tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-355061422024-03-07T08:56:14.377+00:00Making A Living As A WriterI served a long apprenticeship. I started writing as a child, and sold my first story at 35. Ten years later I was a full-time pro. In the last 30 years I have written everything from TV drama to company histories, novels to wedding speeches. My latest project? A stage musical. So this blog is a record of one jobbing writer's never-ending attempts to keep the wolf from the door.Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.comBlogger531125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-57609793680086680412020-07-01T21:00:00.000+01:002020-07-01T21:00:40.626+01:00So sad to hear of the death of Rudy Anaya<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was deeply saddened this morning to hear that that my dear friend, teacher and mentor Rudolfo Anaya, the Chicano novelist, has died aged 83. <br />
<br />
I met Rudy in 1986 when I was an exchange student at the University of New Mexico. I had a full year in which to take whatever courses I pleased, and decided to focus on western American Lit and creative writing.<br />
<br />
Attending Rudy's senior year, and later his graduate, workshops opened my eyes to all kinds of possibilities, such was the breadth of skills and range of ambitions among the assembled class members. My good fortune was to work with a group of people writing novels based on their experience of war, of prison, of running away from home and joining a circus (yes, really!) - not to mention a very sexy trilogy set in ancient India at the time of Alexander the Great. The styles of writing were equally varied - and so racy, so adventurous. I was very much the oddity with my sonorous old world diction and long sentences. Rudy embraced and praised all of us. He never made us feel anything other than writers - and writers with a chance of making it.<br />
<br />
He was a generous, kind man. I say that not just because he invited me, my wife and kids to his house and fed us, but because he recognised how hard it was for me to stay afloat with a family to support. (As well as attending a full load of classes, I was running a window-cleaning business and tutoring part-time.) On one occasion, when he came down with a severe cold he asked me to sit in for him - to lead the (three-hour) class discussion. He promised me a small honorarium, which, when it came, was a crisp $50 bill. I had it my pocket next day as I drove down town to clean windows at a couple of restaurants. I was day-dreaming about a visit with the family to Nuncio's pizza place when I shot over the RR tracks a tad fast and ripped a tyre to shreds. The bill for that came to - you guessed it: $50. Plus tax.<br />
<br />
I could say more about Rudy, and I realise I haven't mentioned his work Suffice to say that during all the years when I taught western lit to my classes back home I always had them read his classic <i>Bless Me, Ultima</i>, a book I have enjoyed more than once. My students did too, by and large. If you haven't tried it, do. I think it could open your eyes to the Hispanic experience, at least as it was for one generation in rural New Mexico seventy-five years ago.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-62221951460429037762020-06-23T13:28:00.000+01:002020-06-23T13:28:44.524+01:00Adventures in Buffalo Gap, TX: coffee at Lola's, and a nightmare on Elm Street<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;">This is an extract from my book <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Between-Rockies-Hard-Place-Meridian/dp/0953262936" target="_blank">Between The Rockies and a Hard Place</a></i>, an account of my drive up (and down) the 100th Meridian in 2000.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black;">Buffalo
Gap has a population of 499. It’s a charming little town set either side of a
twisting lane, its houses huddled under a dense canopy of shade trees. I had
ample time to get a feel for the place as I crawled along, stomach rumbling,
hoping to find a breakfast of some sort. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lola’s might best be described as a shack,
certainly as seen from the road: a tiny place with one square window and a
little door, wedged between a rickety-looking tin-roofed building and a squat
timber house with a hitching-rail outside the front door. </span>A single pick-up truck was parked outside, its front bumper kissing a bleached tree-stump that marked the edge of
a narrow, dusty sidewalk. I could’ve sworn I saw a man walk in through the
door. There was no indication that it was a café: it just looked as though it
ought to be.<br />
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</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSNbhWTFLMxCccQ-CoJ9gVuVWfGEAUXF0_BpH2q0BzWgJ7lz2O4LcX5DM9KFfATp2SzWKv38Jd2tw0xyoDLrj5hodKIDQCYC5kQCGgSMFp1Zi5BFfJQjRAtjxUY5NhZLkVH_f4Yg/s1600/07_015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="1600" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSNbhWTFLMxCccQ-CoJ9gVuVWfGEAUXF0_BpH2q0BzWgJ7lz2O4LcX5DM9KFfATp2SzWKv38Jd2tw0xyoDLrj5hodKIDQCYC5kQCGgSMFp1Zi5BFfJQjRAtjxUY5NhZLkVH_f4Yg/s640/07_015.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Open or not? There was only one way to find out</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remembering my injunction to myself to boldly
go where a travel writer must, I pulled up and
investigated. The sign in the window said CLOSED, and I was just about to
return to the car when I saw that the door was slightly ajar. I shoved it open
and looked inside. One old-timer in faded dungarees and one mailman in a
short-sleeved shirt were sitting at a little wooden table under a low ceiling
drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Is it open, or not?’ I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mailman looked up from his paper. He was
only in his late thirties, but he had the relaxed look of a guy who’d got where
he wanted to be in life and was in no hurry to get any further. I know that
look. As a rat-catcher - this was when I was young and impulsive -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>didn’t I have a job that half the population
of <st1:place w:st="on">North Lincolnshire</st1:place> would’ve died for?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Come on in.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘What did she do, forget to change the sign?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘No, she’s closed Mondays. Leaves us the key
so we can fix ourselves a drink.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must have looked a little taken aback. The
old-timer shifted in his seat. ‘I wouldn’t have anywhere to go otherwise,’ he
explained. ‘Here, grab yourself some coffee,’ he pointed to a machine by the
deserted counter, ‘and stick a coupla quarters in the jar there.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If there was an award for just missing
characters, I’d already be well in the running at this point on my travels.
First the octogenarian helicopter pilot looking for company, now the woman
whose <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">House Rules</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guidelines for Survival</i> were written on
the wall where no one could miss them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 18.0pt; margin-right: -2.85pt; margin-top: 0cm; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 18.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">We do not specialise in service – wait on yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 18.0pt; margin-right: -2.85pt; margin-top: 0cm; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list 18.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">You eat what we tell you to eat – unless you’re a regular.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 18.0pt; margin-right: -2.85pt; margin-top: 0cm; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo3; tab-stops: list 18.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">This is not a Country Club, and you do not pay Country Club
dues – so don’t boss us around with that Country Club attitude.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 18.0pt; margin-right: -2.85pt; margin-top: 0cm; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo4; tab-stops: list 18.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">Do not even </span></i><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">think</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;"> about leaning back in our chairs.</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Yes,’ the mailman agreed as I set the cups
down on the table, ‘she’s quite a gal. Pity she’s out of town today. You’d like
her.’ Then he asked me where I was heading.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Well, I’m heading north. I haven’t any
particular route in mind, except I want to avoid Abilene.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘That’s a smart move. Abilene ain’t a nice
place at all. Here,’ he took a fresh paper napkin and borrowed my pen, ‘lemme
draw ya a little map. I drive all those county roads. I can show a real neat
detour.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only did he know all the minor roads of
the district, but by golly he was going to cram them all in on my paper napkin
if he could. He’d already covered half of it with a confused network of farm-tracks,
railways, crosses and arrows and even one set of road works, when he got
distracted by the M word. It was my own stupid fault for mentioning my interest
in history. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I made my first trip across the Plains,
back in 1991, I drove 5,017 miles, and I made very slow progress. I was young,
I was eager, I had a PhD to write up; I had a half-time post as a university
lecturer back in the U.K., and high hopes of an academic career. The more I wrote down in my
notebook, the better I felt about spending five weeks away from my kids. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
On that trip I pulled over at every Historical Marker on the
roadside, and read just about all of them, frequently making notes. You don’t
have to spend long on the road in western <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Kansas</st1:state></st1:place> to realise that Historical Markers
probably rank as number three in their list of products – some way behind
grass, but only a little way behind abandoned gas stations. I never missed one.
The odd few that I couldn’t be bothered to read, I photographed for future
reference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also called in at just about every museum,
National, State Historical or private, from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Holbrook</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Arizona</st1:state></st1:place>,
to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Baldwin</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Kansas</st1:state></st1:place>, on up to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Laramie</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Wyoming</st1:state></st1:place>,
and back through <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Colorado</st1:state></st1:place>
to Gallup, New Mexico, out on Route 66. I
took notes on ploughs, ox-yokes, Indian pots, arrow-heads, six-guns, Winchester
rifles, traps, coonskin caps, buffalo-robes and all the appurtenances, domestic,
commercial and military, Native and imported, that furnished the needs of Westerners, red, white, black and yellow. I saw re-constructed log cabins, sod houses,
tipis, authentic frontier jails, school-houses, pot-belly stoves, barns,
garages, dentists’ surgeries, livery stables, cavalry forts, lock-ups,
churches, Conestoga wagons, Model T Fords, railroad engines, stage-coaches,
scalps, petroglyphs, the very wagon-tracks left in the prairie earth by the
emigrants. By the time I’d put a new set of tyres on the car in Flagstaff,
Arizona, I had taken to calling at museums and demanding to see the curator so
that I could ask what they had that I wouldn’t have seen so far. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when the mailman broke off from his map-making
and said, ‘You know, so long as you’re in town you really ought to call in at
the museum. It’s just around the corner,’ I had to restrain myself from
lecturing him on the devalued currency of ubiquitous Western relics. Being
polite, being British, I meekly agreed that it would be un-neighbourly to miss
it. I drank up my coffee, decided I could cope with the hollow sensation in my
stomach for another half an hour or so, and headed for <st1:address w:st="on"><st1:street w:st="on">Elm Street</st1:street></st1:address>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -2.85pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -2.85pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s no great curiosity to find a graveyard
out West whose population outnumbers the town it serves. I’ve got an absolute
beaut stored up for when we get to North Dakota, for example, a little place
called Arena that’s so lonely – well, you’ll see how lonely it is in due
course. And because past so frequently overshadows present in this land of
speculative ventures, because people so frequently abandon their homes and move
on with nothing more than what they can pile in the back of the car, it’s not
unusual to find a museum whose collection spills over into outbuildings,
basements and adjacent lots and dwarfs the
town that hosts them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People started abandoning their treasured
possessions on the Great Plains way back in the overland trail days, lightening
the load as the mountains loomed and the draught animals weakened on the thin
grazing. Leaving aside the bones of exhausted oxen, the pitiful little
gravesites of babies, or the mothers who died bearing them, the most expendable
luxuries seemed to be the tokens of a more refined life: the bureaux, the
pianos, the books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later generations, destroyed by drought, or locusts, or plummeting
prices for farm products, were equally unmoved by the value their grandparents
had placed on furniture from the Old Country. So there’s an awful lot of junk
to be sifted through, and most of it is in backrooms in small-town museums,
cared for by perhaps the one person in a town who carries a torch for its
cultural history. But I have to say that until I arrived here I’d never seen a
museum that so nearly overshadowed a town in its size, its comprehensive
representation of what that town might have looked like in its prime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Buffalo Gap Historic Village contains, not
necessarily in this order, a courthouse,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a jail, an 1875 log cabin, a doctor’s office, a post office, a barber
shop, a railroad depot, an art gallery, a carpenter’s shop, a blacksmith’s
shop, a wagon barn, a print shop, a chapel, another post office more modern
than the first, a Texaco service station,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a schoolhouse, a Marshall’s house, a trading-post, and a general store
converted into an exhibit hall for local artists. And that excludes the outside
exhibits, which are several. Clearly, I should have persevered in my search for
a substantial breakfast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -2.85pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -2.85pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They start you off with an appetiser, a
twenty-minute video presentation on the history of Texas in general and Buffalo
Gap in particular. And for that alone I am grateful: I learned a few things about
Texas which had escaped my attention. For example, the state department responsible for such matters dumps 40,000 lbs – that’s around twenty tons – of wildflower seed along
its verges <i>every year</i>. Just as I
managed to digest that one, I was hit with a corollary statistic. Those seeds have to be
scattered along 1,250,000 thousand miles of road; and, there being at least two
verges per highway, they probably scatter them pretty thin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -2.85pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first settlers, it seems, came to these
parts in 1875, lured by the fact that the buffalo migrated through the gap in
the hills that gave the place its name. For a brief period the county seat was
here, and the population reached 1,800.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But when the Texas Pacific Railroad pushed its shiny new tracks through
Abilene rather than Buffalo Gap, the county seat went with them and the game
was up. It happened all the time on the frontier, where rival speculators who
had invested money in neighbouring settlements would lobby the railroad with
all kinds of incentives. Sometimes a town that was by-passed would up and move
itself to the trackside. Others languished; many died. Go to the State
Historical Society headquarters in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Topeka</st1:city>,
<st1:state w:st="on">Kansas</st1:state></st1:place>, for example, and you may
ask to see the Dead Towns Index, a catalogue of hundreds, perhaps thousands,
of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>townships that were surveyed, named,
in many cases constructed, and finally abandoned. It’s how fortunes were made
and lost.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -2.85pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -2.85pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the historical scene-setting, the tour.
The wonderful thing about a museum like Buffalo Gap is that, having the space
to grow, they keep cramming things in: beautifully preserved items like the
dentist’s chair and instruments of torture, but also wonderfully decrepit items,
like the old piece of farm machinery so heavy that it had collapsed the front
of the wagon it stood on. There it was, at rest, under a cedar tree that
probably pre-dated the entire town, both wheels splayed inwards at 45 degrees
and half their spokes missing, a monument to the ageing process. And there,
around the corner, nailed to the grey, bare, wooden boards of an old farm
building, was an enamelled sign advertising a long-vanished brand of
chicken-feed: <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4uQ6-_rQa1QzJTQ9rGt5tQFnY3p2grRkyOTmgffzGLAh5a9bLEF5boMvGGFpp-MsT_KzE3fPlr7VKdqrDUERqGdeDlACQhuPexWF6vOzMolIGb4Wuwz0MaHmwJdGUoD_hILoog/s1600/07_016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1036" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4uQ6-_rQa1QzJTQ9rGt5tQFnY3p2grRkyOTmgffzGLAh5a9bLEF5boMvGGFpp-MsT_KzE3fPlr7VKdqrDUERqGdeDlACQhuPexWF6vOzMolIGb4Wuwz0MaHmwJdGUoD_hILoog/s640/07_016.jpg" width="414" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’ve never done this kind of museum in
the West, Buffalo Gap is as good a place to do it as any. But don’t make my
mistake: don’t go there on a Monday. Hit town when Lola is open for business – and
write and tell me what she’s like. I’m kind of curious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-10211557440026366652020-06-15T19:44:00.000+01:002020-06-15T19:44:16.614+01:00Sherlock the Musical: what might have been.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I wanted to write this blog last September. Upon reflection,
it’s been for the best that I waited until now. After nine months, my rage
about what happened to Das Sherlock Musical (<a href="https://uraniatheater.de/project/das-sherlock-musical/">https://uraniatheater.de/project/das-sherlock-musical/</a>)
has burned itself out, and has given way to sadness.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A little over eighteen months ago, in November 2018, I sat
in the Urania Theatre in Koln and waited, in a fever of tension, for the
reaction of a packed opening night house.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our production team of four had worked long and hard,
against a ridiculously tight deadline, to create a more or less workable show,
from scratch, in the few short months since we first convened in the spring of
that year. We had a good cast, a reasonable story, some great songs, and –
against all odds - a decent set of special effects constrained by, but also
tailored to the needs of, a low-budget 150-seat theatre in the suburbs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What we lacked, as opening night approached, was a really
rousing finale. In that regard, both the songs and the story needed work. And
we knew it. Hence the first-night nerves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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However, in the world of theatre the improbable does sometimes
happen. And the miracle that chilly evening was that the audience seemed to
love the show. They laughed at the jokes, clapped each scene enthusiastically, stamped
their feet and tried to sing along to the songs. When the curtain came down (that’s
a metaphor: the Urania doesn’t run to such adornments) they walked out smiling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After the bows, the flowers, the congratulatory drinks in
the foyer, we looked at each other and grinned in disbelief. We’d done it. All
we needed now was to write a better ending, perhaps add a scene here, a song
there, and we would be ready to hit the road with a decent show.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It wasn’t long before the cracks started to appear. First,
there were complaints about the songs. They were too cheerful, too cheap. And
the story: not dark enough, lacking in conflict. And, of course, the cast were
in the firing line. One by one, they would be condemned as inadequate. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There followed a long period of uncertainty. During that
time the technical director and the music director were replaced, in an
atmosphere of vitriolic animosity. The new team worked on further rewrites.
Whatever the virtues of the changes that we made, it became clear that, week by
week and month by month, we were losing our sense of cohesion and, crucially, of
goodwill.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I will not go too far into that unpleasantness, nor the
explosion of anger that precipitated my own withdrawal in September 2019,
immediately after we launched the re-shaped show. In part, I am governed by
caution and the possibility of litigation. More than that, I never think about
Sherlock now without being overcome by weariness. In any case, I have moved on,
preoccupied with new projects far removed from the quirky world of stage
musicals.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The other day, however, I read a report about the return of
Sherlock to our TV screens. Series 5. I paused for a moment and felt a wave of
sadness wash over me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But for the obsession of one person, who sought total
control; who responded too readily to outside criticisms; who too easily took
offence and retreated behind a defensive trench; who employed a simple tactic,
over and over, in order not to pay people who had sweated blood for the show
(‘you’re rubbish and I am firing you’), but for all that, we might still be a
going concern. And, with the TV Sherlock returning to the headlines, we would
once more have been topical. Who knows, we might even have made a few pfennigs
after close to two years of working for zilch. But that will not be. Our original
creation is no more than a shrivelled corpse rotting in someone else’s memory.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I say, it’s all very sad. And, more than that, entirely
unnecessary.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-11887725874507895432020-06-08T17:05:00.000+01:002020-06-08T17:05:57.276+01:00The delightful musings of Margaret Whitaker - retired psychiatric nurse, Liverpudlian, writer, friend and all-round exemplar of simple humanity.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out now - the memories of Margaret Whitaker, 1929-45, (<a href="https://amzn.to/2XLHtg9" target="_blank">https://amzn.to/2XLHtg9</a>)</td></tr>
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When I was young and dreaming of being a professional writer, I truly imagined that that's what they did: write. All day. Every day. And rake in the cash. And walk around in cream coloured linen suits pursued by interviewers and camera crews.<br />
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I had no idea just how much time, even when I was able to support myself by my craft, I would spend on ancillary projects, <br />
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This last month or two, for example, I have had to put aside the novel I was working on and attend to the following:<br />
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Preparing a pitch for a book I wrote five years ago for a movie production company who have suddenly noticed it;<br />
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Reading a few short stories for a friend;<br />
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Reviewing another friend's 90,000-word manuscript and discussing same in a Zoom conference;<br />
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Reading and assessing a manuscript for The Literary Consultancy. (I am now in my twentieth year as a non-fiction appraiser for this, the first and probably best such consultancy in the U.K.<u>);</u><br />
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Writing a long poem for my brother's 80th birthday. Okay, nobody held a gun to my head, but what else could I do?<br />
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All perfectly enjoyable tasks, but none as delightful as the project illustrated above.<br />
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I first met Margaret Whitaker in 1990 or '91, when she showed up at a writing class I ran in South Cave, East Yorkshire. I think she had just retired and was wanting to record her early life. Her tales ranged from the reflective to the wacky to the ribald to the poignant. The day she read 'Thanks for the Mammary; a History of My Breasts Aged 14 to Present Day' a rare male member of the class took off, muttering something about not having come all that way to listen to pornography. (NB: yes, it's in the book.)<br />
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Mags generally had the place in uproar with her stories, all based on her rich life experience and viewed through her deeply human eyes. We fell about listening to her 'Confessions of a Lady Organist' and 'The Four Letter Word in the Garage' and listened, spellbound, as she described her early conviction that holding hands in the back seat of the cinema might get her pregnant. (It was about the mating habits of frogs, as revealed to her in a Biology class).<br />
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I always wanted to see her work in print, but while Mags cranked out an almost endless stream of vignettes over the next twenty-plus years, she never really had the drive to send things much further than the <i>Yorkshire Post</i>. Of course, we published her in our annual South Cave writing class magazine, and we did get her reading on Radio Humberside, which went down a storm.<br />
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Now she is in her nineties. After losing touch for some years I re-established contact a year or two ago and promised that, once I had got on top of things, I would look at her collected writings.<br />
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I called by last January and collected five fat Lever Arch files. Remember them? They contained approximately 640 pages of typescript.<br />
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I set about putting together those pieces that relate to her childhood and adolescence, 1929 to 1945.<br />
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We paid a typist to put it all onto disk, commissioned a cover, paid a formatter, were offered the services of a wonderful copy editor, Joan Deitch (who'd fallen for Mags' stories and worked for nothing) and, after a few glitches, got the book prepared. <br />
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I think this collection has everything: humour, tragedy, love and loss. It depicts life in a certain part of Liverpool during the Depression and the War. It reveals Mags' love of music, reading, fun, and boys - especially the ones from Quarry Bank School, who really knew how to kiss. And it shows us a world from a child's point of view, a world in which adults are very much the opposition, if not at times the enemy.<br />
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It's available now, from amazon <span style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">(</span><a href="https://amzn.to/2XLHtg9" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;" target="_blank">https://amzn.to/2XLHtg9</a><span style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">)</span>, and all I can say is, do read it. I doubt you'll be disappointed.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-57352306393978322392020-04-29T11:39:00.001+01:002020-04-29T11:43:20.558+01:00Fifty years ago today: Chelsea 2 Leeds 1 in the F. A. Cup Final replay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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At twelve noon on this day in 1970 I left my desk at
Heathrow Airport, got a bus to Hounslow West, underground to Hendon, and hitch-hiked north to watch
the F A Cup Final replay between my team, Chelsea, and our most hated rivals,
Leeds.</div>
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I was in outer Manchester for six-thirty, and at Old
Trafford half an hour before kick-off. I had my ticket in my pocket. At ten
shillings (50p) it was a sight cheaper than the one I got from a tout for the
original final. That set me back £7, about 30% of my week's wage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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I had attended every game of our glorious run to the Final –
all except the fourth-round replay at Burnley, when the late Peter Houseman
scored a hat-trick in a 3-1 triumph.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Round 3 was a routine 3-0 win v Birmingham</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTKoCxZIQmQGNrdgROvJQfrSHjcOKnRJjDJ3fSLqjDaFp1EVjZRqHP5RB8Bs0qSLXFKLmwwACjg-1IpKGzMMIrVQ2bcfHC0PHMWtfPtZG7NMIO7o8BLSQDW5Prgs_2ZrdqIbIhw/s1600/IMG_20200428_195431_resized_20200428_080101681.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTKoCxZIQmQGNrdgROvJQfrSHjcOKnRJjDJ3fSLqjDaFp1EVjZRqHP5RB8Bs0qSLXFKLmwwACjg-1IpKGzMMIrVQ2bcfHC0PHMWtfPtZG7NMIO7o8BLSQDW5Prgs_2ZrdqIbIhw/s640/IMG_20200428_195431_resized_20200428_080101681.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cover photo shows the celebrations during a 5-1 win in the League, at Crystal Palace, just after Christmas</td></tr>
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Round 4. My only memory of the first Burnley game was that we were
2-0 up with five minutes to go. My mate Dave, a Norwich supporter, said, 'Makes a change to see your lot win. They never do when I come.' Five minutes later we had conceded twice and had to replay at Turf Moor.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVe4VQHE3LPB4Zsz8AW7M07HUSq8ZftkVruKQ2yNbWwL9JwIOgYwI9Nm2vJk077OAhHDKU7MQLrQ0QGQ20kEY4tKlcajeq8aBMEJQ9MAl6z4yToqY8M8yTxFa862T3vM7bX7zf9Q/s1600/IMG_20200429_105918_resized_20200429_105938620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVe4VQHE3LPB4Zsz8AW7M07HUSq8ZftkVruKQ2yNbWwL9JwIOgYwI9Nm2vJk077OAhHDKU7MQLrQ0QGQ20kEY4tKlcajeq8aBMEJQ9MAl6z4yToqY8M8yTxFa862T3vM7bX7zf9Q/s640/IMG_20200429_105918_resized_20200429_105938620.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nice picture of Alan Hudson beating Arsenal goalie Bob Wilson in a recent 3-0 win at Highbury</td></tr>
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Round 5. It was in the game at Crystal
Palace that Chelsea really hit their stride. A few weeks earlier I’d watched
them win 5-1 at Selhurst Park (see Birmingham prog, above). This day we settled for 4-1.</div>
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Round 6, the quarter-final. Four more goals at QPR… Chelsea were really flying now, although still trailing Leeds and eventual Champions Everton in the League. QPR fielded two former Chelsea stars, the lightning fast Barry Bridges, and that wily fox (future Barcelona and England manager) Terry Venables. We did them, 4-2. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very jazzy covers at Loftus Road in those days - note the rosette for 'best programme'</td></tr>
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Semi-final. Then Watford at White Hart Lane. This game was actually
closer than the 5-1 scoreline suggests. On a sand-heap of a pitch (typical
Tottenham) it was 1-1 well into the second half. Then we went nuts and scored four.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never worked out why we kicked off at 2.45, but who cares? We romped home.</td></tr>
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Then on to the Final at Wembley, and yes, I can admit it now, Chelsea were a tad lucky to get a 2-2 draw
with a late, late equaliser from the late great Ian Hutchinson. But it was Leeds, so screw 'em. It wasn't just the fans: the players hated each other too. It's on record.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqNpwYQSMPrd-OMopFJYaDCUWTrhtvWH4C5mUvMwQlp3QvKQ2mNe1IE7k1OwaBH6j2CWXU3yDaXT22WHfWLyRJkcQz3FPwbpROAfQVu7GsebfcAZ6dOqktYovQiUt0rF-aRaPWnA/s1600/IMG_20200428_195652_resized_20200428_080239802.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqNpwYQSMPrd-OMopFJYaDCUWTrhtvWH4C5mUvMwQlp3QvKQ2mNe1IE7k1OwaBH6j2CWXU3yDaXT22WHfWLyRJkcQz3FPwbpROAfQVu7GsebfcAZ6dOqktYovQiUt0rF-aRaPWnA/s640/IMG_20200428_195652_resized_20200428_080239802.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two bob for a programme. Youch!</td></tr>
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And finally, Old Trafford. There was that sickening feeling when Leeds went in front, but that made the elation - when (the late) Peter Osgood nodded in Charlie Cooke's pass right below us at the Stretford End - all the greater. In extra time the belief started to grow. From a typically huge throw from Hutchinson, nodded on by John Dempsey, David Webb nodded the ball into the net. Everyone went mental. To this day I recall it as an out of body experience. But I was young, and VERY excited. The Cup meant more than the League in those days. Truly. It was more or less the only live game on TV every year and attracted a huge audience. 29 million tuned in for this one - more than half the UK population at the time. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qaJKgXe38sKSsRsYqQE15rUme88bFs_MWDndFLIuk6BfsfOus0RWonj07D_MZeI_BMTO47FISD2CwNRA3QGXqRBqO03JOJevI2ki5DC1bx8SN17VfOO95UUgEItIEmZgvY3n8A/s1600/IMG_20200428_195715_resized_20200428_080259389.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qaJKgXe38sKSsRsYqQE15rUme88bFs_MWDndFLIuk6BfsfOus0RWonj07D_MZeI_BMTO47FISD2CwNRA3QGXqRBqO03JOJevI2ki5DC1bx8SN17VfOO95UUgEItIEmZgvY3n8A/s640/IMG_20200428_195715_resized_20200428_080259389.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<br />
I had been up at 5 that morning to start my shift at the Airport, and I'd hitch-hiked 200 miles north with little thought about how to get home. I followed a singing chanting crowd of CFC supporters to the station, piled on a train, paid my £4 and emerged at Euston about three in the morning. Somehow I found a couple of guys who wanted to head southwest and we shared a cab to Kingston. I walked over the bridge to Hampton Wick, alone, 4 in the morning, singing Ee Aye Addio We Won The Cup at the top of my voice. Grabbed some sleep and went back to work..</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-56195724470931038502020-04-27T17:46:00.005+01:002020-04-27T19:06:57.511+01:00Things that make me cheerful at this time of year. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We have been having some fabulous spring weather here in the UK and I count myself fortunate in being able to enjoy it to the full.<br />
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Mostly, it's about the promise of good times up ahead - as seen in the blossom on our young apple tree.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lEGg8xebN32hcZY6pHAW-0-oG8670Mp6Q7MzOb1l_HR3sVT8cpOSFoLEsMQSVarlCEKXUJe7qBUk1JGwcOXyO1sZE-kYvYqV9ToF_XproDRKsAZYIEMxwkL3-WDFhCmmHXx6aA/s1600/IMG_20200427_150013_resized_20200427_051513390.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lEGg8xebN32hcZY6pHAW-0-oG8670Mp6Q7MzOb1l_HR3sVT8cpOSFoLEsMQSVarlCEKXUJe7qBUk1JGwcOXyO1sZE-kYvYqV9ToF_XproDRKsAZYIEMxwkL3-WDFhCmmHXx6aA/s640/IMG_20200427_150013_resized_20200427_051513390.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a James Grieve - fairly tart, so good for dessert or cooking. And a late bloomer, less prone to frost damage. </td></tr>
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The flowers on the currant bushes also suggest that a decent harvest might come our way in a few months. We planted a number of young bushes - whips, really - two or three years ago, and they are finally starting to flourish.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KdMxP2rey9xsetBwmUNPcEdOI6oCPuyuOLNS9SFkTH2AVYFcJ-dvM_zwcY6_kldyGyiZICwt8t5liQkaX7YjWw5ZQ5ZqthGUE2LDneCa20d1JZ3Jmcx05LXM3dLT0HyPvjbetQ/s1600/IMG_20200427_145551_resized_20200427_051546134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KdMxP2rey9xsetBwmUNPcEdOI6oCPuyuOLNS9SFkTH2AVYFcJ-dvM_zwcY6_kldyGyiZICwt8t5liQkaX7YjWw5ZQ5ZqthGUE2LDneCa20d1JZ3Jmcx05LXM3dLT0HyPvjbetQ/s640/IMG_20200427_145551_resized_20200427_051546134.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Redcurrant. Note the liberal use of excess packaging from outfits like amazon: great for suppressing weeds<br />
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We still have a few of last year's redcurrants in the freezer. I'll be making a syrup with them tomorrow to fold into the ice cream I'm making. (Eggs, cream, some sugar; nothing else.)<br />
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And then there's the good old reliable rhubarb. We've been eating it for a month already and will carry on picking until about June. A lot will be frozen.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRfDJzem75KWH7hfeYqNZj25Fd_4ZVt8f2l1IXe93YBjYdu2L3PoOSJZZVl3mnMUSEvvpQ4NZBmJgb1wtUEzB-HHkjS4i0T-QLBdMHG9rYNqiRZD581XCi6yNhRYvmXE9PHPCew/s1600/IMG_20200427_145628_resized_20200427_051528227.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRfDJzem75KWH7hfeYqNZj25Fd_4ZVt8f2l1IXe93YBjYdu2L3PoOSJZZVl3mnMUSEvvpQ4NZBmJgb1wtUEzB-HHkjS4i0T-QLBdMHG9rYNqiRZD581XCi6yNhRYvmXE9PHPCew/s640/IMG_20200427_145628_resized_20200427_051528227.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The buttercups come with the territory.</td></tr>
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The spring has also brought us a surprise visitor: a wasp has built a neat little nest right inside the door of the shed. Not sure what to do about it. I do not want a colony, but I suspect this fellow lives alone. It's unlike any wasp's nest I've seen. I watched the occupant crawl in a few hours ago, so I know it's a going concern.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt97-coj7TMedkUI7uO4gjxf0Gn45Crh5dE2cOIB9rd5_h9SIEN9l1DcT6pwkaEC4QiJ11i6wx2LsigzcufmRRf6zj1eeOutLtWaxsQU_ZXZUIntIEgWM5Gnj2FGXDwBAlTmHJdw/s1600/IMG_20200427_150213_resized_20200427_051441506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt97-coj7TMedkUI7uO4gjxf0Gn45Crh5dE2cOIB9rd5_h9SIEN9l1DcT6pwkaEC4QiJ11i6wx2LsigzcufmRRf6zj1eeOutLtWaxsQU_ZXZUIntIEgWM5Gnj2FGXDwBAlTmHJdw/s640/IMG_20200427_150213_resized_20200427_051441506.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Okay, back to writing business in my next blog.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-84797932086744373922020-04-25T16:31:00.000+01:002020-04-25T16:31:29.371+01:00I'm LIVE online. About 1800h. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sorry about the short notice, but if you care to follow this link<br />
<br />
<u>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tbUkYbNIu4Q</u><br />
<br />
you'll catch me being interviewed for the Nebraska Writers Guild. Live, from my desk, Durham UK.<br />
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You can also catch me here:<br />
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https://www.facebook.com/groups/NWGWriteAcrossNebraska/permalink/1754806707994133/<br />
<br />
(I'm not sure I should be using the 'catch' word just now, but it'll have to do.)<br />
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I'll be talking about my career (1964 to present day), my books (25-plus) and what I think success looks like.<br />
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Okay, make-up calling...<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-42314068609137661692020-04-17T17:50:00.001+01:002020-04-17T17:50:23.160+01:00Download a half-hour radio interview with me.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyDD8O7xlGdzShAtTdzxrQddh6nJ3d66ZbWrGQ3PGu5j1jrT-Oomxx9C64xy7ifae_hamxcIw_P74YTAZcKBYSfZic1VBadkJGv_8QfO_3LRzUdd4yFnO9UvhP1ytGv8CiOPkb3Q/s1600/UsedtobeaGuy_ebook_Final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyDD8O7xlGdzShAtTdzxrQddh6nJ3d66ZbWrGQ3PGu5j1jrT-Oomxx9C64xy7ifae_hamxcIw_P74YTAZcKBYSfZic1VBadkJGv_8QfO_3LRzUdd4yFnO9UvhP1ytGv8CiOPkb3Q/s320/UsedtobeaGuy_ebook_Final.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ0z67gyr7eD6y-7_ohR7TbGyKUNsmIGbl1if7Qf7OMf4b0JdNz-CpcX19n80Goh9xkPkPYoFI7zzqlZZCBS1LB3Ll6mmN7aiZfhhutFNvxvoKtb2g0NMdbHkFiugmkKlWdyaRmQ/s1600/NEW+RHOTN.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ0z67gyr7eD6y-7_ohR7TbGyKUNsmIGbl1if7Qf7OMf4b0JdNz-CpcX19n80Goh9xkPkPYoFI7zzqlZZCBS1LB3Ll6mmN7aiZfhhutFNvxvoKtb2g0NMdbHkFiugmkKlWdyaRmQ/s320/NEW+RHOTN.png" width="208" /></a></div>
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A few weeks ago I was invited by Larry Matthews, a radio producer operating out of Washington DC, to do an interview about my interest in Nebraska. I chose mostly to talk about the trips that inspired the two books above. (Both are available on amazon.) <a href="http://amzn.to/1Pfja1t" target="_blank">You can find them here</a> <br />
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The finished piece went out earlier this week, and you can download it here (I'm first up.):<br />
<br />
<a href="https://pod.co/impact-radio-usa/matthews-and-friends-4-13-20">https://pod.co/impact-radio-usa/matthews-and-friends-4-13-20</a><br />
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Hope you enjoy listening as much as I did talking.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-62180010322608343532020-04-14T20:39:00.000+01:002020-04-14T20:39:10.863+01:00Colour-code your characters. It’ll save a lot of confusion.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisDbuSBXNE0q6wTnOHkkp50prt1rvDigt8_BTeNr0Fs9437c3jU8cxLDtAXFfvb4JaXYJV4CQ6AuUkwdaMaS7rMDehkC2GY_fySBvd5d5CVW0wfrhO6lGfYo7kn1RQslgFhA6Mzw/s1600/DSCF3647.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisDbuSBXNE0q6wTnOHkkp50prt1rvDigt8_BTeNr0Fs9437c3jU8cxLDtAXFfvb4JaXYJV4CQ6AuUkwdaMaS7rMDehkC2GY_fySBvd5d5CVW0wfrhO6lGfYo7kn1RQslgFhA6Mzw/s640/DSCF3647.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Nebraska Sandhills, where most of the new novel takes place</td></tr>
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‘<b><i>What is writing a novel like? The beginning: a ride through
a spring wood. The middle: the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Gobi</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Desert</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The end: going
down the Cresta run</i></b>.’</div>
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That Edith Wharton knew a thing or two, didn’t she? </div>
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I surprised myself by starting a novel in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Scotland</st1:place></st1:country-region>. I got
20,000 words down in quite a hurry. And I fooled myself into thinking it really was
going to be that easy. Twenty thousand a month, I calculated, meant 60,000 by
midsummer. Another month for straightening out the bends, and bingo. Should be
done by about August.</div>
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Yes. I know. And thank you to that part of my brain which
always – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> – wants to reduce
everything to simple mathematics. Will you please shut up?</div>
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The beginning was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">such</i>
an easy ride. I had a character on a long journey, by car. <st1:city w:st="on">Portland</st1:city>,
<st1:state w:st="on">Oregon</st1:state> to western <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Nebraska</st1:place></st1:state>, in a winter storm. He’s eighty
years old, so he can think about all kinds of past experiences as he ticks off
the miles along Interstate 80. He can spin yarns, reminisce, express opinions.
All good entertaining stuff. When he arrives in the Panhandle, he puts up in a
hotel, and thinks about the ordeal ahead of him: a visit to the ranch where he
grew up sixty years ago, and to the nursing home where his sister has had a
stroke. I skipped through that lot. It was a piece of cake. Not so much a ride through
a spring wood as a barefoot run across warm sands towards a tropical sea. </div>
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And then. Then I started to ponder how to take it forward.
How to account for my man’s life over the past six decades. How to explain his refusal
ever to return home over the same period. What exactly was the unspeakable act by his father that drove him away? Why didn’t he even come back for the old man’s funeral? And
so on.</div>
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Over the past six weeks I have written endless notes to
myself. I have compiled<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>timelines for
several major characters, both living and dead. I have stared out of the window
even more than<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>usual. I have sweated
over a huge wall-chart where all my characters’ lives are laid out in parallel.
(It’s a pity the wallpaper I used didn’t let the post-it notes adhere to it, meaning that half of them are now on the floor. How I wished I’d stuck
to my plan and colour-coded them.) </div>
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And then the problem of how to relay all the information I
have about the guy’s father (dead these thirty years), his grandfather, who conked
out in 1953 when my protagonist was thirteen. Throw in a character we have yet
to meet who may be my man’s real father and will most likely have to be
murdered before I’ve finished – or at the very least ‘disposed of’. And weave
in a role for the author Mari Sandoz, who was courted by pop for twenty years
until she shook him off.… These things can tax a fellow’s brain.</div>
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However. I have somehow squeezed out a further 12,000 words
and am ready to set out across the <st1:place w:st="on">Gobi</st1:place> (see
Wharton, above). </div>
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Still crossing sand, and no whiff of the sea. Yet.</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-39329855201602483492020-03-31T15:18:00.001+01:002020-04-03T20:20:00.196+01:00We return from twenty-eight days alone in our Scottish retreat - to self-isolation in town<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIuUBGw7lh5NT2oomyR1wYX5sf3Ck0n2qi6Ju-3VORvI69fgbGEe7X3_g9vyhkNx07iGyGUuEDmhWRCAtD0K37_i8aaUIdfXSLOYec36ZjlDb9xdRk2HtRNVwoZpQNWYJYN78LOQ/s1600/IMG_20200215_164736_resized_20200307_051235638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIuUBGw7lh5NT2oomyR1wYX5sf3Ck0n2qi6Ju-3VORvI69fgbGEe7X3_g9vyhkNx07iGyGUuEDmhWRCAtD0K37_i8aaUIdfXSLOYec36ZjlDb9xdRk2HtRNVwoZpQNWYJYN78LOQ/s640/IMG_20200215_164736_resized_20200307_051235638.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Ben Resipol, Scottish Highlands</td></tr>
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<o:p>We are back from our month-long creative retreat in the Highlands. Twenty-seven rainy days, and one snowy one. No excuse for not writing. </o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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I’ve been quiet for some time. I had to be. Uppermost in my
mind these past six months has been the continuing ugliness surrounding <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sherlock The Musical</i>. I am still not
at liberty to go into detail. Suffice it to say that the lawyers are on the case.
One day I will tell my version – although who will be around to hear it remains
a matter for conjecture.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, self-isolation. We are among the fortunate ones. One,
we have each other. Two, our house is large enough for us to avoid each other
when we need to. Three, I have work on my desk – one or two paying
propositions, a new novel (on which more later), and news that the book I
co-wrote with Robert Stone (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chasing Black
Gold</i>) is being looked at yet more closely by movie producers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbxeABawfmqzC7-VqINtLFQiJ2qarZsG4hX9mhbPsutLGStUPPqTuqyrw6LpwzIEOckWvAGXF-QJFcnHFyZh7-1-y3UqxYmtGKeg7rvoigJPJtGG536-yH6AmpP3d6W1-mgKKCg/s1600/IMG_20200325_154448_resized_20200327_015159235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbxeABawfmqzC7-VqINtLFQiJ2qarZsG4hX9mhbPsutLGStUPPqTuqyrw6LpwzIEOckWvAGXF-QJFcnHFyZh7-1-y3UqxYmtGKeg7rvoigJPJtGG536-yH6AmpP3d6W1-mgKKCg/s640/IMG_20200325_154448_resized_20200327_015159235.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We only set this garden out last March; it is slowly bedding in.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How else are we lucky? Well, we have a garden (above). We live in an
area with few recorded cases of coronavirus so far. And we can still walk,
through mature woodland and over rough pasture, to our allotment (below), where we plan
the year’s fruit and vegetables.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbzcZ2xk_yMjsxD0gErAyRLgrwSd5zwLaZiMFVSChks3qJx_DYrfrK8vWwgPKyQBFR097Au86Ifnn5HsjaEb9LLSIYBoU7A4phSuxTMUF-GxLx0VUWiZVdg4r6Vg-wEsUS5e4Og/s1600/IMG_20200327_114800_resized_20200327_015124796.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbzcZ2xk_yMjsxD0gErAyRLgrwSd5zwLaZiMFVSChks3qJx_DYrfrK8vWwgPKyQBFR097Au86Ifnn5HsjaEb9LLSIYBoU7A4phSuxTMUF-GxLx0VUWiZVdg4r6Vg-wEsUS5e4Og/s640/IMG_20200327_114800_resized_20200327_015124796.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another young garden. All rubbish and half bricks when we took it over, but the fruit bushes (protected by cardboard) are getting established and the lower half is thoroughly manured.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shopping isn’t as easy as it was. Bread flour – I have been
baking my own since 1971 with hardly a break – is hard to find. However, A.
came home the other day with a bag of pasta flour and reminded me that we had a
hand-cranked machine in the cupboard. Indeed we had. It had been there for
several years, unused. So out it came.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_oeIn0h3LQogxr4FjFnMNyZg7lq9AvVeyuc5FcrBH47VidevSGs8w6ounkiRfQRXFOBdhRWL4Z5PYnkhcDfXtb4GfTGDziWLF2fRcUT7fJ_0JPTSiaud-UVfisbHMtVVlyVT0ng/s1600/IMG_7796.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_oeIn0h3LQogxr4FjFnMNyZg7lq9AvVeyuc5FcrBH47VidevSGs8w6ounkiRfQRXFOBdhRWL4Z5PYnkhcDfXtb4GfTGDziWLF2fRcUT7fJ_0JPTSiaud-UVfisbHMtVVlyVT0ng/s640/IMG_7796.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Linguine - in case it's not immediately apparent!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I won’t say that the result filled me with a desire to make
all our own spaghetti and lasagne henceforth, but it was encouraging. We’ll try
again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a few days’ I shall talk about the new novel, which
announced itself to me while we were in our Scottish retreat. I came home with 20,000 words, very wet boots and a lot of questions.</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-47714818888510596342019-12-17T20:12:00.003+00:002019-12-17T20:16:07.942+00:00When the present is unspeakable, give me the warm glow of nostalgia – every time.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCBM8OQUL5zRZ4Ohi6jlUeGWLcPi-U9vHh0n-fSbJvBw2jEHFdu0l1aD5woe_itZbvWRbQUtiLCUWRz4hkzWOI4uonp-fBiDucRt6v24qKkU_1eNaHIIc6lwA3LSFRaJ-96cAKeg/s1600/IMG_20191217_141345_resized_20191217_021437753.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCBM8OQUL5zRZ4Ohi6jlUeGWLcPi-U9vHh0n-fSbJvBw2jEHFdu0l1aD5woe_itZbvWRbQUtiLCUWRz4hkzWOI4uonp-fBiDucRt6v24qKkU_1eNaHIIc6lwA3LSFRaJ-96cAKeg/s640/IMG_20191217_141345_resized_20191217_021437753.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 447 bus that has maintained a close hold on my affections for over 60 years </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am still not free to talk about the shit-storm that has
enveloped my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sherlock The Musical</i>
enterprise. And that, largely, accounts for my silence over the past few months. Once upon a time we were a happy creative band dreaming up a
musical in a pub. It was so easy. We hardly even bothered to agree terms. That was our first mistake. But
we got it off the ground, launched it, sat and enjoyed the rapturous applause of packed
houses… And now look at us: no one of us talking to the other – except
surreptitiously or through lawyers. No money coming in. Just bitterness, feuding, accusations and
legal threats flying like wind-blown leaves across an empty stage. Cast members
hurled aside on a whim. Remind me never to go near a theatre again – at least
not as a writer. And I may well be saying the same about the fair city of Cologne in due course. These things can leave such a bitter taste in your mouth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some time soon, when the lawyers have decided how to
proceed, I will be free to talk about it in detail. Right now, I am withdrawing into
nostalgia. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found this model on eBay and had to have it. The
London Country Bus service 447 served the tiny little world I grew up in, in
darkest <st1:place w:st="on">Surrey</st1:place>, from birth to age 6. Never
mind what this model says about going to Woldingham and Caterham. That’s simply
wrong. This bus served <st1:place w:st="on">Reigate</st1:place>, Redhill,
Meadvale and Merstham. I know: I lived in all four places. Later I went to
school at Caterham and took the 411 bus there, term after term for seven years,
and it was a double-decker. The 447 was my bus, for my neighbourhood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I forgive the model-makers. They got the number right, and that's what matters right now. I have never forgotten the numbers – four four seven – nor
eradicated their consoling cadence from my mind. And whenever I think of them
I see in my mind’s eye this beautifully compact vehicle in all its holly-green glory.
I hear the gentle purr of its engine, the swish of its tyres, but most of all
I see the welcoming yellow light that illuminated so many a night-time fog, that
hove cheerily into sight on so many frosty evenings. I remember how I stood, Sunday
after Sunday when church was over, bare legs shivering below the hem of a cold
mackintosh. And I remember clambering eagerly aboard to be enveloped in a
warmth, a fragrant smoky warmth, that matched anything we ever cooked up in
our own draughty living-room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In those days – I’m talking about the 1950s – there were a
number of public spaces that offered more heat, more colour, more comfort,
certainly more diversion, than the homes most of us grew up in. There was the
cinema, of course; there was the pub – although that was a pleasure reserved
uniquely for adults – and there was the bus, especially the single-decker
London Transport bus, red or green. To settle into those firm, upholstered seats,
to reach out and grasp the heavy, chrome-plated rail of the seat in front as
the tightly fitted doors closed and we swung away from the kerb, was to revel
in a rare kind of luxury. A memory to hold close and cherish.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now I have this beautiful model on my window-sill. I am
managing to ignore the incorrect destinations and concentrate on the numbers.
Four four seven. A magical combination; music to my ears.</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-1371065090469355162019-10-07T15:05:00.000+01:002019-10-07T15:05:01.981+01:00In a maelstrom of political chaos, there are still... vegetables. And flowers. And nuts.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLSkpA4plcQjAtf8KmFeUixviYm3MuBeXy9GpKGn2YT1D0IYNsU7RBkrU5yKGtvIWhKDwpqbRZYb9JH10Jdd0kDKfNAQehOy-2m4TmSVxsJDCIhnozAMYdGGoB1JbbL3Q3MnpWw/s1600/IMG_20191005_174959_resized_20191006_102451686.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLSkpA4plcQjAtf8KmFeUixviYm3MuBeXy9GpKGn2YT1D0IYNsU7RBkrU5yKGtvIWhKDwpqbRZYb9JH10Jdd0kDKfNAQehOy-2m4TmSVxsJDCIhnozAMYdGGoB1JbbL3Q3MnpWw/s640/IMG_20191005_174959_resized_20191006_102451686.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A selection of food gathered on a wet, cold October afternoon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Life isn't easy at the moment. Like many of my fellow Brits I fear for our future. I am anti-Brexit and anti-Johnson. I don't see much to cheer me. Throw in the continual ludicrous utterances of that gibbering fruitcake across the Atlantic, and the general state of this fragile planet; throw in the shenanigans that have become a part of daily life since my involvement with Theatre Folk, and is it any wonder I have the urge to sleep eleven hours at a stretch? Or that my dreams are infested with bizarre combinations of such matters? <br />
<br />
So, on a cold, wet October afternoon, what a delight it was to come home from a walk in the woods with another sack-full of hazel nuts, to trot down to the allotment and pick yet more fat autumn raspberries, a few spuds, a leek, the last of the runner beans and a bunch of beetroot. Plus a handful of surviving sweet peas to put a little more colour on our kitchen table.<br />
<br />
These things keep me sane, for a hour or two.<br />
<br />
I mentioned Theatre Folk, even though I would love to forget about them. My venture into the crazy world of musical theatre in Germany is fast becoming a nightmare. With luck, I will be in a position to 'tell all' before long. And then vow never to go near a theatre again, unless as a disinterested spectator.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-11341490105645334612019-09-03T21:20:00.000+01:002019-09-03T21:28:52.879+01:00The cowboy looked me up and down. 'What did ya, lose a bet?' he asked.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So Labor Day has come and gone. Despite being preoccupied
with Brexit, and the unseemly behaviour of the grotesque toffs that have
infested British politics, I did note the passing of the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">USA</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s last public
holiday before Thanksgiving. It marked an anniversary.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Twenty-five years ago, on Monday 5<sup>th</sup> September
1994, I set off on a journey to get the measure of <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Nebraska</st1:place></st1:state>. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I’d been studying the state’s literature and history for
some time, and had made two road trips, in 1991 and ’93 – first along the
Oregon Trail, then into the Panhandle to visit Mari Sandoz’ sister Caroline. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Listening to her talk about the old days in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Nebraska</st1:place></st1:state>, I decided I needed
to know the place better, to get the feel of it. I came up with a journey. State
line to state line, from the banks of the <st1:state w:st="on">Missouri</st1:state>
to the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Wyoming</st1:place></st1:state>
border, from the lowest point, 840 feet above sea level, to the highest, 5424. On
a bicycle, which I would have to borrow. I'd not, at this stage, heard of the annual Bike Ride Across Nebraska, or BRAN.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I started in the little town of Rulo, and over the next ten
or twelve days made my way along the Republican river valley, north to the
Platte, finally following Lodgepole Creek towards Kimball. As the temperature hovered
around the mid-90s, parts of my face and arms turned a dark shade of brown. I
developed white crow’s feet. My ankles got burned, as did the tops of my ears. My
front tyre blew at seven one morning and I found to my horror that there was nothing
out there to lean a bike against – no fence, no wall, no telegraph pole. I was
chased by dogs, several of them. I talked to strangers in bars, cafés, in the
shade of grain elevators, in small-town museums and family-run diners. I camped
in State Parks and in city parks. I was haunted in my tent at night by cackling
maniacs – and only realised years later that I’d been listening to nothing more
sinister than a bunch of coyotes. I sheltered in whatever shade I could find: under
lone cottonwoods, rustling cornstalks, and on one occasion in the shadow of a little
camper-van beside Highway 30 – after asking the driver’s permission. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
After several days with a balmy wind behind me, the weather
turned. At Ogallala a storm blew through town, flooding the streets and re-arranging
the trash cans. By next morning the temperature had dropped fifty degrees, the wind
had made an about turn. And it had freshened up some. Fifty-five miles an hour,
I was reliably informed by the guy in the pick-up who rescued me from the ensuing
dust-storm, took me into Chappell in his pick-up and handed me over to his
mother. She fed me, then put me up for the night. Cowboys, eh?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
At Kimball, you have to turn off the highway onto dirt roads
to find Promontory Point. That was the best part of the ride. Now convinced
that I would make it, I enjoyed myself. There was no traffic, the weather had
settled down, and the fields were full of wheat stubble and sunflowers. I
passed a delightful old schoolhouse, and saw a herd of deer cross the road in
from of me and disappear - like water sinking through sand.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I arrived at my destination around midday and found a concrete
obelisk marking the state’s highest point, over a mile high. They had a metal
desk there, and inside it a notebook filled with signatures. I added mine,
after checking through a few pages to make sure I was the first Brit.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Back in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
I wrote a book about my trip. I called it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mountaineering
in the Sierra Nebraska</i>. I briefly thought I’d sold it to a <st1:place w:st="on">Midwest</st1:place> publisher, but for some reason they pulled the plug.
It languished under my desk for many years, and then, three years ago I
re-branded it and published it myself. The new title was a gift – from an
old-timer I met on a seat outside a barber shop in Red Cloud. I had a cracked
bearing and wanted to know if there was anyone in town who fixed bikes. ‘We-ell,
there used to be a guy,’ he said, pausing to light a cigarette and scratch his
head. Then, with superb timing, he added the words which gave me title. ‘But he
died.’</div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you’d like to read <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There Used to Be a Guy… But He Died</i></b>, it’s available from amazon in hard copy at $10.95, or on Kindle at $4.33: <a href="http://amzn.to/1T3XxRP"><span style="color: blue;">http://amzn.to/1T3XxRP</span></a><u><o:p></o:p></u></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-57916395506259730052019-07-11T15:42:00.000+01:002019-07-11T15:42:51.417+01:00On turning... can it really be 70? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It was a great birthday celebration, and it seemed to last
all week. We had five days of visitors – from Sweden, London, West Virginia,
Cornwall, Wales… people who have known me twenty, thirty, even sixty years and
were still willing to travel huge distances to enjoy my company. And of course there
was the party: 50-odd friends and family converging on a little village hall in
the far north of Northumberland, just a hop, skip and a jump away from the
Scottish border. Quaint, isn't it?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8pAQ1dsUufHP4faAFi1Eq-2Dzc_sEkxpYNm1qkn-TIwp3sI-D2Ly2nRWGf7S04j9SvNH6Ot3GoqnYARUAXflbXsS2DUaxgKTzR_qe_PrpEhcY79nWXLyu-iw0v-eiod8_qwtwFQ/s1600/DSC_0041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8pAQ1dsUufHP4faAFi1Eq-2Dzc_sEkxpYNm1qkn-TIwp3sI-D2Ly2nRWGf7S04j9SvNH6Ot3GoqnYARUAXflbXsS2DUaxgKTzR_qe_PrpEhcY79nWXLyu-iw0v-eiod8_qwtwFQ/s640/DSC_0041.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cuddystone Hall, just a few miles south-west of Wooler, Northumberland</td></tr>
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It was a strange feeling, seeing people connected with the
many phases of my past, and realising that they were part of – well, I was
going to say a jigsaw, but I feel that ‘mosaic’ would be a more appropriate
word, because my career has been fragmented, to say the least. Fifty jobs and
thirty addresses at the last count. But my goodness, I have collected some
great and loyal friends along the way.</div>
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We enjoyed a relaxed afternoon: cakes and tea was followed
by a duck race on the stream that flows down the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">College</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb68MwzQ4GEoh5yV3rqq90byw3iJdUXcZHXLmQtIrnL6hmef4y-VtTXSTV8bVujltBCU7ZJXJnToIQQ1pup95zJeuIavWHGUiT0pJdQj4zEAzgv74iv2GL0GRlSGxIAd3monIi1A/s1600/DSC_0040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb68MwzQ4GEoh5yV3rqq90byw3iJdUXcZHXLmQtIrnL6hmef4y-VtTXSTV8bVujltBCU7ZJXJnToIQQ1pup95zJeuIavWHGUiT0pJdQj4zEAzgv74iv2GL0GRlSGxIAd3monIi1A/s640/DSC_0040.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">College Burn, scene of the duck-race. A challenging course. </td></tr>
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Between us we had five grandsons attending, and I was delighted to see the
older three high above us, exploring the sides of the mountains that rose to
the north. I was reminded of the days, in the 1950s, when I roamed the
bracken-covered hillsides of <st1:place w:st="on">Surrey</st1:place> and found
solace in the woods. Fortunately these particular youngsters didn’t have any
matches with them.</div>
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In the evening we ate supper and danced. Well, we did our
best, to the accompaniment of an excellent band. There’s always an element of
confusion in a decent ceilidh, and I certainly did my best to see that nothing
went as smoothly as it was supposed to. At times you can feel pretty inept
trying to follow all the moves, but I take comfort from the realisation that nobody
ever has time to laugh at you. When you’re ‘stripping the willow’ or
‘galloping’ through a row of fellow dancers, desperately trying to remember
whether the caller said ‘left’ or ‘right’ – and in any case realising that
you’re suddenly incapable of distinguishing one foot from the other – you can
bet that most of the other dancers are having the same trouble.</div>
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It can be a rather forlorn moment when a party ends, and the
guests trickle away into the night. When will we meet again, and all that?
(Quite a thought-provoking question when you’re about to turn seventy). This
was when I was glad we had arranged overnight accommodation for thirty or so in
a bunkhouse tucked away upstream. It meant there was time to talk further over
a leisurely breakfast, in a calmer atmosphere, with one or two friends I hadn’t
seen since my 60<sup>th</sup>. (Was that really ten years ago?) </div>
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Back home there were more guests to entertain, but by
Tuesday the last ones had <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>departed, and
we were left to celebrate my actual birthday in peace. However, there was still
time for one more golden moment, when a charming young woman wished me happy
birthday and told me she had assumed this was my sixtieth.</div>
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My joy is complete. I shall embark on my eighth decade with
hope and positivity. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3YjZSwfpl2OilM0WqOMXywsgZicm2V2agUcL572T6d671aKzJ7P1qbEVmLAkAq6PDpRMdlUoN-LdDTRaPlnFhpjZO41QD_u_Q6XBwEm2QShS9vjshznBi_4NzfXLXDUEi6nhaw/s1600/DSC_0039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3YjZSwfpl2OilM0WqOMXywsgZicm2V2agUcL572T6d671aKzJ7P1qbEVmLAkAq6PDpRMdlUoN-LdDTRaPlnFhpjZO41QD_u_Q6XBwEm2QShS9vjshznBi_4NzfXLXDUEi6nhaw/s640/DSC_0039.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com1Kirknewton, Wooler NE71 6TP, UK55.5204578 -2.1797077999999629.998423300000002 -43.488301799999959 81.0424923 39.128886200000039tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-4642284194358462232019-07-02T16:36:00.000+01:002019-07-02T16:36:44.922+01:00The sky-diving Elvis impersonator: or, that’s why I keep a journal. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was collating income and expenditure figures for my
year-end accounts. I could almost see the energy oozing out of my pores as I
sank lower in my seat. It wasn’t long before I was speculating about the next
paying proposition, and where it might come from. <br />
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Left field is the answer, of course. They always come from
left field, as a random flip through my collected journals never fails to
remind me. </div>
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My journals now stretch back 25 years. In that time I have
published 25 books, written another dozen that await their moment, and over 200
TV scripts. I have read, assessed and written reports on 500 manuscripts, written
a whole bunch of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>miscellaneous articles,
reviews and short stories… and still had those dry stretches that sent me out to
work as a barman, a racecourse bookie, a lab assistant. And all the time I’ve been
firing off enquiries, filling out applications for residencies and
scholarships, presenting ideas to editors, publishers and entrepreneurs, drafting
proposals for TV series, radio dramas, documentaries and corporate histories...
as well as fielding enquiries from countless people who insist that the story
of their amazing life will earn them millions and give me a fat percentage. </div>
<br />
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Yes. Well. Yesterday I flipped through a couple of months’
entries from around 2002-03. That brief span threw up all kinds of endeavours
that I’d more or less forgotten – and reminded me how much energy I had in
those days. Energy generated by desperation. Because conjuring up some kind of
income, month in month out for 25 years, takes some doing. </div>
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The first thing I find is a record of protracted discussions
with an outfit called RANY. I think it stands for Rural Arts North Yorkshire.
The long and short of it is that I attend several meetings and draw up plans
for a series of writing courses for old people in care, and their carers. Yes.
Except that it’s all done on spec, and I will only be paid if the courses
happen. Which they don’t.</div>
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At the same time there are ongoing talks with BBC Bristol:
someone is making a film about their series <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vets
In Practice</i>, for which I wrote the scripts. It will be shot in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Birmingham</st1:place></st1:city>, and I will be
paid £250 for an interview. I remember that well: I blew it big time, letting
slip, on camera, that I was not impressed by Christopher Timothy’s acting
ability. Got the fee, but never made the final cut. They would, however, invite
me to a tenth anniversary bash at <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bristol</st1:place></st1:city>
a few weeks later.</div>
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There follows a flurry of correspondence with the travel
editor at the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sunday Times</i>. She has
published a number of my pieces but is (a) cutting the fee, due to the Iraq War
looming and (b) telling me that, although my writing is very much to her taste,
I really need to write about the kind of places that an average <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ST</i> reader would take his wife and kids
for a fortnight’s holiday. Not ‘my wild camping adventures in the desolate
wastes of western <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Arizona</st1:place></st1:state>’.
Later she would write and tell me, ‘If I were rich I would be your patron, but
meanwhile…’</div>
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Next up I see an email coming in from the gal at Radio 4 who
produced my play. Aha, she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i>
emails to say we haven’t made it, so this must be good news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She is vexed, having been asked specifically to re-submit my idea about
Willa Cather’s relationship with A E Housman, only to have it rejected.</div>
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While I am in that Radio 4 vein I chase up a maverick
producer who likes my ideas and is considering several of them… but who will, a
few pages later, tell me she’s resigning from the BBC because it is now run by
timorous youths with no sense of history.</div>
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In September I go to jail. <st1:place w:st="on">Preston</st1:place>,
to be specific. I recall an unhealthily warm environment, a lot of pale green
paint, everyone walking at a sluggish pace, as if sedated… and a long interview.
I am applying for a post as a writer in residence and am turned down that very
evening. They tell me they aren’t sure I know why I want the job. (It’s the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">money</i>, stupid.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see their point, which is why I withdraw
from another interview at H.M. Prison Lincoln the following week.</div>
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Between times I continue to write reports for The Literary
Consultancy and teach by correspondence for the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Open</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">College</st1:placetype></st1:place>
of the Arts. Somehow I find time to go for an interview for a job as… an
interviewer. Market research. And draw another blank.</div>
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Unsolicited emails trickle in: one from a woman who
contacted me some months ago about one-to-one tuition; another from a woman who
has drafted her life story. She wants me to take her 280,000-word ms and reduce
it to 100,000. We agree fees and star work.</div>
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I apply to work as a Writing Support Tutor at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">York</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">St
John</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">University</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
composing a ten-minute presentation on ‘Issues Arising From Student Writing’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The interview, when it comes, starts badly
and gets worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among the questions they
ask me is, ‘Do you feel happier working with groups or one to one?’ ‘One to one’
is clearly the wrong answer. They phone that evening to tell me so. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Money drifts in from time to time: a cheque for £26 from
Granada TV for sales to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New
Zealand</st1:place></st1:country-region> of one of my old <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Emmerdale</i> episodes.</div>
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Somewhere I read about an artist-in-residence post in the
South Dakota Badlands, and spend an age drafting 3500 words on ‘My Love Affair
with the <st1:place w:st="on">Great Plains</st1:place>’.</div>
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I take the train down to the BBC party in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bristol</st1:place></st1:city>. A director I have worked with throws
her arms around me. ‘Alan! I’ve been meaning to email you!’ Another talks
enthusiastically of the real prospect of some writing work - next year – without
mentioning that he will retire three months later. Someone else tells me they’ll
need a script writer for the Vets’ Christmas Special. My series producer is one
of several people who bounce up and ask, ‘What are you working on now?’ Telling
media folk that you’re actually on a dry run is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> a good idea. </div>
<br />
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And then comes one of those out-of-the-blue queries. A
partner at one of the world’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>largest
accounting firms has seen one of my corporate histories and wants to talk.
Soon. When so-and-so recovers from his heart attack. (I suspect he never did,
and the project died with him.)</div>
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New manuscripts come in for appraisal. There’s a 298-pager
on ‘my fifteen years living and working in Asia’ (for Asia, read <st1:country-region w:st="on">Korea</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Japan</st1:country-region>
and occasional trips to Hong Kong and <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Australia</st1:place></st1:country-region>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I write a 4750ww report explaining at great
length how to write stories from diaries and notes. (A clue: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> by transcribing them.)</div>
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Now, here’s one of which I have no recollection whatsoever:
a trip to <st1:place w:st="on">Middlesbrough</st1:place> for a <st1:stockticker w:st="on">BBC</st1:stockticker> get-together of wannabe northern writers. All I
get from that is the realisation that I’ve probably had all the breaks the
other attendees sought, but have failed to capitalise on them.</div>
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Now comes a sequence of phone calls with a 100-year-old
grocery chain who have been keeping me interested for five long years in a
possible history. Soon, they said. We’ll soon be making a firm decision. (They
never did.) </div>
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Another random email, arriving a little after six one
evening, comes from an agent who’s found me on the Society of Authors’ website.
She’s looking for a biographer for a Holocaust survivor. Great excitement,
which ultimately leads nowhere.</div>
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A former tutee writes, asking me to read and assess a short play
he’s written. Sure thing. That’ll be £75.</div>
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Did all of this really happen in eight weeks? Well, that’s
what the journal tells me. And I still find time to host a committee meeting for
the OCA, notching up a £130 fee. This is where I offer the opinion that at £13
an assignment I can’t afford to give more than one hour to any piece of work. A
certain poet disagrees, telling us that he likes to mull each poem over for a
day or two before writing up his report.</div>
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Income, however small, is always welcome. I discover that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Writer’s Forum </i>owe me £80 from last June
and bang out a repeat invoice. I send welcome letters to a couple of new
students (at the agreed fee of £2.00 a time.)</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Having heard that my radio<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>play is about to be repeated, I get all excited and call BBC Contracts
at <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bristol</st1:place></st1:city>. The
good feeling doesn’t last long. They remind me that my original contract was
for two transmissions, meaning I get nothing for the repeat. </div>
<br />
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Two new mss drop through the letter-box. There’s a 270-pager
on ‘My Life As Lady Purser With a Well Known Shipping Line’, and a second: ‘My
Life of Hell With A Sick Mother, a Sick Aunt, An Ailing Grandmother, An
Impotent Husband of Seventy-Eight and A Seven-Year-Old Who Screams All The Time
– And By The Way My Mother’s Dog Was Sick Too And We Had to Put It Down’. Happy
days, but another £400 or so in the bank.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I write to welcome three new OCA students, all Starters, and
two of them inherited from a tutor who’s died (it’s an ill wind…). Another
£6.00 on the monthly invoice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Out of the blue, a call from some guy from <st1:place w:st="on">Scarborough</st1:place>,
a stand-up comedian and sky-diving Elvis impersonator who wants a script-writer.
We will meet in a pub next week. I will spend several weeks on this, penning a
decent enough half-hour episode, and then he will go strangely silent.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I send off a travel piece about <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Oklahoma</st1:place></st1:state> art galleries to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daily Telegraph</i>’s travel editor. He
snaps it up. That’ll be about £350.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
So that’s a slice of one journal. I am exhausted just
reading it. One day I may have the energy to trawl through the whole lot,
roughly 1,500,000 words. I wonder whether I’ll laugh or cry.</div>
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And the left field moment? Just after I’d started a winter’s
work at the sugar-beet factory I heard that I’d been selected as Jack Kerouac
Writer in Residence in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Orlando</st1:city>
<st1:state w:st="on">Florida</st1:state></st1:place>.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWaKNOWr3Ub3e1v8aQfhjHxHa8LfzzDFY4bWhXpgJJXnKJPzBFMsUb16NNXxh-5zKE-rGZEGKa-M0DqNYoUjYW_wkKFQnk-39KeX4QjH3SLBDgn313zGGcO7TlEiRMk43SE-Estw/s1600/Pics1+011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWaKNOWr3Ub3e1v8aQfhjHxHa8LfzzDFY4bWhXpgJJXnKJPzBFMsUb16NNXxh-5zKE-rGZEGKa-M0DqNYoUjYW_wkKFQnk-39KeX4QjH3SLBDgn313zGGcO7TlEiRMk43SE-Estw/s640/Pics1+011.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Jack Kerouac House, behind the giant live oak </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-18195926237431321202019-06-13T17:40:00.000+01:002019-06-13T17:40:57.525+01:00Hiking in the Balkans<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Back from a tough assignment, a week-long hike along
sections of the Via Dinarica in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Croatia</st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bosnia</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
This was a guided hike. Having never visited the region, we feared the
mountains might be a bit daunting for us to negotiate alone. It was organised
by a company called Green Visions <a href="https://greenvisions.ba/en" target="_blank">https://greenvisions.ba/en</a>, based
in Sarajevo. Among there aims are ecologically sound tourism, and a desire to
show that <st1:country-region w:st="on">Bosnia</st1:country-region>, and its
neighbours, are not war-ravaged moonscapes but home to some of the finest
scenery in <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
We started our trip in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Croatia</st1:country-region>,
staying with friends who have a holiday home on the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">island</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Vis</st1:placename></st1:place>
(pronounced ‘Wiss’), a 90-minute catamaran ride from the mainland. </div>
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After a couple of days’ rest we met our fellow walkers at <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Split</st1:place></st1:city> airport. We were
alarmed to see a group of nine 20-30-somethings, most of them lean, long-legged and
talking airily about the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>marathons they
ran last week. We were relieved to meet one other couple around our age – but
they turned out to be as fit as the proverbial lop (lop: some say flea, some
say hare – but you get the idea.) </div>
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We began in the town of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Skradin</st1:place></st1:city>, in a very comfortable hotel, and
next morning took the bus to a canyon scoured by the Krupa river. Our guide
warned us that the area had had a cool, wet spring and that we might find the
path a bit wet in places. Ha! We never let him forget that. An hour or so later we all had our boots off and were
wading through 2-3 feet of water at the edge of a raging torrent. All
good fun (except for those of us with bunions!), but a sharp reminder that nobody can
ever predict the conditions in wild country.</div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0okJGVcc7rhrjOxCKxnAZRWg56eiou3NiU7EvyhDqTEWGZBZQH28dSjEI2awgOqx1WeywNEpVdUNu5kZEJelTcxN-6G2ooRnHEXz3TDVNwElqL0lRRjJXaV1h-jFeAhl9azG7bA/s1600/P1010989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0okJGVcc7rhrjOxCKxnAZRWg56eiou3NiU7EvyhDqTEWGZBZQH28dSjEI2awgOqx1WeywNEpVdUNu5kZEJelTcxN-6G2ooRnHEXz3TDVNwElqL0lRRjJXaV1h-jFeAhl9azG7bA/s640/P1010989.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Our second day’s hike was over a stretch of the Markov Grob
Plain, below <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Badanj</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Peak</st1:placetype></st1:place> (1,281 metres, or
approx. 4,000 feet). The weather was kind, and we were able to picnic in warm
sunshine.</div>
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Already we were struck by two features of this landscape:
the fantastically eroded and broken limestone rocks, and the wonderful array of
wildflowers. At the lower elevations it seemed that summer had more or less
arrived. Higher up, we came across newly-emerged crocuses and other spring
flowers that we in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Britain</st1:place></st1:country-region>
had finished with two or three months ago. </div>
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We now passed our first night in a mountain hut. The
sleeping arrangements were fine, but A. and I decided to sleep out under the
tall, densely packed beech-trees. It’s a thing we like to do every year if we
can. The stars were mostly obscured by the canopy of fresh foliage but where
they were visible they really did shine brightly. We were up around 0530h
drinking coffee – a wise move since the rain kicked in shortly after.</div>
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It proved to be a long and horribly wet day. I think we were
all soaked to the skin. I didn’t let my camera out of its bag once, so I have
no pictures of the downpour, nor of the hunched, bedraggled hikers. This was
one of two days when we got soaked, and of course we now learned the difference
between a typical hotel in the region and the mountain huts. The hotels had no
provision for drying wet gear – why would they, in such a benign climate? –
whereas the huts had wood-burning stoves, and boy were we glad of them. Some even
had beer for sale, and spirits. Hallelujah.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zAmzhOJD0LjrffPTpNg27hT-95t-O9M2Dajl26yM-cZV41pEob64I8dMROuKnIqIw2nwmqx4SfXOk5eLYhaTANaR9vLQkn7A4zznaZbjcZ-iUvVpOdV8oxyvjMOYAJC89WoldA/s1600/P1020012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zAmzhOJD0LjrffPTpNg27hT-95t-O9M2Dajl26yM-cZV41pEob64I8dMROuKnIqIw2nwmqx4SfXOk5eLYhaTANaR9vLQkn7A4zznaZbjcZ-iUvVpOdV8oxyvjMOYAJC89WoldA/s640/P1020012.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mountain hut at Vilinac, Bosnia. This is where our host sold us beer. May he and his kin,long prosper.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXeN_i2DhL1W6kP6gani3IE7aGOWflsQuuLsGjpn_BcGrbb1KCFulk2mTFQO2yhbtY96bgyyCr4_VpLG6miT92lJL8AC-FiFAwIeCD6kxH_k05sJQMj1lHzBBmdUUmiAIz4xY6zA/s1600/P1020016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXeN_i2DhL1W6kP6gani3IE7aGOWflsQuuLsGjpn_BcGrbb1KCFulk2mTFQO2yhbtY96bgyyCr4_VpLG6miT92lJL8AC-FiFAwIeCD6kxH_k05sJQMj1lHzBBmdUUmiAIz4xY6zA/s640/P1020016.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cowslips. I suppose the most appropriate word would be 'abundant'. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
I mentioned in my previous blog that I rarely seem to go on
a summer holiday without encountering snow. I wasn’t disappointed. I believe
September is the only month of the year in which I don’t possess a photograph
of myself grinning from a snow-bank. Maybe I should put it on the bucket
list….<br />
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<o:p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50W9EuXyb0_NPD2KHpArxNToxwPV1qsfHFrWGhgRaCBv7rAjPu5T3Tsksnt1m2wwWHRMuh6UnQ4H_DwM2kd-vlBkYfkMxOyOTKgsbcs8s1rD3pc1x-A9DqWQvm9v4jwrxH9Aohw/s1600/P1020018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50W9EuXyb0_NPD2KHpArxNToxwPV1qsfHFrWGhgRaCBv7rAjPu5T3Tsksnt1m2wwWHRMuh6UnQ4H_DwM2kd-vlBkYfkMxOyOTKgsbcs8s1rD3pc1x-A9DqWQvm9v4jwrxH9Aohw/s640/P1020018.JPG" width="640" /></a></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJ3ERg2Eadwq_urOHqW5N9Irj-iwu9rduljGgsrBcIKbgjRiROUIME27E5z5uMnsmed55C5CoLgB7wPL4m01jZ9nNxqG6VKcREtCKlEc8VrZaQBcHTLc-Gs6MeJRglNjpdu-fdg/s1600/P1020024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJ3ERg2Eadwq_urOHqW5N9Irj-iwu9rduljGgsrBcIKbgjRiROUIME27E5z5uMnsmed55C5CoLgB7wPL4m01jZ9nNxqG6VKcREtCKlEc8VrZaQBcHTLc-Gs6MeJRglNjpdu-fdg/s640/P1020024.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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As the week progressed we tackled Sinjal, at 1,831 metres
(approx. 5500 feet) the highest peak in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Croatia</st1:country-region>,
before transferring to <st1:country-region w:st="on">Bosnia</st1:country-region>
and an assault on <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Vilnac</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Peak</st1:placetype></st1:place> (2,118 metres or
6,600 feet). The descent from the latter was gruelling: more or less seven
hours spent zig-zagging through woods (mostly beech) before arriving in the mixed grass- and woodland
of the Diva Grabovica.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcMPBzubvETREPFscEvfSiyAK9-OPF1tlDsClpihPnRmc7vOj0BFok3BUBH2snLZxyiLX9wNh4yoqwELNllg2xUPdiTL5Vf2n9dTJLKzjk7E_uWEeiPtlqTCIssTEaWlTNVkPzrg/s1600/P1020039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcMPBzubvETREPFscEvfSiyAK9-OPF1tlDsClpihPnRmc7vOj0BFok3BUBH2snLZxyiLX9wNh4yoqwELNllg2xUPdiTL5Vf2n9dTJLKzjk7E_uWEeiPtlqTCIssTEaWlTNVkPzrg/s640/P1020039.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We were hugely relieved to get down off that particular mountain - and to bathe our tortured feet in a cool stream just around the corner from here.</td></tr>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">By the time our final day arrived the weather had settled
down, and we had bright sunshine as we tackled our final hike on the Bjelasnica
Massif. Setting out from our super pension in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Umoljani</st1:placename></st1:place>,
we embarked on a long climb that gave us this glorious view of a distant stream,
meandering through a lush meadow:</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisr8JKM71UobRIuNF8e_lI7XEcR33GZj_gnJs8GdfxKPgsCLj2z2DFuMDl954LlGC26BvtxgSU_sdi4VPiRP937QhC3JLw-eKzq-Uzm3nitFV3GZKahxThLcQyHOjUP4yN53m_LA/s1600/P1020060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisr8JKM71UobRIuNF8e_lI7XEcR33GZj_gnJs8GdfxKPgsCLj2z2DFuMDl954LlGC26BvtxgSU_sdi4VPiRP937QhC3JLw-eKzq-Uzm3nitFV3GZKahxThLcQyHOjUP4yN53m_LA/s640/P1020060.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our final climb, to the last peak on the right. We were quite a tight group at this moment: sometimes we were strung out like last week's washing, over a mile or more from first to last.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRKm5G9pnashpySXYT0__hvHO9zCYs1SlWGdyMd5nl8pOf9Ae4fTn85ACXAkMAmja8vqygFkIe2zhEWfkkrkRGGTiQGxdvlpPzk6TKlNDc4qgnWvxytqYkglrxf-SwLWAr4Gp5aQ/s1600/P1020062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRKm5G9pnashpySXYT0__hvHO9zCYs1SlWGdyMd5nl8pOf9Ae4fTn85ACXAkMAmja8vqygFkIe2zhEWfkkrkRGGTiQGxdvlpPzk6TKlNDc4qgnWvxytqYkglrxf-SwLWAr4Gp5aQ/s640/P1020062.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even on Day 7 we were spotting new flowers, like this saxifrage.</td></tr>
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After a stiff and seemingly endless descent we arrived at
the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Lukomir</st1:placename></st1:place>, where we were treated to an
excellent lunch. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz8xe1vaT8JOzahlWAWIEooIkhuHspKMnL1zwDkW8KNxBlTSTso1eL6KgRthorFhLLXb6YDEIfGE6_kjwqzE9bP8Us8lNQZz2IN3CN69jd0PtasAQwJihSOLBNB3hzuI3khc4L4A/s1600/P1020070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz8xe1vaT8JOzahlWAWIEooIkhuHspKMnL1zwDkW8KNxBlTSTso1eL6KgRthorFhLLXb6YDEIfGE6_kjwqzE9bP8Us8lNQZz2IN3CN69jd0PtasAQwJihSOLBNB3hzuI3khc4L4A/s640/P1020070.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lukomir: tantalisingly out of reach, and making that particular descent something of a trial. </td></tr>
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The day ended with a beautiful stroll along the banks of the
stream we had viewed from the heights, earlier in the day.</div>
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<br />
Until A's daughter showed us this trip, as advertised in the Guardian, it had never entered our heads to travel to the Balkans. We were both surprised and delighted to find such fabulous landscapes, friendly people and great hospitality. I can well imagine making another trip, perhaps to stay at one of the village pensions and take day hikes up the mountains. <br />
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Well, the muscles have recovered, the kit is clean and dry, and now it's back to the desk; and the allotment. More in due course.<br />
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</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-61083267681611938452019-05-25T19:40:00.000+01:002019-05-25T19:40:24.963+01:00Holidays in May? Check the weather. (Memories of a Pyrenean hike)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We’re about to take off for a two-week trip to <st1:country-region w:st="on">Croatia</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bosnia</st1:place></st1:country-region>. We start with a couple of
days’ travel on trains and boats (Durham, London, Paris, overnight to Milan,
and down to Ancona before taking an overnight ferry across the Adriatic to
Split. After a couple of days’ rest we set off on a seven-day stretch of the Via
Dinarica (<a href="https://www.via-dinarica.org/"><span style="color: blue;">https://www.via-dinarica.org/</span></a>).<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I’m hoping the weather is kinder than on some of our
previous May holidays. In 2008 we set off to hike a stretch of the long-distance path that traverses the Pyrenees from <st1:country-region w:st="on">France</st1:country-region>
into <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Spain</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
We departed the little town of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Foix</st1:place></st1:city>
in decent enough weather, climbing through the foothills and fondly imaging this was going to be the proverbial walk in the park:</div>
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</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhG7UvktcJOQpJ28IwuSAaVF8A9nI075qsWhGfs7l0Xf48L-HA6ZVQaBDTDNDA7vNEwHrLoHwCAp_LQzmgS57LVmxBklb0Ti3YWRZ6zSylDPV1LOjyuE4G_cjVc3FjyD7Vtkuk-w/s1600/Pyrenees+2008+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhG7UvktcJOQpJ28IwuSAaVF8A9nI075qsWhGfs7l0Xf48L-HA6ZVQaBDTDNDA7vNEwHrLoHwCAp_LQzmgS57LVmxBklb0Ti3YWRZ6zSylDPV1LOjyuE4G_cjVc3FjyD7Vtkuk-w/s640/Pyrenees+2008+004.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
As we climbed higher, things deteriorated:<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRaUtSIyr2l1eageJ3SYRfxaYdMQP-DB5e5z_OrxHBXpABmPk4Qr6cnNj7aKDdkmT5ThcKaAWhkSN1ATrzXFUkRFK11jMeA2t0WaOFdfWOutpSs-JjgbcrSkPOSg-bYnfcMNygQ/s1600/Pyrenees+2008+018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRaUtSIyr2l1eageJ3SYRfxaYdMQP-DB5e5z_OrxHBXpABmPk4Qr6cnNj7aKDdkmT5ThcKaAWhkSN1ATrzXFUkRFK11jMeA2t0WaOFdfWOutpSs-JjgbcrSkPOSg-bYnfcMNygQ/s640/Pyrenees+2008+018.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
At first we rather enjoyed the high mountain scenery. It’s pretty, isn’t
it? Especially when we were able to lunch under the lee of a rocky overhang
and absorb views like this:<o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvMy-8iGzz12rTChtB4IXaSq7aH_KnB3ZVM4-n7R95pw35-FBJptrVRYUuU144OL6Xw_K4VcDVvfV0wXs18g0HmGo_oR8inQdvJiY4F9DEqH6mZLkxzc3fXsrjdWeBIRlfq0mdbQ/s1600/Pyrenees+2008+037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1199" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvMy-8iGzz12rTChtB4IXaSq7aH_KnB3ZVM4-n7R95pw35-FBJptrVRYUuU144OL6Xw_K4VcDVvfV0wXs18g0HmGo_oR8inQdvJiY4F9DEqH6mZLkxzc3fXsrjdWeBIRlfq0mdbQ/s640/Pyrenees+2008+037.jpg" width="478" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
But it wasn’t long before we encountered some seriously
challenging conditions:</div>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9EtBUkkM_fMy6r5r2-Ogu1_GGa1IcrSSdD3kD3YiPNhFMgUK58M5GYB0EGEzfkahFlS-6UYM8t0z1pBtA9YlTr3Mhbnurrv91Yf_EyFBJn0kJR0lTReaTPhBx_C202UyaVgZmzA/s1600/Pyrenees+2008+046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9EtBUkkM_fMy6r5r2-Ogu1_GGa1IcrSSdD3kD3YiPNhFMgUK58M5GYB0EGEzfkahFlS-6UYM8t0z1pBtA9YlTr3Mhbnurrv91Yf_EyFBJn0kJR0lTReaTPhBx_C202UyaVgZmzA/s640/Pyrenees+2008+046.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I vividly recall staggering up to that ridge, sideways, thigh-deep in the snow, and wondering what the hell awaited on the other side. Mercifully, there was the odd spot of grey amid the white. And before long we started to see the occasional sign of spring:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxfU2aQC4I8QlUL6Lc8C5in6MIDXlm9varR_2MpnhiZLaJ4XhEZ8dLfN2CCmATbRdJkIMETsl910zJxqOYW8xeew0CRe-8Nc0uDqSaQF7IkMLVDjRY_pnzXzrpxXZSj12ebu8oUw/s1600/Pyrenees+2008+066.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxfU2aQC4I8QlUL6Lc8C5in6MIDXlm9varR_2MpnhiZLaJ4XhEZ8dLfN2CCmATbRdJkIMETsl910zJxqOYW8xeew0CRe-8Nc0uDqSaQF7IkMLVDjRY_pnzXzrpxXZSj12ebu8oUw/s640/Pyrenees+2008+066.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
But, faced with weather like this as we set off next morning, I
still felt daunted<br />
<br />
<o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh72myKvs8TJUlcvcEHy7sx4_5aqF9fp3pltYcrsCfgKsr1sdIJou0EARqwGR32SD_hCgiNvPi-mM_Spjg9CpJkYM5qr47g0AEnghRjPOwM7kEJTHDvj_w1UfLH6AVHESmFqY3C6w/s1600/Pyrenees+2008+075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh72myKvs8TJUlcvcEHy7sx4_5aqF9fp3pltYcrsCfgKsr1sdIJou0EARqwGR32SD_hCgiNvPi-mM_Spjg9CpJkYM5qr47g0AEnghRjPOwM7kEJTHDvj_w1UfLH6AVHESmFqY3C6w/s640/Pyrenees+2008+075.jpg" width="640" /></a></o:p>
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However, the thing with the mountains is, they are always going
to surprise you. Two nights later, we had this hut to ourselves – cast-iron cooking pot, open
hearth, a saw with which to cut our firewood, and of course an utterly fabulous morning, of the kind you will only find if you take the risk of venturing out into the wilderness.</div>
<br />
<o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh0hnjB0fp0T9IP01z8-hB_bB0dlxodlJlw9VPZCPJfUvQNfqIzzhdRevl2m22dlVCIA6qcL0uiRSJyAtkaPOzy7I0j7dfn8W7uL2t7X2fGd-KoXVoPfY_Tn3yaIAfZgoAthPAxA/s1600/100_1872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh0hnjB0fp0T9IP01z8-hB_bB0dlxodlJlw9VPZCPJfUvQNfqIzzhdRevl2m22dlVCIA6qcL0uiRSJyAtkaPOzy7I0j7dfn8W7uL2t7X2fGd-KoXVoPfY_Tn3yaIAfZgoAthPAxA/s640/100_1872.JPG" width="640" /></a></o:p>
<br />
If <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Croatia</st1:place></st1:country-region>
throws up one or two moments like this we’ll be more than happy.<br />
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-48032170464198887582019-05-08T11:33:00.000+01:002019-05-08T11:36:32.463+01:00Owen Wister and The Virginian<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<img alt="Image result for owen wister" class="mimg" data-bm="96" data-thhnrepbd="1" height="640" src="https://tse2.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIP.N45i5NCvIf93IY5qar30cAHaJq&w=198&h=259&c=7&o=5&pid=1.7" style="background-color: #666666; color: #666666;" width="489" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I am delighted to report that a play I wrote almost twenty
years ago, and which I thought was lost forever, has popped up on an internet
archive. (<a href="https://archive.org/details/THECOWBOYANDTHETENDERFOOT"><span style="color: blue;">https://archive.org/details/THECOWBOYANDTHETENDERFOOT</span></a>)</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
It’s the story of how Owen Wister came to write <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Virginian</i>, probably the most famous
western novel in the canon. It was broadcast in August 2001. I’m not aware that
the BBC have ever repeated it, and when I checked their radio archive a few
years ago there was no sign of it. Then, last week, we had a visitor who was
asking me about my interest in the West, and I mentioned this sole foray into
drama (leaving aside the ongoing Sherlock Musical project, <a href="http://thesherlockmusical.com/"><span style="color: blue;">http://thesherlockmusical.com/</span></a>)</div>
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After our visitor had departed, I decided to Google <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cowboy and the Tenderfoot</i> and there
it was, in a non-profit archive out of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">San
Francisco</st1:place></st1:city>. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
The Internet Archive (<a href="https://archive.org/about/"><span style="color: blue;">https://archive.org/about/</span></a>)
seems to have a zillion items from radio, TV, libraries (public and academic),
images and footage of live gigs. It also, for some reason, has a bunch of radio
plays, including mine.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I became interested in Wister in the early 1990s when I was
teaching an undergrad course on the literature and history of the American
West. I gravitated towards <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Virginian</i>
because it was deemed by many academics to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the</i> seminal western. I enjoyed the book immensely and delved into
the author’s life. It was remarkable.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Born into a wealthy <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Philadelphia</st1:place></st1:city>
in 1860, Owen Wister was never cut out for the banking career his father had in
mind. His mother, the daughter of Fanny Kemble (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fanny_Kemble"><span style="color: blue;">Fanny Kemble - Wikipedia</span></a>),
encouraged him in his love of music. As a young man he studied for two years at
the Paris Conservatoire, and took lessons from Franz Liszt. Returning to the
States, he went into the bank.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
It was some kind of breakdown (they called it neurasthenia) that
gave him a way out. The Wisters’ family friends, the Roosevelts, suggested that
a vacation in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Wyoming</st1:place></st1:state>
might aid his recovery – as it had<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>for
their son Theodore, the future President. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
So Wister took the train west, and in his letters we see,
frame by frame, the graphic account of his arrival, by train, at the little
town of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Medicine Bow</st1:place></st1:city>;
then his meeting with his first cowboy, who had come to collect him. All of
this would re-appear in the novel. When he was told he would first be spending
the night on the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>floor of the grocery
store, he asked why they couldn’t go directly to the ranch where he was to
recover his health. ‘Because it’s 157 miles away,’ was the answer. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Just about everything he witnessed during his brief stay at
Medicine Bow, and on the long journey across Wyoming, as well as several
incidents on the range, was recorded in his letters home; and just about
everything re-appears in his great novel. Included, of course, is the famous scene
at the card table when Trampas calls The Virginian a sonofabitch, and the
southerner coolly replies, ‘When you call me that, smile!’</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
If you visit Medicine Bow, you’ll see that line commemorated
everywhere you turn – especially in The Virginian Hotel, where they even have a
copy of the book, open at that page, in a glass cabinet in the dining
room.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I quickly became fascinated with the ways in which Wister’s
actual experiences informed his writing. The result – apart from my later visit
to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Wyoming</st1:place></st1:state>
and Medicine Bow - was this radio play. I hope you can take the time to enjoy
it. </div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-75628653019804376462019-04-08T15:09:00.000+01:002019-04-08T15:11:41.354+01:00Chainsaw Phil is Alive and Well and Living in East Yorkshire<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<st1:place>I’m often being asked, what happened to Chainsaw Phil, the guy who visited me in the Red House on the <st1:place>Niobrara</st1:place> when I was staying down there? (<a href="http://amzn.to/1Pfivgx"><span style="color: blue;">http://amzn.to/1Pfivgx</span></a>)<br />
<br />
<br />
</st1:place><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Regular readers may remember that he’s the kind of guy who will stand on the hood of your Chevy Blazer without a by-your-leave in order to get a better look at a passing freight train:</div>
<br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16A4E8UHu2Yd6yUfb-uehRxB0OiFMXL0KXZttl635YTSt6fJdPtWp50A7xIu2AL8g9MnRJCLwkaLlHddm26cLbEqYvDoLZ43snazReQOqVQG6x-u33xRIamzs4kJtJQc06Hok2w/s1600/DSCF1086%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16A4E8UHu2Yd6yUfb-uehRxB0OiFMXL0KXZttl635YTSt6fJdPtWp50A7xIu2AL8g9MnRJCLwkaLlHddm26cLbEqYvDoLZ43snazReQOqVQG6x-u33xRIamzs4kJtJQc06Hok2w/s640/DSCF1086%255B1%255D.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Chainsaw, scanning the horizon for freight trains, 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p><br />
He’s also the kind of guy who’ll chop down any tree you
don’t like the look of, help fix the plumbing, or hire a plane to fly over the
ranch and upper reaches of the river. (<span class="bitlink--hash"><u><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><a href="https://walkinonnails.blogspot.com/2011/05/we-nearly-didnt-make-it-and-i-have-to.html"><span style="color: blue;">https://walkinonnails.blogspot.com/2011/05/we-nearly-didnt-make-it-and-i-have-to.html</span></a>)</span></u><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkrPvYEVE53gkAp9jSKavbg-bsnq-a3CaYIFP9nVC7FLBRAELexOqQZvFakpnfgBuxzp26vR0fTlzH9Ge_2GZqWm03aTYrZL22MydEUkhXiKuQx2M6AskxVSqaJfbDpAcZUvf5w/s1600/DSCF1203%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkrPvYEVE53gkAp9jSKavbg-bsnq-a3CaYIFP9nVC7FLBRAELexOqQZvFakpnfgBuxzp26vR0fTlzH9Ge_2GZqWm03aTYrZL22MydEUkhXiKuQx2M6AskxVSqaJfbDpAcZUvf5w/s640/DSCF1203%255B1%255D.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I never liked that tree, bang up against the back door</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span class="bitlink--hash"><u><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="text-decoration: none;"></span></o:p></span></u></span> </div>
And he is due enormous credit for putting up the definitive,
and excellent, guide to the Old Jules Trail (<a href="http://www.old-jules-trail.com/trail.html"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.old-jules-trail.com/trail.html</span></a>)
-<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the first such that actually gets you
around the <st1:street><st1:address>River Place</st1:address></st1:street>, the
<st1:street><st1:address>Orchard Place</st1:address></st1:street> and the site
of the Well Incident before sundown and with your sanity intact. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I caught up with Phil at the weekend. I try to call on him
(or get him up to our place) a couple of times a year at least. We drink beer, go
over the many sound reasons why we ought to be running the world, and draw up
lists of people who will be locked up (or worse) when we do. We also light
fires, and investigate the deep recesses of his several garages and
outbuildings. He keeps all manner of good things hidden away there.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
His latest acquisition is a gem. It’s a 1933 <st1:city><st1:place>Austin</st1:place></st1:city>
12/4 Harley.</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6DUKhvNMJnskPDU7GGYTPo6FgD-zDdYI1mch9hyxE7IBEM5Y0EYt8vL7QzCyA_IiLOkoVNjnV_Qj-Yime-M_1UbJHy-_RJG7_CVyJck517Ev24WZunIoE173mw5oorZTE-XO3g/s1600/IMG_20190405_174939_resized_20190408_123804210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6DUKhvNMJnskPDU7GGYTPo6FgD-zDdYI1mch9hyxE7IBEM5Y0EYt8vL7QzCyA_IiLOkoVNjnV_Qj-Yime-M_1UbJHy-_RJG7_CVyJck517Ev24WZunIoE173mw5oorZTE-XO3g/s640/IMG_20190405_174939_resized_20190408_123804210.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ain't that a beaut?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Not satisfied with rolling it out from its lair and getting
me to tug on the choke while he fired up the old lady, he decided we should go
for a ride and visit – not his local, whose owner is on holiday, but the
Middleton Arms at North Grimston, about 5 or 6 miles away, over the hills. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjLsOUcyJYBNo54DwezmVQzuFycQPVjQWJ0H2Qy4MloNupkzLamXMEgxXD1zqcIzDl0UQrSnymWxVplJu5aOB7n1B_1QyaGKm-1sHoknyH5LNoE2p4ni22klQX2fhod1wkeOgWyg/s1600/IMG_20190405_194933_resized_20190408_123703348.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjLsOUcyJYBNo54DwezmVQzuFycQPVjQWJ0H2Qy4MloNupkzLamXMEgxXD1zqcIzDl0UQrSnymWxVplJu5aOB7n1B_1QyaGKm-1sHoknyH5LNoE2p4ni22klQX2fhod1wkeOgWyg/s640/IMG_20190405_194933_resized_20190408_123703348.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Showing off the new-fangled 'trafficator'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
We
set off at a stately 28 mph, and she was soon rattling along at 37 when, on top
of the Wolds, with the light failing and the temperature hovering around 6
degrees (43 in old money), she resolutely refused to change gear. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
So there we were, the pair of us, combined age well over
130, shivering and grunting as we pushed her back and forth across the road, praying
that no farmers’ sons were out and about impressing their girlfriends at 90 mph
(which is what the young bloods do in rural <st1:place>East Yorks</st1:place>
on a Saturday evening). </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
We executed a laboured three-point turn, got her nose
pointing downhill, gave her a shove, and hopped in (thanking God as we did so
for running boards). Coasting at 15, 20 then 25 mph, the dear old thing finally
consented to engage third gear and behave nicely. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image result for middleton arms north grimston" class="rg_ic rg_i" data-atf="1" id="trm5vJZ1YeT5lM:" jsaction="load:str.tbn" 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BKd3QNXCIekMgCQljeaYG/K4NOVR4QT2LKZNDUAliScS4J1oMYGbUTes6zTdU+hooeIekK7Elyef2/asu7MQC5BUGIzFKd5fTm8C7LMDBL97GlX07op2/cWtQreWpuBvHPmYvdHpJVOSlQqSEge17WXnXXw3Tlr5EwWngdawB2h4Kaj8OMPeFAVJBOoWNPy+cel2bodZp128C6WoksCHzLO3GnnBY9G5Ez7yWF3QU7xUSA9Gc4YnvhdIJzZ45MtaUuDMRwcn4QwtSD/rSuNT8I3HT3ozZUSVFMpCVJusTeZywJpXA4cYyKOjlmK2KJbdYlPbWKFLkY4vDoYoyQuWeSZAiegf6yDkCDWtPCJxayzdaLtSAJlBV3xpn4xr+gHRCxrlzDMkpUXT7SyKg53uEarYfQuz2YqUkFSlApqAwS7sBzArwgZQinRaySaPHFnHeTjU301845UR+JHctGvP1b3R7GvoHs8j7gYfiX/5R5bN6K2UEjq5bBa0j7diyEXhTrMdQ3hFwxqQM80kC738v/2S/wDyqIsy7ctIYLLZDrU+DXvlo2fQXoVY50iapUrevsDfJAeWhWIVUOScc40eyOgdmkpWlTTDMDElKaCo3XBumpqC+GkVJJFqcnueUWm2qmLKlKBUcytOW7i+mURLmHUf1J+Meo7a+jqxdSq6hQNK39VDhHnSuicm4Fbz3L33yMesua4N5wUcUZFSzyjsVEnOn9SfjEybWtrt43QXa9QHx+EaLol0Hs02fMQszCAklLTATRYD4HIxp7P9GdnTOvklUsHdQQC/8xNCODZwMoRTLWWTR5ctBJwcnvhkJUKFxxwHImtI9XtH0c2Im8esTeqyCEpHAC7QcIwm35cizzlyUKCUpLBSzi2JqwJBJ/o4wEmkhsHKTBRJq/e3eC1c94D+aXEFpUrHtY4d7t4kjnL4RMZ6FEMoEkFRulJugFvJgR/IjWI1qu4hQ5B2alG0IYf/ABo1ha2e6NF2tmDZlqYF/At5UGDf9CI6lbQSMFN+UgqGVH4MP6BrFW2zXp4Nll4Ub9IihMSx+fn+0aowUluZnJpmnTtEBIKkKGQLOPHhQOcwTnFS2rmHeoUh2NEqDVavPGM6ZjEY90FZU9YQAReQrBQASscxhhCZY9L2M+STk9zq1qZW7xypSuQw5xLaLWpgFgqBT6cmUc/GKlpClEVSCWN0h+RwPy0SIqk13iBUnLEilBXhpA0qTYuyIS8WUQ9al2GPd+0FLMtF1i5OD3XPGBUpTUUmrUqD5Dh7uEW5Mu6KqIetCe4U4fOtTLToJol03S+NRiWqx7h5xLsyZemSjkZiRhoWpw48IoyqA3VlRAqBQaXRxI5xb2codZJH/uoFeCgO7H5eKi9x6kRIDAXgXxLYVrCivM2qsEgSyps974QorTIvUjSbKs12TIDlKigzFkMO2d2hDUr8vHJlldqQgLUSlClvQF1EIGADVc90Xl2RD4EXUpRuqUnByaAs7mOui1nRMtU4s4R1SAVFy/bJfHNu4xV2mzTwz0OUVXGDG5u0oSzZj0zgba1GZZ10dis04cP0jxglZU5ks9UlNQwAqRgC710aK9lT9mCpN0EqYji4r3nOFXYB4ZbLerrV3d0JWoEjMOaA4uTlrwgt0OWTbZSOKg+JLIWSXze7A7aOzC6ynedRU2b1NDwY+UWeghI2jIBNb66HGktZ93nHQilWxnlfc+gJclmIx+ajWhwPOJVWVXXJmBQYAgpI44hjTzwENKnkjDLU/wBzz9YtXvnGARZjfpJpIWXQA8vtJvJ7TVF1Tnu0jFypzrICpB+2/wBsA4fyCvGPRel2x7TabqZapKZeKhMRfc8iCGwyd4z0roZbQpybGd69901daIxrDYSSQqcW2XfotWVSp9664mJG6GTRL08TG3BjM9DdhzrJ1omdUUzFJUBLcMQGIqAGoKavGkfhATduw4qlQlYR4slr5dEgvNnOb6gTuAP22Ctadwj2HaKpwlq6lKCsCgmKITxcgE4R5LbZMySoJX/D1KF5RumcSCRvElICQSBg9WLQWN0DkVmz+jA/YTqJAE5mSSRSVKzJJOOpjX9Yl2cPo4xjDfRXPdE+spisLuIv30uLlQR2GQliFKzrRo1snZyULVMQVgqVfUAaKOta4DDCBm/U6CjwLbg+wWR+X/uTHlHVi52JX3TN1qm++f8A3e98eOUeqbflzlyVIkpQVKIB6wkJABBfdBJNMKc4xv8AhC1t9zYqBmvWohnvtic9YOEkuReSDk9iXoDOBts9ICAEyz2STXrGNbxrQUyjfmMb0Y6PWmz2pU+YLOELQUES1TSXvXrzLGZxr3RsoGbTdjIKlRVtFjKloVfUAhyEgslRP4syOEeK7XLWm8ReN2fwrel09/eY9vnzSli2fHhoPlo8W6RyertCgVKQUlXsEuFKSXwYOn3QuT2/fZjIK7X7ygemZeuMAGvB6ljuEGuQLPweOVShy9Q3vAT4yTrESJ6QQTMUpnpdZLkV9nNiOShpEqrcj8VdS+RxNNUpJ5r1rnnbexrxaVHdoHWuwpJN6nC8Bg9A44EcbifxRQnbKDboW/C4oZaK1w5p1g6bVLNHp5gUHiBd75XGKk6XIUPYTyujiw8x3I0MHCc17lTjB90Za0WcgsoEfPz5Q0u0LRgqgfRvie+DFo2Ug9mck44kDXjw8xpUdN2eE166UC9AFBR8AXHhl46dSkY54yeRbUkJSQDus5ahNBng3oIimllXUoYkMCPadgwGA7o5lSJiAVJUlV4DCpO9VsiQ3nClu9EEZvdc0wHA0x4mA0pcGdosyJaWBCQ9WemGNNaViKzyiolRVRy5HZpSmujw9ps+8JgdgxIe7U1LPhV6OYmmJKkuDWmD0151zJEBt+ShlWwhN0APUBsBxLszfIETbMnFMyS5f7SUau53k8IjFj3VC93CuTNQeND3RxZpakql1KvtEDMtvhhU0wiR0t0g0SWgm8qqsTgVNTkIUK3rUibMRVN1awxSkEbxyIeHiqZdmymyb61KBUlKiSySpm8YvfR/JvKVMS16+u7eJwBCQDwgVMKUILJchNAFElwOBrWNJ0GsZRKTeBCmSFEhlVJUa40MIfB0pM1k6Z1ctUxZKSlJvH2RR/WmEDNhWtMyVum8HBdJdipgxD1r3wbBUoNfSQMscA1Rjifl4hlWe6GuC8d4FJY6k82gaEnjm1LcmXOmpIVSYoNhgVpzI1Bgl0SKpk+XOTKWQghN5mQl0M5VgDujxEFJVkSNs/dKIvo3lB0F7pIwYqxzfGPVZdjS7gABgwBZi5Jwpn6xsr07CW3ZXkKZLkpbC87B+eDM3nHdlt98IIF1zvpVikFwBQs94jUM9YU2wIKerui64JajNTIa++J7JJShJSMHYPXACnFniIpmY+kXa1ssqJUyzKQEkqCxMEsAYXVOsgAVus+JTGJl9KtqdcZhmIdrlzrLPdvUJ3esa9Tm0a/6XEXrERdlqcikxdxBZcvFRWhv6hXXCPJ7RakpnKaVJpaJqrwmvS6A4+2IvdxA0h0FaFye56r0Q6VTVy50y2ql7pSmWmWEkqLFRIKVEEVGdCDD7Q6brY9XLSkaqJUfJvfHm+w7UJdnWsJYJ9kKCmoKPgcYoDpAtSgFAEKowDXXLCr1pyh8cUUrYtzfCNVadu2i2TOrQpU1R0pLSBQqLMkAPieEazYfR2XZZqAqWLRa7pLl0ypaizM4rT26mlGcxS+jOVJSi0dZdCCAFPROLD4d8ZP6Vdtz5W0ZnUz1pQJckpuTFAMpA7N1QAFXprCZSbdDFFLc3R6KzpkuXa5C0yrant9Wfs5pFCWIASotUYFmOsXejnTFM+9InDqbSkK3SGSsgEkpqWIxuk8nDt5p0A2vaZ1rsiZlonqQuaoKSZsy6Qy8QVEGoese1/wOzslaZSCtAVdWwvVvPXQlRphXgIWw6BKLIVpJUuZSYtqpCRdUoDEO7RnOm1ttNmmyjJmqupAmL6xctIIvEMpykFJLBnzjW2DsHI9bNoWpvq83jD/SokEEXZSvsBSZMEsVmjO+jPjprXHifrQ2b5CvRHbdstFqEm0IlISJa1m6xJulKW3VlmMxJrG1tVmBQq7ulixZ2pixxjB9CZwVb/YcSbQDcVewm2dNd4sd1mpgY9EJjZKrEx4B0uUhanASQHSWU9DVz4MBk5iSZsaQo3jJQTxSn4R1Z7KmW90Ymrl8P7xeRhABHjXTLo/KNrnhCEpSyWCZ8mXjKng7pDpLlJri4OAgx0F2RZSJ4nSZZaYe0qXNABUsPeFEimBqM4B27af1i3zlJAAUVoSCFKwBQFEJBUTwAJgjseWpEm3IEtSitlJuyZyE/eLXW+hJvMasDjxiseRTtFSg47mpsdg2ZNXcRIkk4h5QAUHYlJIZQelNI886R9HpYtM0S5QCb1AmfJQA31agSQ4repz/ABCG2TbTItFmnLdLKBWlSlUBBBd0gFrxqM4sbQmSrRNnqlrlLBmhST1VqUwvSSXuyjU9UWalE8YatgGzRdCOi9lmyFCZJQSFEOSlag5U28Kdljwh+lPROxyEy1os4qpSSwK8ZcxTtUYgVjFDplOsKTZrP1YN+8tYStg4DJSmYkEcSRygmemNomyhfUiaoElILJDlCkHBnDKfwhOTKoS3Gwxua2PLrGspuKEyuBFWYuO/+0FQvIYuSa40dwe8GuTc4nkbDQU3bqkLqAq84LZGpBHKBtmmKa4RgSDTBizHWsTXHJddheTE47st3SkEkumoKm0NeZMSodgKXiKIfL5bCGfi+uFWbuqzQlbynSd5IY0NM4DkGMbLpk3ZaSU0DhV12GYLd3mIAWWcpK0uQoFSQ4yurB93nBq2zlXbtK5mrEh6HXnA5cy9UioIz4gnl+0XhVcjXEk2wm9PnKUVFRmLJxOKiYUW7c/WLx7atdTwh4LUTwjuzbLtbuJcpGTukY50Jwjf9A7CpCJqlLK1FKU43gllE5nQDwjlWzZCF9YES7xOSUB3Ic88cY0Owym6u6tgS9EitBSnE+UZ3kckP00F630qKXQA2Tvh4u+cOAPwrF1xhUVqKfNYrvQCtSTzDgvzf0MdzSSosTxrVyHf/pMCQwqpbbYkLvLAMyt4m52fAH9zlG/mdKLEFXfrCMfzerN3xg9vbNC53W9YfsyorlkqMvABKki8wxYvQvzfO2C1TETFzAstM7UtQvS3cFwlwAaCNkZQjBObKx9NnzyaxRuj2FHSSyEsLRLfS9Xw/aCcma94hmvBjqLojx6zWNdumBCrT1ISkgXJZZT5FIJKi1B36xtNnW5Oz0CyKmGd1ZYTLyTjigsXF17tRSgiaoOOqLBn0+bHNwnGnyQfS0grsoloEtSlOyZkxMtJZcs4laQ4AJxyjyra9jMpagEWcJUqbUTkLvBXZU/XG6ThRuQj2pVgs1qmomTJEtd5B3lJdW6UsHvUa+aM8C+mHRixy7MVIs0tJvITROVS2OZrDsU90hE4nleyJZVZZsoFN40YKcDdRmCfUwOXspctlKKAEkEsTgK/hjQTJUqSCZaEpJZLgakDI8Yz9u20CSk3jiDupbTWNbM6PU/oqQi0pnpVeu7uBY0L4iAnT+eJVptyLgUhMuyor2rtxNHzok+sU/o02tOlzbshSReVv9YUJSQ4FSo0xyrzip9MFpu7StSHotEnPMBBHoYw2pzexoXBJ9HDG1WIgMDOmMNKTDHv8qgbwwEfN/Qu39SuyTAAShcwscOzMHvjcdPuktp/yl1RkdYmYVICihRIVdByN1h5l8ok7SsttG427YJSAkpUtBVMDtNXW9eUqhVrWgjyfaf1ifKKZ8yxKV1TMqeDv9cFAP1nZ6sDvjV7FUucZJmTBMUCp1FSlHFCQK8FHgfGKk6RKllaAmWtaFlIKrPL6tCaKTfX1alFTE4CtMBWFQpVLSE3KW1nH0frubSW/VMtFoKerUFJIXNlrDm8d6iiRwj1ZRMeZziqSqXNSqQpKboWJdl6iY5AcocEKIJwvCj110+wduCYuYkz0KSm4EhghdRvXgT2kkEYZQTnbIo0jRHXT59IAdNtqGTYpxSplXWcfmUEvTDHHiIMfWE0dQFRUkVxHm7R5x9INlXaFqUi0qTKEtF5CTuqulRwB7T5aiBk9i0YrYtpKJqVgi8FXgQfwn9o33S3b4Dy5ZUVJLFbsxq4AGPMu/HGMfY7NIFROKinedSCAWoScMK+A0ghZZCCklwt6glIIq5Z3FGwPCEQnHHJuQyalJJIyNutSipjXF+IOfui3YrUqVdUiYpN0ZFsj8Ykn9GwqZ9+tCic5RKQH1vAZs0DbbsW0jsG+PyqHvZxG6PVYuLMksckDNp29U+cqapnWXNGdgBXiwqdYI2KXuAA1avqPdA8bKnhQCpMwY+ycscoI2KeCNWYKLHu93nGfLutjTB7hfZ1odV3MV4aRm1WcomTlKUElMwgoz3lF/B3avlGj2PZitYSkOXD5O37esFpWwpa7VaETGCiLxUxCVOQpnNAXIcA0rWkIw1GUqXsMyepJMw2/MSEoABWQA2J1+c4RRcRMKy6kgOHr2glsaNnG/HRKyS1jq511aVApJqAxzwOhxzgHYejsqbZytElRJURuzAkG4VBxeJKajP940qa/oRoaMXNti1KFSS4Ya8GzjuYuaHKksKpJamrQR2vs+XKUkS1KJxLnAtg4ArHEy3KKVS1AKvAsSkOCQQFPwjRptJxWwF+5a2nbrs1abp7R0zrrCiqJVlXvTZloEw9q6iWUuKOHUDXGFAeF9AvEPXpEueiWU9WSxNMDdUc3Du1PfBfZE9ZSCUqABFCwdn05+UDJlsmJugAYVANCMNeHlBDZVqKk4pFTRsCW1r+xjnR42NTC8l+0MQ6fMH55RyJaAp71MSMQXDeRMRSbKbhdV1TgE5Ch14tWOp5Bvpd3LCtKtTxHpFgnkvS7axlW+akEi8z5p3gAGDUooU1BMcoiXplZEKtk1RAJFypBfsJORAfuiNAidS7Ua9jvfAlSyfdf7DHRzaaLOtU1YWQAwuIUtQfgkg94g3a+lFntaAiWgkJJvJUJko5VqTgYyCx9mrKqa1GvERVlqukkAOcTiTzJcw3A34dGD4sr6pv6I06ygBkJMs1D9bOzFMBWrGpq0BLbYJ0wVnJUPzKWr0SDFb6yc2f54RGmesvu/8AaYbFNHNaTI7BsQpmFS5cucm6QEhc4JckEKLh3DZax1tLoquYq/KkyJQI7PWTCMOOsOTN07iA/rHJmzNPL4LhilO+QNEQrsTo0mQHM5ya3QgMOF7rMOLQYtKVLxul6F6xj1z5g9kH9C/c8cp2gsVuAfpmj/hASxubthxlp2QUn9EJauw6OSip/EmFL6JkGWFTVXZd66LiT2i5zBNeMC0bXJD3EEagzG/7Y7G1kLLKuJu73aU6in2cM8e6DjCd02BKUas3GwbGEz2QVF0hzdIzbImlB3mG6UdGJ8+0KUhJurukgJL0SEuDkd3N8Yw9j6X3FTOrTcdK6oWUqbq7t0EJDBxeocYsK6bLUkPMmveLPMJHsuDqNOcW4SYCaDcnZVxbKAUlNLipq7wWCxU41wukfCJrNYJYU6kAl3pNOpb2XLAtGTnbfSSaF3LuXHkIrTNtHICA8vJ9g9UDdzbPZkuTJd/xTg1eYfyiKdZUmWUS5VyrhXWuxYj8PHuLHIRhRtqYKggfpB9RDnbkw5pP6R8Ivy0ivEiaOR0dWkF5gUVYuph3DLxiaVs9aC4UjCoBVdbDAYZeEZI7XX+U93wMcja0zQeB+MW+lb5CWZLg3BtUym+igZhePiw1rFSy3ZYAStIAwBCi3Jxhh4Rkv4vM0T898L+ML0T4H4xXlPoC8sXuzdJ2qrHrUPy4vrnmOAgVO2bIXUKloUc0Xk+V66/dGb/jS/wpP9Q98dJ28oYy0H+oe+CXTSXBPFgbSxT5ck3pcxAJAB7ShTNirF4GbRsgnKvLtkwmrAMwc1Zg7cKtAA9I5mUtA7oR6RTTiPNvdFx6ea4RHlgwt/h5JP8A6meeLH1aCljldTLEpM2YAHYsgHeJJqRxMZL+PKzS/wCow38bJ9j/AKv2i3gm+QfFguAvO2DIJcz5jmpdUv4RWX0fk5T1HuB94ikNsEewkd7+kSDamoX/AFAevwhqx5PcHXAS9gVpNLZOC/rCjj+II0V/V/8AmFBaMhVwPSZlnmZDAMA4LVPHjgdIM7EkqSkqUyTecnIXRzOkCAkrPbSCaU8cy/jpwMF9grJBCi90jHklu9vWOLG6N7oKG0EKBHZum9xJIbzeEpCgBeSEk1OuOfd6xHZ5hKjU6sRk4Hx8TDmepRKixuqLY+Hj6QQJguk2zVrtMxaSLq7pAL5JSn3RBszo3aJ5UAsIEsX1KfEadkjHlzgxtwfbKF5qJ0fB84KdD5akptRvlQKEgPkWmcOXhGmCTSsiyzheiTX2Z5+ld9JRfSASCxvk0cDCXx1jlVlUMqakEDzD+UEp+yJpDC6fzKJfyER/4aWQ5mpvaF28Xfyg1S4AlOUncnbBRocPX3w76QSR0cme0UNqCo+sRTNkTEhqdz/2i7RRUD8fnwjoA8PMRYl7IWK37nMP7xEf1Kv3yT/MlWX6olkshKmGAPIvDps74geMdT5IHtgtkEkP4xXvkY+sWVY03Z6M0prxLxArZkt6pI0qawSRYpiq3F14FokVYZzfcnzf1i9TXcppAZeyUaqHgYhXsjRXiDGhs1gWSxlTOTljy3fflFmfs5IoyQcClDzFciXujzi/FaK0IyaNjLOCkd6rvrCOxp2SQr+VST6RqvqigN1AB47x8DQRUn2i7RSQeAJH/JvKCWWTBeOJlZtlWksoEdxPpTziAnn3xqJtrBFJYT+ov890UJxScj4g+6NEZN8inH2A5V8/3hX4KfVgfZ8oRsCTgO9zB6kDpYKeFBCZYEjPwiP6hofKCTTBcWU4TRfl7OcgXgBqQWHgCYlm2a5SWApvbIqeIBG6OdeUFsDTBbQ5SkanlQeP7RLMkTCXLni7xOmVcSFNeWe8JH/l6QSp8FO0VEl9EjkT8TC3RkTzoPAfGGW/GOIhR2VcIYmGeEIhYmho6eFEoh7IqzLWWvChoWauGmDQa2ZZFJBEwpqTepUgVbQ5wLs66kksAMcc0v4wWs04kIVgb6SQdGNO+POI6tl0yku4pS6GxoD4RwsXbqQTRnOWsQSppvu70Huf09Y7moIc3gWKhpn8KRCHnfS+0H6yosahPo3uifo5s+dOUky1ABSZlCoh2YB2GrxQ6X2gfW1uFB21jWfR+x6tVexMrXNcak6ihT5Mva5qpUxcor3kKUks5DpLFq6x0naCvxjvcfGONvKBtU8lX+rMJG7+NWoinTLzuwy0DuX/AOKL/Co8QpPxiradrTcBLWeY+EPLl8R4H4xYEk6BuBUPcYmxe4Mm7bnAMp0fpI9TA+db5hxJPN40KpKfaB8fiIFWmRLmKaWSDiaD3GCVFOyrItilKAfeycj34wXlypusnvSjw7EU07ENCZp/oJ9DFi02YBDBYBGe8O5n8oukVbLN1aa3bOeLEegET2ZDh5n2ed1ClhRrzoIpbOsi5aOtWoLWcEqJKRr3tnnhg8SG1L9pIfgo/CKaLsIzLYk0qEaa/wAxxMOien2SzY5QHXaFYNXmDDomE0YtyETQVqCM+YVGigAOAeAe0yQWqTqMIvTLSGa6R4wGtM8E/wB4ZGILYkSyqLknZ7VKSeXwitZEAntt4wXlpp975iCbZSJbJJSfb7iyT5xxtOSLun6dOIiWa7MVhXdFW1pWE0Ukj8J+XEAk7LtAVUvjCAiOfPL4Ad7whNjXBWJk6Dc+ypFnkkIda1KJUKlhS63ePCKKwAPjSGG2T1SZRAZCioGrh3ccqxMi3XhSYQeLt4wuSkuQk0QXQcAIt7XsiUFCkBkLQFDOuY9PGKEy1KSWJSeN1J90WZW0fszLUEqS7pYsUnhwOkWr7FugdMFYlQ3y0cqW+Q8YgVNajQzkDZE0+WnQRWTITpEiZ3E+EIxOAtmc/VUcYUddZCi9QOlG0/iEz2dA7nLwgt0dt01ZKJjXRvjmKd2MKFHDaSRv7h+UpyktUY5dqrxJtWcZab4bdSH44mGhQtFyMHbftr05dHOFCDVmL18II2PpAtCUoZJSmWUNhjn4E0EPCg8atAAS1yBNWpZJdRJx5N7/AA8OEbM/MebwoUPsqib+Ck4LZ+HwhjsNTbs0+Yh4UTUyUjhWx5ya9cfnwiOZs1eNCdSz+OMNCglJkooW2zTBR/NR9YubK2StIM+c90Mzl2B9qhxOHCFCglJ0DpR1b5gWfTlkMIqmXTtEQoUNjwAyPqV5KPfEMyZNGYhQoNAspzbSs4nzjjrVawoUOilQDLVht5Bxgh/EXZ0oNdD8IeFAOKsuycWoE/dIPl7oddsl3aymPA/vChRWlEbM/byi+4BHfEabuphQo0Y+BUhwQCDQscCHB5wYmyUlH1iQyQKTEEUSaVD4iFCiZOCQKswBYe6gnkseihFNclKqXWPBR94MKFC0NaRxJsQCqpvJ/mII4hm84e37FmS0iYN6WrBTh+RGLwoUG5tUBoQOwh3OsKFDeRTGrrChQoqiWf/Z" style="height: 180px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: -4px; width: 271px;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pub. Kind of quaint, isn't it?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
We got to the pub, sank a couple of quick ones, returned
home and tucked her up in bed. </div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihM-XcsxBkxykgz2uuBU17KXh89jeqER-3uD2DxQIoZShk5CcTMB4bs1DoFGAb1EBroPFQu5HSRy0PLyjzptT9dUp5hSgedfkkB3SNlqb9n-ZzB-imcFJomNbIHZVUEZXKVuGDAw/s1600/IMG_20190405_202317_resized_20190408_123622719.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihM-XcsxBkxykgz2uuBU17KXh89jeqER-3uD2DxQIoZShk5CcTMB4bs1DoFGAb1EBroPFQu5HSRy0PLyjzptT9dUp5hSgedfkkB3SNlqb9n-ZzB-imcFJomNbIHZVUEZXKVuGDAw/s640/IMG_20190405_202317_resized_20190408_123622719.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good night, my dear.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Over a hearty dinner, (the lad can cook too) Chainsaw
reminded me that we had yet to inspect his other recent purchase, a 1953 Austin
Somerset. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2AL8nyhXYBHFfxVg7TS47R2q1K2msLn5ZaSYd3yxbzEZ02tlxMR65qJPoFYKIx5JxE-xqECO5rXsd5LxGa_GKxrq6gHATUigMaTbWPu2yI7UEVTHrITCEPZ5vtS3NACq8nrWXg/s1600/IMG_20190407_121324_resized_20190408_123529706.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2AL8nyhXYBHFfxVg7TS47R2q1K2msLn5ZaSYd3yxbzEZ02tlxMR65qJPoFYKIx5JxE-xqECO5rXsd5LxGa_GKxrq6gHATUigMaTbWPu2yI7UEVTHrITCEPZ5vtS3NACq8nrWXg/s640/IMG_20190407_121324_resized_20190408_123529706.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unfortunately, she wasn't roadworthy this weekend</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I admired it, but declined the offer of another motoring
adventure. Suddenly, an evening by the fireside seemed far more appealing.</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGgLMGu3DpFRJrRoGCJ5ixc9_2u7oM_UYqeegdx5jTwIC5TeFkF2oomwkSVfNgFnA_eh_-QM5OH9MH5A6-oamIWFMHVkwip2LW6Q0cM8fY5hMqXvz1TA_yBxDLw0GN8E0Gmcg9EA/s1600/IMG_20190406_194139_resized_20190408_123600965.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGgLMGu3DpFRJrRoGCJ5ixc9_2u7oM_UYqeegdx5jTwIC5TeFkF2oomwkSVfNgFnA_eh_-QM5OH9MH5A6-oamIWFMHVkwip2LW6Q0cM8fY5hMqXvz1TA_yBxDLw0GN8E0Gmcg9EA/s640/IMG_20190406_194139_resized_20190408_123600965.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Chainsaw makes a mean fire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-30035681408067467242019-03-15T11:37:00.000+00:002019-03-15T11:37:06.339+00:00A Creative Retreat in Scotland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We arrived in the <st1:place>Highlands</st1:place> in the
most glorious weather. When you’re driving towards a remote cottage with no
electricity in the middle of winter, it helps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2i3ByIbucmU8twS5bs_w8YrkfvlRsCmb4CmiV1CHAVxY_mk-BrNOoRoENlH-aZsyOvPKiZKUDmUL_cAbFgWxDYRxOtzP7nNuhvtvT4CuGff1fHCfXzyXzCBtmhHNjWmu0S5G4Q/s1600/IMG_20190202_140537_resized_20190315_105154298.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2i3ByIbucmU8twS5bs_w8YrkfvlRsCmb4CmiV1CHAVxY_mk-BrNOoRoENlH-aZsyOvPKiZKUDmUL_cAbFgWxDYRxOtzP7nNuhvtvT4CuGff1fHCfXzyXzCBtmhHNjWmu0S5G4Q/s640/IMG_20190202_140537_resized_20190315_105154298.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you wait long enough - or you're lucky - you will get moments like this</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The first job, after we’ve checked that the water (it comes direct
from the stream) hasn’t frozen up, is always to get the coal fire going. It’s
so cheering to look up and see a smoking chimney.<br />
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYf1mO4P-DrFQWBqkI7lds4zEob_05xzn_koe04tn0cZF44SuG_kOwZXHpMmmcMX95DyYxnsHKv98RVzKZwk734DTOhqFlhT6wz_LAy4KGakfhcvsMGfa5XVTtGqdDUfLBuvsfw/s1600/IMG_20190202_143257_resized_20190315_105218305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYf1mO4P-DrFQWBqkI7lds4zEob_05xzn_koe04tn0cZF44SuG_kOwZXHpMmmcMX95DyYxnsHKv98RVzKZwk734DTOhqFlhT6wz_LAy4KGakfhcvsMGfa5XVTtGqdDUfLBuvsfw/s640/IMG_20190202_143257_resized_20190315_105218305.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An uplifting sight</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
This year there were no mice in residence, so we were very
soon settled. Only one problem for me: when I opened my laptop (it runs from a
small solar panel, via a car battery) I discovered that I hadn’t got the files
I thought I had and was therefore unable to do the writing I had planned.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Well, it turned out to be a blessing. Over the last fifty
years I have entertained (or bored) any number of people with stories about my time
as a kid from a council estate (public housing, if you’re American) on a
scholarship at a public (i.e., private and posh) school. I have written many
and many an opening passage to a book on the subject, but all of them
degenerated into a rant about privilege, disaffection and social displacement.
Once I’d got over the shock of seeing a blank space where the transferred files
ought to have been it seemed as if a door had opened up. So much so that I had
to talk a walk up a mountain and think about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZp0qYwZZDYjczwungsANVeJZjeVaU-crbH8pjh3sTgCPOG_L2LXqzeHvzAdRWT83kzOfucyZ7LDoy4Qm9KUYlHvtDRdZc0nR0qL9fZUQZGDWxjrQCb1uXjS9F2ZCQ0Q4jNx3hIQ/s1600/P1010718.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZp0qYwZZDYjczwungsANVeJZjeVaU-crbH8pjh3sTgCPOG_L2LXqzeHvzAdRWT83kzOfucyZ7LDoy4Qm9KUYlHvtDRdZc0nR0qL9fZUQZGDWxjrQCb1uXjS9F2ZCQ0Q4jNx3hIQ/s640/P1010718.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's hard not to be contemplative when you are confronted with a view like this</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Over the next weeks I wrote a thousand words a day about my
experiences at boarding school. I didn’t rant, I didn’t beat my breast and threaten
to bring down a plague of boils on the teachers and prefects who made life so
unpleasant back then. Instead I created a fictional lead character, wrote about
him in the third person, and tried to see things through his eyes. I developed
a supporting cast of characters - good guys and bad - and considered all the
many things – good and bad – that I might do to them over the course of 300
pages. Such fun, even to think about it! I wove in as many references as I
could to the times they lived in, because I think they were momentous. Thinking
about the period 1961-3, I was able to reference: the assassination of Kennedy;
the coldest winter in 300 years; the beginning of the British satire boom and
the disintegration of the Conservative government; the explosion of media
activity that heralded the arrival of the Beatles; the Great Train Robbery, the
Cuban Missile Crisis; the shock of Yuri Gagarin’s pioneering space flight; the
thrilling exposures of the Profumo scandal (who had ever imagined that posh
people were so lascivious?) and the startling impact of the first Doctor Who
episode on <st1:stockticker>BBC</st1:stockticker> TV. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I don’t know what it’ll come to, but I am enjoying it. More
than that, I feel relieved of a burden. I feel liberated. I have rarely written
fiction – just two novels, a few stories and that’s about it – but I am warming
to the idea.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrmfrzQBV0oPGc8NO9tIwFFm1grMpM-qk7kxHO2n4dB6u3H1Htfr2YNhbma9HTl0XC-Ja8AGmr8_oNiqaHEskNsLt9xPaDnz3sPIMAQ4kURNVmLkic0xD7PSCy9EM2dF6fgLGDw/s1600/P1010790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrmfrzQBV0oPGc8NO9tIwFFm1grMpM-qk7kxHO2n4dB6u3H1Htfr2YNhbma9HTl0XC-Ja8AGmr8_oNiqaHEskNsLt9xPaDnz3sPIMAQ4kURNVmLkic0xD7PSCy9EM2dF6fgLGDw/s640/P1010790.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There was a winter flowering cherry outside, struggling to bloom. We did a little pruning... and brought a few stems inside</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-14630758596495208532019-02-14T21:11:00.000+00:002019-02-14T21:11:01.243+00:00Always Wanted to Know What the View Would Be Like from the Top of a Grain Elevator<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Another flashback to <em>Between The Rockies and a Hard Place</em> (amzn.to<span class="bitlink--hash">/2a58Vxy). More when I get back from Scotland.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju8NhRPyW3aYcNjCFvLrbANDrvR7HlrskQS7yBhIWxPJqc6xU2YJuCUroYCXIqwylCIobytymjcQEELcuNkNHRcnu54b3xydqYH4NtRWOqiYbGkPyVLJxoKzjUvq2SGLVGcQZzPA/s1600/07_029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1037" data-original-width="1600" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju8NhRPyW3aYcNjCFvLrbANDrvR7HlrskQS7yBhIWxPJqc6xU2YJuCUroYCXIqwylCIobytymjcQEELcuNkNHRcnu54b3xydqYH4NtRWOqiYbGkPyVLJxoKzjUvq2SGLVGcQZzPA/s640/07_029.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My usual perspective on the Great Plains - which was why I was so keen to get up that elevator </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">The
town looked like all the others, except that it had a brick-paved crossroads.
I’d paid a courtesy call at the museum, got directions to the library, and
after emailing home I’d wandered down to the railroad tracks and the giant
concrete elevator. I knew that the Grain Corporation had been run by the same
family for four generations, and that a fifth was learning the trade. They’d
told me so at the library. As a corporate historian with two studies of
five-generation family firms behind me, I certainly wanted to hear the story of
the business – but more than that I saw my chance to achieve a long-cherished
ambition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At home in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="color: black;">England</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="color: black;"> I find it difficult to walk up to a total stranger,
introduce myself, and tell them what’s on my mind. I wasn’t raised that way.
It’s too direct. Not that my grandmother, who looked after us when I was young,
had any other approach to suggest. Her favourite saying was, ‘Those who ask
don’t get; those who don’t ask don’t want.’ Work that one out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="color: black;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="color: black;">, of course, the direct approach is the one most likely to
succeed. My most spectacular success in that line was an occasion in </span><st1:place><st1:city><span style="color: black;">Lincoln</span></st1:city><span style="color: black;">, </span><st1:state><span style="color: black;">Nebraska</span></st1:state></st1:place><span style="color: black;">, when I needed to borrow a bike to get me 600 miles from
one end of the state to the other. True, I had turned a tenuous family
connection with William F. Cody into one of those airy ‘I’m related to Buffalo
Bill’ pitches. But the point was, I had been direct, bold, and unafraid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bike-shop owner liked my story, loaned me
a $400 machine without batting an eyelid, then got on with running his
business. If there’s one thing Americans admire above everything, it’s
enterprise. It was, after all, an American President who reminded the people
that ‘The business of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="color: black;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="color: black;"> is business’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plucking up my courage, I headed towards the
elevator, hopping across the puddles and the railroad tracks, and entering the
dusty little office that overlooked the weighbridge. There were five or six
guys sitting around in overalls wearing baseball caps and clasping cups of
coffee in broad, weathered hands. They looked up when I entered, but said
nothing. ‘I’m looking for the boss,’ I said. One of them raised a stubby finger
and pointed to a tall, slim man who might have been in his sixties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t need much encouragement. As soon
as I mentioned the word ‘historian’ he was off. It wasn’t just the way the guys
rolled their eyes, drained their cups and returned to their various posts that
gave me the impression they’d heard this before. The story tripped off the
boss’s tongue as if he’d had to learn it for a high-school presentation. Our
town. Or, in this case, Our Elevator.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time the </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="color: black;">Atchison</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="color: black;">, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="color: black;">Topeka</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="color: black;"> and Santa Fe Railroad came through this part of </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="color: black;">Kansas</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="color: black;">, the boss’s great-grandfather had already opened a
feed-store and found himself trucking grain to and from a wooden elevator just
a few yards from where we were sitting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After a time the owner approached him, and said that since neither of
them was making much money, why didn’t he buy the elevator?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the boss was telling me this, a huge
truck had pulled up outside with a sighing of air-brakes, but he continued with
his story as he waved the driver up to the mark, then started up the machinery
to load it with milo, having first run a computer check on its moisture
content.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The business knew good times in the early
part of the twentieth century, but, like the entire agricultural sector – the
single exception being tobacco, he believed – fell apart after the World War
One. The Roaring Twenties may have been boom-time in urban </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="color: black;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="color: black;">, but back on the farm they had a solid decade of getting
used to the economic slowdown that was just around the corner for the rest of
the country. In the Great Depression, the widespread drought and the
cataclysmic dust storms that characterised the Dirty Thirties, things got even
worse. To add to their particular woes, the old wooden elevator burned down.
Then, during World War Two, the boss’s father, who’d taken over the helm, died
suddenly. With most of the men-folk away, Grandma ran the operation. By the
time the fighting was over they were $20,000 in the red. ‘Doesn’t sound much
now,’ the boss remarked, ‘but at today’s values it’s around<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>$300,000.’ By hard work and good management
they pulled through, and today they’re a thriving operation. The elevator under
whose shadow we were sitting has a capacity<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>of 1.1 million bushels – that is, over 60,000,000 pounds, or 30,000 tons
of golden grain. It’s a lot of cattle feed – and quite a few burger buns, for
that matter. And it takes up one huge storage facility.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The details were fascinating, but I had a
sly little question to put to my host. ‘So,’ I asked, as the truck driver baled
out of his cab and came inside for a drink, ‘how far is it to the top?’ It was
an unnecessary piece of guile on my part, because the boss was already a jump
ahead of me, leading me out of the door, across the loading bay, and turning to
tell the guys he’d be back in a few minutes. Inside the elevator proper he
ushered me into a wobbly metal cage, a wire-mesh cocoon, squeezed in beside me,
and pressed the button. There was a sudden hum of electrical machinery and we
were away – my first trip to the top of one of these cathedrals of the
Plains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cage was clearly designed to take one
slim man breathing shallowly, but my host pressed gently up against me, holding
his breath and arching his back inwards as each successive concrete floor
drifted past. ‘Used to be ropes, of course,’ he said, nodding towards the oiled
cables snaking past us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the top floor was a row of dusty windows,
a smooth concrete floor, and the casings that covered the tops of the separate
elevators that fed each of the concrete bins. ‘Just so long as you don’t get
your milo mixed in with your maize,’ I shouted above the roar of fans and the
shushing of grain as it poured in through the metal conduits. ‘Oh, we’re <i>real</i>
careful about that,’ he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t wait to see the view, and I
almost tripped on a piece of discarded cable as I made for the nearest window.
It wasn’t what I’d hoped for, however: there was little to see out there but
the grid-pattern lines of the town way below us, and the vast spread of
prairie, mostly dun-coloured, reaching out to a distant, blurred horizon, where
it merged into a grey sky. I’d been told it before, and now I was learning it
for myself: there’s only one way to view the Plains, and that is on the ground,
at sundown or sun-up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-31474645949107596402019-01-31T20:45:00.001+00:002019-01-31T20:45:39.218+00:00Just Me and a Biker Gang, Camping out in the Wilds of Oklahoma<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm taking off for a month's creative retreat in the northern wilderness (Scotland, that is). While I'm away, look out for a couple of extracts from my book <em>Between The Rockies and a Hard Place</em> (amzn.to<span class="bitlink--hash">/2a58Vxy). While I'm away, I'll be writing about my life-long relationship with natural landscapes, my delight in travelling to remote places, my occasional need for solitude. In Oklahoma, when I was driving up (and down) the 100th meridian, I was reminded why I generally feel safer on my own than in company. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeOBxDnK9_58li-asRjLXkcA8y254YHaqHLnY9P6ogXxKo-igozcaOAjTPe23lv1QgxABfG9OyUlQ6gNzHhrQhbTHpxV0N38CAJWnD6WeoV0307RiuQv897fDF_fP_3trZEMdfMw/s1600/07_034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1036" data-original-width="1600" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeOBxDnK9_58li-asRjLXkcA8y254YHaqHLnY9P6ogXxKo-igozcaOAjTPe23lv1QgxABfG9OyUlQ6gNzHhrQhbTHpxV0N38CAJWnD6WeoV0307RiuQv897fDF_fP_3trZEMdfMw/s640/07_034.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After hundreds of miles of this kind of scenery, those bikers kind of livened things up for me</td></tr>
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<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Boiling Springs, when I
got there, turned out to be the central breeding-ground for the State of </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Oklahoma</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">’s mosquito population.
It was densely wooded, with fallen trees rotting at crazy angles in stagnant
pools. Surprisingly though, the bugs seemed to have turned in early. Or perhaps
they were waiting for the weather to warm up a bit: it had barely touched
ninety during the day, after all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">The place had been constructed, or
landscaped, or hewn out of virgin swamp, in the 1930s. It was a project of the
Civilian Conservation Corps under the New Deal legislation that brought hope
and self-respect to so many of those thrown out of work by the Depression. They
even had a memorial to the </span><st1:stockticker><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">CCC</span></st1:stockticker><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> near the entrance, a
marble thing erected in 1985 to commemorate the park’s fiftieth anniversary,
and included on it was a relief portrait of the camp mascot, a German Shepherd
named Mustard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">What you want when you get to a place like
this, late in the day, is one of two things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Either to find that it’s totally deserted, in which case you may feel
reasonably sure that you’re perfectly safe – that is, you’ve only your mortal
dread of the dark to contend with; or that there’s a reasonable sprinkling of
camper-vans or tents around you, in which case you may feel reasonably sure
that you’re <i>probably</i> safe – always leaving aside the possibility that
all those retirees sitting in rocking-chairs outside their aluminium-clad
Airflows aren’t part of giant conspiracy to do away with you. Well, you wouldn’t
laugh if you once spent a night in a city park in Nebraska to be told a few
miles down the road next morning that, ‘Hey, they caught those sonsabitches at
last, eh?’ What sonsabitches, I asked. ‘Oh, coupla high school kids on a
killing spree. Been kidnapping and murdering lone campers across the Midwest
these last ten days.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">So, the last thing you want is to find that
you’ve got one other person, or, even worse, one other group of people, for
company. Imagine how I felt when I passed a bunch of six barrel-shaped,
mean-looking guys lounging around a collection of monster bikes with low-slung
saddles and convoluted displays of gleaming chrome. Some of them had receding
hair tied back in pony-tails; others wore piratical bandannas; all of them had
bare upper arms decorated with a blend of scar-tissue and tattoos, along with
daunting amounts of muscle. Plus at least one crucifix. If there’s one thing
that scares the living shit out of me, it’s psychos wearing crucifixes. I was
once rushed out of a bar in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Albuquerque</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> when a biker with
bandages round both wrists and a cross tattooed on his fore-arm asked me
whether I’d accepted Jesus Christ as my personal saviour. I made two mistakes.
One, I told him I was an atheist; two, I laughed. My friend, a paramedic with
considerable experience among such people – he spent most Saturday nights
scraping their victims off the sidewalks – hustled me out of there. Fast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Now, I’m well aware that not every biker is
a Hell’s Angel, and that not all of them make a habit of killing their old
ladies and spit-roasting their offspring. I’ve seen the weekend supplement
pictures of them cradling their little tattooed cherubs. Trouble is, do you
believe what you see in the Sunday papers? I’m not paranoid, but I do have a
healthy fear of the unknown. And, inasmuch as I only glimpsed this bunch of
murdering cut-throats once – and inasmuch as most of them wore mirrored
wrap-around shades – I was in no position to make a balanced judgement as to
the likelihood of my getting out of the Oklahoma Panhandle alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Trying to ignore what I’d seen, I chose a
secluded patch of grass, open on three sides but with a stretch of water behind
me. There was little likelihood of their launching an assault through three
feet of black slime, surely. I put up my tent, then did a bit of exploring.
What the place lacked was drinking water. There were the usual stand-pipes, but
the supply hadn’t yet been turned on for the season. However, I still had a
four-gallon container of spring water in the boot, and I had a couple of
bottles-full on the front seat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">The shower-block, at least, was open, and
the water ran hot – eventually. But the toilets – well, the toilets were a
little unusual. Either they’d been deliberately left half-finished or they’d
been deliberately half-dismantled. For the stalls, ‘the crappers’, as Americans
graphically describe them, were contained by walls that came up to my waist. I
looked around for signs that there might be builders at work – or maybe
demolition men. But no: the three-and-a-half-feet of brickwork was finished off
with a neat dash of cement. They were <i>supposed</i> to be that way. Anyone
crapping on this site would have to have an exhibitionist tendency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Making quite certain that no one was around,
I went to the nearest cubicle, opened the door – I mean the <i>gate</i> – and
sat on the toilet seat. Kind of a test run, you might say. Even sitting down I soon
saw that I would be entirely visible to anyone who happened to saunter in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">And what if it were the Hell’s Angels? What
if I were there in there, minding my own business, and I heard their fairy
foot-steps crunching over the gravel? It wasn’t a risk I was prepared to take.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">The earth under the trees was nice and soft.
With a stout stick I was able to gouge a neat hole, attend to my needs in peace,
and bury the evidence under a little mound of black soil and leaf-mould. Job
done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">I don’t know where the bikers spent the
night. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If I could see them or hear them, yes, I would be able to keep track of
them. But that would have meant spending the whole night awake, watching,
listening, quaking. As it was, they were out of earshot and I was able to
persuade myself that they’d gone into town, where they’d invade the first bar
they came to, bust a few chairs over the proprietor’s head, and then impress
the local females by crushing billiard-balls with their bare hands before
trashing the whole place and riding back to camp with the best-looking girls
slung across their petrol-tanks. They’d doubtless be gone some time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">I did get to sleep, but not for long. I’d
pegged the tent nice and tight, as usual, but it had managed to slacken off and
once the wind got to work it flap-flapped all through the night. From somewhere
out on the flatlands there was the mournful sound of freight trains whistling
through.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">I was up as soon as it got light, and had my
tent packed in record time. For breakfast I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>made do with a can of orange juice. Then, seeing no signs of life, I
headed for the shower-block. And there, enthroned on one of the toilets and
humming a cheery tune, was one of the bikers. No bandanna, no mirrored shades,
ginger hair all askew, leather trousers round his ankles, his eyes glistening
perceptibly as a loud <i>ker-splosh!</i> echoed off the white-washed
walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">‘Real pretty day!’ he called across as I
went to the farthest wash-basin and put the plug in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">‘Yeah, right.’ No way was I going to argue the point. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">‘Sleep all right with all that wind?’ I
could hear him yanking a few yards of paper off the roll and screwing it in a
ball.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">‘Oh yeah – fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks.’ I decided against mentioning those wakeful spells as I imagined what he and his cronies might do if they spotted me.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">I risked a glance in his direction and saw
him grin at me as he hitched up his trousers. ‘Yeah, it sure blew pretty hard.’
He walked all the way across to the basin beside me, and washed his hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed that he took an awful long time
over it, and washed with unnecessary vigour. Perhaps last night’s blood was
still there under his fingernails. As I brushed my teeth I watched him rub the
soap up his wrists and work it into the thick hair before rinsing off - ever so
thoroughly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">After he’d dried – slowly, deliberately,
with the same painstaking attention to detail – he held out his hand. His
handshake was firm, but his palm was surprisingly soft. His name was Dave, he
told me. He wanted to know what I was doing. I synopsised my month-long trip
into about eight words. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. But Dave seemed
surprisingly meek and mild. He said my trip sounded real neat. He and his
buddies were taking a little jaunt too: Houston to Seattle and back via
Minneapolis. He’d been in college there, twenty-some years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
I wondered what on earth these guys might have studied, and he clearly read my thoughts.<br />
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<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0cm -2.85pt 0pt 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">‘Medicine,’ he said. ‘We were all medics
together. Then we went our separate ways. My buddies are all surgeons,’ he
said. ‘I’m the odd man out: I’m in obstetrics.’ With that he wished me luck and
took off for </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Oregon</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-62534036183654634092019-01-04T16:14:00.000+00:002019-01-04T18:40:53.745+00:00150 years on, a commemoration of the driving of the Golden Spike (free download)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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2019 is a special year for students of the American West. May 10th sees the 150th anniversary of the completion of the Union Pacific Railroad, when a golden spike was driven home and the final connection made between the Union Pacific and Central Pacific railroads.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDSNncSkockyyoMrqEoELjxZOX-DUSixQGyo-wYH8L0YjC0CL8SqEjwOQMHOUqPr5FTYUh-WXFd2Y4ikH2YSBJKRfgcrFGhu2AYTXJe-q7LNhJ9fhUAMj0PjcCZ1UH8G1qpXj2Q/s1600/DIGITAL_BOOK_THUMBNAIL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="116" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDSNncSkockyyoMrqEoELjxZOX-DUSixQGyo-wYH8L0YjC0CL8SqEjwOQMHOUqPr5FTYUh-WXFd2Y4ikH2YSBJKRfgcrFGhu2AYTXJe-q7LNhJ9fhUAMj0PjcCZ1UH8G1qpXj2Q/s200/DIGITAL_BOOK_THUMBNAIL.jpg" width="125" /></a>In 1986-87 I spent a year in New Mexico as part of degree programme in American Studies. I hung out from time to time with railroad men, largely because that was my field prior to returning to the classroom as a 35-year-old. I had at various times been a shunter (switchman), a signalman and a freight train guard (brakemen) in the UK. When I left Albuquerque a friend who lived in the north of the state gave me as a souvenir a railroad spike. The following year, as I compiled a collection of eight or ten short stories for my undergraduate dissertation, I wrote 'The Golden Spike'. It was published in 1989 <em>in Critical Quarterly </em>- which was quite a feather in my cap at that time.<br />
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The with sesquicentennial coming up, not to mention the 30th anniversary of its first publication, I thought it was a good time to put it out as an ebook. And for a few days - Saturday 5 January to Wednesday 9 January - you can download a copy for free by following this link: <a href="https://amzn.to/2QqfpIa"><span style="color: blue;">https://amzn.to/2QqfpIa</span></a>.<br />
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I hope you enjoy it. And if you do, maybe check out my other books about the American West by clicking on the pictures (right).150 Years on, <br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-74983832477947749092018-11-30T15:04:00.001+00:002018-11-30T15:04:28.922+00:00Mata Hari wanted to know whether I had something... more substantial for her.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Night-time in Koln<br />
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I'm just back from a return visit to Koln where we spent two days re-working the Sherlock Musical (<a href="https://thesherlockmusical.com/">https://thesherlockmusical.com/</a>)... </div>
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And then on Wednesday night I went to the Urania Theatre (<a href="http://www.uraniatheater.de/">http://www.uraniatheater.de/</a>) to watch another performance. I emerged wondering why we are trying to change it at all. The house was packed, the audience seemed to love it; the cast appear to be having fun; there is a genuinely feel-good atmosphere about the place.</div>
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The answer, of course, lies in the constant search for improvements, and our efforts to make the very best of a show that certainly starts well - vital, brisk, somewhat intriguing - but isn't yet water-tight. Dare I say it, we are reaching for the stars; we wish to create a show that will wow them in Hamburg, Berlin, London.... who knows where else?</div>
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So what I thought was a simple enough job when I started back in June - to write a story that would be transformed into a musical show - now has echoes of Koln's famous Dom (above): it took an age to complete (seven centuries, if truth be told)and is constantly being renovated.</div>
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Still, there are compensations. Backstage after the show I spoke with our rather wonderful Mata Hari, Kim Morales (<a href="http://www.kim-morales.com/">http://www.kim-morales.com/</a>) and complained that there were still scenes to re-write. She gave me a radiant smile and said, 'Maybe a little more for me then?'</div>
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Suddenly I felt the urge to get back to my keyboard.</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35506142.post-40202627274936837512018-11-10T19:57:00.001+00:002018-11-11T18:12:52.899+00:00In Koln, for the premiere of Sherlock, Das Musical<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzPlKaG40N4Xe9nS7-_OaORqjpc49un7Yhu-mIwUg2X7-wWn08lN_tKoxl4Lqajd6PeTefEZGrtLY8yl_NWwSlrGYBdlItX1IpfsQRF7qrQzoROv1qoID71qBFYyUgz622tt3fg/s1600/P1010690.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzPlKaG40N4Xe9nS7-_OaORqjpc49un7Yhu-mIwUg2X7-wWn08lN_tKoxl4Lqajd6PeTefEZGrtLY8yl_NWwSlrGYBdlItX1IpfsQRF7qrQzoROv1qoID71qBFYyUgz622tt3fg/s640/P1010690.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The instantly recognisable twin towers of Koln cathedral</td></tr>
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Just back from a few days in Germany for the premiere of the Sherlock Musical. This has been a remarkable few months. It started with a chance meeting at a one-day class about social media. There I met Steve Collins Wilson, film-maker, and asked him if he fancied a follow-up meeting to talk about areas of common interest - and to sample the beer at our local.<br />
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When we met he had with him a friend, Bettina Montazem, co-director of the Urania Theatre:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0r2P1nGkcx7hLugagL3vkT_HuI2JZh4PR1wXZ10-ifPqbCT8PrPJ_VANvo2SHGynnPd8LD4__i6JH8Whd_pbtjHCItRlVO4hWRyGviDmFgtkMqF5Jbt4n688Le1LgmNxeH3wlw/s1600/P1010676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0r2P1nGkcx7hLugagL3vkT_HuI2JZh4PR1wXZ10-ifPqbCT8PrPJ_VANvo2SHGynnPd8LD4__i6JH8Whd_pbtjHCItRlVO4hWRyGviDmFgtkMqF5Jbt4n688Le1LgmNxeH3wlw/s640/P1010676.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Urania Theatre, Platenstrasse, Koln.</td></tr>
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All I remember of that meeting is that Bettina told me she was planning a musical about Sherlock as an old man. I asked when it was set, and she told me it would be around 1915. 'Oh great,' I said, 'you can get in a lot of references to the Great War. Maybe have a Zeppelin raid on Baker Street.' That was when she revealed that the script writers she had commissioned had no such plans. They had never mentioned the war. A few days later she emailed me and asked whether, as a writer who had previously worked in TV drama, I would like to be a script consultant. </div>
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'You mean picking holes in other people's work?' I replied. 'I'm your man.'</div>
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By the time we met again, she had sacked the script team and was... well, let's say that, with only five months left, and having sold the show to a number of other theatres in Germany, she was a trifle anxious. That's when she asked me whether I would have a bash at writing a script. Six days later handed her the first version.</div>
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Over the next 2-3 months we had several meetings in Koln and Durham. As a newly formed team, Bettina, Steve, myself, and musical director Steve Nobles made amendments to the plot and structure, before leaving Steve N to go and write the songs.</div>
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We all knew, all along the line, that aiming for an opening night as early as November 7th was ambitious. When I went to the theatre last Monday (the 5th) to see a run-through of Act 1, all seemed well. It really sparkled. Then we started on Act 2. There were problems. Huge ones. I returned to my hotel at two o'clock in the morning with a sense of imminent doom.</div>
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All I can say now is that it is a <em>huge</em> tribute to the energy and dedication of the players, the crew and the director - and possibly some omnipotent figure in the sky - that our world premiere went ahead at all. More than that, and despite all the problems and crises, it was, I would say, a triumph. The audience loved it; the players loved it; and the one newspaper review we have had so far is full of praise. We know there are improvements to make, and that no show ever peaks on opening night, but we are immensely heartened by what we have so far.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5eq1gCsweeVxApAN5ePCRWbWn_Q99ZvomfpEsnGbLEz8czkwOYSJNJOYNHjVBimwDsYLv6m8124RP66BxScHMKypcdXCE1hiwmSZg0f983ggCk1C8PNcxWQfJs8dApKaLJeNhmA/s1600/P1010668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5eq1gCsweeVxApAN5ePCRWbWn_Q99ZvomfpEsnGbLEz8czkwOYSJNJOYNHjVBimwDsYLv6m8124RP66BxScHMKypcdXCE1hiwmSZg0f983ggCk1C8PNcxWQfJs8dApKaLJeNhmA/s640/P1010668.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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So, a great few days, a theatrical success, but this is not a time to celebrate. We need to regroup and turn a good show into a great one. Looks like another trip to Koln for me. But that's fine: I am growing to love the place. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZn8L_JaUxE8P6O0M2kT_VCgkPZoM96xmQUTexl_97b7S1lT1I_1Y5LTq9BLvwE4gfNLrWE4XMXoO3Z29sHLTTzRWfXogesvryQ4mQBcpK0fXrJFigdvcN8C2ZQPJz0jd9LAQcrQ/s1600/P1010692.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZn8L_JaUxE8P6O0M2kT_VCgkPZoM96xmQUTexl_97b7S1lT1I_1Y5LTq9BLvwE4gfNLrWE4XMXoO3Z29sHLTTzRWfXogesvryQ4mQBcpK0fXrJFigdvcN8C2ZQPJz0jd9LAQcrQ/s640/P1010692.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I once heard a former RAF pilot talking about the 'Dom', as this great edifice (above) is known. He was asked why it suffered so little damage when the town around it, and the rail yards, were shattered. 'Simple,' he said, 'we made the cathedral our target, night after night. And generally, we missed it.'</td></tr>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Don't forget to check out my e-book The Red House On The Niobrara on amazon kindle http://amzn.to/Jck324 in the USA or... http://amzn.to/JXb4ri for the UK</div>Alan Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05233113660219449640noreply@blogger.com0