Sense of Duty

 The open fire crackled and spat in the living room, the smell of the burning logs filled the air as Jakes mother laid the crockery out on the kitchen table as she always did, it was always the very best china for tea, there was never any question of that, it was finely painted white china with a blue swirled pattern that was so light to the touch it seemed that it would break in your very fingertips. Jake sat at the table and held his hands together as his mother said grace, as usual a huge lump of cheese was the order of the day with home-made farmhouse loaf and fresh butter which had been churned that day by his mum Janet, she was a hard worker, always wiping her chapped dried and sore hands on her apron and constantly wiping her brow of the sweat from the heat of the old stove and the sheer amount of hard work she was always asked to do, but she would not have it any other way, in those days everyone had a sense of duty.

 Just then, at the back of the kitchen the pantry door swung open and Charlie walked in with some milk freshly taken from the cows that morning and placed in an old chipped white enamel jug. Charlie sat at the table, he was always first to eat as head of the household, it was never in question, his big thick strong fingers reached out for the butter dish, a white porcelain dish with a small lid on it, it seemed a very strange place for such a pretty ornate dish in such labour worn hands but Charlie would soon take two or three huge cuts of the butter to spread on his thickly cut farmhouse loaf and then hand it to Jake who would spread it really thickly on his fresh bread also, he loved the taste and throughout his life that simple pleasure of "bread'n'cheese would never leave him. On the odd occasion when they could manage it Jake and his father would go out and shoot some rabbits for tea, they would be loath to eat them as it was additional income and really was a treat indeed, for the shot rabbits were mostly sold for market so that some money for clothes and rent could be found. On this night though it was bread and cheese washed down with tea courtesy of the old black kettle hung on a frame over the log fire that Jake thought was always ready to explode, and he was never comfortable getting too close to it, especially when it came to the boil and started to hiss loudly. It was always on the boil, there was always a cup of tea available at the farm, always.

Jake played with his little brother Sam awhile after tea, teasing him incessantly with a ball that he would pretend to throw and hold on to at the last minute, to which end Sam would scream out in protest thus earning poor Jake a scolding from his mother.
 Jake soon grew tired of playing with his whining little brother and knowing there would be stock to feed early next morning he climbed the stairs to his bed, it was just after eight ‘o’clock and as he was passing his bedroom window he peeped through the curtains and his eyes lit up as he did...for there, caught in the reflection of the glass against his small candle he could see it was just starting to snow !.  Indeed, by the time Jake had washed his face in the cold water bowl on his dressing table and towel dried his face a quick peep through the curtains once more revealed the extent to which it really was snowing, Jake stood there for what seemed ages just watching the ground disappear under a white blanket, he then slowly turned and tip-toed to his bed and blew his candle out and curled up under the blankets for the night, as his head hit the pillow he could smell the mixture of sulphur and wax reaching his nose from the extinguished candle and it made him feel good, Jake pulled the blankets around him tightly and muzzled his pillow, he felt safe here, this was home.

The next morning at around 6 am Jake opened his eyes and yawned and stretched, he slid his bare foot out of one side of the bed and shivered as it felt very cold outside. Jake suddenly remembered the snow he had seen the night before and raced to the bedroom window to look outside. Indeed it had snowed and oh my it had snowed, very heavily, there was at least 3 feet of snow on the ground and though it looked beautiful Jake also knew that it would make today’s chores that much harder...

A little about me...part 3.

Inside the Nag's Head there was always a warm welcome from George the landlord and his wife Sal, they were a middle, to old age couple but had a wonderful sense of humour and always had a welcome smile. The pub was right next to the auction yard at the time so trade was always good in the week, Ludlow, like many Shropshire towns was essentially a country market town and had a wonderfully diverse population as a result, something now sadly lost, along with the auction yard and the pub which is surprise surprise a bloody Tesco. It quite astonishes me that we have the new slogan "farmers mart" in our small towns nowadays, it was never heard of before the big supermarkets as county towns were all one bloody big "farmers mart" before they moved in and destroyed the very fabric of the surrounding communities and starved the Town centre shops of their life blood, big supermarkets run by money men have no feeling for local communities despite their protestations to the opposite, they are only interested in profit, the community will always come second, as, instead of the wealth of the town being spread around locally it is gorged on by one leaching plc company that feeds it's directors and shareholders, hardly the work of a caring company and I am afraid "farmers mart" is there as a complete result of the supermarkets strangling out their opposition.
Anyway, I digress, as you can probably tell i am not a big supermarket fan and i will not shed a tear at their falling profits, quite the opposite. By now, myself and Tater had been in the Nag's for a few hours when we decided to call it a day, after all i was off to a job interview the next day so i needed to get some sleep sorted, it was quicker for me to go straight back to nan's house but instead i followed Tater back to his house up the Corvedale as it seemed like a good idea at the time. When we got back to Taters house we had a couple of cans of lager and to be honest i was a bit tipsy, in fact hardly in the right condition to ride a motorcycle, but being 17 I was already immortal so i didn't let it worry me too much.
 At about midnight i said my goodbyes to Tater and jumped on my bike, i was raring to go and felt really good about the job interview tomorrow and having also had a few sherbets even better. My guess is you have an idea as to what happened next, as i was riding back home across the back roads so as not to run into Pc Plod i actually ran into something else, a post box. I had a huge slide in a farmyard and hit a wall on the far side of the yard with a postbox sat in the wall, the bike sat on top of me and i just lay there for a few seconds until this searing pain started to register with what was left of the grey matter in my head, I kicked out at the bike and it stopped for a few seconds as i clambered to my feet, still pissed and still thinking this is all ok, no problem, pick the bike up and off we go, but it wasn't that simple. That pain in my right leg came back again and so i looked down, my brand new black Levi cords had been ripped from ankle to ankle revealing more than what "The 'Butler' would ever see and there was an awful lot of blood running down to my ankle which i knew was not there before, remember i was pissed.. so i pulled the remains of my cords over my knee and discovered this huge burn, which by now was introducing itself properly to that small amount of shaken and stirred grey matter I had left, despite the alcohol. 
I stood there for a minute or two trying to appraise the damage, not only to me but also my means of transport, the bike. Although a little mis-shapen in almost all departments it did actually start, so i was halfway there. I jumped on the bike and my previously straight leg while standing up, turned into a bent leg when sat on the bike, but trust me it didn't feel good so it was immediately straightened again and off i set, not to Nan's but back to my mate Taters.
I remember very little about that ride home, needless to say it must have looked a trifle odd with my one leg straight out in front of me and no trousers on, i couldn't wear them as they were flapping in the breeze and hitting my burn which was by now causing me a little bit of discomfort it was fair to say.
I arrived at Taters place and tapped on the door until someone came down, it was Tater himself who opened the door, he squinted and looked at me, then looked at my lack of trousers and jacket covered in farm shit and laughed as if it was the last ever joke he would hear, not long after that laugh rang out around the quiet cul-de-sac his mum Barbara came down to see what the fuss was all about and took one look and burst into laughter as well, all this time i was stood outside in the rain with a leg that was telling me it wanted amputating and quick and stinking of farm shit while soaking wet and cold.
 Eventually they stopped laughing and brought me inside to the kitchen where Barb grabbed some cream and a bandage for my leg. She dressed the wound and cleaned me up by which time i was pretty damn sober and pretty damn sore. I stayed the night at Taters and made my way home in the morning, i didn't go next door to my family as there would have been hell to pay if they had found out i had fallen off my bike.
Morning arrived and my leg was in agony, i was later to find out that as it was a severe burn i should have soaked it in cold water for a while but instead it was just dressed and covered up, something that I would live to regret for quite some time. I surveyed the damage to the bike which always looks worse in broad daylight and myself and Tater affected some repairs enough for me to get back to my Nan's. I jumped on the bike in a borrowed pair of jeans and headed off, not at all in the right frame of mind for a job interview but i could not miss it.
Arriving at Nan's i went into the kitchen and Grandad was sat almost asleep at the breakfast table with his pipe going, the warm Autumn sun that used to shine through the kitchen window at that time of year warming him up nicely as he dozed, he looked up as i walked in somewhat startled but his heavy eyelids closed once more almost immediately and he was soon away with the fairies. Not so Nan, who was cleaning upstairs so i went up and showed her my war wounds almost immediately from that previous night and she was horrified at the burn on my leg and immediately took me downstairs and put my leg under the cold tap, which was only 12 hours too late but better late than never i guess!, then she grabbed a packet of something out of the First Aid box, she tore open the packet and took out this brown coloured patch that looked like a miniature fishing net which she duly stuck over the affected area and to be honest it felt good. It was Penicillin Gauze. Now, for those of you, like me, not medically trained then it seemed a very good idea, keep it clean and stop dirt getting in the burn area as well as sooth the wound. You would think that wouldn't you?. Well, yes, but the trouble is with a gauze is that when you take it off at night it will be stuck to whatever you have attached it to and a deep burn on the inside of a very soft thigh is not the place for a gauze, so instead of the burn healing in a couple of weeks i had 2 months of agony until a Dr who was examining Nan one afternoon happened to spy the bandage while i was wearing shorts one morning and enquired about what i had done... after he had supplied the right dressing and ointment it cleared up within 2 weeks, proving Nan's don't have ALL the answers!.

Getting back to the immediate aftermath of my crash and explaining to Nan that i had hit a fox and it caused the crash and I was only doing 40mph etc none of which she believed for an instant as she knew damn well i only used 40mph as a means to get to 100mph, but i had to regain focus for my job interview at 10 am.
 So, bandaged up with my time bomb of penicillin gauze on my leg i rode into Ludlow for my interview. Arriving in the farmyard the farmer was walking across the yard and looked somewhat puzzled at the shape of my bike, which, it was fair to say was a little on the strange side with the exhausts pointing in different directions and the handlebars looking like a cobra dancing out of a basket of smouldering Marijuana, i thought it best to answer his question before he asked it, "I hit a fox last night and it errr..made me fall off" was the excuse i offered, but it was all too obvious the farmer didn't believe me any more than Nan so not the most auspicious of starts to a job interview i must admit but at least i had managed to get there.
The interview went really well and in no time we were chatting away and i found myself hoping i would get the job, i duly left with a polite handshake and the farmer said he would let me know as soon as possible if i was the successful applicant and, true to his word, by the time i had arrived home he had rung at Nan's place and said i could start on the Tuesday if i wanted the job...perhaps at last things were going to start going right for a change, but as i have learnt in my life never expect an easy ride, it just makes you complacent...

To be continued.

A little about me cont...

The following days at nan's house were very strained to say the least. Nan didnt have the best of health and had enough pills around the house to keep a small chemists shop open for a week, but she did cope with her ailments quite well, even if it was a known fact that the last thing you ever did was to ask her how she was.
This would result in you having all the gory details of every illness and operation she had been in or had over the previous 40 years. I wasn't in good books for quitting my job and Nan had her way of showing it, everything I did or said over these next few days would encourage a comment from her with regards to my job, or indeed lack of, i could not escape either as i lived under her roof and was fast running out of money.
 One night, about 3 weeks after my walkout a local farm worker came in to the house and implied there may be a job going on a local farm in Ludlow, quite a big farm and one that he himself worked on.  It seemed there may be some light at the end of the tunnel.
I went back home to my parents house on my motorcycle that evening, back to the village i grew up in and around, Munslow. It was the archetypal English village with stone cottages a shop and Post Office and a war memorial, it once had a vibrant school that i had attended along with my siblings but it had long since been turned into a private house. Riding in to the village i turned off the B road and headed up a steep bank, past the Church on my left, then around a sharp right hand bend and up another small bank until the road levelled off, to my right then was a tennis court owned by the Francis-Moores, they were a very well to do family who were seldom in the village, but as children we were allowed to use the court anytime, amazing generosity when you think abaout it, could you ever imagine such a thing these days?. Turning a tight left hand bend i passed a style at the top of a field on my right, i had been through this style every day of my Grammar School life to catch a double deck bus to get to Ludlow and every day to get back home, it was like an old friend who you see once in a while, nod your appreciation to and drift on.
At the top of this road sat the small council estate that i was raised on. Nothing fancy, but it was home for many years and I have many memories of such great and sometimes not so great moments of living there.
My parents house was No.1, it had a small drive down to a wooden garage and was very plain and ordinary. The views from the rear were simply fantastic and always a source of inspiration, this was my back yard, this is where i grew up and had spent almost all my life thus far, it was a friendly face amongst a world of strange ones, a welcome bosom on which you could lay your head without fear. I was home.
Being home was not always a welcoming experience in every way however, despite my wonderful memories and fantastic care-free childhood. I had grown up and I was becoming a young man, a young man with attitude and a feeling of wanting to be a rebel against the people who I had grown up around. I liked motorcycles, wore leathers, grew my hair long, stayed out all night, drank, smoked, you name it I was up for sampling it. To my Chapel raised father and school mistress mother i was a huge disappointment and I knew it, I had shown great promise at school but as my Grammar education continued i fell behind and could never catch up so i started playing the class jester, the idiot, it was an easy role to play and required no effort. I now had a chip on my shoulder that said something like "all grown ups are miserable" and that was to stay with me for a long time.  Mum seemed pleased to see me when i walked in through the old blue door with frosted glass as most of them were in those days, life had become tough for Mum of late, she had been the victim of a stroke at the age of 42 and it had wrecked her teaching career and her life, she couldn't move her left arm and leg very well and her speech was affected, back then stroke victims had a tough time, her life had been turned upside down and that had spread to the whole family as she had to be cared for by someone, mostly by my poor sister Caroline who always seemed to be there to bail the family out in times of crisis but got little thanks in return, she worked very hard to help mother recover, an angel by any other name but a daughter too. I told Mum i had quit my job, of course she already knew because i was living with her mother, my Nan and they talked, but at 17 you don't think of such things readily, she said "oh dear what are you going to do ?" as if it were a travesty on a grand scale, "Oh something has come up, i have an interview tomorrow"
"oh really?" Mum said in a mumbled manner, trying to speak as normally as possible despite her obvious physical problems,
"yes, its another farm, in Ludlow, seems a pretty sure thing"
"oh well, at least you will be working again" came the reply, i sensed that she would have loved me to have said i was going to be an airline pilot or a solicitor, but no, it was farming again and after all, hadn't she and father been the ones to push me in to employment the minute i left school? what more could they expect from this boy other than a wasted life?.

I heard a car coming down the drive, it was Dad's Austin Allegro, it was such an ugly thing but i guess it got the family from A to B, Dad worked part time self employed catching moles or putting fences up, whatever he could do to get by to be honest, it wasn't a great living but Mum did have her school pension which was a great help. Dad walked in and didn't say a lot, he didn't think much of me and didn't mince his words or try to hide it, he would be sarcastic almost immediately and try to get me to react, most of the time i did and Mother would end up crying in the middle of the argument for which i would get the blame, or sister perhaps if she was in earshot, I already carried the burden of being told i had caused mum's stroke because i had left home at such an early age and I had put mum under so much stress. With no-one to tell me otherwise i carried that with me, in my heart even now i still believe part of it is true, despite many attempts from people who i love and love me to dispel such a theory. It was just another example why myself and Dad could not live under the same roof, instead of nurturing he would criticise and use his superior strength to brow beat, he could sting with words in an instant, his wall of insults knew no boundaries when he was losing his temper, you got exactly what came to his lips warts and all, many's the time i simply walked out mostly in tears at the thought of such a lonely existence and how bad a lad i had really turned out despite all his best efforts. Worthless is the word i was thinking just then. I felt worthless.
I said "Hi" to Dad and he mumbled something about my losing my job but i refused to rise to it and with that i slipped next door to see my old mate Tater Davies, his name was Pete but as he was growing up his high forehead left him with the nickname "spud" and it has stuck even to this day. I looked up to Pete, he was a great bike rider, a mechanic and above all he was different and he made me smile, he had a leather jacket with so many badges on it was unreal and a pair of motorcycle boots with huge stainless steel wear pads and shin protectors on, he was 6ft 1inch with long hair and was mostly out of work at the time, but to me he was a great friend as it was always Pete i would go round to if Dad got too miserable... as was the case that evening.

Tater (Pete) was just off to Ludlow on his Kawasaki triple and asked if i was coming, i immediately agreed and slid round back home and shouted to the folks that i was splitting to Ludlow, again another sarcastic bunch of mumbles came forward but i paid little or no attention to it, it was the norm.
The ride down the Corvedale road to Ludlow is set in biker history. It is a tight twisting B road with junctions everywhere and tractors that spring out of fields in a heartbeat, but it held no fear for me and Tater, this was our turf and we rode that stretch of the Queen's highway like we had stolen it. Very soon we were in Ludlow, catching up with a few more biker mates in a pub called The Nags Head, ironically it's now a bloody Tesco's..

tbc....

A little about me...

I guess the first rule for any writer is to write and write regularly, something that isn't always that easy when you are running a business or have a family to take care of, when it's both it becomes nigh on impossible, but writing is a bug that doesn't suddenly pop up and bite your ass one day, it is with you all through your life, you just need to recognise it, some people do this at an early age but for some its not that simple as like me they can have their artistic leanings put on the back burner while they try to make a living out of any job they can find.
I left school with one English O level and a wide eyed ambition to see the world. Money (or lack of it) saw me end up on a small hill farm tending 1,500 sheep at 16. I guess the novelty of your first job takes a little while to wear off, mine was no exception, I thought i had found happiness but, as has been so often the case in my life, I had only reached a stepping stone. I tried all my early life to emanate my big brother and sister by getting a job on the land and settling down to what my beautiful County had to offer but it would not take me long to soon realise that beautiful as she was, Shropshire could never hold me.
After a seemingly endless 2 years on the hill farm i got fed up of the constant arguing between the boss and his son and the contradicted orders that came my way so one day after yet more double orders, i just grabbed the spade i was using to dig a ditch with and walked back to the farm yard, threw the spade in the log shed and told them to go and get f#cked.
It was one of those defining moments in your life you always remember, not that i am proud of what i did as its no way to leave your employer, but it said a lot about my state of mind at the time as i was actually a polite well mannered lad, if a bit wild, but could give as good as i got, so in a way perhaps it was somewhat deserved that day.
The following morning i woke up in bed, i was living with my Nan at the time as i had done since i was 15 turned 16 because me and Dad could not get on at all. We were always arguing and it was leading to some pretty brutal stand-offs so i left to live with Nan and anyway i could walk along the fields to get to work so it all worked very well, until of course that morning.. when Nan shouted up the stairs, "Tom (farmer boss) is on the phone he says if you are there by 9 a.m you can have your job back!", of course being 17 and full of spirit i said "stuff him i ain't going back there" to which Nan did not reply, but it said a lot about what i could expect when i DID get out of bed.
Nan was definitely the one who wore the trousers in the house, Grandad was always telling jokes and laughing and seldom got upset about anything but when he did Nan knew exactly when to keep quiet. Grandad would usually defuse most situations by going outside and cutting logs for the ever lit Rayburn or just standing outside with his pipe and staring out into the wonderful flowing Shropshire countryside, he always wore a pinstripe like shirt with the sleeves rolled up and braces that crossed over at the back, he always had turn-ups on his trousers and mostly had his hands in his pockets, his trusty pipe and 2 ounces of "Franklyns" tobacco were never far away, he smoked quite heavily but i guess that was all part and parcel of life for that generation, typically he would have wellingtons with the tops turned over, which to everyones amusement he wore everywhere, including on the beach at Tenby one year!..
Anyway, I sloped downstairs at about 9.15 and Nan was busy cooking and cleaning as usual, the air was thick with things Nan wanted to say, but you could tell she was just waiting for the opportune moment, she was very much like that, waiting for the right opportunity to arise and then she would wade in with what she thought about the situation with all guns blazing...not always the best way to treat a head strong 17 year old!. The wafts from the oven of the fruit cake Nan was making smelt delicious and i sat at the old table in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in silence. It was like Nan was daring me to speak first so she could angle the conversation towards work, but it was the last thing on my mind that was for sure...
I went outside and walked into the front garden where Grandad..as always, was chopping logs, his big calloused hands grabbing the end of the split log and lining it up for the next hit with the axe always a feature of how i remember him, he didn't say a lot, Grandad would rarely get involved in such things, he would just natter about the weather or about the next door farmer, anything but confrontation, that was how he was.
I spoke about the weather, my motorbike, the geese, (which they always kept for a Xmas cull) in fact just about anything other than leaving my job that morning. That suited me and Grandad just fine, but I knew that at some point Nan would be let in to the conversation and all hell would break loose, not something i was relishing but in some way i thought i deserved it, underlining yet again the proportion of blame i was carrying at such an early age.
I grabbed some logs from the pile that Grandad had just cut and walked in through the door, the smell of baking still wafting through the kitchen as i stacked the logs in a wicker basket next to the Rayburn, Nan had her back to me and was still silent, I couldn't let this continue, so i backed my arse to the Rayburn and twiddled the stainless towel rail with my hands behind my back and spluttered "I am not going back"... this is what Nan had been waiting for, this was her moment to go in for the moral speech and take the higher ground and i braced myself for what was to come..."You will never stick at anything or get another job as good as that" and with that she walked into the living room to light the fire.
I was left stunned, I didn't know how to take what she had said to me, she seemed resigned to it, she seemed to almost accept (though begrudgingly) that I was not going to return. I walked in to the living room behind her, "I will Nan, I will find something a lot better, you just wait and see"... "I doubt it, nothing will ever be good enough for you" came the reply, I realised this was a battle I was not going to win so i retreated upstairs to my music, Michael Jackson's Thriller album in vinyl played the soundtrack to the rest of my day while I lay on my bed in a strange yet perverted way proving just what Nan had said to me, that i would never make anything of myself, it was a hard lesson for a young easily influenced lad to carry and something that only to this present day do i fully understand was not a real failing of mine...but it would haunt my forming years and leave scars that would heal but always be a memory...

To be continued...

To die or not to die?.

Recent events that have transpired have brought the death penalty back into the spotlight once again. It's a very emotive subject, not least when the abduction of a child is involved.
I get the feeling though that many UK residents would actually support it but, given the choice between the death penalty and a "penalty that fits the crime" I think most people in reality would actually prefer the latter. Killing people with such diseased minds that allow them to carry out such atrocities is not a deterrent in itself, otherwise Texas and the like would be the safest place on earth. The truth is people will still carry out such heinous crimes regardless of the cost to themselves be it death or life imprisonment so it doesn't add up to kill just to appease the few who are baying for blood. I think most would like to see "life" meaning "life" and the more serious continuous offenders locked up for longer periods, something that has been wanted for many years.
I also think that a degree of consistency in sentencing is required where judges all sing off the same hymn sheet and make sentencing more transparent to the general public who (to be expected) get exasperated when seemingly murderous villains end up with a 5 year sentence and they will be out in 2.5, i think 5 years should be 5 years and i also think concurrent sentences should be abolished so if a villain is tried for two crimes where he gets 4 years for one and 5 years for the other then he should get 9 years, that would install confidence in our judicial system and send a clear message to so called "gangsta's".

If after all that you still demand the death sentence then let's take a look at a little game called consequences.
first of all you get yourself a hardened villain who has beaten up an old woman and fled with her jewellery and cash from the house,she dies of a heart attack 4 days later, he has just been apprehended by Pc Plod and is in a cell after the court case awaiting his sentence. Would you kill him?.
Then secondly, we have a villain who has grabbed a youngster off the pavement and ended up murdering the poor little soul for his own gratitude. Would you kill him?.
Then we have the lorry driver, he is driving backwards onto a loading bay one night when a group of lads are playing dare and one trips over as he runs behind the lorry, the truck hits him and kills him. The lorry driver is deemed responsible. Would you kill him?.

My best guess is that you all answered yes to situation number 2. Possibly some of you will have answered one and two, but doubtful many of you will have answered yes to all 3.
The fact is someone died in each of these scenarios, they are all open to different interpretation and obviously they are made up for examples but technically they all could happen. If the death sentence is in place for murder then one and two are goners, but it's three that would worry me the most when it comes to corporal punishment and that is the "what if?" question.
What if it was just an accident?... for instance what if the guy who picked the child up was actually returning him home to his parents and while at traffic lights the boy was snatched from the car and the villains never seen again..and by association the man was hanged?,  what if the crook in the old ladies house was actually the man who was odd-jobbing for the old lady and disturbed a burglar who fought his way out and left the old lady for dead..?
"What if" stops us doing things we may regret. It's a human safety net and our mind uses millions of "what ifs" a day while deciding not to touch the hot kettle or stick your fingers in a mincer or poke a biro in your eye, it's all to do with self preservation and a select amount of questions we ask ourselves BEFORE we attempt something. The problem with the death sentence is the "what ifs". What if you ever get it wrong. There is no parole from the house of God, there is no early release date for good behaviour. you die, you die. End of.

I happen to think that the death penalty does belong in the past because of it's sheer brutality and complete lack of what it was designed for and that's as a deterrent. As a civilised society i think we are above such base thinking and our thirst for justice would be much better served by sentences being handed down that are relevant and truthful in their description as well as being able to fit the crime and also prison being rather less comfortable for those who are already attending the lock-ups at Her Majesty's pleasure.

Recent events stir up many emotions and it's quite understandable, but we are not judge and jury where the taking of a life is concerned and I hope we never will have to make that decision, any of us, but please let's DO see these people doing prison time that fits the crime and a tougher regime inside our jails. That would satisfy the vast majority of people i may dare to say and leave us living in a society of tolerance not vengeance.

The fight for democracy

There does seem to be a small problem of late that is rather worrying if you are a bit of a stickler for attention to detail. Admittedly and, I am sure most of my close friends will back me up on this, attention to detail is far from my forte. In fact i am scarcely left in charge of a set of keys or important documents for any longer than is absolutely necessary for fear of them disappearing in a Bermuda Triangle (that occurs spasmodically above my office desk). But something has caught my eye of late and my ever wondering mind (it only gets let out on it's own on very special occasions) keeps returning to this subject and that is the word 'democracy' and how it equates in today's terrorist induced paranoid society where we are watched on every street corner.
Now, there are those that scream "CCTV should be banned!" "it's an invasion of privacy!" yet when something happens where we have 5 year old April being potentially abducted for instance we scream "where was the bloody CCTV?".
My heart goes out to April's parents and family, as a parent i cannot even imagine, or indeed would not even want to think about the terror and heartache they are currently experiencing but as I was saying, CCTV cannot be something we pick and choose, but at the moment i believe democracy is a word being used far too loosely by governments of the day.

Lets see, Wikepedia says "Democracy is a form of government in which all eligible citizens have an equal say in the decisions that affect their lives. Democracy allows people to participate equally—either directly or through elected representatives—in the proposal, development, and creation of laws.

Correct me if i am wrong but when was the last time you saw the above in action?.  If we take for instance that red hot potato always guaranteed to stir emotions, Europe. It is without a shadow of doubt that if a full scale referendum were to be held tomorrow we would be out of Europe as a Country faster than a whippet escaping from a dog's home run by a Korean restaurant company. We would exert our right to vote and walk. So, if I am right you have now joined me on the bench of "so if we live in a democracy why are we still in Europe brothers?". Indeed, that is my question and as we have seen time and time again we are refused that right.
The fact we are refused that right is bad enough, but the reason for us being refused a fair and democratic vote is because the government consider it far too big a picture for the simple man in the street to vote on...so in other words they are protecting us from ourselves.
This somewhat flies in the face of the above quoted Wiki description of what a democracy is. If we go with what our beloved and large majority of ever crooked bunch of MP's tell us our world as we know it would implode and the universe would crumble and actually they know best. Of course, we know they don't. Successive governments have swindled this country out of our gold, our taxes and our dignity and yet they still rule. Democracy is all about freedom of speech and having an equal vote, but when was the last time you had a say in local government or any council business without being guffawed out of the room by a bunch of "we know better" upper class twits or socialist activists from the local council estate who are about as close to socialism and all it stands for as Mugabe is to the Zimbabwe NFU.
So, the reality is our reality has been written, not by our own dear people who are pushed from pillar to post and forced to listen to "lies and then damned lies" but more hauntingly by a book that started with "the clock had just struck thirteen"...yes you literary types out there you guessed it... 1984. It's alarmingly accurate and ever more relevant as the government stress themselves on a daily basis to save us from ourselves.
My idea of bringing up and guiding a child is to allow them to taste a little of what they shouldn't so they learn. In other words if you let your infants grow up in artificial surroundings then they will never learn anything, the same goes for the people of this country. MP's are trying so desperately hard to make new laws to protect us and "help" us but in reality, just like the CCTV i mentioned earlier you cannot be everywhere at once and protect everyone 24/7 so you have to use a little known human trait called common sense, or we end up with a dictatorship.
There is in reality, absolutely no reason why a referendum on Europe couldn't be called for by the end of the year, but it's more likely a Martian is gonna pull up in front of the Rover camera and say "I thought they went bust, can you still get the parts for that?" frankly it ain't gonna happen.
So that leaves all of us in the West with a bit of a quandary, because to be fair if we cant be trusted to manage our own affairs in a democratic and fair minded manner how the hell can we crusade into other countries and preach about human rights..?  As always I do have a solution to the problem (other than not voting) and that is to make life very uncomfortable for your local MP...they hate being chased down the street and being mis-quoted, (justice if you ask me) so go on..be a devil and make them work for the king's shilling as it were!.

And so to reality once more..

The old saying that all good things must come to an end was surely written for this very Saturday morning, if it wasn't, then rather selfishly I wish to claim it. It was with a heavy heart and a total disbelief at the speed at which the 5 days had gone that I met the sunrise that Saturday morning. As always i got up early and lit the fire, went for my walk and stood there with a mind that for once was clear of clutter and thoughts of what i should or shouldn't have done over the past few days. Instead my mind was just blank, contented and at peace with what I had achieved and the reality of the wonderful people that had all come together and met at this place. I was a very lucky man and one day I hope that I can achieve that place again, it would sadden me to know this would be the only time I achieved such inner peace.
Again at the top of the drive i lent on my gate, once more the valley below us was slowly coming to life, there were lots more cars in driveways this morning, testament to it being a Saturday i guess. The usual dogs barking and the odd tractor on a hillside reminded me that out there somewhere life was waiting for me to rejoin and face reality.
I wondered back to the cottage and opened the door, Chris was there as always and he and Hannah were just disappearing for a quick fag as always as Magis and Heidi came into the kitchen, they too looked a little saddened but we were all trying to just get on with things as normal without thinking about it too much. As always Malcolm the housekeeper was there checking we were ok and looking after all of us in his own inimitable way, he really was a rock during the stay and i regret not telling him so, i may write and do just that.

I watched as taxi's arrived and hugs were given out and the promise of swapped e-mails that would replace the close natters and the laughter we shared together were distributed. It was about twenty past Nine and John walked in through the door clutching a copy of his book "Amandes Bed" and he beckoned to me to follow him into the long dinner/lounge room, he turned around and offered me the book and said "I said ye culd have wun an here it is, I hav' inscribed it an signed it far ye and i denny went payin far it"
"But John, I can't expect you to let me have your work and not pay!"
"Aaaah now just hold on Dave, ye supplied tha Scotch last neat an' I usually do that so this is fa you in return"
I accepted the gift graciously as John's work was payment more than enough for just a bottle of Scotch, even a £50 bottle of Macellan.
So, once more i was left stunned by the hospitality and the warmth of all those I had spent the week with and as i was putting the book in my holdall John quipped "Ye can rid the inscription if ya like" I immediately opened the book and John had signed it and there under the heading and title of the book he had inscribed,
"To Dave,
'The Shropshire Lad MkII'
All the best
John"
 Once again that lump arrived in my throat and I thanked John and shook his hand I said, "Thank you John, it was a real pleasure to have met a proper gentleman" I meant every word and I hope he knew that, John Aberdein is one of those rare men who will never forget their background or let fame intersperse his love of what really matters and that is people. For a council house kid from Shropshire his words and kind actions were the stuff of dreams and I appreciated them more than he will know.

At that, I was ready to tackle the long drive South before I became a jibbering wreck. It's strange how such times affect you but I guess i was ready to accept all that this course could offer and jumped in with both feet, hence the wrench when it ended. I truly was sad to be leaving but life goes on. I shook hands and hugged and said my goodbyes to all that morning and I still remember it as if it were 10 minutes ago so vivid is my memory of that day. I jumped in the truck and drove slowly up the drive away from the wonderful Moniack and it's ever present ever changing beauty, away from the tranquility that never before had i managed to find, my heart sank as i reached the top road and i sat there momentarily and looked back, a piece of me was still there in the cottage, still sat by the log burner with warm feet and hot coffee with pen and paper in hand with all my new found friends around me, laughing and enjoying each others company, but just as i was beginning to feel that lump in the throat again i caught sight of a vehicle coming towards me and I had to move as i was half into the road, i accelerated, waved at the people in the car for slowing for me and reached for the radio to play some music, it was over, a long journey was ahead of me, to take me back to where I had begun this journey of discovery.
Sad yes, but a lot wiser and with a heart that had been lifted to a place not seen since my childhood and for that I will forever be indebted to the Arvon foundation, the staff at Moniack, John and Morag and last but not least my wonderful fellow students who made this trip all the more memorable.

I shall always hold a special place in my heart for that wonderful time.  Dave J.

Moniack the final day cont...

I have to admit it was great to jump in the car and head for Loch Ness for an hour or so with 8 other students. I did two runs to the Loch and I parked the car after the second run outside the Loch Ness visitors centre situated about halfway up the Loch. The weather was beautiful, crisp but sunny and the sun reflected off the almost mill pond still Loch like something sent from heaven.
 We crossed the road to the Loch under a purpose built tunnel and came out to a jetty where the boat trips were starting from across the Loch. They didn't seem that busy but to be fair it was obviously later in the year. We all walked off the sloping concrete to the Loch's edge as if drawn to it by some magical power, we stood there and just took in the view and the air for a little while, after the intensive full on writing atmosphere in the cottage it was great to just let your spirit wonder for a little while. We soon started being 'children' and had a great time looking for 'skimming' stones and shouting with whoops of joy when we managed at least 3 skips in a row, silly yes but all the more enjoyable for it. Gemma bless her the youngest of the bunch was handing me stones to skip across the water more akin to a house brick than a flat saucer but what the hell i threw them anyway, which made us laugh even more when they just sank to the bottom of the Loch as soon as they hit the water !.
 I do wonder what some of the tourists on the jetty thought of our shenanigans but to be honest we didn't really care. Magis,Hannah,Chris,Kelsey,Gemma,Olivia,Nuala Jo and myself all the firmest of friends had a wonderful time, we all came back to Moniach with huge smiles on our faces and it strengthened that bond we had all built between the group. I returned with a bottle of Macellan 15 year old whisky from the 'oak' as a little present for later on that night.
When we returned to Moniack everyone got stuck in to the final preparations of their work which they were to read to the rest of us after dinner. It was a nervous time for many including myself as it would be the finale to a week of lessons and guidance from two of the very best tutors in their class and none of us wanted to disappoint. Tonight's dinner would be Haggis, I have to admit i refrained as it's not to my liking, but there was Spag Bol available for those who didn't want to partake of the National dish.

We all sat down for dinner and as usual we were all in a great mood but it was tinged with sadness at this our last dinner together, we had all just sat down when a housekeeper poked her head around the door and asked "are we all seated?" the answer was pretty much a 'yes' from all.. "good then" says she, "we have a little surprise for you all".. and with that the outside door opened and in walked a piper to bless the eating of the Haggis, for once my iphone was in the right place at the right time...
I have to admit I was glad at that point that no-one had actually turned around and spoken to me, because i had a lump in the throat that would have choked me for sure. tears welled up a little as the young lad played the pipes and we sat and enjoyed the spectacle all twinned with the knowledge that reality would beckon once more in just a few hours. Indeed it was a sad but poignant moment, one of many on this voyage of literal discovery I was to experience thanks to Arvon.
A hearty round of applause followed the end of the piper's tune, indeed it was a wonderful touch to a wonderful evening. We all ate heartily and enjoyed our meal and apparently the Haggis went down a treat, though for me the Spag Bol was equally as delicious with a side helping of garlic bread.
After dinner we all sat around the lounge settees again and some stayed at the dinner table with a glass of their poison, I put the 15 year old Scotch on the table in front of John and said  "will this do young John?"
With that he picked the bottle up and studied the label for a few seconds, then quipped to Morag,
"Morag, will ye look at this, it's fifteen year ald Macellan, as writers we could only eva aspire ta the 10 year old and in young Dave walks wi' a bottle 'a fifteen year old jist like that, we're in tha wrong job fa sure!"
At that we laughed out loud and i immediately popped the top off the sacred brew and poured those that wanted it a wee dram, it was good, very good, but i have to say the company was it's equal if not better.

With the wine and whisky flowing it was time for the stories to begin, we were in for a wonderful treat of stories and lifetimes that melted our hearts and left us in astonishment at times, from Magis's story about villagers in India that poison the milk of a new born girl because "they don't want Doctors" (girls cost a fortune to raise in India and some villages still condone poison for female babies) which left us all so stunned and yet full of marvel at this wonderful lady who had stood up and read this to us as if she had read out loud for years, it was heartfelt and tragic yet inspiring to listen to, we were treated to semi-biographical stories, suicide, army heartbreak, working girls and even a school teacher's day which was wonderfully portrayed in Chris's story, who was so dry and yet so funny we all laughed out loud.
I stood up and read a couple of poems that I had written a while ago, one was about the craziness that is religion and the other was about my adventures sat on a dragon's tale, both of which can be found on this blog site, I also read out Bess, the poem that has hopefully started me off in a new direction thanks to those wonderful tutors on the course, it went down well and I was honoured to have been given the opportunity to read in front of such a great group of people.
Once the brilliant readings were over we all sat down and attacked the wine and the whisky, our tutors helped us with any other outstanding questions, but soon we were all just chatting and enjoying the evening in good company, putting the world to rights about everything from politics to writing.
The evening drew on and the log burner flickered in the corner at half it's normal rate as it slowly burned itself into a pile of ashes, a few had already headed for bed as they were catching early trains and some goodbyes had already sadly, been taken care of. The few of us left standing (or sitting) polished off the rest of the wine and whiskey and bade everyone a good night... it was indeed a sad time for all of us.

The Saturday of goodbyes... to be continued.
 

Friday comes all too soon. Moniack Day 5.

Sitting in the lounge area of the old cottage that is Moniack, I reached across for my coffee, book in hand, sat cross legged on the sofa, feeling very happy with myself, not in a smug way but more in a self belief way, I had learnt so much in the last few days and my writing had improved along with my attitude towards it. I suppose I felt more humble as I had been brought down to earth with a bump on the back of Morag's words at that first meeting and it really was the catalyst for the rest of the week, it grounded me and helped me take a step back from what I was doing and re-evaluate the way I approached my work, this is something I now carry with me and is a great game plan in everything you do, not just writing.
The dinner was being cooked and I decided that maybe a stroll would be a great idea so I headed up the driveway once more and looked back at the wonderful view that always greeted me. I stood there a while and studied the little village across the valley and watched the cars going backwards and forwards and people coming in and out of their houses and driveways, I felt completely detached from my normal way of life and felt intrigued and almost guilty at watching people go about there normal working day while i was stood miles away, just watching. It was a very strange yet calming experience, to be up there looking down while people busied themselves with life, I felt very privileged. I lent on my five bar gate at the top of the drive once more, foot on the bottom rail as always, the air was by now becoming cooler and the wisps of steam from my breath could clearly be seen as i slowly exhaled. A mist was rolling down in to the valley and i could here people's voices, tractors and dog's barking miles in to the distance, their voices and noises being carried along the sloping edges of the valley though by now the tips of my fingers had started to feel the cold and I thought it better to retreat to the warmth of the cottage, this was a magical time and even better, I knew it was. I have never appreciated what I have in many ways but at just that moment on that very day at that very place and time I was rich beyond my dreams.

The Dinner.
It was to be salmon tonight, I must admit I am not the world's greatest fish lover but now and then it's quite refreshing. Rosie and Gemma and Hannah were already wading in to the cooking by the time I had reached the warmth of the cottage from my walk, the smell of dinner was fantastic as i walked in and I headed for the lounge with the usual cup of coffee. I opened the wood-burner door and piled two logs on top of one another and let it draw for a while so that it would heat the room a little quicker, soon there was a bright orange glow as the dry logs burst in to flames so i backed the burner off a little, the heat was so good, so soothing, the sound of the logs crackling away as i sat there engrossed in my book was enough to make me feel quite sleepy. At that point Chris came in and offered me a glass of wine, which was very much appreciated, we chatted for a while, I really got on well with Chris, he was very laid back and we always had something in common to talk about.
Tonight the tutors would read from their own work straight after dinner, we were all very much looking forward to that, over the past few days it was fair to say that we had grown to respect their work and their judgement in most things and we all hoped that we had not been too much of a disappointment to them in what we had produced or gotten from the course. The dinner was, as always exceptional, Arvon's idea of getting people cooking together is a sure fire way of getting everyone involved in the course at some point and it works perfectly. We raised a glass to the night's chef's and retired ourselves to the settees strung around the lounge with a glass of wine apiece or water as was our poison and settled in for the night.

Morag was first to read, she had chosen an extract from a new up and coming novel and we sat with baited breath as she started. As expected it was executed brilliantly and was so full of detail and suspense that we could have sat there and listened to the whole story from start to finish, she isn't just good, she is very very good, her talent in putting you right there in the middle of the action is incredible and when she had finished we applauded loudly and for a long time, deservedly so.  John was up next and he read from his book that is based about some of his upbringing, it's an insight into the hard way of life he knew as a lad and was absolutely stunningly delivered. His wonderful broad Highland accent giving the reading that extra credibility that was the icing on the cake, again we could have listened to him all night, if you get the chance to buy some work by these two greats of the literary world then please do it, you will not be disappointed.
A huge round of applause rang out for John after he had finished and again it was heartfelt from us all and very much deserved, we had been treated to a wonderful evening's entertainment that was twinged with sadness as we all knew tomorrow was our last full day at Moniack and we would all be parting on Saturday morning.

Friday. Day 5. The last Full day.

The alarm went off on my iphone as it had the last few days here at Moniack but this morning it was more poignant, I knew it would be our last full day here and it was very much tinged with a sadness. I jumped out of bed and slipped across to the bathroom, the old oak floorboards in the lounge creaked away under feet as i tried desperately to be quiet, it was still only 6:30 so I didn't want to wake anyone up. Duly washed i went to the kitchen and poured some hot water into the coffee pot and left it to brew as I went into the lounge and lit the log burner. I grabbed my coffee out of the kitchen afterwards and came back into the lounge, I just sat there for a few minutes in the silence, coffee in both hands staring at the log burner and appreciating the warmth of it's fiery glow. I have to admit i had a small lump in my throat at the thought of this being the last day, the sadness only brightened by the fact that I would soon see my wonderful family again very soon and the thought of a few hugs warmed me through even further. As usual Chris wasn't far behind me getting up and even apologised for not getting to the log burner more often during the week, something i assured him he didn't need to do as i had actually quite enjoyed lighting it each morning !.
As everyone woke up and arrived in the kitchen there was a different atmosphere, one of the realisation that this would be our last full day together and we had all enjoyed it so much the sadness was not easily hidden.
I grabbed my boots and headed up the drive, once again I got to 'my' gate and slipped my one foot on the bottom rail and folded my arms across the top rail and just stood there in the cold morning air gazing across the mountains. From the cottage a lone figure in a blue shirt came out from the kitchen door and started walking up the drive towards me, from the distance I could just make out it was John Aberdein, he slowly walked up the drive with his hands in his pockets, stopping now and then to turn around and look at the view.
"g'd morning Dave" he said in his usual Scottish drawl as he approached me at the gate,
"Hi John" I said, "it's a fine morning for a walk and taking in the view"
"Aye it is that, we could be in trouble now we' given a poet a gate ta lean on"
"Hahahaha I guess you may just have a point John, perhaps i am looking for that extra bit of inspiration"
"Well it's a great place ta git it from"
John went on to tell me about his exploits in the highlands and how he had walked to the source of the river that ran through his home town,
"I may ne'er get ta tha source of tha Nile or tha Amazon but a'hve been ta the source of tha river that i was brought up nixt ta, that's good enough fa me"
I sensed I was in the company of a very thoughtful, very deep and very principled man with a great sense of right and wrong, a very proud man with strong values, I was indeed fortunate in this life to have made his acquaintance.

With that John carried on with his walk across the top road  and I walked slowly towards the cottage down the drive. Today's classes would be starting with a tutorial at 10 a.m with John. We were looking forward to the class as he was an excellent teacher with great insight and was always very understated.
We sat around the table with our books and pens and John sat in the middle of all of us, as usual his lesson was lively, interactive and a mine of information, his passion for teaching and writing as obvious as it was profound, he was an inspiration to us all and as always the lesson was over all too quick.
At the end of the lesson John reminded us that it was tonight that we would read from work we had completed and drawn up while at Moniack, a thought that filled most of us with dread, but before we broke up for dinner Kelsey was to read her work as she was off to a wedding later tonight and would miss her opportunity to address us all as a class, so we settled down and listened intently.
Kelsey's story was based around the evacuation of a family to a storm shelter as a Tornado headed their way, it was compelling and written beautifully, you could have heard a pin drop, when she had finished, a resounding cheer and round of applause rang out around the walls of the cottage, John broke the applause by saying "Da ya see hoo far ya've all come in only 5 days?.. that was jist brilliant Thankya Kelsey" he was clearly pleased with the progress we had all made and indeed we as a group were astounded at how much we had learnt and how well we had all gotten on.
After lunch a few of us did some reading while listening to some classical music we had managed to find in the CD collection in the lounge, Heidi in particular enjoyed every minute of it, but as it got to around 3 pm we all decided to utilise my vehicle and head for Loch Ness for a mini-break for an hour or so...

.....to be continued..

The after dinner guest..Moniack 2012

Full bellies, log burner glowing in the corner, good company and the prospect of listening to a talk from acclaimed author Jonathon Falla, no wonder the word contentment is the most used up here in the Highlands, especially when you combine it with the Arvon experience for first time writers.
The food was a hit and we had all ate very well, the curry and fruit salad combination hitting the spot first time. As we cleared all the plates and dishes from the table the four of us on dinner roster smiled and laughed with each other when the subject of rice was mentioned, which it was, time and again!. The previous few hours in the kitchen trying to get the rice just right and then Mages intervention is still even now the stuff of legends.
We all congregated in the long dining area and lounge and loaded ourselves with drinks so that we could sit back and listen to what promised to be a wonderful night in the company of John Falla about his intrepid journey's and writing. Malcom stood up and introduced John who was sat at our end of the long dining table facing us all as we sat on the loungers and settees.
"It gives me great pleasure to introduce John Falla to you, a man who has written plays for the BBC and even wrote a comedy, the only one to date about famine in Africa, he has trained as a Dr and has worked  in all the far flung places of the world and also been inspired enough to write books about his experiences..."....this went on for about ten minutes, I must admit I was astounded at just how much this guy had done, inspired even, so I thought this really was going to be a very special evening.
John sat there and said the usual thanks and said how good it was to be with us all. He started the evening by reading some of his latest book and we were quite enthralled by his style of writing and his anecdotes. he was most definitely a character and seemed very self assured, it did go on a little bit and then just as we thought he was wrapping it all up John grabbed another book and exclaimed,
"This little excerpt will take about 15 minutes"
You could almost hear a pin drop and it wasn't for the reason John was thinking. You see, to carry off a long speech and keep the audience satisfied and attentive you need to do one of two things, either give them a break time or involve them. Unfortunately for John he was so engrossed in what he was saying he lost complete track of time and we were to all intents and purposes bored. Terrible I know and I feel bad even saying it, but he had lost the audience. On top of that he then proceeded to give us a sure fire way of how to write a book in 3 easy steps.. you could almost feel the sighs from our guest authors one of whom John Aberdein had already fallen asleep..
So there we were all sat down and cornered by our guest speaker who didnt know where the 'off' button was and one of our tutors fast asleep on the settee as he spoke, to borrow a well known phrase, you really couldnt write it.   After what seemed an eternity John finally wrapped up and it was down to the dutiful Malcolm as ever the gentleman to say thank you and raise the obligatory round of applause from the audience, who by now needed the toilet and the bar, in that order!
I stood up and threw another log on the log burner and was aware all of a sudden that John was busy signing copies of his books which he had conveniently brought along with him and immediately i thought what a nice thing it would be to actually buy one and get it signed and i duly joined the queue. Surprisingly John didnt say hi to me in the book he just signed his name which i thought was a bit odd but no matter. We then all sat on the settee and grabbed our poison, be it Scotch or wine and talked to John about much less mundane stuff like when did he first become inspired to write etc. To my surprise John was a whisky drinker, he and I kept apace glass for glass and i have to admit i was impressed, he also loosened up a little from his 'parochial preaching' role and became quite affable. We talked about life and parenting and social issues along with Rosie (who was from County Tyrone and such a sweetheart) and Gemma (the youngest on the course at 17 with a mind as sharp as a razor and a writing ability so natural and raw it was staggering) along with Chris and I think Olivia too. We all fired questions across to John who was by now well relaxed and like me, suitably full of whisky when I think the reply of the week came from Gemma when John retorted,
"You know I love to go to places no-one has ever been to then write about them because no-one knows if what you are writing about is right or wrong"
Quick as a flash Gemma replied from over the top of her ever present texting on her Blackberry mobile,
"Have ye ne'r her da Google?"
Stunned silence for a few seconds.. then the conversation slowly continued, with muffled laughs emanating from areas of the room where once silence reigned, it was a beautifully timed, honest and quite legitimate question Gemma asked but as usual her timing and sharp mind just doubled the impact, it was the highlight of the night, though to be fair to John I think he was a little nervous and probably not used to such a small audience in such close confines, it's fair to say he did what he thought was his best but in the end the consensus of opinion was that he hadn't involved us all enough and at times was a little patronising to what basically was an audience the vast majority of which were professional people in their own right.
As the night wore on it was down to John, myself and Rosie talking away and drinking into the samll hours, Rosie went for bed and myself and John decided perhaps it was time to curtail the Scotch and in any case I had a bit of writing to do, to say the least so bedtime it was.
The next morning as usual I was up and about at 6 and lit the fire and went into the kitchen to grab that all important first cup of coffee, while everyone was dozing I grabbed a quick shower and then went for a quick walk again out into the wonderful countryside. It's quiet beauty was astounding and all encompassing, it attacked all, yet none of your senses, it let you be what you wanted to be, it's input neither too much or too little, this was indeed as close to paradise for a thoughtful mind as you could get. I stood for a little while, I am not sure just how long and just as you would do in a piping hot bubble bath just soaked in the moment and loved every second.
Walking back down the drive and opening the kitchen door  I saw Chris was up and about and just tucking in to his toast while our guest speaker entered the room and headed staright for the coffee pot. Hannah wasnt far behind and she and Chris did the exit kitchen left for a cigarette routine and left me alone in the kitchen with John, who after a good night's sleep had lost none of his confidence or ability to tell me how good thing's were in the world that is John. Thankfully the other students all started to wander in and a knock on the door signalled the arrival of a taxi to take John to the airport. We all said our polite goodbyes and wished him well, after all we were professional people if not professional writers.

TIME TO WRITE.
By the end of breakfast I was fully aware that I had yet to complete something meaningful for my meeting with John Aberdein at 3.10 pm that day, the fact it was 9a.m and nothing had been accomplished at all, not even an idea meant i really was starting for the first time in my writing career to doubt I could actually put something meaningful on to paper. My writing book was a mess of scribbled out sentences and redundant cliches, I was having a torrid time trying to just be me. As Morag had said the day before," if it's too easy you are not trying hard enough", how those words would haunt me during the day.
10 a.m came and we gathered around the table to listen to Morag's second lesson with ourselves, it promised to be a cracker and Morag didnt disappoint. She is an excellent thought provoking writer with an exceptional teaching talent, keeping us all on the edge of our seats and involving us with projects and short clips of writing throughout the tutorial and i remember that last lesson with her in charge as a high spot of my week in Moniack, she really does have an exceptional way of teaching and there was never a moment where we were not engaged in what she was saying, the sign of the very best of teachers.
At the end of Morags lesson I had been inspired to write my piece. I had topic, character and plot, all from just talking through and about a short story and character production with our resident tutor, inadvertantly she had given me the inspiration for the piece I was to present to John Aberdein that afternoon and I set about constructing it.
Sat outside after lunch i beavered away at the piece of writing that i would present to John that afternoon, it was to be completely off the beaten track for me and was to be written with thoughts of extinguishing all the usual cliches I had used and be a very different step from where I had been the previous few months, it was nip and tuck as i had printed the verse only 2 minutes before my meeting with John. I tapped on John's door and walked in, his ever present warm smile put me at my ease and I handed him my work, somewhat nervously.
John looked at the poem i had shown Morag the day before and said "this denny work Dave, It's all too full 'o' yon cliches an it nay makes far gud readin'.
I agreed whole heartedly and i pointed to the second piece I had written and asked if he would read that while I was here, this is the poem i wrote as my second piece,(I kept my more off the wall piece back just for now), it was meant to be a man returning to the highlands seeing the view and being unhappy with himself..something Morag had asked me to do.

Despicable me is all I see,
Midst landscape heaven sent
Of distant views a parting ruse
This poets last lament

A sadness born in human form
Deleting natures fayre
Translation lost amidst my storm
Though few bar me would care

Yet still inspired, I won't grow tired
Life's beauty and it's beast,
All layers peeled my fate is sealed,
No chance for nature's feast.

So wretched as a cancer grows,
Engulfs my thoughts and dreams,
Breaks stronger men than I will know
And tears my very seams.

John worked his way through the poem and pointed out a couple of things, I listened intently, his voice was not quite as critical as Morag's but his tone was as determined in it's process. We made some adjustments on the work and he asked me to read it again, he got it, he liked it. It wasnt a huge step and I knew that but it was a piece of work with more thought and depth. I then handed him the piece I had written ignoring my usual poetic preferences, inspired partly from watching my gran as a child and partly from a character we had invented in Morag's earlier lesson. John read it and then stopped silent. "I am nay getting it Dave, culd ya read it ta me"... my heart sank, but I summoned the courage to read it. When I had finished he nodded in agreement, this was more like a step in to something different, something new, something from deep within my thoughts. He was pleased for me, I was pleased for me. Here is the poem:

Bess.

A dress that speaks of life,
The frayed edges hang like bar codes
Spelling out her past.
Bess was content.

Her flowing auburn hair a distant memory,
Now replaced by black and white,
The colours of her age.
Bess was content.

Half way down her nose her glasses sat,
With flour coated fingerprint etched lenses
Betraying this morning's cooking
Bess was still content

Soft slippers now where once heels were worn,
Her stoop a testament to such fashion
The hips a little broader now,
Bess was still content.

Here she was, all that she could be,
A wife, a mother, a nurse, a listener, a lover
But all the time that dress said more than that
Bess was still content

Then in the background voices came to life,
Such laughter only youngsters make,
The door flies open "Mum we are home!"
Bess just smiled that smile... so content.

I thanked John and left the room, though I had only just begun this journey into changing my views and the way i write, I knew from this day on writing would never be the same for me ever again, I had doors opened for me that I could never have imagined and it was all thanks to the wonderful adventure that Arvon allow you to step into. I went back to the kitchen, grabbed my mug and sat down and if i remember rightly the coffee tasted extra good that afternoon...


To be continued.......