assignment

The Joybringer and Lost Treasure

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Ok. A slight cheat here, but yesterday was a bit chocka for even a quick blog.

The two prompts for days 4 and 5 are (respectively):

  • What is a TREASURE THAT’S BEEN LOST?
  • what brings you joy in life?

I intend to combine these two prompts in reverse order. Firstly, a couple of definitions:

Joy : a feeling of great pleasure and happiness

(Oxford languages)

Treasure : something of great worth or value

(Merriam-Webster)

The thing in life that can change my mood, almost in an instant, is music. It can evoke feelings of great sadness but also sheer happiness, or joy.

For as long as I can remember I have loved music. My initial exposure was through Ed “Stewpot” Stewart and his Saturday morning “Junior Choice” show on BBC Radio. There was a wide range of sounds from light pop (Bay City Rollers, The Osmonds, David Cassidy) to folk favourites (“All Around My Hat”, “Scarborough Fair”) and novelty offerings (“Sparky’s Magic Piano”, “My Boomerang Won’t Come Back”). Even the Goons made an appearance.

I soon learned to love rock and roll, glam rock, disco, pop. I wanted it all. When visiting a friend’s house, I started to play the piano. Just simple stuff, but it was clear that there was some aptitude. Between then and now I have had piano and singing lessons, been a member of several choirs (including at church), performed a charity events, taught myself bass guitar and played in a band.

In my youth, I was obsessed with listening to the chart run down on a Sunday evening. This obsession lasted for over 10 years, and has proved useful when trying to guess 80s and 70s Heardle clips in two seconds.

I cannot imagine a world without music, be it listening or performing. I am, however, a lover of silence. There have been times when I have craved it so much I have been close to tears. Interruptions to my peace and quiet have felt like personal attacks, even though they were not intended to harm. Being audio-sensitive, I can find it difficult to concentrate with even low levels of noise if there is a “hook”, be it speech, a car driving past, a television in the next room.

In the last few years I have also started to experience tinnitus. It would appear that my hearing is still extremely good, so it might not be relate to hearing loss. But it is always there in some form. Usually a high pitched whine at a low volume which increases if I am tired, stressed or dehydrated.

It’s initial appearance was as a low rumbling. For several months I could swear that there was a local “hum” that was louder in some parts of the house. This has morphed into the whine which I hear. Now. As I type.

As such, I no longer experience silence. I would love to be able to stand outside and hear nothing for a short while, but I don’t think that I ever will. I can lose the tinnitus in other noises, and when I’m really concentrating on something else it usually doesn’t bother me.

But the privilege of pure silence is a long lost treasure.

More later,

Min.

Bloganuary Day 3 : Earliest Childhood Memory

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excerpt of photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

When I was a young child, probably about 6 or 7 years old, I used to head out “exploring” with a group of older children, including my brother. He would have been 8 or 9 at the time. If my memory serves me right, the others were between 8 and 12. The composition of the group would vary depending upon commitments (music lessons, sports events etc.), but there would usually be about half a dozen of us meeting up and riding out to various local haunts.

One favourite spot was disused piece of ground about 5 minutes away by bicycle. We would lift our bikes over the half-hearted attempt of a barrier (supposedly designed to keep trespassers out). Once we had stowed our transport out of sight of the road, we would explore the grounds of a demolished house.

I cannot remember a great deal about what remained there, apart from a long-disused driveway. The house itself had long since gone. All that remained was the curving driveway and a few broken bricks here and there. We had no idea why the house had been taken down, but created our own version of history:

“A sudden fire with the tragic loss of a child”

“The heart-broken parents left the area“

“No! They took their own lives”

“If you visit after dark…..“

(we never did, of course)

The recollection of one visit still bothers me.

It would have been a Saturday morning in early spring. We arrived and hid our bikes as usual. As we moved towards where the house had stood, I noticed that some small flowers had appeared in the broken driveway. I crouched down to take a look. They seemed too gentle to have pushed through, but somehow they had.

I remained there for a while, the others having gone ahead; then someone came back to me. Catherine, the eldest of our little gang, stood very close. It felt like she was towering over me as she asked. “What on earth are you looking at?”

“Um…. these flowers. They’re so pretty…. I don’t know what they are….. do you?”

“Nope.” And with that she wrenched the stems out of the ground and threw them down in front of me.

I wanted to ask her why she did it, but I was scared to. Scared, but sad and angry at the same time. Why do that?

In a blur of tears I picked up the flowers and ran. Out through the barrier, down the street and back home, crying most of the way. I didn’t even collect my bike, much to my brother’s annoyance as he had to walk it back with his. Looking back he was probably doubly annoyed because he was supposed to look out for me, and I had slipped the net.

This memory has stayed with me so vividly because of the sheer destructive nature of that action. It wasn’t much in the grand scale of things, but I felt pain witnessing it. Almost as if I’d been punched by Catherine. Whether it partly shaped my attitude towards wanton violence and innocent victims I don’t know, but almost fifty years later it still unnerves me.

I took a look on google maps to see what had become of the “scene of the crime”. I was expecting a development of townhouses or retirement apartments, but no. The abandoned patch is still there. The old perimeter wall has been replaced, and the gateway bricked up, but here it is, reclaimed somewhat by nature:

Don’t visit after dark!

More later,

Min.

Bloganuary Day 2 : Brave? Me?

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Today’s prompt is

How are you brave?

brave (adjective)
“ready to face and endure danger or pain; showing courage”

“having or showing mental or moral strength to face danger, fear, or difficulty“

“showing no fear of dangerous or difficult things”

Let’s just set some context here. I am a middle-aged woman, living in a pleasant part of North West England, with little call to stray into “rough” areas. I had a comfortable upbringing, loving parents and supportive teachers. I was a well behaved child and teenager. Opportunities to be brave did not present themselves on a regular basis. They still don’t. This is generally a good thing, but I often feel that this might have made me soft. Lacking grit. Stuck in the comfort zone.

I have previously sought situations that put me outside that comfort zone:

  • rock climbing in my twenties;
  • learning to play bass guitar and gigging with a band in my thirties;
  • changing career just before turning forty;
  • opting for early retirement (although I did not realise how uncomfortable this would be at the time).

I suppose that these required some degree of bravery, but how about now? Do I rationalise a less daring existence as self-preservation? These days I certainly wouldn’t jump at the chance to scale Derbyshire grit outcrops, or play to a paying audience.

Have I made my final big lifestyle leap? Will I tread water until I am no more?

It’s interesting to consider the paradox of life vs. death. Surely, it is only by knowing that we have a finite time on earth that makes us feel alive, and drives us to really live. And does that imply that we need to be brave to achieve our best life?

But I digress.

Of the definitions above, I favour the second. It is broader than the others, recognising that bravery requires inner strength, and that it is not necessary to be demonstrative to be brave.

Being brave can be a very private matter, with no need for a badge or t-shirt. And this probably encompasses my preferred approach to bravery these days. Quiet perseverance in difficult times, rather than shouting “Tally ho!” as I enter the lion’s den.

So, that’s how I am brave.

More later,

Min.

Bloganuary 2023

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And so this is 2023, already nearly one day old (at time of writing). With a new year is a new challenge. We have “bloganuary“. Take a prompt a day and blog away to your heart’s content.

I will be using this challenge to get those creative writing juices flowing, if they haven’t dried up completely.

Since I last published an entry, I have retired. This is not entirely going to plan, but that’s another story. In theory I should have more time to commit to my hobbies, including pushing a stream of consciousness into the ether.

Today’s prompt is

What is something you want to achieve this year?

At this point, I’ll be happy to get to the end of this challenge.

The simple answer is that I don’t have a great plan. I should have, but the months following retirement in June did not go as expected. Not in any way shape or form. From illness of loved ones, a nasty dose of Covid-19 and coordinating several repairs at my mother’s house, I seemed to be smacked in the face by fate every time I thought I could enjoy my new free time.

Don’t get me wrong, I am happy to be retired, and count my blessings to be able to do this whilst in good health. If you asked me what I have achieved in the last seven months, I would probably say gaining several pounds in weight and developing an unhealthy fear of attempting to take control. To be honest, I haven’t been good at setting boundaries, and I didn’t plan how I would spend my first few months of retirement. Going from a manic work schedule to a full stop didn’t help. No easing into it. It was such a shock to the system.

So, I’ll settle for:

  • complete this challenge;
  • build upon my very basic wordpress knowledge / skills;
  • work out what else I want to achieve and how.

Lord, I hope that I can come up with a better blog entry tomorrow!!

More later,

Min.

Counterpoint

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We’re sat in his ground floor flat, listening to Dark Side Of The Moon.

“Words or music. Which is the greater part of a song?” he asks.

“Music. Definitely.”

“Really? So the story of the song is not important to you?”

“If I didn’t like the delivery of the words, I wouldn’t like the song. Besides the song is much more than the dialogue. Not all songs are dialogue, some convey feelings or moods. It’s the melody, chords and instrumentation that will catch my attention.”

“It’s the words that draw me to a song. Take Marillion’s ‘Warm Wet Circles’, there are so many clever meanings, it evokes so many scenes from a young man’s life.”

He quotes:

‘Like a mothers kiss on your first broken heart, a warm wet circle
Like a bullet hole in Central Park, a warm wet circle’.

“I’ll agree that’s clever, but I just can’t take to Fish’s delivery on this song, and the guitar solo is predictable….”

“But can’t you see the images?”

“I don’t give myself time to, because I don’t like the arrangement”.

I take a sip of wine. ‘The Great Gig In The Sky’ starts. A particular favourite of ours.

“What about this track?” I ask.

Ref: Writing101, Day 7 Prompt : Write a post based on the contrast between two things — whether people, objects, emotions, places, or something else.
Today’s twist: write your post in the form of a dialogue.

MinG

Catching The Worm

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

Crisp Morning Light

Crisp Morning Light

It was the Sunday between Christmas and New Year, and many people were sleeping off their seasonal excesses. The cache had been launched the previous evening and we headed off to try our luck at being the first to find it.

Our dedication was not only rewarded with a clear log book, but also with crisp early morning views over the marshes towards Wales. The sun was still low when we took this shadow selfie.

I particularly liked how the light picked up the frost on the marsh reeds, and the subtle differences in the sky colour.

MinG

The Creator

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Two adults please.

Grey-blue twinkling eyes greeted me and asked if we’d visited a model village before.

I explained that I used to live near one in Southport and had been taken there several times as a child. Nostalgic eyes smiled as he referred to as a particularly special collection, which he had visited on numerous occasions too.

We discussed various locations where fine villages could be found before the smile-wrinkles appeared again. With a mischievous grin, he asked if we would like to complete the treasure hunt. Yes please!

Walking round the from the ticket booth to be given directions, we were joined by a lean man who we estimated to be in his mid-sixties, dressed in tidy blue engineer’s overalls. Just one small smudge of grease on the front.

With muted pride he advised the best route and told us to watch out for the two model trains which ran at regular intervals.

We set off on our adventure, duly noting our answers on the quiz sheet. At the end of the route we were met by someone who introduced himself as the second in command.

The boss has gone to work on a spare motor for the windmill. He’s a perfectionist you know.

We enquired as to whether he had built the village. Yes, from scratch. And the trains. He used to be a cabinet-maker and couldn’t settle into retirement, so bought the land and created the village.

All by himself?

Yes. Pretty much. At the same time he renovated an out building which is now a holiday let.

Looking back at the village we were given an insight into the soul of its creator.

The paths were clean and free from weeds, as were the colourful flower beds which surrounded each tableau.

A lot of thought had gone into the character of each setting, right down to the contrast between the music playing from some. High Church of England hymns in the steepled church, quieter and more melodic praise from the Chapel of St Mary, while candy flossed barrel organ melodies rang out from the fair.

There was a pleasantly childish sense of humour in some of the signs, in Llangefni High Street you could visit from “Dan Druff’s Hair Salon”.

There was a keen eye to detail in the scale and architecture of the buildings, all based on local landmarks and surroundings. It was clear that he was as passionate about living on Anglesey as he was about his work.

And yet he was humble. Did he deliberately step into the workshop to avoid praise at the end of our visit?

We were surprised to hear that he was over seventy, and that he had decided to sell the enterprise. This could be our last visit to one man’s miniature Anglesey.

We hoped that someone would take it on and continue in the spirit that it was created, but if you read the original post relating to our visit, we also wondered whether this type of attraction is still popular.

MinG

Ref: Writing101, Day 6 Prompt “Who’s the most interesting person (or people) you’ve met this year?”

Apart

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This is a response to the most recent Writing101 prompt:

Today’s Prompt: You stumble upon a random letter on the path. You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. Write a story about this encounter.

I have struggled with this post. Not least because I am unlikely to read a letter found on a path. When I imagined myself as someone who would, my closest reference point wouldn’t have been affected, just inappropriately interested. So again, no apologies, I will bend the rules…..

 

We first viewed the house in late August. It was empty due to a relocation and, as we had a cash buyer, moving in should be straightforward. 

Without the burden of an occupant seller we enjoyed inspecting every nook and cranny.  In “Bedroom 2” we stumbled across a message scrawled on the inside of a fitted wardrobe door:

I          miss          mummy

 

 

Had mummy been relocated in a high-powered career move?  Or was the separation more permanent?  What pain was the child going through?  We shall never know, but we still wonder.

Two months later, we arrived with removal van, kettle, milk, sugar and biscuits.  When we came to hang up our clothes in the wardrobe, the message had gone.

 

MinG 

Geocaching Bubbles

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

But could also have been included in the photo challenge : “Blur”

I had been searching for this photo when the Blur challenge was posted, but it was only this week when I was considering Afloat that I stumbled across it.

We were on a short geocaching trail and had found the third of the morning. Geocaching so much more than just finding and logging. It is also about the journey, local history and geology. And TREASURE.

It is possible leave or trade “stash” (as it is sometimes known), and we have some physical mementos with personal connections or which can transport us back to the find.

Some of the best stash is meant to be shared but left at the cache. On this occasion, a bubble blower tube.

So, there you have it, two “middle aged”, should know-betters, hiding the bushes and blowing bubbles, unbeknownst to the dog walkers passing by just yards away…

If you go down to the woods today....

If you go down to the woods today….

MinG

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

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“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