Did I mention that I recently joined the Whitby Naturalists?
“What?” says my mother, sounding disapproving, when I tell her on the phone. “Whitby Nationalists? Will you be voting for Nigel Farrage?”
“No, mum,” I reply. “Naturalists.”
I hear her sigh with relief. At almost 92 years of age, she’s been a lifelong socialist.
I tell my daughter on Skype.
“What?” says my son-in-law, looming into the picture. “Does that mean you all get your kit off?”
“Very funny,” I say. Although, when I come to think about it, the creatures we have seen in the slide-shows at the meetings the Other One and I have attended so far, haven’t been wearing much in the way of kit. A few feathers perhaps. A dusting of fur. But there’s been a lot of nudity. Hippos, for instance. They have a two inch skin. Not many socks on a butterfly either.
Joining the Whitby Nats, as they seem to be known, makes me feel like a rather unpleasant creature with a lot of leg and a nasty bite (my husband would probably say that’s a fair description). It has, so far, been a wonderful affirmation that there are people who genuinely care for the environment and the natural world. So I look forward to this season’s events and talks.
And talking of gnats, when I tried to type Farrage into my word document, the spelling suggestion was farrago, which the dictionary defines as confused mixture, hodgepodge, medley. Don’t worry, Mum, I shan’t be voting for him.

Some say it may be a little premature to emerge after the winter. There’s a pretty cold wind out there and some arctic temperatures are forecast for the coming week. However, the snow’s melted here, and the fields look more verdant than ever. Oh, and the snowdrops are showing off in the garden.

So, it sort of gives me the idea of fetching that metaphorical broom and sweeping out a few cobwebs. In any case, I’m taking a rest from doing proper work, and giving myself a little (balefully, unpaid) holiday. All in the line of duty, I might add. Because, the older I become, the more smitten I am with language. And I’m not talking about my usual colourful array of vocabulary as I step out of the front door and am practically knocked off my feet by a tempest. Which, incidentally, sets me wondering if God’s got the Dyson set to super-turbo, as leaves, twigs, branches, coal bucket, bunker, even the oil-tank, all disappear past my ears in the same direction across the garden. Or at least, I would wonder that, if I believed in him.

No. I’m talking English Usage here, not to mention my love of the European languages, albeit my ability, with the timorous exception of French, rates equivalent to a six month old baby. So I’m looking forward to reviewing Sampo: Headed Further North by Bob Beagrie and Andy Willoughby.  Also, doing an editorial read on a dear friend’s novel, about which an agent is almost enthusiastic. Plus ploughing forward (though the field might still be a bit soggy) on the plotting of my latest novel. In addition, there’s this “little thing” that I simply have to write, which began as a small idea and appears to have the breeding capability of salmonella enterica and is now taking over my brain… And if all that wasn’t enough, I’m just organising a serious airing of my Poetry Pamphlet, Taking Responsibility for the Moon (next date February 25th, 7 pm at the Whitby Deli) ).

When will I have time to sleep?

Taking Responsibility for the Moon is now launched, with a few sales under my belt, so now it’s time to turn a little attention back to my reading. After all, what writer doesn’t read voraciously? Reading, wRiting and Reviewing. So, just finished reading AND reviewing Heather Stroud’s Abraham’s Children

The novel follows the story of Fida who was caught in the July 7th London bombing, losing her mother and scarcely managing to emerge herself, leaving her both physically and emotionally scarred and abandoned by her boyfriend.
It’s a story of quest – for her lost father (of whose existence she was scarcely aware), and her father’s homeland, Palestine, and finally for her own soulmate. During the telling, Stroud explores the Palestinian conflict, inter-state terrorism and the plight of the Palestinian people. She examines the big questions – Zionism, the reign of ideologies and the powers which lie behind the global political theatre.
The plot is well-structured and evolves with menace, while the characters are so believable it reads like faction. Perhaps it is. Stroud has researched impeccably and explores issues through dialogue between the characters with a depth reminiscent of Doris Lessing.
The content portrays place with convincing detail, while the style, I would say, feels less a work of art than a means of communicating a point of view, a passion for telling the facts as they stand rather than through propaganda. In places, the characterisation is not without flaws. For instance, Fida’s grief at losing her baby isn’t dealt with, perhaps, as the engaged reader would expect, or desire. Sadly, also the publication hasn’t been edited with rigour, which detracts somewhat from the overall enjoyment of the read.
Overall, however, it is a brave book, and a strong one. It engages and provokes thought. Which, after all, is the point of original, writerly expression.

Well, they didn’t name this day the 13th of October for nothing, you know. Just another thing to go awry today, after a stressful day at work. The venue for the pamphlet launch on Sunday has changed to the Taste of Arabia . Sadly, this isn’t in Arabia, but  somewhere quite near, namely Borough Road, Middlesbrough. So I shan’t be arriving on my camel, or basking in the warmth of a gentle desert breeze, although there may be a gale blowing, if today’s weather is anything to go by.

Still, I’m looking forward to the event and the other exciting things that are happening this weekend, such as the rest of the Teesside Poetry Festival, not to mention the world music festival, Musicport, in Whitby.  Trouble with this part of the world, there’s so much going on – events don’t just appear like oases amongst the dunes, but more like proverbial buses, telephone boxes or anything else you spend a long time waiting for. Too many at once. Not really moaning, you understand – just hoping the venue isn’t changed again. Otherwise I may find myself roaming the streets looking for lost poems…and they can appear anywhere…

Someone recently asked me how long I had been writing. My answer was, “Since I was sixteen”. But strictly speaking that isn’t true, because I remember making up fairy tales at primary school, and putting together my own Alphabet Book – not at school, but in my spare time, when my age was still in single figures. Yup. I became addicted to words very young. And I still haven’t kicked the habit!

Of course, I have published before, but my forthcoming (and first) pamphlet of poems seems to have been a long time in the making,. And in a sense, it embraces a lifetime of writing, from scenes in childhood, through experiences in different countries, to a kind of spiritual connection to people I’ve encountered along the way.

Thus I’m really excited about “Taking Responsibility for the Moon”, soon to be launched by the well-respected Teesside publisher, Mudfog.

Launch date: Sunday 19th October 4pm at the Taste of Arabia, Middlesbrough.

This is all part of a very exciting Teesside International Poetry Festival.

Come along and celebrate!

Ten minutes it took, today
to place a dead child
into the bosom of her dead mother,
dressed in her green body bag,
ten minutes to cover them both in sand
to declare the deed complete –
while the drones continued on
while a shot was fired
while a man was rammed by a car.

And the mother did not have even one minute
to wipe the blood from her child’s face
or to settle there a farewell kiss
or to utter a word to her husband
or to brush the fingertips of hope
across his cheek.

And today in Mons, in Liège, in London
they remember a different war
listen to a trumpet’s salute
the notes rising, rising, rising, like questions…
What have we learned?
Does death wash off our blood and our tears?
Do minutes and years wash it all away?

The sun’s shining. It feels as if summer is well and truly here. What better way to spend an hour or so than cleaning the back door?  Yes, and before you ask, I am sad, but put yourself in my position: the door’s not been cleaned since we moved in almost seven months ago, and it was dirty then. In addition, my mother’s coming to stay. Couldn’t possibly show face if my back door was dirty, could I now?

Besides, it gives me an opportunity to get to know the neighbours, several of whom are standing beside the fence. They seem to be fascinated by this mad woman wiping a cloth against the door of her “shed”. They exchange glances. They’ve never noticed the man whose grass they like to munch wiping the door of their shed.

One of the neighbours seems to be particularly interested in what I’m doing. Not wishing to offend, I put down my bucket and my cloth and stop to have a chat.  I tell her about the new volume out in September by Arachne Press, who are publishing one of my Corsican prose poems. She emits a loud “humph” through her nostrils, but then nods agreement about the weather. She’s not so sure when I tell her she has a large lump of mud hanging from her eyelash, and wanders off. Perhaps I’m becoming too personal. Silly ol’ cow.

I’ve just returned from a package holiday. Me and package holidays, I have to say, do not usually occur in the same sentence. And, yes, before you ask, I am a bit of a snob when it comes to cheap hotels swarming with Brits abroad, beer, bellies, fake leopardskin bikinis and chips lathered in mayonnaise (or is that sun cream?).

But the package holiday I have just been on wasn’t like that at all, though it was cheap (which was the initial temptation when the budget was minimal). The scene of the crime was Porto Petro, Mallorca – a small and (at this time of year) quiet resort, dangerously close to the less attractive Cala Egos and Cala d’Or.

And, I have to say, Porto Petro was a delight. A small self catering apartment overlooking the sea did the job, within strolling distance of the harbour and a range of cafés and restaurants enough to keep any gourmand occupied.

The coffee experience was mixed (why do some restaurants still use UHT milk?) but we had some wonderful americanos with hot milk in Piscis Café and elsewhere, too, after meals. But by far the best eating experience was the tapas at Restaurante La Aventura, so good that we returned for a meal on our last night. Owned by the charming Antoni Fortiza, whose mother opened the restaurant, and who has been working there since he was 14 years old, proficient in many languages, he proved an expert in just the right level of attentiveness –  enough to make you feel cared for, but not so as to make you feel pestered. Antoni served up an array of sizzling delicacies which we washed down with some exceedingly good house wine. With a view over the harbour from a balcony bedecked with geraniums, we watched evening fade wistfully, lights from boats and the cafés opposite joining in to smile at the night.

You may be thinking by now that we spent the entire week festooned on café terraces. Not so! The Other One had not chosen Porto Petro for nothing – it is situated adjacent to the Mondrago Natural Park, which at this time of the year looks like a garden of Paradise. I haven’t seen so many orchids growing wild for a long time. We walked to the beaches of Mondrago and S’Amarador (reminiscent of the Caribbean) and then North West along old Moorish routes, one day to the small town of Santanyi with its quiet back streets…                                                                  ….its vibrant market…

interesting shops…

and flamboyant inhabitants…

….and another day to the sleepy village of S’Alqueria Blanca. The local buses were great when we felt our legs had been punished enough. Antoni from La Aventura remarked that he had seen us walking all over the place. I guess Porto Petro wasn’t overrun by other British walkers, although there were a few Germans around and a fair number of cyclists. We seldom encountered anyone on our walks across the Park. And whilst the weather was still a tad cool for swimming in the sea for us softies, it was just lovely for walking… …just warm enough to appreciate that well-earned stop-off in one of those harbour cafés!

What can I say? Scarborough Flare, Scarborough’s alternative literature festival, has sparked and roared and blazed away, and now is dying down for this year, leaving us all with a lovely warm glow. I was only able to attend a limited number of events, but those which I did attend were exciting and special, each in their own right (write?).  And I was chuffed that my workshop at the studio gallery seemed to get the creative juices going in such an amazing way – due, I have to say, to the immense talent in the room. The surroundings, with exhibitions of Marion Atkinson’s intricate and intriguing work and some fab photos from Tony Howson plus some exciting pieces by young artists, were an inspiration in themselves. Add to that a wonderfully warm and friendly welcome from gallery owner, Helen Birmingham, and there’s a recipe for instant fizz. Words, seascapes, thoughts, dark and light, with the help of a very small dog from Stuart Larner had us all both laughing and developing richness of language and idea enough to give me goose bumps. Already looking forward to next year!

Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme… well, I guess I won’t be offering you any herbs, but Scarborough promises to be a lively place in April with the literature festival… try out some of the events between 24th and 27th of the month, taking place in various venues about town… my workshop takes place in the wonderful studio space run by artist Helen Birmingham.

at

The Studio Gallery, 5 Belle Vue Parade, Town Centre, Scarborough YO11 1SU

 The sea has cast its spell upon a long line of writers, from Homer to Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, from John Masefield ‘s Sea Fever  right up to the present day.  Now I  invite wave-riders, divers, fishermen, sailors, swimmers, paddlers, rock-pool scavengers, beachcombers and all water-lovers to splash in the magic with word-pools and mind-castles, working towards creating your own sea writing. Plus the chance to perform at the end of the session….

 Tickets for all ‘Flare performances’ are available from the Scarborough Flare office -open between 10 am and 4 pm every Tuesday to Friday from Thursday 13th March onwards. Studio 213 Woodend Creative Workspace (The Crescent, Scarborough, North Yorkshire YO11 2PW) Tel:  01723 384523.

Tickets – which are numbered – can be bought by going to Woodend at times when the Flare office is open: callers will see Kathy or Jo on reception who will ring for one of the team to come and help callers. Alternatively, you can ring the Flare office during the office’s opening hours or email:   sfteam@scarboroughflare.co.uk.

If tickets are available, they will – at request – be held for up to three days. Those who can’t pick up tickets themselves can write to: Scarborough Flare, c/o Bryn Stowe Associates, Studio 213, Woodend Creative Workspace,The Crescent, Scarborough, YO11 2PW with a cheque for the tickets reserved and an SAE.