Achievement

 “If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again.”

That is one of my father’s sayings that he was fond of using. I don’t think I ever thought of him as a wise person, but, of course, he was, in his quiet way. He had an easy-going, generous nature, which caused him to be taken advantage of sometimes. Everyone was worth another chance. For the summer seasons, he employed extra staff in the pub and it always included the same barman. The man was reliable, helpful, knew his job, but he was soon ‘on the fiddle’ and it would only be a matter of time before Dad had to sack him, again. I don’t think he worked a full season, which was probably May Bank Holiday until the end of the Illuminations. My dad gave him the opportunity to earn a wage with the promise of the man’s honesty and set himself up to be let down, but he always gave the man that chance.

Writing was always my thing and Dad’s encouragement never faltered. It’s sad that he passed away before I could share my published work, tiny amount but still an achievement to be proud of, and he would have loved the Haunted House in the Illuminations which included my story and poem.

Three of our grandchildren are in Beavers and Cubs, one nearly ready for Scouts and currently rehearsing for the Gang Show. My job is sewing their achievement badges onto uniform jumpers. It makes me proud to see the rewards of their interests and hard work. They can be equally proud over something they didn’t think they could do. After years of doing this for our own Cub and Brownie, then Scout and Guide, it’s nice to do it again for the next generation.

Last Saturday, our 8 year old, footballer grandson, was chosen Player of the Match and awarded a trophy. A fine achievement. Watched by his enthusiastic grandad, the pair of them came back frozen and wet, one with muddy legs. My husband thought he’d finished with junior football at pitch side nearly thirty years ago.

I was having an in-depth chat with my dad, asking for an opinion or some advice. I would have been about twenty-five, certainly under thirty, with a few things on my mind and unsure what to do, nothing to do with my writing ambition.

“Life is what you make it.”

Another of his little gems. He was right, as always. There’s usually a journey to reach an achievement. I’m still travelling.

I found this poem,

Don’t Quit

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When the fund are low but the debts are high,
And you want to smile but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don’t you quit.

Life is strange with its twists and turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many failures turn about
When we might have won had we stuck it out.
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow –
You may succeed with another blow.

Success is failure turned inside out –
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
You can never tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far;
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit –
It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit.

                                                            Edgar A. Guest 1881-1959

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Travel - I'm Not Backpacking

When I was young, going on travels and planning adventures was the most exciting thing. I bought a new, top-of-the-range, holdall style bag for a trip to Europe. It was expensive, but it was within the specifications for airline hand luggage and was perfect for my needs. I was travelling light for an expected stay of a couple of weeks. Returning home, after my visit which was mainly sight-seeing but I did some shopping here and there, I surprised myself with how much stuff I could squeeze in, including 500g of knitting yarn – irresistible – from a local market somewhere in rural Switzerland.  It is forty-odd years ago and that well-travelled, well-used bag still looks like new and is taken with us on nearly every holiday.

On a warm, clear evening in North West Scotland, we sat outside our cottage watching the summer sunset and looking over The Minch beyond the coast of Skye to the Isle of Lewis, visible on the horizon. A future trip would have to be the Outer Hebrides and eventually, it was.

With a car suitable for the journey and the amount of travelling we expected to do, we packed it with everything we thought we’d need and more. We had enough supplies of tinned food and drinking water to last a couple of days if it should be needed. We always support local economy wherever we go, so main groceries would be bought on the islands, but we needed to be prepared for any ferry delays and shops closed on Sundays. Home for the first week was a renovated crofter’s cottage on South Uist. Our second week was a chalet on the Isle of Harris. I can’t tell you how amazing it was. I urge you to go and see, feel and breathe it all. Every turned corner introduced another breath-taking view of a different world. The following year we returned, this time to the Isle of Barra at the southern end of the archipelago.  

I like to be coastal, ideally within sight and sound of the sea. There’s something soothing about the gentle rhythm of an incoming tide, or hearing waves crashing on rocks. We’ve sat near Corbiere Lighthouse on Jersey watching how fast the sea covers the causeway and clears it again just as quickly. Another trip is planned for next year.

Meanwhile, we’ll go wherever the fancy takes us either in our caravan to pastures new, or to stay at a fabulous place we found in Shropshire, or the lodges we love in Dumfries and Galloway. We will travel while we can.

My Haiku,

My trusty holdall
With passport in my pocket,
On an adventure.

Corbiere Lighthouse
Majestically rising
Above ragged rocks.

Pack things in the car
For any situation.
Don’t forget the dog.

Swoon at the beauty
Of the natural landscape,
Outer Hebrides.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Blizzard - The Postie Stone, Moffat

The Postie Stone (i)

How exciting it would be to become snowed in when we have our pre-Christmas break at our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway. I think of this every November into December, when we spend a couple of weeks there, wrapped around my birthday, to do some Christmas shopping in the fabulous, privately owned individual shops. In anticipation of having to stay until March, unless a tractor from the farm comes along to rescue us, I take a supply of ‘emergency’ tinned food and packets, and stock up aplenty on arrival.  This time, it nearly happened. It was our last morning, the day we were leaving. Snow was about eight inches deep and still falling thick and fast. A huge mound shaped over and around our car so it looked like an igloo. We never have snow at home, not like this proper ‘build a snowman’ stuff and we stood in awe gazing at the most amazing landscape through the window.

One day, we went to Moffat, an enchanting market town north of Dumfries. We’ve been before and enjoy a stroll along the high street, seeing what the shops have and this visit was pretty with festive lights and shop windows trimmed for Christmas. It was a cold but calm, sunny day and for me, a wander into the Old Graveyard was appealing. John Loudon McAdam, of tarmac fame is buried there, also are the graves of James McGeorge and John Goodfellow. They were enroute to Edinburgh from Dumfries with postal deliveries when they were caught in a blizzard and died. 

The Postie Stone (ii) Detail

Taken from Atlas Obscurer –
“A roadside memorial commemorates the lives of John Goodfellow, the coach driver, and James McGeorge, the coach guard of a mail coach.

The pair were on a mail coach traveling from Dumfries to Edinburgh in February 1831. They became caught in a fierce blizzard which forced them to abandon the coach and set off on foot through the snow to try and deliver the mail and make it to safety.

They took the mailbags and horses but eventually, the men were overcome by the elements and died of exposure near the head of Cross Burn. The horses continued on, eventually reaching a nearby farm which raised the alarm.

The stone was erected in their memory in 1931, a century after the event. The men were laid to rest in the churchyard in nearby Moffat.”

(A full account of this can be found online, titled The Coaching Disaster.)

Such a sad story and I thought of them again as I watched the falling snow on our journey home. All was well until we were driving into Cumbria and coming over Shap. Late afternoon and it was going dark, the snow clouds were low and visibility was poor. The blizzard soon reduced the motorway from three to two lanes and traffic slowed accordingly. We were grateful to arrive home unscathed because soon after we heard about abandoned cars in Cumbria and jack-knifed wagons on the M6.

Being snowed in at the lodge would have been cosy, though, in my fantasy world.

 During my childhood, age 8 to 9, we lived in Padfield, near Glossop in what became one of dad’s favourite pubs and B&B to manage. We got snowed in, which still happens up there. The village was cut off for days and I remember my mum helping the neighbours out with food where she could.  School stayed open, which meant the fun of snowball fights on the walk down and up again. All the teachers – there was only four of them – lived near the school so it wasn’t likely to be closed and we were allowed to play out in the snow. Times have changed. If the travel news should mention The Snake Pass or Woodhead Road being closed due to snow I think ‘That’s Padfield cut off, then’. Fond memories.

Leaving the Lodge

Emily Bronte passed away on this day in 1848. This is one of her poems. It reminds me of Wuthering Heights as I imagine a blizzard over the moors.

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow,
The storm is fast descending
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

             Emily Jane Bronte 1818 – 1848

Thanks for reading. A Merry Christmas to all, Pam x                                        

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Twilight - North and South

 

"Twilight - The soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon, caused by the reflection of the sun's rays from the atmosphere."

We enjoyed a break away last week. A mix of visiting family and sight-seeing, with three things ticked off my wish list. Heading to the South Downs, we arranged an overnight stop near Banbury to break the long journey. It was great to catch up with family members we don’t get to see often enough and a good time was had by all. We all went to the coast, spending the day between Arundel, Brighton and Worthing.  The weather was better than expected, blue skies and sunshine, and very mild for late October. This was my first time on this stretch of the coast, apart from Butlin’s, Bognor Regis, when we’d only ventured out of the holiday camp once, briefly, to see the sea. My wish list included Brighton, to see the pier and the pavilion, so I enjoyed the drive along the coast which took in both of these and more. We strolled along the front at Worthing, pebbled beach and calm sea with the occasional wave breaking onto the stones. We had a leisurely dinner at a water’s edge restaurant, looking out on to the twilight seascape as the late afternoon became early evening. A beautiful end to a perfect day.

Looking out on to the sea and sands used to fascinate me when I lived in the pub on South Promenade. I loved walking on the beach or the prom with my mother when I was a child. It became for me, our special time together. Mum would take me across to South Pier for a game of bingo and a play in the amusement arcade, then we’d have a walk, sometimes up to Central Pier and back. It is an area I associate strongly with her, and always will. After she passed away, I took myself there to be alone with my thoughts, my sorrow. It had become a special place.  It was a place to think of happy memories, a place to release tears and a place to shout out in anger. Fresh air and freedom, in all seasons and all times of day, but mostly in the calm of early evening, a quiet sunset with the tide out,  then the twilight dimming my vision.

Homeward from the South, we spent a couple of days in Shropshire, visiting more family members, but sight-seeing on our own. This ticked off two things on my wish list, The Iron Bridge, which I’d wanted to go and see for ages, and the Blists Hill Victorian Town – a living museum – which I’d wanted to visit since seeing it on an episode of The Apprentice earlier this year.

Autumn Twilight,

On a south coast beach
Built of white pebbles
The crash of waves reach
Over the edge.

The daylight fading,
The Channel dark’ning,
Twilight sky shading
The horizon.

On a north west beach,
Miles of smooth, fine sand,
Evening seagulls screech.
Late colony.

The sky, pinkish grey.
Sea claims the sunset
At the end of the day.
Autumn Twilight.

PMW 2023.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Tenson - Troubabours

I usually know roughly which direction I’m going in when I write my blog. This is an exception. I’ve really had to dig deep and I’ve spent lots of time getting carried away with Dante and his contemporaries, and had to drag myself back to the theme of ‘tenson’. After a couple of false starts, an almost abandonment and a rewrite, this is where the challenge, and it became very challenging took me. Forgive me if I’ve fallen off topic too much.

From Encylopaedia Britannica:

“tenson. (Old Provencal: ‘dispute’ or ‘quarrel’) also called tenso or tenzon, a lyric poem of dispute or personal abuse composed by Provencal troubadours in which two opponents speak alternate stanzas, lines, or groups of lines usually identical in structure. In some cases these debates were imaginary, and both sides of the issue were composed by the same person. The tenson was a specific form of debate, a kind of medieval poetic contest. The form later spread to Italy, where it became popular among the poets of the dolce stil nuovo, including Dante. Compare partimen.”

Searching into this sent me on a fascinating journey back to The Classics and to people I’d never heard of or forgotten about. I chose the following as an example, Cercamon and Guilhalmi from the 12^th century.

Cercamon

« Car vei finir a tot dia [L'amor], lo joy e·l deport, E no·m socor la clerzia, Non puesc mudar no·m cofort Co fay, can conois sa mort, Lo signes, que bray e cria E·n mou son sonet per fort, Que·l cove fenir sa via, E plus no·i a de conort. » – « Maïstre, si Dieus me valha, Ben dizetz so que cove; Mas ja d'aisso no vos calha Car li clerc no vos fan be; Car lo bos temps ve, so cre, Que auretz aital guazalha Que vos dara palafre O renda que mais vos valha, Car lo coms de Peitieus ve. » – « Guilhalmi, non pretz mealha So que·m dizes, per ma fe; Mais volria una calha Estreg tener en mon se No faria un polhe Qu'estes en autrui sarralha, C'atendes la lor merce: Car soven, so cug, badalha Qui s'aten a l'autrui be. » – « Maïstre, gran benanansa Podetz aver si softretz. » – « Guilhalmi, vostra vanansa Non crei, si com vos dizetz. » – « Maistre, car no·m crezetz? Gran be vos venra de Fransa Si atendre lo voletz. » – « Guilhalmi, tal esperansa Vos don Dieus com vos m'ufretz. » – « Maïstre, n'ajatz coratge D'efan ni d'ome leugier. » – « Guilhalmi, sobre bon guatge Vos creyria volontier. » – « Maïstre, man bon destrier An li ome de paratge Per sufertar al derrier. » – « Guilhalmi, fort e salvatge ............................... » – « Maïstre, josca la brosta Vos pareisa·l teit novel. » – « Guilhalmi, ben pauc vos costa Lo mieus ostals del castel. » – « Maïstre, conte novel Aurem nos a Pantacosta Que·us pagara ben e bel. » – « Guilhalmi, fols qui·eus escota: Vos pagatz d'autrui borcel. «

– Since I see, every day, love, joy and pleasure end, and the clergy doesn't help me, I don't know where to turn, aside from comforting myself as does, when it knows of its death, the swan, who laments and cries and forcefully emits sounds when it's time for its life to end and it doesn't have hope anymore. – Mentor, may god help me, you certainly say fitting things; still, let it not bother you that the clergy doesn't do you any good; for a favourable time comes, I believe, in which you'll have an associate such as will give you a steed or an income worth even more to you, for the count of Poitiers is coming. – Guilhalmi, I don't care a thread for what you say, by my troth; I'd rather have a quail held tightly in my breast than an entire aviary which someone else keeps locked while I wait for mercy: for often, I find, one yawns while waiting for someone else's goods. – Mentor, you can have a great good, if you are patient. – Guilhalmi, I don't believe the vain words you say. – Mentor, why don't you believe me? A great good will come to you from France, if you care to wait for it. – Guilhalmi, may god give you a hope such as the one you offer me. – Mentor, don't have the heart of a child or of a fickle man. – Guilhalmi, with a good pawn I would gladly believe you. – Mentor, prominent men have many a good steed for being patient to the end – Guilhalmi, strong and wild ............................... – Mentor, near the foliage may your new roof appear – Guilhalmi, hosting me in the castle costs you very little. – Mentor, at Lent we'll have a new count who will pay you nice and good. – Guilhalmi, he's fool who listens to you: you pay out of other people's purse.

 

Looking for something modern, I found this short quarrelsome poem by D/H. Lawrence. I like his wit. It made me laugh.

Intimates

Don’t you care for my love? She said bitterly.
I handed her the mirror, and said:
Please address these questions to the proper person!
Please make all requests to head-quarters!
In all matters of emotional importance
Please approach the supreme authority direct!-
So I handed her the mirror.
And she would have broken it over my head,
But she caught sight of her own reflection
And that held her spellbound for two seconds
While I fled.

                          D.H.Lawrence (1885-1930)

Now then, shall I return to Dante et al, or is my brain scrambled enough for now? I think I’ve found another world that I’ve previously encountered very briefly.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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A Favourite Painting - Matilda's Trees

 

Trying to choose a favourite painting, like a favourite book or piece of music is so hard it is almost impossible. I like the work of lots of artists. Yesterday, travelling home from an adventure, the journey, thanks to the sat nav, took us over the Pennines and through Mottram in Longendale where the artist,  L.S.Lowry used to live. I love all of his work. I remember feeling quite emotional when I saw his paintings for the first time. This was in Salford, long before the gallery bearing his name was built.  His painting ‘Going to the Match’ was in the news last year when it was purchased and saved for the Lowry collection. Going to the match is what I plan to be doing later, so the painting might have been a good choice, but instead,  I’ve picked ‘The Cripples’.

Lowry painted ‘The Cripples’ in 1949. It’s one of my favourites of his work. I have a print and a fridge magnet and it always makes me smile. I’m slightly worried that my admission to being amused by it makes me a bad person. I am amused by Lowry’s humour in the painting. I’m not mocking the subjects.  Apparently, there’s controversy about the content and the title and I’m a bit shocked about that. I’ve got disability issues, so does my husband. The painting isn’t about us or anyone else. Cripple is not a term in use these days when we refer to people with disabilities but I’m not sure if it should be considered offensive.  I feel sure that Lowry didn’t paint anything with the purpose of upsetting anyone. As a Christian should I be upset by paintings of Christ’s crucifixion reminding me of His suffering? I will admire the work of the artist.

Steven Robert Bruce is a local artist who has produced excellent paintings. He has a website showing a collection of his work. One of my favourites is his painting of Ian Holloway celebrating Blackpool FC’s victory at Wembley, going into the Premier League. I don’t know where the actual painting is. I wish it was at the stadium.

My favourite painting of this week – it might be replaced before weekend if we’re looking after her – is the latest work of art by our youngest grandchild, four year old Matilda.  She was painting, freestyle, and created a fabulous tree scene from her own imagination. I’m amazed and enchanted as I often am by my grandchildren.

My poem, from the archives,

Salford

Industrial landscapes
Where nobody escapes
From human desolation.
Salford, grey and worn-out
Drab people hang about
Seeking some consolation,
Painted as matchstick men
Back in the decades when
Lowry found inspiration.

Shelagh’s taste of honey,
Tony Wilson’s money
Invested in the city.
High-rise in Broughton Park
Poems of Cooper-Clarke
So sharp and smart and witty.
A gentle, summer breeze
Wafts around Salford Quays
Modern style simplicity.

Pamela Winning 2015

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Journey

I don’t know about you but when I’m planning a journey to a strange town or city I do like to know where the Castle is, where the theatres are, where the shops are but nowadays I also want to know where the loos are and very few, if any, travel guide pamphlets tell you this vital information. Why not?

Public Inconvenience?

But first of all let’s a have a quick look at why these vital facilities have been drastically reduced in number over the last decade or so. I suppose it’s no surprise that the main reason is that public toilet provision is not mandatory for councils and over the last years of recessions, cuts and austerity they were an easy target. A recent report states that the UK was one of the first countries to put them in, in a systematic way. In another it says that more and more of us are learning to hold it in, especially people like postal workers and lorry drivers. But this is bad for our health. It can exacerbate existing medical problems, to say nothing of the fact that it’s simply not a pleasant sensation when we need to go, and can’t. They are not called a Public Convenience for no reason.

I asked ‘Why not?’ at the end of the first paragraph and that is still true of paper pamphlets. However, I was looking to plan a journey to Leicester not long ago, a place I’d never been to before and I remembered the following sites:

The first is called The Great British Toilet Map. You need a smart phone or device for this but the idea is it gives you the map of this country and you can move and hover over the place you are going to or are in and then you enlarge the place and it gives a mark on the actual street map where the toilets are. The project aims to map all publicly-accessible toilets - that means all toilets that the public can access without needing to be a customer.

These include:
Public toilets
Train and bus stations
Service stations/shopping centres
Public buildings
Toilets in other buildings where the business agrees that the public can enter.

https://www.toiletmap.org.uk/

The second site is called pee.place and again you will need access to a smart phone or device but you could download the information from your computer before you go. This site allows you to put in a query about places around the world in the top left corner. I’ve just put in Melbourne and the map of the city streets comes up with all the toilets marked. And there are a lot of them compared to Birmingham.

https://pee.place/en

But what for the future. I want to be able to journey somewhere, anywhere in this country and know that if I need to spend a penny then it will not be a problem. The Royal Society for Public Health put forward a set of proposals back in 2019 to make the provision of public toilets compulsory on a well planned and regulated basis which would include laws, such as in America and Canada, to ensure fair provision for women.

Japanese Public Toilet

So far I have come across individual cities such as Sheffield and Bristol where campaigns have been undertaken to provide toilet facilities but surely a national campaign needs to take place.

I find writing haiku difficult. Maybe this works.

closed doors
she walks to the park 

snowdrops weep

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Journey Through Time

'Journey'

Going from one place to another physically and or within the mind.

Being taken to somewhere else, travelling in such a way where things unfold

with obstacles to overcome and surprises to be encountered.

When I was growing up a mantel clock took pride of place in our kitchen. It was plain, rather ordinary, making its voice heard by chiming at regularly intervals. The timekeeper sat on a shelf commanding attention when one walked into the room. I have no idea where it came from but for as long as I can remember it had been in our family. My sister had inherited this clock and not so long ago she carefully packed it up and sent it to me. It made its own journey being jostled and bumped about on land, then carried up and through the clouds from Seattle to the Fylde Coast. It was like Christmas when I opened up the box and carefully unwrapped it. For years it had not been in good working order and therefore I had to consider what time the clock should be permanently set until it was fixed. I found the most perfect place for it settling on a shelf in the lounge, where it again could take centre stage with hands positioned to 8:20, a time forever etched in my memory.

Mantel Time and Strike Clock (c Mid-19th Century)
Manufacturer: Jerome & Co, New Haven Connecticut

8:20 was the time I would set off for school from age six. It was a 20 minute walk that gave me my first taste of independence. Sometimes it was with friends, sometimes I took this journey alone meandering along the streets of Riverside, a National Historic Landmark that was one of the first planned communities in the United States. The town was designed by the architect Frederick Law Olmsted who designed Central Park in New York City.

Riverside Map (www.olmstedsociety.org)

I remember walking through the park with some wonderfully large trees, it was all very green. There was the red brick train station, the adventure of crossing the railway tracks sometimes waiting for the commuter train to pass and then there was the formidable Water Tower. The final destination was school. I would do this same trek home for lunch with thanks to the ever reliable timekeepers, the clock and my mother. Mom was a stickler when it came to punctuality.

Punctuality and obsessions with clocks along with the concept of time has stayed with me. I am one to arrive at an airport long before the plane is due to depart. I’ve never missed a flight in all the 25 years that I’ve been going back and forth over the pond since my move to the UK.

I’ve also experienced many other types of journeys over time, but the one that has kept me the most grounded, been a constant my entire life and has gotten me through it all, has been my creativity. Being an artist and making things has been a life-long adventure into the mind, processing information and the imagining of new worlds, new constructs both past and present. As a trained visual artist, my three-dimensional object based narrative work has offered opportunities to learn about a variety of places and themes; whilst also working with different communities, exploring a multitude of identities and in doing so becoming an integral part of many stories. It has been a way of fitting into the world, creating a sense of belonging.

It's Time Proud Preston
Assemblage (Upcycled Grandfather Clock), 2021
Image credit: Jill Reidy

The biggest surprise on my creative journey has been in writing poetry. I have always enjoyed poetry and in fact I still have the first poetry book my mother gave to me when I was 14, The Family Album of Favorite Poems edited by P. Edward Ernst. However I did very little writing before moving to the UK.

Visiting places like Dove Cottage and learning about the Romantics such as Wordsworth and Coleridge inspired me. For me, writing poetry started as a bi-product to accompany my visual artwork. Then I began to write poetry to stand on its own but shared very little with others for many years feeling I was not worthy because I had not been trained in English Literature and Creative Writing.

Slowly I began to gain enough confidence to submit poetry that resulted in a handful of minor published successes. I then got the courage to begin doing the occasional reading – this was most surprising! I continue to write as part of my creative practice. I would expect sometimes it is not the most conventional writing with influences from both American and British camps – I try to use this to my advantage but sometimes must choose and change my first choice of words depending on the situation and expected audience. I do so enjoy playing and painting with words. It is the most personal of all my creative work and always try to make time for it.

The Clock

In memory in quiet sits
upon the shelf in kitchen proud,
a wooden case with portal door
reveals the cracked discoloured face,
scratched numbers ‘round the edge, two holes
that fit a key to wind for time
spring forward hits the chime by hour
to speak for moments past, life lived
to mark once present then was lost

when now she wraps it carefully
and lays it in a cardboard box
to send it tied with strings from heart
and chart its course, an airborne path
above our homeland, childhoods held
in balance nestled in the hold
within a silver plated shell,
its engines vibrate roaring loud,
its steady wings take flight through dark

and laden Nimbus cloud, make good
on sister’s promise, she to pass
the heirloom on to me and mine,
say I to unknown pilot pray
to bring it safely on to me,
to bring it safely on.

Thank you for reading. 😀

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Four Legs Good - Cassie and Crombie

We’d had cats, hamsters and gerbils when the children were small. What they really wanted was a dog. When the last of the gerbils passed away, the pleas began again.  It wouldn’t be a problem, after all, I was a stay-at-home mum. Well, that’s how it looked because I was home when they were. The five days a week I spent working in the infants’ school had clearly gone over their heads. A dog. A responsibility. Another family member. My husband and I thought about it.

A lot had been going on in our family. The children had been faced with both parents having serious illnesses which had turned their lives inside out and upside down for the best part of a year. I was convinced that we weren’t both going to make it – we did, there we were and here we still are. The experience changed my attitude about some things. Should I become ill again and not survive, didn’t want the children to have a lasting memory of me, a mean mother never letting them have a dog. There were conditions, discussed between ourselves before involving the children. Firstly, no puppies. We would find a rescue dog. The chosen one had to suit everybody because it would be a family pet and looked after by all. Everyone had to feel comfortable taking it out for a walk. We studied the traits and behaviours of likely breeds and decided to approach Spring Spaniel Rescue. Before going ahead, we involved the children.

We sat round the table at tea time. Everyone had a small piece of paper, placed face down. Stay with me on this, I don’t need to explain how (daft) we are sometimes. It’s just family stuff. With much giddiness between the four of us, it was time to reveal our ‘words’, starting with the children. I had the last turn. Child 1 ‘We’, Child 2 ‘Are’, Dad ‘Getting’, Mum ‘A Dog’. Delighted, excited children.

Cassie was the perfect dog for us at that time. She was an old lady of a Springer Spaniel, thought to be ten years old, taken in by Springer Spaniel Rescue after her time as a breeding bitch ceased. They couldn’t tell us much, except she had been in sad, neglectful circumstances. The rescue centre had looked after her, restored her health and ready to be rehomed, she was ours. Love was all she needed and we had an endless supply. She was too old and infirm to chase balls or do much running about, but she loved her daily walks. Four legs nearly good. We know we gave her the best we could in her twilight years. It was heart-breaking for all of us when despite the efforts of our vet and our constant care, Cassie couldn’t recover from what we believe was a stroke and we had to say goodbye.

The level of grief was enormous. No more dogs.

The ‘no more dogs’ didn’t last very long. Our son helped a friend out by having her dog stay with us for a few days. She wanted to rehome him, but unfortunately he wasn’t a dog for us. Having him around showed me what we were missing. A compromise. We couldn’t keep this dog as he was too big and strong for me to handle, but if everyone agreed, we would approach Springer Spaniel Rescue again.

Crombie joined us as if he’d always been part of our family. Four years old and full of beans, he spun me round and round in the kennels car park before leaping into the hatchback, eager to get strapped in and make the journey to his new home. Bursting with energy and always raring to go, this was a springer behaving like a springer. Cassie had paved the way, building our confidence, preparing us for Crombie. He was a perfect dog for us, as Cassie had been, but in a different way. Springers are intelligent dogs, needing lots of exercise and challenges. Crombie, trained to Kennel Club Gold standard was exceptionally good company. Our children and later, grandchildren adored him. He must have covered every blade of grass on the field close to our house every day. He learnt his way round Dumfries and Galloway, instantly recognising where he was when we turned off the main road and followed the lane to the lodges where we like to stay. He wasn’t best friends with the vet in Kirkcudbright, but he knew he needed help and was respectful. We both whimpered with seasickness on the long journey to the Isle of Barra, but soon recovered to run on the beach. Part of the family he really was and we took him everywhere. Four legs good. Old age and infirmity began to compromise him. We knew what was coming. I couldn’t face up to it until we really had no choice.

Three years on and we still miss him, but I really mean it when I say ‘No more dogs’.

I found this,

The Power of the Dog

“There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie –
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To rick your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns
Then you will find – it’s your own affair –
But, you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still)!
When the spent that answered your every mood
Is gone – whenever it goes – for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ‘em, the more we do grieve.

For when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long.
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?”

Rudyard Kipling 1865 – 1936

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Most Boring Place - Sunday Afternoon, Age 6

I’ve always got something to do or something to think about.  I like to be alone with my thoughts but equally, I like to enjoy good company. There have been things I’ve had to endure that could be called boring, or made me feel extremely fed up. These would be events out of my control, not going according to plan and causing frustration.

Flying back to the UK from the USA should have been an exciting adventure. It was winter time in the early ‘80s and I was fortunate enough to be waiting in the Club Class departure lounge at New York’s JFK airport.  I was travelling alone and on a registered stand-by ticket, happy to wait, sitting on a comfy armchair by the window, watching the snow. Flights came and went. Hours passed. I had everything I needed and felt looked after, but I was tired, jet lag without the jet. I didn’t want to fall asleep and miss a flight I could have taken, though I’m sure someone would come to get me. O’Hare International, Chicago, had redirected their UK flights to JFK due to heavy snow, so planes became full. By the time I was called, I was dead on my feet, but happy to get a place anywhere, on any plane that could fly me home. I had a seat in the centre block of a 747, next to a pleasant German gent who kept trying to make conversation with me. No common language between us, so we occasionally smiled at each other instead. He was going to Heathrow, then on to Frankfurt. He went to sleep. I’d finished my book, couldn’t get into the in-flight movie and probably slept a little, but I remember sitting there, annoyed with the drone of the engines and willing myself home – there was a long train journey to come next. I think I was more fed up than bored. Boring is what I’d call some winter Sunday afternoons of my childhood.

I was an only child until age seven and a half when my sister arrived, so I was used to being doted on by both sets of grandparents and any number of aunts and uncles. Nothing changed, my family was her family and she just slotted in and got passed around for a cuddle. Being a baby, she didn’t spoil whatever I was playing with. I was a well-behaved little treasure, most of the time. Our family ran pubs and in those days licensing hours meant that they were closed in the afternoons and for longer on Sundays. This was family time when we’d all get together for a meal. This is when it got boring. It started well, lots of fun and me being made a fuss of. We would all get round the table to eat, which was always good. At one set of grandparents, I would eat jelly and fruit with a small, shell-shaped spoon, sitting up straight on a high stool. At my other grandparents, homemade rice pudding which was deliciously creamy. Once, as the roast dinner was being served, I rudely remarked, “Oh no, not peas again!” I was swiftly removed by my mother, taken out of the room for a wallop on my bottom, left to cry for a bit then brought back in to apologise. I must have been having an ‘off’ day from my usual sweet little princess self. After dinner, everyone sat in the lounge and eventually fell asleep. I hated it. This was the most boring place in my world. My nanna would sit down, smoke a Park Drive, pick her knitting up and go at it frantically until she nodded off. My dad might go outside to check something on someone’s car first, but soon I would be in a room full of sleeping relatives. It seemed like ages, but probably wasn’t. I’d have a colouring book to do and one of my grandmothers didn’t mind if I turned the contents of her sideboard upside down. Sing Something Simple would come on the wireless which made it even more boring. If I hear Sing Something Simple nowadays, it fills me with happy memories of my idyllic childhood.

My poem:

Sunday roast with Yorkshire pudding,
And why did we always have peas?
Apple pie or sometimes trifle,
Fond thoughts of childhood, fam’ly teas.

The nearly quiet afternoon
In the fading November light
Those all around me are sleeping
And they are such a boring sight.

Like book-ends, Nanna and Grandad,
Snooze cosily on the settee.
Grandad’s Brylcreem’d hair all messy,
Nan’s knitting slipped down on her knee.

Has my auntie just stopped breathing?
Uncle Bill has started snoring.
I’m looking for something to do.
Flipping Sundays are so boring!

Sing Something Simple has come on,
It’s time for us to go, hooray!
They’ll all wake up for opening time,
Running pubs is our family way.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Snow....Friend or Foe?

We very rarely get snow in Blackpool. We might get a short flurry but it never seems to settle. Which is why it was strange this morning to wake up knowing  that ‘snow’ was the title of the blog post I needed to write today, and then to glance out of the window and see a white carpet instead of a green lawn. As usual, it was gone by the time I went out for my walk at lunchtime, but it did get me thinking about the snow I’d experienced in the past. 

The smattering in the garden this morning

I remember the excitement of waking up as a child, being aware of the unusual silence outside, and opening the curtains to see that glaring white blanket, covering everything in sight, just waiting to be disturbed. Like most kids, my brothers and I couldn’t wait to get outside.  If I recall correctly, the games usually ended with me running inside crying, having been hit by a perfectly aimed snowball. My elder brother would be grinning and protesting his innocence, but making sure he was too far from the house for our mum to come running out in her slippers, grab him by the offending throwing arm and drag him back indoors.  My woollen gloves would be sodden and dripping, and my toes inside my wellies would be dry but almost numb with the cold. This whole scenario would be repeated several times throughout the day, interspersed with periods of harmony where all three of us would spend a quiet half hour, deep in concentration, whilst we built a snowman, no doubt annoying my mum even more by  constantly running in and out of the house, dripping freezing water everywhere, looking for carrots and coal and my dad’s scarf and hat. As a child the days of snow were certainly some of my most exciting, made even more so by school been shut down on the days when it would be impossible to get there. 

In contrast, one of my worst experiences involved a heavy snow storm. With a friend, and our five children I had driven to Mickleton, a tiny village in Co Durham, to visit my brother and his wife. The weather was cold but sunny, perfect driving conditions. However, as we came to leave later that evening, there was a big, dark cloud, hovering overhead. We crammed the children into our rusty old car - christened the Belgrano, for obvious reasons.  There were the usual arguments about who was sitting where, the boot of the hatchback being the favoured place for all five children.  This was in the days before safety was the main consideration and even seatbelts weren’t compulsory. The two youngest were given the privileged position and the rest were squashed on the back seat. 

To understand the true horror of the journey that ensued it’s necessary to be acquainted with the local terrain. In order to reach Brough - and a main road - one had to drive for about half an hour ‘over the tops.’  This is a winding road with no lights, a drop of various, worrying depths on one side, and numerous wandering sheep: fine on a bright sunny day, not so great when driving a huge orange rust bucket containing a friend and five arguing children - two of them in the boot. 

As we were waved off by a clearly relieved brother and his wife, the first tiny flurries of snow began to fall. 'How lovely,' we said, ‘look kids, snow!’ By the time we got to the long and winding road over the tops dusk had turned to night, the sky was completely black, the snow was swirling and visibility was practically nil. Not only was it impossible to see where the side of the road dropped into the valley but the snow was also totally disorientating. I tried turning on main beam. I couldn’t decide whether that made it better or worse. Snowflakes were flying around in every direction, making it seem as though we were going backwards at times. Friend, in a controlled panic, had her nose pressed up against the windscreen, trying to direct operations, ‘You’re all right, stay to the left, bend coming up, slow down....’ I didn’t need to be told to slow down. I was probably doing 10mph. I could feel the ice under the tyres and dreaded a dangerous skid. The only good thing was that all other (sensible) people were staying indoors in front of the fire and not driving like idiots along a treacherous stretch of winding road in a snow storm. We might end up upside down in the valley, or knocking out a careless sheep but at least we wouldn’t be hanging by our non existent seat belts and we wouldn’t be having any head on crashes. 

I don’t think I’ve ever had a more frightening driving experience (apart from when a tyre blew on the motorway, the car went out of control and I ended up crashing into the left side barrier - but that’s another story).  We continued along the tops, our noses pressed against the windscreen, the silence only punctuated periodically by a child nervously giggling and myself or friend telling them in a clipped, no nonsense voice, to be quiet.  By the time we reached the safety of the main road, we had been travelling for two and a half hours - a journey that usually takes a fifth of that time.  Slowly, I steered the Belgrano to the side of the road, gently pressing on the brakes and trying to remember which way one had to turn the wheel to get out of a skid. My friend and I removed our noses from the windscreen and turned to face each other.  We didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  A voice from the boot piped up, 'Are we nearly home, mum?'

'Won't be long now,' I said wearily, as I took note of the snow settling thickly on the road ahead, and preparing myself for a long haul.  The journey that normally took us an hour and three quarters, lasted five long hours that night.  Strangely, the boys in the boot never requested that space again.

 

Things Noticed While Walking in Snow

A single car’s tracks: two ribbons

unrolled on a cutting sheet.

Bird prints by a hawthorn bush:

a smattering of ancient Greek;

discreet scars on a marble beauty’s thighs.

A curtain of ice over bulging bedrock.

Your hand balled round mine.

Fields spread out like a bridal gown.

Power lines plotting perspective.

Through scrawled birches, two donkeys:

vigilant, freeze-framed,

the female’s bray muffled by the cold.

Your hands in your pockets, mine by my side.

An absence of words.

The river, giddy and gleaming:

a dark vein trying to resuscitate

the ghost of land.

And always the split duvet of sky, emptying itself over us

over and over

to cushion our fall.

                                                 Sharon Black

I knew I didn't have time to write a poem this week, so I started looking for something suitable. I liked the imagery in this one, and the fact that it paints a picture in stark contrast to my disastrous car journey. 

Thanks for reading.    Jill   

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Journey - My Epic Travels

We are all on our journey of life. We may visit many places, some planned, some unexpected, taking the good with the bad because that’s how it has to be. We may stay put, allow our imagination to take us travelling and pretend we can survive at the bottom of the ocean cocooned in a submarine, safe from Covid 19. I’m not sure if that’s a dream or a nightmare.

Lockdown again, I’m isolating again and my planned trip to Dumfries & Galloway later this month has been rearranged for springtime. I’ll miss the pre-Christmas break which includes a special dinner in Kirkcudbright for my birthday, and the Christmas gift shopping which I like to do there. Meanwhile, as safe as I can be at home, I’ll look forward to next year, optimistic for better times ahead and maybe make the long journey to Orkney.

When our children were little, we had wonderful family holidays in Pembrokeshire. It took all day to get to our destination and the journey could be made tedious by excited kids driving each other mad.

“Will you tell her? She’s nipping me!”

“Mum, he’s put spit on my leg!”

And much wailing. This would be happening before we left the M55. Threats to return home might shut them up for a while.  We would leave the M6 at North Wales and take the scenic route to our first stop at Bala. There’s a lovely playground where we would have our picnic lunch and the children would have fun playing nicely together. Back on our way and they would hate each other again. Sometimes I would swap with the eldest and put him in the front. The youngest would not be nipping me. The long drive was worth it. We would stay two weeks and a bit more, and enjoy a great time.

Holidays when I was a child, were usually spent staying with seldom seen relatives. My aunt and uncle on my father’s side lived in London and other places in the south of England. The journey to get there would be epic and it was always night time when we arrived. Three things were likely to happen to make us late. Top of the list, somewhere in the midlands I would get travel sick. This definitely, always happened and my seaside bucket would miraculously appear. It didn’t make me feel better, but hopefully, the use of it would protect the leather upholstery of Dad’s Mark 2 Jaguar, or whichever model he had at the time.  We would become lost. These journeys were in the days before the motorways linked up, so we would be south, somewhere, following a map and some instructions of which way to go after we’d run out of M6 or M1. I seem to remember this happening around Banbury. My mother, attempting to keep spirits up and sickness down would have me and my sister singing ‘Ride a Cock Horse to Banbury Cross’ and to look for the statue. I don’t think we ever saw it. Eventually, after my dad had opened the window to ask friendly pedestrians for directions, we would be doing a ‘U’ turn and getting back on our way. Then the car would break down. A cloud of steam would rise from the open bonnet. Dad would roll up his shirt sleeves, wait for the engine to cool – this took time – replenish the water in the radiator and hope it fixed it. He usually knew what to do, but if he was stumped, he would have to find a telephone box to call the AA out. We would arrive at our relatives after dark, hungry, tired and very happy to be made welcome. Happy family times.

Isle of Harris

I wrote this poem after a lengthy journey to the North West Scottish Highlands. The scenery was and is breathtakingly beautiful.

I’ll Take the High Road

Sun-yellow gorse meets a bright blue sky

Where mountains seem low and clouds are high.

Single track, crumbled edge, shared with sheep,

The drop is sharp, the climb is steep

Then dips to touch the shore of the loch

Where gentle waves lick tumbled rock.

Then swift ascent and a chance to pause,

Admire the view and brown-heather’d moors.

Mile after slate-grey mile and some more,

Then, at last, we reach our cottage door.

The road ends where the loch becomes sea,

Dolphins are playing and I feel free.

 

Pamela Winning

May 2014

Thanks for reading. Stay safe, Pam x

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All Aboard A Cal-Mac Ferry!

Sailing was not my favourite method of transport.  Years ago I would feel queasy on my father’s cabin cruiser, moored at the side of Lancaster Canal, especially when a passing boat sent ripples through the water.  The memory has never left me, but as my desire to visit the Outer Hebrides grew, and the only practical way to do it was to take the car, it was ‘let’s go for it, I’ll cope’. And cope I did, but there wasn’t a problem. The first time we went, we pre-booked our crossings with Caledonian MacBrayne on a Hopscotch ticket and sailed from the mainland to Skye, then Skye to Benbecula, North Uist to the Isle of Harris and the Isle of Lewis back to the mainland. We crossed different waters and they were short journeys. I was very happy to be sailing comfortably. We stayed in some amazing places and tried to pack as much sight-seeing in as possible. We drove south as far as Eriskay, a tiny island reached by a causeway from the end of South Uist. Unfortunately we missed out the Isle of Barra. We couldn’t schedule it in, but it was a perfect reason to return the following year.

I couldn’t wait to get back to the wonder of the Outer Hebrides. It’s like being in another world, even another planet; it’s so different from anywhere. We were only going to the Isle of Barra, not touring like before, but we needed the car and our dog would be with us so we chose the most direct route. We would sail from Oban to Castlebay, Barra. It was a journey of over five hours, but I had confidence from the last time. It would be fine. We arranged an overnight stop near Glasgow before a long drive to Oban for a lunch-time ferry. It was mid-May, warm and sunny, the beginning of last summer’s glorious weather. I looked forward to boat trips around the small islands close to Barra.

After the many crossings we did the year before, we had ferry travel off to a fine art and chose our seats by the windows in a dog-friendly area close to a café. We settled down for the long trip.  The beginning of the voyage was slow and gentle through the Sound of Mull. I hoped to get photographs of Tobermory as we passed the Isle of Mull before sailing into open water. Being out at sea, away from the shelter of the Inner Hebrides, was very unpleasant for me. The water was choppy, the ferry rose and fell like a slow roller-coaster. I couldn’t stand up, I would surely fall. Our poor spaniel whimpered and sat on my husband’s knee like Scooby-Doo. I spent hours bent forward, staring at the floor, feeling unwell.  I was so glad to reach Castlebay.

The experience of that crossing put me off any idea of island boat trips. We were halfway through our stay before I felt better, then I began to worry about the ferry back to the Scottish mainland.

Sailing back to Oban was fine, I needn’t have worried, but I’m back to square one. Sailing is not my favourite method of transport.

I think I’ll manage the Orkneys, but Shetland will have to be a flight and a hire car.

 

I've chosen Robert Louis Stevenson's version,

Over the Sea to Skye

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul, he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye

Mull was astern, Rum was on port,
Eigg on the starboard bow.
Glory of youth glowed in his soul,
Where is that glory now?

Give me again all that was there,
Give me the sun that shone.
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
Give me the lad that's gone.

Billow and breeze, islands and seas,
Mountains of rain and sun;
All that was good, all that was fair,
All that was me is gone.

             Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894)


Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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Watermelon - Business Trip, 1984

The first time I ate watermelon I was astonished to find it so cool, refreshing and thirst-quenching. I was in my late twenties at a motorway service station somewhere in middle England, a welcome break on a tedious homeward journey of delays then slow moving traffic. The afternoon was hot, the car was stuffy, my companion was moody and I longed to be home alone. I hated those pointless business trips. As usual, it could all have been discussed over the phone instead of dragging people from offices as far away as Whitehaven to a soulless Holiday Inn in Swiss Cottage. Sucking the watermelon helped cheer me. Juicy watermelon, chilled and delicately delicious, in triangular slices like I gave to my children years later, my grandchildren nowadays and I was an adult before my first taste.

Anyone who has endured chemotherapy will acknowledge the effect it can have on the whole body and mind. We are all different in how we react and the prescription is tailored specifically to an individual. One thing that was common between me and fellow patients was lack of appetite on good days, nausea on bad days and sore mouth ulcers all of the time which made eating very painful. Most of us relied on pineapple, honeydew melon and watermelon. All were manageable, soothing and easy to digest. I still enjoy all three, though watermelon is my favourite. I’ve promised myself to buy a whole one and have a go at decorative carving.

I missed out on ‘making a shark from a watermelon’ last year. Well, I think I missed out. The tutorial was advertised on our list of possible activities when we had an all-inclusive mini-break last summer, but it seemed not to be included during our stay. I’m keen to do it, so I’ll try. I can still eat it, however much mess I make.

 

I found this poem:

Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle
Received from a Friend Called Felicity

During that summer
When unicorns were still possible;
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned;
When shiny horse chestnuts
    (Hollowed out
    Fitted with straws
    Crammed with tobacco
    Stolen from butts
    In family ashtrays)
Were puffed in green lizard silence
While straddling thick branches
Far above and away
From the softening effects
Of civilization;
During that summer--
Which may never have been at all;
But which has become more real
Than the one that was--
Watermelons ruled.

Thick imperial slices
Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins;
Leaving the best part,
The black bullet seeds,
To be spit out in rapid fire
Against the wall
Against the wind
Against each other;
And when the ammunition was spent,
There was always another bite:
It was a summer of limitless bites,
Of hungers quickly felt
And quickly forgotten
With the next careless gorging.

The bites are fewer now.
Each one is savored lingeringly,
Swallowed reluctantly.

But in a jar put up by Felicity,
The summer which maybe never was
Has been captured and preserved.
And when we unscrew the lid
And slice off a piece
And let it linger on our tongue:
Unicorns become possible again.

John Tobias

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Oh, What A Night - The Best Times

Oh, what a night, what a theme! I've many to choose from, here's a few.

The first thing to spring to mind is all the Moody Blues concerts I’ve been to. I tried to count it up but it’s impossible.  On every UK tour for nearly twenty years, I have attended two or three concerts at least, out of a probable eight, depending on location. We’ve wrapped holidays and mini-breaks around concert dates. I longed to see them at the Royal Albert Hall, where I knew the acoustics would be perfect for their music. I was ecstatic to eventually make it in 2006 and went to two of their three concerts. The experience was everything I’d hoped for. On the second night, my daughter and I managed to place ourselves in front of the stage, with many others dancing and singing through the encore. It was worth having to stay in the grottiest of shabby back street hotels. We live and learn. A couple of years later we stayed in a lovely hotel in Blackheath when we went to see the Moodies at the 02. Not my favourite venue, but the hotel was great.

I like football. I grew up in a family devoted to Manchester United, so it was bound to rub off. My maternal grandfather, a licensee in Sale when I was small, had mates connected to the club. I remember the sadness in the family when the Munich air crash happened, though I was too young to fully understand. Years later we took our children on a tour of MUFC and I spent ages in the museum learning about the Busby Babes. In 2006 there was an opportunity to go to a match. Burton Albion were coming to Old Trafford for a mid-week, evening FA cup replay. Tickets went on open sale. I can’t remember how much it cost for our family of four to have the best seats possible, on the centre-line above the dugout, and pre-booked pre-paid disabled parking, but I know it was a very expensive family night out. It was worth every penny. Our son, who was about fifteen, had the time of his life. Our daughter amused everyone around us by asking me if it was ‘live’. It was a 5-0 win to United. It took hours to get out of the car park and start our journey home. A very late school night, but a great time was had by us all. Sometimes you need a treat.

Going to see John Cooper Clarke was a treat indeed. I’ve loved his poetry since he first came on the scene as a ‘punk poet’, so clever, so observant, telling it like it is with no words wasted. I bought tickets as soon as they went on sale at the Kendal Brewery Arts Centre. We had pizza in the Vats Bar then took our front row seats in the theatre. The first half of the event was my introduction to Manchester poet, Mike Garry, who held me spellbound and spoke my language, quite literally as he comes from the same part of Manchester as I do. Afterwards, I bought a copy of his book, which he signed for me as we chatted. John Cooper Clarke was amazing and kept going and going, despite not being fully recovered from a recent illness. It was just brilliant to hear the poems I knew and loved so well being performed live by the poet. Oh, what a night!

 

 

Oh, what a night at the Royal Albert Hall

On a wonderful Moody Blues tour,

When we danced and sang, right up close to the stage,

Joining in with their final encore.

 

Oh, what a night at Old Trafford Cricket Ground,

Simply Red in July, ’92.

‘Holding Back the Years’ always has me in tears.

Dreams of the future were coming true.

 

Oh, what a night at Old Trafford Football Ground,

Our fam’ly supporting United.

Fortunes for tickets, but the thrill of the match

And victory made us delighted.

 

Oh, what a night in Kendal, John Cooper Clarke,

The Bard of Salford, great to be heard,

And Manchester’s Mike Garry blew me away

As I hung on to his every word.

 

PMW 2019

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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