1 husband, 3 kids, 2 step-kids, 2 dogs, 1 cat, one business, 1 milion things going through my head at any one time and one dream - to write.
Love - the writings of Patrick Rothfuss and Jane Austen, the poetry of Keats and Wilfred Owen, the art of Jack Vettriano and Zdzislaw Beksinski, sunflowers and sunsets, Eeyore and Channing Tatum, the sea, Pembrokeshire and contradictions.
Hate - confrontation, waste, procrastination (despite being champion at it), horror movies and loneliness.
In the December 1904 issue of Green Bag, Vol. 16,there is an amusing account through poetry chronicling the aftermath of a court case. When the Court of Clams passed a judgment in the case of Harvey Steel Company v. United States, by a majority of four out of five judges, the majority opinion was written by Chief Justice Nott while Justice Wright wrote a dissenting opinion. Lincoln B. Smith wrote the following poem as a dedication to Justice Wright:
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens.
In the immortal words of Julie Andrews, when she’s feeling sad she simply remembers her favourite things and then she doesn’t feel so bad.
For me it is always music and in particular the video of the the American Marine’s parody of Carly Rae Jepson’s video ‘Call Me Maybe’. Those guys are just so cute and some are clearly not as comfortable with it as others, but they always bring a smile. So cool.
The Brits in Iraq parodying ‘Is This The Way to Amarillo’ is next This one crashed the Army’s website because it had so many views when it was released. I particularly like the toilet humour – it is the British Military after all, I would expect nothing less.
Another good one is Bobby McFerrin’s video for ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ with Robin Williams and Bill Irwin. I can’t believe it’s from 1988 – that’s 30 years ago! And of course, more recently is ‘Happy’ by Pharrell Williams, that one is a little younger than Bobby’s.
Not seen them? Google them – right now – they’re a must. I’ve saved them in my bookmarks.
It’s a well known fact that music can shape your moods so I also have a Spotify playlist called ‘My Happy Place’ filled with over 300 merry tunes to turn up nice and loud and sing along to.
As well as music there was a lovely train guard one day that brightened my day and when I see this in my notebook it always makes me smile. He was a very jolly and flamboyant young man with a big beard. I ordered coffee from him from the cart and as he passed me my cup he said in a grand booming voice “And of course don’t forget the stick of destiny. All powerful … until … it … get’s … wet. Oh well, maybe next time.” He was referring to the wooden stirrer that he dropped into my coffee as he said it. I know – you had to be there – but he didn’t have to say anything and it really cheered me up on a long and boring journey where I hadn’t spoken to anyone for over 5 hours.
And finally, this sign outside a tiny church hall warmed the cockles.
“Feeling down in the mouth? You need a faith lift.”
Add to this list my husband’s hugs, sunflowers, sunshine and the seaside, Kitty curled up on my lap, good friends and my kids banter around a dinner table and I think that’s me pretty much sorted for life.
Please bear with me this week as I share with you two of my poems. I am not, in any way shape or form, a poet, but I was forced (kicking and often screaming) to write poetry for my MA in Creative Writing by the amazing and sadly missed Mr Nigel Jenkins from The Gower. A lovely man and an inspirational teacher.
I produced two poems over that time which I am rather proud of and so I have decided to share my favourite, a few days before Remembrance Day and the second will be posted at the weekend.
This one is called ‘Hourglass‘ and records the moment we lined the route for one of our comrades whose coffin was being taken into a Chinook to fly him home from the Gulf. This is, therefore, in Remembrance of several people.
Sergeant John Nightingale for whom the poem is written.
Lance Corporal Pete Mahoney who sadly took his own life soon after returning from Iraq.
Flight Sergeant Anna Irwin, a truly inspirational person and the light of everyone’s life taken far too soon by cancer, and who was standing next to me during this parade.
And also of course, to Mr Nigel Jenkins who made me write the poem in the first place.
Autumn is by far my favourite season. Crisp cold days, beautiful sunshine and the gorgeous colours of the leaves falling from the trees. The last weekend in October was cold but filled with glorious sunshine, so I decided to take a walk around Sefton Park.
When the wind blew, sycamore shaped gold-leaf danced around my favourite part – the Eros Fountain. The fish squirted water in the faces of the little cherubs, and Eros himself, glistened in the sunshine. It was real brass-monkey weather, but beautiful all the same.
I love, love, love my new knobs. I found these gorgeous ceramic knobs in a vintage warehouse off Lark Lane, Liverpool at the weekend, and they are perfect for my upcoming upcycling project. A bargain at £2.50 each.
The chest of drawers I found in a charity shop and they cost me £4 – yes, you heard right – £4! They are a good quality, solid set of pine drawers that have been half-heartedly painted with what looks like emulsion. All they need is a sand, a lick of paint and new knobs.
So I have spent a total of £11.50 up to now.
I am just missing a couple of bits. A drill for one. The knobs are too large to fit in the existing holes, so I need to drill them a little bigger. Paint – have you seen the price of chalk paint, not to mention the wax and specialist brushes? It’s no wonder upcycled furniture costs as much as it does. So, being the scrooge that I am, I’m waiting for that eureka moment when I find a bargain tin of paint in exactly the right shade for my set of bedside drawers. I’m thinking of painting the whole thing in the same shade of blue as the birds wings on the knobs, and maybe the drawer panels in the green.
They’re for my own use, and not to sell on as I’ve never done any upcycling before, so this is my first project to try it out. Plus I need somewhere to put all my books, pens, notepads etc.
Haunting sounds drift over from the next truck, enveloping us in the spiritual embrace of another world. The Gurkhas are softly singing.
We are lying inside our cotton liners on the back of our DROPS, looking up at the sky and thinking how surreal it all is. Two weeks ago we were in Wales, dodging summer showers and speeding traffic. Now we’re in the desert looking up at the cloudless Iraqi sky listening to strangers chanting. We’re all so far from home.
This tiny patch of desert is destined to become a bustling army encampment, but for now, only one tent keeps our four wagons company. The full moon softly caresses ripples of dusty sand below us, casting blue-grey shadows into the hollows. Above, millions of stars sprinkled across the heavens are more vivid with the absence of man-made lighting. The smell of hot sand finally cooling after another scorching day, mingles with the scent of sweating bodies and diesel engines ‘pinking’ as they cool.
There is no breeze, no rustling vegetation, no scurrying animals or rumbling machinery. It would be silent in this endless, empty space if it were not for the singing. For tonight though, the warm scents, the heat of the night, the gentle moonlight and the lullaby, cocoon us in a comfort blanket, softly soothing us into restful sleep.
Over the last few years, there has been a push towards teaching Bushcraft, partly as a way to get back to learning about the natural world around us, but also for stag and hen do’s, birthday parties and team building events. Bushcraft is a great escape from the mad, mad, world most of us live in, and a few years back I trained as a Bushcraft Instructor. But before I did, I had to first learn it for myself.
If you don’t know, bushcraft is basically learning to survive and live in the wilds without the everyday trappings of life. This could be in a jungle, on a mountain top or on the coast. In the UK it usually means setting up camp near a water source, building a shelter and providing your own food and clean drinking water. It is different to survival training, where you are taught to use whatever you can find in order to survive. Bushcraft is where you use only the natural landscape around you. I went to my first class with my teenage boys.
After finishing work on a Friday night, packing the car and ferrying younger kids about, we had a 5 minute turn-around before we had to leave the house again. Finally, after almost throwing the satnav and the phones onto the M4, we managed to find the place. We were half an hour late.
Bushcraft courses are often held in ‘out-of-the-way’ places, on private land and away from main roads if possible, so you can really get back to nature. Therefore, they don’t necessarily have an address and can be difficult to find with an outdated sat-nav and a 3-year-old atlas of Great Britain. Good directions, plenty of time and extreme amounts of patience are therefore a must.
We had none of those things.
As we’re late, the instructors had already taken the rest of the group down to the camp site. We arrived in the dark to find an old farmer with a massive torch who showed us where to park and guided us down the hill through the mud. He chatted away genially as we lugged rucksacks through the quagmire, over stones and through pony guarded gates until we reached the first of our instructors.
He took our names, gave us the obligatory health questionnaires and briefed us on health and safety. Then he showed us to our camp site. Everyone is sitting under a massive tarpaulin next to a camp fire with a kettle on it. That’s a good sign. We were warmly welcomed by the other instructors and students alike. They seemed a friendly bunch, and after a brew and a chat we were asked to collect firewood.
Keep the home fires burning.
It’s useful to forage for firewood constantly. The welcoming heat and light from a fire is a godsend and keeping a pot / kettle of water on it for a brew is a must, especially on a cold and wet evening. The fire will provide you with food and drinking water as well as warmth and it’s also an amazing boost to morale if all else goes wrong.
After being introduced to the tools of our new trade, i.e. a knife and a saw, one of the first lessons we are given is designed to tune us in to what is going on around us. We were taken, in the dark, away from the camp and told to sit in the hedges at various points. Weird right? We sat there, in silence, for about 20 minutes watching, listening, smelling, feeling, tasting and becoming generally aware of our surroundings.
This was by far my most favourite part of the weekend and we practised it each evening at dusk. It is the most simple of things to try. You can’t move a muscle, you can’t make a sound and you can’t have any light. You need to become invisible. So you sit and you ‘hone-in’. It takes a few minutes for the wildlife around you to forget that you’re there, but gradually they start to re-emerge.
Afterwards you gather together and discuss what you noticed. The smell of the crushed bracken you were sitting on; the yip of a fox in the distance; a bug crawling across your hand; traffic on a road somewhere off over the hill; owl’s hooting in the woods behind; tiny sounds of scurrying in the undergrowth; the guy next to you breathing; and, best of all, the bat landing a foot in front of you, oblivious to your presence. Beautiful.
Then it was back to camp for a cuppa and, for one night only, we all sleep under the tarpaulin next to the fire. Tomorrow we’ll be building and sleeping in shelters of our own.
It’s the Stackpole Quay car park in Pembrokeshire on a Wednesday in April. There are no other cars in sight, there are no car parking charges, and no other people with dogs. It’s cold and it’s wet but it’s peaceful and beautiful.
Compare that to Bank Holiday Monday at the end of May. The car park is full. Parking attendants are waiting to take your cash, and other attendants are directing traffic into the smallest of spaces, with calls from colleagues to “squash them in, any space they’ll fit”. This is after dodging traffic on the ‘quiet’ country lanes that had been deserted only a week before.
Holidaymakers come to beautiful Pembrokeshire from all over the country, all over the world. The scenery is nothing less than spectacular. It’s warm and sunny and the sea is flat calm. The water is a gorgeous blue-green and crystal clear. The car park leads off to Stackpole Quay itself, and to the coast path in both directions. Barafundle Beach – voted the best in Britain – is just a ten-minute walk away. The Quay itself has benches for sitting and admiring the view – and what a view. So can someone explain this to me please? Why do dozens of people unpack and eat their picnic’s, squashed between parked cars, with other cars for a view, and the sweet smell of exhaust fumes for their fresh air?
They’re not just grabbing a quick sandwich before heading for the beach though. Oh no. These are serious picnickers. Blankets are spread out on the ground, baskets in the centre and deckchairs placed around them. Some are reading books and newspapers, obviously aiming to be there for some time. But why? What’s the point of braving traffic jam’s, dodging car’s on single track lanes, paying exorbitant charges to park, in the best countryside and on a beautiful Bank Holiday Monday, to sit in a hot, dusty, smelly car park to eat your lunch? Are they just too lazy to walk to the nearest picnic table?
What a waste of a glorious day and the most beautiful scenery.
So how do you get blisters from colouring? It’s not like I’m bricklaying, gardening or chopping wood now is it?
Do you remember colouring as a kid? Did you help your kids learn? Do you colour now as an adult? A few years back the adult colouring books appeared as a way to help relieve stress. I was a little late to the party but then I was gifted 3 colouring books and pencils one Christmas. These books are not your average Disney princess pictures, nor are they teddy bears and farm animals. Instead they are complicated, eye-watering mandalas, birds of paradise and swirling abstract flowers. I’ve never been an artist. I can’t draw or paint, or even take a decent photo. I went to an art class once and was told I was a control-freak. So colouring is my way of scratching that arty itch. Painting by numbers works in a similar way.
So how do you get blisters from colouring books? How soft and pathetic are my hands? Well I got them from sharpening dozen’s of pencils with a little hand held metal sharpener. The type you may have had in your school pencil case.
Sharpening colouring pencils made me smile. I remembered doing this as a kid and again with my own boys. I love the ribbons of coloured wood shavings all over the table. I started out categorising the pencils by colour, all neat and orderly, (who said control freak?) but there were too many in the end.
Do you remember the pencils whose leads were obviously broken inside, the tips falling out just as you got to the perfect point, and you’d have to start all over again? It would happen again and again until you had to make the decision to throw the pencil out or just keep going until you got past the break.
As an adult colourer, I persevered past the point where I would have usually given up. Maybe I knew there was a chance that not all of the lead was broken. Perhaps I can no longer stand to waste anything, every pencil should be given a chance to reach it’s full potential. Maybe I’m more stubborn and determined now and no pencil was getting away from me. I will not be beaten. Or perhaps it was more to do with the glass of wine that fogged my brain, and whilst watching Miranda, I took my eye off the ball and just kept going, oblivious. I’m sure there’s a metaphor for life on there somewhere.
Either way I ended up with a big box of perfectly pointed pencils filling an old biscuit tin and ready to go. I pulled out a book, picked a picture to colour and got stuck in. That’s when I realised that pencils are rubbish. And now it’s just dawned on me. Perhaps the whole stress therapy logic behind the colouring is also to do with sitting still and being patient. Yeah, I’m not a patient person. Felt pens are definitely the way to go.
Maybe rubbish is too strong a word. I have pictures that I’ve coloured in pencil and others in pen, some with a mix of both. I like them all. It’s the difference between watercolours and oil paintings I guess. They’re just different. But I like vivid colour. The pencils were too wishy-washy. To be able to see these amazing designs in all their glory they needed more punch. I couldn’t get that with pencils. Felt-tipped-pens, may not be as romantic, but they give much better instant gratification. There was no scrubbing to cover the page. One flick of the nib and the colour was there, bright and shiny and perfect.
Okay, not quite perfect. It seems I lost the ability to keep within the lines. It turned out I needed reading glasses, but now I can get back to colouring in pen and create brilliantly bright pictures all over again.
The pencil tin is gathering dust under my desk somewhere and all those blisters were for nothing.