The Grass Is Definitely Greener…

Today’s Prompt: Write about a loss: something (or someone) that was part of your life, and isn’t any more.

A few years ago I wrote a song called “Take Me Away”. The lyrics reflected my weariness at being in a city where I felt deprived of the space to breathe.

I was dissatisfied with my job, tired of the bureaucracy of being a small cog in a very large corporate machine, and grimy from the constant dust thrown up by improvements to the centre of Liverpool, as it was prepared for being the City Of Culture in 2008. I was ready for a change.

One day I observed someone pushing their way past everyone so they could to get to the ticket barrier first. They were not alone, and one bad days, I joined that race. On this occasion, they almost knocked down the blind guy who I often saw on the way into Liverpool. Something in my mind said, “they show you no pity”, and soon after, the song was born.

Sad sad song coming up from the pavement,
every day just the same such frustration,
look of sheer desperation and dismay.
Sad sad face looking out from the window,
saying “where did my yesterdays go?” 
Hanging on for tomorrow, night and day.

So take me away from the sad lonely face of the city,
Take me away from the grey and the black and the blue.
I don’t want to stay in a place where they show you no pity.
So sorry babe, I got to say,
Take me away.

Lyrically, I was yearning for open countryside. Move forward two years and I made my escape. For the last few years I have been working in a rurally based company with an agricultural focus. Yes, there’s still bureaucracy – I suspect that I will always experience this in my line of work – but I am a larger cog in a smaller machine, and there is so much fresh air just outside the door.

Where I took my lunchtime walk on Wednesday

Where I took my lunchtime walk on Wednesday

Ironically, the thing I miss the most about not working in Liverpool is the train journey. Logistically I am forced to drive to and from work every day, which affords me the privacy that public transport cannot, but I am not able to read, or close my eyes and drift away, and write a song or two.

 MinG

Sing, Sing, Sing Rewritten. Part One 

After posting my reponse to today’s writing101 prompt, I wasn’t happy. So I am having another go. In pieces because it’s late. Apologies for the lack of formatting, I am using the iPad app, which I am not used to.

I am nineteen. Having moved into a bedsit, I feel so mature and in control. I am so young and have so little control. I check that I have my keys, close the bedsit door behind me, plug in my Walkman earphones and press play.

Telegraph Road starts with a quiet held note. A high D which sits somewhere at the back of my head. The volume and instrumentation builds and I am pulled along the deserted streets of my seaside hometown towards the station. 

The song tells the tale of the birth, growth and demise of a working town based around the eponymous road. As the music soars to the height of industrial power, my steps quicken.

Then the tempo slows, and I stand at the head of the main town thoroughfare and ponder the parallels between these roads. My hometown had a glorious Victorian heyday but looks tired in the darkness before dawn. The discount stores seemed to increase at the same pace as the rust on the wrought iron verandas that skirt one side of the street.

The song is approaching its climax now. A jam around a classic rock chord sequence. I too am nearing my destination. The walk and song match each other in length. A happy coincidence which allows me to use a combination of lyrics and landmarks to pace myself. 

I will listen to something different on the return walk this evening, but tomorrow will start with that single high D.

MinG

Sing, Sing, Sing

Today’s Prompt: Write about the three most important songs in your life — what do they mean to you?

As with Day 1, I am using a piece of music to time my free writing. It last just over 14 minutes long, so I need to continue for at least another minute when it ends. It also happens to be:

Song 1: “Telegraph Road” by Dire Straits
Taken from the 1982 album “Love Over Gold”, this is an epic track telling the tale of the birth, growth and demise of a community based around the eponymous road.

It transports me back to 1986 when I had left home for the first time. I’d moved into a bedsit close to the promenade of the seaside town that I grew up in. I was on the opposite side of town to my parents, so we were close and far enough apart. Every morning, I would walk to the station and almost always listened to this song en-route.

From the door of the detatched Victorian house to the train station entrance took almost exactly the same time as Telegraph Road. It starts with a single opening note, then an slow finger picked national steel guitar. As vocals, piano, bass and drums are added, the steady rock beat would pull me into the day ahead. I could also use a combination of lyrics and landmarks to determine whether I was running late or not.

It’s classic AOR, but so well crafted, from Knopfler’s soaring solo, to Alan Clark’s moody piano back-drop and the thoughtful percussion of Pick Withers – why did he have to leave the band?

Whenever I hear it, I am walking the streets in the semi darkness before the dawn. Head down and hands in pockets. I still have a fair journey ahead of me and it’s going to be a long day….

Song 2: “Jerusalem”, words by William Blake, music by Hubert Parry.
From the moment that Miss Crayston thundered out the opening notes on the school grand piano you knew that this was important. It was our school song and performed at every special occasion. First day of term, last day of term, speech day, all were appropriate for us to belt out what is a pretty rousing piece. Just ask an England rugby fan. And for a music semi-snob, emphasising some of the timing nuances in different verses, and seeing who got it wrong was, well, fun.

It may be viewed by some as an anthem to archaic patriotic breast beating in a multi-cultural world, but I cannot help but feeling proud of where I came from when I hear it. It represents the fine schooling and support from my parents in formative years, rolling green hills and valleys, and what I still believe is a good country to be born and/or brought up in. I am not putting England on a pedestal above other nations, but to celebrate diversity you have to recognise differences. You cannot have one without the other. And yes, I am jealous of the relative strength of national identity of our neighbours in Wales and Scotland.

But I’m getting off piste again. This song is standing on a parquet floor, next to best friend Andrea, singing as loud as we could, because we could. It’s a lump in my throat watching the “Last Night Of The Proms”.

Song 3: “Whisky Is The Life Of Man” by Bellowhead
What a raucous rebel rouser. A hymn to the nectar of the Gods. Thoughtful songs are all very well but you have to let your hair down sometimes. I can’t honestly say that this song has any great meaning to me but it never fails to make me smile. Sometimes I will dance too.

I think that the original song is Australian, and it has travelled the globe in several guises, but I first saw this on a Christmas folk music special broadcast by the wonderful BBC in 2009. A pre-requisite for performing in that concert appears to be adorning Victorian dress. As one comment on the You Tube clips puts it “love how many tophats there are in that room”.

Almost four years later I saw Bellowhead live in concert. Oh how we danced that evening. Most concerts I attend are sit down affairs (jazz, classical), but sitting still was not an option in November 2013.

I thoroughly recommend checking out :
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i-x9KtmSwLA

and I challenge you not to at least tap your toes a little.

Closing thought. Considering that this is a challenge about music, one of the most important things in my life, I found it incredibly difficult to write.

MinG

A Room With A View. And a Stairway to My Heaven

“If you could zoom through space in the speed of light, what place would you go to right now?”

“We’re nearly there”, I said as we headed around the next headland.

“Good thing too, the fish and chips will be cold soon”.

 We were on a brief road trip around the north west of Scotland, stopping at small Bed and Breakfasts each night before moving on. Our budget wouldn’t stretch to dining out, so we would purchase food from the local grocery shop and either sneak back into the B&B for a surreptitious supper, or head out to a local beauty spot and dine almost alfresco. This limited our menu for the week, and on the evening that we stayed in Mellon Charles we decided to treat ourselves to takeaway fish and chips. The layout of our overnight residence would have meant transporting our dinner through the lounge to get to our room. The landlady could have been on guard and might not have taken to well to our rather aromatic dinner being consumed in a tiny space which had been adorned with swags, cushions and tie-backs galore. All just waiting to absorb the scent of salt and vinegar.

So we headed out to Gruinard Bay. Si was new to being this far north, but I had visited there two years earlier.

The road between Poolewe and Ullapool almost hugs the coast, allowing you glimpses of inlets and islets on one side, and contrasting rugged mountains on the other. This makes for pleasant journeys, but can result in your oasis being further away than you first envisaged. Mirage like it appears in the distance, only to disappear, reappear then disappear again.

But we did reach our destination and stopped in the deserted car park across the road from the bay. It was odd to see it empty. When I had visited with my parents in that lovely summer, it was jam packed with families wanting to make the most of the sunshine and beach. At the time that Si switched off the engine, most wise people would be indoors, secured away from the midges, which can ruin an otherwise pleasant evening with their incessant biting.

Somehow, we were lucky and the midges had headed off to the nearest campsite to wreak havoc, leaving us to enjoy the view across the bay to Gruinard Island. Beyond that was the peninsula where we were stopping. It looked so close.

We had dinner uninterrupted by man or midge, crossed the road and made our way down the rickety wooden steps which allow access to the beach. The sun was setting but we had time for a quick stroll along the shore. Again, I was struck by the contrast to my previous visit. The sands are a pale gold and there is shelter from the band of coast which is slightly raised. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that there are cliffs, the drop from the road ranges between ten and twenty feet. This makes it a haven for beach lovers, the only dark cloud being the ominous shadow of Gruinard Island, which was used for biological weapon testing in the cold war and which was only decontaminated in the late 20th century.

We walked and talked, and talked and walked. Before we knew it, the sun had gone and the moon was reflecting gently on the still bay waters. Temperatures can fall quite quickly in this area and, not knowing the road that well, we decided to head back to our over-upholstered abode for the night.

Halfway up the steps to the road we turned back to take in the view. It was then that we spotted the seal. We hadn’t seen any whilst walking on the beach, but there it was, bobbing up and down, appearing to watch us.

 “Goodbye Gruinard Bay. Goodbye Mr Seal”  I whispered as I waved. Incredibly, the seal raised a flipper and appear to wave back. It was probably just scratching its nose, but to us, on that magical evening, we had been bid farewell. This was before the days of mobile phones with cameras, and we weren’t carrying the 35mm, so I cannot share a picture, but I can still see it clearly in my mind over 25 years later.

The following morning we drove past the parking as we headed north for our next destination. We didn’t stop, it would have broken the spell of the previous evening. Despite observing this taboo, I would love to return to the area, smell the sea and dodge the midges. Who knows, we might even do some seal spotting.

With my eyes still on the horizon,

MinG

Writing 101: Mind Unlocked

“Today, take twenty minutes to free write. And don’t think about what you’ll write. Just write.”

Well, having read the instructions for the course, I’m not sure if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’ve taken that plunge into the deep waters, without considering the middle depths that splits this place from the comforting pull of the shallow end.

I’ll confess right now that I am editing a little as I go along. Twenty minutes of heading off into Lord knows where without looking back over your shoulder isn’t my style. I’m used to rules, order, cross checks and validation. I’m typing this into word to upload later, but to be honest, I’m happier building something in excel.

So why write?

Well, I feel limited by my profession. It’s not that it isn’t satisfying within its own bounds, but I am more than its bounds allow. So I set up a “me” space on wordpress and I wrote. A little. Mainly when on holiday. In between the time when I sit in my own space and “do my thing” and the day job, there are flashes on inspiration. Some even when I am constructing the formula in cell C1. But how to turn those flashes into something readable? Something worthy. Not worthy, I don’t really like the word. It conjures up images of long full skirts with high elasticated-waistbands. And sensible shoes. Although I am a fan of the latter. I hope to produce something that someone out there will enjoy, and maybe be inspired by.

It isn’t helped by the lack of “life experience”. I was lucky enough to have a happy up-bringing with loving parents, a good education and I made the most of that. I have a husband who loves me and we live a simple but comfortable existence.

So am I saying that art has to be created from adversity? My favourite pieces are in a minor key.

But as I sit here typing my thoughts as they appear, with a backdrop of Eno’s Ambient 1 (track 1 – a good timer), I fear that I will experience what Kazuo Ishiguro recently related in an interview publicising his latest book. In his youth he attended a writing course run by Malcolm Bradbury. The students had given up a year of their life to develop their literary muscles. Many had self-funded. They knew that they had not been able to fulfil their dream of professional writing because of constraints. Constraints placed upon them by work, or family, lack of space. How heart breaking for them to discover that, when presented with the blank canvas and the time to fill it, they had nothing to say.

What if that is me?
Eno track 1 has completed which means that I must stop in two minutes. I will re-read. I’m not so brave to publish blind, yet…

MinG

The Answer Is Never

Thank you Marneymae for reblogging. A powerful read and well worth sharing. At 11 I announced that I never wanted to get married. Presumably because I thought it was a stepping stone to motherhood. My friends thought I was odd. As I enter my late forties, I know that my decision not to have children has been right for me. I wince inwardly when people refer to my lack of maternal instinct. I can mother a child, cat or another adult without wanting a child. I am not lacking.

Longreads's avatarLongreads

Sabine Heinlein | Longreads | April 2015 | 16 minutes (3,886 words)

One time, when I was in my early twenties, I shared a hospital room with a mother of many. I had a skin infection that wouldn’t respond to oral medication, and the 50-something-year-old woman had severe, inexplicable hives. Our main topic of conversation revolved around neither of our ailments. It was about my not wanting to have children. She was insistent, which seemed ironic considering her hives flared up whenever her family visited her on Sundays. I eventually compromised with the woman. Okay, I said, I will put off my decision until I reach my thirties. “You are starry-eyed,” she huffed. “You young women want it all. But you can’t have it all!” Maybe, I thought, some of us don’t want it all.

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60k On The Clock

In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Ephemeral.”

60k

I make no apology for the quality of the image. This was taken when I was a passenger in my husband’s car, and the milometer had just done that magical thing and moved on from 59999 to 60000. Not everyone gets so excited about that moment but we did. We patted the dash and said something like “Good old Dave, 60k and still running well”. All our cars have had names. At least since I decided they should. Now that is a whole new thread….

Reading the title of the photo challenge, my mind was initially pulled towards clouds, sunsets, magical views glimpsed by chance. I then started to consider the definition:

 Lasting for a very short time

And I thought about our place on earth. We each last a very short time, relatively speaking. As I trawled through old photos, looking for a moody graveyard shot, I came across this, and I thought “Ahh, yes.”

It’s a pretty poor example of digital photography (I think that I used my then phone, the trusty HTC Radar), but it captured that moment. Actually, it didn’t. A single shot couldn’t capture the exact moment that 60k showed up. You would need two shots, before and after. Better still, a short video clip.

But why did I bother? Why were we so hung up on capturing that moment? It was meaningless. Just a number. Made less significant by the fact that we didn’t buy the car from new. So this didn’t mark 60,000 miles together. We were on our way back from a short holiday. It seemed appropriate at the time that our automotive buddy had hit the Big Six-O on a journey home. Why? I honestly have no idea.

On a related note, the break had been postponed because we had been caring for our sick cat when first planned. He wasn’t well enough to stay in a cattery, so the holiday company let us reschedule. Said cat died the following new year.  After a good innings, but relatively ephemeral existence. We are accustomed to marking significant anniversaries. Birthdays, weddings, important events in history. I understand that.

What I don’t understand is my need to sigh wistfully at about ten past six on a Sunday evening, and think about that cat.

I might raise a glass, or mug of tea, sometimes, “To our dear lost friend. Never forgotten”. The time varies, I can’t even get that right because at on the original Sunday evening, I was more consumed by the sadness of the situation to take note of the exact time of departure. Why the ritual?

I can only assume that I, like many others, do this to not forget. It’s a practice that was instilled in many of us at a young age. Remembrance Day, St George’s Day, Christmas. Each on their own set day of the year. Why should we be forced to feel grateful, patriotic or celebratory at these times? I can be paralysed with grief over the loss of the cat at the unlikeliest of moments. I can also be minded of his traits and I will smile. I won’t forget. The Sunday ritual only serves to keep the wound fresh and do I really need that?

As I write this post, it is the first Sunday of British Summer Time (yes it’s all ours folks!) The clocks have been moved forward.

What could more ephemeral than an hour taken before it has started.

I wonder at what time I should raise the glass?

MinG

Blue Smiles Today

Short, sweet and insightful. Heading home soon to put some air in my tyres….

Mother Hen's avatarIn Other Words and Pictures

DSCN3890

Stephanie over at Life With a Yellow Bike inspired me to put air in Blue’s tires and go for a ride. The sun was out all day. The sky held a few wispy clouds and there was a slight breeze. Yellow bike has had a lot of adventures and Stephanie offers plenty of good reading about their outings. I highly recommend a visit, when you have some time. It has been brought to my attention that there are people here at WordPress that have needs. I won’t be specific but there are hurting hearts, there is illness and then there are needs that animals have too.. Sometimes I wonder how different our world would be if people truly looked out for one another.. May the  season of winter not be a forecast of what is in your heart, may there be plenty of sunshine and laughter to get you through…

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Tuppence For My Thoughts : 1998

Found in the box of coins.

Found in the box of coins.

This is a slightly late response to the Daily Post entitled Buffalo Nickel:

“Dig through your couch cushions, your purse, or the floor of your car and look at the year printed on the first coin you find. What were you doing that year?”

I made an eyes-closed dip into the box of coins which I keep in the den and drew the coin you see pictured above. The coin is a 1998 two pence piece, known as a “tuppence” in ye olde Englishe, is made of copper-plated steel, but is often just referred to as a copper coin.

I was slightly surprised to find something over 10 years old, but old coppers are hardy little chaps.

Anyway, back to 1998. This post has not only made me think about what we were doing, but what weren’t yet.

Home Sweet Home

We were both still in our thirties. This was the first full year that my much beloved and myself spent in the first (and only) property that we bought together. It was home and still is. We were having all the window frames replaced, although we had the original 1930s leaded lights re-fitted, and were facing up to the responsibility of a slightly larger than average sized garden. It was the garden that help sell the house.  We’re lucky to have good sized gardens to front and rear, giving privacy and space. I vividly remember us standing at the bottom of the garden looking back at the house in the previous summer. Despite a few issues with the house, we just knew it was right. Nearly 18 years on, we are still here. I think that we made the right choice.

In 1998, we hadn’t yet had the pleasure of tasty home grown produce. We’re still beginners on this front, but I’m always willing to learn.

 

On The Road

Automotively speaking, my pride and joy back then was an old Rover Mini Mayfair called Henry. Si  gave him the name when I had test driven Henry and another mini, a Mini Sprite. The Sprite was a more basic model and when we walked past the smart little Mayfair, Si said “He’s so posh. We would have to call him Henry”. Well, a car named is a car sold, so I extended my budget and the deal was done. Henry had a walnut dashboard. I bought him alloy wheels and a gear knob to match the dash. I sill have that knob somewhere.

Henry the Mini Mayfair

Henry the Mini Mayfair

Me and Henry visited local craft fairs, where I sold my hand-crafted jewellery and beads. It was no mean feat fitting two folding display boards, signs and stock into that little motor, but I did it and Henry and myself had a fun time on the road. I was sorry to sell the little chap, but he was getting a bit long in the tooth and felt rather small and slightly vulnerable on busy roads. In an old mini your body is the crumple zone. But he was great fun to drive, especially around roundabouts. Sometimes I would deliberately miss a junction just to go around one more time.

Much beloved drove  a blue BMW 328 with more grunt, but a lot less personality.

 

New Best Friend

1998 saw our first cat share our home. He was called Hughes and had a very calm personality. Hughes knew things, which he kept to himself.

The Very Thoughtful Hughes

 

We took Hughes in when a friend’s mother died and he needed a home. He was initially quite concerned about his change in abode and kept hiding, which is common for a cat facing upheaval.

On his second day with us, I had been left in charge, and settled down to watch television coverage of the Italian national football team in the World Cup in the room where Hughes  was currently hiding. Unfortunately for Hughes, just as he had mustered up enough courage to venture out from cover, the Azzuri scored. I expressed my pleasure at this by shouting “Yes!”, and Hughes scampered back into hiding, which sadly was the moment when I noticed him. Oops. Treats and soft words won his confidence and things improved between us after that!

 

Technologically Speaking

I should point out at this stage that we still have the same TV (bought in the mid to late 80s). Yes, our big fat Cathode Ray goggle box at the time of writing was displaying the Manchester City vs Barcelona game, which I was not watching, so our current cat slept undisturbed.

Talking of technology, which I wasn’t, things were quite different.Our PC  in 1998 ran Windows 95. Minesweeper was my preferred game and my mobile phone (Panasonic) was, like the TV, fat and clunky. Unlike the TV, I no longer have the phone! Our connection to the internet was on a 56k modem which made emitted a screaming binary chant (some of which I can still ‘sing’) as it formed a communication link to the outside world. There was no broadband.

In case you have never heard the sound of the modem dial up, or for those who would like a little trip down memory lane, click here.

 

That’s Entertainment

There was also no Geocaching, but the first recognised cache was only two years away. It took us another 12 years to join in…We hadn’t discovered the local network of footpaths.
Musically, amongst many others, we were listening to post-Marillion Fish and post-Fish Marillion. Much beloved prefers Fish-led Marillion but I prefer them separate. This Strange Engine was probably being played a lot, including the beautiful but haunting Estonia .

 

Physically we were both a little slimmer with less grey hair. Himself was still clean shaven and had shorter hair than me – that’s changed.  But we are still the same crazy, sarcastic, loved-up couple that we were then. Long may it last.

 

MinG

St Mary’s Church of the lost Medieval Village of Houghton-on-the-Hill, Norfolk

I had to share this. What a wonderful achievement, to save this church.

blosslyn's avatarEchoes of the Past

DSC_0027

St Mary’s Church took some finding, in the middle of nowhere and I mean nowhere, you drive down the side of a field, through some woods and suddenly you see the church tower.  Its down to a remarkable man, Bob Davey who is 83, and has been restoring St Mary’s in the abandoned medieval village of Houghton-on-the-Hill, near Swaffham, Norfolk, since his wife discovered it while leading a Women’s Institute ramble 20 years ago.

Back in 1992, the church was covered in ivy and had no roof or floor, Mr Davey said it was damaged by a German Zeppelin in the first world war and then followed decades of vandalism.  The nave dates from about 1,000AD and when restoring the building, it was only as layers of whitewash were removed, that the building’s true glory became clear – the oldest wall paintings in the country came to light.  Romanesque wall paintings…

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