Tales from the Snig's Foot

Spring is coming!

2012-01-12T13:21:00.000Z

Well, the festivities are now in the past. I cooked my end of the hols brisket and drove my son to the station on the first leg of his journey home to Andalucia. And I'm gradually getting back into a working frame of mind and picking up from where I left off three weeks ago.

And I really do need to catch up for spring is on its way. the buds on the trees are beginning to change, the catkins which were set a few weeks ago are ready to lengthen. And this morning I saw this in the garden:

The Red Admiral is one of the earliest British butterflies to emerge from hibernation - someone else spotted one on New Years Day in Sussex. It's a timely reminder to get on with everything.

Getting there

2011-12-16T11:56:00.002Z

For most writers success, if it comes, is built up in stages. At the time each step along the way will feel pretty good. But with the passage of time it fades. Robert Hull, writing in the current issue of The Author, the journal of the Society of Authors, reflects upon his status as publication dates fade into the past. “what do I do then as one of those who feel they're en route to un-authordom, and who exist in a ghost world of out-of-printedness?'

I'm very familiar with Hull's feeling. Soon after my book Counting the Days to Armageddon was published I joined the Society of Authors and I cracked on with trying to write a follow-up, building on that modest success. I was thirty thousand words into that project when I abandoned it because I wanted to change direction altogether.

I wrote a novel over the period of about three years. It did, in a way, build upon Counting the Days, being a story typical of some of the real people caught up in the kind of belief system I had studied as an academic. But it got nowhere and when I came to read it long afterwards I could see all too clearly that although it was utterly different in style from my first book, it was clearly an academic's attempt at fiction.

With Bunderlin I found my writer's voice. I loved it, I was pleased with it and hopeful for its success but every time a new issue of The Author dropped through my letterbox I felt like a fraud because publication was long in the past. Bunderlin found a publisher. It went on sale this time last year. And it even got reviewed on The Spectator's book blog. So at last I had topped up my modest success.

The most gratifying honour came to me only this morning. I received an invitation to become a Member of The Welsh Academy. “Membership and Fellowship is by invitation only and is offered to writers as a mark of peer recognition of their contribution to the literature of Wales.” I feel greatly honoured.

Advent Tour

2011-12-13T22:02:00.000Z

This time last year the view from my study window looked something like this:

Dreaming of a white Christmas, hey? Bah, humbug! Not if it would mean another decidedly scary drive to pick Margaret up from the back of beyond where she was very nearly snowed in last year. Well, that's not likely to happen this time. But Ben, our son, will be flying home from Andalucia in Spain on Christmas Eve. He's a teacher in a college out there and we haven't seen him since the summer so the Christmas hol will be a special treat for us all. So here's hoping for no distruptive weather during this second half of Advent!

I'm looking back over the year's reads and forward to the coming year's treats. Last Christmas, I spent a little of my gift money on a book I'd been promising to track down for years – Beatrice Tunstall's The Shiny Night. That was a real treat – unputdownable. It has to be the highlight of my reading year. Then I got bogged down in some heavy stuff. Emile Zola's Lourdes, A gripping read but an all too real portrayal of the insalubrious pilgrimage of healthless crowds. I followed it up with Camus's La Peste - maybe not the best bit of reading planning I've ever done!

So Christmas this year will lift my reading a different level starting with... I don't know yet. But a book which is definitely on my list as a present for someone – after I have read it myself - will be Richard Dawkins's The Magic of Reality. I've read a couple of excerpts and it looks very promising. Must see for myself how this guy approaches science for kids.

And now a recipe for when the festivities are over and good plain food is so appealing:
Rolled brisket done in slow cooker. Friday evening prepare marinade with a can of dark beer poured over a large finely chopped onion. Add a fair old dollop of Worcester sauce. Put brisket in jug and cover with marinade. Poke and prod it at intervals on Saturday. Sunday morning, put the beef and marinade into a large saucepan. Add beef stock as necessary. Chuck in some chopped root vegetables, leeks, onions, whatever you fancy. Bring it all up to temperature and then transfer to the slow cooker. Leave it all day. Serve in the evening with jacket potatoes and veg. All leftover veg and any extras can go through the blender with the marinade to make a tasty soup.

Crazy but real?

2011-12-01T09:35:00.000Z

Do you ever come across someone who is just so quirky you want to write them into a story? The trouble is, of course, it's all to easy for the wonderfully odd character to appear unreal and unbelievable on the page. Of course, characters don't simply transfer from real life to fiction – and if they did we would land ourselves in a bit of bother from time to time. They need work to transform them and bring them to life. But can we make those crazy quirks real and believable?

Peter Bunderlin was such a character. I've written elsewhere about how he emerged from my raw material into the reality of fiction so I'll not repeat it here. One of his oddities was compulsive playing around with words. Here is a snippet from early in my novel. Martin, the finder-out-of-what's-been-going-on has been wanting to buy a classy old car. He's had his eye on a Sunbeam Talbot in a second-hand yard but he has dithered for too long and it's been sold. All this time he has been uneasily aware of someone following him. This is where that man speaks for the first time:

As he came out of the yard, the big man emerged from behind a Commer van and his dog trotted at his side. 'Caveat emptor, caveat empty.'
   'Er, yes, whatever you say,' Martin replied warily.
   'Jesus wants me for a sunbeam,' said the big man and walked on towards the row of shops further along the street, laughing as he went.
   'Daft bugger,' Martin muttered to himself. And then he realised that the man must have been watching him for he apparently knew which car he'd been interested in.
   He was in the Haymarket a few days later. Martin had gone in for a game of pool and there he was, at the far end of the bar. What on earth is this guy up to? Martin thought. But what do you do? Go up to him and demand an explanation? Don't be daft, Martin told himself. You're being paranoid. He made his way to the bar where the big man was standing and caught his attention as he pushed past. 'Oh, hello again,' he said.
   'Moonbeam, hornbeam, sunbeam. Been and gone.'
   'Yes, gone. Already sold,' Martin responded.
   'Try, try and try again. Try a Triumph. Triumph Renown. A much better car, if you ask me.'
   'A Renown?'
   'Renown. Renown. Renown.' He pronounced it as if mimicking the impatient revving of an engine. Then, with a laugh, he added, 'John Gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown...'

And did Martin ever see that Triumph? Yes, but not until about thirty years later.

Planning ahead

2011-11-21T15:47:00.000Z

Help! I've committed myself to finishing the first draft of The Snig's Foot by next May. There's not really a vast amount left to do, only about 20.000 words or thereabouts, so it shouldn't be an insurmountable task. There will be a couple of big chunks of time taken out of that so I need to plan for how I'll match my projected work to the calendar.

And here's what I'm going to do: I'll divide the work into sections, not according to length, but according to events. Then, if I get towards the end of January, say, and I'm slipping behind I won't think, hey, I've got so many words to catch up. I will switch to italics and finish the section in note form. Then February can start where it is supposed to. Just to let you know, then, summer will be in January.

And now I had better get on with it because Tom Sparrow has to make up his about how much of what he is getting drawn into he will tell Louise, his girlfriend, before she returns from a six months secondment to a Ugandan hospital. Could be tricky.

Cults and others

2011-11-18T10:37:00.001Z

My first book, Counting the Days to Armageddon, was a serious study of a religious movement - Jehovah's Witnesses - on the fringe of christianity. That was ages ago I've no longer any intention to write anything else in a similar vein. But religions fascinate me. And I'm especially fascinated by the stories I have heard (and continue to hear) from people who have broken free from authoritarian religion. So when I set out to weave a novel around such a story, the wacky group of believers which I describe will be the same one I wrote about in Counting the Days, right? Wrong.

There are similarities, of course, between my fictional Fellowship of Gilead and the Jehovah's Witnesses, but there are big differences as well. So I hope readers will not respond with, 'Hey, that's us you portray in such a terrible light. And you've got it all wrong.' No, it's not you – and it's not wrong either. It's an accurate portrayal of a fictional group. With lots in common with all sorts of groups.

What interests me greatly is how often I spot close similarities between movements on the fringe and groups within the mainstream. It's so easy to describe those fringe groups as 'cults' but it is very unhelpful – because it encourages the assumption that the problems associated with such groups and the damage they can cause are not to be found within the mainstream. They are.

The Snig's Foot is the story of two very different women, Susan Ridley and Melanie Blain, members of the same family who escape from the movement they were brought up in. Escaping is hard enough but building a new life is also tough. And Susan's and Melanie's stories will echo those of lots of others who have also had to leave their past behind.

I hope that The Snig's Foot will be finished by next spring. It's been a long time in the writing but it has gone through several major re-workings so that it isn't easy to say when I began what I am now finishing.

Keep those photos to hand!

2011-11-15T14:07:00.000Z

Most of us need a reminder now and again to back up all our files – so this is an addendum to that bit of advice: always make sure that you have to hand a set of up-to-date photos that you may need at short notice for publicity purposes and the like. And if you are anything like me and tend to stay behind the camera rather than step in front of it, try to make a point of having a few of yourself in all the relevant settings.

I completed an online interview yesterday for a magazine feature. An interesting questionnaire and enjoyable to do. But then, a couple of photos to attach? It wasn't just that my old hard drive is still sitting waiting for me to find a way to get into it. Among the many photos there would only be a very few which would be relevant. After a bit of panicking and digging I did manage to find what was needed but I shall now spend some time putting together a portfolio of potential publicity stuff. And I trust I'll need it before too long.

Behind her back...

2011-11-08T11:38:00.001Z

...Any thoughts, folks, on what the two black dogs (Bert and Henry) are saying to each other as they watch the brindle (Mills)?

One of the many animals that played a significant part in my novel Bunderlin was a greyhound, but at the time I wrote it I hadn't owned one myself. It was Mills who won me over to the breed so I guess she must be credited with a little of the inspiration for my story. At the time she belonged to a friend who had her as a properly retired dog from the Greyhound Racing Association.

When Bert's litter-mate died we adopted Henry from the local dogs' home and he and Bert soon became good friends. Then our friend became very ill and asked if, when the time came, we would take Mills. Couldn't say no. It's great fun to have three dogs - but it can be a bit of a handful at times!

Down but not out

2011-10-29T20:01:00.001+01:00

Here's one from my growing collection of contorted trees - this one is in Delamere Forest in Cheshire.

That tree is still alive and it's set to carry on for longer yet. Judging by the growth of those upright branches, it must be a very long time since it fell. But there's still a clear footpath underneath it even though there's less than three feet of clearance. Who still goes under the bridge instead of walking round? Kids, maybe and kids at heart. One of the really heartening things about Delamere Forest is the number of visitors it attracts - and we always see lots of youngsters who are going to grow up to love this place. And one of those kids is always myself as well because this was our playground way back, never mind when.

Banned advert - can't have this sort of thing!

2011-10-27T11:36:00.000+01:00

Some Christians in South Africa complained to the Advertising Standards Authority about a TV ad – and it was duly banned because it was offensive to believers. It was an ad for Axe deodorant (Lynx over here) and depicted angels being attracted to a guy wearing the stuff. Absolutely disgraceful! Angels would never do such a terrible thing.

I wonder if they have lodged a complaint about the similar story in the Bible (Genesis 6) in which angels are attracted to beautiful women.

Can't escape the weather...

2011-10-24T14:13:00.001+01:00

...but I wouldn't want to.

This is Winter Hill in the west Pennines. It's an alternately inviting and inhospitable place – depending on the weather as the name might suggest. So when it figured fairly prominently in my novel Bunderlin it should hardly be surprising that the weather became a major player in that story. Martin, the finder-out-of-what-was-going-on moved into a cottage at the foot of the hill. And got snowed in, of course. Folk who live there for real will have lots weather stories to tell.

Locations are always important in my writing so quite naturally the weather blows through my pages quite often. A little while back I had torrential rain battering the forest where my current story takes place. It felt strange taking a break and stepping out into warm sunshine to take the dogs for a walk!

If you go down to the woods...

2011-10-07T21:58:00.005+01:00

...be very careful not to get swallowed up by a tree. This one has been looking out across the Monmouth and Brecon Canal above Risca for hundreds of years. A see how many unfortunate passers-by it has ensnared. I can spot a giant dog and two faces just below the dog. To the right there's an elephant's trunk with a pair of boxing gloves tied to it. And then, down at the bottom there's a little face peeping out above the tree-cave.

Would you dare to look into that tree-cave? I did and I lived to tell the tale. But be very careful, not everyone would be so lucky.
All of which means, there are some wonderful old trees around here! And even trees have stories to tell.

Talk: Telling the stories

2011-09-30T13:31:00.003+01:00

I had a great evening earlier this week when I was guest speaker at a Rotary Club Charter Night. I spoke on the topic, “Telling the stories,” beginning with the almost universal tendency we have to share our stories whenever we gather in social groups. And then I built it up from there to relate this story-telling to my own experience of writing Bunderlin

It seemed to go down pretty well. They were really friendly people and an appreciative audience. And they gave me a donation for the charity which I'd nominated – The Joshua Tree. Take a look at that one, folks. It's a great venture.

So I came away encourage to develop this side of my work more. I'm putting together some notes for another talk now. Still on the theme of story-telling, but this time focussing on the places which are special to us and seem to be full of stories waiting to be told.

Most of these ideas I have blogged about, but not very systematically so far.

Interesting story in New Humanist

2011-09-11T19:33:00.000+01:00

In the current issue of New Humanist,Vicky Simister has an interesting article in which she describes her experience of growing up in the Jehovah's Witnesses and then becoming disillusioned. I have a long-standing interest in this area so I wasn't surprised to find that a lot of Vicky's story sounded very familiar. She had faced situations that so many others have also faced – so sharing her story can be of great help to people who may be feeling very lonely as they wrestle with the same sorts of issues.

And I wasn't surprised either to notice that much of Vicky's story overlaps with the stories of Melanie and Susan, the two main characters in my current novel, The Snig's Foot. Which hints at a question many writers have asked themselves: Is it okay to base characters in a novel upon real people? As that question on a forum for wannabe novelists and it is likely to spark off some worthwhile discussion – especially about avoiding obvious pitfalls.

I would like, for now, to put the question the other way round: Is it okay not to base your characters on real people? And I want to say that isn't okay at all. Characters in fiction have to be real, believable people. And if they are, then there will be some people out there who will think, hey, that's how I am. Or else, isn't that just like so-and-so?

Of course, some people go through experiences which are utterly different from anything most folk know about and their stories might appear a bit far-fetched at times. Come off it, some might say, nobody believes that, do they? Or, nobody would do that, would they? Ah, but they do. So take a look at Vicky's story. And if any of you have a similar story to tell, I'd love to hear from you.

More pictures, more stories

2011-08-14T11:50:00.000+01:00

We have seen some breath-taking scenery this summer. And I guess I have to admit that the pastoral landscapes of Herefordshire, Shropshire and Cheshire can't match the Scottish Highlands and Islands for awe-inspiring and scary beauty. But it was when we took a couple of days off this week to go walking in the easy countryside around Leominster and Ludlow that I was especially moved by the views.

Here's the view of farm land which greet us as we emerged from the woodland on Dinmore Hill:

Later, walking along the River Teme at Ludlow we came to this scene of wheatfields harvested earlier in the day:

Half a century ago, as a young teenager discovering the freedom of cycling, I planned a youth-hosteling holiday in this area. I would ride down through Cheshire, calling at Cholmondeley, Church Stretton, Ludlow on the way. I would ride down through Leominster to Hereford. But that holiday never happened because my Granddad died and it had to wait for another time.

In the years since then I have grown to know and love that area so that the region from just south of Altrincham to just north of Hereford is where I really belong. It's the stories of those towns and villages and farms which I love. And there are the novels, of course, of Mary Webb and Beatrice Tunstall.

You have to read those books. All of them, but if you can only manage a couple, read Mary Webb's Precious Bane and Beatrice Tunstall's Shiny Night.

Why we have to pick and choose

2011-08-10T14:34:00.002+01:00

As I flit around random debates about religious beliefs, I frequently come across a kind of response that is used by believers and disbelievers alike. You can't pick and choose. So when a north wales vicar created a collage of clippings from the Bible depicting a harsh and murderous god, and which he, the vicar, rejected, his bishop offered the comment that there are some passages which we have to struggle to understand. But you can't just reject what you don't like. (And he'll investigate that vicar, by the way.) Don't pick and choose, is the message. It's all or nothing.

There were non-believers commenting to similar effect about the same vicar. Most Christians pick and choose, but some more than others. And if you are going to do that, you should get out altogether.

I suppose I can understand the non-believer's frustration. If folk will choose their beliefs in this sort of way it's much more difficult to knock them down. You can't say, 'You think X but that is silly,' because you might get the response, 'But I don't believe X.'

'Okay then, you believe Y and that's another silly one.'

'But I don't believe Y either.'

This gets really frustrating like the rabbit that won't stand still while you shoot it.

Well, okay, maybe that's unfair. The frustration is that the church has so many leaders of a fairly liberal and rational persuasion who are propping up an illiberal and irrational edifice. Though the illibs and irrats don't see it that way – their critics from bothends of the spectrum usually often say such wishy-washy folk who resort to thinking should get out.

And it's the 'don't pick and choose' that comes from the doctrinally 'correct' spectrum that really annoys me. Because what does it amount to? By picking and choosing I am exercising my rationality. I am making judgments about what is true and what is false, what is good and what is bad, what is praiseworthy and what is reprehensible. Why should anyone not do this? Because the Faith – the whole set of beliefs and practices – was delivered to the church under divine guidance, complete and non-negotiable.

The trouble is, by what process of rational thought can anyone ever come to the conclusion that this is a reasonable position to take? There's no escaping it – we have to pick and choose, we have to make up our minds. And when something is clearly wrong we should not devise ways of making it mean something else that we can accept in order to preserve an illusion of believing the Authority that has been imposed upon us.

It isn't only the cults...

2011-08-05T12:15:00.000+01:00

Every so often when reading a draft chapter of my novel at the writers' circle where I belong, I find myself prefacing my reading by saying that some of the most outrageous behaviour and the craziest beliefs really are based upon truth. Yes, I know it sounds far-fetched, but lots of folk in these cults really are just like that.

But perhaps I need not bother. The mainstream has more than its share of stupidity, daftness and nastiness. Maybe I should post one or two links from time to time to mainstream crassness. How about this one, from a Church of England Vicar, in which he describes an incident in church when a young woman was utterly humiliated and embarrassed. Any hint of contrition there? Or apology? Or regret at such a deplorable lapse? No, not at all. Just a jokey style, a smiley and a humour tag. Shame on you, Vic the Vicar. Shame on you.

Writers' Block

2011-07-25T17:24:00.001+01:00

I have been sitting in front of a blank screen for several minutes wondering where, exactly, to start this post on how to write what I have in mind in the most effective way I can. Then I decided to carry on thinking about that as I make myself cup of tea. So here I am, back at my computer with a cup of tea and ready to write something about writers' block.

It's a habit, of course. At least one aspect of it is habitual. Like just now when I was reluctant to get going until I knew that I could produce something that was at least passable right from the beginning. And sometimes what counts as being at least passable may need to be fairly good. Or even brilliant. So those of you who are anything like me may find yourselves doing all sorts of warm-up routines which, instead of getting you started, remind you that one more check of your inbox and the Google search that you thought about last night... And so on. But first thing after lunch...

Now none of that, none of that cyberskiving or polishing your specs or playing with the dog amount to writers' block. But they do create the conditions in which the bug can thrive. Slip into that sort of easy-going way of working and as soon as you get to a part in the story where it isn't clear what happens next, you've had it. It all grinds to a halt.

There are two different things here, though, and they must surely need different responses. In the first case I'm pretty sure I know what to write. But I don't want to mumble into it as if it were inconsequential chatter in the pub. Well, you never know who will be looking over your shoulder, do you? Could be an agent or a publisher on the look-out for genius. Or I could inadvertently hit post before I have tidied things up. That's no excuse. Just get on with it has to be the motto. It should go on the wall above my desk. In Very Big Letters.

What about those times when I grind to a halt because I don't know what comes next? Just get on with it won't do. But it might. Take my current project. I know where the story is going; it's pretty well mapped out already. But there are transitional bits. How do we get from mid way through chapter twelve to the beginning of chapter thirteen? One answer might be that it doesn't matter. Just go to the next chapter and come back to fill in the final scene of the previous one later. Just get on with it.

So that's what I have decided to do. Whenever it gets to one of those slow parts when everything is threatening to slow down and stop, I shall simply go to the next chapter. Just get on with it. And come back later. There was an instance in Bunderlin where this happened and, try as I did, a transitional scene refused to come. So at last I moved on intending to fill in later. And then I realised that no fill-in scene was needed. The story is complete without it. There isn't any hole there.

I guess we have all – many of us, at least – learned over the years that we begin at the beginning and work steadily towards the end. Sometimes it may be helpful to begin in the middle and work outwards.

Rome

2011-07-16T13:39:00.000+01:00

I've just begun to read Emile Zola's "Rome." I'll post some thoughts on his "Lourdes" later, but in the meantime I can't resist posting, without comment, this quotation from very early in the first chapter of "Rome." Abbe Pierre Froment has just arrived in Rome and is on his way to his initial destination when he pauses to appreciate a view of the city.

"...the slim Englishmen and the heavy Germans passed away after bestowing on the classic view the five minutes prescribed by their guidebooks."

The making of a character

2011-07-02T21:10:00.000+01:00

For a long time I’d had in mind to write a story around a guy I had known many years ago. Freddie was a compulsive alliterator, quoter of poetry and teller of inane jokes he must have gathered from the Beano. None of us ever knew anything about his background. It was as if he was only ever real when we met him in the city centre. When the rest of us went home, Somebody put Freddie away in his box until next time. And he was, at times, can’t-quite-put-my-finger-on-it sinister. Don’t ask me to explain that – he just was.

The difficulty was that so long as I was consciously trying to mould a character with Freddie as my starting point, it didn’t work. He didn’t come to life. And I couldn’t get a name for him. But then another character kept coming into my mind. An old guy who was a collector – a collector of books and jam pots and books and broken tellies and books and boxes and books. And more books. His home was packed to the ceilings with all his treasures. And then a newspaper photograph came to me from nowhere. An old lady and her very large son who had just been released after several years in prison, wrongly convicted of murder. (The real culprit was at last arrested some time before Bunderlin was published.)

At last, Peter Bunderlin came to life. With his family background, his dotty habits and his crime. He wasn’t any of those characters who inspired his creation. He was himself, a different guy altogether. He wasn’t wrongly convicted. He really did do it, but that didn’t stop him being one of the good guys. It just meant that nobody could understand him. Except Martin the academic historian, Scobie the old lag, and Maureen the retired prostitute whom he set up in a rented shop.

I suppose that while I was writing Bunderlin I became the character. If he was the master of the slightly off-target quote from Omar Khayyam, so was I. I could come up with the not-quite-right stanza at the drop of a hat, and I could mangle a proverb to suit any purpose. And once I had finished the final edit, it didn't come quite so easily any more.

The main characters in my current novel come to life by a very different process. They are two women, a generation and more apart who have had to overcome the disabling effects of authoritarian religion of their family and abuse masquerading as righteousness from one especially nasty guy – the brother of one and father of the other.

I guess these two come to life for me through their relationship to Tom, the narrator-and-finder-out-of-what's-been-going-on. He is the former boyfriend of Susan, the older woman, and adopted “uncle” of Melanie. Well, that's what Melanie says. Susan's character has been fully formed for some time because I told her story in an earlier, and very different, version. But Melanie has changed and grown and at each stage it has needed drastic editing of the chapters so far written. How much more of this growth there will be remains to be seen. For The Snig's Foot is a work in progress – and the characters are all in the process of coming to life.

Pictures and Stories

2011-06-29T17:48:00.002+01:00

When I am out and about I keep running into stories. Places I visit offer hints of people who have lived and worked there and I often fancy that I pick up a little snatch of their stories. Mostly, completely made-up, of course, and far from actuality. And sometimes I want to find out more - why is this place just as it is? Who was here? How did that happen?

When driving back from Tobermory to our campsite on our recent holiday, we simply had to stop for a good look at these dead boats. And I find that they set my story-telling mind racing. If only those boats could speak, imagine what they could tell. But, of course, there are people on the island who know their stories - and will have lots more to add...

Closer to home near the end out our holiday, we stopped in Cheshire and spend a day walking in Delamere Forest. This is a part of the forest which is not seen by many of the visitors, but I always find it intriguing. I guess that some day soon I am going to have to find out more about this area. This road, which now just winds around the back of beyond, must have seen lots more traffic in earlier generations. It's a bricked road. So I try to visualise how many labourers it took to build it. What establishments did it serve? Do those old ruined buildings house the memories of the folk who used these roads?

Well, here I am back home and eager to get on with my current novel. But whenever I visit such interesting places as these, I come home with all sorts of stories crowding in on me and I want to write them all.

Isle of Mull

2011-06-27T21:40:00.001+01:00

We're just back from a couple of weeks camping and walking, mostly on the Isle of Mull. So here are just a very few of the photos I took.

We met this splendid youngster whilst walking on the Ardmeanach peninsula. This will be a big on when it grows up!

It was one of a herd of juveniles and adult females which straddled the path we were walking along. And there amongst them was a bull. A fine huge stud bull enjoying the company of his females and their offspring. We thought it might be wise not to elbow our way through the middle of them. By the time we had found our way around the herd, the bull was out of sight so I never got a picture of. This is the photo I took when we regained our intended route:

This photo of Tobermory lighthouse is one of my favourites from the three hundred or so which I took during the holiday:

I'm stuck for words

2011-05-26T21:47:00.002+01:00

Lurking in the background of my story in The Snig's Foot, there is a religious movement which is probably too silly to be a natural haven for anyone but the oddest of individuals. At best it's just daft; at worst it's abusive and destructive of people's well-being. But it's a cult on the fringe. The mainstream isn't like that. The mainstream is reasonable, sensible.

But I sometimes wonder. Take this, for example, from the Catholic Herald
The comments are particularly enlightening. Er, no,that's not the right word. Who in their right mind would want to spend time searching among any of this for something of lasting value?

Well, I'm a novelist engaged in portraying the downside of some religious manifestations. And I find it fascinating.

Endings are the next beginnings

2011-05-22T10:33:00.005+01:00

On his blog about editing and proof-reading, Tom Gillispie has this to say about endings:

“What's the big deal about writing the end of a story?

The ending is as important as a headline, the lead or the mass in the middle. It supports and substantiates the rest of the story, and it's the last lingering (or not) memory that a reader takes from the story.”

Then he gives and example of an ending which I think lots of readers will know:

“What's a great ending? "Louie, this is the beginning of a great friendship," from Casablanca, is a great ending. I knew it the first time I saw it, more than 40 years ago, and everyone who has seen the movie will agree.”

Yes, indeed, a super ending and Tom is absolutely right. It set me off to check back on the endings which I have used. I'll not give the one from my novel Bunderlin because, well, because it's how the story ends. And I'm pretty happy with it. (So go out and buy the book, folks!)

How about this from my first book, an academic study of off-beat religious ideas? (Counting the Days to Armageddon) I had finished by suggesting the eventual possible decline of a well known movement on the Christian fringe and said that I didn't think that would represent simply the disappearance of an irrelevant nuisance. Here's what I did say:

“...it would represent the dispersal into the mainstream of an influence which has until now appeared too remote to cause concern.”

I guess I'm happy with that. It leaves the possibility of another chapter in the saga. But since then I've migrated to fiction – and my current novel deals with the personal difficulties in moving on from crazy and mind-numbing systems of belief.

Linux does it!

2011-05-07T12:06:00.004+01:00

About three weeks ago I decided to give Linux a try. It was a couple of things coming close together that prompted me to do it. First, I was innocently working away in my studio where there came the most awful computer inspired wailing from downstairs. What on earth was wrong? Going to investigate I discovered that my wife, having spent an afternoon working on a document, had returned to her desk with a coffee ready to wind up for the day when she discovered that good ole Windows had started an automatic update and dumped her work. A bit like the sweet little dog who greets you, tail thrashing and look-what-I've-done-aren't-I-clever, when he's just eaten the meal you set out on the dining table. Sweet little dog. Good ole Windows.

Sorting out M's computer I discovered that installing Microsoft updates automatically is the recommended setting. Not for me it isn't. So that was easily changed and all will be well. But a couple of days later I had problems myself. Tried to print a document and my pc told me there was no printer driver installed. I've been using that printer on that machine for a long time. But never mind, I can install it again. So, second attempt – still no printer driver installed. And then I can't access my external hard drive or get a wireless internet connection. Major hardware failure – my machine is disintegretating. Googling around on a different machine I picked up the suspicion that something like this could be the result of a … Fill in the blanks.

So I decided to have a go with Linux. Only problem, as I understood it, was that getting a wireless internet connection could be a bit tricky. Lots of solutions posted out there but they all involved very geeky things. Same with printer drivers. But the problem was not insurmountable. It could be done and I would do it in due course. So I loaded up Knoppix on my old machine. No wireless connection, of course, but that's what I expected. Just give me time. I found a Linux compatible wireless usb adapter. Still nothing, but never mind. I'll try an ethernet cable. Except that to set up the network I need to enter all sorts of codes that I don't understand. No trouble – I'll get advice from somewhere.

Then I tried OpenSuse. Nice. Liked it a lot but I'm no closer my router or my printer. Still Windows-dependent for a lot of stuff but at least I can find my way around Linux while I'm waiting for a solution. Then I tried Ubuntu 10.10. But instead of using my original machine, the one that refused to speak to my printer, I loaded it into the newer one. It recognised my printer and set it up; it connected to the router and asked for my password. And all is running well. It looks like it really was a hardware failure on the old machine after all. If I hadn't googled around before starting I might not have been expecting problems and I might just have got there a bit sooner.

Ok, back to writing now. Where was I before all this?

Ee - I hate it!

2011-04-28T19:47:00.000+01:00

Of all the grammatical errors and misspellings that have elbowed their way into modern print, the one I hate the most - right at this moment, I mean; it might be another tomorrow - is the misused ee ending. Not so very long ago, within easy memory, it was straightforward. The ending was borrowed from the French and it followed the same rule as the French.
So an employee was someone employed by and employer. A payee was someone payed by a payer. And so on. But now, an attendee is... Well what, for heaven's sake? A conferee is... Banned from any conference I organise, I'm telling you.
But the worst is standee. Ouch and ouch and please don't! You see it on the buses: to carry 50. 42 seated and 8 standees. Ghastly.
But wait a minute, this could be ok. Yes, of course. The standees are the poor so-and-sos on an early bus home because their date didn't show. They were stood up.

Why does it have to be difficult?

2011-04-24T12:41:00.001+01:00

Why do computer geeks never seem to tell you all that you need to know? I'm trying to get up and running with Linux but I constantly hit a brick wall. I'm sure that if ever anyone asked a computer geek for directions it would go something like this:
Traveller: Can you tell me how to get to Boggins Gardens?
Geek: Easy - you go in through the green gates opposite Boggins Hall.
Traveller: I know that but I don't know how to get to the green gates.
Geek: That's easy as well. You start from here and you go in the direction of the green gates.
Traveller goes off in despair and asks an Ordinary Person
OP: Oh, you don't want to bother with that. Just get the Gates bus. It's much easier.

Anyone out there know where I can download a beginning beginner's guide to starting to get started? I thought I had found one but it assumed that I was migrating from MSDOS.
I'm convinced there is a big conspiracy keep us all with Windows or Mac, or else to provide work for all the folk who've come through over-subscribed Geek Studies degree courses.

Can't do without it?

2011-04-19T13:18:00.000+01:00

Sometimes it is quite useful not to have that essential piece of modern equipment to hand. I do often wonder how we used to manage back in the days of typewriters and GPO telephones with party-lines - and fourpence halfpenny stamps. But it can be useful when writing a story not to be able to solve a problem or find out an essential piece of information within minutes.

If Tom Sparrow, the lead character in my current novel, had a mobile phone in his pocket in chapter two, life could well have been a lot less complicated for him. And my novel would probably have to have started at the current chapter six.

So what brought this on? Techno troubles, that's what. All was going quite well until my desktop pc told me I needed to install the driver for my printer. So I tried to reinstall but it wouldn't work. The machine kept telling me that I needed to install the driver. And then I couldn't access my external drive. Drive not connected, so the machine said. No usb ports working at all.

Suspecting the worst I dug out a spare machine and set that up and apart from various programs I'd installed on my old machine, all was fine. Then, not convinced that it was a hardware failure which had caused the problems on the old machine, I decided to try it with Knoppix, a boot from CD version of Linux. All works fine and there is nothing wrong with the hardware. So it looks like the problem came from some automatic update. So do I go back to the old machine and sort it out? No, I think I'll install Linux on it and call it a new machine and see if I can avoid that infuriating grinding to a halt every so often with Windows.

Worshipping at the feet of giants

2011-03-25T20:21:00.000Z

I am fascinated by Joseph Priestley (1733-1804). He is credited with the discovery of oxygen which led to one of the most significant advances in Chemistry, but was the French chemist Lavoisier who worked out the real importance of oxygen and elaborated an enduring theory of combustion. Priestley remained loyal to the phlogiston theory which had been advanced in the early 18th century by Becher and Stahl. Indeed, Priestley's name for the newly discovered gas was 'dephlogisticated air.'

Priestley's paper, Considerations on the Doctrine of Phlogiston and the Decomposition of Water (1796) which he addressed to a group of chemists whom he identified as the 'principal advocates for the Antiphlogistic theory,' was a robustly argued and elegantly written defence of a superseded hypothesis.

So he's an intriguing character. He is rightly regarded as one of the giants in the history of science. His discoveries paved the way for a better understanding of the chemistry of combustion but he defended to the last the old theory and it is Lavoisier who is looked upon as the father of modern chemistry. If there were any today who were to defend the phlogiston theory and marshal Priestley's arguments in their cause, we would probably consider them barking mad.

So who are the people who can be regarded as following in the tradition of Joseph Priestley? Are they the (surely non-existent) adherents of the phlogiston theory? No, they are modern scientists in industry and academia, working to advance our understanding of the world we live in.

To adapt a metaphor from Isaac Newton: When we meet a giant there are two possible responses. Okay, there are more, but let's stick with these two - we can ask for a leg-up so that we can get a look at what the giant can see. Or we can stand or kneel in awe and wonder. The scientist is the one who asks for a leg-up.

What I want to ask is whether the adherents of religions can ask their giants for a leg-up or can they only worship at their feet? The trouble with worshipping at the feet of giants is that we can't even be sure we have understood what they are telling us.

So here's my prayer for today: Hey, Rabbi Jesus, give us a leg-up. will you.

We have to be careful with this one, though. We might just see over the tops of the old creeds and formularies and catch a vision of the world around us.

Watch out for that copyright issue!

2011-03-22T20:13:00.000Z

I have a notebook. Well, I have several, of course - most writers do - but this one is rather special because it is really nicely bound in leather. And it was a Christmas present from friends in France. This is it in the photo here.

Now, there is nothing in this notebook, apart from the jottings which I am putting in there. It's just lots of blank pages. No conversion tables, calendars, useful lists or the like which some notebooks put in the back. Nothing. Except that I have just noticed this inside the back cover:

Wow! Maybe this photo infringes copyright. Or maybe, bearing in mind that the pages are all blank, on those days when I don't actually do any writing I am thereby infringing this publisher's copyright.

Or maybe in an age when corporate bullies so readily try the copyright stunt, reputable companies should avoid daft things like this.

Looks like I've got to be more open-minded?

2011-02-20T00:30:00.000Z

Three things that fascinate me: off-beat, eccentric characters; weird and wacky beliefs; and stories. I love stories. In fact, I'm a story junky. And I guess that together those are the main reason why I can't stay away from egroups and forums and websites devoted to areas like biblical studies and belief systems.

Now and again I will come out of my normal lurking mode and post a comment or two, and then retreat into my hidey-hole and watch. The other day I was told I was opinionated and closed-minded and I thought, hey no, I'm not. It's those others who are the ops and the clo-mins, not me cause I'm a way-over-to-the-left liberal who thinks Bishop Jack Spong is rather too conservative. Me, closed-minded? Hell, no.

There had been a discussion going on about a story in the Old Testament (Joshua 10, for those who want to read it) about how God made the sun stand still so that the good guys would have enough daylight left to complete their defeat and slaughter of the bad guys. Good for Him, always there when you need Him. Some folk were going to enormous lengths to show that it was entirely reasonable to suppose that God caused a Very Big meteorite to hit the earth and stop it spinning for a bit - and no, it wouldn't have any harmful effects and here's the maths to prove it. (But I'll spare you that bit, folks.)

So I chipped in to say that I found this approach entirely lacking in credibility. And I suggested that whatever we might believe about that particular story, one thing was certain - the earth did not stop spinning. And that was me being opinionated and closed-minded. Well, ok then. I really don't want to develop that open-mindedness that obliges me to study in detail all the wacky theories of nut-cases who have devoted their lives to the study of ingenious ways of by-passing rational thought.

It's all very well, though, to smile at the sheer craziness of some beliefs but all too often people govern their lives and their children's lives by them - and the consequences are often thoroughly unamusing and far from benign. That is a major thrust of my current novel. And it's a novel rather than any other literary form because at heart I'm a story-teller.

The present sometimes changes the past

2011-02-17T19:08:00.000Z

...when you're writing a novel, that is. I found this every so often when I was writing Bunderlin. Some event which occurs in a later chapter would now and again mean that I would have to go back and alter an earlier chapter, perhaps to put a character in the right place for everything to make sense.

Or it can be very much more complex than that. Snig's Foot is a major reworking of an earlier novel. I've taken the core story and put it into a different location with several different characters so the restructuring can get a bit complicated at times. The latest alteration which I've made in the light of developments has meant moving a house about quarter of a mile from where I had been visualising it for the past six months or more. This happened because the main location where most of the action takes place is fictionalised. I tweaked it here and there to disguise it but not enough for it to be unrecognisable as somewhere in that particular part of Cheshire. But all the other, incidental locations get their real names. But then my latest chapter took my two main characters to Frodsham. And the point with that was that, for readers who know the area, it could be the final piece in a puzzle and make the location of Snig's Foot Cottage identifiable. So I had to shift it.

So, because Tom Sparrow has a boat moored on the Weaver I had to go back to Chapter one and rewrite his walk to the cottage. And now, if anyone should happen to identify it they will find no house, no clearing in the forest, just a lovely secluded placed amongst the trees. And the great thing for me is that this has much more of the atmosphere that I wanted to create.

The Shiny Night

2011-01-15T20:57:00.003Z

A few notes about a couple of things which I have read over the past few days: First, an article in a fundamentalist christian magazine posed the question of whether the characters written about in Genesis could really have lived to the great ages which are attributed to them. Like Methusaleh, for example, who reached the age 0f 969. Answer? Yes, of course they could. And the evidence is drawn from historical research which has, we are told, verified some of the details of book. So if some of it is clearly true, it is entirely reasonable to suppose that the rest is also true.

Now this might be the daftest version of this argument which I have come across for a while but, in one form or another, it crops up continually in biblical apologetics. Right at the opposite end of the spectrum is the argument that if some of the story is clearly impossible, the whole must, likewise, be fictional.

Now let me try to apply this to a novel which I have just read: “The Shiny Night” by Beatrice Tunstall. And you've got to read this one,folks, because it is just super. It's set in Cheshire and it spans the reign of Queen Victoria, opening after a short prologue with the celebrations on Beeston Crag for her coronation, and ending in the same place on the night of her diamond jubilee. It tells the story of Seth Shone who, having been transported to Australia for killing a gamekeeper, eventually returns. Disinherited, he builds himself a cottage on the common and adorns it with stone images of his enemies, the men responsible for his downfall. He has laid curses upon the images and over the ensuing sixty years they work their inexorable magic until he is avenged at last with the tragic death of the squire.

“The Shiny Night” is a delightful story of nineteenth century Cheshire folk. It is also a tale of witchcraft and magic. Naomi Oldmeadow, one of the witches, is seen by one character to arrive at the home of another witch in the form of a grey goose flying low over the hedges at night.

So is it true or false, fact or fiction? But witches don't transmogrify themselves into geese. Rinderpest, a truly horrible plague of cattle, now thankfully eradicated, doesn't come about by black magic. So “The Shiny Night” is, through and through, all make-believe. But the Image House is real. (The photo here, by David Ackerley, is from http://www.cyclingnorthwales.co.uk) I know it; I drive past it every time I visit Cheshire and it really was the home of Seth Shone who really did put those images there to curse his enemies. Following the descriptions in the story I can walk to all its locations: I can walk up Watling Street to where Naomi Oldmeadow lived in Delamere Forest.

Tunstall herself doesn't believe in witchcraft or magic. She isn't superstitious. But she weaves a fascinating story about real people who really did have those beliefs – and interpreted the world around themselves in terms of those superstitions.

This is one more example of the kind of story which reinforces my conviction that whenever we come across a tale, ancient or modern, of weird and wonderful goings on, it is always worth asking what underlying reality could have given rise to such a tale. And why I am sure that myths and legends and fiction and chronicles are all part of a continuum that is generated by the fundamental human tendency to tell stories.

The Snig's Foot demythologised

2010-12-02T19:47:00.002Z

Credit to Jim Linville! He spotted a pub called the Snig's Foot and it's only 39 miles from mine (the real one, in Delamere, of course!) That's not bad at all - from as far away as Canada. Them's damn fine binocs you've got there Jim.

Here's mine:

It's real name is (and always was) the Carriers Inn. A snig being an eel suggests to me that the local nickname of Snig's Foot from years back may well hint at the state of legless inebriation my Gandad's drinking pals so assiduously researched there before the Abbey Arms became their favoured local.

Until not so long ago it was very much a spit and sawdust dive of a place but the new owners have transformed it into one of the best pub restaurants in this part of Cheshire. Give it a go if ever you are here, Jim. And let me know so that I can join you.

Where do Stories come from?

2010-12-02T13:56:00.000Z

Jim Linville posted an eccellent paper on Myths on his blog yesterday and it set me thinking about a kind of analysis of story-telling which I started a few weeks ago but never took any further. Maybe it's time to revist it and see where it leads.

I should be careful how I express my reservations about the concept of myth in the study of biblical stories. I most certainly do not mean to imply that I think it's the other peoples stoies which are myths whereas ours are eternal truths. Nor do I want to ditch the category – I'll probably come back to it at a later stage. But that's the point – at a later stage.

The trouble, for me, is that the idea of myth carries a lot of baggage and certainly within church circles it is liable to put up barriers. My guess is that beginning undergraduates will sometimes find it hard to get their heads around the notion.

And the problem with defining a category tightly is that it will inevitably exclude material. If myth, then not historical narrative and so on. But my interest and my approach are those of the storyteller, despite my quarter century as a clergyman (albeit a very liberal one – Bishop Jack Spong's far too conservative for me).

If we begin by defining our categories of stories I suspect that we will be in danger of missing some very interesting continuities between the stories of one category and those of another. So I want to begin with the a single heading – stories – and consider the process of their creation, re-creation and and their dissemination. And the trouble with this, of course, is that there won't be any actual evidence for any of it. It will all be conjecture and possibility, nothing more. So most academics might want to shy away. But, what the heck, I'm not a historian, I'm not textual scholar, I'm not even a preacher any more more – liberty, I love it! I'm a novelist and we are allowed to do these things.

So here goes with a very tentative first attempt at an analysis. I include under the defintion of story anything that is told and re-told, whether written, published or passed on by word of mouth – from the epic novel to the one-liner. So it includes Tolstoy's War and Peace and my own, “I was in the Singer Cafe when I heard that Kennedy had been shot;” the news items in the papers and modern myths and urban legends; the stories that Grandma tells at family gatherings. Stories from the dawn of civilisation and the parables of Jesus and the Rabbis. And anything else you can think of.

I want to concentrate, not upon what the stories are, but upon a much more elusive goal, the provenance of stories, the ways in which they are generated. For the most part, of course, this information is simply not available or can only be surmised so I begin by reference to personal stories whose provenance I am fairly sure of.

My initial breakdown of the ways in which stories are generated is as follows:

1.Telling what happened. The most straightforward way to generate a tale. Example: On Sunday we walked from the campsite to Torosay Castle where we looked around the gardens. After drinks in the cafe we walked to Duart Castle and on the way we saw a golden eagle in flight.

2.Telling what “must have happened.” Example: While we were away, some youngsters were playing in the street at the back of our house. Their ball came over the fence so they came to the door to ask to get it back. Getting no reply and seeing that our car was not on the drive, they realised that nobody was at home. So one of them climbed over the fence at the side and retrieved the ball. However, the drop on the inside of the fence was too high to climb back easily so the youngster went and found a wooden box which was beside the shed and used that as a step up, breaking it in the process. We didn't see any of this and nobody told us about it. All we noticed when we got home was that the box, now broken, which had been by the shed was now at the foot of the fence on the opposite side of the garden. Nothing else at all had been disturbed. The story is the most likely stab at explaining a minor puzzle.

3.Telling what happened but misunderstanding it: Example from a story which is happening as I write this: Two guys on an online forum frequently engage one another in argument which can, to the onlooker, appear to degenerate at times into very boorish quarreling. In fact, it is nothing of the sort. On one such occasion when the topic was a theological issue on which they disagree quite fundamentally, the exchanges seemed to have become very hostile. At this point another member of the group intervened to protest, referring to their argument as playground behaviour. This brought a quick response from one of the participants: We weren't having a "spat". We were having a discussion, veering into an argument. Danny and I are friends. Friends don't always agree.

4.Adding a context to the telling of what happened. Example: When driving through Prees Heath as we travel between Cheshire and South Wales , I will sometimes tell this ultra-short story of my father. It was along here that my father would stop for a cigarette during a 100 mile time trial. Actually I don't know where he would stop, only that he did - this was the 1930s when training and trying too hard were still rather unsporting. Prees Heath was the starting and finishing point of the 100 mile course which he used to ride and I can't imagine him stopping during a shorter race which would have have been based upon Goostrey. So I give the snippet a context – which must have been right for some of his stories even if I don't know which.

5.Telling what happened but getting some details wrong, whether inadvertantly or deliberately. Example: Several of us lads would meet in the pub for a few beers and to have a laugh. Almost always the first thing we would do would be to exchange jokes which we'd heard since the previous time we met. One time I told this one: “Why do you only get the queen's head on a fiver, never a full length portrait? Answer – so you can't counterfeit.” Laughs and groans all round and the loudest guffaws came from Gormless Dave who loved jokes but always got them wrong when he tried to tell them. So a bit later when Alf walks in, Gormless says, Hey, Bob, tell him the one about the fivers. To which I replied, No, you tell him. So Gormless tries to remember how it went and comes up with, “Why do you only get the Queen's head on a fiver and never a full length portrait? Answer – so you can't tell how many legs she's got.” Actually that's modified a bit to improve the telling. The only joke I can really remember him mangling was really too lewd for me to pass on except among the lads when rather rat-legged. My version has the benefit of being somewhat funnier as well as showing poor old Dave as rather more gormless than he really was. Not sure that his name was Dave, I only really remember Ronnie and John.

Example 2: Rev John arrived to preach, as a guest preacher, at a village church. As he dismounted from his motorbike a steward approached him. “You can't leave that there. This is a church.” John replied, “Yes I know, I'm your preacher this morning.” I may, however, have got this wrong because recently another minister, Rev Mike, recounted the very same story of himself. And, what is more, I may be mistaken in thinking it was Mike who told it – could have been someone else. I will check but not until I have actually passed this on. Just to make my point, of course.

6.Fusing two stories into one. Example: Following in my father's footsteps I took up cycling and joined his old club. I dabbled a bit with time-trialling but was never very good. The last event I rode in was the Duckinfield 50 some time in the mid sixties. About three quarters of the way through, I was riding flat out, head down, making it hurt like hell, along a stretch somewhere in Vale Royal when I thought, “Why on earth am doing this? I'd much rather be enjoying an easy ride along these great country lanes.” Later in the day I told my father about this and said I probably wasn't going to race any more. “Yes,” he replied, “I remember feeling much the same. I just used to stop for a few drags on a cigarette and then carry on.” In fact, this was not when he told me about his own cavalier attitude to smoking and racing but it fits quite neatly in the context of my own tale. Makes a better story of it and, at the same time, says that in some respects I am the same sort of guy as my father.

7.Changing the characters or the settings. Example: The novel which I am wiritng at present is a reworking of an earlier story. The action now takes place in Cheshire instead of Lancashire. One of the main characters now has a different backgroud, different profession and different name. Another remains much the same as before, and a third is altogether new. Or, probably also under this heading: Some time ago I heard this one: A guy goes into a fast foot restaurant in Poughkeepsie. When the waitress came to take his order, he said, “Tell me, how do you pronounce the name of this place?” To which she replied, slowly and deliberately, “MacDonalds.” Too good not to pass on but to do so, I gave it Welsh setting with a guy stopping at the Little Chef at Rhosllanerchrugog. And I recently came across a Milngavie and Burger King version.

There must be lots of version of this one, but could any of them be true? Consider this story which is of the same kind under a more generic heading where there are two names, one of which is unusual and the other not so: A couple approach the minister because they wish to be married. Giving their details, the man says his name is David McGoggley, to which the minister responds by asking where that name comes from. “My father was called David,” said the man, “and so was his father. And I guess if we have a boy we'll call him David as well.” Same sort of thing, really, but that one is true (apart from the minor detail of the actual name which I changed to protect Mr McGoggley's privacy) and the marriage is entered in the registers of the first church where I was minister.

8. Deliberately misleading, for either malicious or benevolent motives. We can all think of an example, I'm sure, but how about, “Honest, Guv, on the night in question I was at home with the wife. Watched telly all night.”

I am sure that these categories overlap – they could probably be reduced to just three – True, Partly true/partly false, and False. But my interest is in the processes by which stories are generated and for that reason I am sure that the more fruitful path will take us in the direction of further elaboration and subdivision. But let's stick with these for now.

What is probably clear from the above is that to be sure about which categories apply we will need to be talking about stories whose origins we ourselves know about firsthand. But if we had a collection of stories whose provenance had been subject to some thorough research, it might help our analysis along. And we do indeed have such a collection in the splendid work of the Mikkelsons at Snopes.com. So that's our next stop before turning to the question of how all this might offer to shed light upon such diverse pursuits as the writing of fiction and reading and appreciation of stories generally.

Back to the Snig's Foot...

2010-11-27T19:32:00.000Z

...which is here. Actually, it isn't and I'm not able to go back there just yet, at least not literally. Only literarily. The real Snig's Foot is a village pub which is a fair walk from here (and that's not the name on the sign) and my own Snig's Foot is just a little further along towards the forest road. Beside this pair of cottages there used to be another. My Gran and Grandad lived there and my mother and aunts grew up there. I spent the happiest times of my childhood here.

But the story which I have set here is not my own. It's Susan Ridley's story and you'll not find anyone round about who will be able to tell you anything about her. Which is because she's fictional. I've had her story completely mapped out for a long time and I've even written one novel about her. But that needs to be reworked. Some of the other characters stories have changed but Susan's is the same. She just needed a new context and this place, which I love so much, has provided that.

In part, it has provided that new context. Perhaps most significantly Melanie, someone who wasn't even around for the first telling, has made the major contribution. She is Susan's... well, never mind, you'll have to read the story for the details. But it has become Melanie's story as well as she sets out to make sure that her family make good the wrong they did not just to her but, as it turns out, to Susan as well.

So now, along with raising my profile and marshalling a bit of publicity for Bunderlin, I can get on with my new novel. And I have just realised at last what my title will be: Back to the Snig's Foot.

Bunderlin - latest

2010-09-29T21:34:00.000+01:00

I got a couple of advance copies of my novel at the weekend. It's great to have it in my hands and enjoy the sheer pleasure of holding it. So now the hard work really starts - my publisher has done some good publicity material and I'm writing up one or two short pieces with which to approach local papers. There is now a mention on Solidus's home page and it's lurking ready to go live on Amazon and various other online suppliers sites. Publication date is November 18th.

Back to work

2010-09-05T19:45:00.002+01:00

Summer's over. The trees are already showing their autumn colours and the sky is overcast, threatening rain later in the evening. And I must now plan my week ahead.
No more just drifting, reading as the fancy takes me and surfing the internet because my writing is now my full-time occupation.

I've three major projects to immerse myself in - gearing up to promote Bunderlin which is soon to be published, finishing the first draft of Foresters, and preparing a series of storytelling workshops that Margaret and I intend to start running.

The Cardiff Writers' Circle start their new session tomorrow evening so I shall take myself down there and rejoin. Whilst I was writing the first draft of Bunderlin I belonged to the Circle and their encouragement was terrifically valuable. And it's a good way of providing a bit of structure and discipline to the writing life if you commmit yourself to reading a chapter regularly.

So tomorrow morning I set out my goals for the week and promise to report back how it goes. But now we need to walk the dogs and trust that we can get around our normal route before the rain - been out every day since the spring and only got wet once. So I guess it's been a good summer - even if some folk who can remember when it rained that once think it's been pretty lousy.

Watch that language!

2010-08-29T15:24:00.002+01:00

After a flurry of activity with my novel – editing, proof-reading, cover design details – things have now gone quiet and I just wait for publication. Well, no, actually. I switch to gearing up for everything to do with publicity.

I recall when Counting the Days to Armageddon was published and got a fairly prominent review in one of the church newspapers. I was pleased and elated – of course I was. But I also felt very exposed. I'm beginning to feel the same again, but for rather different reasons this time. After all, Bunderlin is utterly different and if I published under another name I don't suppose anyone would guess that I'm the same guy.

It's the prospect of loyalty sales. Which ought to be a good thing, of course, and so it is. But I doubt whether folk who have known me for the past few years as a Methodist minister will be prepared for the swearing. It's not as prolific as in Pam Stephenson's biography of Billy Connolly, but there is a lot more than you are likely to hear in the vestry before morning service. Yes, lots, lots more.

I had wondered whether I should tone it down a bit. But my characters are, I think, true to life and I wanted it to stay that way. The worst offenders are Scobie Sharples, a petty criminal, and Maureen Tong, a one-time prostitute. And that's the way I hear them speaking. So that's the way it stayed.

I hope that folk will not be too upset at the thought of a former minister portraying such characters. It isn't meant to shock, only to tell the story. And I would hope that these two characters, or their counterparts in real life, would be treated with the same dignity and friendliness that they receive from Martin in my novel.

Variations of stories

2010-05-10T20:18:00.000+01:00

I came across this story today on Ham Radio Humour

An old, old ham was lying in his death bed upstairs. His most
favorite food in the world was chocolate chip cookies. As he lay there, gasping for each breath, he was sure he could smell freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies. He crawled out of bed and slowly limped down the stairs. Sure enough, across the kitchen, there was a huge platter of chocolate chip cookies on the table. He finally made it to the table and he reached a shaking hand towards the cookies. Suddenly, his XYL slapped his hand sharply and yelled,
"DON'T TOUCH THOSE-they're for the funeral!"

What I find particularly interesting is that this looks very much like variation of a story which my Grandma used to tell - except that Grandma told the tale about her great uncle Manasseh. When the old man was lying in his death bed he heard one of the young men of the family who had just come into the house. Seeing a very appetising ham hanging in the pantry he said to the soon-to-be widow, "Let's have a piece of that ham."

"Leave that alone," the old lady replied. "I'm saving that for the funeral."

On hearing this, Uncle Manasseh came downstairs, pointed to the ham and said, "Get that down. I'm going to have that for my tea."

I had always assumed this was a true story since Grandma told it as if she had been there at the time. So I'd be very interested to find out whether anyone knows of any other variations

Asperger's? I don't know

2010-05-05T19:33:00.000+01:00

When I was writing the first draft of Bunderlin – a long time ago now – I read it chapter by chapter to a writers' circle. Folk were very encouraging. On several occasions members mentioned a similarlity which they thought they detected with Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime.

There may have been a similarity but I couldn't really say much because I'd not read Curious Incident. And I made a point of not doing so until I had finished Bunderlin. Then I did read it. What a super book! It's a delightful portrayal of a boy with Asperger's Syndrome written from his point of view. All I can say is that if you haven't read it you should go and get a copy right away.

So was I trying in Bunderlin to portray an adult with Asperger's? No, I wasn't. I was writing about a character who had grown out of my impressions of a number of different people, some of whom may (or may not) have been Asperger's folk, and some of whom I am sure were not. I think – I am convinced – that Peter Bunderlin is a real character (and maybe I should write something later about my notion of a character who is both real and fictional) but whether he has Asperger's, I cannot say. That is for others to judge.

Peter Bunderlin - the making of a character

2010-04-29T11:23:00.000+01:00

The difficulty was that so long as I was consciously trying to mould a character with Freddie as my starting point, it didn’t work. He didn’t come to life. And I couldn’t get a name for him. But then another character kept coming into my mind. An old guy who was a collector – a collector of books and jam pots and books and broken tellies and books and boxes and books. And more books. His home was packed to the ceilings with all his treasures.And then a newspaper photograph came to me from nowhere. An old lady and her very large son who had just been released after several years in prison, wrongly convicted of murder.

At last, Peter Bunderlin came alive. With his family background, his dotty habits and his crime. He wasn’t any of those characters who inspired his creation. He was himself, a different guy altogether. He wasn’t wrongly convicted. He really did do it, but that didn’t stop him being one of the good guys. It just meant that nobody could understand him. Except Martin the academic historian, Scobie the old lag, and Maureen the retired prostitute whom he set up in a rented shop.

When my publisher suggested some revisions, I had to spend a while reading and re-reading until at last I had got back into Bunderlin's head and could see the world through his eyes once again. But more later on the process of preparing for publication.

Haunted Hawarden?

2010-04-09T11:44:00.001+01:00

Three spelling mistakes in one word? No, nobody could manage that. The place is clearly haunted but not so much as to trouble Mr Gladstone's descendants who still live in Hawarden Castle.

(The photo is of a tourist information board in the public car park at Hawarden.)

Honesty Project - day 2

2010-03-10T20:58:00.000Z

Ok, folks, here's my second attempt to join in with a great idea I found here

As a far-out on-the-UV-end liberal, I always preface a series of Bible studies with a Caution rating: this should make you think, or even change your minds about what you believe. If it doesn't, we've done something wrong.

And the other is that we should take the Bible literally. No there isn't a "not" missing. Take it literally. I'm basically a storyteller, you see, and that's my honest about myself bit for today.

So where does this get us? Well, if it was the latest Ian Rankin novel we were talking about, we wouldn't want to say that no, it's not really about a detective working in Edinburgh. We'd say it's a novel, don't expect it to be true. Same with the ancient stories. That's what they are so don't expect them to be true. Too much of the "no it's not literal, it's theological or symbolic or allegorical or whatever," is little more than a way of preserving some sort of sense of "believing the Bible" when really we should have the courage to say it's not true, or it's wrong. Just because many stories aren't true, literally, it doesn't imply that they are pointless or without meaning. Lots of the stories from the ancient world are wonderful stuff and should be read and told and retold and enjoyed.

By the way, Bunderlin isn't true either. Except the important bits, of course, and most of the others. But they didn't happen. Well they keep on happening, really.

Honesty Project

2010-03-09T19:22:00.000Z

I came across this while cyber-skiving:

"I want to get to know you better and am eager to try an experiment. Are you up for an excercise in honesty that demands you to say one truthful thing about yourself every single day for one week?" Read the full post hereGodless Girl

I'm game for this, so here goes: I'm a methodist minister firmly placed at the liberal end of the spectrum - about as far as it is possible to go without stepping off altogether. So I often find that I am much more in sympathy with skeptics and secularists than with many Christians. For the sake of a quiet life (I'm retiring soon) I frequently groan inwardly at some of the things which believers say, and then keep my counsel.

So, Godless Girl, I'm up for your challenge. It links in, actually with what I posted a little while back about my alter ego intruding upon my persona as a novelist.

It's real now

2010-01-20T17:23:00.000Z

I had begun to feel a bit of a fraud. Published author, member of the Society of Authors, but it was a long time ago since my first book was published. I did follow it up with various articles and lectures but eventually I found myself heading off in very different directions.

I could no longer envisage a return to academic writing. And I had no interest whatever in apologetics. At heart I'm a storyteller and that was the direction my writing would take. It meant that although I had got my foot on the first step of the ladder, I had to take a step back and begin all over again as a wannabe. A novelist this time.

Well, at last I made it. Just a few days ago I signed a contract with Solidus for the publication of Bunderlin. It should be in the bookshops some time in the autumn.

Too good to be true?

2010-01-12T20:23:00.001Z

This fine old building is the Wild Boar Hotel which sits impressively beside the A49 overlooking the Cheshire Plain. But no, it's just that bit too good to be true - despite appearances it's not the finest Tudor mansion in the county. It's a 19th century mock-up built by John Naylor, timber merchant. A beautiful building, all the same.

We pass the Wild Boar each time we visit Delamere - and just about every time we pass it, Margaret tells me we should stop there for a meal one day. We never do stop because it's too near our destination - where we have other favourite places to eat.

Last autumn, though, Margaret told me I must promise her that when I sign a contract to publish Bunderlin we will celebrate with a cream tea at the Wild Boar. Got an email yesterday and it looks as though I owe her that cream tea. But just in case it's too good to be true, I'll wait till I've actually signed the contract - some time in the next few days - before I post details about it. Does feel good though!

Incorporating the idiotic into fiction

2010-01-04T19:33:00.002Z

In one of the fringe religious movements which I have studied there was a widespread belief, during the 1980s, that Smurf dolls were demonic. Among the urban legends which became current within the flock, were stories of these toys running screaming from meeting halls at the first mention of God. Or the little blue terrors would come to life and attack sleeping infants in their cots during the night. The idiocy was pervasive and it went along with the belief that all manner of things, especially second-hand goods, could be demonised - and the faithful were encouraged to destroy any possessions they had which might have become contaminated. They continue to believe in the frightening reality of demons but memories of Smurf episodes have been systematically buried.

Now, here's the problem: how do I portray such idiocy in my novel? Come off it, my readers will want to say. Nobody could be that daft, surely? Ah but they can be. Susan had a favourite teddy bear called Pookie. Still had it when she was fifteen. But then she came home from school one day to discover that Pookie had suffered the fate which all demons deserve and had been thrown onto a bonfire. And that's where Susan's road to freedom began.

Do you believe it's possible? I know that there are lots of folk out there who may well react by saying, "Hey, that's my story you're telling." It's lots of people's stories actually.

OK, so it's time for the other me to put in an appearance

2010-01-03T17:51:00.002Z

When I started this blog expected that I would keep my two personae separate. But it doesn't work, of course, because a lot of the inspiration for my fiction comes from my experience with religion. It's a major theme of my current novel. Abusive religion. Lurking in the background of the Snig's Foot where most of the action takes place, is the family from hell and my novel is basically the story of how two very different young women escape from an authoritarian sect on the fringe of Christianity.

Melanie is nineteen and looking for her father because she wants him to get his come-uppance for all the hurt he caused her and her mother. And Susan is the former girl-friend from thirty years before, of Tom, my central character. When the story opens we do not know whether she is still living.

But that's enough of my story-line for now. I guess that in view of my own religious background and my earlier published work (Counting the Days to Armageddon) some folk will assume that the sect which I describe is the Jehovah's Witnesses. It isn't. It's the Gilead Fellowship, a fictional creation. Not dissimilar from the JWs, but also, like so many sects and cults, having some characteristics in common with disturbing elements within the mainstream churches. Really, that's why I don't like identifying the fringe movements as sects. It too easily gives the impression that all the harmful aspects of religion are associated with these groups. The rest of us are Ok. Perhaps we should reflect upon how easily we can allow room for what is unhelpful or even harmful and give it a cloak of respectability.

I guess maybe I ought to blog once in a while about the kind of thing I have in mind. Well, ok then, I will. As a minister coming up to retirement, I'm beginning to think it's time to be a bit more outspoken. So watch this blog.

It has to be straight on from here

2009-11-23T11:03:00.002Z

After a long hard slog that has felt very unproductive, Ive finally reached the point where I can see where I'm going with my new novel. I began the summer with about ten thousand words completed but then the story took a different course. It reached a couple of blocked off pathways and I had to find new ways through.

But it's done! Those ten thousand words have been whittled down to about seven thousand. the locations are the same. The characters are the same - mostly. And those one or two episodes that turn out never to have happened? Well, they might form the basis of another story later on.

How did we get here from there?

2009-11-13T19:31:00.004Z

It's well into November and I haven't posted anything since June. The summer and early autumn must have been rather squashed up - I'm sure they usually last much longer than this.
So how is it going with Bunderlin? Encouraging, really. Or discouraging. Depends on which way I'm looking. One major publisher requested the full ms, liked it, said it was good. But not in the present economic climate. Hey ho. A small independent publisher liked the opening chapters and asked for the rest - still waiting. And still waiting for two or three others. I'll get there in the end.

In the meantime, here's a picture of me taking a harris hawk for a walk in the woods. In Cheshire, of course.

Well, here we go

2009-06-03T17:32:00.002+01:00

After a few months of working on the very last final edit of Bunderlin, the one with no more to follow, I start the business of trying to find a publisher or agent. I suppose I ought to feel pretty confident because earlier drafts have made it to the short lists of a couple of competitions, and this version is a big improvement upon those. But it does feel rather odd sending out the submissions and waiting to see what happens.

I guess what I really must do now is immerse myself in my latest novel. The last year hasn't been all that easy for writing cause I've been working full-time in my day job and haven't been able to manage the two full days together per week that I prefer. But from the end of this summer I'm back to part-time so I have no excuses. I know I could think of one or two but I'm not going to. I'm going to get on with my writing.

Cwmcarn Forest

2009-05-27T19:41:00.004+01:00

I love forests - but they are scary places. Look at this old tree:

Then I realised I need to get out of there fast because this wasn't really a tree at all!

It was yet another poor animal that the witch of the forest had turned into a tree.

PODs Pirates and Publishers

2009-04-23T20:14:00.002+01:00

Over the past couple of weeks on writers' forums and email lists, I've come across several questions about self-publishing. So here's a few thoughts about the things people ask:

If I self-publish my book, does that count as being published?
Depends what you mean. If you're thinking of your approach to agents and publishers with subsequent work, it probably doesn't count for very much at all. There's a lot of self-published trash out there and having your previous book in the pile doesn't earn you many points. So simply to say that you are a self-published author says only that you paid for some printing. Like Jimmy the plumber who paid for a stack of letterheads and brochures. If you can say that you sold 5,000 copies of your book, well that says something very different. Sell only 20, though - it's probably best to keep quiet about that.
If you are planning on entering any competitions for unpublished first-timers, a go-it-alone job with an ISBN will probably disqualify you. Even if you didn't manage to sell those 20 copies.

Is there a danger that I'll be ripped off?
I guess that's a danger wherever you go and whatever you do. But I can't see that there is very much of a threat that someone is going to steal the book of an unknown wannabe author, pass it off as their own and make a fortune out of it. While you are struggling to sell your 20 copies. When you topple J. K. Rowling off her perch, on the other hand, there will be the danger that some devious little blank at your publisher's office will nick your manuscript and pre-empt your launch date with a boot-legged version from China.

Will I self-publish my own stuff?
Not sure. A while ago I seriously planned to do that with Bunderlin, but for the moment I've changed my mind. I guess I've got back a bit more confidence. I've had some encouragement from a couple of publishing professionals. And I've been short-listed in a couple of competitions. So I'm all set to take the latest, much improved version around the agents and publishers.

A warehouse full of stories

2009-02-25T14:20:00.002Z

Margaret and I took a drive into Gloucester last week and went into the splendid antiques warehouse in the docklands. Our excuse was looking for Poole pottery. But there wasn't any, not of the colour we were looking for. So we'll just have to keep going back.

What struck me this time was how places like this are full of stories – many of which begin, 'My Gran had one of these...' It's a great place for a storyteller to take a break from cyberskiving. Among the various things that took Margaret's eye (and my own) was an old table-top Singer sewing machine. 'My mother had one of these,' I began.

In fact, the Singer found its way into my novel Bunderlin. It wasn't amongst all the junk and treasures which Martin eventually found in his house. Bunderlin had given it away long before then. If only someone would just give me one, Margaret might have thought because the asking price was a little more than spur-of-the-moment-don't-really-need-one-of-these level.

She told the tale a couple of days later. And then the following day this one, the one in the photo, was sitting on her desk when she got into her office. A colleague, only hours later, had been to the churches' charity shop and there, sitting among a pile of junk waiting to go to the tip, was this beautiful thing. It's in full working order and easily restorable to showroom condition. And it was on its way to the tip!?

Advertising?

2009-02-15T18:55:00.002Z

Oh dear, I've just had my wrist slapped for self-advertising. I sometimes log on to a forum for ex-Jehovah's Witnesses - which seems a pretty reasonable thing to do especially since my first published book was an academic study of that movement. I hardly ever say much about my book, but I will post something if it's relevant in answer to a query.
So when someone posted a message asking for information about the connection between William Miller, the 19th century American adventist preacher and Charles Taze Russell, the founder of the movement that eventually became the JWs, I posted a link to my book. Seemed reasonable, particularly since my book contains the only detailed academic treatment of the Miller/Russell link that is readily available.
The forum administrator didn't like that and sent me a warning. No advertising. You meant well, but don't do it again. Okay, I won't. Well, I might not. I'll get back to my novel.

Winter Sunshine on Blakemere

2009-02-01T17:34:00.002Z

The Forest is different now. My Gran's cottage has gone. Mam Blain's cottage has gone. Pear Cottage has gone. And all those old characters who wandered the lanes and footpaths, old men who would walk on with no more than a nod and a grunt when, as kids, we had the Forest for our playground. They are all gone as well.

There are lots of new features. A Visitor Centre. (What on earth is one of those? we would have wondered all those years ago.) A camp site. A cafe in the booking hall of the little station. And Blakemere, the lake. None of them were there when we were kids. Neither were the adventure trail - Go Ape - high up in the trees or the carefully mapped out routes for bike riders together with all the visitors which they bring.

I'm not grumping. Far from it. I love this place and I think it's great that so many people come here day after day, week after week. This is a living forest, well-loved by thousands of people and that's just how it should be.

Nobody except me, of course, ever meets Susan Ridley in the Forest, or Thos Povey, the white-haired old rogue in a Homburg hat and an old army greatcoat as he wanders the tracks with his donkey. But the Forest brings them to life for me with all the other characters of my novel. And I wonder, sometimes, who else among all those visitors come here to meet their own special creations.

My inspiration for Foresters

2009-01-07T14:15:00.000Z

Foresters came about in a very different way from Bunderlin. Whereas Bunderlin was the story of an outrageous character – and wouldn't flow until he had become real and could show me where the story was going – the plot of Foresters, the first version of it, came to me ready-made. It was a story, repeated many times over, of a young woman abused and suppressed by her family and an authoritarian religion.

I'd spent some years working on Counting the Days to Armageddon and the spin-off articles and lectures. And all the time I was hearing the sometimes depressing, sometimes inspiring accounts of people who had broken free and made a new life for themselves at huge cost. In part, it was my own story –but only in part I should add. I had no more desire to write religious history, much less doctrine. But I had to tell the story of those wonderful people I knew about who had survived.

The result was No Balm in Gilead, my first novel. I was rather pleased with it. It was good, but not quite right. After finishing Bunderlin I started work on Foresters but I still had it in mind that I would one day rewrite Gilead. And then, I don't know where it came from – a moment of inspiration – I realised that the big sub-plot to Foresters was my earlier novel. So Tom Westwood is now a very different character from the Tom who drove the story of Gilead. But Susan Ridley, his girl-friend from years before is still the same Susan I fell in love with whilst writing Gilead. And Alan Ridley, her brother is still the nasty, devious, abusive and deeply religious git that he was all along. But Melanie, his daughter, is going to make sure that he gets his comeuppance.

Blog Promo

2008-12-30T10:57:00.003Z

Looking to drive some more traffic to your blog? Take a look at Sean McLachlan's blog. He has a pretty good idea there which you might find interesting - that's what prompted my entry yesterday.

My Writing Plans for 2009

2008-12-29T16:45:00.002Z

It's December and a mist of birch saplings hangs in this boggy hollow. By the time these trees are back in leaf the very last final edit of Bunderlin will be done and my current novel, Foresters, will have reached half way. Autumn will see me seriously pitching Bunderlin to agents and publishers with Foresters heading for the final phase of the first draft. And by the time of next sapling mists in the forest I'll be reporting back that I did everything I set out to do. Honest, I will.

The forest in winter

2008-12-21T19:56:00.003Z

Enjoyed a great meal in the Blue Cap this week. Then, before driving home on Wednesday, we took a long walk in the forest. This is the track which leads from the place which figures in my novel as Ashton Moss where Tom's cottage stands. Think you know where it might be? Don't let my description of Snig's Foot Cottage throw you - it's nothing like the house which actually stands at L_____ Moss. There, I've pretty well given it away.

Things got rather hectic over the last few days and work has interrupted my writing. It will quieten down after Christmas so I'll be back then to write a few more chapters. And to do some more editing on Bunderlin. You can dip into some extracts from my writing here.

Advent Tour 2008 Day 5

2008-12-04T14:10:00.008Z

Advent Sunday – fourth before Christmas? Right? Well, sort of. But for the garden centres it seems to come in September even before harvest festivals are finished. So it's a long time before the church catches up and fires a late starting pistol (okay, that's not really the right metaphor – tell me a better one) with a rousing rendition of 'O come, o come, Immanuel.'And then it's a mad dash from one carol service to the next, and from one Christmas dinner to the next so that by the time Christmas comes, I'm longing for bangers and mash or steak pudding and chips.

When we lived in Yorkshire, Margaret and I used to look forward to the lull which came on Christmas Eve when we would take the scenic drive to Castleton in Derbyshire. It's a wonderfully picturesque village nestling in the Hope Valley at the foot of Mam Tor, the Shivering Mountain. And in the Three Roofs Café in the village, our Christmas Eve treat was battered cod, chips and mushy peas. Lovely.

After we moved to South Wales we tried to keep up the Christmas Eve tradition but Castleton was too far away and nowhere else had quite the same feel. This year, however, a week early, we think we have find the perfect place to renew our tradition. The Blue Cap at Sandiway in Cheshire. It's a lovely 18^th century inn fairly close to the location for my current novel. But it won't be fish and chips this time. Wild Pheasant with berry and red wine sauce. I'm hungry already.

Who's the dog standing on guard on top of that post? Well, that's Blue Cap himself, of course, a legendary fox hound noted for his exceptional speed and agility.

An old Cheshire custom was souling - going around the houses singing and begging for goodies. Originally it was associated with All Souls day - hence the name - but the custom merged with wassailing during the Advent season. I can recall a December holiday spent with my Gran and Grandad who lived on the edge of Delamere Forest. Lots of us kids and several adults went the rounds of the cottages and farmhouses singing a song that went like this:

Chorus:
A soul! a soul! a soul-cake!
Please good Missus, a soul-cake!
An apple, a pear, a plum or a cherry,
Any good thing to make us all merry,
One for Peter, two for Paul,
Three for Him who made us all.

God bless the master of this house,
The misteress also,
And all the little children
That round the table grow.
Likewise young men and maidens,
Your cattle and your store;
And all that dwell within your gates,
We wish you ten times more
A soul, etc.

Down into the cellar,
And see what you can find,
If your barrels are not empty,
We hope you will prove kind.
(We hope you will prove kind,
With your apples and strong beer,
And we'll come no more a-souling
Till this time next year.)
A soul, etc.

The lanes are very dirty,
My shoes are very thin,
I've got a little pocket
To put a penny in.
If you haven't got a penny
A ha'penny will do;
If you haven't got a ha'penny,
It's God bless you!
A soul, etc

And when we got back to Gran's fireside we had enough treats to last for the rest of the holiday.

Seasons for writing

2008-12-01T09:02:00.002Z

My novel has reached the point where the seasons, real and fictional, coincide. It's late autumn going into early winter and Tom Westwood has been drawn into the strange circle of the Ridley family. They are completely off the wall and he knows he should take his Uncle's advice and steer clear. But Susan is different. By the time these trees have their new season's leaves it will all have gone wrong. And it will take Tom thirty years to find out what happened.
Go here to read the story so far.

Bewitched!

2008-11-14T20:51:00.004Z

Take very great care when you visit Cwmcarn Forest in South Wales. If you run into the wicked witch who turned this poor animal into a tree you may never come home again.

Where do stories come from?

2008-11-08T20:17:00.002Z

I get mine from places. And people, of course. People are important. But the things that people do and the things that happen to them don’t become stories until they’ve got somewhere to happen.

Delamere Forest in Cheshire is a great place for starting to turn the Things That Happen into stories. I always come away with a head full of first chapters. The meres do it for me. There's lots of them, meres and boggy hollows formed when the glaciers of the last ice age retreated.

Take this beautiful, haunting, eerie, creepy pool. Black Lake. It's a little bit out of the way but not too difficult to find. Don't try to get to the water's edge along here. That's a floating raft of vegetation and don't be fooled by the birch saplings growing on it. It won't take your weight. You might just drop through it into five metres of water underneath. Do that in the spring when vegetation is rapidly growing and there soon wouldn't be a trace...

I walk around the lake and I fancy that I can see chain gangs of French prisoners from the Napoleonic war. They're being put to work digging drainage ditches - an ill-conceived scheme to reclaim land from the ancient peat bogs. Or at Black Lake here, enlarging it a little to create a duck pond. A duck pond? Here, in this remote part of the Forest? Why? Who wants a duck pond just here?. Maybe if I sit down by the water and close my eyes I'll see a little more clearly what's going on. Or I could ask my Gran. She has lots of stories to tell about this place. She'll be about a hundred and thirty now.

For now I'll get on with telling the story of Tom Westwood trying to discover what became of Susan, the girl at Snig's Foot Cottage. You can read a few chapters over at my website

Foresters

2008-10-23T13:55:00.009+01:00

Here's a view of one of the major locations of my current novel , Foresters, although in my story the place is fictionalised. It's a place I knew well as a kid because my grandparents lived on the edge of the forest and I spent some of the happiest times of my childhood there. It's where I feel that I belong and have my roots.

The mere which you can see through the trees wasn't always there. In fact, I'm pretty sure I can remember gathering wimberries with my Gran somewhere underneath that water. The first time I saw the new mere, as you might imagine, I was... well, saddened. It inspired one of my few attempts at poetry.

Go carefully into the forest,

Leave the track carefully, warily, scarily,

Storybook people live in the wood.

Go silently into the forest,

Feel the breeze silently, whispering, whispering,

Trees telling stories, singing songs of the wood.

Go moonlit into the forest,

Wait in the moonlight when shuffling, snuffling,

Badgers are scuffling deep in the wood.

Go skipping into the forest,

Down the bank skipping, hopping and stopping,

Looking for mushrooms down in the wood.

Go slowly into the forest,

Round the bend sadly, wistfully wondering

How did it happen? Such a vast clearing, flooded.

And the path to my childhood ends at the water’s edge where trees are dying.

Proof-reading, hey?

2008-10-17T12:44:00.000+01:00

Snipped from an email responding to an ad for proof readers:

"Hi my name is...... and I read your post. I am vert intereted what do
I HAVE TO DO."

Learn to proof-read would be a start. For now I guess I'll do my own, thanks!

Just setting up...

2008-10-16T19:18:00.000+01:00

...and hope to be able to link this to my website instead of having the whole blog over there