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| credit: Jide Obadina |
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| House in Winter by John Bowler |
Chair: John Ayres-Smith
The writing theme is:
‘Choose any book. Turn to Chapter 5. Open the 5th page of Ch5 and count down to the 5th line. Use that line/sentence as your writing prompt.’
‘Cara!’ he cried.
The rain began to pour down. Jack galloped out of town, through the narrow valley of Cardingmill. Cara heard Jack’s voice rising from the valley. His voice was unrecognisable among the thunderclap and the rain lashing down, but she knew it had to be him. She held onto her drenched skirt while she struggled to run among the heather. Jack could not face this anymore. The pain was too strong; stronger than her love for him. Her flat shoes got tangled up in the undergrowth. She fell as she lost her balance. Cara could not get back up. Her arms and legs were sprawled out. They felt weak. The hooves rapid thud were felt on the ground, growing heavier and faster. They were as loud as the thunder. The gallop waned, slowing to a trot. Cara wailed and cried helplessly. She could not carry on running. Not now. Jack had to be faced. But the hurt was charging inside Cara like electricity building up to a high voltage that powered rage and despair. Cara was so charged up, she had the strength to get to her feet and slap Jack in the face, though she could not find the will to do it, she found the words to come out of her mouth.
‘I told you to stay away from me’, she said.
‘You know I can’t do that,' said Jack.
‘You’ve been to see Jane, haven’t you?
‘Cara, what are you saying?’
‘You went to Shrewsbury.’
‘I’ve been nowhere near the place.’
‘You’ve got your horse with you.’
‘Look Cara, I have not been to see Jane. D'you understand? I have not seen her.’
‘Just stay away from me.’
‘You don’t mean that Cara.’
‘I’m not going to listen to anymore of your lies.’
‘I’m not lying Cara.’
‘Stop it Jack. Stop!’
‘The only woman I love in this world is you.’
(first published February 2021)
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| credit Gencraft |
Dark is the shadow on my baby’s face
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| Gallipoli military cemetery Photo: Kath Norgrove |
The sun was warm and already hazy. Before us stretched the end of the Gallipoli peninsular; scrub made way for trees and in the far distance we could make out sandy beaches. We had arrived at the southern end, where on 25th April 1915, British and Allied soldiers came ashore during the World War I Gallipoli Campaign. The peninsular was beautiful and peaceful now, a far cry from the horror nearly a century ago.
We visited a Turkish Cemetery, with rows upon rows of white headstones embedded with glass panels, on either side of which were names of 18 of the fallen. As if to shade these silent sentries, trees were interspersed amongst them, casting a cool air over the 70,000 souls buried there.
The nearby Cape Helles Memorial glared white against the deep blue sky. On it were names of Royal Navy battleships and military Corps that had participated in the Allied landings. British losses are less well known but British troops suffered with approx 220,000 casualties during the equally futile Helles landings.
The steep descent to “W” (Lancashire Landing) Beach, on the west of Cape Helles, was overhung with a thick green canopy of Turkish firs. Named after the battalion of Lancashire Fusiliers who landed here, our interest was with the Worcestershire Regiment who supported them. The rocky water’s edge became an idyllic white sandy beach, the remains of a small boat still partly buried, with the jagged iron edges protruding through the sand like teeth in a gaping mouth. Immersed now in serenity, the beach did not betray the horror and bloodshed that it beheld all those years ago.
Located 500 metres inland, the grey entrance of the Lancashire Landing Cemetery reflected a sombre mood but inside it was immaculately kept; the grass clipped short and tasteful bushes and flowers distributed between the rows of small white squat memorial stones. Surrounded by trees with birds singing, in peace and tranquillity, 1300 faced towards the beach.
We sought one in particular, Private Albert Hill of the Worcestershire Regiment, who died in June 1915 aged 30. My Mum had seen his name on a war memorial at home, but the family never spoke of him or his death.
“It's Row B”, she trailed off; there it was, his stone, weathered but blinding in the midday sun.
“Hello, Granddad”, she said.
(first published August 2020)
Foolish Valentine
Delectable Delilah was what Jonas had always called Deidre, the buxom barmaid of the Crown and Anchor where Jenny and Jonas met up each evening after work. Its cosy half timbered inglenooks and two roaring fires provided shelter these dismal February evenings: shelter from the grey clouds, the grey slush and the grey buildings which lowered like granite precipices on both sides of the street. The cheerful pub also provided shelter from the juicy gossip mill of the office.
Jenny had recruited Jonas as her assistant to ease her workload as her department grew from strength to strength. She wanted her Man Friday and he had become all that - and more.
Tonight was 14th February, the day for lovers. Jonas had ‘magicked’ a bouquet of red roses for Jenny as they sat down for their evening drink and Jenny felt an unfamiliar frisson of anticipation. She was flattered, a little grateful and a little surprised, but not unprepared. In her case was a little something for Jonas. She reached for it but as she bent forward she caught an unmistakable look of love exchange between Delectable Delilah and Jonas.
No fool like an old fool thought Jenny and left the little something where it lay. No wonder Jonas always insisted she left for home first … to avoid gossip he said.
No wonder …
3rd February 2015
they found a sacred place there; cool, white columns embrace,
heart-leaved mulberries shade; ‘proud Titania’ may have played
by an ancient tree – a still canal reflects – what will
await; unsought, sweet, unfathomable thoughts
in a garden of delights, two lovers, hidden from sight;
foxgloved fingers caress, playful lips press
incensed with passion, elated emotion,
caught unawares, carried beyond earthly cares, where
midsummer sun swags fragrant rose bowers
pale bell-flowers whisper through timeless hours
mutual ecstasies found, their universe becomes unbound
in a confusing maze of known, yet unknown, ways
the Temple of the Hours weaves its magic spell
in a garden, as in true love, time does tell …
(2018)
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| Sir Richard Pembridge - died 1375 - tomb Hereford Cathedral |
He remembered his old friend Edmund St John who had died at the Siege of Calais in the year of our Lord 1347. He’d promised his friend that he would take care of Elizabeth. He tried to shake off the guilt he felt for his own life, whilst so many others had lost theirs. She’d married Gerard de Lisle, before his return from France. He never blamed her for that. Gerard was a reasonable but slightly dull, man. He and Elizabeth did however, share their own guilt. Their old friendship and memories of fonder times had been hard to contain. By Elizabeth he had one son, Henry. Most accepted the notion that the boy was delivered early and by the good grace of God alone, survived that ordeal. He knew some didn’t, as the boy was born in the same year of Gerard’s death. Their love was just, he told himself uneasily. ‘Twas born innocently from an oath taken in battle and before the sight of God’. He told himself, yet remained nervously unconvinced as to his own reasoning.
He mourned his son. Henry Pembridge had died earlier that year, at the age of 15. A tear ran down the old man’s cheek. He gripped the arms of his chair tightly as he tried to come to terms with God’s will. No child should predecease their mother or father.
King Henry III was still annoyed with him. He knew that. One did not simply refuse King’s request to take up the post of Lieutenant of Ireland and think it could be any different. It was only due to his service with the King, throughout their hard years in France that Henry finally acquiesced. Henry allowed him to return to Hereford and live in peace with his new wife and their son. Some were already calling it the “Hundred Years War”. It was a ghastly thought. He remembered the mud and the arrows. Their rough, hedge-born, bowmen had won the day at Crecy and at Poitiers. The English arrows had swarmed the sky like angry bees. He remembered the French knights being cut down like summer hay. He remembered the hard winter and the sight of their own emaciated bodies during the siege at Calais. He remembered Henry’s murderous anger there, which was only placated by the intervention of his Queen.
Yet now, everyone he cared about had now passed on and he was alone. In this year of our Lord 1375, it was not time to doubt the will of God. He knew that soon he would join them in the Kingdom of Heaven. The thought was not an easy one. Whilst his son would remain an eternal youth, he would also re-unite with his wife and in turn her two previous husbands. Edmund would understand. Gerard probably would not. Would his accession be barred by his indiscretion with Elizabeth? Would her way be looked upon poorly in the sight of God? His body was wracked with pain these days. He’d unstrapped his wooden leg and cast it aside. He pulled the cowl more tightly around his shoulders, in spite of the heat from the fire. Death itself held no fear. Over the years, he’d seen enough of it both at sea and on land. His old dog stirred stiffly before placing its head in his lap. “Do you feel like I do?” he asked. He smiled at the grey-muzzled animal and stroked its head. “I’ll meet death as a man who has faithfully served God and his King. I’ll face it as a man who has lived and loved as he saw fit in the sight of God. I’ll face it with no regrets.”
(First published March 2023)
I may say I love the clothes you wear, the way you look,
I may rave about the blueness in a bluebell
Or the colour of the darkest, reddest flame.
I may rave about a meal I ate, or a good red wine,
But the love I feel for you is not the same.
To gain such love a person must be thoughtful
Unselfish, caring, giving, warm and kind.
‘What?’ you say, ’Impossible aspirations!’
But both must aim at these for love to find.
Love for another person is a sacred thing,
Existing in your head, your soul, your heart,
It may come within a moment or it may take years,
Love cannot be one-sided, both must play a part.
Love makes huge demands. It seems unreasonable
What one must do to gain love from another,
But to give without condition is the secret
For a person to be loved and be a lover.
(first published 10th February 2021)
This interview was first published here:
Emma Woodhouse on The Prendergast Watch - Holand Press
Congratulations from all of us at High Town Writers Workshop.
Is it a myth that penguins give their partners pebbles from the beach?
1. I'd forgotten to take a photograph of us all :(
and
2. For the first time ever the blog was completely blank for February.
so
Whilst we pause, reflect and flex our writing muscles for a great year of authorship ahead, I thought it would be nice to look back on some of our older pieces of writing all on the theme of love. Many of you will not have read these before and most of us will enjoy revisiting pieces from the past.
ENJOY!
Our next full meeting will be in the Spirit Room at Peepo's, at 7pm on Tuesday 25th February.
The writing theme is:
‘Choose any book. Turn to Chapter 5. Open the 5th page of Ch5 and count down to the 5th line. Use that line/sentence as your writing prompt.’
The two weeks spent at Hendon police college, being briefed on exactly what undercover work involved and the need to fully immerse herself in the new role had been interesting and challenging. At the end of it she was told she had been selected for this role. Others on the course were chosen for roles in other operations. Kate was delighted to be given another opportunity to tackle the importation of the vile substance that had killed her brother.
Next had been an intense course in bookkeeping and general clerical work. Kate had found this quite fun. The work was well within her capabilities, so she had spent time practicing her new persona and fitting in with the other people on the course. Most were women much younger than herself. The back story she was given was that she had been working as a live-in children’s nanny on very low pay. The children had now got old enough to go off to boarding school. The family in recognition of the years she had given up to their children had agreed to pay for her training in office work. She tried this out on the others and found it was not questioned. She had taken the precaution of having some intense conversations with Kiera and with her own mother so she did not appear as ignorant about the raising of children as she felt. She also harvested a wealth of stories from them and from books to help her disguise. The course provided her with a certificate to present to her would be employers.
She arrived in Southampton and decided to walk to her accommodation; her case was not heavy and it was not raining. A taxi might undermine her broke persona if anyone was watching her arrival. She bought a map at the station and found she could indeed walk to St Mary’s. Her bedsitter was on the top floor of a Victorian town house, clearly in the converted attic. The walls were thin and she was sure she would be able to hear everything that went on in the bedsit next door. The ceiling was the roof and the only window was a skylight. Kate hoped the work would be finished by the next winter as she could see it would be very difficult to heat. The bathroom was on the next floor down but at least she had a wash basin in the room.
She unpacked her clothes, mainly new cheap office type clothes and shoes from Primark. She had been given a clothing allowance with strict instructions to buy only cheap clothing. No designer labels. She was also cautioned against taking any such with her. With reluctance she had locked her expensive walking clothes in the spare room of her flat along with all her other personal items. The flat was to be let on a short-term basis through an agent. She would stay with Kiera and Georgia on her very limited visits home.
She found the nearest shops and bought a few basics to stock the bedsit’s tiny fridge. She walked along to the port office and was pleased to note that her new employer was within reasonable walking distance. She was glad she had timed it though. She was also pleased to find there was a regular bus service. She would have to return the next day, Friday, for an interview then work would start on Monday . She was not sure how it had been arranged that she would be selected for the job but had been advised to present herself as if the interview was genuine.
By the time she got back to the bedsit she was tired enough to settle down for an evening of familiarising herself with the street map and wider local area. She would have a whole weekend to explore. At least the phone they allowed her was not too basic and she had some Internet access. She had been forbidden to access her Facebook account and advised to delay setting up a new account in her new persona until she had got a feel for her new situation.
Every care was taken to ensure there would be no connection between her new life and her old life. She would still be called Kate to ensure no suspicion could arise due to a delayed response to a new first name, but her surname would be Barker. It was felt that different initials would avoid accidental connection.
Kate had allowed her hair to grow since she first started training for the new post. What had been a short bob was now at her shoulders. She had bleached it and reminded herself that she would have to be diligent about continuing with that. She spent some time that first evening practicing applying the makeup that was to be a characteristic of her new persona. She had never bothered much with make except when on an occasional night out. The makeup specialist at Hendon had shown her how to subtly alter the shape of her face with makeup. She hoped that no-one looking at the air headed blonde she now appeared to be would connect her with the mousy haired somewhat serious and determined police officer that she was.
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The walk was nearly over before it began. The forecast was for cloudy weather, but it was chucking it down with rain, so I felt soggy from the beginning. The 9,000-acre Coed y Brenin Forest Park is situated around the valleys of the Mawddach, Eden, Gain, and Wen rivers. To the east is the wild and lonely Rhobell Fawr, an extinct volcano in the Meirionnydd Mountains, and to the west are the rugged Rhinog Mountains.
This was once part of the historic Nannau estate founded by Cadwgan ap Bleddyn, Prince of Powys, in 1100 AD. The forestry commission brought it in 1920 and renamed it to Coed-y-Brenin (The King's Wood) for the Silver Jubilee of King George V in 1935. It became a Forest Park in the 1990s because of its outstanding walking and recreational opportunities. Today, Natural Resources Wales looks after the forest for people, wildlife and timber production.
The broad gravelled track north from the car park was through Douglas Fir woodland carpeted with ferns, leaves and broken branches to our right and Birch to our left, some of the earliest original forest. Beyond that was the raging Afon Mawddach. We had heard that birdlife was rich and varied, but we'd so far heard no bird song and hoped it wouldn't be this quiet for the entire walk. A substantial footbridge, Pont Cae'n y Coed, was to our left where we could see the river rolling down some rapids.
To get to a smaller, second footbridge a bit further on, we passed a rocky slate outcrop on our right, strewn with mosses and ferns, and just after that turned left and dropped to the footbridge over the river. There were some great views of the river and some lower level waterfalls crashing over rocks. In the sky, there was a slight streak of yellow as the sun made an attempt to break through the cloud. After a short break, we returned to the main track and continued up through the woodland. We reached a short meander in the river. In the nook of the meander were the overgrown remains of an old gold processing mill.
In 1864, gold was found in a mine, not now visible, which had previously been worked for lead. Prospectors headed to North Wales hoping to dig their way to a fortune. They dug hundreds of horizontal mine tunnels through the rock by hand into the surrounding hills, looking for the gold-rich white quartz rock seam. It was a bit like holes in Swiss cheese, trying to find the one that contained the gold. Welsh gold is incredibly rare but has been mined since at least the Bronze Age. An analogy for this was finding gold in most mines around the world was like finding the cream in a sponge cake, whereas finding Welsh gold is like finding a sixpence in an extremely large Christmas cake. There was no pattern of logic, so you never knew when you could be inches away.
In its peak (in 1888) the area produced 9,000 ounces or about 255 kilograms of gold which would be worth up to £17 million today. The quantity of gold found was never predictable, and only 200 ounces or 5.6 kilograms was produced in 1890. In 1893 gold from here was used to make the wedding ring of Princess Mary of Teck (later Queen Mary) for her marriage to Prince George, Duke of York (later King George V, great-grandfather of our current monarch). In the end, though, it was not very profitable and only a small quantity of gold was extracted. However, the Gwynfyndd Goldmine continued production on a much smaller scale for the next hundred years, finally closing in only 1999.
More yellow brown and orange brown leaves fell from the trees as we crunched through those laying on the ground. Slate exposures were on our right-hand side with ferns, mosses, lichens and grasses growing from them. Small rivulets and waterfalls cascaded down the side of the slate, joining a small stream that went on to join the river below us. From here, we could hear and see the waterfalls that we were heading for.
The dramatic Rhaeadr Mawddach Waterfall was impressive with two concurrent flows created out of the rocks, which looked like it is now used for renewable energy. Due to strong currents, deep water and the danger of falling rocks, access to view the waterfall was difficult.
We stopped for lunch between the two waterfalls near the ruins of the Gwynfyndd Goldmine situated at the foot of the falls, which produced 95% of the gold found in the area. A sturdy building beyond the tunnel was the strong room where the gold was kept before being taken along the tramway up to the mill we'd not long passed for processing. Traces of the tramway can still be seen. The rusty door came from the old town jail in Dolgellau, which was closed in 1878. When the penal reformer John Howard visited the jail in 1774, he commented about how filthy it was. In 1788 inmates petitioned about the maggots and "nasty filth" in the water which came from the river Aran where sheep skins were washed.
After lunch, we walked across the footbridge just below the equally impressive Pistyll Cain Waterfall. With the river to our left, we proceeded down the track heading back to Tyddyn Gwladys where we'd started from. To our right was a large rock wall covered in green and brown slime with a constant cascade of water from mosses and ferns and all sorts of vegetation above collecting in a small stream, to the side of the path. Looking more closely, the very beautiful wall was all sorts of colours, from snotty purples and blacks to dark and light greens. We followed the forest track south along the river in a steep sided valley surrounded by mature forests.
We finally reached Pont Cae'n y Coed again. Named after a nearby smallholding, it translates to "field in the woods." Once a temporary Bailey bridge stood here to take out timber from the other side of the Afon Mawddach. These days, the new bridge serves as an essential connection for mountain bikers and walkers. It is also the starting point for the challenging 11km Volcano Trail. The trail's name comes from the fact that it crosses the location of Rhobell Fawr's old magma chamber. From its highest point, Moel Hafod Owen, you can see all the way to Cader Idris. For us, it was just following the path over the footbridge turning right with our right-hand side to the river and once we started hearing the sound of motorbikes we knew we were nearly back at the car park.
.jpg "Gold Processing Mill. Courtesy of Kath Norgrove") |
| Gold Processing Mill |