tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8768621483587847052024-03-14T06:13:46.508+00:00Views from the bike shed... a treat not to be missed. Jim Perrin
The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.comBlogger445125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-62700190384879505452024-03-05T21:35:00.007+00:002024-03-06T14:25:38.677+00:00Awe and understanding.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xPX8sxMfHFMhxp8wRHnfkEXgfbbOIWtiYFbxigVvg8kNoDyDnQO6Hrxo9KY_iVXuW45JHk9K4hLNKUvAs-fXOjiUewZ0dD3BmPdqLLNycqrjXuqN7jEQdrZQbB2YpKL5H-F_RinozOmSgCt-5u0iOftIvdoyMS1guxKyxFyjgYGTZDMIOLtWGosYrJ9s/s3540/IMG_8973.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2385" data-original-width="3540" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xPX8sxMfHFMhxp8wRHnfkEXgfbbOIWtiYFbxigVvg8kNoDyDnQO6Hrxo9KY_iVXuW45JHk9K4hLNKUvAs-fXOjiUewZ0dD3BmPdqLLNycqrjXuqN7jEQdrZQbB2YpKL5H-F_RinozOmSgCt-5u0iOftIvdoyMS1guxKyxFyjgYGTZDMIOLtWGosYrJ9s/w400-h270/IMG_8973.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Me and my dog in the centre; my friend to the right - forty years ago now...</i><br /></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">This afternoon as I wandered from my lounge to the kitchen, I considered for a moment all the technology that’s become ubiquitous to our daily lives: the laptop by my chair, the TV and its remote, the microwave I popped a cup of coffee in to reheat… And it occurred to me, as the phone vibrated in my pocket, that I haven’t a clue how any of it works. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Like most of us, I can operate the gadgets we take for granted, and indeed, consider myself pretty nifty on the PC or scrolling through supposedly intuitive menus. But if you asked me how the contraptions actually function, at best I’d give a vaguely plausible narrative about digital signals or electrical circuits, before quickly drying up. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Which is why, as the microwave pinged and I read the message that had come through seconds earlier, I'd no real understanding of the science that underpinned what it said. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">My lifelong best friend; my best man (twice) and me his (once), is going through a stem cell transplant. The process is brutal and the odds not great, but the alternative even worse. He’s the same age as me, has two boys like mine, and today is his thirtieth wedding anniversary. I spent this morning walking on the beach; the air, sea and hills lifting my spirits. He was wired to a bed, drugs being pumped through his veins… </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Such is the lottery of life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">But thankfully, his medical treatment doesn’t work like that. I may not understand the process, and even less the deep workings of oncology, but I know it favours the fit and the courageous, and today, the deserving too.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">For the message from his wife read:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Unexpected good news and the best 30th Wedding Anniversary present…. K ‘may’ be coming home on Friday. Much earlier than what constitutes normal but his bloods are definitely starting to show new cells. Whoop.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Reading her words from afar, none of my ignorance mattered a jot. Rather, as I took in the news, I felt a profound sense of awe… and a heartfelt gratitude, that we live in the time and places that we do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Hold tight my friend and get well soon.</span></p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-58162906327209590162024-02-01T14:14:00.002+00:002024-02-01T14:26:02.341+00:00Winter meditations...<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0j4ggW8kMDZYnRaXlDLXVFoMR-0nF508AiMfZlSC3fffIuF8tmTwTd7V_S5q_iP8CKUOMMGWwjTaKhfwk_vFndsxzIzi8-2D-HXM_VAhUudZ47oHZHlfqzsbHC6ePcGdp6m_YXpAVDwc2qp6txPtXIlroJMwyt-yMOW-qrJAKqXeCIcWAXKcKYbgykKE9" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0j4ggW8kMDZYnRaXlDLXVFoMR-0nF508AiMfZlSC3fffIuF8tmTwTd7V_S5q_iP8CKUOMMGWwjTaKhfwk_vFndsxzIzi8-2D-HXM_VAhUudZ47oHZHlfqzsbHC6ePcGdp6m_YXpAVDwc2qp6txPtXIlroJMwyt-yMOW-qrJAKqXeCIcWAXKcKYbgykKE9=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></i></div><i><br /></i><i>Every month I edit an alpine newsletter - here is my introduction to February's issue</i><p></p><p>Twenty years ago, the philosopher Alain de Botton published a collection of essays titled The Art of Travel. They’re a witty and playful reflection on the pitfalls and disappointments of our urge to explore, to sightsee, to find ourselves or a putative nirvana…</p><p>If there’s a theme to his musings, it’s that the process of planning and anticipation is the chief pleasure of any adventure – thereafter, the reality invariably falls short of our idealising. Most of us, I expect, will have experienced something of the sort.</p><p>Perhaps this is why, whenever I make a trip to the mountains, I refuse to look at the weather until I arrive. To be clear, I still meticulously research what’s likely to be the case (a holiday of Scottish midges taught me that lesson) — but once the tickets are booked and we’re committed to going, I regard the forecast as nothing more than a source of potential disappointment.</p><p>My friends laugh at this eccentricity, regarding it a sort of superstition. Perhaps there’s some truth in that, but I’ve come to look forward to the element of surprise — and to making the most of whatever we encounter. This week I arrived in the Alps for some skiing, only to be greeted by biblical rain… but then again, for a kayaker, the river is running at its brim-full best.</p><p>And you know, for all I like Alain de Botton’s writing, I reckon he’s wrong that we’re doomed to disappointment. My travel memories are as much of people as they are of places; of what could never have been planned as much as what was. Last night the temperature fell by ten degrees, and we awoke to snowscape that I venture would surpass any expectation, or serve as nirvana for all but the most jaundiced or joyless of heart.</p><p>I’m glad that hills don’t dance to anyone’s tune.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-27229943532807504172023-11-29T12:32:00.023+00:002023-11-29T23:16:11.552+00:00Hiatus<p><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><b> </b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDhfj6jNGFX69nTEWubrStm14qht_NM8cmz7i2oQ-05MiQJOz8MuSvlvpaYnGbp3hD2n871DCTMkYoyj2HZfHsNamo_hgKJ-ioXVJ_DjnVUJkNeMJ9-hH_DOaT8HGRVP_ZEsMKZT6vSx3163fCJE_J_cybdVZA913JNouCVX9mTPGl_ffNfMko8k39oRl/s1691/IMG_0954.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1691" data-original-width="1268" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDhfj6jNGFX69nTEWubrStm14qht_NM8cmz7i2oQ-05MiQJOz8MuSvlvpaYnGbp3hD2n871DCTMkYoyj2HZfHsNamo_hgKJ-ioXVJ_DjnVUJkNeMJ9-hH_DOaT8HGRVP_ZEsMKZT6vSx3163fCJE_J_cybdVZA913JNouCVX9mTPGl_ffNfMko8k39oRl/w300-h400/IMG_0954.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Pausing mid-scramble <br /><br /></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> H</span><b>iatus<br /></b> noun (plural hiatuses)<br />a pause or break in continuity in a sequence or activity: <br /><i>there was a brief hiatus in the war with France</i><i>.</i></p><p>It's a dark irony that no sooner had my book on blogging been published, than my own practice was interrupted by a combination of events which left me caught between accepting the need for a break and the desire to make sense of it all through words. Had I followed the later course, I've no doubt I'd have tried to unpick the overwhelm with logic; the first refuge of the angry man... or at least this one.</p><p>It's not that reasoning isn't right which stopped me - by definition it sort of is. Rather, it's more that its not enough; for the truth requires the tears and tantrums as much as the whys and wherefores. And only when they are disclosed and settled (at least in our minds, if not on paper) can we properly begin afresh. Suppressing them altogether, would imply something less than human.</p><p>A week ago, I was in France, where I wrote a short piece for an alpine journal:</p><p><i>From the mezzanine window of my house I can see the ridge of Mont Billiat, its lower slopes clothed in the dazzling hues of an alpine autumn. Last night’s storm has flecked the summit with snow, accentuating the gullies and arêtes that make it an intimidating and serious winter climb. Today there was a walking group, maybe thirty strong, setting off from its base to make a tour of the surrounding forest.</i></p><p><i>The walkers were from a local club, and in broken English their leader told me this was the first autumn they’d scheduled regular meets since the pandemic. His mention of that period —which sometimes seems like history now — reminded of how wary we became of each other, as much we were of the virus. With obvious satisfaction, he added that their membership was now greater than before the lockdowns.</i></p><p><i>And how wonderful is that I thought. </i></p><p>The purpose of posting this extract here is, I suppose, to form a sort of hiatus too; a tangential break in the stream of thought; an interlude and yet a connection...</p><p>For in some ways, my respite from blogging reminds me of the current UK public enquiry into the Covid pandemic. An odd parallel perhaps, but an example (if you've followed proceedings) of how we seem necessarily programmed to vent our emotions before learning any lessons. Arguably, we need time too, to see things in perspective. </p><p>On the subject of which, it strikes me that those who (largely for political reasons) called for an immediate review were most definitely wrong in one respect... It will be many years before we can truly assess the collateral and counter-factual impacts of, say, lockdown and whether it was or wasn't a beneficial policy... But there I go again, reasoning away...</p><p>When what I need to do is pause and, metaphorically at least, go for that walk in the woods. Meanwhile, little Oscar is scratching at the door where his lead is kept— he would seem to know that the tide has turned.</p><p>It feels good to be back.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-2938384127077909582023-07-03T10:30:00.015+01:002023-12-02T12:37:28.517+00:00Finding radiance - memories of a friend. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtRDno2OQOltTuXc9PakBFPwGGyU3XR-hQQDosuGCm3pvhFgRON6TJ1TikdDyuZEvCR5D2zdjM4bDOhhEhf3wLSJAfSUDulnOsJYyDXzKlL0MaTkeeZAP4zVJ1UxxMlue_wgSmnAH5OF9ifeLbKqtDMgt4ESPftP_KGTEUjzG-iNGPt-1j31tw-tgc4cJ9/s4032/IMG_9647.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtRDno2OQOltTuXc9PakBFPwGGyU3XR-hQQDosuGCm3pvhFgRON6TJ1TikdDyuZEvCR5D2zdjM4bDOhhEhf3wLSJAfSUDulnOsJYyDXzKlL0MaTkeeZAP4zVJ1UxxMlue_wgSmnAH5OF9ifeLbKqtDMgt4ESPftP_KGTEUjzG-iNGPt-1j31tw-tgc4cJ9/w400-h300/IMG_9647.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riding tandem in Wales - many years ago now.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Last week, while walking in the mountains of the Haute Savoie, I received a call from Jane. An old friend needed to speak to me urgently, she said; there'd been an accident in which 'Pat' had been killed while riding her bike. </p><p>It took a moment to register the volley of information... a collision with a car... on holiday in Scotland... riding her 'solo'... Pat...?</p><p>And then it hit me.</p><p>For in the milliseconds it takes to compute, all becomes clear and irreversible — the future forever altered by something so swiftly related: a person gone, a chainlink lost; memories tinged with sorrow now... </p><p>In truth, I hadn't seen Pat or her husband Reg for perhaps two decades. And yet I'd rank them high among the seminal people in my life, inhabiting that curious space of persons whose impact extends far beyond their physical presence. </p><p>It's a time and place thing — the fatalistic collision of personality and circumstance that makes some encounters pivotal while consigning others (for all they may be closer, deeper and longer lasting) to a more marginal role in the trajectory of our lives.</p><p>The phrase that struck me most, when I spoke to my friend who relayed the detail, was '<i>riding her solo</i>'. It's a term that tandem riders use to distinguish between standard bikes and their two-up cousins. Pat and Reg were made for the latter; a strong couple in every sense, and leading lights in a gang of enthusiasts who've stayed loosely connected for almost forty years. </p><p>I always think that the bonds of shared experience are the hardest to break. In this case, forged by the tens of thousands of pedal revolutions we shared in Northumberland, the Dales and later Wales... And by those nights of laughter in hostels, the attempts at time trials, the coming to our wedding in Betws y Coed... the sheer delight of cocking a leg over a crossbar. </p><p>We used to call them 'Peg and Rat', they even adopted the moniker on their email address. For all I know it may still be the same. </p><p>Except it can't be, can it? Not ever again. </p><p>And all because of time and circumstance and the fatalistic collision of iron on skin and the breaking of bones that we could so easily allow to go round and round... and round again, by thinking <i>if only this </i>or <i>what if that</i> ... and how there, but for the grace of an effing God, go any of us...</p><p>I have no faith — or at least none of the religious sort — but I know this much: that unless we embrace life and live it to the fullest that we can, then it is nothing; that joy and meaning are as interconnected as the steersman and stoker of a tandem; that risk and reward are two sides of a coin that's weighted in favour of the latter, but just occasionally flips the way we didn't foresee. </p><p>Pat lived like that when I knew her well. It's how I'll recall her and perhaps how we might conjure a radiance in her memory.</p><p>Today —with some dark irony — I'm writing this tribute of a sorts from a hotel patio in Mallorca, an island that's a magnet for cyclists. All around me is sunshine and life; mountains and sea; youth and the future... She would have loved it here.</p><p>Of that I have no doubt... so too, that the wheels and gears of our lives will continue to turn, and, in time, just as smoothly as ever. </p><p>Just as it should be.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-15916076234463708312023-06-05T09:37:00.002+01:002023-06-05T09:37:40.495+01:00Writing inspirations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyByVHZL8YH11R35XUC4u026LzGknzeGexCw-nAna2MZyjJOQPXFuQWiPNXliC60KtJVKN4OzPHKWINw0qjP1o5IbcK_O6_T_ESFjXllRXTzpVZPO-DNXrFaGI3JNODlcB7WMDY58cLjzZAby1PkrPKUvUkqplSf6U7XDzJF5Z8hgbQxIqfm_wxzkiFA/s640/IMG_7573.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyByVHZL8YH11R35XUC4u026LzGknzeGexCw-nAna2MZyjJOQPXFuQWiPNXliC60KtJVKN4OzPHKWINw0qjP1o5IbcK_O6_T_ESFjXllRXTzpVZPO-DNXrFaGI3JNODlcB7WMDY58cLjzZAby1PkrPKUvUkqplSf6U7XDzJF5Z8hgbQxIqfm_wxzkiFA/w300-h400/IMG_7573.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Me walking in the Haute Savoie last year - photo by J Bunn</i></p><p>Every month I write the editorial for an alpine club journal. Here's a slightly adapted version of June's musings... It seems relevant to bloggers too.</p><p><b>Why writing inspires us.</b></p><p>This month we look to celebrate and encourage writing about our outdoor adventures. But before we do that, I wonder if you’ve ever considered why mountaineering has such a rich literary tradition; and why if you visit any decent book shop the number of its titles far exceeds those of most other – and more popular – sports?</p><p>The often-quoted explanation is that the ascent of mountains has an almost perfect narrative structure. We start with a quest, make preparations, gather friends and overcome difficulties…. Until, in the face of an ever-present jeopardy, we conclude with triumph or tragedy. This is the stuff of exploits and excitement we know from Odysseus to Indiana Jones.</p><p>But I’d suggest there is another, less obvious, reason.</p><p>And it’s that almost any adventurous journey involves not only an outer narrative but an inner one too. These are the tales of how mountains change us; how we overcome our fears, resolve our worries or come of age… Often, they remind us of the power of landscape; how it can heal, bring joy and help us see the world anew.</p><p>And the wonderful thing about these stories is that we can all experience them —and not just on the page.</p><p>Those of us who visit the hills regularly will know something of what I’m describing. How many of us will have started out with grand ambitions and returned humbled and yet better for the experience? Or perhaps we exceeded expectations and learned something of our inner strength. The point is that pursuing our passion is as much about the paths we take as the peaks we conquer.</p><p>Returning to writing, the revealing of our thoughts and feelings is not for everyone, but it's by doing so that we make the leap from descriptions that are merely competent to those that more deeply connect. And it is this that's the root of our great mountain literary tradition.</p><p>What, I wonder, are the stories – outer and inner – that you might choose to share?</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-64254719025185811452023-05-30T09:26:00.018+01:002023-07-04T14:51:29.658+01:00Home turf, here and now.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtl2ufjhczr2HH_WBgq854lW4MCyBrfVG2O3TWgPIThD9vj205H648b8TX6NSna6AxPMrmmi7KEL9wWTE2RyF7lEQDputX8-FCOGdvO2jKES0Z485Dda9PRrXaVpZK1rSK1eLj-r_yV3Ijg7BGz_fJXfeUqKyJVNcfxBiQmuc52PATar8jXpVWXwlJVg/s4032/IMG_9894.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtl2ufjhczr2HH_WBgq854lW4MCyBrfVG2O3TWgPIThD9vj205H648b8TX6NSna6AxPMrmmi7KEL9wWTE2RyF7lEQDputX8-FCOGdvO2jKES0Z485Dda9PRrXaVpZK1rSK1eLj-r_yV3Ijg7BGz_fJXfeUqKyJVNcfxBiQmuc52PATar8jXpVWXwlJVg/w400-h300/IMG_9894.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Cairn Briw, Preseli Hills</i></p>If you were to travel in a straight line from the Preseli Hills, the furthest point north before reaching Scotland would take you through my home county of Northumberland. And ironically, given their distance apart, you'd find the two landscapes have a certain similarity: mountains meeting the sea; purpling moorland that fades to fertile plains. Their histories are mirrored too: places where for millennia people have come to worship and trade as well as to toil.<p></p><p>Perhaps this resemblance - and my yearning for that wonderful border landscape - is why it has taken me so long to appreciate the Preselis for what they are? Despite knowing them for decades, it's only recently that have I taken the same joy in exploring these 'mountains in miniature ' as I did in wandering the hills of my youth.</p><p>Yesterday Jane and I walked to Carn Ingli, the 'hill of angels' above the Nevern estuary. Returning along its broad ridge, we passed Cairn Briw (which lives up to its translation as a shattered heap of stones) and looked across the sweep of Newport Bay. Standing there, I realised that I could name almost every cove and hamlet; I could trace the paths through the woodlands and know the chapels and cafes they would lead to... </p><p>It is thirty-five years since I came to Wales. And in that time I've come to realise that although the tendency to weigh one landscape against another is understandable (especially for those of us who have shifted our locus) it risks diminishing what's on our doorstep today, in favour of a nostalgia for times and places past. As we turned south to face the Golden Road of the Preseli’s higher peaks I recalled times and journeys that are as deeply a part of me as any from my younger days...</p><p>The sense of connection and separation of my 'two homes' will, I suspect, never quite go away: if I could create an Eden, it would be a combination of the two. But then that would be false and futile—a manufactured mash-up that would have no history or sense of itself. </p><p>Better, I think to live with what we have and love it for what it is.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-87496521210950615682023-05-26T12:23:00.025+01:002023-05-26T18:08:45.027+01:00Letting go... and its opposite<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgSI3gg2gY9Kgu4VyUuxOLKBcW_JcnM_mUSlBEbgFrjiNXI_zCWST85IX6OB-kE3Tiy5FSsEVoQuVZ4FqTUgDQXVw0Etmbj713Ts2eTeAr2jB9HFvbAnGzXpk7e2V8sqrgaEZmiMfamLYMth8Nz1IUDMXFbIuz-VyDTpEXkpsgdkDDSZV4a5qSoGhruA/s4032/IMG_9824.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgSI3gg2gY9Kgu4VyUuxOLKBcW_JcnM_mUSlBEbgFrjiNXI_zCWST85IX6OB-kE3Tiy5FSsEVoQuVZ4FqTUgDQXVw0Etmbj713Ts2eTeAr2jB9HFvbAnGzXpk7e2V8sqrgaEZmiMfamLYMth8Nz1IUDMXFbIuz-VyDTpEXkpsgdkDDSZV4a5qSoGhruA/w400-h300/IMG_9824.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Garn Fawr - the big cairn - near to Strumble Head</i></p><p>Some subjects are too big for blogging. </p><p>For weeks - months, in truth - I've been in a sort of Sargasso Sea with my writing; thoughts swirling and circling as I ponder not so much what to say as how (and where) to start. Until the other day my son asked me if I had a subject in mind and I replied without hesitation, <i>'letting go': </i>a response that hints at a desire to simplify and pare back to what's essential, important... immediate.</p><p>My father-in-law is dying. </p><p>Five weeks ago he suffered a stroke of sorts, or at least that's the simplest way to describe it. He's with us thanks only to tubes and the consummate care of his nurses. Occasional moments of lucidity are contextualised by his living in a delerium-induced world of hallucinations and fears. The prolongation of his life is undignified and not what he would want; the pain palpable to all who love(d) him...</p><p>We are selling our former family home.</p><p>And about time too in my view, but not in Jane's, who's taken eighteen months to come around to the emotional and physical connections its sale will sever. In terms of sentiment, I guess I'd cashed out early, but it's never that simple. We invest more than money in bricks and mortar despite our obsession with prices, equity and putative property ladders... </p><p>My son will soon be leaving.</p><p>In September, exam results allowing, my youngest boy will go to university — the same one I attended forty years ago; studying the same subject too. How life turns in circles I thought... Except I'm bereft at the prospect of his leaving; willing the wheel of his life to spin, yet yearning for a friction that would slow it just a little... </p><p>I'm getting older and feel it keenly.</p><p>Not so much in my body as my view of the future. When I left home at eighteen, my mid-twenties seemed an age away, retirement beyond any imaginable horizon. Now life's skyline feels closer and more focused; its infinite possibilities for the first time closing in. This is not a bad thing, nor one that I fear, but it involves making choices, not the least of which is the release of pretence as well as possessions...</p><p>We are here but an instant.</p><p>This week I went with Jane to Strumble Head, as elemental a place as any I know: the ocean, the wind, the neolithic hill fort and the spring squill on the path... Standing on its ancient rocks, you can see the curve of the earth and sense the juxtaposition of time's eternity and flux in every surge of the tide...</p><p>More than ever I'm determined.</p><p>Intent on navigating a course through the flotsam and jetsam of life's Sargasso Sea that I began with. To do so, I've realised, requires not a bucket list or some egotistical attempt at immortality — but a delicate balance of love and loss, of caution and creativity, of holding on and letting go...</p><p>As I said, some subjects are too big for blogging.</p><p><br /></p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-22872320690425158242023-05-01T16:27:00.001+01:002023-05-01T16:27:48.283+01:00Spring reflections and renewal.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJzpzcx4E3BNmCJDRwQI4Dd_UxF8I7hxmxtiHeQFX0qd__bdaiY4tohL8ZcpCj_sU7Ko5YUX16XpuETH8DfSKep5XAywpODgPfJldNSqY-Gubprc_z1cPpmdwjIR8a7D6uDkgZbRs2KpjpoXyor2QmLmYAzxuEN9EaNlZVf0QpGEPtM5Je7G7TUSgdw/s4032/IMG_7710.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJzpzcx4E3BNmCJDRwQI4Dd_UxF8I7hxmxtiHeQFX0qd__bdaiY4tohL8ZcpCj_sU7Ko5YUX16XpuETH8DfSKep5XAywpODgPfJldNSqY-Gubprc_z1cPpmdwjIR8a7D6uDkgZbRs2KpjpoXyor2QmLmYAzxuEN9EaNlZVf0QpGEPtM5Je7G7TUSgdw/w400-h300/IMG_7710.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring sunshine in the Haute Savoie</td></tr></tbody></table><p>If I could choose the manner and place of my last day on earth, I think a high contender would be springtime in the Alps. It’s true that summer is the season of my fondest climbs (limited though they are) and winter can be breathtaking in its majesty. As for the autumn, the reddening of the beech trees by my house are an annual – and joyful - reminder of the turning of the years.</p><p>But spring is extra special.</p><p>Two weeks ago there was a late snowfall in the Haute Savoie, ironically providing the best skiing of the season, just as the lifts were closing. Yet I didn’t go high; instead, I walked in the foothills, accompanied by the chatter of birdsong, the white noise of the meltwater and the soundtrack in my head, putting the world to rights as usual…</p><p>Everywhere, buds were sprouting, the meadows turning from dun to lush; a rogue hyacinth momentarily convincing me an orchid had bloomed. And am I alone in thinking that spring air smells (and tastes) like nothing else – a fragrance that can’t be bottled, but is free for us all to delight in.</p><p>Back home in Wales, it’s the season of yellows and creams, of gorse and blackthorn, cowslips and dandelion. But yesterday, as I sat in my garden, an iridescent speck landed on my chair; an Adonis Blue butterfly, and a perfectly formed reminder that soon the flowers in Pembrokeshire's hedgerows will be that colour too. It’s been a tough winter in more ways than one, but there’s no greater tonic than nature’s renewal.</p><p>It’s time, I thought, to start looking ahead; to plan for the summer and brighter days. Later, I opened my diary and smiled as its pages filled with possibilities. For this is not my last day on earth, rather, it’s the first of what remains. And while I may no longer have the vigour of youth, I’ve the same lust for life that was awakened in the Alps, almost fifty years ago.</p><p>Every year since, it’s spring which reminds me how precious that is.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-51439051757777608502023-04-02T22:29:00.008+01:002023-04-02T22:30:47.176+01:00Bike shed live...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCYKbf9BMZWAd3Gg4RpvcMRKICwVKJfZ7HhWJ1J0Qgll4U3fKy4OAdJh9EiUm464J51c1L6Bt5McRgEMdx0cCDucOFV_hmc6UarMHnQoHHXfp0Gyv-ZN2ITiihDLoCsBIw3CCWjyGSysRaamKYksjkbxBCPkvYzfVqwKDgOQkTjahXVqPn1Ab-sFoC2Q/s1035/Untitled.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="1035" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCYKbf9BMZWAd3Gg4RpvcMRKICwVKJfZ7HhWJ1J0Qgll4U3fKy4OAdJh9EiUm464J51c1L6Bt5McRgEMdx0cCDucOFV_hmc6UarMHnQoHHXfp0Gyv-ZN2ITiihDLoCsBIw3CCWjyGSysRaamKYksjkbxBCPkvYzfVqwKDgOQkTjahXVqPn1Ab-sFoC2Q/w400-h241/Untitled.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>As bloggers, we share our words but seldom our faces and even less so our voices. But when it comes to books, there's a tradition of authors promoting their work. Last week I did just that with an online launch of <a href="https://cinnamonpress.com/views-from-the-bike-shed/">Views From The Bike Shed - and a writer's guide to blogging</a>.</p><p>I often struggle with publicity but was delighted to be supported by blogging friends and humbled that some truly great writers took the time to attend too. As usual, our discussion started with blogging but ended up touching on writing and the world in general... There were some interesting questions that included the importance of blogging, whether AI will make creative writing less relevant, and how I approach writing from life.</p><p>The launch was recorded by my publisher Cinnamon Press - and you can view it <a href="https://cinnamonpress.com/2023/03/30/launching-views-from-the-bike-shed/">here.</a></p><p>Or try this long link. <a href="https://cinnamonpress.com/2023/03/30/launching-views-from-the-bike-shed/">https://cinnamonpress.com/2023/03/30/launching-views-from-the-bike-shed/</a><br /></p><p>I'd love to hear what you think about it.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-72105965866403591122023-03-27T22:18:00.012+01:002023-03-28T08:29:46.803+01:00The threads we weave <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLA__7ez2ZD2_Z21bODJe4KqvHJ3jkagp8uudMRCn9u1rgq_vRZnPpmVyJT5U17hN-BYRDTZaQgZBInuRI_uD4IAQM4LyA72Mh8IaFh_Fc1LNYSZrW-DTq4t59Jy2GvSy8lEiayk8ZLvkFBvSwThp8q4UWMv8D0K4aXdXDTFXJ8M-MumQTamOVy0jFpQ/s3939/IMG_9264.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2954" data-original-width="3939" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLA__7ez2ZD2_Z21bODJe4KqvHJ3jkagp8uudMRCn9u1rgq_vRZnPpmVyJT5U17hN-BYRDTZaQgZBInuRI_uD4IAQM4LyA72Mh8IaFh_Fc1LNYSZrW-DTq4t59Jy2GvSy8lEiayk8ZLvkFBvSwThp8q4UWMv8D0K4aXdXDTFXJ8M-MumQTamOVy0jFpQ/w400-h300/IMG_9264.heic" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">Cap de Formentor, Mallorca</p><p>Every month I write the editorial for an alpine e-journal. It's a task I enjoy, but this weekend, as I drafted my column, I had the niggling worry my words weren't concerned with mountaineering at all. I’d just returned from a cycle camp in Mallorca, which although an active break, isn't really of interest to climbers. And yet, by the time I’d finished writing, I realised my time there was just as relevant as any report of snow conditions in the Alps.</p><p>For no sooner had I signed into our hotel in Alcudia than one of the organisers greeted me with a hug and the news that her daughter was having a baby. I was delighted too, because I’ve known Jacquie and her husband Andy for over thirty years, going back to days when we rode tandems and would meet at time trials around the country. As fate would have it, we’d end up living in the same town, our children racing and riding together, just as we had.</p><p>And then there was Kate, who I’ve known almost as long – and Kirsty and Mark who once holidayed at our house, and Cathy and Clive, relative newcomers at a decade’s friendship… I could go on, but you get the picture. </p><p>My eight days in Mallorca saw me lose half a stone, ride 400 miles, and rejoice in a landscape where lemon trees are as common as laurels here in Wales. But, what most gladdened my heart wasn't so much the sunshine or even the miles we covered, as the sense of a weaving of threads – the warp and weft of the friendships that run through our lives — in this case, patterned by a passion for bikes, but it could just as easily have been bezique.</p><p>Which is where the relevance to climbing lies. </p><p>Reflecting on the activities I have loved all my life, I was struck by how bound they are to the friendships they've fostered. The same pattern occurs time and again, whether it be walking or kayaking or skiing or more recently, motorcycling. Even my writing, a solitary pursuit if there was one, is intimately connected to those who read and comment and trust... </p><p>...and tell me to stop when I'm going on too long! </p><p>But before I do, I suppose what I realised in drafting my notes this weekend, is actually pretty obvious. That whether I'm cycling in Mallorca, climbing in the Alps, or writing in West Wales, it's the people that matter as much as the practice. For our true passions, whatever they may be, are inevitably bonded to those we share our experiences with —and to separate the two would be to diminish both sides of the equation. </p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-79148013131784887972023-03-17T09:02:00.005+00:002023-03-17T19:56:52.729+00:00An invitation to join me online... please register!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdgzUQ23F1F_qz4Hj9qb_6N4hb6bISKO5kOsDj0Nw2VwLiZ8Hu-RQDS2QdyuKqsJ5QUix0ANpgIGjIyYGJaf0wZkzEePo6WkmVK4e6f568bMy17IR2vQp99f8hd4Tjc61dntWdt9teS4UwDhP8mIJQiwfnbTU8ZV4wB44Y5dmKxrjqoYlU9ivDasHcFw/s2000/BBF4FF51-2B32-41C8-91E8-2EC1887A715E.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1438" data-original-width="2000" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdgzUQ23F1F_qz4Hj9qb_6N4hb6bISKO5kOsDj0Nw2VwLiZ8Hu-RQDS2QdyuKqsJ5QUix0ANpgIGjIyYGJaf0wZkzEePo6WkmVK4e6f568bMy17IR2vQp99f8hd4Tjc61dntWdt9teS4UwDhP8mIJQiwfnbTU8ZV4wB44Y5dmKxrjqoYlU9ivDasHcFw/w400-h288/BBF4FF51-2B32-41C8-91E8-2EC1887A715E.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>My new book - <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Views-Bike-Shed-writers-blogging/dp/1788648048/ref=sr_1_2?crid=3HRMA6OKOY8U0&keywords=views+from+the+bike+shed&qid=1679043545&sprefix=views+From+%2Caps%2C134&sr=8-2">available here </a></i></div></i><p>Earlier this month my latest book <i>Views From The Bike Shed - and a writer's guide to blogging</i> was published by Cinnamon Press. Since its launch I've been delighted by the positive feedback and messages of support from those who've read it.</p><p>I've always been clear that my blogging and the book is not about me. Indeed, I'm especially keen that it gives other bloggers a greater profile, showing that our craft can be a serious form as well as a fun and engaging way to connect with others.</p><p><b>So can I shamelessly ask for your support!</b></p><p>My publisher is hosting an online launch on Thursday 30 March (7.30 p.m UK time). At the event, I will be reading from the book, answering questions and encouraging a discussion on blogging and what it means. It would be wonderful if some of my blogging friends and followers registered to attend too. </p><p>There is a small registration fee of £2.00 but in return, you get a discount code for the book (and others from Cinnamon). If you can't make the time then the event will be recorded and you can catch it later.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEideKoWjU7r3COc-r7BX3H6_hO2j6sLC8HZgyHbmahy_7jTz5Ev317t4a2xSEPBMp2R1i3YVb4TxliwhfIUTmfKs3VBMTtd2CGBDY5Bro-KzLRs4EBHItb-UNIApyAtxIZQ1mT7ifRdJJqyIRg7AYipRx9W1dpG-CQBqLi3kCAkBFwruJhLJ6F4w_nQLg/s3841/IMG_7411.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3841" data-original-width="2881" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEideKoWjU7r3COc-r7BX3H6_hO2j6sLC8HZgyHbmahy_7jTz5Ev317t4a2xSEPBMp2R1i3YVb4TxliwhfIUTmfKs3VBMTtd2CGBDY5Bro-KzLRs4EBHItb-UNIApyAtxIZQ1mT7ifRdJJqyIRg7AYipRx9W1dpG-CQBqLi3kCAkBFwruJhLJ6F4w_nQLg/w150-h200/IMG_7411.HEIC" width="150" /></a></div>To be honest, I feel terribly self-conscious asking for support, but if you've enjoyed Views From The Bike Shed over the years - and if you love blogging - please can I ask you to sign up. It would make such a difference to see some faces from the blogosphere - but perhaps more to the point, it would enrich the discussion to have other regular bloggers there too. <p></p><p>And PS - as a special treat, I might even allow my Oscar to join me online!<br /></p><p><b><span style="color: red; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://us02web.zoom.us/webinar/register/WN_k3KsQOnXSiGRwAtaGGzMrw" style="background-color: #fcff01;" target="_blank">Registration link - click here</a></span></b></p><p><b>Below is the bumpf from my publisher </b></p><p>We are thrilled to be launching Views from the Bike Shed by Mark Charlton, the next in our series of books for writers from our imprint Down Deep Books.</p><p>For Mark Charlton, blogging is ‘a road of chance and discovery’, one which has shaped the person he’s become; a journey that is ‘happenstance on acid.’</p><p>In Views From The Bike Shed he not only shares a selection of engaging, articulate and deeply-felt posts from the eponymous blog, but also charts his praxis as a writer. Advocating for blogging as a process and form that deserves serious attention, Charlton shows how it changes our writing and opens up unexpected opportunities along the way.</p><p>Come and explore</p><p>-- why blogging is such a rich resource in our writerly and human toolbox</p><p>-- how writing from our experience can become an inclusive and authentic means of connecting with readers</p><p>-- blogging as a vital meditation on the ways writers can push their own boundaries through this medium.</p><p>And more...</p><p>Come to listen and come with your questions.</p><p>The event will begin at 7.30 p.m. on Thursday March 30 and will include a Q&A session with the online audience after the reading.</p><p>We’re asking you to register so that we can manage the online space and there’s a small registration fee of £2 which you can offset by using the discount code to buy the pamphlets, available at the launch.</p><p><span style="color: red; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://us02web.zoom.us/webinar/register/WN_k3KsQOnXSiGRwAtaGGzMrw" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #fcff01;">You can register here</span> </a></b></span>and we look forward to seeing you.</p><p><br /></p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-44240110786015531152023-03-08T08:13:00.002+00:002023-03-08T08:13:35.721+00:00Ticks and trails<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS5zPU3uOwsuNOsF6tuvOrtJd8hNeEmtLW0LhZOjTkT6kkoIvwnPmXtXfaXH4rQJ46KxJNJ7bhGGmslqwKe5Cyc7c-2wEWQKtrMlLhFgpRDLrd9Mk5zJD6VchXYRSSAuD5zIpfzLN71O4ANrKpKj7-Tqw2TYc1awmxedVFUKWZ4xxgYGJ-tiFnw54ELQ/s1286/IMG_7939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1286" data-original-width="964" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS5zPU3uOwsuNOsF6tuvOrtJd8hNeEmtLW0LhZOjTkT6kkoIvwnPmXtXfaXH4rQJ46KxJNJ7bhGGmslqwKe5Cyc7c-2wEWQKtrMlLhFgpRDLrd9Mk5zJD6VchXYRSSAuD5zIpfzLN71O4ANrKpKj7-Tqw2TYc1awmxedVFUKWZ4xxgYGJ-tiFnw54ELQ/w300-h400/IMG_7939.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">Walking in the Haute Savoie</p><p>Recently, I was telling a friend how I planned to walk a path north from Chamonix towards Lake Geneva this June. It would take about 6 days and I wondered if he’d like to come along.</p><p>‘Oh, excellent,’ he replied, ‘that’s the GR5 isn’t it?’</p><p>Not exactly, I explained, as I thought we’d make it up a bit. What’s more, the mountain huts on the official trail are always busy and there’s a boring section that’s easily avoided. If we stayed a little to the west there’s a much quieter route to follow.</p><p>This suggestion didn’t go down so well. And what followed was a candid conversation, the central point of which was that I was keen to find a path less travelled, while my pal would rather follow the official way; if not, he’d probably pass.</p><p>It would be easy to dismiss my friend’s approach as overly purist. But I think to do so would risk denying that for many people walking (or cycling) named trails is part of their motivation. Aside from the ease of planning and availability of guidebooks, ‘official routes’ offer the prospect of a shared experience, as well as the satisfaction of completing a challenge that others can relate to. Indeed, my first ever long-distance walk was Wainwright’s coast-to-coast, the most popular trail in Britain.</p><p>But I do sometimes wonder if we’ve taken it too far.</p><p>There are now hundreds – yes, hundreds! - of long-distance footpaths in the UK, many of which you have to question the purpose they’re serving. How many folk, for example, have walked the 630-mile Cistercian way linking the monasteries of Wales? Do niche trails like these really justify the way markers and even notation on our maps?</p><p>The proliferation of marked tours is much the same in the Alps, where to be fair the consequences of personal route finding can be more severe – if perhaps also more rewarding. In the end, my friend and I compromised and all is set for an adventure this summer. Most importantly, we‘ve agreed to take it as it comes...</p><p>Which is good. Because I think we both realised that if the ‘tick’ or ‘trail’ becomes more important than the time together, we’d be veering off route regardless.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-49616590767712762142023-02-26T21:59:00.006+00:002023-02-26T22:21:19.100+00:00Not-a-lotta' otter!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlKQ6F4M8uH-UOItxkZqG2I_qq_MA4sPSDTz6Ycio-gJptArecSX2BA_24kjqsneqUYDTwgeY9RJXM75PJT_Eb0yNdB761r3efQ6I2xlYIwdf219vaIm2BaWxm7m3n2h-ftZsDA369cgzDbluikboy3sEIAidzSEOq5W56C1utVbdr13_X8n3PKZScQ/s1125/IMG_9160.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="842" data-original-width="1125" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlKQ6F4M8uH-UOItxkZqG2I_qq_MA4sPSDTz6Ycio-gJptArecSX2BA_24kjqsneqUYDTwgeY9RJXM75PJT_Eb0yNdB761r3efQ6I2xlYIwdf219vaIm2BaWxm7m3n2h-ftZsDA369cgzDbluikboy3sEIAidzSEOq5W56C1utVbdr13_X8n3PKZScQ/w400-h300/IMG_9160.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />In a lifetime of nature watching I'd never seen an otter in the wild. I've found their tracks, identified their scat, and missed their presence by seconds on countless kayak trips and river walks. Where I live there are regular sightings (increasing over the years) and yet always I seemed to be in the right place at the wrong time, or whatever combination resulted in a no-show!<p></p><p>Yesterday it seemed was no different...</p><p>Jane and I walked for almost two hours around the lakes and streams at Bosherston in Pembrokeshire - an otter 'hot spot' according to the National Trust. Not that we expected any luck. Indeed, so sure were we that we'd not see one that we reminisced about the days when our older boys were small and we used to say that if anyone spotted an otter (verified of course) then we'd reward them with £100. This was mainly a ruse to keep them occupied but had they been successful I'd have gladly paid up.</p><p>As the sun began to dip, it seemed our bank balance would be safe for another day...</p><p>Until driving home we passed the bridge at Pembroke and Jane noticed that a crowd had gathered with cameras at the ready. </p><p>'I wonder if they've spotted an ...' she said? </p><p>Stop the car! I cried.</p><p>A quick u-turn and I was out, running towards the bridge, iPhone in hand, scanning the millpond for movement... And sure enough, there in full view of the town centre was my first ever otter spot!. Not exactly the wilderness location I'd imagined, but who cares about that. I beckoned Jane from the car and she managed a sighting too. </p><p> So sorry boys, but mum and dad got there first - we'll share that hundred quid on a treat together. </p><p>Meanwhile, I wonder if otters will now be like buses - you wait all day and then three come along at once!</p><p>I rather hope so.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-48363429244527771722023-02-23T21:13:00.008+00:002023-02-26T22:22:06.392+00:00Views From The Bike Shed - and a writer's guide to blogging <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuxSNvslvcs2QthabcMSf1IDK3A5kpGxwPsnN9r4betxjw5-iMrQYe83mmUIl1tMqHweRqgnQQV_vd5QsOBnfUpQw0wrh-ZQ5oMN1Gem9_19xaw2HL7nzzWlyc_2iwF9gO8i3PCapRMdltB7wrzfek2_xd4iBtgk3FeUUFp_2vt9wlR2thNPTdGPMsAg/s499/41y1Ps66quL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuxSNvslvcs2QthabcMSf1IDK3A5kpGxwPsnN9r4betxjw5-iMrQYe83mmUIl1tMqHweRqgnQQV_vd5QsOBnfUpQw0wrh-ZQ5oMN1Gem9_19xaw2HL7nzzWlyc_2iwF9gO8i3PCapRMdltB7wrzfek2_xd4iBtgk3FeUUFp_2vt9wlR2thNPTdGPMsAg/w429-h640/41y1Ps66quL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="429" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To be released, 1 March 2023</td></tr></tbody></table><br />It's been quite a journey...<p></p><p>But, at long last, I'm delighted to confirm that my new book will be released on the 1st of March. </p><p><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Views-Bike-Shed-writers-blogging/dp/1788648048/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3ITP0ZYR8QVO9&keywords=views+from+the+bike+shed&qid=1677184422&sprefix=views+from+the+bike+shed%2Caps%2C106&sr=8-1"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Views From The Bike Shed</span></a> is a retrospective collection of posts from this blog. Spanning almost fifteen years of my writing, it includes a series of new essays that make the case for blogging as a form that deserves more serious attention. </p><p>I've never ceased to be amazed at how in pressing 'publish' our words take on a life of their own. Views From The Bike Shed may be a tiny corner of the internet, but through its online pages, I've reached people and made connections I never dreamed were possible. That my posts have now found their way into print is confirmation of blogging's unending capacity to delight and surprise. </p><p>In truth, I'm immensely proud too, for the collection showcases a body of writing I have loved creating and hence crafted with care. I'd like to think it demonstrates that blogs can be more than mere diaries or publicity vehicles. Above all else, I hope it shows how, through blogging, we tell not only our own stories but also those of the world around us and the events (big and small) which shape our lives.</p><p>Since its very beginning, I've tried on this blog to write 'from' my life rather than simply to record it. In this sense, Views From the Bike Shed is not, and has never been, about me — rather, it's about us all. That my publisher has shown faith in such a vision is a joy and privilege. My thanks to them and to all my blogging friends and readers who've made this possible.</p><p>Meanwhile, our journey is far from over — which is good news, because I'm hoping the book will bind us even tighter.</p><p style="text-align: center;">---------</p><p><span style="color: #0000ee;"><i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Views-Bike-Shed-writers-blogging/dp/1788648048/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3ITP0ZYR8QVO9&keywords=views+from+the+bike+shed&qid=1677184422&sprefix=views+from+the+bike+shed%2Caps%2C106&sr=8-1">Views From The Bike Shed, and a writer's guide to blogging</a></i> </span>is available to order from all bookstores and online retailers and direct from my publisher <a href="https://cinnamonpress.com/views-from-the-bike-shed/">Cinnamon Press</a> - or order it from your local library!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOk7Kxt8gWILTOU_ycHlX_JkaNoGmEnMf8yeXn-hmmcf9LO-WxYbKYBJGBzSDoB24GEHqa3ysiWjfH9jcdN2A7X_1jiI7Aq2yRhhx_ArG3gcn-MEm9MNZaRsSHFLF6Q1mEWRnJxv9ghSSFJKQatSm6W7j-X1bukVIo6-RKmQCUkjs_Zl6O5YpNNXOa4g/s2000/BBF4FF51-2B32-41C8-91E8-2EC1887A715E.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1438" data-original-width="2000" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOk7Kxt8gWILTOU_ycHlX_JkaNoGmEnMf8yeXn-hmmcf9LO-WxYbKYBJGBzSDoB24GEHqa3ysiWjfH9jcdN2A7X_1jiI7Aq2yRhhx_ArG3gcn-MEm9MNZaRsSHFLF6Q1mEWRnJxv9ghSSFJKQatSm6W7j-X1bukVIo6-RKmQCUkjs_Zl6O5YpNNXOa4g/w400-h288/BBF4FF51-2B32-41C8-91E8-2EC1887A715E.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-19407029173012998522023-02-03T08:45:00.002+00:002023-02-26T22:22:50.788+00:00Lapses and love of our memories <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-PchKLC-CYUVxJ0ZNRhVT4d3SWqqqMbkTMcji8qCKPHFKeP4C2odTwPHGfuriRa4nk8emhceF_I5WeAfhULD2S_iHv729ts5QblQ-n7Nl7LVNm-VaJFliLGkWhfbjpFNUv3MXHdCcpGp18gy1Gblsrt-Xzm2o7_rHWkLCpuH8lNPRxZ_4HkJYqTBtw/s3023/IMG_8964.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3023" data-original-width="2207" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-PchKLC-CYUVxJ0ZNRhVT4d3SWqqqMbkTMcji8qCKPHFKeP4C2odTwPHGfuriRa4nk8emhceF_I5WeAfhULD2S_iHv729ts5QblQ-n7Nl7LVNm-VaJFliLGkWhfbjpFNUv3MXHdCcpGp18gy1Gblsrt-Xzm2o7_rHWkLCpuH8lNPRxZ_4HkJYqTBtw/w293-h400/IMG_8964.HEIC" width="293" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the summit of the Serles on that first visit to Austria.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Early in the new year, my wife was describing to our friends how a house in a nearby village was being converted into a restaurant.</p><p>Interjecting, in a mansplaining sort of way, I added that it was actually the old pub, going on to confidently describe its former décor and ambience. Jane cast her eyes to the ceiling and indeed said nothing as we drove past it the following morning… When sure enough, there it was, the Ship Inn open for business and next door to a house under scaffolding.</p><p>Something similar occurred a few weeks earlier when in writing an article I described the Dresdner Hütte as my first ever alpine refuge: it literally changed my life, I said. And yet on checking my diaries, I was reminded that we’d first stayed at the Maria Waldrast hostel, climbing Mount Serles before heading down to the Stubai Valley.</p><p>This fallibility of memory is common and even used as a literary device by writers — it’s known as the unreliable narrator. Perhaps by fessing up, I’m hoping for a redemption of sorts and seeking to make a connection by sharing a failing that many will recognise, especially those greying around the temples.</p><p>But the interesting thing is that despite these lapses, I’d suggest our memories are still real and valuable in their way. My description of the Ship Inn’s interior turned out to be accurate to a tee. And while I was wrong about the chronology of my first visit to Austria, it’s true that for forty years, those recollections have shaped my life and passion for the mountains.</p><p>It seems to me that in summoning our experience, what matters most is not so much the absolute veracity as the impression it leaves and the enrichment this brings. As my art teacher once said when I was struggling with a likeness, 'Nobody knows what <i>Lisa del Giocondo</i> looked like, yet the Mona Lisa is a brilliant portrait regardless'. </p><p>Of course, there are times when accuracy matters, not least in, say, navigation. As I was reminded this week after confidently heading down a shortcut to one of the quieter lifts of the Les Gets ski resort… Half an hour and two long diversions later, we eventually arrived at our intended destination!</p><p>Oh well, at least the view – and the snow – was spectacular.</p><p>* <i>This post is a slightly revised version of an article for The Austrian Alpine Club (UK).</i></p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-7170498459771964342023-01-05T09:54:00.002+00:002023-02-26T22:23:34.178+00:00New Year Re-slow-lutions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtHc5k8d-c7KVm51ZM8Is7HgixURa73L6YXj_lkpfjCuW27SjrLyBZqBdmqGQndYmSlWQUDOQD9DZug2JyGsquW_05sg-diAnGa_B9kKpn8eVTmp-Z79YRiaoIukT4Hc7w1FAp4bQ1GurDPRwIIQRyuDhZ3k7tArp_EHvOFcPIY7FstBt6JnSAezInKQ/s2883/IMG_6087.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2869" data-original-width="2883" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtHc5k8d-c7KVm51ZM8Is7HgixURa73L6YXj_lkpfjCuW27SjrLyBZqBdmqGQndYmSlWQUDOQD9DZug2JyGsquW_05sg-diAnGa_B9kKpn8eVTmp-Z79YRiaoIukT4Hc7w1FAp4bQ1GurDPRwIIQRyuDhZ3k7tArp_EHvOFcPIY7FstBt6JnSAezInKQ/w400-h398/IMG_6087.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Wide horizons for the new year</i></p><p>In the days when my children were toddlers, I remember railing against the limitations that little ones invariably impose. Let’s go to the beach this morning I’d say, then take a walk in the afternoon, and maybe eat out in the evening… I wanted to cram our holidays with activity; show that planning and persistence were all that was needed… It invariably ended in tears.</p><p>And I remember also, one rainy day when the kids were grizzling and my good friend pulling me quietly aside to say, ‘You know, Mark, it’s okay take a breather.’ His mantra, borne of raising two boisterous boys, was ‘do one thing well – and be happy it’s enough.’</p><p>It took me years to see the wisdom in that advice, and even longer to learn that slowing down wasn’t the same as giving in. Even now, supposedly semi-retired, I work every day and have a diary that’s too full to fit in all I’d like. There’ll always be a part of me that wants to push at the boundaries.</p><p>But I’ve learned too, that in the mountains especially, there are times when we must hold back. The temptation to press on can be lethal if taken too far, as can ignoring the signs of fatigue or over estimating the ability of others. Perhaps worst of all, is the urge to snatch at chances for fear they’ll not come again. Sadly, I’ve seen all too closely the dark side of those desires.</p><p>Which I’m aware is a rather down-beat opener to January.</p><p>But I’m conscious also (as I write this in late December) that this holiday season will see millions returning to the Alps for the first time since the pandemic. The resorts will be buzzing and the temptation to hit the slopes hard irrepressible for some—me included. My children — all adults now — will be with us at our house in France, together with partners and friends. How lucky are we to have this precious time together?</p><p>Which is why I’m planning to treasure it. And to do so by savouring ‘each’ rather than ‘every’ possible moment. The same goes for my plans this coming year. I want to walk the Tour du Mont Blanc, to climb a dozen classic routes, to get back in my kayak, run ten miles every week… but I know that I can’t.</p><p>So instead, I’m going to choose one of those and be content. Or more likely – for old habits die hard — one thing in its turn. This year, I celebrated my sixty-first birthday and am more keenly aware than ever, that despite life’s dandelion clock, there’s still abundant joy to be had in the mountains… so long as we slow down enough to enjoy it.</p><p>Wishing you a wonderful year.</p><p><i>This post has also been published as an editorial in the Austrian Alpine Club's monthly journal</i></p><p><br /></p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-77386855829127628782022-12-10T10:45:00.025+00:002023-02-26T22:24:18.831+00:00Back up and running<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOZsRCQZl5brryaEWpBfIbfTvtqiAOqsQVdhM98KUmhGy8mD2RxkPCGXv_fFiUar4EBBVrOOd3zVwYXJeSWYUqkH4JJ9vrAIKQyq6ClOqcEZoO1x7M4K1cDTbRLfTneUk62L3dDOtjteMcsDb1ZDp_hXWTy5HV6uYhn-1kWR-LdBqQNuCmbsHnv9bSbA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOZsRCQZl5brryaEWpBfIbfTvtqiAOqsQVdhM98KUmhGy8mD2RxkPCGXv_fFiUar4EBBVrOOd3zVwYXJeSWYUqkH4JJ9vrAIKQyq6ClOqcEZoO1x7M4K1cDTbRLfTneUk62L3dDOtjteMcsDb1ZDp_hXWTy5HV6uYhn-1kWR-LdBqQNuCmbsHnv9bSbA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Back where he belongs</i></div><p></p><p>Four weeks ago my little whippet fractured his skull in a head-on full-speed collision that left me feeling sick with despair. Fearful that my companion of these last three years was about to leave me, I did little more than hold him close and worry every waking hour. If he could make it through the night (and then next...) he'd be okay I reasoned.</p><p>But what did I know? The poor mite was in agony, confused and barely able to raise his head. For days the swelling blooded his eyes and he'd whimper if I left the room. What must have been going through his mind? </p><p>I often wonder how dogs see the world. </p><p>Pretty simply, I expect. We posit them greater intelligence than they have, anthropomorphise their behaviours and interpret their responses from our human perspective. I laugh at owners having one-way conversations with their dogs... <i>don't bark Winston, where're your manners </i>... only to do the same myself. </p><p>Actually, I don't quite. But if it's just me and Oscar in the house I conduct a running commentary on what I'm doing and thinking — or even writing. He sits there impassive as I read each sentence and its intonations aloud — the only whippet to know the pause of a semi-colon!</p><p>Not that he'd understand its meaning.</p><p>But of course, what dogs do comprehend —and repay in abundance —is our companionship, our care and our trust. Perhaps it's this that bonds us so tightly. For words between us can never be more than superficial — at best, a few nouns and commands that set boundaries or shape routines. </p><p>Trust, on the other hand, is mutual and profound.</p><p>So too the joy of co-presence; of shared experience, despite our different perceptions. To me the beach is as much sky and memory as it is sand and sea; to him, its smell and sound unfiltered — a place to romp and socialise ... or at least, that's what I sense.</p><p>Which is perhaps enough...</p><p>Yesterday, we went back to the place of his accident. And he ran and ran... in circle after circle... chasing and returning... fully in his element... checking me in mine. In many ways, it was our most delightful walk this year. Certainly, it drew my broadest smile — for you know what...</p><p>He's still the fastest dog on the beach. </p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-61628321763343696482022-11-29T10:53:00.003+00:002023-02-26T22:24:50.284+00:00Black Friday blues...<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOSd9Sc37DfIGm163jmQWR__r_FwG9kjQEJZjlt_t4_84lGxAHFGBD8xkR5u4LImc6nkHMSaq92lVpzKMXoQSFzi7Jncw5X0iePNSn_a653hEbLLK9XHmfZxIiLL5VlzEEi_UiBGiHKaq-ULDsvMIKElFKKHNNfSWzzknanxOygaCt8lRGnKi9Tnm9nQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2254" data-original-width="2732" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOSd9Sc37DfIGm163jmQWR__r_FwG9kjQEJZjlt_t4_84lGxAHFGBD8xkR5u4LImc6nkHMSaq92lVpzKMXoQSFzi7Jncw5X0iePNSn_a653hEbLLK9XHmfZxIiLL5VlzEEi_UiBGiHKaq-ULDsvMIKElFKKHNNfSWzzknanxOygaCt8lRGnKi9Tnm9nQ" width="364" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How many coats does one man need?</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I write a column for an alpine club newsletter each month and thought I'd share my latest missive here on Views From The Bike Shed too. <p></p><p><b>November reflections</b></p><p>Last week, when moving my motorbike in the garage its handlebars caught in the pocket of a jacket hanging nearby. Moments later, the sound of ripping fabric confirmed that my latest Gortex waterproof would now be sporting an extra-large vent across its front. After a few choice expletives, I put the bike on its stand and proceeded to remove all the coats from the rack.</p><p>Can you guess how many there were?</p><p>I’ll not tell you exactly, but let’s just say it was well into double figures. Which isn’t so bad, I reasoned, because, first of all, there are the seasons to consider: winter storm wear, summer showerproofs and autumn or spring mid-weights that double for trips to the pub. Then there’s that retro Scandinavian one, made of what we used to call poly-cotton but now some fancy pants equivalent. And lastly, there are a few that these days fit a bit snugly round the middle but I’m holding onto out of hope.</p><p>What's more, these are just my walking coats. There’s also the cycling kit, and the kayaking paraphernalia (a whole different world, believe me) — not to mention the ski gear or the various duvet jackets and the body warmers and the pack-a-macs and ponchos… Did I mention fleeces…? Honestly, the marketing guys must rub their hands when they see me coming!</p><p>But let me admit a little secret.</p><p>For all the kit that I own, the jacket I use the most is a twenty-five-year-old anorak that sports fraying seams, questionable grease stains and pockets full of sand. It’s much the same with footwear (another sad story, but we’ll not go there) for which, despite having every possible variation, I’ll most days opt for my handy pair of slip-on jungle mocs.</p><p>In fact, when I think about it, almost everything I reach for first is more battered than beautiful. My climbing gear is housed in a forty-year-old rucksack; my hat of choice came with me to Wales (so three decades ago) and I use the same pair of track pants that I did when I ran the Cardiff half-marathon in the Nineties.</p><p>Actually, they really could do with replacing…</p><p>But this year, as all those Black Friday offers come flooding in, I’m determined… indeed, I’m resolved, steadfast, hell-bent and adamant… that I won’t buy anything which isn’t absolutely necessary or an unmissable bargain (of course) or would boost my confidence or make me look slimmer or fill that gap between autumn and winter when the weather’s not quite one thing or the other…</p><p>Those marketing guys won’t be rubbing their hands quite so gleefully now, will they?</p><p>Have a great December.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-49767181505170816992022-11-19T21:47:00.003+00:002023-02-26T22:27:58.435+00:00Metal heads<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTqdoVOiSQ1zx_Gug0CjBC9kQyUPPcdtCntR45vml1iA8sl3XsAXXlBswc7JOTHvSXnRApl2QG1WaQ52AlzBpzMrI24PB6rNi9LYJdLj8ibzcWYIT8gd3jlDJunLxvVOjJvcoIahu_eM5qEnmmpGMAN_lirlrCgCNSuUnuAa_051F2Ly_d6hHOGW8xQ/s1083/Untitled.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1083" data-original-width="830" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTqdoVOiSQ1zx_Gug0CjBC9kQyUPPcdtCntR45vml1iA8sl3XsAXXlBswc7JOTHvSXnRApl2QG1WaQ52AlzBpzMrI24PB6rNi9LYJdLj8ibzcWYIT8gd3jlDJunLxvVOjJvcoIahu_eM5qEnmmpGMAN_lirlrCgCNSuUnuAa_051F2Ly_d6hHOGW8xQ/w306-h400/Untitled.jpg" width="306" /></a></div><br />In my twenties, I suffered a great deal from anxiety, caused I now realise by a sense of dislocation, a too-rapid and ill-grounded coming to terms with adulthood. That's long in the past now, but I remember my doctor back then saying, y<i>ou know Mark if ever you get stressed, just go and polish your bikes</i>.<p></p><p>At the time I lived in a small Northumberland village and everyone knew I cycled. His point was not that they needed cleaning - but rather, that when you're deeply upset, a physical and absorbing distraction is often the best and simplest medicine. It's why I rock climbed so much, and why my bikes were always immaculate.</p><p>I was reminded of his advice this week when I travelled north, leaving my poor sick dog (whose accident had left me so distraught) to spend a day with Spike the Blacksmith. I've long loved the touch and form of metal objects; my house has Suffolk latches, handmade hooks for our coats, hearth irons on the fireplace... There's a tangibility to them, and a mystery too, for I've often wondered how the curls and folds are beaten from the bars of iron.</p><p>Let's get you bashing, said Spike, twenty minutes after I arrived.</p><p>Her forge-cum-studio is in mid-wales, and I guess I expected more of a farrier feel than the gothic workshop that she'd shown me around. I was treated first to her house of horrors Halloween room, complete with crawl through door, mock electric chair and a doll guillotine. There was also a gallery, displaying metal and ceramic sculptures - a sort of mash-up of Damien Hurst, Francis Bacon and Louise Bourgeois. They're a response to love, she said. Not everyone would get it.<br /></p><p>But I did and we talked throughout the day about the edge between cliche and crap, about gothic horror (her thing) and artistic Romanticism (mine), about learning and making and forging — indeed, lots on forging and the process of trial and error, call and response, theme and variation; just like painting or writing. It's a matter of feel as much as formula.</p><p>And of hammering too. </p><p><i>No smwddio! </i>Spike would demand as I tried to shape my glowing bar with more of a nudge than a straight bash. It's the colloquial Welsh word for ironing, pronounced 'smooth-e-o'. It made me laugh and kept me on point to hit the bar straight and true over the anvil that rung out - yes, it really did - as if it enjoyed its fifty thousandth strike as much as all the ones before.</p><p>Which reminded me of Oscar, and the way that every ball I throw is just as exciting as the last... I showed Spike a photo of his head staples; they could be gothic piercings we laughed, and got quickly back to bashing... and bending our way through the morning's session.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqN2yYe3cb5VBRqsgeu41W3MbsdxHKEpCyW6xUxcHlCMRPw4TjN5DrSmefAzIFrVi60-76PkjLCI9pcJ7sG8CPCKgjN3RMZWZGk_G3h9M3vphgsli3nmOybFbzY662TxtCMf76AQ6kpB-d4MzU66s6O0gSWgiDFGKTSw5Ttd9s_ariATkgGoE-SaQvw/s4032/IMG_8582.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqN2yYe3cb5VBRqsgeu41W3MbsdxHKEpCyW6xUxcHlCMRPw4TjN5DrSmefAzIFrVi60-76PkjLCI9pcJ7sG8CPCKgjN3RMZWZGk_G3h9M3vphgsli3nmOybFbzY662TxtCMf76AQ6kpB-d4MzU66s6O0gSWgiDFGKTSw5Ttd9s_ariATkgGoE-SaQvw/w150-h200/IMG_8582.HEIC" width="150" /></a></div>By midday, I'd made two coat hooks and some S-shaped hangers in anticipation of the main project that afternoon. I wanted to make a fire pit tripod, I said, suspecting it might be a bit ambitious on day one, but buoyed by Spike's confidence and 'have a go' attitude. I'd made good progress, she said, as we worked out the design using chalk and string and few 'yep, that'll dos'.<p></p><p>One of the attractions of blacksmithing, Spike said, is that it works on the basis of 'about right' rather than 'perfectly precise'. She's bang on (<i>no smwdddio</i>) the money; there's an iterative, work-it-out-as-you-go feel to the process: cutting, sanding, heating bashing, heating, bashing, heating... repeat as necessary... </p><p>Then once you've got your points in order, bending and twisting in the jigs. It's all very manual, down to earth and matter of fact — and yet it's guided by a knowledge that's forged from the thousands of repetitive hours that make up any mastery.</p><p><i>No smwddio</i>, she berates me again.</p><p>I was pleased with the tripod I made. In six hours, I'd gone from complete newbie to, might we say, novitiate? Can that word apply to a horror goth's pupil? It could to Spike I reckon. 'I'd like to live for six hundred years,' she said, 'to acquire all the skills I need.' Learning is an all-consuming passion she claimed. 'When I'm working on my sculptures, I forget about everything else —I've been here twenty years but it's nowhere near enough.'</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO3QTpz-kL5GkEkheQM4yOTobfz79oXkrk9IwLDyMh1efyay1t65xaHTJcirrT-CpG0Y94x4knp1Pnm7x_JuQaIFpmUG8a95kJGLNlMWH1_NWrDqYescM20peA2hleH5K4AxKzbRScZmyNCoM0OfzRKApCwaCOz6Kz61XJjvGa4wJWD6oKf-4UU2GVgw/s2000/IMG_8589.heic" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO3QTpz-kL5GkEkheQM4yOTobfz79oXkrk9IwLDyMh1efyay1t65xaHTJcirrT-CpG0Y94x4knp1Pnm7x_JuQaIFpmUG8a95kJGLNlMWH1_NWrDqYescM20peA2hleH5K4AxKzbRScZmyNCoM0OfzRKApCwaCOz6Kz61XJjvGa4wJWD6oKf-4UU2GVgw/w150-h200/IMG_8589.heic" width="150" /></a></div><p></p><p>We finished my lessons with a polish of the pieces; a process that's rather like framing a picture — the painter's prize, they used to say. It brings everything into sharp relief, reminds you of the intricacy and yet simplicity of it all; of the effort you'd made, and the room to improve... next time...</p><p>Talking of which, it was getting dark outside; the day had passed so swiftly that I'd barely noticed. Putting my tripod in the car I could have sworn there were bats in the courtyard, but maybe that's my imagination —or Spike's. As I drove home, I thought of poor Oscar and the metal in his head, of the metaphorical equivalent in mine - and of the two bikes in my shed, that could do with a clean sometime soon.</p><p>-----------</p><p><a href="https://www.spikeblackhurst.uk/index.html">Spike Blackhurst</a> is an artist-teacher and blacksmith, based at Llanbrynmair in Mid Wales. I attended a one-to-one blacksmithing course which I paid for myself and frankly, it was fab - bonkers too, but definitely fab! <a href="https://spiketheblacksmith.co.uk/">https://spiketheblacksmith.co.uk/</a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKL0cPPE7GVvyHWUYHDnKVJFtHKz6nsCiKt-8IDB_ugfoHQngaZxQKKpcQz4pPUwF3BDKonuZlKMDoutPHoU2lNSc2b6HVQJ6dQvvjeR8dxRSnuUL22rAhkhVWVZBlkMtCZB-J8DWGHEYfXqTYdc7luAJ7HcI3X2DuWlf-LRykiepOSrIdvaoyT8c9cQ/s4032/IMG_8587.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKL0cPPE7GVvyHWUYHDnKVJFtHKz6nsCiKt-8IDB_ugfoHQngaZxQKKpcQz4pPUwF3BDKonuZlKMDoutPHoU2lNSc2b6HVQJ6dQvvjeR8dxRSnuUL22rAhkhVWVZBlkMtCZB-J8DWGHEYfXqTYdc7luAJ7HcI3X2DuWlf-LRykiepOSrIdvaoyT8c9cQ/s320/IMG_8587.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4B_Gbppg1TdA3UqSSCpJjfmctzvdetdXRu-lKRQ1odQY0PfJpWmh3XYMpPzYMsHqv9c5Ai4aq7O8aF1VVpSNDblS8YZkE0-RSGdG6LvmNlCo7Ijw_urxNh5_hM_JsQtFVNWigKsxxZPYBnISFHS5Odf5LY9ncE4Vd25acdsNTfqQRmXHxSUZenMtP0Q/s1824/27e137ff-1a75-447b-854f-afdaa28ebba1.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="840" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4B_Gbppg1TdA3UqSSCpJjfmctzvdetdXRu-lKRQ1odQY0PfJpWmh3XYMpPzYMsHqv9c5Ai4aq7O8aF1VVpSNDblS8YZkE0-RSGdG6LvmNlCo7Ijw_urxNh5_hM_JsQtFVNWigKsxxZPYBnISFHS5Odf5LY9ncE4Vd25acdsNTfqQRmXHxSUZenMtP0Q/s320/27e137ff-1a75-447b-854f-afdaa28ebba1.JPG" width="147" /></a></div><br /><p>And he's getting better...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtuzeWMYe7BLHM_zuLbOPURYU8JoeFCc5GSdvlNvlqnjRBWLJLFXus507sa0XYE4GhelSLnvtOZ0MgNfSk5_ZwIRAxPVvWPIIbU_s0LchjDIh9_tElB0dc_OHWAB1bLpo-KT5rktKMMYv-LRhY3EPU5pV0Sl7p-pdArBthIxUZkmHbLscIINaZ0Gxeg/s1692/IMG_8550.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1692" data-original-width="1269" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtuzeWMYe7BLHM_zuLbOPURYU8JoeFCc5GSdvlNvlqnjRBWLJLFXus507sa0XYE4GhelSLnvtOZ0MgNfSk5_ZwIRAxPVvWPIIbU_s0LchjDIh9_tElB0dc_OHWAB1bLpo-KT5rktKMMYv-LRhY3EPU5pV0Sl7p-pdArBthIxUZkmHbLscIINaZ0Gxeg/s320/IMG_8550.heic" width="240" /></a></div>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-80270771556173421402022-11-14T10:47:00.018+00:002023-02-26T22:27:20.444+00:00Fractured<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwXx_ImBeuf2uLaZlatNH8RH8UUCEivxIR9-5MHPEKO4GtWy7SZvFuE16xnbnRiko1KrwTqThNVpKEId-7yX-poqUJkEWAMxcpkmkbp6nC4gUrq81ENVOcd7sCvcIf3FIZ8BB7yBmsA8Qpfh7cYr1agRpJs5nsIXbj623GmUni3ciXyWvW5lE22VGPXQ/s3612/IMG_8579.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3612" data-original-width="2871" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwXx_ImBeuf2uLaZlatNH8RH8UUCEivxIR9-5MHPEKO4GtWy7SZvFuE16xnbnRiko1KrwTqThNVpKEId-7yX-poqUJkEWAMxcpkmkbp6nC4gUrq81ENVOcd7sCvcIf3FIZ8BB7yBmsA8Qpfh7cYr1agRpJs5nsIXbj623GmUni3ciXyWvW5lE22VGPXQ/w318-h400/IMG_8579.heic" width="318" /></a></div><p>The thing about whippets is that almost everything is quick. Or slow depending on the clock. Oscar spends an hour at full pelt, followed by twenty-three on the sofa... watching me from the corner of his eye, hoping for food, fearing I might leave. .. </p><p>Even for a moment.</p><p>Which is all it takes to fracture your skull when you're running at 30 kilometres an hour, towards a ball that a greyhound has spied from the opposite direction. The chase instinct in sighthounds is irrepressible, their focus fixed, and in Oscar's case, his running line so straight that nothing distracts. It's a joy to watch.</p><p>Until bang... </p><p>They collide at a combined speed of 50 kilometres and there's a tumble and Oscar's going head over heels, his legs buckled beneath him... </p><p>And he's not moving anymore. </p><p>As I run towards him he staggers to the owners of the greyhound, and my panic eases - no broken bones... <i>Good boy,</i> I call... <i>good boy, Oscar... it's alright.</i></p><p>Except it's not. His head is split and there's blood —lots of it. The greyhound's owners are apologetic. I don't stop, say 'it's just dogs' and dash away, carrying him the length of the beach to the car; to the vets, to the vets...</p><p>He whimpers as I tear through the backroads, swearing at a tractor and again at an elderly driver slowing at the speed bumps. <i>Easy Mark</i>, I say, <i>Better five minutes late in this world...</i></p><p>Ten more and I carry him into the arms of the nurse, who takes him away and suddenly I'm lost — as confused in my way as the poor mite being examined for what I'd hoped was merely a puncture wound.</p><p>That diagnosis was correct - only it goes all the way through his outer skull, stopping (we hope, but can't be sure) millimetres from his brain. There follows an explanation as to why X-rays aren't much use; talk of transferring him to Bristol and whether he'd manage the eight-hour trip. </p><p>I feel sick; can't think.</p><p>Jane arrives and holds back tears. After more talking and waiting and calls and debate, they staple his wound and we take him home, hoping for the best. </p><p>There's nothing more to be done, they say. Just love and rest.</p><p>And all weekend it's been like a reversal. </p><p>We sit on the sofa and watch him for any movement; willing him to eat; fearful he'll leave us. But he's a tough little thing, looking at me now with one eye open as I type. We're seeing the vet at 11.00; praying it's just swelling. </p><p>Funny how much you love these bundles of fur. </p><p>We too will be fractured till he heals.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-78095253157645183062022-09-20T08:58:00.010+01:002023-02-26T22:27:02.774+00:00Hope<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ZUQ_Hf_VxMYfNITqVpa16D7EKdawe_5ZLsvJak9azjRb7_D1XFGArlxl-YAoEXWhSA9sHasGkNjCmX5A3uAt7LyNrGD9rXLSU6fbQgUrSsQa21vFwGI_taLZ1liItpLh09kGEpo1RkPwGGVHkKkT6i0-vy-cNvYqMtCkpretNEh_5mv8WGnf_kYIkg/s1488/31230255-646d-4d46-8946-412fd8296802.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1488" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ZUQ_Hf_VxMYfNITqVpa16D7EKdawe_5ZLsvJak9azjRb7_D1XFGArlxl-YAoEXWhSA9sHasGkNjCmX5A3uAt7LyNrGD9rXLSU6fbQgUrSsQa21vFwGI_taLZ1liItpLh09kGEpo1RkPwGGVHkKkT6i0-vy-cNvYqMtCkpretNEh_5mv8WGnf_kYIkg/w400-h215/31230255-646d-4d46-8946-412fd8296802.jpg" width="400" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cwm Idwal - photo by Saskia Janicki</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Why would anyone climb a mountain? </p><p>'Because it's there,' was George Malory's famous riposte when asked about attempting Everest. And to some extent he's right. But for all its pith, his answer does little to explain the subtler motivations of those of us who set our sights on lesser peaks.</p><p>I was reminded of this at the weekend when I went to North Wales with my rock climbing club. We camped under Tryfan in the Ogwen Valley, one of the most beautiful yet starkest in Snowdonia. There were ten of us in all: four novices, some accomplished leaders and me, who I guess you might class as a late returner—historically experienced, but distinctly lacking in practice! </p><p>In truth, I was lacking in more than that. Strength for one thing diminishes with age, as does flexibility and perhaps most importantly confidence, which is impervious to bluff. Hence I was glad that my eldest son had come along to be my partner. We've climbed together a few times this summer, the roles gradually shifting from me as mentor to him as front runner on the rope. </p><p>On Saturday we headed to Cwm Idwal, where its eponymous slabs host some of the valley's best known routes. The 'Ordinary' may be the easiest on the crag, but it's still five pitches of balance and counterpoise, requiring trust and technique to tackle it safely. Daniel was aware I'd once climbed it with his mum. What he didn't know, is that the lake below the cliff is where we'd walked hand in hand in the January rain and knew—with a certainty borne of love—that there was no going back.</p><p>Two years later we were married in a chapel at Betws y Coed, coming to the lake the day after our wedding as a sort of pilgrimage to its power. Another time, we found a red rose lodged in a crack on the slabs, and with it a note from a girl to her boyfriend who'd died in the Himalayas. All this came back as I climbed—slowly and without much elegance—on Saturday.</p><p>But there is more to our passion than speed or style. Indeed this weekend one party had a late finish, requiring a descent in the dark that will no doubt live in their memory. And happily so, for all were safe and smiling on their return, bonded not broken by the experience. Just as all the best climbing should be.</p><p>Another member scrambled up Tryfan only to drive thirty miles south to Cadair Idris and jog to its summit. That's over 5,000 feet in a day: dismay for some; a delight for those who are able. How I wish that ever I were... Mountains are about more than ropes and harnesses.</p><p>This weekend I saw walkers and cyclists, runners and kayakers, cake eating tourists (me among them) and families exploring the lower paths. There was even a hot air balloon inflated at night at Capel Curig! On the way to Idwal we passed a woman with twisted hips, each step a labour of effort, leaning on her sticks every few yards. As we went by she beamed the broadest of smiles.</p><p>And then, there are the new friendships I made, the views at dusk, the marvelling at the milky way... the sheer bloody joy of being in such a special place. It's been said we climb mountains, not for the views from the top, but from the bottom. Those who love the hills, or know any landscape intimately, will understand what that's getting at. </p><p>On Sunday I was tired, my son's girlfriend joined us and wanted to climb too. I was glad, for I felt in some intangible way that my part was done; that it was their turn now. They headed back to Cwm Idwal to climb a different but parallel line to the one I'd chosen the day before. It would be their memory not mine, their time and their experience together. </p><p>The route was called Hope.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-50909876116513152432022-08-09T11:59:00.045+01:002023-02-26T22:26:15.415+00:00The traces we leave...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKPuLdcS8VG-L2xWyCzdMpyJIkNokq7ApKAsYfCnPEGNy_scvjM6k7Wxo3WmYCo7Ucw3o0bq7jEI-DhRjI-d4_Up4FQWou6XllV1ANkKiIDUuAMBJ5tRtcWKJmU_yNhblScVoQk8zZed8fFtfe8D2JecpNp2_-kS3o1RgI-8FZ_ohqAErwew4J0TxGg/s3952/IMG_8033.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2835" data-original-width="3952" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKPuLdcS8VG-L2xWyCzdMpyJIkNokq7ApKAsYfCnPEGNy_scvjM6k7Wxo3WmYCo7Ucw3o0bq7jEI-DhRjI-d4_Up4FQWou6XllV1ANkKiIDUuAMBJ5tRtcWKJmU_yNhblScVoQk8zZed8fFtfe8D2JecpNp2_-kS3o1RgI-8FZ_ohqAErwew4J0TxGg/w400-h288/IMG_8033.heic" width="400" /></a></div><p>Earlier this week I disposed of an old bedside cabinet at our house in France. It was one of those items you feel guilty for dumping, but deep down know the charity shop won't want either. For the last two years, it's stood by our front door so the postman can leave small parcels. When the mice took up residence, it was time to let go.</p><p>But as is the way here, recycling it meant removing the marble top, separating the lining from its outer casing, checking each section for nails ... And in so doing, discovering a photograph that, decades earlier, someone had taped to the underside of a drawer. An image of two girls looking into a lens saw its first light of day for lord knows how long.</p><p>Who'd put it there I wondered? The faces suggest they are sisters, but whose daughters or granddaughters might they be? And why paste their picture where it wouldn't be seen? Are they still with us... or gone now, like the cabinet that housed the fragment of their past? </p><p>I guess we could weave all manner of stories from such flimsy threads. But that's what novelists do, and I'm not one of those. </p><p>So instead I pondered the traces we leave... </p><p>My neighbour is a mason who restores historic buildings — every time I see him at work I'm in awe. Like many craftsmen, he brushes off praise. But if you asked, he'd explain the tradition of mason's marks and how to find 'signatures' in the stone of cathedral walls. His imprint will endure for generations. </p><p>Many years ago my mother wrote a song for her primary school class. One of my earliest memories is her figuring the tune on chime bars at our home. It's since been published in dozens of hymn books and is widely recorded around the world. By the time she dies, how many hundreds of thousands will have sung <span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=016OFAdYQ8w">'I listen and I listen</a>'</span>? No doubt, we will play it at her funeral.</p><p>And what will I leave? </p><p>Some writing perhaps, at least for as long as it lasts; there are two obscure rock climbs I've given a name to; perhaps someone will keep one of my paintings... Jane and I like to think that every house we've owned has benefited from our stewardship. With luck, there'll be some inheritance... </p><p>But beyond these tangibilities?</p><p>Very little I hope. For legacies are not the purpose of life or indeed the best measure of our contributions. There's value in making a difference now: in helping and healing, in supporting and providing; in simply making ends meet so that those we love can flourish. In an age when we're so driven to 'succeed', some say we should live more in the moment. </p><p>Though by historical standards, we generally do. I read somewhere that very few of us know the forenames of our great grandparents; after three generations we're lost to memory. That seems to me, no bad thing, for I've always thought the veneration of ancestors to be misplaced. If I could visit any time in history, I'd choose the future, not the past.</p><p>As I write the conclusion to this post, I'm struck that my doing so has been delayed. </p><p>Why? </p><p>Because for a week I lost the picture of the girls, absentmindedly putting it down to watch the contrails in the sky across our valley. Had I not tidied up, it would have curled and faded in the sunlight that streams through the window. Every day here, the planes go back and forth... a web of slipstreams that momentarily sparkle, then fade to oblivion. </p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-10702447497289207242022-07-26T20:24:00.012+01:002023-02-26T22:25:43.070+00:00The Sound of Being Human<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDV90tvzdvFzpVXdsEzCWXMppL6KUlb45zWiIhpHS7IMLDX9lu1-4EFjFUKsFb6yZs76Y79-3qzoDMrz5ca3HeSozjsH2vm8ye3ERG59y7855v-Ig8yGmRGQlD9Yk_OvAIRfBdFQu8s-r655lroo7a14t-FhOhTXhItjC8s0KWrsxnZFXWkG6Y3WqGA/s2436/IMG_7957.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2436" data-original-width="1529" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDV90tvzdvFzpVXdsEzCWXMppL6KUlb45zWiIhpHS7IMLDX9lu1-4EFjFUKsFb6yZs76Y79-3qzoDMrz5ca3HeSozjsH2vm8ye3ERG59y7855v-Ig8yGmRGQlD9Yk_OvAIRfBdFQu8s-r655lroo7a14t-FhOhTXhItjC8s0KWrsxnZFXWkG6Y3WqGA/w251-h400/IMG_7957.heic" width="251" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My book of the year so far - brilliantly done</i>.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I’ve long held the view, that when writing from experience — be it for books, blogs or essays — it’s the inner story, rather than any outer narrative, that’s the true test of quality. From great epics to country diaries, readers find meaning not so much in the sequence of events as the struggles, discoveries and growth of any protagonists along the way. This is what separates literary from pulp fiction; biography from CVs; life writing from journalism…. It’s also, somewhat ironically, what makes stories universal.</p><p>Jude Rogers’ The Sound of Being Human does all this and more. Mixing deeply personal memoir with career expertise and a sprinkling of academic research, she explores how music (and particularly popular songs and their artists) shapes our sense of self, binding moments to melodies that become the soundtrack of our lives. What’s especially remarkable is that she does so with a playlist that though essential to telling her story, isn’t necessary to ours — indeed, I’d not heard of many of the tracks she chose to hook her chapters — for in truth, her choices are proxies to personal equivalents we cherish just the same.</p><p>All that’s required to appreciate the book’s central theme, is that we associate music, of whatever genre, with times and events of significance in our lives. Rogers begins with a childhood memory of her father’s parting words before going into hospital: <i>Let me know what gets to number one.</i> He died, aged 33, two days later... And the song that made the top spot that week — Only You, by the Flying Pickets — becomes an anchor in the storm of emotions that might otherwise have wrecked a five-year-old child, metaphorically lost at sea. More broadly, its lifelong resonance becomes a base note of the book: that music can heal and help us make sense of the rhythms and refrains of our lives.</p><p>And so the chapters continue, like verses in a song: from adolescence to coming of age; leaving home to finding love… and friendships, career, parenthood, illness... Music accompanies us on all of these journeys — sometimes centre stage; sometimes playing in the background — and by processes we don’t fully understand, becomes so cemented to our memories that it's capable of triggering the most vivid of recollections. I especially liked the section in which Rogers lists songs as substitutes for former boyfriends; a sort of mix tape of — on the whole — generous memories that she can smile at and sing along to. Her chapter on why so many of us feel grief when famous musicians die also resonated, taking me back to seminal losses (not always musically connected) of my own.</p><p>But it was the last chapter, based on an interview with Paddy McAloon (leader singer and writer of the band Prefab Sprout) that intrigued me most. For not only is McAloon my favourite pop artist, his albums the backing track to my twenties, but the interview took place during the Covid lockdown, a period I found so severely disconnecting that only now am I (slowly) coming to terms with its impact. I should mention that Rogers interviewed me at that time, for an article in the Guardian, not about music, but about living on the border between England and Wales during the severest restrictions. She found solace in music, and particularly in McAloon’s composition I Trawl The Megahertz; I searched for it in the landscape, access to which was a chief prohibition of those terrible months.</p><p>Reading McAloon's thoughts got me wondering how (in some parallel universe) Rogers — or indeed all of us — would have coped if music had been what was forbidden? How would we have fared without the sounds that buoy us up and soothe our souls? How many of us would have found the melodic silence unbearable: no tunes; no dance; no hymns or communal singing (indeed that was banned)… I recalled how little music I listened to in lockdown; how I stopped playing my saxophone too. And how to me, place and music are more connected than I realised. </p><p>I’m not sure what that says, but I suspect it’s linked to the deep anxiety —and anger — I felt at the time – and how sensory denial, especially of that which feeds our being, leads to consequences we can’t consciously control.</p><p>Of course, this is all open-ended pondering on my part. But in a sense, that’s the point of the book — and the mark of its quality. For ultimately, it's not about Jude, or her back story, or the hundreds of interviews she’s conducted as a music journalist…. Nor is it about the artists, their genius or otherwise, or the academics and musicologists whose research she summarises so well. Rather, the Sound of Being Human is about all of us and each of us alone. The soundtracks of our lives are as personal and private as they are shared and universal, as much inner as outer story. Like the Flying Pickets' aptly acapella (literally ‘unaccompanied’) cover of Yazoo’s original, they are… all I ever knew… only you.</p><p>The Sound of Being Human – how music shapes our lives<br />By Jude Rogers<br />Published by White Rabbit / Orion Publishing Group Ltd<br />ISBN: 978-1-4766-2292-9</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-23585639199939552162022-06-15T10:30:00.004+01:002023-02-26T22:25:13.993+00:00Whippet Wednesday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9h_mCSPTdijKFjjr3bMCzWTarIwMxDWtDgAbTqQ6yF-Ctv8CE9Aylh3v81SDecsDJQgFk538E0hZs-qFOImoqgSDVxNsPYOoJyaz6-2DomtqoGZOqQio3l3ac1FkpiTMZyLh7jF7JMMSt8F4atkLy57AUdVb-iDOBER0rJm0E6hJdBmPeVrSsatPIhw/s3752/IMG_6860.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3752" data-original-width="2814" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9h_mCSPTdijKFjjr3bMCzWTarIwMxDWtDgAbTqQ6yF-Ctv8CE9Aylh3v81SDecsDJQgFk538E0hZs-qFOImoqgSDVxNsPYOoJyaz6-2DomtqoGZOqQio3l3ac1FkpiTMZyLh7jF7JMMSt8F4atkLy57AUdVb-iDOBER0rJm0E6hJdBmPeVrSsatPIhw/w300-h400/IMG_6860.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">No words required</div><p></p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876862148358784705.post-9069681770054121522022-06-12T17:30:00.008+01:002022-07-04T14:03:46.735+01:00Brighton Rock and all that.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfwGLOpCTNrnzzbX-hUtfuRO_-Gy99W1KGsyzB48zmebiWihJfwc0ex4vQNEUOknBuBxDzEdvAWGPoG9wxu165gpLLHvsyYKEDyZhcegGM6jKC768-UwBEMoKpzjwUfIWIlSNcN_8LnQf9fahrBy1EVUlGKhg7-tMXAiQ4Jur7ZwMEF7hkJSNj1GVUQ/s421/Untitled%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="264" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfwGLOpCTNrnzzbX-hUtfuRO_-Gy99W1KGsyzB48zmebiWihJfwc0ex4vQNEUOknBuBxDzEdvAWGPoG9wxu165gpLLHvsyYKEDyZhcegGM6jKC768-UwBEMoKpzjwUfIWIlSNcN_8LnQf9fahrBy1EVUlGKhg7-tMXAiQ4Jur7ZwMEF7hkJSNj1GVUQ/w251-h400/Untitled%202.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><p>The first serious book I ever read was Brighton Rock by Graham Greene. It was the compulsory text for my English Literature O level and I still have the thin Penguin Classic edition with passages underlined in pencil. Reading it transformed my perspective on fiction, setting the tone for the novels I'd prefer thereafter. And ironically, for a boy who loathed the prospect of double English every Thursday, it is one of the few physical legacies of my school days.</p><p>Brighton Rock is also the only book that I can say with confidence I've read three times. In my twenties, I went through almost every other title by Greene, but most have sat unopened on my bookshelves ever since. Only recently have I started to revisit them, reminding myself of how excellent a writer he was, and how the recurring themes of his work mirror questions I've wrestled with all my life. Listening to them now, with the benefit of half a century's experience, it's obvious how his character's inner struggles are as autobiographical as their colonial settings. </p><p>I used the words 'revisit' and 'listening' in the last paragraph because I've not been rereading the novels as such. Rather, I've been playing them on Audible, one of my more delightful discoveries this year. The author Stephen King in his book 'On Writing' recommends listening regularly to audiobooks, saying he always has one on the go. And yet, despite my considering his advice to be generally excellent, the only ones I'd ever previously bought were children's CDs to keep our boys amused on long car journeys. </p><p>It's interesting though, how they remember them still. </p><p>Listening to books being read aloud is a different experience from holding a copy in your hands. I'm glad to have 'read' Greene's complex novels first, albeit decades ago. But I'm glad too that I can listen to them again now, in the gym (yes, really!), in my car; walking on the beach... As I do so, I often think of my grandfather and how as he grew progressively more blind he went from those dreadful large print books to fiddly eight-track cassettes and eventually to the limited fare on the radio because there was nothing else available. How thrilled he'd have been with today's technology.</p><p>Many writers dislike e-readers, and perhaps understandably, booksellers are non too keen either. But it's worth reflecting on how almost overnight they increased the quality and quantity of titles available to those with visual impairment. The early versions of the Kindle even had a text-to-voice transcription, which though somewhat robotic was a godsend to many. For those of us who struggle with small print, the ability to change the point size at the touch of a button is almost as transformative. </p><p>Audible takes all this step further with top-quality narrators, synchronisation features that allow you to skip from e-book to audio and back again, and a catalogue that's more extensive than most local libraries. And there must be many people for whom simply finding the time to read is a challenge with busy jobs, young families and household chores to juggle —yet their daily commute might provide many hours for books they'd never get round to otherwise — I know my son listens every day on his walk to work.</p><p>And so for someone who was very sceptical of 'yet another subscription' I have to say, I'm a convert. I suppose part of the reason is that I believe we should recognise where progress has genuinely been made. I've no affinity to Amazon and am as aware as anyone that as a company they're far from saints (oh how Graham Greene is that). But Audiobooks (of which Audible dominates) are now the fastest-growing sector of the market, introducing millions of listeners to books of all types. Some will no doubt remain wary and curmudgeonly regardless, but I reckon their success is worth celebrating.</p><p>All of which is a bit of a ramble from Brighton Rock and my school age curriculum. Although, isn't that how reading and writing go. Like so many of Greene's characters, we stumble from one situation to another, carrying our crosses to an uncertain destiny... Okay, let's not stretch the metaphor too far... The point, if there is one at all, is that good literature endures, whatever form it takes —from Brighton Rock to blogs; from Penguin to Kindle, from O level to Audible; it's all the same thing.</p>The bike shedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05195882998271591934noreply@blogger.com12