Huffing and puffing the monster roars towards him, the dragon festooned in belching smoke clouds. The sunny day is soon obscured with the sooty darkness.
On the railway bridge the five-year-old boy ducks up and down, jumping with sheer excitement and terror. He holds fast to the iron-wrought railings seeking safety from the exposed platform below.
As the behemoth nears him a terrible howl explodes through the landscape and he’s shaken to the ground of the bridge, as ringing seems to pierce his eardrums.
Here it comes, he mutters. His vision soon clogs with dirt and soot, the sticky blackness settling on his hand-knitted tank-top, on his shorts; his legs and arms quickly covered with an impressive layer of dirt. Even the thought of his mother’s despair fails to halt the epiphany of the occasion.
With his eyes agog, his mouth forms a perfect O-shape then he takes a deep breath and holds it as the beast passes beneath him, beyond him.
Shouting in exultation he suddenly coughs, yet he never take his eyes away from the roaring monster. He swivels and absorbs the magic of this surreal world, far removed from his family and friends. Just the beast and him!
A loud screeching of brakes cuts through the drama, his comforting sense of isolation crashes down with reality as the train comes to a stop at the station ahead and people swarm out.
Alas, the extraordinary scene slowly dissipates yet he remains enveloped within the ethereal cocoon of his first zenith of train experiences.
It started with an email. As a subscriber to the local garden centre’s newsletter they kindly offered me a tray of wildflowers. A sucker for anything floral and even better if free I was eager to acquire some. There was only one problem — I was in Sweden and the offer expired before my return. With a big sigh I accepted this was one deal I’d not take up.
A day after my return to England another missive stated that the offer had been extended one more week. Imagine the dash to my car, engine revving, tyres kicking up the dust as I drove away! Unfortunately this was not my departure to the garden centre, rather a subdued tired drive, remembering to keep on the left and at last I was there.
Stepping past tables of beautiful blooms, bushes in full display and hanging baskets in all their glory, I enthusiastically walked up to the tills to claim the free tray. With unmatched enthusiasm, I was directed to a trolley outside. My heart sank a few notches. Before me were three forlorn trays, featuring the straggliest weedy flowers! I nearly caved into my initial desire to leave them alone before choosing the best of the worst and headed home. Maybe, I hardly dared to hope, maybe with TLC galore they might flourish.
Mid May – the straggly ten wildflowersMid May – planted and looking rather lost!
In the following days and weeks, I avidly studied the wildflowers which had been delicately planted in a corner of the garden. What magical transformation as the warmth, sunlight and watering helped them recover and grow in unrivalled spurts.
Mid June – Promising!Mid June – First flower!
Soon glorious green plants with fragile flowers swayed in the breeze, filling the mass of brown earth with buoyant blues, reds, and yellows.
End June
Nurturing and growth became the motif for me during the month of June. A month of reflection and these humble wildflowers symbolised the metamorphosis within me.
The wildflower garden this week in July – full ground cover.
Having helped a young couple over two weekends to move into their first home I pondered the love, care and nurturing that led to this moment. To help them find their wings and to give them belief in themselves. Heartened by their joy and excitement my thoughts drifted back to my life.
This month my husband and I celebrated 25 years of marriage. I must have blinked for a moment or a lot longer as I was not at all aware when those years flew by. For days I contemplated this Silver occasion, waiting for an epiphany to strike me. Instead, an awareness crept up on me, maybe while gazing at the wildflowers, the roses and poppies. That the richness in life is in the minutiae, that it is impossible to sum up a quarter of a century of togetherness. However, the growth, the care and nurture of each other and our relationship is tangible, an exponential development of our existence. The small moments of caring and love, of understanding, of laughter creating a whole.
We celebrated over a long weekend with friends. On one afternoon I was entranced by talented students at the Yehudi Menuhin School in Surrey, England. Founded by the master violinist in 1963 the school, with just over eighty students from ages 8 – 19, takes in pupils from around the world, whatever their financial circumstances.
The orchestra and auditorium at the Yehudi Menuhin School (Photo from school website)
As they are guided by their teachers, so our spirits were lifted by the sheer and absolute beauty of the music. I was transported up and beyond the wonderful auditorium, tears in my eyes. At one stage my friend put a knowing arm around me and we just nodded. No words were needed then. Later picnicking on the school grounds with the other members of the audience conversation flowed easily, our joy shared as we discussed our awe of these young gifted musicians.
The importance of our roots was reinforced during the visit to one of England’s largest vineyards. Set in the beautiful Surrey Hills the chalky soil is key to the success of the 256 acres of vines at Denbies Wine Estate.
Each year is fraught with possible hardship, particularly from the elements with regard to frost and rain. The grapes are harvested by hand for the most part, tenderly picked to avoid any damage to the skin which in turn would effect the quality of the grape’s juice.
Below is a slideshow of a series of carved oak barrels exquisitely detailing the wine making process from the training to the tasting!
Once again the theme of nurture and care, of dedication flowed through this beautiful and relaxing visit. The highlight of the visit included the tasting experience of some of the sparkling and table wines as well as a road train tour. The latter provided stunning views of the landscape and the hills full of young vines with a chance to view the young budding grapes just as they were emerging from the flowers.
The flowers have just ceased and young grapes soon on the way.Young vines trailing down the steep hillside.
How could we not celebrate our special day without a romantic meal? I was overjoyed to have the chance for a sublime meal and experience at The Ivy. The iconic restaurant was founded in 1917 and even this one, an hour away from the original in London, features the signature harlequin stain-glass windows!
Me outside The Ivy after dining!
The Ivy is not somewhere we would normally go but wow, the food was superb, the dining experience exquisite and we were even presented with a surprise delicious anniversary dessert!
Our surprise chocolate choux pastry and strawberry dessert.
The evening is engraved in my mind and spirit.
To finish my post, I want to share a few sentences from a precious letter written to us by my dear departed grandfather upon our marriage. (To those who do not know, he was a fisherman.) As always upon reading this loving analogy I am struck by his eternal wisdom.
‘ It is rather difficult to explain to someone else what a marriage is to me, but I will use an image.
That this will be a boat (a fishing boat) is quite natural to me. The boat (love) is setting out to sea, out to the North Sea. It isn’t a day trip; it will probably be a week before you are home again.
You are not guaranteed nice weather. It is autumn and you have to meet storms as well as sunshine. What is the first to do before you set out on such a trip? It is to check the condition of the boat which is to carry you. You don’t set off with a boat that is ready to ‘fall apart’. No, it has to be of the very best material available. The engine (heart) has to be strong and safe. You have to learn to listen to the engine that you can hear the smallest change in tone and rhythm — and as quickly as possible correct any fault. I hope you understand my image.
Yes, this I also have to say: when you have been fishing for days and nights and have no strength left, then drop the anchor and fasten the hawser at the front. The rest and sleep is indescribable. Do not forget the anchor and the hawser. One more thing, do not anchor on clay bottom — it can set you adrift. Anchor on a hard bottom so you can trust your anchor.’
I’m not one for following rules! Even more so when reading instruction manuals, the very sight of them causes the same reaction in me as physics classes at school – my cognitive skills freeze!
However, I could not fail to be inspired by a creative writing prompt in my beautiful mslexia Diary & Planner.
This is what my mind saw: Take a favourite sentence. I had just the perfect one in mind:
‘Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.’ Confucius
I came across these wise words for the first time earlier in the week while reading Khaya Ronkainen’s heartwarming and inspiring newsletter. (Do take a look at her wonderful poetry and blog here .)
Next, I believed I should place the sentence vertically down a page, a letter per line. Then create a poem or short fiction, starting with each letter on each line!
Creative ideas flowing I scribbled away with a satisfying whirl of energy. It became long; longer than I’d expected. Halfway through I returned to the instructions (quite typical for me!) and realised my piece was unravelling before me!
This was an acrostic writing exercise which involved selecting a sentence and listing the 14 words vertically. (Error #1 Mine was only 11 words) One should then make the first letter of each word into 14 new sentences or lines of poetry. (Error#2 I had made each letter of the sentence a new line – hence 50 line-long poem).
Instructions are great, and helpful at times yet they can be abandoned, as inspirations take us to new directions! Just so! Instead of scrapping my piece, I returned to it reinvigorated, daring!
I hope you enjoy my non-acrostic poem below and I wonder have you ever had any experiences where not following the instructions led to something new?
Listen
Listen! I’m speaking Fine Except I’m not.
Speak to me Relish the moment Experience life Accept it.
Listen Lightly let your heart sing.
Yellow Stains on your shirt Immersed in fantasy My imagination Plays tricks.
Lions, or is it loins, Enwrapped, enraptured, Business, only business, you say. Untruths, lies, fiction Truth, tantalising close Warped, twisted, broken Especially from your mouth.
I sink down onto the chair, Nestling amongst the blankets Snug as a bug, as my mother used to say. Insistent promises; you should become a writer.
Shut up, I whisper Tornado of words whip Over the coffee table, behind the TV.
Neither listen.
Me becomes we Armed with history Knitted over time.
Incorrigible, you really are, my Dad declared. Was I? Am I?
Neither of us speak.
Groundhog Day number 63 or is it 541? I forget.
The Clock Oozes pain. Mine and yours.
Please Listen I’m done Come to me, though As always, worn down.
Dappled sunlight a soft path Fragments of light and shade played catch beneath the lively birch leaves.
A hush hung delicately in the air.
So many goodbyes. To fathers and sons left to fight To a country To one’s language.
For Alina, this was the toughest goodbye. Yet not so at all.
They didn’t understand.
She wasn’t being difficult, as her aunt claimed. She wasn’t a baby, as her sister teased her. She wasn’t like the rest of them.
Her Mama understood that.
These kept her safe. Three grasped tightly in each hand. Knuckles white at times.
She wasn’t a baby.
She knew she was five. A big girl.
But the pacifiers had been her rock. Soothed her as explosions shook their home protected her as Mama forced a way for them through the heaving stations.
These helped her sleep on the trains in the cars from strange beds under unfamiliar blankets.
To home. Her new home.
Alina ran ahead, flitting onto the beach jumped up on a rock arms akimbo feeling free.
Shells, of the sea variety, picked, pocketed Later painted.
Next a left, then a right. She’d arrived at the tree.
The whispers meandered up the path, weaving between the tree trunks carried by the warmest of breezes.
‘She’ll never dare … … it’s too much for her.’
But Alina realised at last. The pacifiers, these pieces of plastic, never were her rock.
Here was her world.
They were her everything. Mama, Sestra and Titka. Her family Her father - her Tato so far away.
Pinks, blues, yellows, reds Clusters of the rarest decorations hung on ribbons from the birch branches.
One lone pacifier waved hello Ten or more bunched up for safety.
Not a sound.
The air shifted next to Alina. One became four.
Stillness filled her being Sublime peace.
It was time.
‘Up there, please. Lift me up!’
Glancing up they saw it too the perfect branch the sunshine lighting it up.
On a yellow and blue ribbon dangled her six rocks her six pacifiers.
Let them fly here, highest of them all In this nook in this sanctuary.
‘It is a serious thing/just to be alive/on this fresh morning/in this broken world.’ Mary Oliver
My second of three photo and quote posts begins with another perspective of looking up, this time into the loft canopy of the giant pine trees on the land in Sweden. The sun becomes a beacon through the needles, the sky seeming to stretch into space, into infinity!
‘The words that enlighten the soul are more precious than jewels.’ Hazrat Inayat Khan
Meeting friends, picnicking by a lake and exploring a national heritage castle is a perfect way to spend a Saturday! It was wonderful to catch up with university friends at Hever Castle, Kent one warm summer’s day last year. Hever Castle was originally built in 1383. However, it was modernised in the 15th and 16th centuries and became home to powerful families, including the Boleyn’s (Ann Boleyn was the second wife to Henry VIII). The castle provided a stunning foreground to our lazy picnic meal.
‘Nothing can dim the light which shines from within.’ Maya Angelou
The cool mystery of the sunset against the Swedish forest captures one’s imagination, the play of colours tantalising, the dark horizon of the serrated edge of tree tops a stark contrast to the play of blues and pinks!
‘May you arise in the morning, think what precious privilege it is to be alive – to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.’ Marcus Aurelius
Finally, one of my favourite places in Sweden is Fjällbacka and its captivating view from the top of its famous rock. The Vetteberget reaches 74 metres high and the islands of the archipelago stretch out as far as the eye can see. Returning to the small town nestled between the rock and the sea one must first brave and walk beneath the three giant rocks in the King’s Cleft! Read more here!
Thank you for reading this second of three posts featuring photos and quotations as I am away in Sweden for the next few weeks. Although comments are turned off for this post they will be on for the final one in this series. Plenty of time for you to think of one or more of your favourite quotes and I look forward to reading your thoughts upon my return!
Sometimes we all need a new perspective; be it in our lives, our art, our writing or even a photograph.
In the first photo I bobbed down to the ground, keen to look up at the bench in the gravel garden at home. What is it the birds see when I look down at them peeking cautiously up at me? Oh, an oasis of tranquility and I appreciate it more than ever this corner of the morning sun!
‘Being loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.’ Lao-Tzu
There is always a wonderful sense of overwhelming peace and freedom at looking at a beautiful landscape down below. Here it is, a bit of a trek up the site of an old hill fort called Olsborg in Sweden. Initially constructed in 1502 it was re-built several times and now only a few signs of the old settlement are visible. It overlooks the beautiful 28 km / 17 miles long Bullaren Lake.
‘Speak only if it improves upon the silence.’ Mahatma Ghandi
The favourite rose in my garden, The Queen of Sweden, gives me much joy throughout the summer and autumn and one I’ve shared many times including here. This close-up image portrays the duality of its resilience and fragility, all encapsulated upon folds of pink petals upon pink petals!
‘Let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.’ Kahlil Gibran
A challenge awaits the walker in the final photo for this post, the gentle rolling walk low down on Ilkley Moor, West Yorkshire quickly becomes a steep climb up to the old spa bath of White Wells. The latter was built around 1700 and a single plunge pool still survives to this day (no, I’ve never tried it!). Ilkley Moor and its stunning beauty is famed in the UK and even boasts its own unofficial county anthem ‘On Ilka Moor Baht ‘at’ (Yorkshire dialect for ‘on Ilkley Moor without a hat’). I was lucky enough to grow up in this area and enjoyed a walk on the moors every weekend
Thank you for reading this first of three posts featuring photos and quotations as I am away in Sweden for the next few weeks. Comments are turned off for this post.
‘Most collectors collect tangibles. As a quotation collector, I collect wisdom, life, invisible beauty, souls alive in ink.’ Terri Guillements
What is it about quotations that pull us in?
The snippets of sentences and the sharing of thoughts open a door to our humanity. Upon reading the words, our souls can take flight, lifted high by the wisdom and our hearts lightened. Quotations offer rays of hope in a world that is all too dark. They reflect ourselves, the people we want to be, and the world we long to create.
When it feels increasingly difficult to find direction, quotations nudge us back on track. They are a gentle reminder, an inspiring greeting to one’s inner self.
As the world rushes by they allow us to take a ‘beat’, a pause for that all-important re-set.
‘I pick my favourite quotations and store them in my mind as ready armour, offensive or defensive, amid the struggle of this turbulent existence.’ Robert Burns
In school we are flooded with quotations during literature studies, some still remembered to this day. At the time we often think of them merely as supportive evidence for a point, an argument we are making in an essay. Much later we realise how profound they were, etched on our minds still decades later.
Later in life, we come across quotations in books, magazines and yes, online. Blogging has clarified the important role of quotations in our lives.
‘Like your body your mind also gets tired so refresh it by wise sayings.’ Hazrat Ali
Every year I open a quotations folder and feed the empty pages which are greedy for the latest wisdom. A haphazard, eclectic source of sayings is gradually created, with quotes from the ancient Greek & Roman times to the present day.
It’s often said that home-made Christmas presents are the best and not being blessed with any needlecraft skills, every autumn I instead create a calendar for my mother. This is made from some of my favourite photos along with some special sayings. I cherish the joy it gives my mother, how every month she will message the new pictures and quotations; commenting upon them with her innate sense of wisdom and fun.
Next to the originator of a good sentence is the first quoter of it. Many will read the book before one thinks of quoting a passage. As soon as he has done this, that line will be quoted east and west.’ Ralph Waldo Emerson
As I am away for a while in beautiful Sweden for a long sojourn, it is my joy to share some of these calendar images with you in my next three posts – I hope you find them enjoyable, rewarding and insightful!
Many of you know that during my stay away involves living amid the forest which although it has most mod-cons deliberately has no wifi. Hence my absence from blogging however I look forward to catching up upon my return. Comments are turned off for this post.
‘I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.’ Jorge Luis Borges
Yes, it’s under warranty, only two weeks old but how can I make a claim when it simply disappeared?!
Early 2018 the internet was flooded with posts and tweets about the latest jetpacks for those with means and a wicked sense of adventure. The adverts promised a ride like never before with an added mysterious non-specific dimension. I just had to have one.
I’d tried out some jetpacks at an airfield or two. At £2,000 a time the rides were a bargain yet I longed to possess one of my own.
One spring afternoon I found myself in the library with my father. This was my favourite room, all Elizabethan dark wood panelling, four walls of books, all tucked safely away behind glass doors. On one shelf I spotted my beloved and tatty Jane Austen penguin books — a most wonderful writer and I adored her books so much. So very much that one Christmas my parents surprised me with a first edition set of all her sixteen books dating from the start of the eighteenth century. They got it at a very reasonable price, I was told, at just under £200,000.
My father was on the window seat and looked up at me. Even before I said a word he spoke.
‘No, Katy. I told you last night, no way. It is just too much.’
‘Pa,’ I said. He loved it when I called him this and I repeated. ‘Pa, it is just a bit more than my yearly allowance and rumours are you lost this amount just last month. Ma called it pocket change, I heard!’
Admittedly £300,000 was way past pocket change for me even!
There was a hiccup of silence. Yes!
I had him; the famous hiccup tell — he never could work out why he was always losing at the tables.
Father reached over to me, his glittering card stretched to my eager fingers.
‘Take this and just promise me to be careful, bubbles.’
There it was, the reason I would always get what I wanted — bubbles! The nickname made me smile and groan in equal measure. My delight of bubble baths was infamous. The renowned photos of me as a childsurrounded by bubbles galore by the world famous photographer Georgias Kerragiannis collectors plastered on our walls … and those of many art galleries. How did he manage to turn such a simple idea into a colourific gaudy prints that took the world by storm? Over and over he merely changed one tiny detail at a time and the buyers kept paying ever more.
Bubbles it was and this bubbles always knew the key to her father’s heart.
My delivery from Amazon arrived promptly the next day; a bemused driver was struck with the image of a jetpack man flying over the mountains on the box. Not subtle and I’d be leaving one of my scathing reviews tomorrow.
Up in my room, I rushed to remove the packaging, sending it flying across the bedroom. I grabbed the jetpack and stepped to my balcony. This couldn’t be difficult, I told myself, convinced the two controllers would be similar to my games. After all, I was an ace at Minecraft and Sims!
The instruction booklet lay tossed on my Egyptian cream sheets, unopened at the front cover of a red brash warning of ‘read before you operate — ignore at your peril’. Blah! Generation X are so molly-coddled! As if I couldn’t fly a simple jetpack.
I stood on the balustrade and pushed the red button, with a shout I stepped off. I was flying! There followed a big dip and near mid-air tumble but I made it just above the manicured lawn below, narrowly missing the ballroom.
Another burst of power and I was up and away, heading straight to the stables about half a mile away. Skimming over the lake, my feet took a quick paddle, the giant puffy mouths of the koi popping up to try and nibble my toes.
Looking at my right controller I noticed a dial by the thumb. I’d never seen this on my previous jetpack rides. I reached over with my left hand and turned it.
Suddenly the usual quiet of the landscape and stables turned to a maelstrom of people and horses, the shouts, chatter and neighing reaching crescendo levels, each trying to outdo the other above the din and clatter of the horse drawn-carriages on the cobblestones. The men wore the strangest costumes; tall black top hats and colourful ornate suits. What was the cause of this hub of activity? Had a film company unit hired it? It looked a set fit to film the next big Jane Austen blockbuster.
I was drifting down and right underneath me a man, my age, early 20s, looked up with a startled expression. He promptly turned white and fell backwards as I stepped into a neat landing next to him.
Suddenly he woke up and grabbed my arm.
‘What are you? A flying ghost?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I replied. ‘I’m Katy and you are …’
I left the pregnant pause, waiting for an answer as to his identity. His face was set in a priceless expression of utter bewilderment in the silence.
‘What is your name?’ I asked clearly.
This time he understood, stood up quickly, wiping his hands on his trousers before reaching out.
‘Darcy at your service, ma’am!’
I laughed out loud. As if! Who had put on this elaborate joke for me? My very own Darcy, even if dressed in worker garb in rough white shirt, leather brown vest and dainty long black socks and shoes with a buckle. A small black hat flopped over his head. Of course, my Darcy would turn out to be a stable hand but his manners were to be applauded.
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Katy. From whence do you hail?’ He stopped abruptly and realised his question. His hands waved vaguely in the direction of the air, which is in fact where I arrived from and in the process his hands, trying to reach for my arm, touched the dial instead.
That was two weeks ago and since then Darcy has enjoyed his sudden introduction to the end of the twenty-first century once he recovered from his many fainting fits. I had immediately grasped the ‘other’ dimension of the new jetpack — time travel!
How could I not fall for my own Darcy, the genuine article from 1797, so he proclaimed.
There was one small issue; Darcy longed to return home for just a while. He just wouldn’t listen, after all, he was home, here at Streaton Manor with me, just a couple of centuries out. Why was he making all this fuss?
Darcy hadn’t declared his love for me yet; that would come, I was sure. But I just couldn’t take the chance though, could I? These past days he was always on about my flying jacket, wanting to borrow it. How could I risk this most amazing change in my life? Pa already approved of Darcy although Ma muttered he was rather too dishy. For whom, I wondered?
I couldn’t risk it! I just couldn’t. This way was better for us both. A new start.
Standing from behind the jetpack, I reached over and touched the dial before stepping backwards just as the jetpack disappeared.
Whoosh! Not quite the sound rather more of a pfft but the mesmerising disappearance warranted a fanfare, I thought.
Gasping, I laughed and laughed! I’d done it! Sent the jetpack back in time and Darcy and I would be united forever. All I need was some cash for our new life— £300,000 should do it.
Now, where did I put the warranty for the notorious defective disappearing jetpack?
The winter sun streams through her mother’s living room windows, the diffused light shining golden upon the January daffodils, a reflection of inner warmth below the star, the Christmas beacon’s final moments for the year, a click and its glow vanishes but not its significance; the yearly ritual practiced with precision and love, actions set deep within her mother’s being, the red star box battered by the years, one side telling its story through the varying coloured sellotape, her children’s eager hands to set up the Christmas Star all those years, a squelch of a step upon the cardboard, the squeal of sadness, now here the brown packing tape and scissors lay prepared for this year’s enshrining, a clean cloth ready to swaddle the bulbs, a bag to encompass the precious ornament, a Christmas light that witnessed her grandson’s first word ‘tar’, a star of light and hope, there it goes, eased from its resting place on the hook, over the curtain railing, lowered with solemnity to the table, the Christmas cloth adorning the surface, the brightness regaling the room, advent candles sparkling in the vast wall mirror, the cascade of light brightening the task at hand, the satisfying pull of tape, the snap of scissors and a brown strip is affixed with consideration upon the red box, just so, there and here, what about another on this side, finally they sit back and admire the handicraft, pause to absorb the memories, the love across generations.
The format of the above piece was inspired by a flash fiction winning entry in Mslexia magazine which was written in its entirety of 250 words in one single sentence.
Annika Perry 