Sunday 27 July 2014

A Very British Weekend



A friend commented on our “true British grit” as we set off to camp in the Peak District last weekend. Along with four other families, we defied the amber rain warning and forecast of thunder-storms, and pitched our tents on Friday evening in bright, hot sunshine.  We sat enjoying our first mug of tea, watching the kids ride around on their bikes. Surely the forecast must be wrong?

Just after midnight the rain began, pattering on the canvas as we lay snug in our sleeping bags.  Thunder and lightning followed, and we counted between flashes and rumbles, judging the distance of the storm.  At the count of five it started to move away, and I pushed away the niggling anxiety I had been harbouring about lightning and metal tent poles.

At 6.30am we were woken by shuffling and giggling, and the boys emerged, hopping across the tent in their sleeping bags like disheveled invertebrates.  The rain was persistent, and we contemplated the dense grey cloud as we waited for the kettle to boil.  Our plan to spend the day wandering around the Buxton festival in the sunshine was dissolving in the deluge. 

Over breakfast we discovered that one family had abandoned their tent and gone home in the early hours, faced with the twin disasters of a nappy failure and an inconsolable toddler. 

We flicked through tourist information leaflets, looking for inspiration to keep eight adults and ten children entertained. The kids voted for the cinema, and so, feeling rather defeated, we set off for Stockport and the nearest multiplex.
A forty minute drive, and lunch, later, we found that the showing was full. We returned to our cars, shepherding grumpy children with promises of cinema visits in the holidays. 

Back on the campsite, we sat under the shelter with another mug of tea, and I began to wonder whether “true grit” had been the best strategy this weekend.

The kids rode around on their bikes, sprays of wet mud up their backs, hair plastered to their foreheads.  I stopped trying to persuade them under cover; we had dry clothes when they needed them.  They were engrossed in a complex game and the rain didn’t seem to feature. No-one had mentioned TV, or “Minecraft” (their current gaming obsession) for two days.  

Later, the rain stopped and the sky began to brighten over the trees. Backpackers arrived, damp but triumphant, to pitch their tents and peg wet socks to guy-lines.

With the humid evening air came the midges, and we sprayed repellent and lit citronella candles, laughing as we tucked trousers into socks.

My smart-phone had run out of charge. It had not occurred to me to charge it up; checking emails and Facebook no longer seemed that pressing. I put the kettle back on and reached for my book.  

Tomorrow would be dry, and there would be no excuse for inactivity. Maybe camping in the rain isn't so bad after all.

Monday 21 July 2014

Ork (Part 1) by Richard Wells

Ork can hear something out there in the pitch black night, some noise behind the buffeting of the wind in the eaves. The bed is almost warm. Reluctantly he heaves off the blankets and walks in his bed-socks to the window, pulling back a corner of the heavy curtains. He is rewarded with a view of complete darkness, not even a twinkle of light to be seen. He hears the sound again, an unpleasant sound.
He returns to the already cold bed, lies on his back, covers up to his chin and tries to forget.
At first light he is awake again, dresses and descends the steep stairs to the kitchen. He pulls back the heavy oak door and peers out into the yard. The crow is clearly dead. It’s not the first time, but he still doesn’t know the meaning of these messages.
He fills the wooden pail, moving the pump handle vigorously, watching the live crows circling the beech copse on the hillside. The axe is newly sharpened and he’s able to split the logs with minimal effort, storing them in the large wicker basket by the range.
The bread is stale but it’s all he has and he spreads the almost rancid butter thinly as he watches the kettle come to the boil. The precious coffee is eked out – one small miserly spoonful. He breathes in the smell greedily as he waits for it to brew. The egg sits on the saucer, large, brown, covered in shit and straw. Should he eat it now or save it? He decides to abstain. He chews slowly, planning the day’s work and thinking of his wife. How long is it now – a month?
Victor is pleased to see him and Digger fusses around his feet, tail wagging. Mounted up, Ork allows the horse to find its way along the stony track at a gentle pace towards the town. The trees are in early leaf, an almost blinding green. Occasional gusts of wind, the remains of the overnight storm, blow raindrops from the branches above, onto the passing trio. As they reach the top of the ridge he sees the town spread out beneath, smoke curling from chimneys, the river sparkling in the intermittent sunshine. He can just pick out the men on the bridge, armed men dressed in dark coats. Ork knows he will need to be careful with his work today, more careful than usual.
He stables Victor and looks into the horse’s eyes for a few moments. Digger waits patiently. Ork unlocks the door to the printing room and knows immediately that someone has been there overnight.


Monday 14 July 2014

Waiting for Time


‘Where does the time go?’ It’s one of my mother’s catch phrases. She used to say it at the end of the long summer holidays, during my school and university days. She would sing it again, sadly, on a Sunday afternoon when we were visiting each other on a long awaited weekend, in the days when I had an office job. And, when she was at her loneliest, she would begin to sigh it out almost as soon as I had arrived, later than expected, on a Saturday afternoon. ‘The weekend is almost over.’ I would roll my eyes, impatient with her for anticipating my departure on Sunday, rather than enjoying the moment we were sharing.

But now I have children of my own - and I have chosen to be a “stay at home mum” and, when I have the time, a writer, and I feel as though I spend so much time waiting - I get it.    I have even heard those same words fall from my own lips, and cringed. I can even predict myself saying them at the end of this year’s school summer holidays.

What am I waiting for?  10 to 9 when the school gates open and 3.15 when it’s picking up time; the unknown moment in the evening when my husband will return from work; the children’s bed time, which is almost as sporadic; but mostly for the time in the inbetween times, when I can do all the things which need doing, and then the things I really want to be doing, including writing.

My days seem to be eaten away, often waiting, for such things as: my youngest child to decide he is happy to get dressed, after a half hour battle for him to stop playing with his lego or his train set so that we can go through the door; or for the children to agree that we can leave the school playing field behind and actually go home.

Following an interesting Writers’ Lunch this week, I have resolved to turn over a new leaf.  I shall be “finding time” to write, rather than “waiting for time”.  That won’t be confined to my usual trick of staying up until 1am and beyond, when everyone else has gone to sleep.  I am not sure I can follow my colleague’s “speed ironing” routine, but other suggestions have enlightened me.

The new me has written this blog whilst sat: 
  1. on a garden chair in front of my house, enjoying the sunshine while the children scooter up and down, listening to their giggles, smiling and waving and keeping a cautionary eye and ear out for cars, instead of standing there and just watching and thinking about all the other things I could usefully be doing, and shouting every five minutes ‘It’s time to come in now!’ with increasing irritation;
  2. at the breakfast table, whilst the children carry out their usual painstaking routine of slowly eating their breakfast with eyes glued to the TV, without nagging them every couple of minutes to hurry up as its time to get dressed;
  3. on the toilet (closed lid!) while the children play in the bath, just a little bit longer, then run around wearing their towels like superman capes before eventually relenting to put on their pyjamas and clean their teeth, while I smile at the cuteness of it all;
  4. in the pub near the village hall where my daughter is attending a party, having spent some time chatting to other parents and watching my angel have fun with her friends (who says you can’t have everything?); and
  5. on the sofa, next to my husband as he watches the World Cup Final, without sensing my brooding resentment (I could even bear a bit of punditry!).

It seems that “finding time” rather than “waiting for time” for writing, is so much more rewarding for everyone, so my idea that the school summer holidays is a time when I won’t have time to write, has rather turned on its head.  I am of course excited about spending time with the children and the adventures we will have, but I am also looking forward to the inbetween times when I would usually be waiting.  Rather than cringing when, at the end of the summer, I repeat my mother’s words “Where did the time go?,” I’ll be smiling.  It will go too fast.  It always goes too fast - but this time, I predict that, it won’t feel wasted.

Monday 7 July 2014

Le Tour de Huddersfield

The town lies below me in the valley, a star-shape of grey slate and stone framed by the green hills. I’m anonymous in the peleton, hidden away by my team. The break-away at the front is just for show, and the task of the moment is a safe, high-speed descent to the ring road and into town. The wind, loud in my ears, almost drowns out the noise of the crowd.

I glimpse flags and faces through the pack of riders. Hunched over the bars and hiding in the slipstream of the bikes ahead of me, I rest my legs for the climb that I know will come all too soon. It’s a climbing day. It’s not the Pyrenees, no, but the laws of physics and human biology dictate that I will spend much more time going up than going down.

All too soon, I’m on my way back out of the town. The climb starts gently enough, a smooth incline waking up the muscles for the torture that lies ahead. The gap between one bike and another grows, centimetre by centimetre as the strain begins to tell. The nonchalant smiles of the easy descent have been replaced with grim expressions of concentration.  A nod from a cyclist in the same shirt as mine gives me the signal. He starts to pull me through the pack. It’s time to attack. I increase my effort, refusing to look at the hill rearing up like a dragon ahead of me.

In a matter of minutes I am at the head of the peleton with my team-mate and we set off after the doomed break-away, a ragged quartet already in our field of vision. I enter a tunnel, a tunnel of focus and faces, head down, rhythmic, welcoming the pain in my legs and the screams of my muscles. I’m not faster or fitter, but I can take the pain better than some. The break-away riders fall away dispirited in my wake, mere chip papers fluttering in the gutter.

The noise of the blood rushing through my veins reaches a crescendo like the end of a symphony, but there is a final flourish of the timpani as the hill turns a corner and gets steeper still. My calf muscles threaten a strike, but I see a red banner which means the end is close, and laugh my way home along the last undulating kilometre. My team-mate waves me on, with a ‘job done’ look of satisfaction on his face.

When I cross the finish line I almost fall off my bike at the sudden loss of forward momentum. I’m instantly surrounded by a crowd of reporters and TV cameras, my precious air breathed by people who need it less than me.

Somehow I find the strength to open the garage and put my bike away.
“How was your ride?” says my wife. “Who came to lunch today?”
“Please,” I say, legs trembling. “I need a moment. Everywhere you go in Huddersfield it’s nothing but bloody hills.”