Bolton: Hearing the Shadowy Horses

It's a week when British temperatures rise from near-freezing to idyllic. Just miles across the English Channel, the Notre Dame Cathedral burns, and I travel to the north west of England for a court case.

Bolton le Moors
Photo by Jennifer Pittam

I've never been to Bolton le Moors before and, as always, I look forward to my trip. For a writer, it's great to have somewhere new to see. Writing tutors tell you time and time again, 'write about what you know'; took me years to realise that also means 'write about what you come to know'.

Bolton turns out to be a town of immense age, with a proud history in the cotton trade. James Arkwright invented the Spinning Jenny here,  so my Stanford's Guide tells me, and the building is now a funky record shop. The Grammar school was founded in 1516.

James Arkwright invented the Spinning Jenny here...

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

I didn't find the school but I loved being so near the parish church, St Peter's of Bolton-le-Moors. Amazingly in this modern world, the church is open and active every day. I was bowled over by the atmosphere in this place - the brooding, shadowy secrets of the moor loom, even though you're sat in the pews for a quiet word with Our Lord.

The Parish Church of Bolton-le-Moors

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Armed with my trusty guide-book, I head off to the local pub 'The Olde Man and Scythe'.  This tavern is a glorious, black-and-white timbered affair, and the landlord very content to tell me all about it (at length, but landlords, like cab drivers, have to be allowed their say).

The Old Man & Scythe has a lovely landlord...
Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Bolton was staunchly 'for Parliament' during the English Civil War (perhaps more properly known as the British Civil War since everyone was drawn into it). Unfortunately for the 17th century populace, the surrounding lands were all for the King. Consequently, the little town suffered invasion and besiege on many an occasion. At one point it was stormed by 3,000 hostile soldiers, led by Prince Rupert of the Rhine and some 1,500 people died. Strong stuff, and obviously, someone must be to blame, so the Earl of Derby lost his head.  'Spent his last night at this very bar,' concludes our host, and gulps his pint with unholy relish.

Photos by Jennifer Pittam

I hear the shadowy horses, their long manes a-shake

Their hooves heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;

The north unfolds above them clinging, creeping night.

W. B. Yeats 1865-1939

Jennifer Pittam has been published in: Aquarist & Pondkeeper, Astrology Monthly, Cosmopolitan,  Ether Books, People's Friend, Prediction Magazine, Romany Routes, The Lady. 

Competitions won: Coast to Coast Short Story Competition, 2nd Prize; Writers' Village Flash Fiction Competition, 1st Prize.

Gloves Mean Goodbye

So, if you were quick this week you might have caught my short piece on BBC Radio 2.  It all started when DJ Nicki Chapman featured an item on superstitions. 'So why,' said a lady, 'did my dear mum always refuse to pick up a pair of gloves, if she dropped them on the floor. As children we always had to do it for her. She was so strong and independent in other ways, it used to drive me mad.' Well, I knew the answer to that one from my own strong Nana - gloves mean goodbye.

Allen & Hanbury article

Stretcher railings in Kennington Park

Summer in the Light, Winter in the Shade

This week I saw the first flight of swallows come screaming into Kennington Park as I took a much-needed breath of fresh air.  I just love to see them arrive, so streamlined, so keen to be here. In London, this is the season of sudden squalls, of instant hailstorms followed by beautiful, blossom-fragranced days.

It's been a bit like that in the mother of parliaments, too. Almost three years ago, 23 June 2016 to be precise, our Prime Minister, David Cameron, put the question of 'in or out' of the European Union to a democratic vote by the British people. We weren't prepared at all for such an important referendum, except with shameless lies and deception by both sides of the argument. We voted to leave by 51.9%  - hardly a huge majority. Whilst I'm grateful to live in a democracy, and I don't underestimate how precious that is, quite frankly if there were still a pillory in London I'd like to lock that hapless former leader inside for an Easter gift.

The pillory was a medieval idea. Whoever thought of it I can't imagine, but there have been pillories in Britain since 1351, and the principle was that the perpetrator of a crime, usually one of fraud or deception, had his hands and head shut in a wooden frame, somewhere very public. Then, he was subjected to the wrath of those he had injured.

 The most prominent pillory in London was sited just off Charing Cross, where the statue of King Charles I is now. Whenever I'm in that part of town I get a vivid picture of the scene, with the criminal forced to stand there all day, the roar of the crowd, the pelting of rotted fruit, dead animals, offal, ordure or worse (if there is worse).

Where the Statue of King Charles 1 is now

It was vile, cruel and primitive - but generally reserved for those who had ruined the lives of others on a grand scale. The issue with Brexit is not so much which side of the argument one falls, but the sheer uncertainty that becomes more ruinous each day for the small British manufacturers, importers, shopkeepers and nurserymen, to name but a few. Some of those in the hallowed halls of parliament might do well to try and imagine the feeling of sheer frustration and helplessness we feel out here in the real world.

The Roar of the Crowd

'It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold, when it is summer in the light, wnter in the Shade' 

Charles Dickens 1812-1870

Jennifer Pittam has been published in: Aquarist & Pondkeeper, Astrology Monthly, Cosmopolitan,  Ether Books, People's Friend, Prediction Magazine, Romany Routes, The Lady. 

Competitions won: Coast to Coast Short Story Competition, 2nd Prize; Writers' Village Flash Fiction Competition, 1st Prize.

Back to Dear Old London

So we're one month into the year 2019, and the British public learned that just because you voted for 'Brexit' two years ago doesn't mean we're any closer to it, really.  There was a lot of snow, which was too much for the BBC and the trains. Meanwhile I hurtled back to my home town, dear old London.

Dear Old London ~ Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Whatever the weather, I travel widely in my job as a Clerk of the Court, to trials all over Great Britain. However, my home is in a semi-wild part of North London, once famous for coaching inns and highway men. Each morning, if I haven't been sent elsewhere, I whizz across the City to my regular courtroom. This is a feat in itself, because Londoners are legendary for their prejudice about 'venturing over the River', which in this case means the mighty River Thames (pronouned 'Tems').

The Days of Horse-drawn Coaches - Photo by Jennifer Pittam

I love my morning journey, even though it's in the 'rush hour' when all of London seems to want to go somewhere. Because my home is at the end of the metro, I can expect each morning, not only to get a seat, but my preferred seat in the front corner of the carriage. There, I write, read, meditate and listen to music without interruption.  Except that, Londoners are so wonderfully voluble, talkative and reactive that I rarely take a trip without gleaning some sort of amusement from my fellow passengers.

London Humour - Photo by Jennifer Pittam

People will tell you that Londoners are surly, unfriendly people, but that's not true. We're just reserved with strangers.  It's quite common on some of the main lines into the City to sit on a crowded train with no-one speaking at all. In a busy working day, many people treasure that 50 minutes solace amongst strangers as precious time to themselves.  However, on a line like mine, the same people, more or less, board the train each day, and then something magical appears - London humour.

Two of my favourite travelling companions are Mrs D, or Marj, from No. 14, and her friend Mrs H, or Joyce, who lives above the newsagents' shop.

'I've started stocking up on drinks for Easter, Joyce'
'Have you, Marj?'
'I tried to get some of that yellow stuff, Joyce, but it's too dear in Tesco,'
'Avocado? I don't like it, Marj.'
'Advocaat. Do you find it too thick?'
'Yes' Marj, 'I do. How do they make the pears into a drink anyway?'

Jennifer Pittam has been published in: Aquarist & Pondkeeper, Astrology Monthly, Cosmopolitan,  Ether Books, People's Friend, Prediction Magazine, Romany Routes, The Lady. 

Competitions won: Coast to Coast Short Story Competition, 2nd Prize; Writers' Village Flash Fiction Competition, 1st Prize.

Hooray for the Bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

It's fortunate for me that one thing so often leads to another. Whilst I was in the Highlands of Scotland for a court case anyway, I got a little commission to write about marmalade. Like Paddington Bear, I've had a lifelong attraction to the stuff, so this was one I couldn't resist.

Arguments abound on the internet and elsewhere about the origin of marmalade. There's little doubt that preserves containing peel were eaten, and mentioned, as early as Shakespeare's time.  However, for me the definitive story is that, in 1700, a storm-tossed ship bearing a cargo of bitter Seville Oranges took shelter in Dundee harbour, off the coast of Scotland.

The ship's master sold the now damaged cargo to a local grocer, who was down on his luck and hopeful of saving the family fortune. Once he got the organges home, how many tons is not recorded, he and his wife discovered that they were too bitter to eat (wonder what she said to him? 'Wheesht, Mr Keiller,' probably).

Undaunted, she set about making jars and jars of preserves with the oranges, and thus the Keiller fortunes were not only restored, but remade a thousand fold.

Marmalade's still made today in Dundee, particularly by the Mackay family who use the traditional, copper-pan method.  For modern tastes, it is not sweet enough, apparently - but for me, it's a marvellous start to the day on toast or Scottish oatcakes. Just like Paddington bear, I've got to have some with me wherever I travel.

Marmalade used to be notoriously good for treating sea sickness, before the days of modern drugs. My Nana told me that this is the origin of the name, as in Mer Malade, particularly as the journey to France from Scotland, beating down the east coast in foul weather, was liable to produce plenty of mer malade.

This explanation seems lost in the mists of time, and if you Google 'marmalade' today, you'll get all kinds of explanations - that in Portugal they make a quince jam called 'marmelot', for example.

To me it seems tenuous, and who cares?

I'll stick with my Scottish Nan.

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can

Come saddle my horses and call out my men

Unhook the West Port and let us gae free

For it's up with the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee

Scottish Traditional 

Jennifer Pittam has been published in: Aquarist & Pondkeeper, Astrology Monthly, Cosmopolitan,  Ether Books, People's Friend, Prediction Magazine, Romany Routes, The Lady. 

Competitions won: Coast to Coast Short Story Competition, 2nd Prize; Writers' Village Flash Fiction Competition, 1st Prize.

All Aboard for Camp Nano Wrimo

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

In the month when Saddleworth moor burned in the heat and England fans watched a football game to gladden their hearts, I whipped up to the beautiful highlands of Scotland for work.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

The trip coincided with the run-up to Camp NanoWrimo. I've partaken of the annual November 'how fast can I churn 50,000 words of rubbish' that is Nano more than once - and adored it. For those who are looking puzzled, NanoWrimo is an international writing 'extravaganza' which takes place on the internet each autumn.  You sign up, it's all free, and you attempt to write a novel in one month.

Of course, most of these novels won't be saleable, but that's not really the aim. The idea is to devote that month, as best you can, to the project - even though you may have family, studies, work, a court case, whatever, to cope with as well.  It generates a huge sense of belonging and satisfaction, and voluntary donations to NanoWrimo have sponsored all kinds of charitable literacy projects since its inception

Camp Nano is a different idea - like going to summer camp, but in the virtual sense. You don't have to write a novel - work on a play, a short story, anything at all. For the first time, I've chosen to share a cabin with 20 others and, like me, they're all editing a project.

These cabin mates are situated all over the world, but you only know where exactly if they choose to tell you.  You work under a 'username' in your pretend cabin, to protect everyone's privacy, and they don't see your work, unless you choose to share it. What they do follow is your progress against your stated goal - words written, pages revised, hours spent working in a creative bubble. You can chat, ask advice and share tips or documents. There are also daily lectures and 'word sprints', all kinds of extras.

Already, I'm sensing that some of my cabin mates could become friends - but one step at a time. I'm slavering at the prospect of immersing myself in creativity and camp-fire chat for a month.

Call me daft but when I sign into Camp Nano and see that tent and jungle screensaver gives me the sense of a real writing retreat.

Not all those who wander are lost ~ 

J.R.R. Tolkien 1893-1973

Jennifer Pittam has been published in: Aquarist & Pondkeeper, Astrology Monthly, Cosmopolitan,  Ether Books, People's Friend, Prediction Magazine, Romany Routes, The Lady. 

Competitions won: Coast to Coast Short Story Competition, 2nd Prize; Writers' Village Flash Fiction Competition, 1st Prize.

The Last Resort

Today I signed a contract for what my Nana would have called 'The Last Resort'. I'm getting some creative counselling. In case you're wondering what's so strange about that, we don't do counselling much in Britain, even in the year 2013.

Advocaat

Admittedly, we've 'given in' to various practices that would have had my afore-mentioned Nana throwing her Advocaat snowball across the bar - for example, showing lots of soggy emotion, en masse, in public. We definitely didn't do that, when she was a gal.


There was a time it was considered fairly disgraceful to cry at the funeral of someone you knew, never mind at the death of a random but famous stranger.

Not Even at a Friend's Funeral

Nor did we walk such a delicate tightrope when it came to Health & Safety. Today in the Post Office, I was thoroughly reprimanded by a counter clerk because I'd used a staple on a jiffy bag. It could, she said, cause  serious harm and then the Post Office would send me a stern letter, possibly summons me to Court.

A Cause for Serious Alarm

'Reality check,' I replied, 'are we sure we're not exaggerating just a teensy bit?' However, by this time she was eyeing the sign which says 'WE WILL NOT TOLERATE ABUSE OF OUR STAFF UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES' so I left.

Anxious About the Weather

Don't even get me started on the weather. Ever read Charles Dickens, or George Eliot? All those sturdy little British types marching through snowstorms to reach the local hunt ball, at which point they damped their petticoats so as to show off just that bit more sturdy bosom for the likes of Lord Byron. Last Saturday, the venerable BBC contained a weather report in which a weatherman told the nation he was anxious - yes, anxious, about the coming thunderstorm.  Twitter was alive with anticipation and rightly so, because when it came it was - well, a thunderstorm.

Nana's Snowball

Anyway, I've nothing to report at present on the subjects of tear-jerker funerals, Health & Safety or weather, but I hope to be able to confess, shortly, that the Creative Counselling had me turning out fresh projects at a speed of knots. Or not. Watch this space...

You can find out about Creative Counselling here