REASON TO DREAM

For all those who believe in love.

REASON TO DREAM


Red roses, blue eyed children,
shoreline walks beneath an inky sky,
where nature's headlamp makes you believe
this thing that tingles your toes will last forever,
just like the dog-eared book that first endorsed
such frightening and tantalising emotions.

Just like the song that made your heart sing,
and the cherished flower, pressed between the
pages of Slow Waltz Round Cedar Bend,
written by a man who knows all about love,
real love, and gives us reason to dream
when tears begin to fall.

JUST ONE DANCE

JUST ONE DANCE

She'd seen him of course,

danced around him, so to speak,

avoided him, definitely,

this man who represented risk,

excitement, but more than likely

trouble.

It would be okay,

so she thought,

as long as,

well, as long as he kept

his distance, he could look,

but no more.

A hundred reasons to steer clear

were bouncing round her head,

but she didn't account for

others, who threw them together,

made it impossible to leave

without one dance,

when the connection

became chemistry,

more dangerous and life destroying

than anything touched by naked flame,

sending her into free-spin,

clutching at a reason to escape.

A RANT

WHY IS IT THAT...


So the press have had to cough up, and not before time too.

No one can have failed to take an interest in the upsetting tale of what happened to Madeleine McCann. There is not a family in the land who wouldn't weep with joy if this pretty little girl was found alive. But what did happen to Madeleine? The problem is no one knows. And what does the press do if they don't know? They make it up.

Andrew Neil summed it up well today, saying it is the story of a little girl who simply vanished.
There is no answer to her demise so the story had legs, it was up and running, way, way too fast.

Everyone wants answers and the painful truth is there sometimes just aren't any.

What is important now is how the McCanns cope. They have two other beautiful children, who remember their big sister and must ask where she is. Imagine waking every morning with the thought of what happened to your little girl. Imagine trying to sleep every night not knowing the answer to this question.

We all have theories and most of them don't have a happy ending. I am personally not even convinced she was abducted. I still have this gut feeling she woke and wandered into the night, looking for her parents. Whatever the answer, it is time now for the family to have the courage to move on. If for no other reason than the welfare and happiness of their remaining children.

This doesn't mean that they have given up, for until a body is found, there is always a glimmer of hope, no matter how faint. But the reality is that ten years from now nothing may have changed. So let's all give this family a break and leave them alone. I just hope they have the courage to get on with the rest of their lives.

KENYA 2008

KENYA - 2008

Imagine the terror, the pain and the sight,

of a distraught mother fighting her plight,

they torched what they thought was a place to be safe,

and murdered her baby, the poor little waif.

She climbed out the window fleeing the heat,

cutting her arms and ripping her feet,

but evil was waiting and grabbed from her arms,

a terrified baby intending her harm.

With no conscience, feeling or stopping for breath,

they hurled a small innocent to meet certain death,

within an inferno started by them,

as she screamed a demented, last requiem.

She may breathe and look alive to those that don’t know,

but her life’s lost direction there’s nothing to show

her why this small innocent was ripped from her heart

there’s nothing to live for there’s nowhere to start.

What future can she have with memories like this?

Unable to sleep and deprived of the kiss

from the man that she loved, also lost in the fire,

so she stares into space near her life’s funeral pyre.

Simple Things

SIMPLE THINGS

Raindrops falling in puddles,

that first frosty breath

that makes you do it again.

The crinkle in your nose

when sub zero hits,

and there’s an excuse to wear

chocolate brown leather gloves

and a lime green scarf tied loosely.

A properly prepared latte that

glides down your throat

as you sit undisturbed with your

favourite magazine, knowing you can

sit there for five minutes or five hours,

the choice is yours.

Playing the CD you love

to have so loud it ricochets off

the leather interior you can afford.

Spending the money you

and you alone have earned.

Checking the balance that has

your name.

Reading in bed

listening to the wind

with the faint drone of the radio

playing the usual midnight rubbish,

that doesn’t seem to irritate any more.

Waking up every morning,

not really caring whether it rains or shines,

but knowing that whatever you do

is your decision.

Having two mornings in every week,

when you are not ruled by an alarm clock

as you stare out the bathroom window

at snow covered mountains, some will

only ever see in dreams.

BANG YANG

An orphan, a mother, a widow,

she sobs herself dry,

eyes searching the foliage,

waiting, wondering,

who and what will be next?

The jungle is her home,

the inhabitants her friends,

all grieving, all waiting,

all numb with disbelief

that their plight continues

in a modern age

when lots of help

was promised

but those that made

the promises slinked off

banished Bang Yang and

her comrades to a living hell.

Not for them

soft, downy pillows,

widescreen television

and full bodied wine

that resembles the

steady flow of blood

that seeps from weakened

betrayed, forgotten heroes.

MATILDA LAING

MATILDA LAING

Matilda dines alone

in a house full of dust

and memories washed down

with a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape.

Bonnie and Clyde sit under the table,

scratching their fleas and waiting for

a morsel to drop at their paws

before retreating to the ailing Aga

that doesn’t quite hold its fire.

They see off the disgruntled cat

who sprints the stairs and nestles in

the cosy airing cupboard that houses

fusty candlewicks that welcomed

new kittens into the world and carry

the stains.

After Coronations Street and Emmerdale

she treads the stairway of threadbare Axminster

overlooked by fearsome

ancestors regaled in splendour.

From her window she looks at the moon

and sighs, she hates being old, hates being alone

with her memories and a wardrobe full of

satin ball gowns with waspish waists.

She unclips a hair clasp and a tumble of silver hair

falls round her shoulders caressing her drooping breasts.

The waist is still visible, the tummy still taut

enough to fit the jodhpurs that lie over the chair

waiting for her attention tomorrow morning

when she rides up the meadow,

Bonnie and Clyde in pursuit,

until Heston snorts to a halt in Bluebell wood.

Edward Jackson stands smiling,

his tweed jacket with torn pockets

sports a battered rose in the lapel,

as he doffs his cap and holds out a caring hand to

his very own rose who slides from the saddle

and into his waiting arms,

ridiculously in love,

amazingly happy,

undoubtedly old.

Shopping in Callender

Come on Scotland pull your bloody socks up. I have eyed up a special little pub for ages which sits at a place where I regularly take good photographs. It’s normally weekend when I go there and the place always looks like it’s heaving but today I decided to give it a try.

I was full of anticipation when I went in, nice ambience etc, although it appeared a little smokey and gloomy if I am being totally truthful. Smoke coming from log fire I hasten to add.

Service was okay, nothing spectacular, but the food, oh dear, what a disappointment. I had haddock in an ale batter. I nearly needed a hammer and chisel to get through it and in the end left it. No comment was made when my plate was taken, and I couldn’t be bothered to make a fuss at the table, but when I went to the bar I told them I wasn’t impressed with my grub. She immediately apologised and said she would have a word with the kitchen. I was fully reimbursed for my disastrous fish dish, but would so much have preferred to have had it done right.

I took a different turn today and ended up in Callender after stopping at various points and getting some great snaps. If you are used to good customer service please keep driving. I suddenly realised how different the garb is up here. It is the area of the Berghaus, the Goretex and anything else that keeps out the rain. The town is filled with outdoor clothing shops with prices that range from the sublime to the ridiculous. I thought I had the job sussed when I eventually found a nice two tone job in one shop til I discovered the price tag wasn’t £49 but £149. For an anorak that I will probably hank on a fence somewhere. No way, so it’ll be back to Ebay and the excitement of the auction. Failing that the charity shop hit is coming.

One shop in particular was worthy of a clip from a Les Dawson show. There they were the two shop “assistants” leaning on the counter, yapping away. I wasn’t acknowledged in any shape or form even though it was obvious I was a genuine purchaser or would be purchaser. I struggled with zips, hangers, you name it, but no, the conversation continued. Until eventually one of them went off for yes, you’ve guessed it the vaccum. Just after 4p.m. but that was the sole thought in the mind, to get finished. I thought sod it and left.

I thought I was almost there in the final shop which had an enormous stock, but it had rails designed for giraffes and the sizes I needed to get to, involved a bit of tip toe effort. The dizzy bisom behind the counter must have watched me struggle until I asked her if she had a bigger size. To which she replied “No sorry, we don’t ‘av it.” Then stuff started getting wheeled in so again it was time to go before the doors got locked.

After the disastrous food at lunch time I promised myself a nice coffee in Callender, but oh dear, I didn’t even get that. It was bitter and sucked in the sides of my mouth. So I am off now to make my own. Next time I go out I think I will take a picnic, it is cheaper and I know it will taste okay.

Compensation for the day? Some great photographs.

Shall I return to Callender? Perhaps, I will always give a place a second chance, but I know which shops I will be avoiding. And I will be wearing an anorak bought somewhere I have enjoyed decent service.

Best entertainment of the day? Watching the several near shunts in the Tesco express car park!!

THE ROAD TO HELL

THE ROAD TO HELL

It took one and a half hours to get there, so when I bade farewell to my good friends in Sandy I presumed it would take approximately the same time to get back home.

Trouble is on the way up I had downloaded a blow-by-blow account of how to reach my destination from the good old A.A. It literally delivered me to the doorstep. But silly me, I didn’t do one for the return journey.

Head for signs that say M25. That was all that was in my head. I kept seeing signs that said, London, and I thought, fine, just keep going, you’ve come this way before, you’ll eventually hit the M25. Chris Rea’s “Road to Hell.”

But then the signs changed to Central London. I chose to ignore this slight alteration, and kept the foot down, on and on we sailed until I realised the area was becoming more and more built up.

When an area sign for Holloway appeared I knew I was in trouble. But what do you do when you are a country bumpkin? You don’t panic that’s what and you keep on going.

It was a beautiful evening and I became envious of the people strolling around, with sweaters tied round their necks. Others sat contentedly outside welcoming pubs and sipped long cold drinks. I just kept on driving, I saw signs that said things I had heard of, like Centre point, but when this large, highly illuminated area loomed in front of me I was horrified to read the words Euston Station.

Oh my God, what now. I tried not to grip the wheel as if I was in a rollercoaster.

Should I phone daughter no 4 and get her to talk me out of London, should I phone home and get boss’s son to advise me or should I just get on with it or maybe even consult a friendly copper.

Isn’t it funny how signs vanish when you need them most?

I drove and drove…Nothing!!

Then there it was, M1 North. Bearing in mind I was trying to head south in the direction of Sevenoaks, which is the other side of Dartford, I knew this was well in the wrong direction, but I was past caring, I just needed to get out of the concrete jungle. So off I went.

Now here is the snippet that I simply did not know. I did not know that motorways had no roundabouts. I thought I only had to drive to the first roundabout, go round the bloody thing and I would be in the right direction.

So I drove and drove, and drove some more. I think there were signs for Buckinghamshire, Warwickshire, Northamptonshire and then there it was Birmingham 36 miles. BIRMINGHAM????? Oh no, this is crazy. Where’s the nearest Holiday Inn, maybe I should just get my head down for the night and set off again in the morning. Or maybe I should just give up and drive to Scotland and not bother going back to work.

I kept thinking, maybe if I go off at a slip road there will be a roundabout, so I stopped for petrol, yes I needed some by now, and asked the first friendly looking geezer in the petrol station shop. “Just go off and the next slip road pet and drive ‘til you hit the roundabout, and that will put you in the right direction.”

I smiled and said I wouldn’t embarrass myself by telling him where I was trying to reach, but I took his advice.

Soon I was heading South, so I put the foot down and sailed along, dreaming of my cosy bed. M25 Eureka, I never thought I would be glad to read that sign, but wait a minute what was this? Three lanes of traffic, all going nowhere. You know that awful scenario, half a car length every 3 minutes?

I fumbled for my Travel Sweets, rather aptly named don’t you think I ejected Enrique, sorry Enrique and cranked up Sir Mick with Start Me Up closely followed by one of my all time favourites Brown Sugar. I don’t know why, but it makes life a better place. My little red car, throbbed, pulsated and spluttered on, very, very slowly. Eventually another signed loomed. “August 1^st. M25 closed 12.00- 5.30a.m.” What? Closed? Oh bloody hell. This is a joke.

But there we were, Rollers, Ferraris, Cavaliers, Kas and my little red Seat.

Mile upon mile of start stop, start stop. Huge cranes, hard hats, muck and stoor (guid auld Scottish word).

I smiled, sucked another travel sweetie and thought, yes girl, you have made the right decision. Three weeks from now I start a new job back up in my beloved Scotland, far away from closed M25s and enormous cities.

I have never sighed such a relief as when I reached the Queen Elizabeth Bridge, and even there they only had two tollbooths open. This was midnight on a Wednesday night. And all you could see both ways was a serpentine of headlights snaking their way north and south. Thousands of poor other sods, with Sat Navs, tired children and grumpy partners.

I reversed into my little corner at the side of the garage at 12.40a.m.

I left Sandy, Bedfordshire at 7.15p.m. Lots of people reading this will laugh, in fact everyone that I have told the woeful tale has giggled and shook their head, but for me it was still a triumph. I drove in the midst of London, me the original country girl, I didn’t panic and although I took the scenic route home I did get home. But maybe next time I will download the return route directions. Just incase…

And remember motorways have no roundabouts.

FINELLA

FINELLA

Coal black hair,

cat green eyes,

and a look that could

put you through the floor,

this was Finella,

this was my mother.

Intelligent, warm,

she reminisced about India,

tigers, servants and love,

mostly about love.

Vivacious, captivating,

but frighteningly complicated

at times even scary

as she battled with demons

that incited great rages.

She dealt with officialdom

like it wasn’t there,

no one questioned her,

ever,

it simply never happened

yet she never raised her voice,

simply an eyebrow that had

pedantic bullies shaking in their shoes.

Words were her weapon, her manipulating tool,

spoken or written with great panache.

Her flamboyant writing mirrored her image,

in an almost uncanny way,

as she dreamed her unfulfilled dream.

Getting the Finger out.

I have been suffering a double dose of procrastination of late so was doubly surprised when I tried to log in tonight and found I needed to use my Google account. The thing is I have been back up in Scotland, enjoying precious time with all my girls and grandchildren. There are some things that money just can't buy and a day like I had on the beach last Sunday at beautiful Elie has given me memories I shall cherish always.

All I want to do is get back to Scotland and after a recent interview it is looking as though my dream is going to come true. I will say no more right now for fear of jeopardizing events, but hopefully my next entry will see me back where I belong, away from the concrete jungle of the south where even the most ramshackle shack of a house is making silly money that no one can afford.

I keep thinking about two things; one, what is happening in China, where thousands and thousands of dogs and cats are being brutally killed. Not just an ordinary death I hasten to add, but a slow lingering fate, because it gives more flavour that way. For Christ's sake, what sort of a world do we live in?

And like every other mother on the planet I think of little Madeleine and what has become of her and all the other children who right now should be home in their in their beds. If only we could wave a magic wand and wake up tomorrow morning to good news. What a happy day that would be.

I need to start thinking about how I am going to transport all my "guff" back to Scotland. Blimey I need to do some serious downsizing in the wardrobe department, but hurrah, hurrah, I will soon be back in the land of good National Hunt racing. God Bless the full length cashmere Jaeger coat purchased for a fiver.

DILEMMAS (published in Countryside Tales)

DILEMMAS (A Winter Tale)

Dilemmas, now there’s a word that conjures up all sorts of images. People have different definitions of what a dilemma is. For me it is being faced with a situation that is going to cause some sort of problem whatever way you turn. My Roget’s Thesaurus calls a dilemma a predicament, a dubiety, a choice or an argumentation.

Whichever of these things it is, it calls for quick action, fingers crossed on a wing and a prayer.

One of my most memorable dilemmas involved a suicidal cow. Yes, I mean one that says moo. She was a Friesian cross Hereford suffering from milk fever. Don’t ask me why, but cows suffering from such a thing, are inclined to position themselves next to water. This lady was no exception, apart from the fact that she decided that not only would she lie close to the water, but in it.

I watched from the relative cosiness of the farmhouse, with my four young daughters racing round my feet. My bovine friend was now well and truly kneeling in the swirling burn that runs through the bottom of what was known as the ‘Front Field’. She lowered her head, she was giving up. My heart started thumping, panic setting in. I needed to get to her, save her, but I couldn’t do it alone. There was also the question of what to do with four small children, but when you are in your twenties dilemmas like that don’t faze you. Hubby was off chasing the oval ball somewhere. (Why do dilemmas invariably happen when the man in your life isn’t around?) Dilemma 2 reared its ugly head. I knew who I needed to help me, but I also knew where he would be, and that was somewhere he shouldn’t. There was no time to debate the ethics of phoning up the home of the married lady who was the object of our tractorman’s desire; I had a cow dying in front of me.

In my most pleasant upbeat voice I asked to speak to Roy, and yes, it was urgent.

After blabbing out the words cow in river (for it was more like a river than a burn) I told him I was on my way down there with the kids and could he please come and help me. Being a conscientious sort of guy, he didn’t let me down.

I shooed my foursome into the Subaru and set off down the front field. Four little faces peered in wonderment as I waded into the ice-cold water and lifted her head rather ungainly by the ears. You would not believe how heavy a cow’s head is.

The little faces now looked very concerned, not for mummy, but for the poor cow. Her calf sat quietly on the riverbank, seemingly unaware that there was a strong prospect he would become an orphan. I cannot remember what month it was, but it was obviously during the rugby season and it was definitely winter. I had all the necessary wet weather gear, waterproof trousers, coat, Wellingtons but the icy water made short shift of it all, my feet felt like blocks of ice as the water poured into my Wellingtons. I heard a distant drone that became welcomingly louder. The red Massey Ferguson came zooming down the road to the bottom gate. By now I felt as though my back would never straighten and my fingers would need to be amputated with frostbite. I barely looked up; instead I concentrated my efforts on some soothing words, punctuated with the odd “silly bugger”

“I’m going to reverse right back. Ye’ll need to try and get the chains roond aboot her” Shouted Roy above the revving tractor. The little faces were mesmerised. Nothing as exciting as this ever happened on the telly.

At times like this, you don’t worry too much about if you are going to hurt the animal in question, (another dilemma perhaps) more that if you don’t get a move on, she’s going to be gone to the big cattle shed in the sky. Roy reversed the tractor down the banking, flung me the chains as he jumped from his cab. I cursed and swore and swore some more as between us we managed to get the chains round her neck and under a front leg. Meanwhile Roy kept giving her a slap, trying to get her to come to her senses and stand up. When the penny eventually dropped that she was having none of it, he whizzed back to his cab and started to slowly inch forward, as I screeched instructions. The Subaru by this time was totally steamed up and four little faces clapped loudly and roared “Hurrah”when we eventually got the poor beast free of the water.

Naturally her calf was on the far side, so again Roy and I waded through the water to chase the little creature further downstream where it was more accessible for him to cross. The job was done, mother was soon unchained but somewhat weakened by her ordeal. We opted to leave her out rather than put her through the ordeal of being taken up the hill and into a byre. Before we released her we rubbed her down with straw. She didn’t even try to go anywhere, but lay back down with her feet tucked in below her. I shook out a bale for her to have a warm lie, and spread more straw across her back.

I thanked Roy for all his help and managed to refrain from apologising for dragging him away from his ‘friend’. After all, I wasn’t supposed to know what was going on!!

‘Ever the gentleman, he doffed his cap, then turned to the cow and said ‘Stipit bitch.’

Frozen but happy I squelched back into my car to enthusiastic applause from the children.

We jostled and bumped our way back up the field, to the next dilemma, what to make for tea.

A few years later we built a rather grand new shed to house our cows and calves, thus eliminating the chance of a repeat performance of my Winter dip.

COMFORTABLE SILENCE

We don’t need a special day

to celebrate our love.

Every day with you is special.

From the second you touched my hand

I knew that you were the one

I would love ‘til the day I die.

It’s not in the words you say

though they are special enough,

more in the comfortable silence.

And in the knowledge that

there have never been restrictions

and that, my darling, is true love.

FLAT BLACK CAT

FLAT BLACK CAT

I drove by in a trice,

with the usual tailgater

up my arse.

But I saw you,

lying there,

flattened, silent.

Covered in dust,

from days by the verge

forgotten, lost, but sadly dead.

I wondered if,

you belonged to someone,

did you sometimes sit on a knee

and offer a gleeful chin,

to be stroked and caressed

or were you the original TC,

a knight of the road,

a feral, living rough,

but still welcoming kindness?

Whatever the answer is,

I wish that I knew,

so that I could rest

and not be sad,

about the little cat,

at the side of the road.

POLKA DOT DAYS

Purple lupins, ten feet tall,

just a dream, just a wish,

beneath soft pink apple blossom,

that floats like gossamer on the faintest breeze.

Happy days, happy times,

nurturing sweet peas to clamber across

grey painted trellis, grey for effect,

worked well too.

So many sounds, touches,

emotions, today and always,

thinking of you, with your coal black curls,

cat green eyes and toffee apple smile.

Fun and laughter were your friends,

you taught them to be mine,

you showed me the beauty of the rose,

and what lies behind the thorns.

Each scarlet geranium takes me back

to the times when a little girl looked into

the rainwater tank, while you filled the can

that sometimes filled imaginary rivers.

You wore a polka dot dress tightly grasped

by a broad scarlet belt, you were my princess,

I wanted a dress like yours, to be so pretty,

just like you, my princess, my mum.

Even your shoes were scarlet leather,

cosseting dainty feet that loved to dance.

Laughter filled your life and mine,

and on the air the scent of Gingham perfume.

Gingham for week days, Tweed for Sundays,

a little bit here and a little bit there,

always my friend, always my mum

this morning, I thought I heard you calling.

After reading about this tragic bear I felt I had to write something!!

FOR MITROFAN

My morning started much like any other, except this morning I put a coat on and pulled up the hood to shelter my newly washed locks from the pouring rain.

The beautiful Koi carp didn’t seem to mind. They just tootled round the pond waiting for breakfast.

As usual I was a day behind with my newspaper reading, but what I read on page 21 of the Telegraph had me nearly reduced to tears of despair. I wanted to climb a mountain and scream to the world, what the hell is going on?

I have much to do today, but cannot focus on anything until I get this little baby off my chest. And someone owes it to MITROFAN to let him know that some of us do care.

Who is Mitrofan? He’s the unsuspecting, trusting bear, shot by King Juan Carlos of Spain. So what? I hear the hunters say.

Mitrofan is described as a “good humoured and jolly bear” who was kept at a farm in the village of Novlenskoye, in Russia. This good humoured and jolly domestic bear was put in a cage where the party fed him on honey laced with Vodka. Thus the big, lumbering creature became an inebriated, “easy” target for their visiting dignitary.

The report from Sergey Starostin has caused some embarrassment to the Governor of Vologda, a region in northern Russia. Mr. Starostin, deputy head of the region’s hunting grounds conservation department, has loudly condemned the shooting of Mitrofan, which happened in late August. The word he uses is “abominable.”

There is no evidence to prove that King Juan knew the tragic animal was drunk, but one would wonder if it would be possible for an experienced hunter not to realise that something was amiss.

Governor Pozgalev was forced to order an investigation after failing to gag the feisty Sergey Starostin, who claims there have been similar incidents in the region. His words will ring in many ears. “I’ve been hunting for many years and I think that a situation when an animal is given no chance is immoral.”

I second that Mr. Starostin, and salute you for your courage at speaking out against this despicable act of total cruelty and indulgence. “Hey, I shot a bear today!”

Fears are now running high for Maya a female bear who shared a cage with Mitrofan at the Woodgrouse hunting estate. It is feared she is being prepared for the next “big wig” who visits the region “for a bit of sport?”

And what of the law? Shooting a wild bear with a licence is permitted; killing a tame bear might contravene a law. Oh, just in case you didn’t know, giving a bear in Russia vodka, is not illegal.

That makes me feel a whole lot better!!!

If only the tables could be turned and big, unsuspecting Mitrofan, who put his faith in the human race, was able to return and fill some of the hunting party with lashings of Vodka before giving chase.

Perhaps I’ll have a word with Stephen King!!

Rest in peace Mitrofan, hopefully you are in a better place. And to the members of that misguided hunting party, I wish you many sleepless nights!!

THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN

THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright on your own Mum?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll be fine, don’t you remember where you grew up, that little house in the middle of nowhere; why shouldn’t I be alright?”

Jess nods her head.

“Okay, then we’ll see you tomorrow night.”

I stand on the veranda, with Penny the Labrador at my ankles, and Friday the cat purring furiously on the padded sun-lounger. I turn and smile, listening to the roar of the waterfall, the sound of the birds singing, and realise just how beautiful nature is. She waves her finery in my face, the blue sky, the fluffy clouds, fir trees drooping with branches overloaded with every shade of green, while a tiny breeze, rustles the leaves on the silver birch that act as a slight buffer against traffic noise from the road below.

“Right Penny, there’s just about time for a swim.”

“We’ll see you when we get back” I say to Friday as I give her tiny head a friendly scratch.

Everyone else is leaving the pool as we pull up, and walk through the field to enjoy the delights that form beneath this mammoth cascade of clear, pure water. Penny races on and is already paddling across the water, before I dip my toe in to touch the rocky surface. Best keep the sandshoes on until I am far enough in to swim, then it’s simply a matter of swimming to the ledge at the far side and slinging them up there until it is time to go home. Penny splashes back to join me and together we strike out across the crystal clear water. The evening sunlight dances on the spray from the waterfall creating a magical rainbow. I thank God I am alive, and free to enjoy such wondrous moments. I think of him for just a second, before giving my latest efforts at the crawl my best shot. Why can’t I do this stroke, when everyone else seems to do it so easily?

“Thank goodness no one’s around to see this,” I mutter as I revert to a respectable breaststroke. Penny is every bit as stylish in her doggy paddle as I am in my effort to master the crawl.

We share this idyllic moment, splashing and stretching our limbs. Life is good, being on my own isn’t so bad. But I suppose I am not on my own, I am out here, in an alien land living with the daughter who took not a second’s hesitation to offer me solace, when I needed it most. I wonder if I will ever be able to repay her.

She says I have already repaid her, by being there, being brave enough to make the decision to leave, and being happy.

“Come on then, Penny, time for home.” I call her and she swims towards me as I grab the sandshoes from the puddle-filled ledge. This is where it gets tricky as I head for the shallow water and stumble around trying to put the shoes on my feet.

“Ouch, that hurt,” I land on my backside, against a protruding rock, spluttering and choking as my mouth fills with water. Penny starts to bark furiously but there is no one there.

“Be quiet Penny, what the heck is the matter with you?” She ignores me and keeps on barking. That’s when I see him, standing there, my heart skips a beat, fear grips me, it’s not possible, he couldn’t know where I am, especially not down at this waterfall. My limbs tighten into a spasm of panic, I start to flounder, I lose my footing and my head crashes against another rock. Blackness overcomes me, I am safe in a world where no one can touch, bully or frighten me. Peace devours me, relaxes my mind. I drift in a world full of love, birdsong, children laughing, flowers with intoxicating perfume and candles, candles lit in darkness, offering serenity, peace and calm. A firm hand touches my arm; the barking has stopped. I struggle to open my eyes, the evening sunlight blinds me as my eyelashes flicker and I see him standing over me. I quickly pull an arm over my face, ready to protect myself.

“Sssh, baby, it’s okay. I’m here. I love you.”

Love? What does he know about love? His kind of love is what drove me to run, to grab a jet plane and fly off to another world, a world that stands still in comparison to all that I have been used to. The land of the midnight sun, where it is still daylight at midnight, something that takes a lot of getting accustomed to, but which never fails to thrill me. I open my mouth to speak, but struggle to say anything, there is nothing left to say. Penny’s barking makes my head ache.

“For God’s sake Penny, will you shut up.”

I realise he must have pulled me out of the water, when I feel the huge lump on the side of my head. How could it be, that he was here, right at the moment my life was threatened? I owe him my life, but cannot bring myself to thank him.

I console myself that for years I gave him my life, forgot about everyone else, gave up on friends who tried to make me see what he was doing to me, but was too damned stubborn to see.

Jess calls it brainwashing, just like the kids that are taken in by these religious cults. But this is me, a strong, independent person, how can it be that I was brainwashed. Or is love really that blind? It doesn’t matter now anyway, because I feel nothing for him, not a thing. But he’s saved me, pulled me from this water. Now what?

I lie there, amongst the long wispy grass, Penny comes over and sniffs my face, then lies down beside me. She’s stopped barking, I suppose I should be thankful for that. My head hurts like hell. I can hardly bear the thought of getting up. I know how much it is going to hurt. I don’t want to go home, because I don’t want him to know where I live, what a predicament. I close my eyes with my arm round Penny’s neck.

I’m back amongst the flowers with their heavy scent, perhaps I’ll stay here forever, it seems a better alternative than that really facing me.

“Meg, are you okay? What did you do? I have been watching from my window, you fall, yes?” I recognise the broken English of my neighbour Knut, a nosey old devil, who sits by his window most evenings on the other side of the river. I heave a sigh of relief, I am not alone with Robert anymore. Knut knows the story, once he realises who he is, he will protect me, I know he will.

“ You get up now?” His massive hand reaches out, and pulls me to my feet.

“You come home with me, the dog can come too. Einfried will look at your head, she is good at things like that.”

“I manage to laugh, Einfried is good at everything Knut, you are a lucky man.”

I realise we are alone, and look around.

“Knut, did you see where the man went?”

“What man, there is no man.”

“The man, who was here before you arrived, you must have seen him.”

“No, no man was here, I saw you pull yourself from the water and knew you must be hurt. You move slowly, not like normal, you move fast.”

I lean on Knut, and slowly we make our way back to the car.

“You can drive Knut, I don’t think I could manage it right now.”

Einfried is standing at the door as we arrive at their house. She is typically Norwegian, gentle, quiet. She speaks no English, but speaks to me anyway. Penny laps the bowl of water that is ever present for visiting dogs.

“You stay here tonight, and go home in the morning.” Knut barks some orders and Einfried scurries off to the spare bedroom, fluffing pillows ready to receive me.

I admit defeat and sink into a warm comfortable bed.

“Penny will be okay, I go now and see the cat for you.”

I drift lightly in and out of sleep, my responsible side nagging me that sleep is not sensible after being knocked unconscious, but I prefer sleep, to the knowledge that Robert has somehow found me. I cannot face it, not now that I have found such solace.

A gentle shuffle of feet across the wooden floor wakens me as sunlight streams in the window. I smell toast and realise a tray has been placed on the bedside table.

I lie back on my pillows, nibble on the toast and sip the deliciously hot tea, as Penny watches, waiting patiently for me to make the effort to get out of bed. I hear the distant roar of the waterfall, and the phone ringing in the lounge. I decide to stay in bed and let them have the privacy of their phone call in peace.

“I am somewhat puzzled when Knut strides into my room, closely followed by Einfried. He wears a furrowed brow and I start to panic.

“What’s wrong Knut?”

Panic grips me, something is wrong, God please don’t let it be Jess.

“Jess, she phone me just now, she tried the house, you were not there. I tell her you okay. She is going to phone you at home in half an hour, I am coming with you and so is Einfried.”

The mystery deepens, I make no effort to remonstrate and arrive back at the house to be greeted warmly by a purring cat.

The phone rings. “Mum is that you, is Knut with you? I have some bad news. I got a call last night. Mum there is no easy way to tell you this, Robert is dead, he died last night. Killed in a road accident.”

I hand the phone to Knut and walk away. “How can he be dead, when he was here, last night? He must have pulled me from the water, because I hit my head, and remember swallowing loads of the stuff before blacking out.

I recall his words, “I love you.”

Did he find me in death, when he couldn’t find me in life? So many questions.

I know he was there, I saw him, the dog saw him, she was going crazy. Am I alive because of him?

I hold my head in my hands but can find no tears.

“Thank you Robert” I whisper. I know he hears me.

1707 words/6 pages

TWO POEMS WRITTEN RECENTLY

Haven't posted anything for a while, so here goes with another couple of recent efforts.

Twin Sets and Pearl Necklaces

Respectable granny

it rings in my head,

but when I pull on my jeans

I feel naughty instead.

I don’t want to sit

by the fire every night,

or tuck myself in

lest the bedbugs should bite.

I turn up the volume

and wind down the glass

as I drop down a gear

and pull out just to pass

The sensible lady

who paddles along,

with her head fixed straight forward

and face oh so long.

I’m counting the days

till I fulfil a dream

with Sir Mick and Keith Richards

it should be a scream.

I’ve grown to enjoy

living all on my own,

where I play Primal Scream

and of course Rolling Stones.

I’ve taught all the grand bairns

the joy of the jive,

and the art of enjoying

each day we’re alive.

It doesn’t cost money,

to laugh or give cuddles,

if they take this to heart

their lives won’t be a struggle.

So I’ll try to be good

as all grannies should be,

but twin sets and pearl necklaces

are not meant for me.

I’ll just stick to the tee shirt

my favourite old friend,

maybe buy a new Stones’ one,

and set a new trend.

I’m too old to be rock chick

I’m more like a hen,

but this hen aint done clucking

there’s still much to learn.

There’s the whales in Alaska

canoes on Lake Louise,

the elephants of Africa,

the call of the seas.

It’s what makes life exciting

the draw of the unknown

once I’ve found all the answers

I will settle at home.

I dedicate this poem to a very courageous man, Philip Blenkinsop.

THE PLIGHT OF THE HMONG

He took many pictures in 2003

he took their names and heard their stories.

They in turn flung themselves at his feet,

thinking he was their saviour,

not just some man with a camera and a story to write.

What he learnt then and now is how cruel life can be,

how atrocities are still happening,

right there, right now as we pull up our chair to

enjoy poached eggs on toast and read what scandals

the red tops have found this week.

Little swollen bellies, distended with hunger

don’t understand why their parents always look so sad, so haunted,

they are too young to remember big brothers shot in the head.

The Hmong fled China to escape persecution,

many were trained by the C.I.A. to fight with the Americans

in the hell hole of Vietnam,

with the promise of freedom and a future once the war was won.

Forty thousand lost their lives

and they were left with broken promises.

In desperation many escaped to Thailand

some even managed to reach the United States,

where people turned their backs

and didn’t want to know.

And then the Lao military swept in promising to slay every last

American collaborator still trapped in the wilderness.

Blenkinsop, wanted to know their story and found them,

deep in the jungle, alone, betrayed, frightened and angry.

Hunted and shot like rats, in the year of 2006.

What price humanity?

What price conscience?

Those not shot face starvation.

Bang Yang an orphan, mother and widow

by the time she was fifteen years old

has sobbed herself dry,

no one comes for her, tomorrow will be the same as today.

Everyone must read their story,

everyone must pray that somebody, somewhere

has the power to stop this torture

and salute Blenkinsop for having the courage to

take his pictures.

JACOB

JACOB

We were well into our second week of lambing when Jacob arrived. Nearly every pen was full; mothers and offspring doing well. Jacob was one of a pair of Suffolk cross lambs from a greyfaced ewe, and it was immediately apparent that all was not well. While his sibling staggered to his feet and nuzzled into his mother’s udder, Jacob remained rather awkwardly on his bottom. On my return from checking all the other new arrivals, nothing had changed. Leaning over the gate of the pen, I tried to plonk him on his feet, only to be interrupted by our rather matter of fact ‘herd, who muttered something about “that yin looks like it needs a dunt on the heid”, which translated means, he needs a knock on the head. Grey faced (or mule as they are often called) ewes are kind and devoted mothers and usually produce at least two lambs. My husband and I never put a ewe away to the field with more than two lambs, so there was always a pen of orphans needing bottled until a substitute mum came along. After topping up all my charges I picked up Jacob and sat him on my knee, while I encouraged him to suck. The result was quite astonishing. Never before or since, have I witnessed a little lamb with such unbelievable sucking prowess. If I tried to get him to catch breath for a few seconds he would roar the lambing shed down. By day two he still could not stand, so we released his mother and healthy sibling to the field and kept Jacob back. I have worked with animals for most of my life, and have never been stupid enough to let sentimentality cloud my senses, but there was something about this little fellow that made me feel he deserved a chance, so I ignored the mumbled mutterings from our ‘herd Robbie, and secretly embarked upon an intensive course of lamb physiotherapy. I produced an old orange box and plonked my patient with his legs straddled across either side, I did this regularly for five minutes or so, while I checked all the other inside pens and gave them fresh turnips and feeding. I was eventually caught out by Robbie, who looked at me as if I was “half daft”. This performance went on for many days, accompanied by regular leg rubs and every other piece of T.L.C.

I could muster. Obviously nourishment was never an issue because this wee chap could suck for Scotland. It was a wonderful Spring that year, (roughly twenty years ago), one of the few conducted without a big waterproof coat. One sunny morning Jacob took his first faltering steps. It had taken me about two weeks, but I was elated. He toddled around in the sunlight which was streaming into the large open area of the lambing shed. His tiny feet rustled in the straw, which in the evenings housed the remaining pregnant ewes. Everyone who stuck their head into the shed that day commented on my triumph, and of course my daughters shared my delight. But life is never simple, so even after we managed to “set him on” to an adoptive ewe, Jacob still preferred to suck a bottle. The great day came when Jacob tottered out of the shed and into a small paddock. We kept him close by in case he fell over, and couldn’t get back up on his feet. Although now mobile, his steps were still stunted, and he fell over quite easily. I kept out of sight as much as possible, for fear of him following me instead of his mobile milk bar. Sadly my joy was to be short lived. We had to eventually move him and a few other slightly decrepit ewes and lambs into a much bigger field, which was a good distance from our home. From the shelter point of view it was excellent; hedges, trees and the back of the dry stone dykes, provided superb cover from icy wind and rain, should it so happen, but the ground was quite rough, and that worried me. Everything seemed okay for at least the first week, then one morning he was gone: gone without trace. I searched, and searched but all to no avail. His mother seemed neither up nor down, but then he had never been that close to her, always preferring a bottle, if the chance had been there. I enlisted the help of a good friend, who was a skilled tracker, and we both came to the conclusion that our little friend had been snatched by Mr. Fox. There were several tiny clues to his fate, like the traces of wool on the bottom of the fence, where there was evidence of a slight space, and also, and worst of all, remains of milk where Foxy had torn into his tummy. I had always accepted that his tendency to fall over might be his death warrant, but with four young girls and 650 acres I still gave him my best shot. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach, sick that I had failed him, but as my husband pointed out, at least I gave him some life, even if it was short lived.

I don’t know why I called him Jacob, other than the association with flock of sheep, but for me, few animals have made such a profound impression on my life. He represented perseverance, courage, patience and most of all love, and for that I will always be glad that I knew him.

Published in Countryside Tales.

A SPECIAL PLACE

A SPECIAL PLACE

This is her secret place,

that’s offered her solace,

where no one comes but her,

and strong emotions stir.

She hugs herself and dreams

and stifles inward screams,

wipes teardrops from her cheeks,

lets no one see her weep.

She’s cried a million tears,

surmounted all her fears,

but hides it deep within

that still she thinks of him

She misses his soft touch

and oh it hurts so much,

to think of all those years

he filled her life with fear.

A moment’s tender touch

a grasping jealous clutch,

a ranting, raving finger

if she should stop and linger.

That’s all behind her now,

which makes her wonder how,

he’s got beneath her skin

and still she thinks of him.

The pain is easing now

and life’s improved somehow,

the sun smiles on her face

in this her special place.