’t. I realised quite soon that some people were just unable or unwilling to deal with it. Some friends, even some relatives, never wrote, or messaged, or phoned.

IMG_20220110_184756

My lonely car waiting for me in the Georgian Square where the prof works (in real life now once again) in January 2022 as it began to snow

Yes, I was hurt, but I realise it can be hard. I mean, when I get a Christmas card telling me a friend’s had some bad medical experience, do I get in touch? Not always. And sometimes I worry I’ve left it so late something worse might have happened and do nothing. So who am I to judge?

I know the note I put in our Christmas card passed some people by. Two friends who thanked me for it admitted they hadn’t read it when they realised. It was very short – but Christmas letters… You know.

Later, I wondered if I’d been too cautious, made it sound less bad than it was. You don’t like to admit you’re a failure, do you? And getting cancer feels like you’ve failed somehow.

I did a lot of wondering, then. About whether we can ever really know ourselves, see how we appear to others.

It was a nurse who set me off thinking about it. Just after my diagnosis she asked when relatives would be visiting. I said they wouldn’t, explained why. She didn’t look convinced. Then I confessed I’d been disappointed when I emailed someone close to me – I didn’t trust myself to talk about it on the phone – and didn’t get a call back. I’d waited, assuming the phone would ring that night or next morning. But it never did.

She looked at me in an odd way. Asked if I thought maybe I give off signals that I’m able to cope with anything, that I wouldn’t want sympathy. Suggested I talk to the person concerned. I could tell she wanted me to say yes, that it’d make her feel better. So I said I would. But I didn’t.

I know. It didn’t help. I began to feel it was all my fault. That I’d spurned what I needed simply by being who I was.

Anyway, you’ll never guess what sorted me out. A self-help book! I know! Ha! How to hold a grudge by best-selling novelist Sophie Hannah. But the reason it worked was it made me realise I wasn’t harbouring a grudge, I was feeling guilty. Yes, guilty, that the lack of reaction from some friends and relatives was my fault.

I know. Barmy. Anyway, it really helped sort me out. That and daily walks.

The beach? No, I haven’t. Normally I’d be there most days in fine weather, keeping myself sane, seeking inspiration.

IMG_20191225_105338

Ainsdale beach, sadly haven’t been there since August

But suddenly (well, fairly suddenly) this summer I’ve been afflicted by some yet-to-be-diagnosed problem with my left limb, the one that depends on a hip to function. So, other than trips to buy food, attend appointments and a co-working hub I’ve been going to for years, I’m home alone. And sleeping really badly.

Yes, I’ve seen a doctor. Waiting for results of an x-ray. And I’ve got an appointment for a specialist clinic. So much waiting. Three weeks on from my now-annual mammogram and the results still haven’t arrived. I have to wait every day for the post and that’s only been coming alternate days lately. After midday. So stressful.

Ah, that’s kind. No, don’t worry, I’m fine really – and I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. No, I mean it, honestly. And it hasn’t all been doom and gloom. There was some really good news for the prof recently.

Me? Writing? Yes. I’ll tell you all about it, but first, more tea? How was the cake? I know, like malt loaf on steroids isn’t it?

[to be continued – less doom, more vroom (well, positivity), promise! And a bit of archaeological stuff. Some very old wood…]

Posted in Thinking, or ranting, or both, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 13 Comments

As the nights draw in…

Posted on October 13, 2020 by memoirsofahusk

Here in the northern hemisphere, autumn is wiping its muddy feet on the mat, stippling trees in the beautiful hues of their decay. Night is claiming the hours of dawn and dusk abandoned by our hot, bright star. And winter is waiting out there, lurking on the horizon.

Which means …

… it’s almost time for curling up with a hot drink (or a glass of wine) and a good book. Escaping into fictional world. Forgetting about the leaky roof and broken boiler (sigh) and other tediously practical daily concerns.

It’s a time of year when I’m drawn to stories that speak to my inner child. ‘The Box of Delights’ by John Masefield, the Moomins hibernating – and, of course, ‘The Snow Queen.’

I’m also drawn to write my own little stories – of mystery, magic and hope in the world.

If you’ve been with me for some time, you may remember ‘Three Winters’ Tales of Darkness and Light.’ Well, the lovely picture which adorns this post is taken from – tantara – a hand-crafted, 36-page booklet containing not just those three tales but six beautiful little illustrations in black and white.

I don’t really like the ‘tantara’ bit of selling my wares, so I’m delighted that, thanks to Siân Bailey – a children’s illustrator partial to fairy tales and mythology – I can proclaim this booklet beautiful!

Siân has worked for many of the major publishing companies, such as Random House and Puffin, and I was delighted when she agreed to interpret my words. Even more so when she chose to do it with little scraper-board illustrations. My father was something of a scraper board artist, once upon a time.

I also had the pleasure of working on it with Ken Burnley at the Museum of Printing in Birkenhead, across the Mersey from Liverpool.  Ken hand-trimmed all the pages, hand-typeset and printed the cover, hand-applied the detail of one of Sian’s illustrations to the front – and then surpassed himself by sewing the thing together.

Ken turned a mere pamphlet into something for which there isn’t a good enough word (or if there is I can’t find it).  Watch the little video and you’ll see a craftsman but hear a writer (which he is) at work.

 

The text was perfectly printed on just the right paper by Rufford Printing Company in Lancashire.

Me? Well, I wrote the tales, which have gone down well with test readers, but if you just want something good to look at – perhaps to give as a present – you won’t be disappointed.

It’s a limited edition of 250, I am numbering them individually –  no cheating! 

The tales are for sale through my revamped online shop, click here to find out more:

 Cosi & Veyn (go to ‘Short Reads’)

If you are outside the UK please ask me for a postage price if you want more than one copy and I can send you a link for tailor-made payment. Otherwise, you may pay online by credit or debit card.

And, on another note:

I hope you have all stayed safe and well through this trying year. I suspect many of you, like me, have been reassessing what’s important in your life.  For me, that means writing. Poetry, mostly. Though the Covid crisis has wreaked havoc with my muse.

Like many people, it’s also been a time for reconnecting with old friends, virtually. And how important they were when my husband was in hospital for five days last month, (not Covid-19). Then I experienced first-hand how awful it is to have to leave a very sick person at the door and not be able to see them again until they are safe to leave.

We must all do our best to keep this trickster C-19 at bay. It doesn’t only affect those who suffer it, the tentacles reach everywhere, into the fabric of our society.

As we ride our second wave, here in Britain, I wish you, wherever you are, peace, comfort and health.

Posted in Fiction, probably | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Strange voices, strange times

Posted on July 25, 2020 by memoirsofahusk

I’ve always been shy, happier backstage than performing. But recently I’ve been lured into reading poetry. Invisibly!

I recently had a new (short) poem published in the first of a two-volume anthology on the theme of Deep Time from Black Bough Poetry. (Three more of mine are forthcoming in volume two).

The Deep Time theme was inspired by Underland, a book by Robert Macfarlane, writer, Cambridge Professor of English Literature and climate activist. This is what he had to say about the anthology:

It is a common trope in underworld stories from across cultures and centuries that a small entrance-point opens into complex hidden space. ‘Underland’ acted merely as that entrance-point for this ‘Black Bough’ volume; the writers and artists gathered here have carried out their own fathomings and explorations, and the result is a collection of work that feels both contemporary and mythic, urgent and ancient. Strange voices for strange times sing out here.

Faith, my poem in volume 1, is itself inspired by the first book in The Stone Book Quartet by Alan Garner. This short book felt as if it had been written for me. It’s a story of trust and confidence. Of desire and fulfilment, not always working out as expected. It is also a tale of rock and fossils. But most of all, it’s a tale of deep time.

Without further ado, here it is. All 40 sesconds of it.  I’ve put links below so you can support poetry by buying a copy, if you are able  – and feel so inclined:

Black Bough Poetry is the brainchild of a very supportive and inspiring editor,  Matthew MC Smith, as are these books.  Arresting images from Rebecca Wainwright illustrate the volume. All the poems that have been recorded for SoundCloud are listed here, as is the enigmatic theme music composed specially for the anthology by Stuart Rawlinson.

 

Here’s the link to Black Bough Poetry  via which you can buy Deep Time Volume 1

And here’s Underland by Robert Macfarlane

Thank you for reading – and for listening, if you have.  I really do appreciate it.

Wishing you all safety, well-being and the inner strength to cope with the uncertainty of these passing-strange times.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Reaching for the light

Posted on April 6, 2020 by memoirsofahusk

How are you? Contagion is not confined to the physical, is it? I hope you are coping with the anxiety, the frustration, the uncertainty.

We are living through difficult times. The way we are used to doing things has been dismantled and the pieces tossed in a jumbled heap, like a game of pick up sticks. Where will they land? What will we extract?

Who knows? Not I, certainly.

But there are also wonderful old pleasures to rediscover – sitting up till the small hours reading a children’s book in my case!

To come to the point –  I’m popping back here for two reasons.

First

I have a poem published in a journal called ‘Broken Spine’ the first issue of a new print poetry/photography/art journal and was asked to do a video reading. Before you sigh, anticipating a sombre reading in a moody setting, I opted to do a video composed of still pictures of our local beach, with a voice-over. I hope you will find it cheering, especially if you cannot get out to walk in the world outside.

Secondly

I wrote a post about an unusual tree I came across on my ramblings, which is almost a parable for the time of Coronavirus. I posted it on my other site maidinbritain which shows off images to better advantage. It’s short – by my standards, if you have some leisure time to read it, the link’s here: Reaching for the Light.

Keep well, keep safe, keep your distance – and keep hoping.

Posted in Art, jaunts & going out, Britain now & then, Lancashire & the golf coast, Nature notes, Thinking, or ranting, or both | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Fancy a ramble?

Posted on August 24, 2019 by memoirsofahusk

I know. No more blogging I said. Well, this is the exception that proves the rule. And it’s a long one. So, make a pot of tea or coffee, cut a slice of cake – whatever you fancy – and take a break.*

*(Jill Dennison, I see you, don’t think you can hide behind that coffee cup.)

Taking time out

It’s struck me, wading daily through the mire of Twitter – a self-imposed punishment for being alive in 2019 – how many people are living in mental darkness. Existing at various stages along the spectrum of gloom and doom, from a wee bit concerned about the state of the world to outright despair.

I see and feel their anger, misery, frustration. Their cynicism, disbelief, disappointment.

When it all gets too much, if it’s not bucketing down with unreasonable rain, I try to go for a walk. A ramble, mental and physical. But if you can’t – or won’t – step out and feel the breeze, listen to the birds and smell the flowers, come with me. You’re taking a little trip.

As usual – well, as used to be usual – I may digress a bit. But feel free to stop reading right here and scroll through the pictures. There may be a few…

July 4th

A big day. But not the kind of big you’re thinking. The prof is off to Zambia. For seven weeks. To a spot where we’ve spent time together in the past . A spot remote from our urban world and almost completely devoid of communication media.

Yes, a big, quiet, crevice is about to crack open in my world.

We practice the satellite phone, prof out on the road, frowning. Me in the kitchen, waiting. Finally he gets it to work. Hooray. Emergencies covered. And off he goes. Laden, optimistic, anxious – and excited.

I’ve booked a week’s self-catering in Yorkshire at one of my favourite places. I was there around this time last year. A perfect place to forest-bathe, revel in nature, write.

Bent’s MIll seen from the rear with one of the two beautiful millponds in the foreground

The weather’s not bad. The place is the same wonderful place. I’m the same optimistic me (no, really).  What could possibly go wrong?

I climb the stone spiral stairs of the old mill, open the door into the flat and … A wave of shock hits me.

I’m lonely.

What on earth am I going to do? Why am I here? Why didn’t I stay at home?

I shut the door on the stairs. Button up my woes. Unpack. Go for a stroll with my camera.

I came determined to snap dragonflies using my new-old lens and pre-loved camera. Packed the folding chair intending to sit, patient in expectation. But. I’m too early, only damselflies are out.

Well, hey, damselflies are pretty.   And the water lilies are undeniably fabulous. Pert buds peeping through leathery leaves and blooming daily. Petals sneaking back in, curling up for the night while twilight tiptoes through the trees.

No, don’t skip this, see those little flashes of blue, they’re damselflies, moving so quickly it’s hard to catch them especially when they’re all on different timing!

Here’s a pair of damselflies … oh dear, am I a voyeuse?

Water skater and shadow, check the fly top right for scale

Water lilies and a reflection of the building. The mill is a fabulous place for reflecting, in both senses

Returning to the flat with hours to go before bedtime I realise, last year I would be going to Haworth this evening. And tomorrow and the next day and the next … celebrating Emily Bronte’s birthday. I’d also be in the company of three lovely women who welcomed this stranger into their lives.

This time I’m alone, with no commitments. And I must live with it. I’m here to write. No distractions.

But muses are fickle – and mine’s gone her own way.

Well, I’ll take a few more pictures while I… Ah. The prof’s taken my camera’s battery charger.

Retail therapy?

I ponder a drive to Ilkley and a camera shop I used last year. The prof’s not fond of Ilkley, so here’s my chance to shop and walk its famous moors. With or baht me ’at.

The shop comes up trumps (sorry for that word). Universal charger in hand I hear the siren call of fashion. Succumb to temptation. An hour later I have a new, black jumpsuit, wrapped in tissue paper, in a glamorous paper bag tied with ribbons. Leave feeling fabulous and head for t’moors.

Up there, somewhere

Hmm. Every road I turn is a ‘road closed.’

The moor does its best to put me off – and succeeds.

What now?

There are people I can call, but I promised myself no people until Monday. (A silly decision, in retrospect, the muse having snubbed me.)

I won’t trail you through the doldrums of the next two days. Let’s skip to Sunday. Turnaround day.

Making tracks

Sundays have always been a glum day for me. Childhood routines – church in the morning, roast lunch, homework, school tomorrow looming.

How to cheer the day, Yorkshire?

What about the steam train?

I’ve done that before. Twice. Sorry, what’s that? Vintage carriages?

Oh, hell, why not?

I drive to Oxenhope, jump into a carriage – seconds to spare, bearing no ticket. (It’s fine, I confessed as I hurried in – the ticket inspector joins me at the next stop.)

He’s a kindly man. Works through all the options, not allowing me to spend more than I should and soon I’m a bona fide traveller.

Steamed station master

A well-earned rest on a hot afternoon

See that casually dressed chap chatting to the engine driver?

Steam trains and their stations are friendly places. Everyone seems to have a, ‘look at us, having a lovely time,’ attitude.

The train stops again. On climbs a man in orange trousers. As we chuff-chuff off, I wonder if I missed something. Was there a troupe of Morris dancers on the platform? I go ahead and ask.

‘Are you doing something special or do you just like colourful clothes?’

‘I just like colourful clothes.’ Oops. ‘I have several pairs of different coloured corduroy trousers,’ that’s fine then, ‘though I  draw the line at pink. But I suppose my shirt is kind of pink.’

It isn’t – it’s kind of peach. And his waistcoat is green. It’s as if a leprechaun ate the cake that made Alice grow bigger.

I don’t see much of the scenery (The Railway Children was filmed here), but the men are companionable and at the end of the line we all climb out smiling.

When we start back they usher me in the direction of a very special carriage. Built by a businessman to transport him, with his chums, to and from work, it’s really something.

The businessman’s private carriage

Inside – specially made carpet and leather chairs

My companion in the luxe carriage (he was more cheerful than he looks here!)

Bevelled mirrors and picture

Just the edge of a luggage rack!

By the time we return to Oxenhope I’m happy as Larry (that’s an expression, the real one may not be at this point, given the realities of digging in great heat in Zambia).

I disembark and – lo – what’s this? A brass band?

(There are silver instruments among the brass, does that make it an alloy band?)

The alloy band

Oh frabjous day, calloo callay I chortle in my glee. Well, I don’t, but there is glee.

I have a cup of tea, wend my way back to the flat. Tired, happy, with a renewed faith in my fellow human beings.

In memory of Eric, an active volunterr, here with my tea (Idon’t like glass mugs I must admit!)

People, places and ashes

Next day, a trip to Salt’s Mill with its Hockneys and bookshop, followed by lunch with a school friend is a treat.

And, feeling more human, I finally accept that the muse has taken umbrage and give up on seeking inspiration.

The weather beams in response. Tuesday morning I fill my water bottle and head for Ilkley. I will not be diverted. There will be an open road. Any road up, like. (That’s a Yorkshire in-joke.)

Tenacious and determined I succeed. Park beneath the Cow and Calf rocks.

The little one is the calf…

And, stepping out, pass through a time warp. I’m eight years old again and homesick, staying in an outward bound centre. We walk on the moors, find the cup and ring stones and the tarn. Magic – a lake in the moors.

Up among the hot,humid, buzzing-with-insects bracken

Grown-up (ha) me sets off, eschewing anything sensible like a map. Planning a short stroll. Half an hour or so. It’s hot. I’m wearing me ‘at.

Up top, I find no tarn. No cup and ring stones. But there’s a cairn, fabulous views and a happy encounter with a woman and her dog (on a lead).

This panoramic has caught the woman walking the dog of her ill friend in the background on the right

Smaller but bigger pic!

Two and a half hours later, melting, but happy, I’m back.

The man I noticed earlier, wearing a big smile and hugging a cardboard box, is atop the rocks and a fine veil of dust is floating out, onto the still air. I guessed it was ashes. A wonderful place and day to float free of life.

I order a tuna sandwich at the cafe. Snigger along with my women neighbours who saw three girls go up the rocks in ‘the wrong kind of shoes.’

‘They came down in style, on their bottoms. We didn’t laugh or anything.’

Giggling catches, doesn’t it?

A fond last gaze at the scenery and I’m off. Home. Where butterflies are all-aflutter.

Peacock in hiding on our bench

Brown????

Peacock

A Comma to punctuate this crowd!

Two painted ladies

See the shadow of its gauzy wings, so unreal

Speckled wood

Small white hanging around

Gatekeeper?

New direction?

I’m not unhappy to be leaving, come Wednesday. The mill’s a lovely place to stay and no doubt I’ll be back. But, next time, in company – or with a plan.

Talking of which, a very brief summary of where I am, in case you’re interested.

My down-time in Yorkshire enabled the discovery, on Twitter (it’s not all grim) of a woman, called Nikki, proprietor of ‘Splendid Stories.’ Out of my creative turmoil she summoned three pieces of advice, each of which ended with ‘focus’.

Soooooo….

I’ve set aside the novels with which I’ve done NOTHING for over a year. I’ve set aside the short stories. I’m taking a break. When Nikki’s back from holiday and ready to give me her professional critique I will focus on getting one thing done. Then another. Then – I’ll see.

Odd, before we met she asked me to send her my poems. I’d said nothing about poetry. Yet it feels as if I’m heading that way. And a friend from college days, who’s a poet, may be running a course in November at … the mill in Yorkshire.

It’s an odd world.

So, summer passes and I walk the beach, find a wreck, meet old friends, visit a poet … a few more images:

My local beach, Ainsdale. In the distance sun glints off a ship leaving Liverpool, hills of north Wales dimly visible in the far background

In the other direction Southport and Blackpool

The tide was the farthest out I have yet seen it and it uncovered this – our coast has several old wrecks that emerge now and then

Log, left by the tide, looking like a canoe to carry me away!

The weather’s not always fine… Rain at sea soon spread to me

And that rain wanted in – in to my house! Our upside down house was having its roof replaced (there is no ceiling, the inside of the roof is wood lined) and a monsoon strength downpour happened before it was finished

Persist with this little video, it’s poor quality is down to rain, traffic and me – but it’s so sweet, so olde English.

And so to that poet – Deb Alma, the author of ‘The Emergency Poet’ who is setting up a Poetry Pharmacy in Bishop’s Castle, Shropshire, in an old ironmonger’s shop.

The old shop being refurbished

Deborah Alma, a prescribing poet to alleviate the discomfort of our woes!

 

Well, sorry to keep you so long, hope your tea or coffee lasted the course.

One final thing – I’ve talked my way into being writer-in-residence for a local nature reserve. As I write, there’s nowhere online to post, but we’re working on it. I’ll pop links on here. And here are a few pictures I took there last week intending to write about August and the fairies flying…

Swan, reflecting

Fairy, resting. Catch one carefully, make a wish then let it go

Natural grace and beauty in decay

Enjoy what’s left of the summer – or winter, depending on your hemisphere.

Meanwhile, wishing you happy blogging and reading – and rambling.

And, live for the day.

One last image, read the caption:

At one of my favourite places I got chatting to a man who had cared for his father, who had dementia, for 10 years. After his death he met a woman, they became friends, but she soon began to suffer early onset Alzheimers. He brought her here. He pointed out to me this clump of trees – she saw not trees but a caterpillar. We need each other, don’t we?

Posted in Art, jaunts & going out, Britain now & then, Lancashire & the golf coast, Nature notes, Thinking, or ranting, or both, Uncategorized, Yorkshire | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 23 Comments