Ancient Cities -- Bedrock

Thinking of ancient cities and my lack of personal experience in the real world, took me back to childhood and my love for the cartooned world of the Flintstones. They lived in the suburban area of a stone age city called Bedrock. I would have moved in with them, anytime. I was fascinated by their household appliances and gadgets which amused me more than the storylines. I would be spellbound for the entire twenty minutes or so of each episode. This wasn’t confined to childhood. In my early 30s, I would get up at some crazy time to watch an early morning episode before travelling out of town to work. I lived alone, so no raised eyebrows or questions. Somewhere, I have a DVD. I’m shocked that my grandchildren are not the least bit interested.

I planned to visit the Holy Land in my mid-twenties. It was an organised trip, like a pilgrimage, with a group of people from the church I belonged to at the time. I looked forward to setting foot in the ancient cities and places I had heard about and grown up with from the Bible stories of Sunday School and my Christian upbringing. It couldn’t happen. My father had always been supportive and encouraging, taking an interest in my endeavours, but he was clearly unhappy about this. There was conflict in the Middle East. Israel had invaded Lebanon and the thought of me going into potential danger ‘on holiday’ was something he really didn’t want. I couldn’t let him worry himself sick, so I didn’t go.

My travels abroad haven’t taken me anywhere ancient, more modern history, like being in Virginia, USA and learning about the American Civil War. I was staying with my family who live there. Their home was close to an area where battles had taken place, which ignited my interest. One of my cousins had studied The Battle of Bull Run and we spent time in Manassas, another battlefield and home to a museum. Not an ancient city, though.

Born in Manchester, lived in Lancaster, visited Colchester and many Roman cities in the UK. Stonehenge, not a city, but ancient, as is Calanais standing stones on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides. Not far from there is the village or township of Garenin, which is a collection of black houses, restored as an historical monument. No one lives there now, but some of the buildings are habitable and open for paying guests to stay for the experience. I haven’t stayed overnight, but I wouldn’t mind.

I’ve chosen Lemn Sissay’s poem about Canterbury, which I think qualifies as an ancient city.

Cantuarian

I ha’ant the time to rest at night
I hold the moon and satellite
I am the librarian of light
For Canterbury for all its might

And I roll beneath I roll
And I hold I hold I hold
And I swirl and I swirl
And waves uncurl

This Cantuarian
This latitudinarian
Carried the stones
Of the Trinitarian

In the river of the broken sword
(The failure of the knighted hoard)
In that winter – sheath unseen –
I washed it clean I washed it clean

Time and river entwine a ripple of twine
A shiver of rhyme this rhythm of mine
I carry the story out to the sea
The west wind addresses me

By bank and by bed, red and deeper
The city head the secret keeper
I bathed the uncivilised scream
I washed it clean I washed it clean

And I roll beneath I roll
And I hold I hold I hold
And I swirl and I swirl
And waves uncurl

I am the librarian of light
For Canterbury for all its might.

                               Lemn Sissay, OBE FRSL

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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A Favourite Film - Goodnight, Mr Tom

 A favourite film is a tough choice to make. I’ve picked a few. I think they started as books, with the exception of ‘Grease’, where if I remember correctly, the book came later, and ‘The Holiday’, which doesn’t have a book. Please put me right, if I’m wrong.

‘Grease’, the sound of 1978 and there’s a familiar song in my head as I type. It’s got to be my favourite musical of my generation. A sing-a-long, feel good factor romance. What’s not to like? Ok, stop and wait, there was another that year with great songs, ‘Saturday Night Fever’ with exceptional dancing and a serious storyline.

I don't like romantic comedy, generally, but I make an exception with 'The Holiday'. I like the story, the characters are believable and it isn't too sweet. The cottage is appealing, too.

The 1939 black and white version of ‘Wuthering Heights’ was my introduction to Laurence Olivier when I was eleven or twelve and of course, I fell in love with him. The film only told half the story, but that was Hollywood. Cathy’s death broke my heart.

1939 was the year for ‘Gone with the Wind’, another beloved book and film starring Vivienne Leigh who was about to marry Laurence Olivier, but we won’t dwell on that and it happened way before I was born, anyway.

I’ve got to include the original, 1940 ‘Rebecca’ whilst I’m held captive by Olivier’s gaze and Daphne du Maurier’s writing.

During my childhood and particularly around the age of eleven to thirteen, I watched lots of films with my mum, from Hollywood musicals to Hammer Horrors, but the one I associate with her the most is ‘A Taste of Honey’. This was not a film we watched together sharing chocolate and enjoying mummy and daughter time. This was my forbidden fruit when I was told not to watch it. Too late, the beginning had already got me spellbound, but she sent me to bed saying it wasn’t suitable for me. I think I was eleven at the time, very much a child, still played with dolls and very different to modern day eleven year olds. I knew better than to argue or make that annoying, disapproving ‘arr’ sound. My mum was going downstairs to work in our pub, so I listened out for her leaving. Seconds later I was leaning on the lounge door frame with the door to our flat slightly open so I would hear if she came back up. I was rooted to the spot and loved every second of that film. Whatever my mum was protecting me from went right over my head. I was just disappointed that Jo’s sailor didn’t come back. As an adult I consider ‘A Taste of Honey’ to be Shelagh Delaney’s stroke of genius. Perhaps my mum wanted to avoid awkward questions from me. I’ve worked it all out since.

I was a fan of John Thaw ever since Phyllis Bentley’s ‘Inheritance’ was serialised on tv. To me, he was what made ‘The Sweeney’ and he was born to be ‘Morse’. I wasn’t sure about this completely different character as Tom Oakley in ‘Goodnight, Mr Tom’. Silly me to have such doubts. Not only was he perfect as the character, and the rest of the cast were equally excellent, the film, which was a tv adaptation of Michelle Magorian’s novel completely overwhelmed me. I cried so many times, full of sadness for what was being endured by this young boy, a war time evacuee. There are many twists and turns in the story and as it ends with an agreeable conclusion, fresh tears from me, happy ones this time. It really is that good. I think my eldest grandson might like to watch it with me.

My poem:

William Beech

Authority’s persuasion,
Tom Oakley’s reluctance,
Zach’s hand of boyhood friendship,
William’s acceptance.

My tears, they are relentless
For Will, where has he been?
Tom Oakley stopped complaining,
Taking in what he had seen.

William, shirtless when he saw
The scars left by the belt,
Sickened beyond all words by
The pain he must have felt.

I wish I knew Zach’s poem,
Verses of hope and home,
Safe in William’s pocket
From what life might become.

I love a happy ending,

It’s ‘Dad!’ I hear Will call
At the end of fear and doubt,
As even more tears fall.

PMW 2025

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Quartet - The Brontes

The story of Jane Eyre was my first introduction to the Bronte family.  Charlotte’s famous novel has been serialised on television many times, and I think this would be the 1963 adaptation starring Richard Leech and Ann Bell, shown on Sunday afternoons, as that fits in with my life and being age eight or nine at the time. I was spellbound. I cried when Jane’s school friend, Helen died. I was scared by Bertha, Mr Rochester’s wife and the house fire. My mother bought me the book and encouraged my interest in the Brontes. An interest which remains. I love my visits to Haworth Parsonage.

It isn’t only the novels and poetry that mean so much to me. I’m fascinated by the family and the tragedies they endured. The author Lynne Reid Banks tells their story very well in her books, ‘Dark Quartet’ and ‘Path to the Silent Country’. Writer Sally Wainwright’s drama, ‘To Walk Invisible’ is a written work of art and I believe is as close to the truth as it is possible to be. Branwell’s downfall, Emily’s impatience with him, Charlotte’s forthright dynamics in pushing for publication for all of them and Anne, gentle mannered and sweet natured; all of them incredibly talented in their pursuits.  It is so sad that they had such short lives and they have no descendants, unless it should come to pass that Branwell actually did father a child in Kendal c.1840. It might be a rumour based on his boasting and we may never know.

Poor Branwell, a troubled soul, poet and artist. His poems are melancholic and he painted himself out of the famous painting he did of himself with his sisters.  I don’t think he felt like he was living in the shadow of his sisters, as it has been suggested.  He was equally talented, but enjoyed being ‘a lad’ a lazy one, and pushing boundaries too far. It seems he was his own worst enemy in allowing distractions to prevent him from reaching his potential success.

This quartet was once a group of six siblings. Two elder sisters, Maria and Elizabeth died aged eleven and ten, around the same time as each other, of consumption, when Charlotte was nine. Imagine, had they lived, what they might have written.

Patrick Branwell Bronte

Poet and artist, your fallen talents go to waste
And are trapped within the torment of your mind.
Forbidden love, so heavenly to taste
Now haunts and disturbs; no beauty left to find.
The call of temptation and no wish to be chaste,
But to be drunk on the perfume of bodies entwined.
Oh Branwell! Your vision clouded by opium and gin
And the burdening weight of adulterous sin…

Pamela Winning 2010

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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