Category: Writing

January Small Stones # 18

Posted on Posted in A River of Stones, January Small Stones, WritingTagged , , , 13 Comments

Bonjour mademoiselle

So thrilled this morning when at 8.15 I saw a small black lady waiting at the pelican crossing on a complex junction. She’s been missing for a few weeks you see and I was concerned for her well being. She always waits for the green light, but you never know do you? Because sometimes, when its rush hour drivers are tempted to dash on through. She cheers everyone up with her elegant and proud air as she looks both ways to double check, and she always takes her time. She is one of those ladies whose age is hard to determine, very well groomed. So today she was crossing my way and she looked up at me quite sweetly, I’m sure she was pleased to see me as well. We didn’t chat though; she took a right towards Magdalen while I headed on to work.

A bientot mademoiselle pussycat!

P.S for seriously good cat tails go here

http://www.isobelandcat.wordpress.com

 

January Small Stones # 17

Posted on Posted in A River of Stones, January Small Stones, WritingTagged , , , , , 13 Comments

School’s In

The state school kids walk down the                            Independent school children slide

hill their uniforms ‘customized’ to                                from Range Rovers, Mercedes and

define their identity, identically                                    more, driven up the hill by a parent,

individual. Girls with ruler straight                              they wait patiently for the boot lid to

hair, darkly lined doe eyes and thick                            open automatically, thus saving the

foundation, pert breasts forced                                     energy it takes to lift it. Their

skywards under polo shirts with St                              discreet sports bags are smart and

Someone’s embroidered. Boys                                      unmarked. The senior boys look like

hiding school clothes under hoodies,                            daddy clones, in navy blazers, beige

pushing the boundaries of accepted                             chinos immaculately pressed, ties

footwear. Some of each gender                                      perfectly ordered around proud

brazenly taking the odd puff of fag.                              necks. Pink cheeked girls, knee

Boys shove their mobiles in their                                  length skirts, tidy hair and not a

back pocket; girls show theirs off                                  smudge of lippy anywhere. The

while they Facebook and tweet.                                    occasional middle nowhere voice of

Check out the street corners, you’ll                             mummy, ‘Darling, please don’t

see some Good Morning gropes.                                   forget the Humphrey-Pococks

Hugs or fights.                                                                  are dining tonight.’

Kite Surfing, Kite Rescued.

Posted on Posted in Devon, WritingTagged , , , , , 19 Comments

A mini adventure today! On the beach at Dawlish Warren where the waves were fierce, the sun bright, and the sharp wind made it barely tolerable. We had scrambled past the fifth groin when we saw some green things, one flapping on the next groin and another being taken in and out by the waves.

It soon became clear that it was kite related and I hurried to get a closer look and found that someone was trying to untangle it, and getting wet in the process. He managed to get it onto the sand but it was being blown in all directions and wanted to take him along for the ride. 

The two pieces were tangled together with a cobweb of line that wanted to weave around our legs so I helped to drag it up the beach. It fought back. The section I tried to control was about eighteen feet wide and I could distinguish it from a power kite by the air-filled sausage that wanted to render me horizontal.

Rescue man, being a lot stronger than me managed to locate the pully-outy thing to let the air out on his, which was bigger, then we restrained mine and I strangled it with its own lines. He hadn’t really worked out what sort of beast he’d subdued so I pointed a few miles across the estuary where a few kite surfers were still on the water out of Cockle Sands. We discussed what to do with it, he mentioned the words ‘salvage’ and ‘ebay’, I think he was joking, because he turned it round quickly when I said that I knew a tiny bit about the kiting community, because my daughter has power kites. I told him that I was fairly certain the owner could be found and hoped to God he was also in one piece.

Carrying our loads we headed back to the car park, deciding on the way that he would take it home for safekeeping. Because of his first reaction and knowing the kite’s value, part of me wanted to take it but he had got it out of the water so it didn’t feel right to take over. Instead I took his email address and said that I would do some detective work.

Back home I checked the internet forums, that I knew were out there, again because of my daughter, registered on a local site and posted a message to say it was found. Within an hour I got a reply from someone who knew the owner, a guy who had had to release his kit today while trying to help someone else who was in trouble. I’m really not surprised by that – it was very rough out there and the channel is known for its treacherous currents. Anyway the guy is okay and he will be reunited with his gear so all is well.

January Small Stones # 12

Posted on Posted in A River of Stones, Devon, January Small Stones, WritingTagged , , , , 12 Comments

A twenty foot section of hedge was lost today. Devon hedge, mainly elm but with hawthorn, blackthorn, red Campion, herb Robert, ivy and nettle. At its base there is stone and it must be very old. A hundred years ago it surrounded a field used for cricket, that wouldn’t have stopped the butterflies and bugs from living happily. It’s not the first section to be taken and I wonder when will it  stop?

Jaisalmer – maybe and a ghost town!

Posted on Posted in India, Travel, WritingTagged , , , , , , 16 Comments

Jaisalmer

To safeguard the fort at Jaisalmer, places to stay are few and as much as the romanticism is appealing we stayed in a hotel outside the walls. I think comfortably, because I remember nothing about the first night there. We threw a spanner in the works of Magan Singh by saying that we wanted to go on a camel safari but bless him, a couple of calls and it was planned, so we stowed our bags at reception and set off for an overnight adventure fuelled by masala omelette, coffee and lassi. By nine we were pedal-boating around Gadisar Lake.

In India a lake is quite often a tank, a masonry lined reservoir for irrigation, and Gadisar is one of the most beautiful. The lake was full of fish, a bit like sterlets, large catfish and in the centre an island inhabited by cranes, herons and cormorants.

At points around the edge there were shrines and little summerhouses built for wives and courtesans of princes past. We spent an hour there and never have we been so thankful for our dupattas. We would have had sunstroke without them as the sun boiled us like potatoes in the water.

In town we had one of the few problems of the trip – we had been advised to take travellers cheques – a mistake! We went to cash some and  the first bank told us they didn’t do travellers cheques, so we went to the Bank of Jaisalmer and Bikaner, with a really grumpy cashier, where we were told to go to the Bank of Baroda, the first one! This was probably what had given Jaisalmer a reputation of not always being welcoming to travellers. Magan to the rescue, with a bureau de change that had a good rate and free bottled water. A ten year old boy charming a cobra from a basket blocked our way; do they have their nasty stuff milked? But it was worth battling past to reach Natraj, a rooftop restaurant beneath the fort where lunch and lassi (yes I was addicted and I’ll leave it to you to wonder if it was Bang lassi) for 200 rupees.

Off to the desert, so this sand-as-far-as you- can-see sauna is not desert? stopping on the way at an ancient deserted village, Khuldera, where 400 years ago the entire population upped sticks overnight, never to return again. The legend says that a dignitary from Jaisalmer coveted a young girl, the jewel of the village, and wanted to whisk her away to his harem. They thwarted his plans by leaving. Khuldera was in quite good condition, with well built homes and temples, as silent as the grave and you could just imagine them, camels laden and disappearing into the night.

I still haven’t told you very much about Jaisalmer, but you will have to wait until after the camel safari.

A Postcard from Torquay

Posted on Posted in Devon, Exeter, Travel, WritingTagged , , , , , 16 Comments

I spent an hour in Torquay today. It’s never been a favourite place but I try sometimes to like it, after all thousands of tourists arrive each year so it must be okay mustn’t it? The pedestrianised town has some of the usual chains and an awful lot of hideous souvenir shops, selling the same tat they sold when I was a child. Do people really want to buy plastic dinosaur ornaments with Torquay emblazoned? Along the sea front sits a theatre where the annual pantomime  is performed by F listed soap stars and in the next few months, The Dreamboys full frontal tour – spare me, and the Grimethorpe Colliery band – probably the most talented of the bunch! The beach itself is narrow, but nice for winter sunsets when you can’t see the kiss me quickers.

Tourist ‘attractions’ include a model village (very clever and a bit twee) and Kents cavern (beautiful prehistoric caves) which is listed as a wedding venue, presumably for those of us who would like to re-enact the Flintstones. Between lovely parkland and the esplanade there is a large balloon thingy that allows you to rise directly above the bay, for the views, while remaining tethered to the ground. The hotel used for filming Fawlty towers is somewhere in Torquay, can’t think of anywhere more appropriate.

Torquay has a darker side and I don’t just mean the troublesome night clubs. It’s the drug capital of the South West, filled with dealers who moved down from places like Nottingham and Liverpool, having spent their childhood holidays in the caravan parks. Until they become OAP’s (if they’re spared) and sit in deck chairs on the seafront, with their heads under tabloid newspapers, they will happily prey on the users they have hooked. These dealers have a hierarchy; very, very evident today were the scruffy, jeans sliding down, yobs in small huddles just off the main streets. More worrying are the big boys in their own sleazy underworld. Torquay has a very busy drug and alcohol service and there are hostels in what were once tourist hotels and are now crumbling dives. I found it interesting today to see one of the town councils attempts to deal with the problems, public toilets where 20 pence is charged to help them keep them clean and safe for ‘us’, no doubt it also helps to pay for the sharps disposal container provided inside.

My visit was brief this time. I didn’t stroll beside the marina with its berths full of very expensive yachts, or drive along the exclusive Ilsham Marine Drive, dreaming of a lottery win. Instead I came back, thankful that Exeter (though not perfect) with its clean streets, history and culture is home. It seems that a journalist in the Independent thinks so too http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/commentators/sick-of-the-south-east-then-emigrate-to-exeter-6282484.html?fb_action_ids=10150443679332742&fb_action_types=news.reads&fb_source=other_multiline but I really wish he didn’t, maybe he could big up Torquay instead.

Rough Sleeping Season, a reprise

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Some of you may be wondering about our ‘rough sleeper of the copse’. I met friend for post Christmas lunch today, swapped pressies (a nice scarf and some smellies) and got an update. Ten days before Christmas there had been one very cold night – for some reason it’s always several degrees colder in the empty but beautiful countryside east of Exeter – so friend and husband were quite concerned. Rough sleeper hadn’t been seen since the original meet. In fact friend was glad that husband had seen the tents, to confirm that he hadn’t been a figment of her crumpet-stupored-post-work-sofa-snooze, uh, sit down, particularly as the police hadn’t been able to find him.

News came that the hunt were meeting. Friend has had her garden trampled several times by arrogant pink jacketed t*****s, and their packs of hounds, so knew there was a fair chance they would bulldoze their way through the copse as well. Rough sleeper’s camp wouldn’t stand a chance, so they strolled across to check and warn him.

Beside the camp there were a couple of bikes which explained why he hadn’t been seen, obviously quick ins and outs were possible. They were greeted by a young man in his early twenties, but a different one, equally friendly and happy to chat. One of the tents was firmly zipped shut, presumably containing rough sleeper number one.  Number two was grateful for the information and said they were about to move on anyway. A bit later they were seen wheeling their bikes and backpacks across the motorway bridge, off to pastures new.

Questions still remain. Who are they and why they choose to live/travel as they do? It’s a lot less appealing than biking around France picking grapes or backpacking in some tropical beach paradise. If you are homeless but have company, perhaps the countryside is a safer choice than the inner city. It could be some sort of self imposed endurance test, a rite of passage. They could have rode off to join the Occupy people, https://lucidgypsy.wordpress.com/2011/12/08/occupy-st-peters/

I much prefer to think of them spending Christmas in the bosom of their families, but at least we know they are okay.

Rough Sleeping Season?

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I can’t help wondering about him. There was a knock on a friend’s door a couple of weeks ago, quite a rare occurrence as she lives out in the boondocks, eight miles from the city centre with just a very light sprinkling of other cottages around. There was enough light left to see the shape, not large enough to be worrying, of a man through the half glass door that she opened.

‘You left your keys in the door.’ he said handing them to her with an open faced smile.

It could have been a bluff but she took it as a sign that he was okay-ish as he hadn’t just barged in, attacked her with a blunt instrument and left with the family treasure. He held out two large containers and asked for some water ‘for the dogs, we’ve been for a long walk and forgot to bring them a drink.’ Friend looked behind him and there were no dogs to be seen, but thought there should have been at least a hunts worth of beagles to need that much water.

‘They’re down the lane in the car with my mum,’ he was quick to read her thoughts. ‘Of course you can have water,’ and grabbing a torch, she led him to the garden tap as he chatted, with a pleasant educated voice. He looked a bit untidy, dishevelled, but not dirty. She was more puzzled than anxious as he said goodbye and once he was out of sight she followed him down the drive, about sixty feet into the hedged lane. There was no dog filled car nor was there a mother, young man or a single soul to be seen in either direction. Mystified and wondering if her post work crumpets by the fire had sent her to sleep, she ‘phoned her husband who told her to give the neighbours just along the lane a call. Brian, a retired police officer put his investigating hat on and with friends responses deduced that the water carrier was possibly a rough sleeper who could be bunking down in the copse across the road.

Slightly less retired local community police were called and apparently came out to shine a few lights into the copse but found no-one.  Friend made sure that her keys were on the right side of the locked door for the next couple of nights. She couldn’t forget the young man though, it wasn’t particularly cold but there had been quite heavy rain.

The weekend came and friend and husband decided to walk over to the copse to check. It’s not a place that gets visited, it’s too small to be a woodland walk but they go in the spring when it’s carpeted with bluebells. Their lack of faith in the local police investigation was confirmed when a couple of hundred yards in they found water carriers lair. Just two pop up tents, a washing line tied between the trees and not enough belongings to be a mess, but no one at home.

They didn’t linger, it felt intrusive somehow to be looking at his hidden world. But they were concerned about his well being. They thought about returning with some hot food, but in the end decided that unless they could keep it up for the entire winter, it was best not started. When he’d knocked on the door requesting water she had told him ‘No problem anytime’ but there were no further visits so he may have moved on. The weather remains mild, 10-12 degrees, no frost but quite a lot of rain since he was there. But who was he? And what brought him there? It’s Christmas, would you want to be in his shoes?

I can’t help wondering about him.

Awards Update Part Two

Posted on Posted in Photography, Uncategorized, Versatile Blogger Award, WritingTagged , , 10 Comments

Well it’s like waiting for a bus because I’m thrilled to say that I have two more nominations, this time for ‘The Versatile Blogger’ award.

First of all from http://photosfromtheloonybin.wordpress.com/ fabulous photos and a real source of inspiration that gave me the idea for a post about detail photos. Visit and envy!

Next, http://jakesprinters.wordpress.com/ Jake is a graphic artist with real talent. He takes part in the weekly photo challenge and his is the post  await with most anticipation.

Thanks so much to you both or thinking of me, I’m really touched!

Here are the rules:

  1. Nominate 10-15 fellow bloggers
  2. Inform the bloggers of their nomination
  3. Share 7 random things about yourself
  4. Thank the blogger who nominated you
  5. Add the Versatile Blogger Award Pic on your blog post.

So, 7 random things about myself:

I’m very shy and fond of my own company but very gregarious

I’m a fidget

I’ve had it with rain forest (well the bugs at least)

I believe that every moment spent being miserable is wasted

I’m possibly one of the last practical people you could meet

I love techy toys

I will talk to anyone and enjoy the challenge of making people talk to me

My nominations for Versatile Blogger are:

http://lesleycarter.wordpress.com/

http://isobelandcat.wordpress.com/

http://dadirridreaming.wordpress.com/

http://mizzrainbow.wordpress.com/

http://implicado.wordpress.com/

http://cardinalguzman.wordpress.com/

http://likeitiz.wordpress.com/

http://northernnarratives.wordpress.com/

http://2011onthebench.wordpress.com/

http://rachelcarter.me/

I’ve decided to stop here for now. I  know that some of you won’t want to accept the award or take part and that’s fine, at least you know that you’re appreciated. There are many more that I love to visit and think very worthy, some of who already have many awards so I won’t add to them for now. I hope you check some of these blogs and that in doing so you find some different treasures!