tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11259754122737921162024-03-13T19:16:26.560-07:00Helen Moat: Stories in the PeakBehind the places and landscapes, find the stories in the PeakHelen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-61140752505710027282013-06-12T13:19:00.000-07:002013-06-12T13:22:21.785-07:00Yellow Slacks<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwuHv7K_YBxRYV3RrhJ2qbUe3rzz09WRnI8AAZZDO62pIUhzCNNR3VhTQUvPnRoMxY5UKdsFbXWTzeGVabuhGrEg5Sooy1flJFxdd-DrPpfNXiHHGR6DrmFMketwH0jyY4MlqbsDhRGv7J/s1600/Yellow+Slacks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" cya="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwuHv7K_YBxRYV3RrhJ2qbUe3rzz09WRnI8AAZZDO62pIUhzCNNR3VhTQUvPnRoMxY5UKdsFbXWTzeGVabuhGrEg5Sooy1flJFxdd-DrPpfNXiHHGR6DrmFMketwH0jyY4MlqbsDhRGv7J/s320/Yellow+Slacks.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The area of the Dark Peak around Kinder Scout is made up of rocky moorland, bleak and inhospitable, despite its relatively low altitude. The heather and bog is strewn with rocky outcrops with strange names: Dog Rock, Hern Stones, Wain Stones, Higher Shelf Stones - and Yellow Slacks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The rocks are a significant landmark in the story of Kinder Scout. In 1932, mass tresspassers set out to claim their right to roam on Kinder. At Yellow Slacks they were turned back by armed gamekeepers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Later they won their cause, and the public were given access to much of the Peak moorlands, hitherto out of bounds. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">But click on the picture and find another story of Yellow Slacks, not set on the moors of the Dark Peak but in the streets of Zurich. The scene is equally bleak. A young woman meets the love of her life - and realises he is not everything he appears to be ...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Yellow Slacks</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She was wearing yellow slacks. Linen. The wide fabric flapping around her legs like a field of rape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It wasn’t difficult to follow her in the crowd, the yellow loud, a come-hither in among the sombre blacks, greys and blues. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I kept her in my sight as she made her way through the pleasure-seekers of Bellevue funfair. She sliced through the crowds like the bow of a ship in water, the crowds closing in again on her tiny figure as I followed in her wake. Still there was always the flash of yellow ahead in the crowds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She stopped below the big wheel and bought a lemon candyfloss, holding the cloud of sticky sugar above her head like a guide with an umbrella, a ‘follow me.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’d become a stalker. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I followed her home through the backstreets of Zurich. I was new to the game, learning to tread quietly, stepping quickly into the shadows; ducking into side streets or slipping into the entrances of shops when she glanced behind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She reached her flat. I moved behind a tree, watching her rummage through her bag for her keys. She was mine now. I knew where she lived. No one else would ever have her. She belonged to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I followed her everywhere, a shadow she didn’t know existed. Well, I think she sensed something. Occasionally she would glance anxiously behind. But I was too good for her. I swear she never saw my face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I followed her through the shops on the Bahnhofstrasse or into the bars and nightclubs of the Altstadt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was easy to sit in the shadows of darkened rooms and watch her undisturbed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her face was sculpted, her jaw strong, her cheek bones high. Her hair was an unruly mass of wiry waves, grey sprouting through, although she must have been in her early twenties. She had a boyish body, lean and muscular. I knew so much about her already: who her friends were, where she worked, the kind of films she liked to watch, even what she ate for breakfast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lying in bed at night, I would trace her body, feel her face beneath my hand, follow her curves. I tried to imagine what it would be like for real, thought about making myself known to her but I knew there would be rejection. It was my life. I couldn’t look a woman in the eye, couldn’t stop the stammer or the nervous twitch. They always rejected me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then one day I saw her with him. HIM of all people. How could she? How could he? He would pay the price. Her too. If I couldn’t have her, no one else could, least of all him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I watched them kiss on the Limmatquai and I knew it was all over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was older than me. Much older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d shown me photos of himself at my age: boyish, lean, a mass of curly black hair, a smiling carefree face. Now his hair was receding slightly at the front, the hair cropped close to the head, peppered grey. His body had broadened out. He wore glasses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was on the Limmatbr<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ü</span>cke. I’d dropped a scarf. It could have been a scene from a film, only it was real. He asked me for a drink. I was attracted to him - inexplicably. His friends were older than mine, married with children with successful careers, money, chic lakeside apartments and three holidays a year. They had sensible hobbies. I figured I should run. Then he kissed me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When he looked at me afterwards, something stirred in my memory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’ve seen you somewhere before,” I said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh no, I don’t think so. I would have remembered. I promise.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Something about his appearance made me sense danger – but why I couldn’t tell. He was the essence of ordinariness, of sensible middle age. A man divorced with grown up children, content in his bachelor lakeside pad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I think you’re holding something back,” I said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He kissed my eyes. “It’s important to hold something back of yourself. You know - a little mystery to keep you interested.” His teasing tone seemed somewhat forced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I don’t agree. If you love someone, you don’t keep any secrets from them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I saw him withdraw. Not physically, but a veil came down over his eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“There’s a part of my life I just can’t talk about. Not now, maybe in the future. Please don’t ask me anymore.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’d been waiting, waiting for months, waiting for the time and a place. It was a game of patience. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the day arrived as I knew it would. I watched her leave the apartment one early evening. Instead of heading into town, she turned left towards the Rigiblick. I followed her through the woods. The ashes amongst the conifers were whispering to me. I knew, they knew, what I had to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The voices in my head were screaming at me. I put my hands over my ears as if to block them out; stupid of me for the voices were internal, the relentless soundtrack to my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My heart was racing: this was the moment I’d been waiting for. The light was dimming, the sun beginning to dip behind the ridge above us. We were alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Rigiblick wasn’t a place I normally went to; certainly not alone. Paul and I had had an argument the evening before. It was the same argument we always had: the fact that he was keeping a part of his life to himself. Still upset by the quarrel, I needed to clear my head, needed to make some decisions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I loved him but maybe the gulf was too wide. There was twenty-five years between us - a lifetime for me - my lifetime. His lifestyle was so different from mine. He and his friends were the same age as my parents. Yet, there was something about our relationship that just seemed so right. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was that other niggle too: I still was convinced in my head that I had seen him somewhere before - but couldn’t think where. The association made me uneasy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was no one on the Rigiblick. Just me. It was still except for the whisper of the ashes and the occasional dropping of pine needles. Then I heard a twig snap. I looked behind. I thought I saw a shadow. There then gone. How stupid of me. I’d had the feeling for months now that someone was following me. What had possessed me to come up here alone? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I sat down on a rock, trying to figure out what I should do. Then Paul appeared on the path, walking towards me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Paul,” I cried. “Thank God you’re here. “I was sure someone was following me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I ran towards him and flung my arms around him and we kissed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I felt her lips on mine, her strong jaw under my hand. It felt good. I breathed in the scent of pine and her coconut perfume, so familiar. I could feel her heart pounding under her blouse. I buried my face into her neck. I could feel the pulse under her skin, sensed the blood coursing through her body. I had never felt so alive. I gently turned her body round, placing my arm across her chest, pinning her arms down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’ve waited so long for this,” I said softly in her ear. I pressed myself against her. She was wearing those ‘come-hither’ yellow slacks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Paul,” she said, more a question than a statement. I sensed her fear, felt her body stiffen under mine suddenly. It excited me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I ran a finger down her jaw. I placed my hand over her mouth and nostrils. She was like a little bird, a sparrow, so small and delicate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She started to wriggle. She kicked backwards, nearly knocking me off my feet. I had to pay attention. She may have been small but her arms and legs were strong. It took all my strength to keep her pinned down. Slowly she went limp. I would snuff her out like a candle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was running out of energy. I was one metre five. He was 1.82. I was almost half his weight. What chance did I have? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I didn’t want to die. I tried to breathe but I was suffocating. I couldn’t fight any more. I was going under. Then I heard a shout. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I opened my eyes. There was a blurry figure leaning over me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I heard a voice. It seemed so distant, yet his face was close to mine. I tried to focus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Claudia. Are you all right? Speak to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He came into sharp relief. It was Paul, leaning over me. His eyes full of fear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Please, Claudia. Don’t die. ”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I tried to push him away but I was too tired. I drifted into unconsciousness again, dreaming his mouth was on mine, his hands on my chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The man I loved was a monster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stepped into the shadows of the trees, half running half rolling down the steep wooded hillside. How I hated Paul. How I had always hated him. He’d been born first, the stronger twin, the dominant twin, the successful twin, whilst I stood in the shadow of his success. He was the one who’d always had friends and girlfriends, whilst I was alone. He was the one who was confident and happy whilst I was plagued with schizophrenia, the constant voices in my head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He’d tried to help me but I’d rejected him. He’d taken everything and left me with nothing. He’d destroyed me and I did everything I could to destroy him. In the end he rejected me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were identical and yet a world apart. And yet again luck had been on his side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-39264553448874929522013-06-03T13:29:00.001-07:002013-06-03T13:30:20.370-07:00X marks the spot: Clown<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOkSsaTmhtGVtrvSE57C0r8hBcU-c0vaTr20MMwwJOl9E1HdqoCIOYDXwS7DyJBrv9EshjXfp8swm0_BPWwlI5CKGNN0r-mQZ1hhHnVYWBI5tacppJrXrxJcVTYy_XLzR7mxq0MwGNj_g/s1600/Clowne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOkSsaTmhtGVtrvSE57C0r8hBcU-c0vaTr20MMwwJOl9E1HdqoCIOYDXwS7DyJBrv9EshjXfp8swm0_BPWwlI5CKGNN0r-mQZ1hhHnVYWBI5tacppJrXrxJcVTYy_XLzR7mxq0MwGNj_g/s1600/Clowne.jpg" yya="true" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Clown is a village near Bolsover in Derbyshire.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Clowne lies 9 miles (14 km) north east of Chesterfield and 7 miles (11 km) south west of Worksop. It is referred to in the Domesday Book</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> as Clune. The name is derived from the Celtic</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i>Clun</i> for a river.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Clown has also been referred to as Clowne, Cloune, Clone and Clowen. Indecision over the name is still apparent, one of the two railways in the town naming the town 'Clowne' and the other 'Clown'. Now that's clowning about!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">But this is the story of another clown, a fascinating performance artist I happened upon in London ... who held his audience in the palm of his hand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Clown</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was standing out there, a tiny figure on the steps between the great sandstone arches of the piazza,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>forlorn and expectant, alone and surrounded, tragic and comic, innocent and knowing, an outsider and an incomer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was a magician. I had not meant to stop; I was on my way somewhere else. Well, I’d linger just a minute - but he drew me in and carried me into the past with him. Suddenly, I was a child again in my short homemade frock and big yellow bow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could hear the sound of the projector once more, whirling and clicking in my sixties flock-papered living-room: images crackled and faded and covered in spidery lines on the screen. And there he was, the character who had fascinated me as a child, no longer two dimensional, but standing in front of me: a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood being. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A mother pushed her son out of the crowd and the child reluctantly made his way to the man. The boy stood there, his body stiff and half-turned towards his mother, ready to flee, for she had told him countless times not to speak to strangers - and the person in front of him looked very strange indeed. The man stretched his arms out wide, the sleeves of his grubby, ragged jacket riding up his pale thin arms. The boy hesitated, unsure, afraid. The stranger gazed into the eyes of the child with his own black, kohl-streaked ones: compelling, pleading. The boy couldn’t help himself. He stretched out his own small arms, and suddenly he was being swept off his feet and into a tight embrace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tenderly, the man lowered the boy onto a wooden box. The boy was torn, still unsure, wanting to return to the safety of his mother yet unable to leave. The man took his jacket off and gently draped it over the shoulders of the boy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy flung it onto the ground, his small body quivering. Kneeling down, the man whispered in the boy’s ear. The child froze. Shadows formed around the square. The light was fading out. Still the boy stood there, his back to the crowd and his face close to the magician who spoke quietly to him, his voice barely audible. And the crowd, they too stood there stock-still in the chilled, damp November twilight, everything silent but for the occasional sound of shuffling feet and muted coughs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a while, the man placed a black wig followed by a bowler hat on the boy’s head and planted a crook in his hand. He swung the child round to reveal a miniature version of himself, complete with black moustache: a small Charlie Chaplin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The child was under his spell. Everything the big Charlie Chaplin did, the little Charlie Chaplin copied, no matter how difficult, no matter how absurd. The crowd gasped and laughed and felt at the same time an inexplicable sadness and yearning. Then the boy was off, running into the crowds and back to the sanctuary of his mother’s arms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No one moved even though the show was over. We too had been hypnotised; we too had fallen under the magician’s spell. Night crept in and covered the market square of Covent Garden in its black velvet cloak. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was still standing out there, a shadowy figure in the piazza:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>forlorn and expectant; alone and surrounded; tragic and comic; innocent and knowing, an outsider and an incomer. There, then gone… but somehow still lingering. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</span>Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-28829351826535800202013-05-20T12:05:00.001-07:002013-05-20T12:05:19.863-07:00Win Hill<div align="justify" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 1; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCcvkmCKHaYdfqwg_oQIdq9z1krh_EbVWfxNSb5iqVvF1D1zoX5Ge0xUwW4t9YPRnxiGb9kDOYJXvnt0eTsKfGW8U-O5U0pZNgu6ddCb62buvNUhGgsLve7NAYuR9zSowkO_8bljZn5rm/s1600/Win+hill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCcvkmCKHaYdfqwg_oQIdq9z1krh_EbVWfxNSb5iqVvF1D1zoX5Ge0xUwW4t9YPRnxiGb9kDOYJXvnt0eTsKfGW8U-O5U0pZNgu6ddCb62buvNUhGgsLve7NAYuR9zSowkO_8bljZn5rm/s1600/Win+hill.jpg" ya="true" /></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Win Hill</strong> lies north west of Bamford in the Peak District. At 462 m (1,516 ft), it is almost surrounded by the River Derwent to the east, the River Noe to the south west and Ladybower Reservoir to the north. </span></span></div>
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Legend claims that Win Hill gets its name from the Battle of Win Hill and Lose Hill in 626. Prince Cwichelm and his father, King Cynegils of Wessex with the aid of King Penda of Mercia, gathered their forces on neighbouring Lose Hill and marched on the Northumbrians based on Win Hill. Despite their greater numbers, Wessex was defeated by the Northumbrians building a wall and rolling boulders down upon them. </div>
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But click on the picture and find another Win Hill in the Blue Ridge Mountains of South Carolina. This is a story of ghosts and unearthly mountain creatures. It's a modern day battle against development. </div>
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<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Win Hill<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mountain for Sale<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Own your own mountain or development opportunity in the picturesque Blue Ridge Mountains of South Carolina. Win Hill could be yours for only $12,000,000. With approximately 300 acres, Win Hill has approval for 170 home sites<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is a unique opportunity to purchase a beautiful piece of land in the Blue Ridge Mountains. One of the most sought out areas of the state, it’s known for its scenic views and moderate climate. There are roads and trails about the mountain and a development plan that allows for 170 home sites is already approved. And if you just want privacy and space it doesn't get any better than this! </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Elevation 1150 ft. Own the whole mountain to yourself or subdivide.</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Molly Mead looked at the newspaper advertisement in dismay. Her grandmother, Gertrud, had spent most of her adult life on the mountain in a shack on the lower reaches of Win Hill. What would she have made of this?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rumour had it that Molly’s grandmother had won the mountain. There had long been sightings of a mountain lion on the hill, but many questioned its existence. Cougars were not indigenous to the area. Then a child had been attacked and killed by the mountain lion, its existence no longer in question. The local people grew afraid, too scared to leave their homes. In desperation, the sheriff offered the mountain in exchange for the dead cougar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now Gertrud was a crack hand with an air rifle. No one could stalk an animal was well as her. There was not one man in the valley who could match her. It was said she could spot her prey from two miles away. She moved as swiftly and as silently as a spirit and her aim was deadly. It was rare for her to miss her target. More than that, Gertrud seemed to have an unreserved supply of patience. She would stay out all day stalking her prey, only abandoning a hunt when night fell. Mostly it didn’t come to that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The story went that Gertrud strode into the Sherriff’s office with the dead cougar stretched out across her shoulders. The younger generations shook their heads at the colourful story. The older residents swore the story was true. At any rate, Gertrud was given the mountain which she renamed ‘Win Hill’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Molly had only been seven when her grandmother died, but she still remembered her visits to the mountain clearly. As there was no road to Gertrud’s hut, Gertrud had kept a wheel barrow in a shed next to the road to transport any heavy items. Whenever Molly visited her grandmother, the old woman threw Molly into the wheel barrow, bumping her along the needle-carpeted track to the shack. Years later, Molly could still smell the heavy scent of pine needles and resin when she recalled her grandmother pushing her along the path. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Visiting the mountain had been like stepping back in time. Gertrud had no running water. The stream below the shack was used for washing herself, her clothes, even the dishes. The old woman had no electricity either – just a handful of oil lamps. She cooked over a fire on a large hearth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At night Gertrud and Molly would sit in the darkness by the glow of the dying embers in the hearth looking out at the valley. Gertrud was a great storyteller. She’d sit Molly on her lap and tell her stories of the mountain spirits and animals. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And sure enough, pale lights would appear dotted among the shadowy pines and cedars below them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“How could that be?” Molly whispered to her Grandmother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“They’re the spirits of the mountain creatures,” her Grandmother said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Long after her grandmother had died and Molly had grown up, she could still smell the faint scent of almonds in the old woman’s hair and the stronger smell of mothballs in her clothes. She could still remember her rasping voice and see her wrinkled hands. Molly would sit listening to Gertrud’s stories, absentmindedly pushing the loose folds of skin backwards and forwards on the old woman’s hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The shack had long since gone back to nature, roots and trees pushing through the roof, moss lining the walls, but Molly still dreamed of moving into the mountain hut. She knew it was where she belonged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gertrud had left Win Hill to Molly in her will but when the adult Molly eventually went to stake her claim, no legal documents could be found to substantiate Gertrud Harrison’s claim to the mountain. On the contrary, the deeds to Win Hill were still in the family name of the sheriff. It transpired the reward had been nothing more than a ‘gentleman’s (or gentlewoman’s) agreement. Win Hill had never belonged to Gertrud, it seemed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Molly was incensed. But what could she do? And now this. Gertrud would turn in her grave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The mountain was sold to developers. Molly walked her dogs up there as always, observing first the diggers as they tore up the ground and ripped up the pines, then the erection of a portable site cabin for the workers. Molly shuddered when a great billboard appeared at the bottom of the mountain advertising luxury five bedroom houses. The first of the homes would be ready within a year it had announced. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Increasingly Molly despaired as she walked the torn up mountain. The hill, that had always been rich in wildlife, grew silent but for the constant whine of the diggers and tree felling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then something miraculous happened. The workers started talking of spirits up in the mountain. Some had sighted an old woman wandering through the trees. Those who were local claimed it was the ghost of Gertrud Harrison. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Others saw unearthly creatures, creatures with disproportionally large glowing eyes and strange human-like faces. No one could find anything online or in any book that matched the features of these animals. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The construction workers refused to stay any longer on the mountain. Replacements were brought in. They too left. Eventually the property developers abandoned the site and slowly the tracks returned to nature, new shoots pushing their way through the churned up ground. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bit by bit the animals returned to Win Hill. Then it occurred to Molly one day: what was to stop her moving into her grandmother’s old place? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After months of hard work on the shack, Molly moved in. Sometimes, Molly looked out at night when the embers had died down in the fire and she saw the eyes of the mountain creatures glowing in the dark on the hill below her. But for Molly they were friendly eyes, guardians of the mountain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Molly headed out at dusk to walk the dogs, she would occasionally catch a glimpse of her grandmother in the trees ahead, but whenever she reached the spot where she had seen her grandmother, the old woman was gone. Still, Molly felt reassured by her presence in the mountain. As long as Gertrud Harrison was on Win Hill, the mountain was safe - and so was Molly. She was sure of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-45162501000855037302013-05-06T02:23:00.001-07:002013-05-08T06:34:03.136-07:00Via Gellia<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Via Gellia</b> is a steep sided wooded valley near Cromford in Derbyshire, named after Phillip Gell in a mock Latin style. Gell was responsible for building the road through the valley, and the Gells claimed Roman descent. The road, now the A5012, is believed to have been constructed about 1790 to connect the Gell family's extensive lead-mines around Wirksworth. <br />High above the valley, on the road leading from Middleton-by-Wirksworth down to the Via Gellia, there's a rendered and stone house called Mountain Cottage. DH Lawrence spent a year here with his wife Frieda towards the end of the First World War. The Lawrences had been hounded out of Cornwall, the locals convinced that the German Frieda and her English husband were spying for the enemy. The Lawrences, desperate to leave the country, found themselves marooned in Britain because of the war. Lawrence, his writing too avant-garde for the chattering classes, struggled to make a living dispite his prolific output. His sister paid for the cottage over the Via Gellia.<br /><br /><strong>Via Gellia</strong><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He stood at the open window. Motionless. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She came. From behind and folded her arms about him. Her head leaning into his back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Come away from the window, Bert.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He pulled her hands apart and pushed them away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Why am I back here?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She traced the crease line of his thin shirt sleeve with her finger. “Come, Bert. Where is your jacket? You'll get ill again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve lit the fire and put your writing table by it. Your pens and papers are ready.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The Via Gellia. How pretentious! The way to the lead mines - to darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let the Via Gellia take us out of this dead place and onto the Via Italia or the Via America; anywhere but the bloody Via Gellia. Frieda, don’t you yearn for the sunlight of Italy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes, Bert. I do”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Look down there. The sun never reaches the valley. Look at the trees, lifeless, like the people here: Dead, absorbed in their narrow lives in their narrow dales. They look at us with such mistrust. Do you remember the vineyards above Garda? Do you remember drinking wine below the lemon trees and the sun on our bodies?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She laid a hand on him. “When the war is over, we’ll go back.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She leaned out the window. “Bert, look. The wood anemones are out on the slope below the garden. The woods will be full of them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Let’s go out, Frieda. Let’s walk down into the Via Gellia. Let’s walk the Via to Italia.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Are you mad? The path is so steep. You were close to death just such a short time ago.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’d rather be dead ... than dead. I won’t live like this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Please, Bert. Leave it for a few days.” She cupped her hands around one of his arms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He pushed her aside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She felt something stir within herself: a loathing and a thrill at the same time. She looked at his wasted body, the ribs visible under the thin shirt, the narrow concave chest. She felt repelled by it and attracted to it at the same time: the vulnerability and strength, the self-certainty and tortured mind, the energy and the physical weakness; the intelligence and contradictions, the passion and loathing for mankind. She loved all of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He had pulled on his coat and was out the door, striding down the road towards the gap in the wall. She caught up with him, his breath already laboured, coughing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The air was damp and chilled in the woods. Winter was clinging to the ashes, limes and sycamores, smothering renewal, but spring was forcing its way through the undergrowth. Delicate, pale-faced anemones with their lemon centres, thousands of them, were pushing through the ivy and the moss-covered logs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frieda held onto Bert. The side of the valley was almost vertical. She felt his weakened body tremble under his coat. Still they reached the bottom – and the navel of the earth, as Bert called it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She looked at him. He couldn’t satisfy her anymore. There were others. There always would be. But he was the one constant in her life … as long as he breathed life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Do you remember, Bert?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You are the call ... well … I am the call.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He looked up. “But of course. They’re my words. I wrote them for you. Back at the beginning.” He took her hand, his thumb pressing her index finger. “And I am the answer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I am the wish”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“and I am the fulfilment.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I am the night”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“and I the day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">His voice was a whisper, close to her. “What else? It is perfect enough. It is perfectly complete. You and I. What more? Strange, how we suffer in spite of this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Above them the path back to Mountain Cottage was a snail trail on a wall of anemones - but somehow they would make it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-7487335259883932582013-05-02T13:56:00.001-07:002013-05-02T14:10:45.486-07:00Ughill<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhm9JEi9Gm5mURuaZbyrHkCcdx30KKuQXs_dblQ4tB7DJIUlNPyvIw_JKHGJmKOxpU1kWkO68WvA2LmrbCrIOHUumxQUAfe1A7KAa5QKZPHEmLiVg34m_LN9ByMGATI4PeVx95MTIFcsf/s1600/ughill+hall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" lua="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhm9JEi9Gm5mURuaZbyrHkCcdx30KKuQXs_dblQ4tB7DJIUlNPyvIw_JKHGJmKOxpU1kWkO68WvA2LmrbCrIOHUumxQUAfe1A7KAa5QKZPHEmLiVg34m_LN9ByMGATI4PeVx95MTIFcsf/s1600/ughill+hall.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ughill is a hamlet near the village of Bradfield surrounded by a crescent of three reservoirs: Dale Dyke Reservoir, Agden Reservoir and Damflask Reservoir. Above it lies Ughill moor and to the East, just a few miles away, are the fringes of Sheffield. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ughill Hall goes back to Edward the Confessor (1042-1066). </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the conquest o</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ccupancy fell to the Marriott family - from the Town of Marriott in Normandy. The Marriotts remained occupants for more than four hundred years until</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> the death of Benjamin Marriott in 1761, when the male line failed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But behind the picture is the story of a woman who travels through the geography and history of two Ughill families: The Worralls and the Marriotts. Past and present, dream and reality become blurred until they merge one day. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ughill. The word caught in her throat. There was nothing comfortable about the sound. Then there were the first three letters: ugh. Such a childish word. It should have been a warning none the less. She should have walked away. But the house was going for a song. Lily shook her head at the cliché running through her head. As a writer she couldn’t bear to entertain them in her internal thoughts, never mind let them fall onto the pages of her laptop. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No, not a song; the price of a story maybe – or a dream; even a nightmare …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The house was more than a house - it was a hall, a place that announced understated wealth and privilege. It was a historical building that went back to themiddle ages. Then there was the quiet village of Ughill, the moors overhead and the wide open spaces. After Manchester, this place held the peace she’d been yearning for. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What a laugh,” Lily thought later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Viewing the house, Lily was drawn into the dream: the sweeping wooden staircase, the Aga in the kitchen, the huge ornate fireplaces, the carved wood in almost every room, the walled garden. She had to have this house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Max, her husband, was less convinced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It may be affordable but think of the renovation costs – half the house price at a guess. Then there are the running costs.” He shook his head at the draughty windows, the gaping floorboards, the large poorly-heated rooms and the ancient heating system that was totally inadequate for a building of this size. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Max, always practical, couldn’t have been more different in character to Lily who lived her life through fantasies. But then he said something out of character; something completely un-Max-like. “I have a bad feeling about this place. It has bad karma.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Lily was decided: The house was going to be hers and nothing Max could say was going to deter her. Within six months they’d moved in. Ughill Hall had become a building site, but Lily didn’t care. This was the house of her dreams. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She frowned, realising that she had allowed another cliché to slip through her head – but the cliché was to become strangely true: This was to be the house of dreams and the dreams began almost immediately: vivid, strange, incomprehensible, compelling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first dream funnelled Lily along a quiet tree-lined road past a half-rotted sign with a faded “Thomaston” on it, the white paint disappearing into the damp wood. It was the detail in the dreams that always astounded Lily afterwards. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the line of the horizon, Lily would see an isolated house, washed-out with a cracked gable. She reached the house and followed a long flight of steps, chipped and broken with weeds pushing through. Directly in front of the house was a large maple, spreading out across the unkempt lawn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lily stood under the shade of the maple and it was then she noticed the two gravestones slumped in the hard ground criss-crossed with tree roots. She noted the dates: 1876 and 1878. When she looked up again, there was a man leaning into the doorframe of the open door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Worrall,” he said extending a hand. “Welcome to Two Tombstones.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The ground floor of the house appeared uninhabited and the long, skinny man led her up stairs through corridors and rooms adorned with huge </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">hornet nests, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">wreaths</b> of potato bugs, platted grasses, cases of neatly arranged butterflies and insects fastened to the wall with pins. By and by, they came to a room at the rear of the house stuffed with birds and snakes, frogs, owls, hawks, pigeons, minerals, an ancient chair, a<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> wreath</b> of snake skins, lizards of all species, a frame with the claws of animals and all sorts of odd things from the woods.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lily opened her mouth to speak to the man but the dream was gone and her head was filled with the sound of an electric saw. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Worrall. Worrall was the name of a family who’d lived in the village of Ughill for generations. Wasn’t it? A quick google search confirmed the fact; then Lily found Thomaston, a small town in Connecticut. Her dream had contained a real person in a real place. Lily shivered in the cold unheated hall. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The writer in Lily soon unearthed more information on the Worrall of Connecticut; the hermit of Two Tombstones, as the newspaper item described him. A family history blog uncannily reproduced the detail of her dream. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lily felt unnerved.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The dream of the Two Tombstones was the first; a charming, eccentric, somewhat ethereal dream. But she saw afterwards, the tombstones were a prophesy. The dreams to come were full of death. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The dreams tumbled into her subconscious now, filling up her hours of sleep. They led Lily all over the world: the Worralls had been a restless family, spreading out across Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, even beyond the old and new world to exotic far-flung places like Mexico, Central and South America.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The dreams were vivid, shot in HD or technicolour, the images sharp, the colours intense, the texture detailed. But they were more than that for they engaged all her senses, filling her being with the sights and sounds, the smells and tastes of foreign lands. In those dreams, Lily could feel the texture of strange objects - and the earth of places beneath her feet that she’d never actually experienced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lily could barely wait to go to bed and leave her conscious life behind now. The dreams had become an obsession. They allowed her to travel through time, through geography, through history and through centuries of Ughill Worralls. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The dreams extended into the writer’s daytime life. They became the stuff of Lily’s fiction. The writing was effortless now. The settings for her stories were written for her in those dreams; the detail in her unconscious world provided her with exquisite detail for her tales. The characters, all Worralls, were larger-than-life, full of flavour. The stories wrote themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the back of her dreams, Lily published an anthology of short stories and for the first time in her life she was making money from her writing. Her husband was wrong: Ughill was bringing them good fortune. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the dreams dried up; the wandering Worralls exhausted. And what of the Worralls that had stayed put and played out their lives in the village of Ughill?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lily wished she hadn’t asked the question. The Worralls who had inhabited Ughill seemed harmless at first: privileged, successful, born with a whole velvet-lined cutlery case of silver spoons in their mouths. But it was never enough. They wanted more: more power, more wealth, more control. They looked out from their home of Nether House with envy at Ughill Hall. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Worralls who had always been adept at marrying into greater wealth and families of influence struck a coup when Hannah, daughter of Joseph Worrall, married Benjamin Marriott of Ughill Hall, the most influential family in the village.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was then that Lily’s dreams started to metamorph into nightmares. Hannah would appear in Lily’s dreams wide-eyed and full of fear, unable to speak. She was dead within a year, leaving behind a child. Hannah’s daughter died soon after. The deaths of the mother and daughter were linked to Thomas Parkin, the husband of Benjamin’s sister, a ruthless character with ruthless ambition. Then Benjamin disappeared too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lily’s dreams racked up a notch – now filled with envy, greed, murderous thoughts, fear and loathing, suspicion and mistrust; dreams filled with hand-wringing, bed-tossing, quickened heart beats and hearts that beat no more; dreams filled with images of ghostly faces, lifeless eyes and stiff cold bodies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lily spent nights following funeral possessions across skylines of black clouds scuttling over a windswept, rain-swept moorland. This was ridiculous. She wanted to laugh at the exaggerated gothic pathos of her nightmares, the stuff of bad novels. She winced at the purple prose that spread across her laptop – but what could she do. It was no joke for she was no longer the author of her own books. Worse than that, she was forced to inhabit the fiction of her dreams - a fiction that always turned out to be fact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lily now found herself unwilling to spend time alone at Ughill Hall. She sensed the ghosts, saw Hannah’s shadow in the pantry; saw the baby lifeless in her own modern-day study. She felt Benjamin Marriot’s presence in the cellar when she went to fetch a case of wine. She could almost predict the nature of her nightmares now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sure enough, Thomas Parkin entered the next nightmare with a pickaxe, digging in the shadowy cellar, his face wet with sweat, his eyes demented; Benjamin’s dead body lying next to him. Sure enough, nightmare followed nightmare, and the cellar was dug up again, uncovering a skeleton, the hapless Benjamin Marriott. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Benjamin was to have the last laugh as Lily uncovered online. Unbeknown to Parkin, Benjamin had not left his considerable fortune to Elizabeth his sister, but to Joseph Marriott, a tough army officer who was not a character to toy with. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lily found herself typing furiously at night, safe in the knowledge that her husband was close by. During the day she couldn’t bear to be alone in the house. She would rather be anywhere but in this house: walking the moors with her Labrador, aimlessly wandering the streets of Sheffield, staring into space in some damp tearoom in Bradfield. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ughill House went on the market again but no one seemed interested. Lily was stuck with the nightmares - and her ghost-writer … or dream-writer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then it came to Lily one day, that as she was marching across the centuries in her dreams, the nightmare stories of the Marriotts would have to come to an end at some point – and so they did. Other families followed: ordinary lives begetting ordinary dreams - dreams of summer days, shooting parties and lovers entwined on the moors; dreams filled with carriage men, farmers and maids, entrepreneurial business men – even a novelist like herself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The second summer at Ughill Hall drew to a close, the house still on the market, the autumn slipping into winter. Lily sensed the ghosts stirring in the house again. She’d slipped through the centuries and now found herself sliding towards the present. It was the 1980s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A solicitor had moved into her dreams, a respectable, quiet, upright pillar of the community; hardly the stuff of novels. Then the nightmares began again. The quiet, respectable solicitor went on a shooting spree, killing his lover, her daughter and seriously injuring her son.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In Lily’s nightmare feathers and bullets reigned upon her bed. In her dream pure-white feather-down plastered the open blood-red head wounds of a boy and everything went black. The child’s screams filled the air as he realised he’d been blinded. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Lily woke up a single feather floated down from the ceiling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The nightmares continued. Lily found herself lost in the streets of Rheims, no longer confined to Ughill House and the surrounding countryside. She saw a cathedral, a man on the tower. She recognised the solicitor perched on a ledge, willing himself to jump, and as the crowds recognised the alleged murderer too, their cries of ‘don’t jump’ changed to ‘go on. Do it’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lily woke up with the sound of the doorbell ringing in her ears. Wearily, she pulled herself out of the chair where she had fallen asleep and made her way to the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Good evening.” A stranger was standing on the doorstep. “You don’t know me, but I spent time here as a child. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve not been back since … since then. I just happened to be passing … and I wondered if it would be all right to have a look round.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lily recognised the adult version of the feather boy in her nightmare. The past had caught up with the present; the dream with reality. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lily opened the door wider.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Note:</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Lily is a figment of the author’s imagination. The rest of the story is a mixture of fact, supposition and allegation. Who knows where the truth begins and ends …<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-67463127493624154082013-04-24T15:41:00.003-07:002013-04-26T00:26:34.229-07:00Toads Mouth<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ3KmiAF9u6fNxpK4sOKRRXup9qZgDsIWr8TshNQPE8Qhu__5kqiE5Tx0QEGWfWaL0aKL-qVCdELhlSCXLZ4DAEuPOeV2egFyEC9mIpQMfyulFCe10rQFuBo2wemvzbmPMSbnoocr8PMvm/s1600/toads+mouth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" lwa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ3KmiAF9u6fNxpK4sOKRRXup9qZgDsIWr8TshNQPE8Qhu__5kqiE5Tx0QEGWfWaL0aKL-qVCdELhlSCXLZ4DAEuPOeV2egFyEC9mIpQMfyulFCe10rQFuBo2wemvzbmPMSbnoocr8PMvm/s200/toads+mouth.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not far from Surprise View and Longshaw Estate is Toads Mouth, a strangely shaped rocky outcrop that unsurprisingly - considering its name - looks like the mouth of a toad.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">If you look carefully at the rock, you will see more than a passing resemblance to a toad, but per chance you don't have the necessary imagination, someone has helpfully carved in an eye just above the mouth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Far away across the world, there is another place, wild and beautiful, filled with a great diversity of wildlife: the Peak Wilderness Sanctuary in Sri Lanka. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">In 1876 amphibian lover, Ferguson, stumbles across the extremely rare Kandyian dwarf toad which had just been discovered 4 years earlier. Little does Ferguson realise this will be the last sighting of the toad in his lifetime - or the next. Many years later after an extensive search, the Adenomus Kandianus is declared extinct. Then a miracle occurs ...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The toad was a conjuror – now you see me, now you don’t. Some even named him Lazarus, for it was believed he was dead and gone, wiped from the face of the earth forever, until he reappeared as miraculously as Jesus, resurrected from the dead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For a small group of people, he held an endless fascination, though most knew nothing of his existence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Early one misty morning in 1876, a team of scientists pushed through inhospitable terrain, thick rainforest set in in the Peak Wilderness. This area of Sri Lanka was inaccessible for most. There were no towns, villages, not even the smallest of hamlets. There was nothing but endless rainforest, hills and valleys, rivers and streams - a pristine wilderness untouched by humans, where flora and fauna could thrive without fear of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">homo sapiens</i>’ destructive hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The scientists had been walking for days, stopping only to eat and sleep, to observe and make records of the wildlife they encountered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hot and thirsty from the strenuous walk, Ferguson, a member of the team, made his way down to a stream, kneeling down to wash his face in the cool highland water. In the distance, Sri Pada rose up a great emerald pyramid, thrusting heavenward. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a sacred place to all the great religions of the world: the indentation of an outsized footprint was pressed into the rocky summit. Buddhists believed it to be none other than Lord Buddha’s; Hindus, Siva’s; Muslims that of Adam’s and Christians believed it belonged to St Thomas. Pilgrims, Ferguson knew, were prepared to put life and limb at risk, climbing the sheer-sided rock face with the aid of chains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ferguson had watched the mountain over the days of marching, saw how it changed in colour and hue in the differing lights; saw how it appeared and disappeared in the shifting clouds. He sensed something powerful, something touching him, although he was not a believer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As Ferguson gazed at the great mountain in the distance that morning, the sense of power and mystery held within the holy mountain intensified. He heard a sound. Then he saw him sitting on the rock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Ferguson thought back to that moment, it was the toad’s mouth that was imprinted in his memory: like that of a curmudgeonly old man, his mouth turned down in eternal bad temper, the lips pursed and thin and disapproving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The toad reminded Ferguson of his great uncle Wilbur, a man of such vile temper and irritable nature that everyone avoided him; a man with an impossibly wide face, no neck, a great knobbly forehead with eyes that bulged in his flabby skin. Indeed Ferguson and his siblings called their great uncle “The Toad”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Strange how Ferguson had loathed the old man, yet had come to obsessively love amphibians and in particular, toads.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ferguson stared at the toad’s mouth and the toad stared at Ferguson. The amphibian should have scarpered at that point, but he had never seen a human being before and had no reason to fear Ferguson. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It seemed to Ferguson that time had stood still then. All morning the clouds had danced around Sri Pada, Adam’s Peak, forming and reforming, swirling and shifting. One minute the summit would be clear, the next completely obscured. But the moment Ferguson found the toad, the sun came out and bathed the holy mountain in iridescent light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The toad was the ugliest animal that Ferguson had ever encountered. Its tiny lumpen body was blackened and covered in bubbled skin, as if it had been charred in a fire. Great boils covered its yellow black skin. It stood there with its bulging eyes and knobbly head, gazing at Ferguson with unblinking curiosity. It was hideous, but to Ferguson he was looking at the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on. Ferguson’s heartbeat quickened as he stood rooted to the ground, afraid to take his eyes off this creature for fear he would lose it forever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ferguson had uncovered the elusive Adenomus Kandianus, the world’s rarest toad, only first discovered 4 years previously. Little did Ferguson know this creature would not be seen again in his lifetime – or in the lifetimes to follow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps it had been all a dream, a figment of Ferguson’s fertile imagination, or a joke on Ferguson’s part - or perhaps not. The evidence was there in the British Museum, the creature’s particulars meticulously recorded, two specimens documented. The Sri Lankan dwarf toad was real alright. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was just one problem: the toad with the curmudgeonly downturned mouth had disappeared off the face of the earth again as quickly and as unexpectedly as it had first appeared before Ferguson and to G<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ü</span>nther before him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the twenty-first century, returning scientists scoured the land for 10 long years in an attempt to find this rare creature. There was not one single sighting. Finally, biologists had to admit, Adenomus Kandianus was extinct.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well over a hundred years has passed – 137 to be precise. Ravi, part of a team of scientists, was working in the Peak Wilderness to catalogue the region’s forests. Ravi and three of his colleagues were doing some night-time sampling on rocks close to a fast flowing stream. As they were working, Ravi noticed a group of torrent toads, nothing special. He’d almost missed them – the ‘missing presumed dead’ - ‘missing presumed extinct’ Kandyan dwarf toads; had almost mistaken them for yet more torrent toads, when Ravi realised that four of the toads was slightly different …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ravi’s heart quickened. Could it be? Could it be that there in the middle of the common torrent toads, the missing Kandyan dwarf toads were there – Right. Before. His. Eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ravi was afraid to believe what he was sure of. The 4 amphibians were no torrent toads. He knew from the complete webbed feet, the smooth finger edges, the slender body, the lack of ridge, the full yellow belly and by the great black warts on the creatures’ backs, they had to be the dwarf toad. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ravi gazed at the downturned mouths, the thin disapproving lines, and his own mouth spread slowly across his face in an upturned grin of delight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Kandyan dwarf toad had risen from the dead. Far across the rainforest, the clouds parted and Sri Pada, Adam’s Peak, appeared gold in the sunlight. Ravi knew then, he had encountered a miracle. Lazarus was resurrected. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Note: Although scientists went on to uncover a further 100 dwarf toads, the Adenamus Kandianus continues to be endangered, its existence hanging in the balance. The area around the Peak Wilderness continues to be stripped of forest in order to create tea plantations. Gems are illegally mined in the area causing further disturbance to the environment. Perhaps, most detrimental of all, are the millions of visitors who come to climb the holy mountain, Sri Pada. Depositing their rubbish on the mountain, they contaminate the rivers and streams, threatening to kill off the Kandyan dwarf toad forever - this time for real.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The story is based on fact, but the author has fabricated the stories around the scientists who rediscovered the dwarf toad in 1876 and 2009.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-88620292327392547302013-04-18T06:21:00.002-07:002013-04-18T06:56:58.937-07:00Surprise View<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Surprise View is just a few miles from the bustling centre of Sheffield, c</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">lose to the town of Hathersage and the Longshaw Estate. Drive Through a gap in the rocks on the A6187 and sweeping views of the Hope Valley open up. This is a land of heather and rocky outcrops buffed into weird and wonderful shapes by the forces of nature; then there's the great slabs of sandstone grit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Far across the world is another place with steepsided hills and deep valleys: the up country of Sri Lanka. But here, instead of heather and meadows, there's rainforest and paddy fields. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Manisha gazes down upon this view, yearning for something or someone that remains in her subconscious until one night, just before the New Year, she sees a figure in the shadows below her balcony ...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Manisha leaned over the wraparound balcony. Beyond the drive the land fell away to the valley below. Rows of carrot plants stretched out like a green girdle beneath the house. To one side there were patches of sweet potatoes, stakes of runner beans with clumps of chillie and tea bushes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nalin their elderly neighbour and helper stopped weeding for a moment to wave at Manisha. She waved back, wondering where Roshan his grandson was. He was usually there by his grandfather’s side, helping the old man to weed, water and harvest the plants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Manisha closed her eyes to enjoy the cool breeze that wafted her way. She could hear distant voices. When she opened her eyes again, she could see her friends Renuka and Sena in the distance, walking the railway track that ran between the paddy fields in the valley, their spotless white uniforms contrasting the verdant surroundings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Beyond the flat valley floor the hills rose up a tangle of rainforest. On the other side of the hills, lay the small town of Ella filled with restaurants and pale-faced Westerners: foreign lands congregating in the heart of her up country. Manisha, endlessly curious about this exotic world, loved to find an excuse to head over to Ella with her father in their transit van. Occasionally, she even had the chance to practise her English. She was thrilled when the foreigners complimented her on her careful precise English. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But for now, Manisha was not thinking about the Westerners. Her mind was on something else. She felt a tinge of sadness, but couldn’t think why. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Downstairs, Manisha’s mother was calling her for dinner. Reluctantly, Manisha left the balcony and joined her mother at the table. Manisha’s mother served her daughter and son milk rice, lentals, curried chicken and beans from the garden. Her father had already eaten. Her mother would eat after she had cleared away the children’s plates.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Absentmindedly, Manisha worked the plate with her right hand, blending rice and lentals, the chicken and beans without much of it entering her mouth. She ignored her mother’s quiet tutting in the background.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That night the sky was unusually clear and the stars shone like crystal glass. Manisha leaned over the balcony into the night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tomorrow would start the preparations for the New Year. On the plains to the north, the rice had already been harvested, the paddy fields a sad and muddy mess, but here in the cooler climate of the hill country, the crop was still ripening, still green and lush and full of promise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tomorrow Manisha could look forward to a trip to Bandarawela to buy new clothes and gifts for relatives. She would weave her way through the throngs of people and scour the ceiling-high shelves of fabric until she found the perfect colour and pattern for her new sari. Then she would return home to spend the day in the kitchen with her mother, preparing mik rice, hoppers and Kavum, oil cakes, as well as Kokis, the popular sweetmeats the Dutch had introduced to Sri Lanka. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But deep down, Manisha’s heart wasn’t in the celebrations this year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her mother, noticing Mianisha’s melancholy, fussed around her, trying to spoon dhal into her daughter’s mouth. When she asked Manisha what was wrong, Manisha would say she didn’t know. It wasn’t a mistruth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now Manisha stood shivering on the balcony. The night was cool. The Koel’s piercing long two-note call, koo-koo, had fallen silent at last. Manisha heard a rustle below; then the sound of footsteps. She peered into the darkness and saw a shadow. Then she heard a sound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Pshhh.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Who’s there?” Manisha called.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s me. Roshan.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Roshan!” Her heart lifted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Come down. I’ve got something for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Manisha hesitated. Her father would be angry if she met with Roshan after dark, but she couldn’t have resisted his request, any more than she could have stopped the New Year mating call of the Koel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Manisha slipped downstairs and silently opened the heavy carved front door that led onto the tiled patio. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Manisha?” Roshan’s voice came out of the darkness. “Is that you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes, it is, Roshan. What are you thinking of, coming here at this time of night?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The moon slipped out from behind a bank of cloud. Manisha could now see Roshan’s face in its light. She noted the look of nervousness in his eyes coupled with determination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’ve come to wish you a happy New Year.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He held out a gift wrapped in kenda leaves and tied with straw.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Will you take it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Manisha gave a sideways nod and took Roshan’s gift.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then Roshan was gone, melting into the darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Manisha carried her gift upstairs and laid it on the bed. Untying the string, she lifted out a card. Roshan had crafted a Koel bird from swirls of paper on the cover. Manisha opened the card. Inside it simply said: Happy New Year, Roshan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Manisha had long had an inkling that Roshan liked her. She’d seen the furtive admiring looks, noted his gentle teasing, but Roshan was never meant to have revealed his feelings, any more than Manisha would ever have admitted her feelings for him to herself. Belonging to the lower classes, Roshan wasn't in her league. After all she was the daughter of the local headmaster. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The card was a surprise. Manisha wondered what on earth she would do about it. Then it came to her: tomorrow she would go to the temple with oil and incense sticks and Jasmine flowers and make a wish. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-86979987394827120012013-03-22T06:09:00.004-07:002013-03-22T10:41:40.064-07:00Ringing Roger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ringing Roger is reached from Edale in the Hope Valley. The path takes the walker up on to the moors in the region of the infamous Kinder Scout and on to Kinder Moor. <br />
Ringing Roger is a rocky outcrop set in the Edale uplands, a hostile and bleak environment, yet one of wild beauty. The walk to Ringing Roger takes in some of the highest ascends in the Peak District, over 1,000 feet. Weather is unpredictable and the walker should be prepared for descending mist, rain and significant drops in temperature. The views across the moors and the Dark Peak make the steep slog up to Ringing Roger well worth any discomfort, however. <br />
But beneath the picture is another Ringing Roger. Imogen finds herself ringing Roger, a friend of a friend, with hopeful expectations. However, when Imogen finally meets Roger, he is not quite the man she had imagined ... <br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ringing Roger<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ringing Roger,” Imogen mouthed as her sister walked into her flat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ringing who?” Jess mouthed back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Roger.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jess frowned. Imogen had never mentioned a Roger before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The fly man,” Imogen explained with a giggle, as if this would explain everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The fly man? What on earth do you mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I don’t know, never met him. He’s a colleague of a friend. They both work in forensics. Gerry said he’d put me up when I’m in Sheffield.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gerry was Scots-Irish. He used the word ‘fly’ a lot to describe people he considered canny. Imogen imagined Roger would be the outdoors type; into climbing, canoeing and caving. All of Gerry’s friends were. She already had an image of Roger in her mind. Lean and fit with boyish good looks, worldly-wise and a sharp operator. She imagined he was a clever scientist – but not boring, working in the exciting world of forensics; a detective of sorts, solving murders: her kind of man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">*********<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It didn’t take long to locate Roger’s flat. It had been an intense day on her course and it was a relief to discover it was a short ten minute walk from the conference centre. She was looking forward to a shower, good food, attractive company and a comfortable bed. She climbed the stairs to the flat and rang the bell expectantly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Roger opened the door. Imogen’s heart sank. Roger wasn’t what she expected at all. Unkempt and overweight, he was wearing a tweed jacket frayed at the collar and cuffs. His hair was greasy and he looked as if he hadn’t had a shower in a while. He couldn’t have been much over 30 but he held himself like a man twice his age: shoulder’s sagging, body hunched. She followed him down the narrow hallway as he shuffled along in his matching tweed slippers, wearing through at the toes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He cooked her up some spaghetti: wet, cold and overcooked, the meat flavourless. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“So, what exactly is it you do?” Imogen asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m a dipterologist,” said Roger, suddenly becoming animated. Imogen found herself floating in and out of a sea of latin words: Sarcophagidae and Calliphoridae, Lucilia Caesar, Muscidae and Anthomyiidae, Stomoxys calcitrans and Graphomyia maculate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Roger finally stopped talking about his job, he became nervous again, mumbling into his sleeve of the stained jacket he’d kept on whilst cooking. His fringe dropped into his eyes, his wart-ridden hand self-consciously flying up to cover his acne-pocked face. He had the kind of clammy, grey face of someone who ate too much fast food and rarely saw the sun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The conversation slowly ground to a halt between the awkward pauses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I think I’ll have an early night,” Imogen said finally.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Roger led her to the bedroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You can have my room,” he said, “and I’ll sleep on the couch.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Imogen gazed in dismay at the narrow bed that took up most of the space in the box-room, the bedding unmade and unwashed. The sheets once white were now grey. The stench of stale air and sweat mixed with a sickly sweet air-freshener hit her nostrils. Imogen felt nauseous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s very kind of you,” Imogen said. “But you can’t give up your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Wouldn’t hear of it,” Roger stammered and he was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Imogen took in the wall of shelves next to the window. They were stacked with containers of flies, rows and rows of them. Then it all fell into place: Roger the ‘fly man’ was an entomologist, or more specifically, a dipterologist. The list of Latin names were types of flies – only she hadn’t really listened to what he’d been saying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Imogen had an acute aversion to flies. Flies were toothless creatures, Imogen knew, incapable of eating solids so spat or vomited on food in order to liquidise it. They flittered and landed on food with their contaminated feet from which they sucked food up through a needle-like tongue. Imogen also knew that flies loved anything rotting because it was wet and easy to digest. They had a particular liking for animal faeces, slimmy and fresh with a strong odour - easy to locate too. That or dead bodies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Imogen recalled reading the staggering fact that flies carried up to 100 kinds of diseases. They were the king of germs, laying up to 500 eggs at a time, preferably on rotting vegetation or decomposing corpses. And now she found herself in a room surrounded by these revolting insects. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every conceivable kind of fly was bottled and labelled: black flies, fruit flies, cluster flies, bluebottles, greenbottles, flesh flies, blowflies, horse flies and root-maggot flies. There was a poster opposite the bed of a magnified fly, its great round head alien-like with outsized eyes and threatening antennae. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Imogen finally slept, she dreamt that the flies on the shelves had come back to life and were attacking her in their swarms, Hitchcock like. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next day Imogen quietly let herself out of the flat while Roger still slept. Out on the street, Imogen breathed in the cold clean air of the early morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Weeks later Imogen was sitting reading by the bay window of her flat when the phone rang.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hi,” said an animated voice. “It’s Roger. Guess what, I’m in your neck of the woods. I really wanted to see you again and Gerry gave me your address and telephone number. Would you be able to put me up for the night?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"I ... I ... " Imogen was frantically scrambling for an excuse, but </span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">she was never much good at thinking quickly on her feet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m just five minutes away,” Roger was saying. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes” and he was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Imogen let Roger in. He was just as she remembered him; same frayed tweed jacket, although his hair looked washed this time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She gave him tea and he talked at length, mostly fly talk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally she made her excuses and led him to the guest room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the door of the room, Roger froze. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Imogen’s eyes were shining with pride. “My passion,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Surrounding the guest bed, were glass containers filled with all manner of snakes and reptiles. Roger eyed the creatures in terror. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He had an acute aversion to amphibians … <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-53736751435100557662013-03-07T00:28:00.003-08:002013-03-08T10:51:51.544-08:00Quiet Woman<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw6I_2VWeiDV4tprC_yWB4EEvJ7oUkDgJqpCsUJNR9g1IIz-0UzkRbZW5DM42IjIOIKFbLvbEvFvwdUtwzp69HuJOXHIuBiNks1nvwRHnaob_N-WyNyYQmt7KwuqJwDZEOzEK7jMdGCtlV/s1600/the+quiet+woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" jsa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw6I_2VWeiDV4tprC_yWB4EEvJ7oUkDgJqpCsUJNR9g1IIz-0UzkRbZW5DM42IjIOIKFbLvbEvFvwdUtwzp69HuJOXHIuBiNks1nvwRHnaob_N-WyNyYQmt7KwuqJwDZEOzEK7jMdGCtlV/s1600/the+quiet+woman.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The village of </span>Earl Sterndale lies 5 miles south of Buxton at the northern end of the Dove valley. It is surrounded by strangely shaped limestone hills, including Crome Hill and Parkhouse, and</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> farms, known as 'granges,' land that belonged to the Basingwerk Abbey in the middle ages and was worked by the monks.<span style="color: grey;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: grey;">The village is known for its intriguing pub name,</span><em>The Quiet Woman</em>. Said to be over 400 years old, it was owned by the Heathcote family for over 300 years. The name refers to a talkative woman who was finally silenced by the guillotine. A gruesome tale. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Traditional and unspoilt , The Quiet Woman is a somewhat basic village pub with hard seats and plain tables. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">But click on the picture and find another 'quiet woman'. One who also lived out her life in a rural landscape, but across the Irish sea amongst the rolling hills of County Down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She rarely spoke to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A quiet woman. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yet her body told a thousand stories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her hair was snowy-owl white, feathery, falling in wisps about her face. She’d no time for herself, always tending others: a husband, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>12 children and any other strays who came her way (the homeless, the abandoned, the neglected and the orphaned); then the endless stream of farmhands passing through, stopping by her kitchen table. She thought nothing of cooking up breakfast for twenty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her skin, in contrast to her hair, was weathered brown and was rough like an old chamois. Lined and cracked, I’d trace each story line with my mind - a lifetime of lines, a lifetime of stories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hands were gnarled and twisted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hands that had cradled babies, buried month old twins, wiped away tears, smacked bottoms, shaken a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>child in anger, held a child in love. Those hands had tugged knots from hair, twisted strands into braids or tied them down in rags.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hands that had manhandled pigs, wrung the necks of turkeys, squeezed the teats of milking cows and stuffed orphaned lambs into a cooling Aga to thaw. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hands that had chopped wood, baked countless cakes, kneaded dough upon dough, pulled the sour fruit from garden shrubs and trees; had sliced and diced, stirred and beaten, pressed and shaped and supplied endless mouths.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hands that had </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">scythed hay, dug potatoes from the earth, mucked out, hauled meal bags, wiped away sweat, wiped away tears, wiped away fear and longing and all the other emotions never expressed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her body …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">savaged by childbirth and farm labour and domesticity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stooped, twisted, worn down, worn out, well used, not loved enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her eyes … <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now closed, her words ran out, her heart given up. No words at all; the quiet woman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Looking back, I wish I’d asked her about the stories; wish I’d held her more; wish I’d connected better ...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">… for she was my grandmother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-12843076845135729542013-03-01T04:56:00.000-08:002013-03-01T12:32:11.692-08:00Parsley Hay<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Parsley Hay lies south east of Buxton, just off the A515. Parsley Hay was opened in 1833 as part of the Cromford and High Peak Railway (connecting Whaley Bridge and Cromford). It opened for passengers in 1856 but closed again in 1877. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today the route of the dismantled railway is a popular trail with cyclist and walkers. The trail affords wide and open panoramic views of the Peak District. It is here at Parsley Hay where two popular cycle and walking trails merge: The Tissington Trail and High Peak Trail. The cycle centre at Parsley Hay makes it a popular stopping point (or starting point) on the trail, serving refreshments and hiring bikes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">But click on the picture and find yourself on the Antrim Coast of Northern Ireland. This is a story of sweet discovery and terror ... </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Parsley Hay<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Give me a word.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We lay on the ground, the smell of damp clover in our nostrils. This was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our</i> game: a game of word association, a childhood game; a game that triggered our shared history. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Parsley,” I said, knowing where I was leading.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Parsley?” Finn said in a puzzled voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I made you parsley sandwiches; picked them from my Mum’s garden. There was enough parsley in there to garnish soup for an army. I think I used half a tub of margarine too. They were gross. Still, I was only six.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I remember now. They were the worst sandwiches I’ve ever eaten,” Finn laughed. “I’d forgotten all about them; must have erased the whole episode from my memory!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Somewhere behind us, cattle were munching on grass, saliva slopping, nostrils flaring, wreathes of breath in the cool evening Country Down air. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Cow parsley,” Finn said quickly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Cow parsley? Easy! You gave me a bunch of cow parsley for my birthday. I wasn’t impressed. Talk about tight! A bunch of weed plucked from the verge of some lane. And worse than that, my mother wouldn’t let me bring them into the house. She said it brought bad luck. I had to put them in the bin.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finn rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. Give us a break. I was only eight. It’s not like I’d money in my pocket!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I realised then for the first time you liked me. It was sweet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Your turn now, Finn said, changing the subject, embarrassed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Parsley Hay,” I said quietly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Parsley Hay!” Finn shot me a look of warning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We hadn’t mentioned Parsley Hay since we’d left that house. Parsley Hay, always present, yet unspoken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were still young, Finn and I, just 16. Till then, we’d only known our grey town with its rows of grey houses, a town where Catholics and Protestants lived at opposite ends like bookends; a town where the children from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the other side</i> threw stones in welcome if we dared to enter their territory. On the way to school we had to walk past soldiers with guns cocked at our legs. In our town, we’d sometimes hear explosions in the distance or had to leave shops in a hurry because of a bomb scare. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had a plan. We’d escape, well for a little while anyway. We’d go it alone, our first trip together. We stuffed our bicycles panniers with clothes and food and a stolen half bottle of whiskey; then loaded our bikes onto the train that took us north to cycle the Antrim Coast Road.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We headed across patchwork fields, twenty shades of green. The cycling had been easy despite our stuffed panniers. We’d rolled through the Irish countryside, wheels spinning dizzily<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’d planned to stay at the Youth Hostel, but Finn had dropped his wallet somewhere on the journey. We wheeled our bikes down a lane, broken with weed and grass, hoping to find a way onto the shore. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We can sleep on the beach,” Finn had half-joked. “I’ll keep you warm.” The lane came to an abrupt end close to the cliff head. There was a cottage there, worse for wear, paint peeling, white-washed-grey, dandelions pushing up between the path and the pebble-dashed wall of the house. A wooden plaque, half rotten, announced the name of the cottage: Parsley Hay.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Looks derelict,” Finn commented as he peered through a cracked window. He wandered around the back of the house. “The door’s unlocked! I’m going in to have a look.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I followed him in. The house was still furbished, filled with forties furniture, like an exhibit in a war museum but for the fact that some of the furniture was broken and ramshackle. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Brill,” Finn said. “We won’t have to sleep on the beach after all.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We found a path down to the shore, more of a rabbit track through the long grass. The clouds blew off across the Atlantic Ocean towards Scotland and grey became blue. A weak sun warmed our pale northern skin; it was almost hot. We ran across empty white sands, pulling off shoes and socks and jumped screaming through the icy water. We shouted at each other above the roar of the ocean. Later we followed the curve of the bay, wading along the water’s edge, feeling the sun on our faces as sand flies hovered at our feet. Could this warm, exotic place be our war-torn northern island? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the sun lowered in the sky, Finn built a fire and we grilled Cookstown sausages on sharpened sticks until they were blackened and burnt (but still half raw inside.) We stuffed them between wheaten farls and ate hungrily. They tasted good, well better than the parsley sandwiches anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then the rain came. We pushed our way back up the cliff, cursing the Irish weather, always the bloody rain. By the time we reached Parsley Hay, my clothes were like paste on my body.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finn pulled me upstairs. “You need to get those wet clothes off,” he said, gently removing my jeans and t-shirt. Then we climbed into someone else’s bed, imprisoned in nylon sheets and the dead weight of numerous blankets, fusty and smelling of mothballs. We lay there with the window open, listening to the sound of the tide, caressing, rhythmic, mesmerising, our hearts pounding with fear and with the thrill of the unknown. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And sometime before just before light, I fell asleep with the taste of Finn and briny sea-salt on my lips - drunk on sea spray, drunk on Finn and drunk on the whiskey we’d stolen from home; leaving fire in our bellies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I awoke, Finn was gone and the house so silent I could almost hear it breathing. The creak of expanding wood warmed by the early morning sunlight mingled with the ebb and flow of the tide. Then, a volley of shots echoed through the air. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Later, Finn told me how he had curiously opened the door to the washhouse to see a figure lifting up floorboards, his body bent over a cache of arms. Silently Finn inched backwards, praying the man hadn’t seen him. Just as he reached the doorframe, the man looked up, startled to see Finn frozen there. He lifted up one of the guns and pointed it at Finn’s head. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finn ran.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pulling on my jeans and t-shirt, I ran downstairs shouting Finn’s name. I grabbed the bikes that had been left in the scullery (the loaded panniers still on the bikes) and stumbled outside with them. I saw Finn, running from an outbuilding, behind him a man firing a magnum. Finn pulled his bike from me and standing on the pedals we pushed as hard as we could up the steep hill. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The figure retreated but just as we reached the end of the lane, we heard the sound of an engine behind us. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s him,” Finn said. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We saw a path leading along the cliff on the other side of a stone wall. Finn threw the bikes over and we pedalled across the grass.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’ve got ye ingrained in my head.” We heard his voice behind us, wild in the wind. “I’ll find ye, no matter how long it takes. Sooner or later, yer going to be dead meat.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back home, Finn was haunted by the man in the washhouse. Wherever he went, he’d ‘see’ his face in the crowd and I’d feel Finn’s body tense in fear. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">From time to time, we saw the gunman’s face in the paper: a protesting prisoner at H block; a prisoner on trial. Finn was convinced his days were numbered, and even now as the troubles seemed to be slowly coming to an end, he was sure the gunman would find him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Finn, I’ve got something for you,” I broke into his thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I pulled a folded page from a newspaper in my bag. Finn opened it. There was the gunman starring from the page, older now and below the picture a report of his death. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Dead meat!” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Parsley Hay,” Finn said finally. “I can remember it for something else now.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-2106794557085879782013-02-20T15:39:00.001-08:002013-02-22T15:53:17.917-08:00Old Poets Corner<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ashover is a village that lies west of Kelstedge, between Matlock and Chesterfield, in a picturesque valley. The hills on either side of the village afford stunning views of the surrounding area. On a clear day, local landmarks can be spotted: the Crooked Spire at Chesterfield, Bolsover Castle, Hardwick Castle and even the suburbs of Sheffield. The old Poets pub is situated in the centre of Ashover, a pub renouned for its quality beers and good food, it is also a great venue for local music. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But click on the picture and you will find yourself on the coast of British Columbia. There Sal stumbles on a secret beach with a couple of friends. Unbeknown to the boys, Sal uncovers an old poet. She spends the rest of the summer in his company - until it all goes horribly wrong.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>The Old Poets Corner</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Sal and the boys thought they’d seen him that first time</strong> – although there was some dispute about that later on. They’d stumbled on the beach by accident as a result of the long northern days, the endless British Columbian summer holidays, boredom, a dare.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“50 dollars if you cross the gate,” Midge challenged.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sal looked at the rusted gate. A makeshift sign warned: PRIVATE. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Then below, another hand-painted sign with the words: NO ENTRY BEYOND THIS GATE. The air hung iron-heavy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No way,” Sal said. “I’ve been grounded once this summer already. “<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I think the sign is only meant for cars,” said Midge, challenging again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Sal looked doubtful. There was no reference to vehicles. She looked around the shipping terminus.</span> <span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Rows of grain silos stood sentry on the shoreline; tower-mounted loading spouts clawed the sea like monstrous robotic arms; metal sheds scraped the pale northern skies. The place was deserted, yet there were signs of recent activity: mounds of quarried stone; abandoned bulldozers; fresh caterpillar tracks in the soft ground. She felt uneasy. She knew they shouldn’t be there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sal hesitated, but the boys were already over the gate. She looked behind her one more time; then Sal too defiantly climbed the gate. The children trudged along the interminable potholed track lined with weedy shrub. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sal peered into the misty middle distance, eyes glued for life, almost tripping over a brightly-coloured hummingbird that lay dead on the path, contrasting the grey mud-cracked earth. She thought the sea should be to the right of her somewhere but all she could see was shrubby bushes and trees that lined the track. Her uneasiness grew.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They almost missed it – the narrow half-rotten plank that bridged a babbling brook running aside them. It was Brad who spotted it out of the corner of his eye. The children pushed through dank undergrowth and onto the shore. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There in front of them was a sandy spit strewn with Herculean redwood stumps stretched out to a wooded islet. Sal made her way onto the tombolo, where she found a fishing-net hammock swaying in the Pacific breeze. Further in, a swing roughly fashioned from fishing rope and driftwood creaked to the slow rhythm of the tide. On the shore, a forty foot trunk bridged the maw of a jagged cove. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is a bit freaky,” Sal said, shaking her head. “It looks like someone’s playground or a seashore garden. I feel like I’m trespassing on someone’s private land.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Do you see anyone?” Midge asked. Sal did a 360 degree turn. There was no sign of life, yet all the while she had the feeling she was being watched. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The children spent the afternoon building abstract sculptures from giant logs on the beach. Time slipped away: the past, the future and the present too. And the pale sun hung frozen, suspended in the cool Canadian air. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was only when Brad’s stomach began to growl with hunger that the children agreed they’d have to leave. When they turned towards the undergrowth, Brad said he was sure he’d seen a flash of orange in the bushes, somewhere near the makeshift bridge. Midge was convinced he had heard a deep male cough. The children stopped and listened but all they could hear was the whoosh of the surf. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They forgot about the beach – or at least the boys did. The fortnightly cruise ship had sailed into their northern town. It was the highlight in a place where nothing much ever happened. But Sal’s mind was on something else. She slipped away and walked the back roads to the edge of the town where the shipping terminus was. She climbed the gate and half-walked, half-ran along the dirt track until she came to the bridge. She pushed through the undergrowth onto the spit. Ignoring the beach, she made her way across the spit to the small wooded island. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She hadn’t told the boys about the tree house camouflaged with leaves and branches hidden in the copse close to the shoreline. She didn’t tell them about the words carved on the bark below: <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Listen<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To the language of the ocean<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Watch<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The flow and ebb of its words<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then he was there; the old poet, standing before her in his tomato-red cabled jumper, his head covered in silver dreadlocks like tangled fishing rope, his fingers gnarled and rough like an old peeling canoe. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hi,” he said peeping through a tiny window. “Come on up.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She thought of her mother’s warning words about strangers and climbed the rope ladder to the old poet. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He opened up the tiny door into the shack. Sal squeezed through adjusting to the darkness. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Welcome to the Old Poet’s Corner. I’ll make us a brew, girl,” he said, bending over a blackened kettle. He struck a match and lit the primus cooker. The light lit up his face, scaly like an old brown clover fish.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He handed her an enamel cup. The tea was black as treacle and as sweet as syrup but tasted of the sea; salty. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The old man read her poems. Not boring stuff like her teacher read on rare occasions, but funny poems. She closed her eyes and listened: <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I wouldn't like to be one<br /><br />of the walrus people<br /><br />for the rest of my life<br /><br />but I wish I could spend<br /><br />one sunny afternoon<br /><br />lying on the rocks with them …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Sal peered through the dim light at the driftwood table and chairs, the jars of hooks and twine and other objects she couldn’t identify. The old poet continued:</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /><br />I suspect it would be similar<br /><br />to drinking beer in a tavern<br /><br />that caters to longshoremen<br /><br />and won't admit women.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sal looked into the old man’s eyes. They looked watery, watery grey-blue, like the sea behind them. The old man’s eyes creased into ripples as he smiled before continuing:</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /><br />We'd exchange no<br /><br />cosmic secrets. I'd merely say,<br /><br />"How yuh doin' you big old walrus?"<br /><br />and the nearest of<br /><br />the walrus people<br /><br />would answer,<br /><br />"Me? I'm doin' great.<br /><br />How yuh doin' yourself,<br /><br />you big old human being, you?"<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sal laughed at the idea. The poet laughed too. “Ever seen a walrus?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sal shook her head no.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ever seen a bear? You ain’t from around these parts, are yuh. Huh?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She shook her head again. Just moved here a year ago. My Dad works at the ferry terminal.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Girl, what yuh bin doin? Walkin’ around with those pretty eyes closed. Jeez, we got more bears here than people.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sal giggled and followed the poet as he shuffled to the door. He hobbled across the tombolo and sprang the creek where it entered the sea. The old man leaned on one of the massive tree stumps. The light was fading, the sea whispering to them. The poet took her elbow. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Look there,” he said pointing the far end of the shingle beach. Sal looked to where he was pointing and saw a mother and cub, two grizzlies. Sal watched the bears lumber to the creek and watched first one large paw, then one smaller paw dip into the water. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Fishin,” the poet said. “Ever been fishin’?” he asked of Sal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sal shook her head again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Come back tomorrow,” the old poet said. “I’ll read you some of my poems and teach you to fish. Poems and fish, yuh know, they’re the food of life.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And so Sal walked to the tombolo every day that summer, telling her Mum and Dad she was visiting Midge and Brad. That summer, the old poet taught her how to fish and build a shelter, how to mend nets and make traps. They feasted on fish and mussels; badger and beaver; chipmunk and coyote; marmot and mink; everything and anything that fell fowl of the old poet’s traps. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the last night of the summer holidays, Sal’s mother called her down from her bedroom. Two police officers stood in the hallway. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Charlie Prescott.” The male officer said. “You seen him?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So that was his name, Sal thought. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Don’t know anyone of that name,” she said sullenly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The old guy,” living on the beach near the shipping terminus. You’ve been spending time with him, haven’t you, Sal?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sal said nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Has he hurt you?” the female officer said softly. She said the word hurt in a funny way. Sal didn’t know what she meant by it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The officer continued to ask Sal questions. Sal still stood there silent. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Get in the car,” the officers said. “We’re taking you to Charlie.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Co-operate,” said the male officer. “It will be easier that way.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They drove to the terminus. The female officer opened the gate whilst her colleague edged the four by four along the potholed track. The station wagon stopped by the bridge. The female officer gently took Sal by the elbow. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Out on the spit, Sal could see light in the shack shining through the trees on the tombolo.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ruuuunnn,” she cried through the black night. But the waves and the wind carried her voice away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The male officer was already at the tree house. He pulled the old poet out of the hut. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You are under arrest.” The old poet was silent. No words from him, just the rhythmic chunter of the tide. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He’s done nothing wrong,” Sal cried, but the police officer wasn’t listening. He led the old poet over the bridge to where a second vehicle was now waiting with reinforcements. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sal broke ranks and ran for the hut. Quickly she climbed the ladder and retrieved the old poet’s worn leather-bound book filled with his words. She stuffed it down her coat before the others reached her. By the time she reached the track the second police vehicle was gone; the poet too. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Time slipped away: the past, the future and the present. And the pale moon hung suspended in the cool Canadian night air. And Sal remembered the endless afternoons all that summer on the beach. She stood in the darkness listening to the language of the sea; until the bright lights of the station wagon brought her out of her memories. And time returned.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the weeks and years, the beach hut disintegrated; the netting on the hammock rotted; the driftwood on the swing seat too. The tree trunk bridging the chasm was smashed in a storm. But the book of poems remained safe at the back of Sal’s sock drawer. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Only later did Sal learn what had happened: a false accusation of rape from an acquaintance with an axe to grind, eventually thrown out of court. Too late for Sal as Charlie had moved on, leaving no forwarding address – although she doubted he had a ‘fixed abode.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Twenty years later, Sal returned to the beach. In her hand, she was holding a book of poems. Not the old poet’s, but hers. The blurb on the back said she was the new Sylvia Plath but Sal liked to think of herself as the new Charlie Prescott. The sea ebbed and flowed, the seasons too. Charlie was gone now, deceased, but she was here. The sea spoke to her: Charlie’s language, her language, the language of poetry. Life was circular. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-32898152440497394602013-01-27T01:30:00.001-08:002013-01-27T01:59:42.895-08:00Nine Ladies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG5Elomr_yhWhR4pIvHTNdKQVxZl6XzDXAWpHKuazKpqU7S-iM3RAaK4ZKhOGAsvUEO1IOSswD8OjmofMgI8IgJH7YdULMUOCRq2nqlP8oa2sU5D5bPxOl4zkfxn_PvtaWyIm8XIpvT7FZ/s1600/Nine+Ladies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" oea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG5Elomr_yhWhR4pIvHTNdKQVxZl6XzDXAWpHKuazKpqU7S-iM3RAaK4ZKhOGAsvUEO1IOSswD8OjmofMgI8IgJH7YdULMUOCRq2nqlP8oa2sU5D5bPxOl4zkfxn_PvtaWyIm8XIpvT7FZ/s320/Nine+Ladies.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Nine Ladies</strong> is a Bronze Age stone circle located on Stanton Moor, not far from the town of Matlock on the edge of the Peak District National Park. The site is a popular attraction for tourists and hill walkers. However, Druids and pagans also come to celebrate the summer solstice here. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are nine upright stones composed of local millstone grit, each less than a metre high. They stand in a clearing above Stanton Wood, arranged in a rough circle with a gap at the south side of the circle. The small "King Stone" lies forty metres from the circle to the west-south-west.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But click on the picture and uncover the 'Nine Ladies' of Needham in Surrey: respectable, middle class, well-to-do widows who are the corner stone of their village .. that is until Maisie starts to behave oddly ...</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nine Ladies<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The villagers called them the ‘nine ladies.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The group consisted of Mavis (the baby) at 65; Joyce, 67; Minnie, 71; Evelyn, 73; Madge, 74; Sadie, 77; Maisie, 78; Lillian, 79 and Molly, the eldest, at a stately age of 82.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They met every Tuesday afternoon at Joyce’s house as she had the largest reception room (living in the old manse) - and she made the best cakes (although none of the others liked to say as much). They had been meeting like this for almost 40 years, having first made friends through the National Childbirth Trust when they had their children. This was followed by the toddler group, the W.I and every single fund-raising committee that came to fruition in the village of Needham where they had settled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The women were all well-to-do middle class ladies with a decided air of respectability about them, typical of the prosperous villages that dotted that part of Surrey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the new millennia they were all widows without exception, their respective husbands having all died within a space of 5 years. Maisie’s husband was the last to go, and straight away her behaviour started to change. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Within two weeks of her husband’s death, Maisie arrived at the Manse looking somewhat dishevelled, her usual neatly-tied hair escaping from its bun and falling in silver wisps about her face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maisie seemed unusually animated, her eyes bright as she chattered excitedly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Poor soul,” the others said when Maisie was out of earshot. “She’s clearly in shock.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It will take time,” Madge said grimly. “We’ve all been there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We’ll have to keep an eye on her. She’ll need our support when the reality of James’ death hits her,” Lillian nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The following week the unruly hair was gone, and instead Maisie had a new short haircut, cropped closely round her face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Next she dyed her hair. “I could have understood a nice subtle blond,” said Madge appalled, “but red! What was she thinking of!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The ladies kept a close eye on Maisie, waiting for the fall, ready to catch her. It didn’t come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maisie who had always worn sensible skirts and blouses, usually in subtle pastel shades combined with black, arrived at the manse in a brightly patterned purple dress (or more accurately, tent), the kind of dress you might buy in Equatorial. On her head she wore a large red felt hat with a purple felt flower on it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“At this rate, I’ll have to wear my sunglasses when Maisie’s around,” Madge whispered, following Joyce into the kitchen. “What on earth has got into her?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Summer arrived. The nine ladies had always taken advantage of the warmer weather, taking themselves off in two of their little Ford Fiestas to one of the many National Trust stately properties <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>dotted around Surrey and Hampshire, unpacking their deck chairs, picnic table and a feast of egg and cucumber sandwiches (along with Joyce’s cakes, of course) in the parklands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maisie had not sobered up. If anything her behaviour had become more bizarre. Strolling through the park one day, Maisie started singing Abba songs at the top of her voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“For goodness sake, Maisie” Minnie said, “pipe down. Honestly, you’d think you were a teenager.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Maisie just laughed and picked up a stick, running it down the iron wrought fence that ran round the perimeter of the park. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When they stopped for tea in the park café, Maisie pulled out a roll-up and started smoking. That was bad enough, but Molly’s mouth almost dropped to the floor, when she then took a hip flask out of her bag and knocked back a slug of whisky. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her friends were appalled. “We’ve got to do something,” Joyce said as she drove Molly, Minnie and Evelyn back to Needham. “We can’t let her go on like this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Why not?” said Evelyn. “She’s not doing anyone any harm.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joyce pursed her lips. She’d noticed that Evelyn and Maisie had become very close. Joyce had seen the two out and about together. Evelyn’s trendy new clothes and hair hadn’t gone unnoticed either: Maisie was a bad influence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few weeks later, Joyce saw the two in Waitrose in Sevenoaks, giggling conspiratorially together as they wolfed down food samples. Then to her horror, Joyce caught them knocking down not one, nor even two, but three of the wine samples.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“And it was only 11 o’clock in the morning!” she whispered to Madge and Sadie in the kitchen later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Joyce followed the two around the store, keeping a safe distance. The women stopped by an alarm. As Joyce peered round the end of the aisle, she saw Maisie raise her hand to the red button. Joyce beat a hasty retreat from the store. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maisie had become the centre of the village gossip. Someone had seen her shuffling along the street in her slippers. In Needham! Mrs Henderson from the Lodge watched Maisie as she pulled up her tulips by the gate and then walked on down the street towards her home as if that was the most normal thing in the world. Mrs Brooks-Handley had spotted her spitting on the pavement. “Can you imagine!” she said, wrinkling up her nose in disgust. She may be one of the ‘Nine Ladies’, but she’s certainly no lady.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was the last straw for the rest of the nine ladies when word got to them that Maisie had been sitting on the kerbside outside her house, smoking and drinking whiskey from her hip flask.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I think she must be having some kind of break down,” Lillian said, shaking her head sadly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We simply must get together and have a meeting,” Joyce said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She called everyone up and asked them to come round that Thursday afternoon. It was the first time only 8 of the ladies were present in the manse sitting room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We’ve got to do something,” Joyce said. “Maisie is becoming an embarrassment. Clearly she’s having a breakdown.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Really?” said Evelyn. “I beg to differ. I think she’s just having fun. James was such a humourless man, and so controlling. Maisie wasn’t allowed to have an opinion of her own. It’s not surprising the freedom is going to her head. But look at you all, stiff as pokers. Do you know what I think? I think you’d do well to be a bit more like Maisie. We should all let our hair down a bit. It might do us good.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Don’t be silly,” Joyce said in a cold voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I must admit,” Molly ventured. “I envy Maisie a little bit. Look at me; can’t have much time left. Everyone thinks you’ve got to be serious and sensible at my age, but it’s SO boring.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You know what I think?” Minnie joined in. “I think we should all do something outrageous this week, just to see what it feels like.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Joyce frowned. The meeting wasn’t going to plan. The women spent the rest of the meeting coming up with different ways to shock the village.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the next week, the nine ladies were constantly on the lips of the Needham residents: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Have you heard? Mr Peterson saw Mavis Perkins dancing in the back garden in her nightie - in her nightie!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Someone saw Minnie Davis beheading daffodils with a stick on the village green. Minnie Davis of all people!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I saw Evelyn Carter yesterday leaning out of her bedroom window, giving the builders across the road a wolf whistle. Can you believe it?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Heard the latest? Madge Greer and Sadie James were racing their Fiestas around the village car park at 1am in this morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well, I’ve heard everything now! Lillian Wilmer and Molly Graham were writing graffiti on the bus shelter. What were they writing? Grandmothers of the world unite, or some such thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was something liberating about behaving outrageously. The women liked it. Even Joyce loosened up, remarking dryly; “Well, If you can’t beat them, you’ve simply got to join them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the months continued, the group were referred to less and less as the ‘Nine ‘Ladies’ and more and more as ‘Les Infants terribles.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was shameful, but terrible fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-7218341763088307332013-01-13T02:21:00.000-08:002013-01-27T01:51:14.865-08:00Madwoman's Stones<div class="western">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmSADFMylRmDSync3jTl0EU4FgN-FIO2i5uJL1SHgaeuCb6Ueqao02ikKF8kihYrNG7ZYzd0NT9fVSiJYz0qZ2Jt2NKi5YsRwIMq7zFGKYpQVIZRqUe6rVHy05bMNCHEf8a1ORmNcyv-L/s1600/Madwoman's+stones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" oea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmSADFMylRmDSync3jTl0EU4FgN-FIO2i5uJL1SHgaeuCb6Ueqao02ikKF8kihYrNG7ZYzd0NT9fVSiJYz0qZ2Jt2NKi5YsRwIMq7zFGKYpQVIZRqUe6rVHy05bMNCHEf8a1ORmNcyv-L/s1600/Madwoman's+stones.jpg" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">The Kinder plateau dominates the Northern parts of the Dark Peak. On a clear day the plateau commands views to places as far away as Snowdon. On the plateau, t</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">he effects of erosion over millennia have left many large, heavily weathered rocks. One of those outcrops is called Madwoman's Stones. No one knows why the rocks bear this name.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">But the story behind the name takes you to the altogether flatter coast of Norfolk, where pine woods line the shore and the sands stretch out a quarter of a mile when the tide is out before meeting the North Sea. Fast forward to 2021, to a political landscape that has changed beyond all recognition. Find yourself in Olena's story, the mad woman who dances across the sands, talks to the sea and gathers stones ...</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Madwoman’s Stones<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">2020 and the unthinkable had happened: the Tory Party had been confined to the annals of history. The nation who had once taken the Tory slogans to their hearts: ‘Strivers not skivers, strivers not shirkers,’ soon to be followed by ‘British jobs for British people’ and ‘Britain for the British,’ were not satisfied that their government had done enough. Unemployment stood at almost 50%.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By 2016, the UK had left the EU and all non-nationals had been sent home. Those citizens from far-flung places with British passports were a thorn in the government’s side. By 2018 Britain and the wider world had changed beyond all recognition. Europe and North America were dying civilisations. The East, with China and India at the forefront, were creating a new empire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By 2020, the Conservative Party had created a monster that turned on them: the Tories were thrown out. A new radical party, The British Party, replaced them with an astounding majority and within months Britain had become a Confederation, each county largely responsible for its own affairs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By 2021, Peterborough City Council had turned on their large Eastern European and Pakistani communities. Even the long-established and widely respected Italian community was no longer safe. Second, third and fourth generation European and Asians were hounded from the city, regardless of their passport status. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Olena Holonyak was one of them. Like many other Ukrainians and Eastern Europeans, she headed east to the more tolerant political authority of Norfolk. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She found herself, and her teenage son Mykola, living in a farm outbuilding not far from the small seaside village of Eastham.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Olena cleaned and cooked for the farmer’s wife in return for a (leaky) roof over her head and some food while her son worked the fields. They had virtually no income. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Olena was a fierce and passionate woman. She had never been afraid to speak out. Mykola, more pragmatic, more wise, had often laid a warning hand on his mother’s arm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Mother,” Mykola pleaded when the farmer took them in. “Hold your council. Keep your thoughts to yourself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Olena promised her son that she would guard her tongue. Instead she muttered angrily to herself as she chopped the vegetables and dusted the furniture with such fierceness that the farmer’s wife was sure she was going to bore holes into her seasoned teakwood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Olena was given Wednesday afternoon off; the only time she had free in the week. Whilst Mykola fell into a long and exhausted sleep, Olena walked the three miles to the coast. Here her spirit could soar. Olena would run across the hard, rippled sand to the water’s edge on the far horizon, her arms outstretched, gulping down mouthfuls of salted air. She pulled off her brogues and tights, hitched up her skirt and raced into the water, hopping over the waves as she had done as a child in the Black Sea. In those moments, she felt free and young as she had done so long ago in the Ukraine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knee-high in the water, The ocean roared and Olena roared back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Feet dry, tights and shoes restored, Olena combed the beach for interesting stones, her sharp eye picking out jasper, carnelian and even amber once. She pocketed larger stones she found amongst the flints: smooth, round, speckled and marbled pieces; blacks, russets, mottled greys and browns. Soon her cloth bag was filled with stones that weighed a ton to carry home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then Olena would dance on the shore with wild abandon alongside the sand flies; dancing the chumak, the hopak, the kozachok, the chaban and arkan, whirling and twirling, arms flying in the big Norfolk skies, her legs swinging wildly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sometimes, the locals would catch sight of her twisting across the sands like a Ukrainian tornado. Soon she was nicknamed the mad woman of the Ukraine - or the mad foreigner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps it would have stopped there, but Olena was angry. Mad that she had no voice; mad that she was treated like a second class citizen; mad that she was made a stranger in the country she had once thought home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She’d promised her son, she would hold her tongue. And so she did. But Olena had to express her anger. She started to write messages on the larger stones, in her careful Ukrainian script.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All wo/men are equal<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This land belongs to everyone<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We are all citizens of the world<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No nation is better than another<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We are your brothers and sisters too<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The same rights for all<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She took the stones to the village green and laid them at the foot of the memorial. The following Sunday the Vicar spoke of an evil in their midst. He spoke of justice and judgement, of retribution. He spoke of foreign greed, of barbaric races with heathen customs. The handful of parishioners spread the message. Everyone knew who had laid the stones. By the following Monday the farmer had told Olena and Mykola to pack their bags. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Olena and Mykola slung their remaining possessions over their shoulders and crept down the narrow lane to the sea in the dead of night. Mother and son gathered driftwood in the moonlight and made a fire between the pine woods and the dunes. Mykola searched the shoreline for mussels and cockles. Olena sliced up a stale loaf she had stolen from the kitchen before she left; bread she had baked herself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That night they slept under the stars. There was a chill in the air. Soon it would be autumn. How would they eat? Where would they live?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the morning the two made their way to the sea to freshen their faces. Olena caught sight of a gang of youths cycling over the sands towards them as she splashed her face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I think we should run,” said Olena sensing danger. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But it was too late. The youths circled the pair on their bikes like birds of prey as mother and son ran towards the distant trees. The youths closed in. Two thick-set boys with slap-red faces grabbed the pair, boys Mykola had joked and laughed with in the fields. The youths dragged the Ukrainians back into the pine trees, tying them securely to two Douglas Firs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You can stay here until you rot,” a girl said, spitting in Olena’s face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The teenagers hung around blowing smoke-rings into Olena and Mykola’s faces and throwing stale beer at them, laughing hysterically.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Mad woman,” they taunted Olena. “Why don’t you do a dance for us now?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ah, shame,” another said. “She can’t. She’s tied to a tree. Dis-a-ppointing!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some of the youths drifted away. The day dragged on, the winds lifted. Olena was cold and hungry; her teeth chattered, her body trembled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sometime in the late afternoon, Olena heard the sound of four by fours roaring into the car park beyond the trees. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Where are your stones now, mad woman?” the farmer’s son jeered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I know where they are,” another said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The voices whined with the wind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Don’t worry. We’ll give your stones back to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We don’t steal from foreigners – unlike some.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No. We don’t go to foreign countries and steal their jobs and homes and money”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then a crowd appeared over the dunes. The whole village seemed to be arriving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The villagers sat down on tartan rugs and pulled out beers and sandwiches, pork pies and sticky cakes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We’ve not had a village occasion like this since William and Kate’s wedding when we had the party on the village green,” someone remarked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The men roasted Cumberland sausages on the fire and swilled back cans of lager. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Olena hadn’t had a drink since breakfast time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Water, she whispered hoarsely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The villagers ignored her, chattering and laughing amongst themselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sun was setting in the sky: blood orange. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I think it’s time to give Olena back her stones,” someone said eventually. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You foreigners never appreciate what we have given you in Britain.” The postman said softly as he lifted one of Olena’s stones and slung it at her face. Olena bit her tongue, feeling blood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You should have gone home when you had the chance,” the car mechanic cried. The next stone grazed the side of her head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The children clapped and cheered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Black clouds marched across the sky. White horses galloped across the North Sea. The sand flies retreated beneath the surface of the beach. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Stone me if you must,” Olena cried, “but leave my son alone, I beg of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The farmer’s son echoed Olena’s words, mimicking her Ukrainian accent. The villagers laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One by one the villagers pelted stones at Olena and Mykola. It was meant to end there. Just a lesson, just a warning, but the beer had gotten to some of the men. Darkness fell. Someone fetched ornamental garden stones still stored in the back of a land rover. The job was finished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was silence at last. No laughter. No voices…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">… Except for a lone voice somewhere further back in the pine trees: “Our father which art in heaven … thy will be done … forgive us for our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And as Olena slid in and out of consciousness, she heard the pulse of the ocean and somehow she found her way back to the Black Sea of her childhood, to a world safe and innocent, to a landscape filled with bright, warm sunlight. She saw her mother’s frame pale in the doorway of their dacha. She heard her mother’s voice soothing. “Come, little one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the villagers saw that Olena and Mykola were still, they packed away their picnics. Someone slapped their hands together as if in dismissal and said, “God’s will be done.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the four by fours purred away into the Norfolk night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-89859021053348866322012-12-31T01:09:00.000-08:002013-01-13T08:32:48.336-08:00Limestone Way<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Limestone Way is a walk between Rocester in Staffordshire and Castleton in north Derbyshire. During its course northwards it covers the majority of the limestone landscape of the White Peak. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was originally opened in a Matlock to Castleton configuration, and was extended in 1992 southwards to Rocester, with branches serving Matlock and Ashbourne. The walk meanders through open meadow, dale, following rivers, skirting farms and makes it way through many picturesque villages. Behind the picture, there is another story: a woman sets off on a journey secure in a relationship, but as the long distance walk continues, her marriage of 25 years begins to unravel and she doesn't know why ... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In Rocester the houses fell away and the fields unfurled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The future lay in the Limestone Way, 50 miles in front of them. In Rocester she loved him. Completely. Implicitly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By Thorpe, she told him so and he turned away from her, but not before she caught the fear in his eyes. There was a cloud overhead – and it wasn’t the steep-sided Thorpe Cloud. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By Tissington she was no longer taking in her surroundings: not the perfect village; the picturesque duck-pond; the handsome Jacobean Hall; the pretty cottages or the wide verges of mown grass on either side of the lane. By Tissington, he revealed all was not well. He told her if she knew what he’d done she probably wouldn’t love him anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By Parwich, the silence was punctuated by the sound of squelching mud underfoot and the piddle of rain. The trees had lost their colour and definition and the weather closed in like a noose round her neck. By Parwich, she found the courage to ask him if there was someone else. He looked away again, but not before she saw the pain in his eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By Brassington her bones and muscles, feet and heart ached. By Brassington she demanded an answer: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who is it? </i>He replied: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What do you mean?</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There’s no one but you</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By Brassington they turned their backs to each other in the hard B & B bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By Bonsall, they were picking their way through a minefield. The meadows were pock-marked with old leadshafts. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So, if it’s not someone else</i>, she demanded, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what is it? I can’t tell you, </i>he said<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. I’m afraid, you’ll never forgive me</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By Youlgreave, the River Bradford was stagnant, the pondweed choking its life. The colour of the water lay somewhere between jade and sapphire, but she only saw black. By Youlgreave, she was angry: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You can’t make dramatic statements and not explain them</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re frightening me</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By Monyash, she’d never felt so alone. She’d lost her mother to cancer just weeks earlier and now she was losing her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She asked: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What have you done?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He replied: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I did someone a favour</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They asked for my help, so I helped them</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I couldn’t turn my back on them. </i>This rang true: Marcus always caring, always thoughtful, always thinking of others before himself; Marcus who hated confrontation, arguments or disagreements; Marcus who would rather not face trouble head on. But she was baffled as to why helping someone could be so serious. Only she knew from the expression on his face, it was deadly serious. By Monyash, communication had broken down. It was another night in some draughty Bed and Breakfast staring at his back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By Miller’s Dale, she threatened to throw herself off the viaduct if he didn’t explain. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t,</i> he said. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ve killed one member of your family. Don’t make it a second</i>. She stared at him, incomprehension written on her face. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You killed someone in my family? </i>His voice was distant: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes, I killed your mother. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Between Miller’s Dale and Castleton he threw words and phrases at her: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">compassion, understanding, pain, quality of life, only months remaining, her mother’s wishes, a request, a mercy mission, assisted euthanasia, forgiveness</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But he was right. She couldn’t forgive him. By Castleton, and the end of the Limestone Way, the long distance walk was over and so was her marriage of 25 years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-43260021468561383042012-12-02T12:53:00.001-08:002012-12-04T14:40:56.354-08:00Kinder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Kinder</strong> Scout is a high windswept upland gritstone plateau, most of which stands at around 600 metres above sea level. The highest point is Crowden Head, which at 631 metres is also the highest point in the Peak District. This is the largest and grandest of the great upland areas of the so-called 'Dark Peak' and it forms an imposing and fascinating area. The Kinder plateau rises steeply from the surrounding ground and the edges are studded with rocky outcrops and crags. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But behind the picture is a story set in the gentler forested Eifel in Germany; a modern fairy-tale of an old woman who accidently stumbles on something initially terrifying, then seemingly fortuitous. But suddenly Frau Grusel's carefully created world turns against her ...</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Kinder<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frau Grusel lived alone on the Finkenberg, high above the village. None of the villagers had ever seen her home beyond the long track that was swallowed up by an inky-green forest. The land surrounding the house was enclosed by a high fence and secured with a spiked metal gate that was guarded around the clock by a fierce Alsatian. All deliveries were left outside the gate or in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Postkasten</i>, the mail box. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every Thursday morning Frau Grusel left the house at 8.15am precisely to walk down to the village. She crept along the narrow lane, back hunched, long black dress swishing along the ground as she pulled a wooden cart behind her. The cart was stacked with jars of honey and jam; boxes of eggs; trays of strawberries, raspberries , blackberries and blackcurrants; bunches of carrots, rhubarb and radishes; bags of potatoes, lettuces or cabbages - depending on the season. She sold her foodstuffs at the Thursday village market. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Carefully wedged amongst her wares were small clay babies, so real in appearance, they looked simultaneously adorable and creepy. Frau Grusel sold the clay babies in Krimskrams, a souvenir shop popular with the tourists. The clay babies sold well and provided the old women with sufficient income to cover her expenses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As with most great discoveries, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kinder</i> happened quite by accident. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One night as Frau Grusel prepared a batch of clay babies for the kiln, she absentmindedly made one baby too many. Her array of 6 times 4 fitted the kiln precisely, and now she had 25. When the 24 babies were baked, she drew them out of the kiln and put the remaining clay baby in the cooling kiln before taking herself off to bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the morning as Frau Grusel prepared breakfast, she heard a faint noise emitting from the kiln. She shuffled over <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and opened the door. Inside, the clay baby was kicking and screaming, its tiny eyes screwed up and its face purple with rage. Frau Grusel gently laid the warm damp baby in the centre of her palm, staring helplessly at it. What did it want? Frau Grusel had no experience of live babies, and finally it occurred to her that the baby required feeding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frau Grusel rummaged in the rickety drawer of her dresser filled with all sorts of utensils and knickknacks (or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Krimskrams</i>) until she found a small syringe. She filled it with milk and slowly syringed the milk into the baby’s tiny mouth until the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kind</i> sighed contently and curled up to sleep in the palm of her hand. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frau Grusel placed the baby in a woolly egg-warmer and laid it in a shallow teacup. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the next weeks, Frau Grusel found that the baby was growing at an alarming rate. One week seemed to equate to a year in the clay baby’s life. By the end of the month, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kind </i>looked like a five year old. The problem was, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kind</i> had an insatiable appetite despite her clay-pale face and wispy mohair hair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frau Grusel was not happy. She had never wanted children but gradually it came to her that Clara (for that is what she had named the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kind</i>) could be put to good use. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Luckily Clara was an easy-going, amenable <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kind</i>, keen to please. Frau Grusel put her in charge of the kitchen garden, where Clara spent the day watering and weeding and tending the produce, singing to herself in her strange high-pitched voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frau Grusel was delighted. Her corns hurt, and her feet and legs were swollen. Working in the garden was becoming increasingly difficult for the old woman. Now she could spend more time in her armchair moulding her clay figures as she listened to the radio. Clara had become a happy accident!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then Frau Grusel had an idea one day: She would spend the afternoon creating a family of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kinder</i>: one to tend the bees, one to look after the chickens, one to do the housework , one to cook and bake for her and one to make the clay babies for Krimskrams. Why, she could then retire like other people!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frau Grusel wrung her gnarled, arthritic fingers together, delighted with her plan. “I’ll have a strong boy to tend the bees,” she thought. Carefully she moulded her baby, giving him a stock of straw-red hair. Next, she created a curly-headed dark baby with deep brown eyes. “He’ll look after my chickens,” she smiled, clapping her hands in glee. “Now for some more girls,” Frau Grusel laughed. She made a child of the east with high cheekbones, oval eyes and long elegant limbs; a child of the north with the palest blue eyes and white-yellow locks and a child of the south with a round tummy and a round, smiley face. “All done,” she finally shouted to the empty room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frau Grusel was sure that it had been the 'luke warm' oven, the perfect temperature, that had enabled Clara to come to life - so she popped the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kinder </i>into the cooling kiln and went back to her armchair where she fell into an exhausted sleep. When Frau Grusel awoke, the room was filled with the muted sound of crying babies. She had been right! She opened the kiln to find a mass of writhing, wriggling figures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frau Grusel fed the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kinder</i> one by one. After a month or so, they were ready to start their tasks. Markus was allocated the bees but he was an excitable <em>kind</em> and agitated the insects with his nervous movements. Manfred was lazy. When the fox crept into the garden, he was fast asleep. A furious Frau Grusel found her beloved hens scattered around the yard, half-eaten. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Things went from bad to worse. Clarissa was accident-prone and knocked over everything that was breakable, including half of her precious clay babies. Charlotte couldn’t cook or bake. The meals she prepared were undercooked, tasteless or burnt to a blackened char. But it was Christa who was the biggest problem. Christa the happy, giggling baby had become sullen and bad-tempered. She refused point-blank to make the clay babies. Stamping her foot, she cried, “I’m not killing my brothers and sisters.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Fine then,” Frau Grusel croaked back. “I’ll make them myself. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Raus</i>. I’ve no use for you. <em>Hau ab.</em> You can go and live in the forest but I never want to see you again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Markus, Manfred , Clarissa, and Charlotte were one-by-one banished to the forest as well. Only the lovely Clara remained and the greedy Frau Grusel took increasing advantage of her sweet nature. Clara was left to cook and clean, tend the kitchen garden, the new batch of chickens and the bees. The only thing that Clara refused to do was to make the clay babies for Krimskrams. Tears fell down her pale-clay face whenever Frau Grusel tried to persuade her to make the dolls. She begged the old woman not to bake the clay babies, but of course Frau Grusel didn’t listen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Meanwhile, the other clay <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kinder</i> roamed the forest surrounding Frau Grusel’s house, searching for berries or mushrooms to bake on twiggy fires. They were resourceful creatures, creating makeshift weapons and traps to capture or kill squirrels and rabbits. Once they even caught a young fawn. But as winter approached, food became increasingly scarce. The <em>Kinder</em> took to creeping into the garden in the dead of night, stealing eggs, jars of honey, jam and pickled vegetables that Frau Grusel kept in the garden shed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rumours spread in the village. Some claimed they had heard the sound of <em>Kinder</em> playing on Frau Grusel’s land. Others dismissed the idea: “Don’t be ridiculous. Your imagination is working overtime.” Someone whispered they had spotted Frau Grusel at a Cologne fleamarket, buying a range of children’s clothing. Someone said the police should be informed, but that was as far as it went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Frau Grusel realised the children had emptied her garden shed of all her reserves, she went out into the forest with the shotgun, firing into the undergrowth. The <em>Kinder</em> scattered and ran for cover, but not before Frau Grusel had caught Clarissa on the leg. The <em>Kinder</em> wrapped the heavily bleeding leg with strips of Manfred’s vest, whimpering in distress as they tended the weakened Clarissa. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Frau Grusel reached the house, Clara, who had watched everything from the kitchen window, was in a terrible state, crying and screaming at the old woman. Frau Grusel tried to calm down the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kind</i>, but Clara ran off into the forest after the other <em>Kinder</em>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Something had snapped in Clara’s sweet nature. She found the other clay <em>Kinder</em> and told them of her plan. “Frau Grusel thinks nothing of sending our brothers and sisters to the kiln. She should have the same fate. Let’s put <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her </i></b>in the kiln.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Clara was a different <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kind</i> now: fearless, enraged, hell bent on revenge. She stole into the house when Frau Grusel was asleep and removed the shotgun. Next she called to the other <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kinder</i>. When the kiln was red-hot, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kinder</i> flung a hessian sack over the old woman and tied her arms and legs. They dragged her down the stairs and squished her into the kiln. The old woman’s cries filled the house until at last they were replaced with an eerie silence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At dawn, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kinder</i> fed rat poison to the guard dog, opened the gate and melted into the Eifel woods. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The police found the remains of Frau Grusel in the kiln, burnt to a crisp. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kinde</i>r were never found, although there have been alleged sightings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Und wenn sie nicht gestorben sind, leben sie noch heute</i> - And if they are not dead, they are still alive today - as all German fairy-tales tell us at the end. So if you ever go wandering in the wooded Eifel countryside and see a clay-faced <em>Kind </em>with wispy hair like mohair and a faraway look in its eyes, you will know where it has come from … <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-38177081885563558602012-11-20T14:30:00.001-08:002012-11-24T05:07:12.024-08:00Jacob's Ladder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Vale of Edale</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> in the Peak District, Derbyshire, is bounded on the north by Kinder Scout </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and on the west by Mam Tor</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and Rushup Edge</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. They join at a saddle on the west to box the vale in on three sides with a pass road snaking its way between Mam Tor</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and Rushup Edge</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> on the southern boundary.<br /><br /><br /><br />To the west of the valley the ground rises steeply up to Jacobs Ladder</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, an old pack horse route. The climb up Jacobs Ladder</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> is short but steep. This effort is very rewarding, as the walk along Rushup Edge</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> offers the most splendid views of the Vale of Edale</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But behind the picture, there is a very different place: an edge of town street and a lane that leads to an old farmstead. The occupants abandon the old farm and three children move in. Life is good, until the war begins ...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the end of May, John and Lily Burns sold their chickens, packed up their meagre possessions, locked up the old farmstead for the last time and headed for the comforting lights of the town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the beginning of June, the children had taken possession of the high-hedged lane with its grassy centre, racing their choppers along the bendy track before screeching to a halt outside the homestead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By July, they'd laid claim to the fields on either side of the lane. They used the land for training and reconnaissance. Little did the children know how invaluable that training would be, as there would soon be an enemy in their midst. The children stalked each other in the long grass, spent hours on ‘lookout’ in one of the hedges, and practised their knots as they tied each other up to a large sycamore tree in the centre of one field. Once, little Mary was left tied to the sycamore for 3 hours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By August, they had taken the kitchen garden behind the cottage. Sour northern fruits were gathered; redcurrants, blackcurrants, plums and damsons. They all tasted foul, but still the children cooked the fruit up (along with the crab apples they had found in a nearby tree) over a small fire behind the farmstead. Copious amounts of sugar were added to the mixture, doing little to dispel the unpleasantly bitter flavours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By September, they’d cleared out of the henhouses, scrubbing away the poo and hanging curtains in the web-laced window. Max declared himself gang leader, while Jude claimed the role of secretary, collecting pennies in a tall, thin purple cat; Mary contented herself with the title of ‘gang member’. The children declared the snooty (but attractive) girl down the road their common enemy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Until they encountered Jacob, that is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By October, they’d forced an entry into the actual farmstead. Max, always the daring one, had climbed a tree and jumped onto the roof (almost losing his life in the process), where he prised open the skylight and squeezed through the small gap. Running downstairs, he unbolted the door to let the others in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The house was full of treasure: broken chairs, a wobbly oak table, boxes of bills (including invoices from Mary’s long deceased grocer grandfather) and ancient balancing scales amongst other curious items. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Max made a makeshift flag from old flour bags and hung it out the skylight window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As far as the children were concerned, the farm and all its land belonged to them and them alone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is until the day they discovered Jacob’s ladder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was Mary who spotted it first. A long, aluminium ladder that extended in 3 places, it lay along the side of the house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Who’s put that ladder there?” asked Jude indignantly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I think it was Jacob,” Mary said knowingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Jacob?” Max echoed. “Who on earth is Jacob?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The builder, you dougnut.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The builder?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes, the man who’s bought the farm. Don’t you know he’s planning to bulldoze the old farmstead so that he can build 20 houses? Everyone knows!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Over my dead body,” said Jude, mimicking a saying much favoured by his mother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Suddenly, the girl-down-the-road was forgotten as the children identified the real enemy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In November, the house was boarded up while the children were at school. All the windows and the door had thick panels of wood nailed to them. The farmstead now looked impenetrable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At least that’s what Jude said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You must be joking,” Max spat (despite his mother’s best attempts to deter him from his filthy habit). “If that Jacob thinks he’s going to stop me from entering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our </i>house, he’s got another think coming!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Max hauled Jacob’s ladder to the roof so that they could climb in the skylight (The one window, Jacob hadn’t bothered to secure.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We will never surrender,” Mary shouted all around the house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jacob came frequently to check up on the farm. As he made his rounds, the children peered through the grimy henhouse window at him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Swine,” said Jude.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thief,” said Mary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Illegal invader,” said Max.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One day he came as the children were exploring the coal bunker. As the children sat on the floor, they heard Jacob’s footsteps. He stopped just outside the bunker. The children gazed at the builder’s boots, just inches away, convinced he could hear their heavy, frightened breathing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Still, he never caught them. The children grew brave. They made sloppy signs with dripping red paint that boldly claimed: ‘NO SURRENDER’ and WOOD FARM BELONGS TO THE WOOD ROAD GANG’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Soon there were other pieces of building equipment left round the farmyard and garden: A cement mixer, a dumper truck, bits of rusting scaffolding and … finally a bulldozer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I will never, never let him bulldoze our farm,” Mary cried. “Never.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Over my dead body,” Jude muttered. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Max spat in agreement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then in December, just before Christmas, Jacob erected a large metal mesh fence across the lane, closing off the yard, house and garden. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A sign read: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is war,” Max cried, shaking his fist at the fence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jude found a small hole at one end of the fence. Bending it back, he quickly ran to the henhouse where the children had stowed the red paint. He slipped back through the hole in the fence and flung the remaining red paint over the sign.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Take that, Jacob,” Jude yelled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over Christmas, the children didn’t have a chance to visit the farm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In January as they made their way to the lane to discover the lane’s hawthorn hedges had been ripped out by the bull dozers, whilst the fields had been stripped back to reveal a blanket of mocha-coloured earth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You swine,” shouted Mary, fighting back the tears. “These were our fields.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But worse was still to come. Making their way along the torn-up lane, the children saw the farmstead was gone – as if it had never been. The garden was torn up too, and the henhouses were reduced to a pile of broken timber.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jude found his purple cat money box lying in the debris. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Max in a fit of angry hatred instructed the children to take Jacob’s ladder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s it,” cried Max. “We’re going to dump his ladder in the river. The children made their way down to the third field (which lay behind the house) and dumped the ladder in the weed-ridden stream. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Take that, you filthy rotten swine,” Max cried. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By February, the foundations of the 20 houses had been laid. By March the first 2 semis were up. By April, the roof of the final house had been laid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In May, a year to the very day the Burns had moved out, the rubble road was tarmacked over and the first occupants moved in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s as if our farm had never existed,” Jude said glumly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well, he can’t take our memories,” said Max. “And we’ve got old Jacob’s ladder. He’ll never get that back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</span>Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-10306651428721318802012-11-11T13:16:00.003-08:002012-11-11T14:25:18.056-08:00Ilam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhVE7crJoUO88TEZV4k1BquVHDPK3bFCOCXctDPVY2l6WIEMoeCGEAbDGkRguPdN-C8G3K7zUtOLAiEvA9Sj_eRYUyjwB5xo70UXOxLwHo-8swdvARed4Ald3g_jWnUYCU2dHxjJHKXZQD/s1600/Ilam+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhVE7crJoUO88TEZV4k1BquVHDPK3bFCOCXctDPVY2l6WIEMoeCGEAbDGkRguPdN-C8G3K7zUtOLAiEvA9Sj_eRYUyjwB5xo70UXOxLwHo-8swdvARed4Ald3g_jWnUYCU2dHxjJHKXZQD/s320/Ilam+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ilam, meaning 'eye-lamb',is a picturesque village situated at the lower end of the River Manifold and surrounded by spectacular hills and valleys.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ilam</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Hall, once a Benedictine Abbey, was sold on during the dissolution of the monastries under Henry VIII, passing through numberous hands before being closed in the 1930s. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today the grounds and property are managed by the National Trust. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The long and interesting history of Ilam, dating back to the middle ages, has been recorded in detailed scrolls by local artists. Read their story here: <a href="http://www.ilam.org.uk/ilam-story.asp">http://www.ilam.org.uk/ilam-story.asp</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">But behind the picture is another story of a series of doors that leads to Ilam's past. Which door should Katriona choose and where will she find herself? But more importantly, how will she return to the present? . </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Ilam</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona slammed the car door behind her. She buttoned her coat up and pulled her scarf closer to her, peering into the winter fog. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It had been a spur of the moment decision. She’d read about Ilam; had never been there, although she lived less than 20 miles away. Today she had taken the detour off the Buxton to Ashbourne road to have a look, on the way back from a morning at work. It was Christmas Eve and she couldn’t bear the thought of driving home to an empty house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What a waste of time,” she thought as she looked at the ghostly outlines of houses in the gloom. Visibility was less than a yard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then she saw a bent figure through the fog, clad in a black headscarf, a shapeless grey coat with a red woollen dress draping below it and another layer of silky purple petticoat falling beneath it again, touching thick hide boots.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The woman beckoned to Katriona and Katriona followed her curiously through the mist, down a long narrow, mud-splattered lane towards a low barn-like building. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The woman still didn’t speak, but beckoned Katriona again to follow her into the barn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona found herself in a large, empty room with a flagstone floor and roughly-hewn walls. Water dripped from the cracks and lichen grew in the crevices. All round the walls were numerous small doors some 5 feet high, others less than 3 feet, and the rest somewhere in between. Some doors started from the floor; some were higher up in the wall with ladders or wooden steps leading up to them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The woman spoke at last. “Choose a door.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona took a deep breath, taking in the scent of egg yolk, chalk, damp earth and bracken water. She peered around her. All the doors had dates on them: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">700BC <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">50AD <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Post Roman <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1002 <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1066. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The doors were painted with naïve Swedish-style scenes: of burial barrows, roundhouses and castles; monks, farmers and peasants; sheaves of corn and suckling calves; and of hills and tumbling streams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a trance-like state, Katriona walked to the smallest door with a picture of two young foxes bounding on a hillside, set part way up the wall. This door read, ‘Post Roman’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She climbed the short ladder and pushed the door open.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Just remember,” said the old woman. “When you go through the other side, don’t lose sight of this door – or you will not be able to return.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona crouched down and stepped out into summer. A bird twittered somewhere, and the sun warmed her face. She heard a yelp; then a fox came running past her, a human baby caught in its jaw. Katriona heard a cry that tore through the undergrowth. She ran towards it and found a woman lying covered in blood, dead in the clearing. A second fox looked up from the body he had been mauling and slipped silently off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona ran from the clearing, almost colliding with a young man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I am Bertram, Prince of Mercia. I am on the returning journey from Ireland with my wife, a Princess, who I have eloped with. Pray, have you seen her? She has just given birth and I have been searching for food to provide her with strength.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona led him to the body. She told him about the foxes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The young man knelt over his wife, staring in disbelief at his lose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Dear God,” he cried. “You have punished me for my sins. If you will forgive me, I will serve you for the rest of my life.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona slipped away, remembering the woman’s warning. She had to find the door again, but somehow she became disorientated and found herself on an unfamiliar path. She tried to retrace her steps, but became even more lost. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After some time, she came to a high garden wall. All along the wall, there were doors. She saw that they too had dates and paintings on them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona followed the wall, observing each date and picture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1200: a painting of a church<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1542: scenes of men slaughtering cattle<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1664: a scene of a snow-covered landscape. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Choose,” a voice came from behind her, but when Katriona swung round, there was no one there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She had observed enough slaughter already, so that left the 1200 church or the 1642 snow-covered scene (a cart, a man leading a horse through the snow, bent against the wind, sheep grazing on hay behind him). 1664 was closer to the 21<sup>st</sup> century, she figured - and closer to home. She pushed the door open and felt a blast of icy air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She stumbled into deep, deep snow that almost came up to her waist. She pushed her way to a dry-stone wall, groping her way along it. Katriona saw two women ahead of her, huddled against the wall in a warming embrace. She shouted out a greeting but there was no reply. Drawing closer, she saw they were frozen, their eyes glazed over like the landscape around them. Katriona touched an icy cheek. There was no response. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fear gripped her heart. She would meet the same fate as the two women if she didn’t find shelter soon. She had lost the feeling in her fingers beneath her woollen mitts. She could sense her movements were sluggish; her brain slow. She knew it meant hypothermia. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The wind whipped up the snow around her. Katriona’s strength was ebbing away and just as she was thinking she could go on no further, she came across an abandoned farm. She stepped into the farmyard surrounded by outbuildings – and doors – with yet more dates and paintings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Dear God,” she prayed. “Please let there be 2012. I’ve had enough of the past.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But 2012 wasn’t on offer. Instead:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1880: a woman selling drinks at a cave<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1918: children waving flags by a fountain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1942: church bells. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona knew she must choose carefully. She had, until now, found herself in distressful scenes. The 1880 picture was the most inviting. 1918 showed smiling, happy children, excitedly waving flags: surely the end of the Great War? She could join in the euphoric, bitter-sweet celebrations. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1942 was slap-bang in the middle of the 2<sup>nd</sup> World War, a potentially dangerous time – but closest to the present, and home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The choices were difficult. Should she choose 1942, despite the fact that it was a dark time in history?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sets of doors she had already encountered had moved her forward through time. Surely, regardless of the door she chose, she would find herself next time with a choice of doors in the post-war years? She realised she was making presumptions. How could she be sure there would be any more doors even?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Still she pushed the 1942 door open - She’d stick to the pattern she’d followed, choosing the most recent date. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She found herself in the centre of Ilam village. The streets were pitch-black, the houses shadowy, church bells peeling out. She stepped carefully along the dark street. There wasn’t even a street light to guide her. Not even the glow from a house window, or a single soul in the streets. It was if the village had been abandoned. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She wandered up the path to the church and opened the door. The church was filled with people in prayer. She wouldn’t disturb them. She opened another door that led into the vestry. A man turned around. “Wonderful,” he said. “With the victory at El Alamein, the war will surely soon be over.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona smiled. She didn’t have the heart to tell him there were almost 3 more years of war ahead of him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The service is almost over. Go upstairs. I’ve lit a fire,” the church warden said. “I’ve just been sorting through old stuff. See what we can provide for the war effort. If you don’t mind the junk in there, you can pour yourself a sherry and warm up. You look half-frozen!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona climbed the rickety wooden stairs to the rafters and opened another door. The warden was right. The room was packed with fusty old hymn books, broken chairs, boxes of cracked cups – and a large advent calendar made of wood. The calendar had little doors in the wooden frame. Each door had a tiny wooden knob on it. Curious, Katriona rummaged in her bag for her glasses so that she could look more closely at the calendar. The doors were numbered from 1 to 24 and each door was painted with a Christmas theme: a tree, a deer, a stocking, a pudding: the usual stuff. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Suddenly, Katriona yearned for her empty house. The past was a foreign country she didn’t belong in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then Katriona noticed something odd. She counted the array of doors. It wasn’t 6 by 4, making 24, but 6 by 5 making 30. She looked more closely at the advent calendar. Then she saw the dates of years dotted between the December dates: 1962 – and a picture of a tree lying across a broken swing bridge; 1982 a picture of Halley’s comet; 1998 and a picture of people carrying a cracked bell; 2002 and a street party; then a picture of Prince Charles in 2005. Then, her heart leapt. There in the bottom left was 2012. No picture – just a single word saying ‘home’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katriona opened the door. She held her eye up close to the door. Inside she could see her car in the swirling mist - so close and yet so far - for Katriona, many, many sizes too big for the door, wondered how she on earth she could possibly enter through to the other side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A Selected History of Ilam<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Post Roman</span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">: Bertram Prince of Mercia journeyed to Ireland and found a bride. He eloped with the beautiful Princess and they travelled back together. On the way back she gave birth to a baby. While Bertram looked for food wolves killed the mother and baby. Bertram was distraught, he renounced his Royal heritage and turned to God. He became a hermit and lived in a cave in Ilam. Many pilgrims came to Ilam to seek healing. He became a saint. St Bertram’s Well was built. <o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">1200:</span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ilam Church re-built. St Bertram's Chapel built<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">1542:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The Star Chamber, London<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">our subject Humphrey Walker was seised of certain waste ground called Ilome More, Dowffe Dale and Bunsterre containing 400 acres. So it is Francis Meverell MP (Esquire of Throwley) and others 8th May 34 Henry VIII with force and arms riotously entered the premises and drove out the cattle of your subject and some of his tenants and killed some of them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">William Blore of Ilom, husbandman aged 54 years says that he saw Francis Meverell etc on Ilom More at the time mentioned and he drove out there from 60 of his sheep.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Also about Sept then next ensuing the said Francis Meverell etc entered the pasture of your orator called Bychenne Hill containing 100 acres and trod down the corn growing there and broke the hedges inclosing the same.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Francis Meverell etc of any riot etc they were not guilty except for a little time they were following their hawks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">1664: </span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">A great snowfall- ‘This year on 8 March fell an exceeding deep snow wch starved severill to death as for example Thomas Hill's wife of Alstonefield and Thomas Bulls wife of Cubley both coming from Uttoxeter m'ket. There was none plow'd in this psh before 17 March' 1942<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">1880:</span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dovedale. Annie Bennington sold pop to visitors at Reynard's cave in Dovedale. ‘1d to climb rope to Reynard's cave'<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1918:</b> Armistice day, the children marched around the village with flags and sang patriotic songs at the fountain<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1942:</b> The Church bells rang for victory at El Alamein<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-2509503790876346782012-11-08T16:04:00.000-08:002012-11-08T16:11:17.074-08:00Hope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Hope village lies in a valley of the same name, Hope Valley, forming the boundary between the gritstone moors and edges of the Dark Peak and the limestone outcrops and deep cut dales of the White Peak. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Traces of a Roman fort</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> can be found in the hamlet of <i sb_id="ms__id11399">Brough-on-Noe</i>, just east of the village. Its Roman name was <i sb_id="ms__id11400">Navio</i>, and was later renamed with the old English</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> word for fort, brough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Close by, are also many interesting natural features, including Mam Tor (or the Shivering Mountain), the dramatic Winnats Pass that cut through rocky limestone crags and a series of caves that include the spectacular Speedwell and Blue John caves. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But beneath the picture, lies another landscape: a wood, a violent and omnipresent monster, and its willing captive. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Hope</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The monster had always been there in the woods, only Millie hadn’t seen it as a monster to begin with. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then one day, the monster crept up from behind and wrestled Millie to the ground. It clawed Millie with its sharp claws and drew blood. It punched Millie and trampled all over her. Millie pleaded with the monster to stop, but it wouldn’t. Even when Millie was curled up on the forest floor in pain, the monster just stood there, looking at her with cold indifference. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For two weeks Millie couldn’t bring herself to go through the woods, even though she had to take the route through the trees to reach her place of work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Instead, Millie lay in bed and wandered listlessly around the house. But the monster had found its way into her home and everywhere Millie went, the monster insisted on going too: climbing into the bath with her in the morning; shadowing her all around the house; sitting opposite her at the dining-room table whilst staring in silent admonition; and curling up in bed with her at night, keeping her awake with its taunts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Millie went back to work, taking forgotten side-paths through the woods in an attempt to avoid the monster, but of course their paths would cross; still Millie was relieved when the monster didn’t try to attack her aggressively again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But back at home, the monster grew and grew until it reached – well – monstrous proportions. It filled every room, blocking Millie’s view, obscuring every sound. Music had always given Millie joy, but when she tried to listen to it, the monster babbled so loudly and incessantly that it was impossible to hear any melody.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Millie went for walks in the hills, trying to take solace in the beauty of the landscape, but the wretched monster would come too, its huge black form obscuring the views and blocking the light. The world became grey-black in the monster’s shadow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Soon, Millie lost interest in everything, except ironically for the monster - which filled her every thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a while, Millie knew she had to fight the monster off; to banish it from her home and from her life – but the monster was much too big for her. When she tried to close the door on its face, it forced the door open again with its great hulking shoulder. Millie raged at the monster and sometimes pleaded with it to leave her alone, but perversely it was Millie who wouldn’t let go of the monster. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She constantly thought about what the monster had done to her way back in the woods. The pain in her chest for weeks and months afterwards was like a fist thrust into it. When the pain receded, there was a dull, dull ache. Everything became so black, there was no colour left. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then one day as Millie listened to the music of Mozart, the monster slipped out of the room for 10 minutes, and she remembered once again what stillness and quiet happiness felt like. And Millie realised, her mind had been alternatively numb and in turmoil for almost a year. Gradually, Millie came to see that the monster had taken control of her; that she had allowed the monster to terrorise her - and that now she needed to take charge of the monster. Then Millie started to wonder then how much of the monster was real, and how much of the monster had been created by her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Slowly, slowly, the monster shrank until it became a pale shadow of its former self. Millie could now slam the door on the weakened monster’s face, stopping it in its tracks. Peace returned. After a while, Millie started to see colour again; started to hear the music; started to fall in love with the world again. She felt alive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back then, when the monster had filled her life, she’d felt despair. The fact was, the monster had resided in her home for so long Millie thought it was never going to leave. But increasingly, the monster slipped out of the room where Millie was. Then one day it crept out the front door and quietly shut the door behind it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With the monster contained in the woods where it belonged, there was stillness and even the beginning of joy. There was hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This story is dedicated to all those who live with, or have lived with the monster that is depression. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-83168572825717458912012-11-03T15:01:00.005-07:002012-11-03T16:04:15.920-07:00Glutton Bridge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Glutton Bridge is a picturesque cluster of farms and cottages, sitting astride the road to Buxton</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> from Longnor. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But how did the place come to be given such a curious name? The first record of the place name goes back to1358, when it was known as <em>Glotunhous. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first recorded use of the name was in Nottinghamshire when a <em>Simon Le Glutun</em> was recorded in Pipe Rolls in the year 1201. The descendants of the first greedy Le Glutun may not have had the same greedy habits as their ancestor but, by virtue of the surname, would be tarred with the same brush!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Behind the picture, however, lies a modern-day fable of glutton. It's the story of a boy who doesn't heed the warnings and blithly follows his desires to ... Glutton Bridge. Whether it leads him to a good or bad place, you must decide ...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Glutton Bridge</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The doctor shook his head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You’re going to have to lose at least 5 stone; preferably 8.” He looked at George over his glasses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George’s mother, sitting next to her only son, shook her head sadly. “I’ve tried, Doctor. I just can’t keep George away from food.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George shifted uneasily in the seat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Look,” said the doctor. “Here are the facts: George is only 12. He’s already 18 stone. The simplest tasks are difficult for him. He can’t play football or run. Even walking leaves him breathless. Getting out of a chair requires a great deal of effort. He’s already showing signs of developing type2 diabetes. Then there are all the other conditions that are associated with obesity: high blood pressure, strokes and heart disease;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>knee, hip and back conditions and restricted mobility, as well as breathing and sleeping problems. If George keeps on going like this, he’s not going to reach middle age, never mind old age.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George stared at the doctor resentfully with his small eyes: You’d think he wasn’t in the room. Maybe he was overweight, but he wasn’t deaf or stupid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Mrs Gregory,” the doctor continued. “You’re going to have to take drastic measures. Food is slowly killing your son. I suggest you invest in padlocks for all your food cupboards – and your fridge. Here’s a calorie sheet for George. You must ensure that his calorie count doesn’t exceed 1,000 calories a day – absolute max.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back home, George’s mother followed the doctor’s instructions to the last letter. All the food cupboards were fitted with maximum-strength padlocks. She kept the keys on her at all times. All sugary food was removed from his diet and his mother fed him a diet of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘plant juice, cardboard, seeds and leaves’ as George liked to call the soups, salads, vegetables and rye crisp-breads she fed him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George was miserable. “I’d rather be dead than eat this rabbit food,” he thought to himself. He yearned for proper food: cream cakes, pint-sized glasses of coke, mountains of spaghetti and great mounds of chips. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“If only I had some money,” he thought to himself. “I‘d sneak out the house and buy some decent food.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At night he fell asleep dreaming of Pavlova, Baked Alaska and Death-by-chocolate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One night as he lay dreaming of food, he opened his eyes to find a strange man at the bottom of his bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the shadowy light, George peered at the tall thin figure wearing black trousers, a velvet waist-coat, a silk bottle-green shirt and a tomato-orange bow-tie. On his head he wore an impossibly tall top-hat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Who are you?” George whispered, his fat-bound heart straining, his lungs hissing like a punctured ball. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“George,” said the strange man. “I’ve come to rescue you. I see you are miserable. This is no life. This is an existence. Everything you care about has been taken from you. Come with me and I will return the pleasures of life to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The walls of the bedroom rippled like stomachs silently heaving in giggles. They whispered to George, “No, not life. Death … death … death.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As if in a trance, George pushed and shoved until he finally heaved his great lumpen body from the bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Without a word, George’s saviour led the way downstairs. George dragged his dead-weight down the steps. He followed the mysterious man along dark streets, weaving through endless rows of blackened terraced houses until they reached the countryside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George felt tired, very tired, but still he followed the man. Above them the moon shone bright, the fields shimmered emerald-green and the winter trees stretched out multiple twisted arms into a navy sky as if in worshipful adoration to the top-hatted saviour. All around them, the stars winked as if sharing in a private joke. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Is there much further to go?” George gasped. His legs were great weights of iron, his lungs wheezing like an old set of bagpipes, his heart pounding like a bomb on a timer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Not much further,” said the strange man. He stared at George with his magnetic green eyes and beckoned with a long, bony finger. George followed although he felt his heart was about to explode. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Soon a great beech hedge blocked their way. George gazed up, his flabby neck straining, but no mattered how he stretched his neck he could see no end to the hedge, only thin twisting branches and dried-out bronzed leaves that drooped from the hedge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The man bent down, and it was then George saw the small hole in the hedge. His saviour slipped through. George hunkered down. Puffing and panting, he tried to squeeze through the small hole. His saviour seeing George was struggling, reached out and pulled George until he finally popped though the hedge like an human cannonball. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In front of them was a tunnel of sticks, great black arches looping across the land. George held onto one of the canes, trying to keep his balance on the uneven ground. His hand stuck to the branch and George realised the canes were not wooden – but liquorice. George pulled up one of the sticks and started to eat. He felt euphoric. This was living. His heart constricted, but still he ate, pulling greedily at the great canes of liquorice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Come,” said the man. There is much to discover; more pleasure ahead. Follow me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They continued to the end of the liquorice tunnel. Emerging, George shivered as the temperatures plummeted. He looked around him to behold a wondrous sight: ahead, great strawberry-red flakes of snow floated to the ground. Beyond, the hills were covered in a deep blanket of pink-red snow. Just in front of him, long icicles of peppermint-green sparkled on iced-trees. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George pulled off clumps of silver icing from the tree-trunks and snapped off icicles of peppermint. He felt a sugar rush.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Walking on, he scooped up great lumps of strawberry ice-cream. Delicious. He was on a high. This was life as it should be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Come,” said his saviour. “We can leave the winter behind. Let’s head for the summer. This is just the beginning!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They left the glowing pink-red hills of ice-cream behind with their translucent peppermint lolly- trees and headed on through the landscape. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They entered autumn, feeling the temperature grow warmer. The trees ahead were brown-gold, orange and yellow, splashes of blinding colour in the Indian summer sunlight. Leaves drifted across George’s vision. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then George realised: nothing was what it seemed – everything was food. Everything was sugar and fat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George held his hands out as orange leaves floated down to him. He took a bite from a leaf: orange jelly. He pulled a yellow leaf off a cherry tree further on: Pineapple sweet. Best of all, were the brown-gold leaves: the creamiest milk chocolate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Come,” said his saviour. “We still have a way to go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George didn’t want to leave. The chocolate flavoured leaves were a taste of heaven. He could forget his life of locked cupboards and tasteless lettuce leaves. But the man had walked off and was heading into the bright light ahead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George stumbled on behind him. Breathing was such an effort now. The air in his lungs felt like shards of glass, but still he dragged his bloated body onwards. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Come, come,” his saviour shouted back towards George. “The best is still to come.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ahead was the sound of birdsong. They had reached spring. The leaves were shoots of the freshest green: the tastiest lime fruit-pastilles. Carpets of daffodils adorned the ground. George pulled petals of golden crisps, sour cream and cheese. He closed his eyes and savoured the delicious fat that squirted through his mouth. Heaven was becoming more and more of a reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We must go,” George’s saviour urged him. “We have to reach our destination.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George felt his heart pounding, a hammer smashing his chest, but still he trailed on after his master. They had now reached summer. George lolloped down to the bracken-coloured sun-lit river, wading through the soft sand of the river beach. He scooped up crumps of lemon-drizzle cake and savoured melt-in-the-mouth ecstasy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Quick, here.” The top-hatted man called from a hump-backed bridge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George hauled himself up the bank, the air scraping like cement as it squeezed through the narrow channel of his windpipe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We’ve arrived,” said his dubious saviour. “Welcome to Glutton Bridge.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Below the water swirled a thick river of sugary syrup. George stared longingly at the dark, rich liquid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The river is calling you,” said the man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George stepped onto the low bridge wall, his mountainous knees shaking, his great body wobbling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You will love it,” the man said, his eyes narrowing, his pupils glinting like black diamonds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">George hesitated; then flung his great weight into the river. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He felt himself drowning, his lungs filling up with toffee sweetness, the bubbles of liquid gas frothing through his nostrils. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was going under and it was a sweet, sweet death …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br sb_id="ms__id28314" />
<br sb_id="ms__id28316" />Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-47539426623611212072012-10-21T15:09:00.001-07:002012-10-21T15:15:45.304-07:00Featherbed Moss<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Featherbed Moss</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Featherbed Moss can be accessed from Snake Pass, a lonely, high-level road that extends from Ladybower to Glossop. The summit of the A57 Snake Pass is 512m above sea level, and is often closed when snow falls. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Featherbed Moss, once one of the most notorious boggy sections of the Pennine Way is now a stone flagged path which provides easier walking. The moors are badly eroded as a result of industrial pollution, over-grazing and from walkers. This lonely, wild area is owned and managed by the National Trust now and is part of the Kinder Scout National Nature Reserve in the Peak National Park. They seek to preserve this internationally important peat bog. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Look closely and you will find more than moss and peat. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Click on the picture and separate the fact from the fiction ...</span></span></span></span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Feather-bed-Moss<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina heard the letterbox slamming and the envelopes fall to the floor. She let them lie there for a while, knowing it would be the usual mix of circulars and business letters; never anything personal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She finished feeding Archie, her Springer Spaniel, then looked at the envelopes: the British Heart Foundation, a bank statement … and a letter with a small gold sticker that had her name and address on it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina frowned. How odd. She had ordered these stickers a few years ago on a whim. She always liked to put her name and address on the back of envelopes, and she thought they’d be useful. But she rarely used them these days as most of her communication took place online. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Who had got hold of the stickers and used them? Katrina wondered. She certainly hadn’t sent a letter to herself. Katrina’s frown deepened as she examined the envelope. It seemed old; there was something about the texture and off-white colour. Then she noticed the stamp: on it was the profile of King George VI.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina sat down. How peculiar. Who had used a stamp, bought no doubt, sometime in or around the 2<sup>nd</sup> World War? Strange that the post office had delivered it – or at least hadn’t asked for the difference in price! Katrina wondered what the value of 2d was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina felt the envelope. It wasn’t heavy, but it felt thick and spongy. She fetched a knife and sliced it open. Carefully she pulled out … a piece of moss. Small clumps of black peat fell to the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina peered inside the envelope to see if there was a note, but there was nothing other than the vegetation. She put the envelope and the moss on a shelf, clueless with regards to its significance. As the days continued, Katrina puzzled over the postal delivery, no idea what she could do about it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">About a week later, an identical envelope arrived through the door, again with the George VI stamp. She opened it and found … a feather. It was a fairly ordinary grey-black feather with white tips. Once again, Katrina had no idea what the feather meant, and again there was no note in the envelope. She assumed there must be some kind of link between the moss and the feather – but what? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She tried to identify the feather on the internet, but there were too many possibilities and her head was reeling by the end. She wondered if it was some kind of moorland bird; maybe a Golden Plover. That would fit with the moss and the dark, peaty soil. She began to think the items had come from the moors that rose up behind her house. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Still, even if she was right, it didn’t bring her any closer to knowing who had sent the items and why. She realised the old envelope and George VI must mean something, but what? Was someone having some kind of joke at her expense? She didn’t like it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Several weeks went by and there was nothing. Katrina pushed the strange deliveries to the back of her mind. There was no point dwelling on them. There wasn’t much she could do about them anyway. Then the third envelope arrived with another GeorgeV1 stamp. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina opened the envelope curiously and pulled out a piece of paper. It wasn’t what she expected at all. This time, there was a torn piece of shiny paper. On it was a bed. It looked like a bed in a catalogue. The piece of paper wasn’t old at all. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina knew she had to solve the mystery. She fetched down the piece of moss and the feather and lined them up beside the picture of the bed. Katrina sat at her kitchen table and stared at the items. The light was fading but still she sat there in the dim room, not moving. Then suddenly she jumped up with a shout of delight. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She moved the items around. The feather was put in the first place (although she had received it second); then the picture of the bed, and finally the piece of moss (although she’d received it first). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She breathed out and said out loud: Feather – bed – moss. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course – why hadn’t she seen it before – not least because she often walked that way with Archie, up onto Kinder Scout, across the flagstones over Featherbed Moss. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then Katrina remembered that she had lost her purse up there. She had gone back and combed the area several times, but there had been no sign of it. Katrina suddenly recalled: she’d kept a handful of the address stickers in one of the back compartments. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She hadn’t been up on the moors for a while now. Work had taken over and with the short winter days, she tended to walk in the valley. She sat lost in thought. Perhaps the answer to the letters was up on the moors at Featherbed Moss. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next day was Saturday. Katrina headed up onto the moors with Archie. She felt something akin to fear. Did the sender want her up there and if so, why? More to the point why had the sender not written anything with the objects? And why on earth had he – or she - stuck old stamps on the envelopes? None of it made any sense. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As she approached Featherbed Moss, Katrina began to feel afraid. Ahead on the horizon, the sky drew dark. There was a heavy stillness. Archie began to whine. He backed away; then turned, pushing back the way they had come.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No, Archie,” Katrina said, pulling him to heel. She noticed something glinting in the shaft of light that was bombing onto the moor between the heavy clouds. Katrina made her way through the heather towards the metallic object. Archie growled, pulling all the while on his lead. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina hunkered down. Various pieces of small metal scattered the ground between gorse and peat. It looked like it might be some kind of aircraft, but it was difficult to tell now as the pieces had disintegrated so much. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Archie began to bark.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Quiet, Archie,” Katrina ordered. She sat down on a rock, and it was then she saw the man sitting on another rock, just yards from her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina swallowed. She was sure he hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hello,” he smiled. “You came. At last. I thought you were never going to come.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina noticed he was wearing some kind of uniform. It looked like army issue from the war years, not that she was very knowledgeable about these things.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Who are you?” Katrina demanded. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sorry. Jolly rude of me. My name’s Allen. Allen Chadwick.” He stood up and started to walk towards her, extending his hand. Then abruptly halted and backed towards the rock again, placing his hand firmly in his pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina noticed his pale face. He was handsome nonetheless: dark hair, dark eyes, somewhat wild. She wondered if he was mentally deranged. She felt the fear again. She guessed he was a similar age to herself, about 22.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Look,” he said. “Your purse. I kept it for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He walked over and held it out. Katrina noted the strange texture of his skin, almost translucent. She took the purse gratefully.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I missed you when you didn’t come any more,” he said softly. “It’s lonely up here. I waited for you every day…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What do you mean, it’s lonely up here,” Katrina said abruptly. “You don’t live here, do you? It’s desolate moorland!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’d better explain,” he said quietly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Freddy and I were instructed to fly from Ringway to Great Orme in Wales to provide gunnery and searchlight practise.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hold on. When was this?” Katrina interrupted him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“19<sup>th</sup> August, 1941.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina let the date sink in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Anyhow,” he continued. “The Gyro compass was faulty … or set wrong, one of the two. Freddy was the pilot and I was his radio operator. We knew there was something wrong. The cloud was thick and low that night, so we thought we’d better get lower, you know, below the cloud line. Try to get our bearings. But we were heading in the opposite direction to where we thought we were going. Instead of flying over the Cheshire Plains, we were flying over the Dark Peak. We dropped down thinking the land was far below us, and dived straight into the high land, crashing on the moor here.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Allen continued. “It was horrendous. We were both trapped inside the Lysander – our plane. Couldn’t move. I was badly injured. So was Freddy – but we were still alive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We thought, someone would soon come and find us. A whole day went by. No-one. Not a soul. We were really weak and in a lot of pain by that stage. We tried to free ourselves from the wreck, but it was hopeless. Somehow we got through the night, believing someone would reach us the next day.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He stopped speaking for a few moments, lost in the memory.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Only no one came the next day either – and we realised, no one ever would because it was army training land. We hoped and prayed they’d send out a search party as soon as they realised we were missing and they’d locate us, which they did - on the third day. We were in a right mess by then; barely hanging on. They took us to a hospital in Sheffield. Freddy was in better shape than me, but I knew I was dying. You just know. I think the toxic fumes from the plane had got me. I could barely breathe. The pain in my chest was unbearable. In the end, I just had to go … ”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“But you didn’t let go,” Katrina said softly. You’re still here. You need to rest …”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I know. You’re right.” He was crying now. “But I’m only 22. I’ve got so much life. So much energy. I’m not ready to go.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“But you’re not 22,” Katrina said gently. “You must be … well over ninety.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Do I look 90?” And they both started laughing through the tears.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They sat in silence for a while. The cloud dropped low and thick, just as it must have done on that fateful August night. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina looked at Allen. She wished she had been born in his time. Then she realised, she didn’t. He wouldn’t have been around for long.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Katrina spoke. “You need to rest. You should let go. This is no life – or should I say death...”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“All right,” he said. “I’ll go. I was planning to anyway. I just wanted to see you one more time. Then you didn’t come. I had the envelopes in my pocket – and the stamps. How stupid of me to use stamps from 1941! I wasn’t thinking. I guess the King has long since departed us. And I had no pencil – nothing to write with. My ghostly self, of course, couldn’t leave the site of the crash. Then I found the feather. I couldn’t think how to send a bed! Then a walker dropped a magazine out of their knapsack and I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I found the beds in it. So I sent the picture and I hoped you’d work it all out – and somehow you would come and find me. And you did.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“But how did you deliver the envelopes?” she asked puzzled. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, I left them on the flagstone path, hoping some walkers would pick them up and post them for me. And they did! Every time! Unbelievable, I know.” He paused; then continued. “Will you do something for me before I go?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What then?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Will you hold me?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She walked over and placed her arms around him. He had no substance. It was if he was melting under her embrace. She looked at him as he faded away, just catching his smile in time. He looked at peace.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This story is dedicated to all the young men and women who died serving their country in the two World Wars.<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Note: P/O Fredrick W. Hoddinott, pilot, survived. LAC Allen M. Chadwick, wireless operator, died in hospital on the 24<sup>th</sup> August 1941, five days after the crash. He is buried at Bebington in the Wirral. RIP.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
</span></span></span>Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-91358182974055691642012-10-18T15:40:00.001-07:002012-10-20T00:32:51.106-07:00Eagle Stone<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKf-v3dkL6hcIQEJc0c3wzy0inZg6bwKiQi-o3XY3TEribowXAwR7rW-A4_fkAEQfKdHn8gRiHpmQZdPcvYlNjPn21uoQbwIl2QKYN1GkH9uguMoN9IdFTJu6oiGJ0Vrwf-RtJx3vVKfi/s1600/Eagle+stone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKf-v3dkL6hcIQEJc0c3wzy0inZg6bwKiQi-o3XY3TEribowXAwR7rW-A4_fkAEQfKdHn8gRiHpmQZdPcvYlNjPn21uoQbwIl2QKYN1GkH9uguMoN9IdFTJu6oiGJ0Vrwf-RtJx3vVKfi/s320/Eagle+stone.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;">Baslow lies just north of the stately home, Chatsworth House in the Peak District. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">High above the village is Baslow Edge. There are two impressive landmarks on Baslow Edge: Wellington Monument and Eagle Stone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The rock is a well-weathered block of gritstone. From Baslow Edge their are fine views of the Derwent and the Chatsworth Estate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Eagle Stone</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> is thought to be named after Aigle, a Celtic god who was fond of hurling rocks around the countryside. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">At one time, Baslow youths who wanted to prove their fitness for marriage had to climb the Eagle Stone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Click on the picture, however, to discover another Eagle Stone somewhere in far-off Canada, and discover a tale of an Eagle, an old bear and the moon ...</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Eagle Stone<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every night when the light faded from the sky, an old bear sat at the front of his cave listening to the soft lap of the waves on the seashore, waiting for the Moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sometimes she appeared in the darkening sky, and sometimes she didn’t. Or sometimes,she appeared just as a silver thread curled up in space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But when the full Moon rose in the sky, the old bear sighed and gazed jealously at her luminous silver light. Oh, how he longed to have the Moon for himself so that she could light up his dark, shadowy cave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now the bear had heard of an eagle, who lived beyond the forest on a rock simply named ‘Eagle Stone’. Reputedly, the eagle was wise and strong with powers and abilities that were far beyond any other creature in the territory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Old Bear determined to reach Eagle Stone to make a special request. The next day he set out for the rock at dawn, laden down with gifts for the great bird of prey: the freshest salmon caught in the river that flowed into the sea outside his cave, the biggest and juiciest buffalo berries and the soft fur of a skinned squirrel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The journey was long and arduous for an old bear of great age, but still he plodded on, stumbling over hills, slipping down inclines, ducking branches and occasionally falling over, his great weight sliding heavily downhill as he gripped the earth with his large claws. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At last he reached Eagle Stone as the sun was setting, and there was the eagle perched on its pinnacle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The eagle flew down to the old bear, who had laid out his gifts ceremoniously on the forest floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Great Eagle,” he said. “Your powers are known throughout the land. Only you can help me achieve my dream. You have strong wings and can fly a long way. Bring me the moon to light my cave.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So the eagle stretched out her strong wings and flew over the forest until she reached the ocean; then followed the silver path across the sea to the moon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the Moon saw the eagle coming and called to the clouds. “Quick, hide me from the eagle for she has come to steal me from the sky.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The clouds swirled and danced around the moon until the Moon was wrapped in a large cotton-wool blanket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Disappointed, the eagle returned to the old bear, now back in his cave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Bear,” she cried. “The Moon has gone!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No,” the bear replied. “The crafty Moon is simply hiding behind the clouds.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So the Great Eagle called to the wind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Wind,” she said. “Blow the clouds away.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Wind blew and blew, scattering the clouds across the sky and far away from the Moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Go quickly,” begged the bear. “Now the Moon cannot hide in the sky.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But as the exhausted eagle made her way back towards the moon, the night grew into day and the moon faded from the sky. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So the old bear waited patiently for the next full moon. Slowly the silver thread of the new moon grew from crescent to half-moon, and from half-moon to full moon until it was big and round and fat and full of wonderful light. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The old bear made the journey back to Eagle Stone, bringing even bigger salmon, a whole sack of pine nuts and the fur of a skinned beaver. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The eagle agreed to try again. This time, she glided stealthily through the sky, but still the moon saw her coming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This time the Moon called to her friends, the Earth and the Sun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sun,” said the Moon. “You light me up. But Earth, if you stood between me and the sun, you would block the sun’s light. Then the eagle would not be able to see me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So the moon and the Earth and the Sun lined up and the Earth threw a shadow over the moon and the Moon became dark.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The eagle flew round and round the blackened sky, but could not find the moon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She returned to the bear, tired and angry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Where is the Moon?” she demanded. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the old bear told the eagle about the eclipse of the moon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I will not try to catch the moon again,” said the tired eagle, angrily. “The Moon is too clever for me. Each time, she has a new trick.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the old bear pleaded and pleaded with the eagle until she agreed to try one last time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once more the eagle stretched out her wings to follow the silver path across the sea to the Moon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then the eagle swooped down and snatched the Moon in her beak. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Quickly she returned to the bear back in his dark, shadowy cave. The old bear took the Moon from the eagle with a great growl of delight and hung it up in his cave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The cave shone with a bright warm light and the old bear curled up happily in the corner to sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the bear could not sleep for he did not like the bright light in his cave - but worse than that he missed the soft whoosh of the waves on the shore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Why has the sea become so quiet?” the old bear asked the moon in a puzzled voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The sea’s tide cannot flow and ebb without me,” replied the Moon sadly. Her reflected light from the sun was also beginning to fade in the dark cave and she now looked a sorry sight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then the bear realised the Moon did not belong in the cave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m sorry,” said the old bear. “I will ask the eagle to return you to the sky where you belong.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So once more the bear made the trip to Eagle Stone, laden down with gifts of choice salmon, a bag of fat juicy bugs, tender spring roots and the fur of a skinned moose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The eagle flew to the cave, took the moon in his strong beak and soared across the ocean and up into the sky. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Fare Well!” the eagle cried as she let go of the Moon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Moon floated up and up until she was high about the Earth. Once more the light of the moon could shine out across the sky and bathe the Earth and the sea in luminous silver light. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Far below on Earth the old bear waved to the Moon. Then he curled up in the cosy darkness of his cave and fell asleep, listening contentedly to the lapping tide. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-15272026769254824832012-10-12T00:34:00.002-07:002012-10-16T13:14:24.742-07:00Devils Elbow<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Devils Elbow</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A curved stretch of road on the B6105 between Glossop and Woodhead is known as the Devils Elbow. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In legend the Devils Elbow is said to have been a meeting place for two lovers, their father was against the union and swore that he would rather the Devil take his daughter than have them meet again. On their next meeting the Devil appeared and chased the terrified couple across the moor. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the Devil reached out to claim his prize a mighty voice cried out and the devils bent arm turned to stone. He ripped it out and threw it on the moor forming the bend in the road. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In more recent times a strange black form sliding from the moorland across the road has been witnessed in the vicinity of the Devil's Elbow. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But click on the picture and read an entirely different tale ...</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Devil’s Elbow<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Damien was a toddler, his parents bought him a T-shirt that said ‘little devil’. Everyone thought it sweet and funny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the time he was 3, the humour of the T-shirt had worn off for Damien <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i></b> a devil: sly, provocative, angry, violent. Out of control.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then Damien discovered he had a lethal weapon in his possession, a weapon he had with him at all times: sharp, pointed, with a propelling force behind it that could cause a good deal of damage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was his elbow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At first, the elbow was used surreptitiously: a sly nudge here, a furtive knock there. If ever anyone caught him in the act, he’d hold his hands up aggressively, pushing his face close to the accuser before shouting in their ear, “What then?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The school set up a programme of ‘positive play’. Damien was summoned to the ‘Sparkle Room’ but he was hardly going to be won over by sequined curtains, twinkly lights, soft cushions, silky drapes or disco balls. Who did they think he was? Increasingly he thought the teachers in his school were full-blown idiots – although Damien had built up an impressive repertoire of more savoury words to describe his mentors by this stage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The role models sent to the Sparkle Room were gentle creatures, a different species altogether. They were kind and thoughtful, carefully selected to encourage Damien to engage with the human race in a – well - gentle, kind and thoughtful manner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t work. Once a beast, always a beast. And the lovely, gentle girls invariably got an elbow in the face for their endeavours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By secondary school, Damien didn’t bother with underhand digs. It was full-on war. As he made his way down the long corridors, he’d jam his elbow into the stomach or side of any pupil he didn’t like the look of. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If he’d ever had any friends, they soon melted away. His peers refused to engage in any ball games with him as the elbow was increasingly employed with wanton abandon and brutal force. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By adulthood, Damien was doing his best to be awarded with an ASBO. He was frequently involved in drunken bar brawls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The elbow figured heavily. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then one night, as it was bound to happen, his preferred choice of weapon found him in deep, deep water – or should I say, blood and guts. As Damien left his local, he jammed his elbow with such force into the stomach of a man he had stumbled upon, that the man collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath. Damien saw the man was dying. He couldn’t bear to watch so he took out a knife, and jammed it into the soft flesh where he had elbowed the man. Slowly, the man’s innards slid to the pavement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Damien did the only thing he could do. He ran and ran until he found himself stumbling through unknown woods somewhere on the edge of the town where he lived. After running for about 20 minutes, Damien collapsed onto the hard, root-covered forest floor. The light was fading from the sky, and for once, Damien wondered what he was going to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the awful truth of his deed sank in, Damien was faced with the realisation: he had killed a man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Damien knew he needed a plan – but he had never planned anything in his life. Everything he had done up until this point had been instinctive, a reaction. And now he felt completely out of his depth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As he sat down, wheezing on a damp, moss-covered branch, he noticed a shadowy figure emerge from the trees. The figure glided towards him, then stopped. Damien felt a shiver creep through his body. The figure before him looked uncannily like himself: the same pinched features, the pasty face, the long pointed nose, the small beady eyes, the scaly fish-white body, the matted greasy, green-brown hair, looking like seaweed waving in the wind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man standing in front of Damien was as thin and as pale as the birch trunks that surrounded them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“So,” said the strange man. “You’ve got a nerve.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For the first time in his life, Damien felt fear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I hate your sorts,” the man continued, circling Damien. “The worst sorts, the stealing, thieving sorts.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t know you.” Damien tried to shout but his voice rasped like the dying sound squeezed from a hole-ridden bagpipe. “How could I have stolen from you? I’ve never taken anything from you in my life.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“On the contrary, my friend, you’ve been trying to take the most valuable thing a man possesses.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What then?” Damien could feel his elbow twitching.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The strange man drew close to Damien, pushing his face near to his. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He spoke in a voice so deep and low that at first Damien didn’t register the words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You are trying to steal my identity.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Cut it, loser,” Damien said aggressively, but the fear was taking hold, strangling his throat like a living thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Please, sir,” the strange man continued. “A little more respect wouldn’t go amiss. Don’t you know who I am?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No idea, loser.” The last word was almost whispered. Damien barely recognised himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Come, come. Don’t be so coy. I’m your friend. Maybe we could go further. I am you. No, that’s not quite right. Let’s see. I am who you would like to be.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Cut the crap. You’re talking in riddles. You should be in a nut house.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Let me explain then, my friend, for I am happy to enlighten you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Damien grew silent. The fear was a very real thing, trampling his body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The strange man continued. “I’m the devil. And you sir, you are an imposter. You seek to spread evil wherever you go and to destroy – but you, you are no match for me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And with that the devil rolled up the sleeves of his long black coat, revealing arms of metal. He flexed a steel elbow, and Damien saw that it was razor sharp with a fine, hard point. Suddenly the devil halted and held his arms out as if to embrace Damien. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But instead, he grasped Damien’s shirt and ripped it back with a sudden violent movement to reveal Damien’s naked stomach. And slowly the devil drew the cold, sharp metal edge of his elbow across his impostor’s middle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m not one for quoting the bible,” said the devil spitting, “but it is true when it says that you reap what you sow. And how fitting that I am the Grim Reaper.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Damien watched in horror as blood gushed from the break in his body and saw his own guts slither to the forest floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And as he drew his last breath, he realised the devil was right:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Damien was no match for him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-73493327658261335252012-10-10T02:33:00.003-07:002012-10-20T00:44:58.475-07:00Cat and Fiddle<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShyl0ruDw4rMGG4_NfAcjp79RYZX8yj9_ggxAiwvNVX6mWmB6iFENTWDTNG4RQvC0U6lmsQjAquUedS1lL3ZsTfjzt1ZcBJUNcWfQIQgZBYpom9yZwDKSrFfgyJysBhcYRxUlW1CbiLKj/s1600/cat+and+fiddle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShyl0ruDw4rMGG4_NfAcjp79RYZX8yj9_ggxAiwvNVX6mWmB6iFENTWDTNG4RQvC0U6lmsQjAquUedS1lL3ZsTfjzt1ZcBJUNcWfQIQgZBYpom9yZwDKSrFfgyJysBhcYRxUlW1CbiLKj/s200/cat+and+fiddle.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Cat and Fiddle is a road in England that runs between Buxton, Derbyshire and Macclesfield, Cheshire, and is named after the public house at its summit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The <b>Cat and Fiddle Inn</b> is the second-highest inn in England. Situated on the western side of Axe Edge Moor, it sits at an elevation of 515 metres (1,689 ft) above sea level. A bleak and dramatic situation, the inn is often cut off by snow in the winter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are a number of pubs of this name in the United Kingdom. Some believe the name is a corruption of <i>le chat fidèle</i> ('the faithful cat'); others claim it derives from 'Caton le Fidèle,' a former governor of Calais; while yet others argue the origins of the name can be traced back to Catherine of Aragon, 'Catherine la Fidèle.' </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Behind the sign is another tale, however ...</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cat and Fiddle<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The cat appeared the moment he pulled his old violin out. Dusty and out of tune, it had lain under his bed at college untouched.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">University done with, Nick had moved back north to work in Sheffield and rented a tiny two-up two-down terrace house on the edge of Dore close to the moors. It was not much of a home, damp and drafty. Neglected. He thought he deserved something better after 3 years of university. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Packing cases and bags still lay strewn around the house. Nick pulled the flaps back on one of the packing boxes and gently lifted out his violin embalmed in a flannel sheet: he’d lost the violin case somewhere between home and university. Carefully, he unwound the cloth. And at that moment there was a knock on the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nick frowned. Who was at the door on a night like this? Outside his window an amber liquid sky battled bruised black clouds, the wind whimpered and snow fell in great heavy clumps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nick sat the violin down on the mantelpiece and opened the door. In front of him was a black cat, paw suspended in the air as if about to knock again. Nick stared: could a cat make the noise of knuckle and bone on wood? Surely not - cats didn’t rap on doors; they scratched. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The cat looked at him expectantly; then slipped across the threshold and into the living-room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Cheeky moggy,” said Nick out loud. The cat narrowed her green eyes at him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nick thought of kicking the cat out the door but something held him back. The creature’s fur was wet and matted with clumps of snow. “Well, you can stay a while,” said Nick. “But don’t think you’re taking up residence here. There’s not even room to swing a cat in this damp hole.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nick laughed at his own joke. The cat seemed less amused. She turned her back on Nick. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nick lifted up the violin again. He placed the instrument under his chin, picked up the bow and ran it across each of the four strings. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It sounds worse than a pair of sparring cats,” Nick said looking meaningfully at the stray. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The cat turned round to face him again and frowned. “Could cats frown?” Nick wondered. There was something about the frowning cat and the violin that stirred something lost in his memory, but he couldn’t think what. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nick tuned up, twisting the pegs here and there until something musically recognisable began to emerge from the instrument. He began to play: ‘Hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle.’ The violin squeaked and scratched. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw the cat place her paws on her head as if to say ‘this isn’t good.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Come on,” Nick said to the cat. “Give us a break. I haven’t played a violin for more than 3 years and it’s been a lot longer since I’ve played this old scrap of a thing.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nick played on: ‘The cow jumped over the moon.’ The violin whistled and scraped. The tune brought back memories of a younger version of the adult Nick, scratching his way through the piece. His teacher standing with her hands on her head, frowning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nick hated the violin. His mother pleaded with him to practise more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I can’t play this thing,” Nick shouted. “It’s hopeless.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“A bad workman always blames his tools,” his mother shot back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Nick’s violin teacher agreed with him. “This is no good Nick,” she’d said, her hands over her ears. “You can’t learn to play violin on this instrument. I’ve got an old violin at home. You can borrow it as long as you’re my pupil.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There’d been an immediate transformation with the borrowed violin: the bow glided across the strings, the sound sweet, his vibrato now effortless, his tuning immaculate, his phrasing delicate, the playing emotional, the notes pure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There’d been no looking back. He fell in love with the violin – and with his teacher: gorgeous, green-eyed, feline with thick black hair and her body animal-soft. Well, the last bit, he could only imagine. She wasn’t much older than him, maybe 6 years – but at seventeen, twenty-three was way out of reach. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He’d got a distinction at grade 8. Nick returned his teacher’s violin and left for university. He took his old violin with him – Goodness knows why. There were other things in his life now – and music wasn’t one of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nick continued to play: ‘The little dog laughed to see such fun.’ From the periphery of his eye, he could see the cat had her paws over her ears. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘And the dish ran away with the spoon.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nick stopped playing. The sound hung in the air like a bad smell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well,” Nick laughed. “It’s not that bad. Is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The cat shook her head. He remembered now - how his violin teacher used to shake her head in the same sorry manner every time he’d played a note or phrase badly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The cat stood up and padded to the door. She lifted a paw and beckoned to him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nick pulled on his coat and gloves and headed off along the road that cut across the hillside behind the cat. The ground was heavy with snow; the road empty but for the occasional walker. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Amber liquid had now yielded to charcoal-grey. White flakes drifted into Nick’s eyes. A car appeared on the hill, wheels spinning, engine moaning, twisting and turning like an injured beast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nick continued to follow the black cat over white. They came to a road that wound across the moor, the lane barely discernible under the covering of snow. Nick trudged past bedraggled, snow–plastered sheep leaning into dry-stone walls, half running, half staggering behind the cat. The wind was biting cold. Ahead he could see two lights twinkling in the dusk. A cyclist swept past them across the field of snow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">At the end of the heath, the cat slipped under a metal gate. Nick pulled the gate back and followed the cat down a lane twisting downhill through a copse. The cat turned right up a short track. To the left there was a large rambling house but the cat made its way to a garage-like shack. Leaping up, she pulled down the handle and pushed through the door. Nick followed curiously. The wooden hut looked half-abandoned: the windows hair-fractured, curtains plastered with cobwebs, broken furniture covered in a thick layer of grime. The shack smelled of Arabic gum, egg white, honey and fusty air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Then Nick saw the violin on the table. He picked it up and ran his finger over the spruce, removing a fine film of dust. He turned the violin over, running his fingers over the maple back, then the ribs and then the neck. He lifted the bow and began to play. It all came back to him: the delicate touch of the bow on the strings, the slight shift in pressure that subtly changed the sound, the vibrato creating waves of sound so sweet and haunting they fell like a hammer on his chest. The notes filled the room, rising and falling then floating suspended in the air. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The cat had folded her front legs, eyes closed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He remembered now: his violin teacher, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes closed, lost in the music. “Beautiful, Nike,” she’d said. “You’ve got talent,” then abruptly changing the subject said, “What do you want to come back as in your next life?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I don’t believe in reincarnation,” Nick had laughed. She’d ignored him. “I’d come back a cat”. Nick had nodded in agreement. It was fitting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nick stopped playing. He peered inside the violin and read the Latin inscription</span>. ‘<strong><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1716. </i></strong><strong><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-weight: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nick’s heart leapt. A strad! Could it be possible? It must surely be a fake! <o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<strong><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-weight: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Then the cat spoke. “You’re right, Nike. It is a Strad. It’s my violin. It’s been in my family for centuries. It’s yours now. Just promise to start playing again.”<o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<strong><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-weight: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He recognised that voice: it was the voice of his violin teacher. He lifted the violin into its case and clipped in the bow, left the shack with it and made for home. <o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<strong><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-weight: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In the morning, the Stradivarius was still there on his chest of drawers where he’d left it. Nike thought of the cat (who had melted away somewhere in the shadows of the hut) and thought how silly he’d been to imagine the cat had human gestures and a human voice, how silly he’d been to think his teacher was a reincarnated cat. He’d seen her just last week on the other side of the street in the centre of Sheffield. He’d called her name but she had disappeared, swallowed up by the throng of pedestrians. She was still gorgeous, still young, still in her twenties. Surely still here?<o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<strong><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-weight: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She was gone now; the cat too, but he had the Stradivarius and a promise to keep. He picked up the violin, started to play and stopped again as the thought hit him: the Stradivarius was worth many times more than the measly bricks and mortar he was renting. <o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
<div class="yiv80378055msonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<strong><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-weight: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nick was stuck in a moral dilemma between cat and fiddle. </span></strong><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-67831713328403211052012-09-29T11:29:00.000-07:002012-10-16T13:15:45.321-07:00Blue John<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ86V9Gxv3d1kxK2NaFymjZxGP7l_OkMA1a09mdCDwjktsImEDur6Xhnaw6vz-QbfcWCe1bD8damIyY2IiRg1RHZZ3u1cZDZLveIuSWc0GuOlhcOIe_cy-6kpiOZ4gmR9OBAtcXbkGgiwA/s1600/Blue+John+Tavern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" kea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ86V9Gxv3d1kxK2NaFymjZxGP7l_OkMA1a09mdCDwjktsImEDur6Xhnaw6vz-QbfcWCe1bD8damIyY2IiRg1RHZZ3u1cZDZLveIuSWc0GuOlhcOIe_cy-6kpiOZ4gmR9OBAtcXbkGgiwA/s1600/Blue+John+Tavern.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Blue John Caverns, located near Castleton in the Peak District, is a series of caverns formed by limestone deposits left on the floors of great oceans which have long since receded, as the fossilised remains of marine animals now show. The stone, 'Blue John' is an ornamental variety of flor-spar or calcium floride.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The caverns were first discovered by the Romans almost 2000 years ago. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">During excavations at Pompeii two vases of Blue John Stone were supposedly unearthed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It has been suggested that the name 'Blue John' comes from the French 'bleu jaune' meaning blue-yellow, but no-one know the origins of the name for sure.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>But <strong>who </strong>was Blue John and how did <strong>he</strong> get his name? Beneath the cavern lies another story.</em></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He was leaning on a half-rotten fence, chewing on a piece of grass that dangled from his mouth. His eyes fixed on the middle distance, he didn’t see her coming down the track off the hill, her mud-matted mutt padding behind, until she was almost level with him.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Morning,” she called out in warning, not wanting to shock him: he seemed to be in another place.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mixie continued on down the track breaking the early morning fog, a fluid sheet of cotton wool lining the valley floor. The chilled air sliced through her throat as she headed home through the village main street.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He was there the next morning – and the next and the next. It seemed she wasn’t the only person who rose to greet the winter dawning. After a week she felt she should say hello. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Hi, I’m Mixie,” she called. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He gave a strange little bow and grabbed her hand with his weather-worn one. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Mixie, Mixie.” he jiggled the word around his mouth with a giggle as if savouring it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m Blue John.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“You just moved into the village?” He asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Mixie nodded yes, taking in the beaky nose and the dancing grey-blue eyes, the scraggy hair escaping from the woollen beanie and the rough stubbly chin. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re my kind of person,” he said. “You start the day at the beginning, a good place to start.” His words were full of laughter as if life was still a surprise and a source of delight. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As Mixie met the villagers: the postmistress, the egg-man, the bread-man and milkman; the farmer up the lane, the girl across the road, the shopkeeper and greengrocer, she asked them about Blue John’s name.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Who knows,” the postmistress said with a laugh, slapping stamps onto her parcel. “Maybe it’s an antonym. Lovely man, always smiling, but he doesn’t mix much with the village.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I’ve never asked, 2,3,” said the egg-man in a distracted voice as he counted eggs into her bucket. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“4,5,6, Maybe he’s mined Blue-John in the Cavern.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Doesn’t he always wear blue?” smiled the shopkeeper as she weighed the ham. It was true: he always wore navy combats and the same powder-blue jumper frayed at the cuffs and neckline - and the matching beanie.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Haven’t a clue,” said the greengrocer as he scooped up mushrooms. “I’ve never spoken to the man. Don’t think he’s from around these parts.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mixie’s and Blue John’s lives become entwined. She spent more and more time with him. At first, it was just in the early morning as she came off the fells. He was always there at the fence, as permanent as the hills that surrounded him, embedded in the landscape. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Good to start at the beginning,” Blue John said one day. “But you shouldn’t miss the end.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mixie frowned. Blue John was always talking in riddles. “What do you mean?” she asked.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“You should be up on them hills when dusk falls. See the world under a full moon. It’s a different place.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So the twilight walks began. Mixie was sure Blue John was a magician. When she was with him the world around her was larger-than-life and slightly off-kilter: The clouds storming across the sky, the sun a seething blob of white; the horizon curving an orange neon strip; the earth on fire; the light, cold and luminous; the huge paper moon taking on form; the night-sky, an electric purple; the Van-Gogh stars swirling around them.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">- And one night, the stars falling like darts of rain, a tropical monsoon in the sky, a meteor shower that seemed to last forever- and the rocks on the moors taking on monstrous proportions: she was sure they had come alive. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Why are you called Blue John?” she’d asked him over and over, but he never replied. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Then one evening as they sat on the saddle of the hill, Blue John said. “You wanted to know why I’m called Blue John,” he said. Here’s why.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Blue John pulled out a battered guitar he’d hidden in his large rucksack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He started to play, his fingers moving across the fret like lightning, his voice filling the space - gravel and gold flung across the hills. There was such melancholy and joy in the music. Mixie had no idea: all this time she had known him, he had never once mentioned the guitar.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“The blues,” Blue John said simply. “That’s how I got my name.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">They sat on the hillside lost in a soundscape and landscape that had slowly became one. Shadows slid cross the hills and valley, the light dissolved and the night spread black ink across the earth like blotting paper.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Blue John’s voice came out of the dark. “To every beginning there’s an ending, and to every ending there’s a beginning. Just remember that.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The next morning Blue John wasn’t leaning on the fence. He wasn’t there the day after – or the day after that. Finally Mixie pushed the cold, rusting iron-wrought gate to the cottage she had never visited. She knocked on the peeling door but there was no reply. She peered through the grimy window and saw Blue John sitting in a chair, motionless. Mixie called to him. He didn’t move.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 11.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She pushed the front door and went inside. Between the shafts of dusty winter light, she saw the room was filled with guitars: guitars on walls, guitars on stands, guitars strewn across sideboards and propped against furniture. </span></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1125975412273792116.post-35421765121972395922012-09-07T12:40:00.001-07:002012-10-16T13:16:31.280-07:00Axe Edge<div style="margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;">
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<br /> Axe Edge lies west of Buxton in the Dark Peak. More of a steep-sided hill then an edge, its name is somewhat misleading. There are sweeping views from Axe Edge on a clear day over Parkhouse Hill, Chrome Hill, the Roaches and far beyond. Axe Edge moor is 1800ft at the highest point. It is the source of 5 rivers in the Peak: the River Dove, River Manifold, River Dane, River Wye and the River Goyt. The moor extends over 3 counties: Derbyshire, Staffordshire and Cheshire. Old packhorse routes criss-cross the moor and coal was mined here until the early twentieth century. High up on the moor is Britain's second highest pub, The Cat and Fiddle.</h2>
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This story, however, gives the reader a different perspective on the edge ...</h2>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <span style="font-size: 14pt;"><strong>Axe Edge</strong></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">If I had six hours to chop down a tree, I'd spend the first four sharpening the axe. ~ Abraham Lincoln <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jo stood in the entrance of the outhouse, a dark shape in the doorframe except for the thin wispy strands of yellow hair illuminated by the sun, a halo of light around her face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She watched Brad as he bent over his axe head, moving the steel wool systematically over the metal to remove any rust. At last he looked up and saw her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hi,” Brad said. “How long have you bin standing there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“A while.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brad replaced the steel wool with silicon carbide sandpaper, his forehead burrowed in concentration as he moved the sandpaper with even pressure across the head, always in the same direction away from himself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jo walked across the room and stood over him. She watched him with narrowed eyes, arms folded over her chest. Brad frowned. He hated it when she stood over him like that. He knew it was deliberate: it gave her the psychological advantage. She hadn’t studied psychology at college for nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brad took a finer grit sandpaper and went over the surface again. Getting it right now would make all the difference later. He wasn’t anything if he wasn’t patient.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He indicated the stool beside him. “Why don’t you sit down? Take the weight off your legs, ya know?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jo ignored him. “So, when are you going?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Jo, we’ve bin through all this before. What’s the point - you know the answer.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jo’s mobile rang and she disappeared outside with it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brad clamped the axe head into the vice. He filed towards the blade with broad strokes from his shoulder, careful not to make contact with the edge. By the time Jo returned, the sun had moved away from the doorway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I could understand it if you just went for the summer – but a whole year. How are you gonna survive the Yukon winter with temperatures as low as minus 50, maybe even 60? Food’s gonna be scarce too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bent over his work, Brad could hear the tightness in her voice. He took a wire brush to remove any metal particles from the file.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What are you going to do if you have an accident or if you get sick?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brad sighed. “That’s the whole point, you know that – findin’ out what it’s like to be totally self-sufficient, learnin’ how to treat myself if I get sick, learnin’ how to survive in the wilderness.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They’d had the same conversation all winter. He loved her so much it hurt, but jeez, she was hard work. It was becoming a ritual, her mantra. He wondered why she did it. Did she think if she repeated the questions enough times, he’d change his mind and not go?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But what if a bear attacked you – like from behind? What are you gonna do then? No time then to test your wits against nature.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He let the question hang in the air for a while, working on the edge of the axe in circular motions. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally Brad spoke. “I’ll be staying clear of bear territory,” he lied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jo seemed to change tact. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“And what are you gonna eat? You can’t just live on berries. You’re not allowed to shoot game so no deer, no elk, no moose. What’s left – porcupine? vermin? Vile!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was hardly hearing her now. He created a v-shaped bevel gauge with a 25 degree angle and started filing. Getting the angle right was crucial for maximum penetration. Jo waited but the only sound was the scraping of the file. At last, Brad stopped working and took a deep breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Jo. I’ve thought it all through. You know that. I’ve studied the maps and talked to people, ya know. I’m going to the best bit of wilderness in the Yukon. Silver Lake is teaming with fish and the river that flows into it is full of salmon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He spoke to her in a soft, slow deliberate voice; the kind of voice parents use with their children when the kids don’t understand something or won’t give in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ah! And what do bears eat?” Jo cried triumphantly. “Salmon!”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brad swore under his breath. She was too smart; smarter than him – but he was just as stubborn as her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew the script. She’d make her point, stomp out and sulk for a few hours. Then they’d call a truce and make love – until the next time. But not this time: he’d had enough. He was sick of pussy-footing round her. This time he was going to lay his cards on the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Why waste time with all these questions, kid,” he said softly. “Why don’t you just come right out with it and say you don’t want me to go. It would save a lot of time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">don’t</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>want you to go. What’s the point in having someone in your life who’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i></b>in your life?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stale mate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well then. You’ve gotta make a choice. I’m going. Ain’t no one going to stop me. I have to do this. It’s bin my dream since I was six”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His voice was so low she had to strain to hear the words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brad held the axe head up for inspection. He scanned the axe edge to make sure there were no nicks; then ran the edge over a folded newspaper. It sliced through it with the smallest amount of pressure. Perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jo sat down on the stool at last. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them. Brad felt a rush of tenderness. She looked so vulnerable - like a little girl in her size 8 jeans and thin t-shirt covering a tiny frame. He wanted to go over to her and hold her – but he knew if he did, she’d have won. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jo looked up, a dirty streak snaking down her cheek. “It’s over, Brad,” she said bitterly. “Take the wilderness – but you can’t have us both.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He watched her walk out the door, her small frame weaving though the yard until she disappeared behind the house. Brad returned to his axe. He ran his finger lovingly over the edge. Sharp. Real sharp. He was ready for the wilderness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Helen Moat: Stories in the Peakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03094800283114391213noreply@blogger.com0