There is a tale that my grandfather wrote about an event in his early life. It tells the story of a 120-mile journey, largely on foot, from Birmingham to Ealing that he made with his father. I’ll replicate the story on these pages but I want to join my grandfather on that voyage. Some parts of the journey I have already visited and one day I would like to walk in his steps but for now I’ll share his words.
An introduction, in my grandfather’s own words, can be read here.
I must find a copy of ‘Wooden Tony’ by Lucy Lane Clifford. This was the inspiration to tonight’s wonderful adaptation of ‘The Boy at the Edge of the Room’ presented by Forest Forge at Bridport Arts Centre. Written a long time before autism was diagnosed and around the same time as Pinochio, it tells the story of a boy who longs to retreat into a ‘life’ as a wooden puppet. Somewhat tense and reflective and yet very moving. Great to hear the writer in conversation afterwards too and to get an insight into his and the actors’ motivation.
Another wonderful evening at Bridport Arts Centre. I do so enjoy the story-telling café events. Each one has been so rich and varied. It’s almost impossible to make comparison. Last night was a fresh working of a silkie (or selkie) tale – a seal which sheds its skin to take on human form. Entitled ‘Under her Skin’, it was a beautiful crafting of fine words and music and so energetic. If you get the chance to see either Debs Newbold (storyteller) or Laurel Swift (musician) then do – their energies are contagious and heart-warming.
These entries are where I hope to weave some stories and essential threads of my live and the lives with which I come into contact.
There are some family stories I want to re-visit – my grandfather’s story of ‘the Long Walk’ and stories I have pieced together whilst researching my family history. And then there are the stories I loved as a child – well worth a fresh look – and new ones I have learnt to treasure in my adulthood. And still there are those special stories of what might have been or what could still be if only forgotten or misplaced threads can be re-found and re-worked.
So, here begins a new adventure of discovery through imaginings and reality. Bring it on.
There is a long-held tradition amongst beekeepers to “tell it to the bees”. I’m a beekeeper and I can tell you that, sitting beside an active colony of bees, with a background of buzzing and the constant mesmeric note of the hive, there is no better place to form up one’s thoughts and reflect on the many aspects of life. I often talk to the bees, sometimes aloud, sometimes in my head. I tell them my news and of any upset and joy. And on those sad occasions when there is a death of someone close, I tell them … and one day, when it is my turn – long in the future I hope(!) – I trust someone will tell them of my passing.