A prizewinning month
Well, December has turned out to be a prizewinning month!
I won second prize in the Jitegemee Poetry Competition, held in aid of a school in Tanzania. I attended a select reading at the Lit and Phil on Monday 12th, on a cold and windy night, but it was warm and friendly inside. First prize went to Phoebe Walker, a young undergraduate, from Hexham. She’s studying at Queen’s University in Belfast and has already won prizes for her poetry, she’s definitely one to watch. She’s kindly let me use her poem for the Diamond Twig website next year, so look out for that.
Then on Tuesday I had the wonderful news that my children’s novel Mulberry and the Blue Hands has been long listed on the Times/Chicken House children’s novel competition. They chose 16 from hundreds I believe. These then go to the judges and they pick a short list of 5, the winner is announced in March. The prize is a publishing deal, but those who were long listed get a full editorial critique, which would be fantastically useful. Plus the Times will put an extract of the novel on their website, so it’s all good publicity, and may help with getting it published elsewhere in the future. I’m so chuffed, and just when I’d started to give up hope. I’d been telling people ‘Oh, I can’t write, I’m no good. I think I’ll stop. Writing novels is too hard.’
Hah, I should listen to the advice that I give to other people - don’t stop, keep writing, have faith. This news is the best Christmas present ever. It gives me the encouragement to carry on with the sequel, which I am already three chapters into.
On the family front, I have successfully babysat my grandson three times. Twice will his parents were out gigging. One of the gigs was at the Spa Hotel in Saltburn, an amazing place, even though I only saw it in the dark. I drove Mum and baby down there, and the kind proprietors gave me an ensuite hotel room to hang out with the baby while the band played. It was warm, it had a kettle in case I had to heat milk, and a tv to keep me amused while he slept. To get him off, I wrapped him in his snowsuit, and stuffed him into his pram (he’s like a plank in his padded suit) and we walked round under the wintery stars in the crisp night air, to the sound of the surf rolling onto the beach below. That did the trick, and I was able to wheel him back into the room, where he stayed asleep until his Mum came back. To reach Saltburn we drove past the lights and fiery pipes of Teesside, which inspired Ridley Scott’s vision of the futuristic world of Bladerunner. It really is quite eery. We all agreed we’d like to go back to Saltburn in the daylight and walk along the beach. It’s got elegant old terraces facing the North Sea, redolent of the past splendours of Spa towns.
We are all going to Cornwall for the week between Christmas and New Year, to see family and let them meet Wren. I was remembering the same journey last year, in the treacherous snow - we weren’t sure whether we’d get there or not. It’s so different this December. So far anyway. Any bets for a white christmas? Festive Greetings to all.
Trekking
‘We don’t think you should come on this holiday.’
This was the response to our initial email to Swim Trek, outlining our vital statistics - how slow we swam, that my companion had arthritic knees, I had asthma and didn’t swim with my head under water.
‘Too Late!’ we replied, ‘We’ve booked our flights.’
Fortunately, that was March and the holiday was late September, which gave us six months to train up, and we have now completed it successfully.
We were based on the island of Prvic, with no cars, which you could walk around in a morning, the landscape and architecture was a mediterranean medley of Italian, Greek and Spanish, of terra cotta roofs and pale stone. We could see our boat arriving every morning from our hotel window. And we weren’t the only slow ones: 14 of us were divided into three groups: slow - yellow caps, medium - pink caps and fast - orange caps, bearing the logo Ferries are for Wimps. We climbed aboard Luce, skippered by laconic Domir and set off through calm waters for our first swim around Tijat, one of thousands of tiny islands off Croatia’s Dalmatian coast. Our guides, young, laid back and encouraging, followed each group in a ribbed dinghy. They videoed us swimming and gave advice on technique. They made us tempting lunches every day - huge dishes of salads, beans, bread and cold meats. There was always a hot drink, water or a snack waiting at the end of a swim, and the group cheering you back to the main boat, because, yes, my companion and I were always last. But it wasn’t a problem, we were all in this together.
We swam in various locations: at a waterfall, down the Krka river, and through the hazy blue and silent islands of the Kornati National Park, where we were joined by dolphins and stripy fleets of fish. One swim took us through Hitler’s Eyes - a tunnel cut into cliff where U boats skulked during WWll. We also visited an ancient sea fort and explored the coastal town of Sibenik. We’d go off together to eat in the evenings, and over the week got to know fellow swimmers, an international bunch, all ages and abilities.
I had sea sickness on my first swim, caused by sea salt and motion of the water. Others experienced it too on odd occasions, and one woman had to lie down on the deck and miss a swim. Domir was heard to say into his radio: ‘What do I do with the seeek one?’ I did climb out into the dinghy (which was a feat in itself) during a couple of swims, once because I’d got a bit cold, and the other time because my knee was aching. I had great fun trying to take photos with an underwater camera bought for the specially for the holiday. A throwaway instant one. Because of the buoyancy it was hard to stay under to snap a shot, hard to prevent air bubbles obscuring the viewfinder, and all the pictures show headless bodies floating in endless blue, which is wonderfully surreal.
Swimming is a great leveler. Two Australian men in their 70s were among the fastest of us, and plump middle age was not a hindrance. By the end of the week, I felt tired but that I’d made a great achievement. Although I was slow, I’d done the same 12k overall that everyone else had. I’ve come back determined to improve my style - and I now swim confidently with my head underwater, I’m even attempting front crawl. But when friends ask ‘Would you do it again?’ I hesitate. I prefer my leisurely pace, without the pressure to keep up with the group, though I’m eternally grateful that I tried it and have developed my technique. I’d go back to Croatia any day, though, it’s stunning.
Already, Croatia seems ages ago, and autumn business whisks the weeks along. Diamond Twig launched a new Branchlines poetry book on 20th October, Sara Park’s ‘Inviolate’, alongside Red Squirrel’s publication of her short stories - ‘Edith Popkiss laughed out loud’. Both definitely worth a read. I’m teaching regularly, and trying to fit in my writing along side that. Plus getting lots of baby cuddling in. Wren is a heavy 15lbs now and quite a weight to carry around, he holds himself up and wants to stand on his legs, although he’s only 12 weeks old! And he can be very vocal and chatty, just like his dad. I’m trying to get to see him as much as possible, so he ‘knows’ me. I’ve already been booked in for babysitting at the end of November, the first outing for the parents together (they play in a band). I can’t wait.
soft as a moth
What did my fingers do before they held him?
What did my heart do with its love?
I have never seen a thing so clear.
His lids are like the lilac-flower
and soft as a moth, his breath.
I shall not let go.
There is no guile or warp in him. May he keep so.
When I see the small perfection of a new baby I always think of this quote from Sylvia Plath’s Three Women, poems written for three voices. We are all completely in love with Wren, my grandson, and it is very touching to see my son grow into a dad. Something in the family has been healed, and the well of love that was dammed with the loss of Keith, has found an overflow, a new route, it bubbles out unstoppably.
As a mother, having thought my parenting was done when my younger son reached 18, I find I’m now back at the heart of the family, needed with a very clear role. Plus we have been meeting with my daughter-in-law’s family, so suddenly we are swept up into a new extended network of relations who are warm and welcoming. I feel very lucky.
I am off on Friday for my Croatian swimming trek, flying from Stansted on Saturday. Although my training went to pot when I banged my knee at Featherstone, I’m not worried. My general fitness is ok and I know I can swim 3.5 kilometers so I’m not daunted by 4. My swimming companion has also injured her knee (she has arthritis) so she’s been swimming front crawl without legs, using a float between her knees. She swam 3 km alongside my breaststroke last week, so we know we can do it. It’s not a race, and there’s a boat if we get tired or don’t want to swim. We tell ourselves we’ll just enjoy it whatever happens. My younger son has just got back from a month interrailing about Europe, and he ended up in Croatia. He said it was wonderful - hot, good swimming and picturesque coastline, he was sure I’d have a great time.
Now he’s back, without a course to go to, he’s got to start looking for a job. Him and thousands of others, poor lad. I keep encouraging him to write a CV. Yeah yeah, he goes, though I know he’s no idea what one should look like. We’ll see what’s happened by the time I get back.
I have begun writing the sequel to my young adult novel, which has relieved me, made me feel I’m back on the work track. I’ve also just purchased a sleek MacBook Pro. Whenever I went online I kept getting blocking messages from websites saying - What is this you are using? We don’t recognise it - so I had to bite the bullet and buy a new computer (my old one wouldn’t update or support the new software). When I took my iBook in to the Apple shop for them to transfer my files over, a young woman took one look at it and crowed: ‘Wow, I haven’t seen one of these for years!’ Like I’d just present her with a gem on the antiques roadshow.
I love all the helpful eager folk who work at Apple, who show you stuff on the computer (that they’ve probably been doing since they were infants) charmingly without a trace of sneer or irony. However it takes time for me to get used to the new systems, and things that should take a few minutes end up taking hours, with stressful moments when whole screen images disappear and I’ve no idea what I’ve done. Though when I have to go back to my old laptop to check stuff, it feels sticky and moves sluggishly, and takes ages to load and I wonder how I managed for so long. Stepping into the Apple store is a really ‘cool’ experience, all uncluttered layout, filmic images and shiny slimline products that react to the faintest finger tip command. It’s very clever, you walk out feeling like you’ve just bought a piece of the future.
Bad Fairies
We had a lovely wedding at Featherstone, the weather was hot, with balmy sunsets where we could sit outside drinking sangria imagining we were in a castle in Spain. The Friday night party, pre-wedding, had a fancy dress castle theme: the groom went as a stone gargoyle, the bride was a ghost bride in silver grey dress and long white net veil. There were knights on horseback, dragons, a jester or two and many ladies in wimples. There was also a large eastern palace contingent, with Princess Jasmines and scimitar-carrying turbaned men - they all looked quite dashing, if not a little bit like hippies who’d strayed from a festival. I went as a bad fairy along with another friend. I wore a brown strapless gown with black feather wings, a black and gold mask and ivy twined round my head and arms. I drifted around with a glass in my hand saying ‘Bad Fairies don’t count the units’. My wand was a giant pen and I threatened to write evil things about people, hinting that I might work for an international news corporation.
We did our re-enactment out on the grassy meadow in front of the castle. Malcolm Green the storyteller, in top and tails, recounted the legend of the tragic wedding party with the bride and groom either side of him under a flower bedecked arch. As he came to the moment of the terrible carnage, some of the party, dressed as medieval rough types, emerged from the crowd of guests waving sticks and swords. Malcolm grabbed the bride and groom’s hands and ran them down to the river, where, magically, a canoe named Blossom was moored, waiting to paddle them to safety. I shall never forget the image of them in their boat on the twilit silvery river - a fitting metaphor for marriage if ever there was one. And a great wedding present.
The wedding ceremony the next day was held at Hexham Registry office with much music, singing and exchanging of self-written vows. A moment of joy and tears. Then back to the castle and a wedding lunch at tables decorated with marigold petals, tangerines, yellow and amber jellybeans and jam jars of wild flowers. More speeches and songs, and the second gift was presented: a huge blanket of wool squares, each knitted by one of their friends. It was gloriously hot so we traipsed off down to the river. There are lovely pictures of people stripping off their wedding finery to dip in the water, including my son’s heavily pregnant partner. Typically I got my Bad Fairy comeuppance. As I was swimming, the young folk said ‘Go over the weir, it’s great fun.’ So like a fool I did, but there were two sections, and the second weir was fierce and sudden. I was tumbled over it before I knew what was happening and banged my knee brutally. It swelled up like a sugar loaf and I have been hobbling about ever since. But it didn’t stop me dancing to the Bagdaddies at the Saturday night party. It has put a halt to my swimming schedule though, for the moment. Just as well, because three days after the wedding, labour began.
My grandson Wren was born on Thursday, 4th August, by caesarian. A strapping 8lb 12 oz, with velvety skin and long piano players fingers, very alert and calm. Mother and Father both well and delighted. So far I am to be called Nana, but I’m hoping he will find a name for me eventually. Maybe I just can’t imagine being a nana or grandma - it feels too ancient. I certainly hope no bad fairies are waiting in the wings to lean over the crib with malevolent spells - I won’t let them.
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