New story in Aquila magazine

I'm delighted to say those fabulous people at Aquila magazine have published one of my short stories in their bumper July/August issue. The story Time's Wing'd Chariot is about Josh, a boy who is finding it hard to settle in, since his family moved to Worcester to make a fresh start. Thomas, an eccentric old man Josh meets in Cafe Republico, seems a bit crazy - but is there a grain of truth in his story of 'intelligencers' from the 17th century?

For those of you who haven't yet discovered Aquila - it's a fun magazine aimed at children between 8 and 13 who enjoy challenges. It reminds me a lot of Look and Learn - a magazine I used to enjoy when I was that age.

Letter from a windmill

I know I’m not alone in finding a certain romance in windmills. Cervantes had Don Quixote famously tilting at them, imagining them to be giants. Fictional TV sleuth and magician’s creative consultant Jonathan Creek lives in one as did, according to the song, the notorious clog-wearing mice of old Amsterdam. So I was thrilled when my wife Sue suggested - by way of celebrating both my 50th birthday and our 25th wedding anniversary - that we should stay in a converted windmill in Rye.

Rye is a special place to us, having been the destination for several family holidays, inspired by my love affair with Malcolm Saville’s Lone Pine books, (a number of which are set in and around the ancient Sussex town.) A few days of escape in dear old Rye - familiar but still enchanting - sounded perfect.

Rye Windmill is now a Bed & Breakfast with a calm and calming atmosphere and owners who thoughtfully but unobtrusively attend to every detail. The room was so comfortable and the breakfasts so perfect that we couldn’t even object to the noisy carousing of what we later discovered to be marsh frogs in the river Tillingham beneath our window. (You can hear what a marsh frog sounds like by clicking here.)

We were blessed with a few precious days of May warmth and sunshine and were able to enjoy long walks around Camber Castle. The castle, like Rye itself, was once a coastal defence that now stands stranded by a receded sea, as if it has been built inland by mistake. And beyond Camber Castle, we discovered Castle Water. For a moment we could have been in the Lake District and it’s hard to comprehend that this beautiful wildlife sanctuary of Castle Water hadn’t been there as long as the 16^th century castle but was actually a very unromantic large gravel pit created by the extraction of shingle between 1930 and 1970. Ignorant of this, we allowed the blissful weather and location to create the illusion of our very own desert island with its shingle beach, comfortably shifting, like some kind of sedimentary memory-foam, beneath us when we slumped down for a rest.

Over the years we’ve been visiting Rye it has inevitably changed. Some of the pubs which were previously unbeatable pockets of atmosphere are now not worth visiting. Conversely, one pub that has been given a completely new lease of life is the Queens Head. We’d unfortunately missed the performance of French medieval folk band Les Derniers Trouvères who had been there for the Bank Holiday weekend but we were still able to enjoy real ale and a satisfying vegetarian chilli for a mere fiver. And there can't be many other pubs that run arts and crafts gatherings where you can learn the skills of bookbinding and reflections painting.

One of the other changes to Rye since our earlier visits has been the closure of a few of its second-hand bookshops and some of these seem to be have been replaced by photographers' galleries like Clive Sawyers’ next to Landgate Arch. Clive produces limited-edition photographic art taking as his subject not only the landscapes of Rye and Camber but those of Manhattan and Chicago.

Of course, I took a suitable book along to read during our stay -- Alphonse Daudet’s Lettres de mon moulin (Letters from my windmill). In the late 19^th century Daudet was the most successful novelist in France. Nowadays his books are largely unread. I bought my copy of this charming book 30 years ago when I lived in Brittany and I had never read it properly. Why not? Perhaps because I had never stayed in a windmill before.

"I looked in the sky where an elephant's eye was looking at me from a bubblegum tree ..."

It's been a very bookish blog these last couple of months so I felt it was time to talk music again. Here at the Passengers in Time offices there's a fairly constant soundtrack going on. Musical tastes here are very eclectic but I thought you might like to sample a typical selection. We’re very keen on the shuffle facility which makes for a bewildering variety of sounds. For example, one minute, it's American singer-songwriter and one-time Throwing Muse Kristin Hersh, the next it’s Breton hip-hop band Manau. While French pop music is rarely successful there’s something about hip-hop in the French language that works surprisingly well, especially when it’s fused with Breton folk music.

Former Aztec Camera front-man Roddy Frame is next up and the pared-down sound of his 2006 Western Skies has all of Aztec Camera’s lyrical ingenuity and joyous guitar without the over-production of 1980s pop. That said, 1983’s High land, hard rain remains one of my all-time favourites albums, along with the next
selection, Jackson Browne’s 1974 Late for the Sky.

You can't go wrong with a bit of Echo and the Bunnymen followed by Regina Spektor (no relation to record producer Phil Spector but rather an anti-folk Russian-American singer-songwriter and pianist, of course). A Perfect Circle’s 2003 album Thirteenth Step introduces complex drum patterns and an unnerving sense of menace in the lyrics. To lighten the mood after that you can't beat Philadelphia soul group The Delfonics, featuring spot-on harmonies against a lush orchestral backdrop and a bit of electric sitar, no less. Speaking of sitars, more fun it is to be had with Traffic’s 1967 hit Hole in my Shoe. It's a wonder we get any work done here at all!

It may be ‘deeply unwise’, but keep on trying ... and have a good time

Recently I've been researching the links between mental health and creativity and have come across the following extracts from Daniel Nettle's book Strong Imagination. Nettle is an anthropologist and a psychologist and he provides this warning to those of us who aspire to produce creative works:

“Now to take on a major imaginative project requires remarkable chutzpah. If, dear reader, you aspire to be a writer, poet, actor, artist, film director, or musician, then however you sell it to yourself, you must believe something like the following statement to be true. You have to believe that you can do something that is difficult, in a way that has never been done before, which will be of so much interest to your fellow creatures that they will reward you for it. But I have news for you, I am afraid. You are almost certainly wrong. I say this purely on statistical grounds. The vast majority of would-be writers, artists, musicians, and actors never become known for anything. This doesn't mean they don't have a good time trying, but it does mean that they were probably, in some orthodox sense, deeply unwise this to follow the path that they did.”

While reminding us that the creative impulse is in a sense a pathological one, Nettle is right to point out that, however wrong-minded creative people might be in an orthodox sense, we might at least have a good time trying to produce something. If we don't at least have a good time trying then it becomes even more questionable why we should bother:

“Writing, painting, and composing are lonely occupations, which lack the online feedback that in other domains, such as sports and social interaction, keeps us motivated, concentrated, and happy. Any feedback that comes, and mostly it won’t, will come years later when the person is working on something quite different. To ride through a difficult and enervating task, week in, week out, quite alone, without any validation from the outside world, one has to sustain an unreasonably enthusiastic mood. In fact, one has to be in a mood which, from the point of view of most other activities in life, is pathological. One should not blast on with unabashed cheerfulness in a relationship that gives nothing back for months, or persevere in economic activity that seems to be yielding nothing. The adjustive function of the mood system should draw us gently away from these things. But the creator of imaginative products has to remain abnormally, almost irrationally, buoyant, and, to be successful, he has to produce a lot ... What distinguishes the most eminent producers from the rest in any cultural field is not that their work is consistently excellent. It is mainly that they produce a lot, and the more they produce, the more likely it is that some of it will be excellent.”

from Strong imagination - Madness, creativity and human nature by Daniel Nettle (Oxford University Press, 2001) pages 153 to 154

Short stories with a poetic touch

Review of Graham Mort’s Touch

(published by Seren, 288 pages, £7.99)

The Bridport Prize is one of the highest accolades for writers of short stories so, when those splendid people at Seren sent me of a review copy of this anthology by the winner of the 2007 Bridport, I was delighted. Seren Books are one of the few publishers in the British Isles to publish short story collections and they are to be applauded for bringing together these 21 stories spanning two decades of Graham Mort's writing career.

The prize-winning story The Prince is a mesmerising piece of prose. Recalling one summer in the narrator's Yorkshire boyhood, it is a rich meditation on childhood and death. Touch - the story that gives this anthology its title - is an equally fine but very different piece told in a series of alternating scenes, cutting back and forth from Miles in Uganda (who works for a UK-based NGO) and Carol, his schoolteacher wife, in Yorkshire. Each is contending with the daily battles of life, far apart from one another, and the story describes the anatomy of a marriage surviving this work-enforced separation. Several of the stories centre on couples. In Annik and Serge a husband struggles with his wife's mental illness, their stark situation reminiscent of a Beckett play. Blood from a Stone features a couple half-heartedly house-hunting: “She was from Wolverhampton and it never seemed to bother her,” the narrator explains, “She'd have been happy with a new house on one of those estates that made me want to scream." The tone of many of the stories is quite downbeat, evoking a slightly seedy atmosphere and a barely suppressed rage. In The Caretaker a single parent tries to cope with a sick child: “the lights were still on in the florists ... It was getting close to Valentine's Day. It made her want to smash something... "

For me, the opening story, A Walk in the Snow is one of the most effective - another story of a couple - and an impressive display of Mort's poetic talents: “snow-water floods the gutters and gurgles into grids. In one solitary entry we find undisturbed snow. It peers back at us like a blank page, quiet as a swallowed cry.” For once, the warmth of the relationship here seems to prevail over the hostility of the setting.

This collection is full of dazzling and convincing writing. There is not, though, much light to contrast with the dreary worlds many of these characters inhabit. My other slight grumble about Touch is the cover design which shows a woman wearing a necklace of amber beads (presumably taking its inspiration from the story Annik and Serge). It's not a cover which would attract many male readers, I suspect, if they happened upon Touch in a bookshop. These two criticisms leave me pondering two bigger questions for short story writers, readers and publishers: is there no place for humour or light-heartedness in contemporary literary short fiction and are anthologies of short stories - even those by male writers - thought to be only of interest to a female readership?

Windmills, pineapple sage and a dream pub - six of 2010's happiest finds

As 2010 draws to a close, with Arctic weather and the promise of a white Christmas, my thoughts drift back over the past 12 months to some special places I've happened upon this year. Two cafes, two countryside walks, a cinema and a dream of a pub - here is a selection of my favourite discoveries of 2010, in no particular order ...

1. A walk around Much Wenlock, Shropshire, England

We discovered a walk in the country around the Shropshire town of Much Wenlock, along Wenlock Edge, that takes in not only a disused railway line but a disused windmill. How romantic can you get! The lightning-damaged, 17th century windmill is under the care of - who else? - the Much Wenlock Windmill Preservation Society.


2. Coffee#1, Chepstow, Monmouthshire, Wales

If you take the scenic route from Worcestershire to Bristol, you pass by Tintern Abbey and then it would be rude not to stop in the lovely town of Chepstow. A short walk from the castle up to the town and you happen upon Coffee#1, an elegant, relaxing coffee house that does scrummy food and, inevitably, wonderful coffee.

3. Yorkshire Lavender Farm, Terrington nr York, Yorkshire, England

On holiday in York, we visited Yorkshire Lavender - an award-winning attraction that is free to visit, although you can repay the owners' hospitality by savouring a pot of Yorkshire tea and lavender scones and by buying some blueberry and lavender conserve and lavender sugar - to make your own lavender scones when you get home. My great delight, apart from the tea and scones here, was being invited to rub the leaves of a some pineapple sage between my fingers and enjoying the childlike pleasure of my hands smelling of pineapple. The sights, scents, tastes and touch of this place are unexpectedly therapeutic.


4. Jaffé & Neale Bookshop and Café, Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire, England

En route from Worcester to Oxford, in the Cotswold town of Chipping Norton, it's almost compulsory to stop at Jaffé & Neale. Two things I love - brilliant independent bookshops and fantastically friendly coffee shops - are here rolled into one. Life doesn't get much better than home-made cake and coffee surrounded by an intriguing selection of books.



5. Irish Film Institute, Dublin, Ireland

On a recent trip to Dublin, I stumbled across the Irish Film Institute in Eustace Street. Under one roof, a cafe bar selling Guinness and food, a specialist bookshop that would be a film studies student's heaven and an impressive range of films on show. When I was there in November they were showing a season of Powell and Pressburger films. That doesn't happen every day so I just had to return the following evening for a viewing of the 1941 classic 49th Parallel. Inspirational.

6. Pivni, York, England

Every once in a while, I am lucky enough to happen upon a dream of a pub. When I lived in Brittany it was Le Pressoir in St Brieuc. For a few years in North Wales it was The Kings Arms in Bangor. On two recent visits to York, the Pivni in the city centre met all the criteria to join my list of dream pubs.
Pivni was formerly called the Pivo bar (taking its name from the Czech word for beer) but was changed to Pivni after a copyright dispute. Housed in a timber-framed building dating back to 1190, it couldn't have more character. The bar sells a selection of the finest cask beers from the UK, and draught and bottled beers from around the world. It's cosy enough and friendly enough for a man to sit with a newspaper and a pint without feeling self-conscious, but equally comfortable for couples of a certain age to chat together without feeling too old. In term-time, it becomes a student pub, in summer time a tourist pub, but neither of these things exclusively.
Pivni combines the best elements of a snug European bar with the charm of a traditional English pub. It has the world's best jukebox and, upstairs, board games are provided to amuse groups of drinkers in need of an ice-breaker. A pub like this is, to me, the pinnacle of civilisation and, if I were prime minister, I would make it government policy to ensure every town had a place like this. I could spend hours simply soaking up the atmosphere - and the beer ... and I probably did. Cheers!

2010, like every year, has been full of surpises, unexpected journeys and unforeseen discoveries. As the year draws to a close I would like to take this opportunity to wish all of you - fellow passengers in time - a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Martin Simpson in Worcester

Martin Simpson live at Huntingdon Hall, Worcester,
Friday 29 October

Worcester's Huntingdon Hall (a former 18th century Methodist Chapel) lends itself particularly well to folk music. Martin Simpson, an outstanding guitarist and a fine singer/songwriter, performed solo and without even a support act - just an acoustic guitar in an open tuning.

The songs that worked best, for me, were his re-workings of traditional ballads, particularly the stunning Little Musgrave, but the performance of his 'hit' (inasmuch as English folk singers have hits) Never any good was as moving as ever. The Chris Wood song Come down Jehovah was also very effective in the hallowed ambience of Huntingdon Hall but I was disappointed, given the ecclesiastical setting, that we weren't treated to one of my Simpson favourites - his version of Jan Struther's children's hymn When a knight won his spurs. Still, for an example of what can be achieved with an acoustic guitar and a voice steeped in English tradition, Martin Simpson is hard to beat.