A story with the following words: ramshackle, bargaining, Burgundy, wall, Compostele

Eve's Story:

The Pilgrimage
I have been thinking of going on a pilgrimage to St.Jacques de Compostele it,'s spring in Burgundy and if we leave now (my companion and I), we should be back for Christmas.
This idea is so farfetched, bizarre, in a way, it seemed wond, in any case, I canerful at the time but the more I think about it,the harder the trip seems.
What to take on such a long journey,water,food,clothes and snacks must not forget the snacks, Taking the train or a car would defeat the purpose which is walking through France and Spain.  What a wonderful deed to accomplish,filling our hearts with joy,our feet with blisters,just magical!.

The people say you can get room and board for free ,in any case I can bargain but I must bring cash.Again,what to pack,what to take and cramming everything in a backpack doesn't leave room for error, plus I must have a Compostele outfit when we arrive ,my friend won't need any but will she be able to make the journey on such short,fat legs? or we might catch a ride over the mountains.  I am sure some pilgrims do it and never say a word.What an idea to walk,I mean,actually so far.  I do hope we get a medal on arrival so I can display it to my friends.  I really am worried about the trip, even though people do it all the time and live to talk about it.
Summertime is pleasant,hot;I'll need a hat plus I'll have to I'll have to carry loads of water or get a small carriage,put all our stuff in it  later leave it in someone's garage.
It's getting to be an ordeal.As I sit on the little wall at the end of my garden,looking at the lovely valley below,I decided to get a haircut before leaving,I must look good for the trip.
It is a good idea after all,I'll be thin and tan for Christmas,a plus.I have to google this pilgrimage deal and must get a map.Will all the stuff fit in the backpack,it's driving me insane .I must look decent,don't want to be taken for a bag lady or a voyager.
I must start on the project now if we are to leave in March.So many unanswered questions and I must provide for my companion who is a spoiled Princess,I am also worried about her chubby legs but I will not put up with any whining.
8 months of traveling over mountains, through rivers, meeting wildlife and our legs having no feelings in them but it is a small price to pay for such an adventure.
If we don't make it this year as time is getting short, maybe  next year would be a better idea and we will call the trip "the year of the Great Pilgrimage".

Angie's story:

'Burgundy!' they said, 'Who on earth goes  to live in Burgundy!?'
'You drink the stuff, you don't  live in it!'
It was true to some extent; the area was not that well known to British ex pats keen to have a little place in France as a 'maison secondaire', or even those, less common, wanting to uproot, go the whole hog and take on ' la vie en France' with all its unknown hazards and pitfalls.

However, holiday  cruising on the French canals, in their very own barge, Sally and Mike had found themselves on the Burgundy Canal one happy summer, when the sun shone and the wine flowed and the cheese, baguettes and croissant slipped down a treat as they reclined and lazily watched the little villages pass by in the distance each with a different church spire topping them off.
Every so often, right on the canal  towpath almost,  an 'ecluse' or lockhouse would hove into view, each one slightly different, all inhabited and in various states of repair. How romantic they thought, to be that close to water, totally free of neighbours but with a constant passing stream of sociable sailors, ready to call out a cheery word of greeting but not wanting to stop too long.

It was as they were actually voicing their thoughts out loud to each other that they drew level with a rather less romantic ecluse. It had obviously not been inhabited for many years and was ramshackle to say the least and that was just from the outside. Yet, as Sally and Mike looked at it, they both had the same strong feeling that it should be theirs. That they should be the ones to bring it back to life and restore its identity.

Yet at the same time as they thought that, they also were aware of what a crazy scheme it was. Yes, Sally was a French teacher so language was not a problem, and Mike with his woodcarving business was good with his hands but what happens easily in the land of your birth does not seamlessly translate into life in another country.

Yet, on their return to the UK the dream persisted. So much so that after not a great deal of time, their house was let and notice was given on both jobs. It was at that point the comments from friends came thick and fast..Ignoring the negative and embracing the positive they found themselves back in Burgundy, moored in a dock not too far from their little old ruin.
Negotiations with the Burgundy  Waterways  had eventually, after much bargaining resulted in a long term let for the foreseeable future.
It was the sale of the barge of course that was funding this new enterprise and providing a cushion in the wake of paid employment.
So the eventual arrival at their mini dream house was actually by road not water. They pulled up and parked on the surrounding rough ground adjacent to the tow path.
Nothing broke the silence of this idyllic spot with their beloved canal winding away into the distance through tall straight poplars and the rolling green hills all around them.
May was a beautiful month and living in a tent not such a daunting prospect with warm sun and not much rain to speak of.

No strangers to practical work, Sally and Mike got stuck in and with their frequent visits to the building and DIY shops in the small town ten minutes away,they soon became known by the assistants and local customers alike.
It was one of the latter, a builder himself of many years experience, who suggested the idea of erecting oak beams either side of a dividing wall in the kitchen to give a more rustic effect. Had that conversation never taken place, how different things might have been.
After three months of solid grind, the little ecluse had been transformed, a new door and windows, all in keeping with the original , a complete clean up and paint of all outside walls and woodwork, meant people now looked from their barges and boats with admiration and interest, many of them knew the ecluse from old. Sally had filled tubs and boxes with the ubiquitous trailing red geraniums and a rose was already climbing half way round the door.
The tent was packed away, as they now had a bedroom and kitchen which were liveable albeit not completely finished. Sally was   thinking of looking around for teaching work for when school would start again in September.

The oak beams were delivered one sunny morning in August. It took Mike, the driver and his mate to manoeuvre them off the truck and through the door into what was to be the sitting area. There they rested them vertically against the wall. They were a bit reluctant to leave Mike to deal with them alone but he assured them that he was used to working with wood and he'd take care.
Even at that point all might have been fine if only two walkers with their large Labrador had not walked past at that moment. The door was still open and Sally had been cooking a chicken casserole which she'd put on a low table by the door to cool.
The dog, lured by the enticing smell veered from the path and following his nose burst through the door.
Mike, who was just grappling with the first beam in an effort to get it exactly in place, was totally shocked by the sudden onslaught of barking muscular dog invading the silence from nowhere.
He turned to see what was happening and in doing so lost his grip on the beam which given its weight and position inevitably
fell with a huge force crashing down and bringing all in its wake including Mike.
The noise was horrendous and Sally, outside hanging washing, saw the dog shoot out of the kitchen. She flew inside with just split seconds to imagine the scene that would meet her eyes.
It was as bad as she feared, the beam now lying across the floor and Mike pinned beneath it still and quiet.
In her panic she could not think straight needing to know if Mike was alive and yet desperate to find her phone to call for help. In the event the dog owners, aware of something very wrong, had stopped and now came in behind her ready to help.
By some miracle, the woman had had nursing experience and went into first aid mode checking for signs of life in Mike and talking to him in that calm reassuring way only the professionals can. For Sally it was far worse than any nightmare she could have imagined and feeling so utterly helpless and terrified for Mike she was in a severe state of shock by the time the Pompiers arrived with extra men and equipment to release Mike with incredible care and in doing so realised that as a matter of life and death he must be helicoptered out immediately if he were to have any chance of making it.
As they worked on Mike, Sally sat shaking and trying to talk coherently to the dog owners . She wanted just to be by Mike, holding his hand, but he was surrounded by the men who were trying to save his life in urgent voices but with infinite care.

                         **************************
It must have been the sun, coming through the window and warming her as she sat doing her marking, that made her suddenly think back to that hideous day. It had been very warm then as Mike was taken from her, barely conscious  and
heavily sedated. The agony of not knowing when and if she would see him, time had passed in a blur.
She looked across at him now. Working at the table on his wood designs he was totally engrossed. Then, he looked up, feeling some unseen communication.
'I'll put the kettle on love shall I?' He moved the wheelchair adeptly to the sink and filled the kettle.
She thought for the thousandth time how lucky they were still to have each other, and though the Burgundy dream was not to be, life was more special to them than perhaps to others who had seen not just their dream but almost their life ripped apart in an instant.
She looked at a picture on the wall of pilgrims walking the route of Compostelle. Although heading for Spain many passed through Burgundy near to where their little ecluse had been. They were making a pilgrimage to somewhere they believed was a place of religious significance, perhaps of healing for some.
Sally felt that they too had made a pilgrimage of sorts from brokenness to healing from despair to a new, different life of disability but huge gratitude that they were still together and were already finding challenges and excitements in the simplest of things for it is those that make for real contentment and love.





Jackie's story

Once upon a time a farmer, named Jarvis, lived in the village of Saint Jacques de Compostele.  He had few acres of land. One hot afternoon, the poor farmer was digging his field. All of a sudden, his spade hit something. Then he continued his digging. “It is a big metal pot," said Jarvis.   It was big enough to boil rice for more than hundred people. “It does not seem to be of any use to me. I will dig deeper. May be I will find something else," and he continued to dig.

After he had dug for a long time, Jarvis felt tired. “It is of no use. There is nothing in this field" he thought. Then, he threw the spade into the pot in frustration and sat against a wall to take rest for a while.

After a while, when he got up to leave, he could not believe his eyes. There were one hundred spades in the pot. “This is a magical pot. I will put this potato inside the pot and see what happens," he thought. He then got 100 potatoes enough to feed the whole village.     Then Jarvis put a bottle of  wine into the pot. To his astonishment, later he found one hundred bottles of wine. Jarvis carried the pot to his home and kept it in an old ramshackle hut so that no one would become aware of it.

After that, he put many things in the pot  and each time everything became hundred folds. With that pot, he became a rich man. The King of Burgundy came to know of the pot and its whereabouts. The King was curious to know about it and he was a greedy King. “I want to find out the secret of the magical pot. If it is valuable, it should be in the King’s castle ,” the King thought. Then at once, the King ordered his men to bring the farmer and his pot.

When the magic pot was brought to the King’s chamber, he did not know what to do. The King thought, “Let me see what is there inside this pot which makes it so magical?" He peered inside.  He hadn’t bargained on it being so deep and he slipped and fell inside the pot. When he climbed out of the magic pot, he was shocked to find that there were one hundred other Kings.

All the kings then started to climb onto the throne. They fought among themselves and all died.

Jarvis who had become so rich also then became King of his land.   


Moral of the story :   don’t throw out any old pots …..

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Annemarie's story:

Words, Words, Words It is said that six degrees of separation is the idea that all living things and everything else in the world are just six steps away from each other. Well would that be the same for six random words out of more than two hundred and fifty thousand? Well here I am in a small Spanish café perched precariously on a ramshackle chair (in my dictionary ramshackle is squeezed between ram-raid - is that why the chair is ramshackle?- and ransom, meaning wild garlic and, yes, breaths of garlic waft from the restaurant kitchen. I see that ramshackle means 'tumbledown ',’ badly constructed’. That explains why this chair creaks beneath me, no doubt bought in a sunny street market and hopefully with a good degree of bargaining on the part of the buyer. To 'bargain', nestled between 'barf' meaning to vomit (and doesn’t it sound like that?) and 'barge', a flat-bottomed freight boat. Well I hope the buyer of this bottomed-out chair haggled his way down to just a just a few Euros.  I have idled the days down the idyllic tree-lined waterways on a picturesque barge, all the way from Burgundy to Spain. Burgundy - think of full-bodied red wine, a rich purple-brown-red colour, reminiscent of clerical colours, of chalices of communion wine. You may have had a glass or two,(but careful now, not too many, - burgundy is just before 'burial' in the dictionary!) at the convivial bar halfway up the cobbled street which winds its way to the basilica in the sky in the pilgrim's town of Vezelay. Yes, not too many glasses if you are a pilgrim as you will still need to stagger down that steep hill, following scallop shells embedded in the street pointing the way and the wearisome walk to Santiago de Compestela. Now Compestela doesn't feature in my dictionary but if it did it would be hunkered down between 'compose meaning to restrain - you see what I meant about 'careful with the wine'? - and compete. Now I'm not sure you

would be striving with the other pilgrims to be there first but perhaps you would be contending with your own ability to walk for three months in dust, rain, burning sun or sharing your bed with fleas in the many lodgings en route.
   How worthwhile when at last you reach the walled town overlooking the green Galician hills. Wall, ( appropriately after walkathon, - a long-distance walk-) meaning to enclose or fortify. Over the centuries Compestela had need of its walls, constructed after a Viking raid in the late 10th century and again after an attack by Arabs a few decades later. Now the hordes are more likely to be scallop-bearing pilgrims finally completing the arduous pélérinage to the Baroque cathedral of SaintJames.
   I hear you ask how magical can be linked to Compestela since the Christian church condemns magic - or 'witchcraft' as defined in the dictionary - but fortunately for me it also defines magical as enchanting and wonderful.
   And so was the scene I observed as I sat on my ramshackle chair with a glass of burgundy wine in the golden evening sun. The magical, nay, enchanting sight of a tall elegant woman, albeit rather exhausted, hauling a giant skateboard upon which stood a long tubby body with four short legs which were as wrinkly as floppy suede boots; two long velvet ears dangling this way and that and two lugubrious eyes which stared in bewilderment, wondering why she had walked, or almost walked, one thousand, five hundred and ninety-five kilometres.

For Fendi, in training for her walk to Spain and who only hopes for 'downhills'

6 random words:  ramshackle, bargaining, burgundy, wall, Compestela, magical 9to be included in the story)

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Just before a thunderstorm

Angie's story:

It had been a long hot summer. The fields so verdant in late spring were now parched and drained of colour. The trees, though not yet ready to lose their leaves, seemed to have an air of abandonment as if they no longer cared whether or not their branches offered shade to passing weary travellers, and drooping in an effort to reach the ground below.

The girl heaved herself up from the rocking chair where she had been idly sitting, on the veranda, watching a cat cleaning itself meticulously before it too, rose languidly and padded off to find a cooler spot in which to sleep.

How much easier she thought to be an animal, governed entirely by instinct, without the mixed blessing of reason and emotion to affect its choices in life. They took what came to them, happily if those things were to their advantage and if not, driven on by a primal urge to survive, they fought or submitted to their fate.
Anxiety, regret, longing, hate, indecision , they knew nothing of.

The girl now stood looking out across the parched land ahead of her and gently rubbed her swollen belly. Her time was nearly here she knew. Not that she had any experience of this terrifying thing, but the steady growth in the strength of kicks inside her and the dragging feeling in her lower abdomen told her that soon she would have to do what animals the world over do, with no understanding of risk, fear of pain or loathing of the act that caused this new life to be created.

As she stood musing she was aware of the sky becoming darker and the light changing to an eery and unnatural fluorescence. The storm, threatened for days, was finally on its way. She watched, a little mesmerised, as one or two large drops fell onto the dusty planks of the steps in front of her.

With a strange synchronisation, at the same moment, she felt a warmth trickling down her leg and liquid slowly surrounded her bare feet.

This she somehow knew was it, the final conclusion to all those months of endless waiting, enduring, self tormenting misery.
The raindrops were falling harder now and the first rumblings of thunder grumbled miles away.
She turned and walked towards the makeshift bed and lay awkwardly and uncomfortably while the first contraction gripped her and took her breath away with its ferocity.
Not quite as much pain as she had endured with the conception of this creature she thought - but close.

A sudden flash of lightening lit up the now dark and ominous sky, while on the bed almost in harmony, a pain ripped through her body. She curled into a foetal position hoping somehow to avoid the horrors to come. None of this was of her choosing, yet here she was, locked into a force of nature while the storm echoed her agony.

For several hours the storm raged, rain fell in torrents, thunder cracked and a tree, caught in the lightening path, crashed and cracked its way to the ground.
On the bed, the girl, glistening with sweat and often crying out
with an unearthly roar, fought to rid herself of this unwanted invader.

Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the storm abated. Water dripped from trees no longer parched. The light changed and a weak sun caught prisms of colour in the rain drops.
On the bed the girl lay still, apparently unmoving, soundless, deathly pale. Then a movement, beneath her arm a tiny form, wriggling its body to get a firmer grip on the life giving milk it's mouth had found. Red wrinkled fingers clutching the firm young breast now swollen and blue veined.

She turns her head and looks down at this new life. All thoughts of abandonment vanish, as if they never were.

She sees only beauty, perfection, helplessness and dependency. It is hers, of her, a part of her and she would kill to protect it.

The cat reappears, treading lightly through the puddles. Behind her, following her closely, her two kittens. She sees the girl and turns instinctively to check her off spring.

The girl sees her and understands. We are united in this one instinct she thinks and puts her lips tenderly on the tiny head cradled in her arms.


Jackie's poem:

When I was small
 And sat on my wall
too tall
To sit in a sprawl

I heard the first roar
Out on the moor
Clouds scudding - a lot of thudding
A  flash and a clash
My word what flooding

Such a clap and a tap
Then a snap like a strap
Earth and thunder trapped
Like Grandad’s kneecap - poor chap

A bolt of lightening
The sky  dark and heightening
Eerie and  frightening
Made my hair all a whitening

I sat counting the distances
And there were no persistences
Nothing could resist
The force of nature existences

I so small on a wall
Began to brawl
Downfall of drops fell on our “hops”
Breaking in half nature's crops

Then ………….
It stops………
Shone light so bright
What a sight
I on my wall
Had had such a fright



Annemarie's Story

Just Before the Thunderstorm
He left just before the thunderstorm.
" I'll take a walk over the top and get a bottle of really good wine before the shop closes - it's such a glorious evening.."
Ten years earlier Josie and Logan had literally bumped into one another at an art exhibition. It was the prelude to a magical, passionate relationship compacted into a single week together each year. Impossible to consider anything else - Josie's marriage was no great love affair - a question of a decent man marrying his pregnant girlfriend -  but they had raised two adored children who, certainly whilst young, bound them together. Logan on the other hand was happily married but to an invalid wife increasingly unable to look after herself.
Both honourable people, Josie and Logan did not allow their affair to encroach on their everyday lives - there was no discussion about each other's family, no meetings, no contact except on the eve of the one special week in order to finalise train times. Their affair was conducted as though  in a bubble, ethereal and precious not touching each other's daily lives.
As ever, driving to pick Logan up from the low whitewashed Welsh station, Josie imagined what life would be like if Logan were free, her children old enough to understand were she to divorce their father, but that was just a dream. This was her week for painting; her husband had his week of sailing with like-minded friends and she - well a week away to indulge in her painting hobby, uninterrupted by family.
One precious week, always towards the end of Autumn, in the same little cottage nestled in a dip on a blustery headland in west Wales reached by a winding, potholed lane leading from the village; no telephone, no mobile signal, no television - just the two of them.
Logan was just exiting the station when she arrived but flitting across his face an expression she did not recognise. He seemed somewhat subdued as he put his case on the back seat, climbed in beside her and turned to embrace her. Puzzled she set off.
The poplar trees lining the road stood black and bare, almost spare of leaves, their tops shimmering in the autumnal evening as though angels had passed in the night sprinkling gold dust. Logan broke the silence and speaking haltingly he began:
"Josie, my wife...she died about four months ago..." Josie took in a swift intake of breath.
"Oh Logan, I'm so sorry."
"Well we had wonderful times together before she became ill and quite honestly it was a release for both of us, I think. She was in great pain, bedridden and unable to do anything for herself. It made my heart break to see her like that. The end came very gently." Josie reached out to hold his hand, to clasp it comfortingly, yet the two of them were silent each with their own solitary thoughts as they drew up outside the converted stone cowshed, its one large window reflecting the trees and the evening sun.
The cottage was bathed in a crepuscular copper glow, the sitting room as though bathed in warmed honey.  
Logan had brought some logs in before leaving for the shop and Josie set a fire for later, then washed and peeled some potatoes, battered out some slices of pork fillet, all the time a fluttering in her heart; she felt like a butterfly newly emerging from its pupa, waiting for her wings to strengthen and unfold. Here was hope for a future, a future for herself and Logan together. The children were adult now, no longer needing her and she was sure she and Peter could settle for an amicable divorce.
In a reveri stepped outside to pick some herbs, delicious aromas of rosemary and thyme wafting in the breeze.Looking up from the dainty purple blossoms Josie noticed the belt of louring pewter cloud, dark and threatening hovering over the village.  Once indoors she busied herself getting her art materials ready. A fresh canvas on the easel, tubes unctuous colours on the paint bespattered table and brushes laid out in a regimental row. First they would take their usual bracing walk over the headland down to the hidden cove where the western waves shuddered their briny foam on to the pebble-strewn beach.
A sudden flash of lightening illuminated the room, thunder in the distance followed by a steady pattering of raindrops against the window. She hoped Logan had taken refuge somewhere, the pub perhaps, until the thunderstorm was over. She put the meal on hold and began to sketch out some ideas for her new piece of art.
The storm continued unabated for several hours, hammering the tin roof over the kitchen, running in rivulets down the window accompanied by sheets of lightening. Gusts of wind rattled the old oak door and howled down the chimney , the flames in the fire leaping and dying like some dervish dance.
When she fell asleep, Josie had no idea but a constant loud hammering on the door
Woke her abruptly. Logan - he must have forgotten his keys. Rubbing her eyes she opened the door. Before her against a calm, cloudless azure sky and standing in inches of muddy rainwater was her son.
"Michael, what on earth are you doing here? How did you find me?  Is something wrong? Come in, come in."
"Oh mum, we have trying to reach you since yesterday. We had no idea where the cottage was and no mobile signal. Eventually I got in touch with your editor and she passed on the address." Michael was shaking, his face white and drawn.
"Please sit down, mum. I have something to tell you - yesterday at work Dad had a massive heart attack. It was totally unexpected and he died in the ambulance." Michael was sobbing as he held his mother close.
"After his office contacted me I came as soon as I had your address but what with the sudden thunderstorm last night and the rain it took much longer. Then just out of the village before you turn  off for here the police were setting up a roadblock. It seems some chap was the victim of a hit and run in last night's storm. They were just carrying the body into the ambulance when I got there. You could still see  a smashed bottle of wine where he had lain." 












 

The Light in the Distance

Angela's contribution.

She knew she had seen it - a light in the distance, she was so sure, and yet now, as she came gradually nearer to where she felt it should be, the darkness enveloped her even more.
She must have been walking now for at least two hours, along this straight unending road, devoid of houses, or any signs of human habitation.
The backs of her shoes were cutting into her heels, and her hands with no gloves were becoming numb with the cold that had become more severe as night had fallen.
Even so, small discomforts compared with what would surely have ensued had she not left when she did.

As she tramped along she replayed that last hour again. The now all too familiar arguments between her and Thomas. This time though things had become more serious. She saw another side to the young man she thought she loved. His face had been contorted in rage and frustration. He had gone for her, raising his hand and slapping her sharply across the face.

Her shock was palpable as her cheek reddened and wheels appeared where his fingers had left an imprint across her face.
Her instinct had been to run, to get away from this changed man, this violent stranger whom she felt perhaps she had never really known.

Yet now, two hours later and in unknown countryside she was feeling her resolve fade a little. Yes, she had to get away but to where and would he follow her? She thought not as there had been no sign of any vehicle all the time she had been walking.

Of course it was now probably well past midnight and here in the depths of the country, traffic at that time was very rare.

She peered hard again into the darkness. She had been so sure there was a light. Yet now all she could see was the eerie outline of trees and hedges closer to her and in the distance just velvety  blackness.

As her shock and hurt produced by Thomas's behaviour began to settle a little new emotions of vulnerability and fear started to take over. She had run out of the house with just her coat, not stopping to grab her bag from the bedroom. So now she had no phone, no lifeline.

The more she thought the more she began to panic. She did not know the road, this was Thomas's patch not hers. If anything should happen no one would know, she could be left there injured or worse.

She tried to pull herself together and think rationally.  There was no moon so she couldn't get an idea of direction although she thought she was heading vaguely for the nearest village.
All she could do was to keep walking in spite of the pain in her feet and trust she would come to somewhere. It was such a long almost straight road though, with no little cross roads and sign posts.

Suddenly she saw that light again - in the distance just for a moment and then gone again.
So it wasn't a house light, probably too late now.  If not that what else. Who would be around with a light at this time. Someone up to no good she assumed and with no comfort or hope of rescue. It was perhaps important that she wasn't seen by whoever this was.

Now she kept her ears peeled as well to catch any sound of who this might be as she walked inevitably closer.
This was so out of her usual day to day life as an office worker with everything ordered and predictable. The outdoor life had never appealed to her and she had no skills or experience to cope with this. Now she just felt very alone, vulnerable and more and more scared. She regretted rushing off as she had,even though it seems the obvious thing to do at the time.

It occurred to her that Thomas had made no effort to come after her even knowing that she would be completely lost and terrified when she failed to find any signs of life in the surrounding countryside. How could he be so callous? Obviously another trait of his personality she had not recognised or he'd kept well hidden.

She was gradually aware that she needed the loo.  She'd been putting it off but now she must do something. Even with no one around old habits and conventions instilled from early life made her search for a bush just off the road for some privacy.

As she pulled back the undergrowth a harsh whisper came to her from further in the trees. 'Hey! What are you doing?!'  Shocked and embarrassed she had no time to answer before she heard ' mind where you tread'
Talking into the trees she whispered back 'who are you ?'
A hundred possibilities instantly ran through her head - all terrifying.
'Badger watching - are you from the other lot?'

Relief flooded every fibre of her being.

' No, I'm just completely lost and alone, it's a long story.'

'Yes, well no time for that now, just tread carefully around the sett. I'll light your way for a moment.'

In the momentary light, she saw a young man, not much older than herself,  well wrapped up and camouflaged.
He glanced at her and gestured to sit by him.

'Probably not much more chance of seeing anything now you've disturbed them.'

'I'm so sorry' she said.

'Yes, well, I was getting a bit cold anyway - thinking of turning in soon' Where were you heading for - if it's on my way I'll give you a lift'

'I'm afraid it won't be on your way but I'd really appreciate a lift to anywhere warm.'

'Ok.. wait there and I'll collect my gear'

She watched as he carefully collected all his equipment.
What a strange thing that this young man, enjoying the antics of the badgers should have been that light in the distance.

There is no end to the ways one can meet one's soulmate!




Annemarie's contribution:

The Light in the Distance

I watched the four of them put on their coats, gloves and boots. I was pretty sure they would leave me at home and sure enough I was told to stay behind. After they had set off in the cold January winds I let myself out and followed at a distance. The blue skies were bathed in a late afternoon copper glow, the ground icy cold and crunchy underfoot as I dodged behind bushes and trees, getting sprinkled with the frosty icing from their leaf-bare branches.
I was never allowed into the forest on my own or with them - too far they said - but I was determined to see where they went this time and the forest was close to home so I shouldn't have any problem finding my way. After all boys are meant to have adventures!
It was quite easy following them because like all adults they were talking all the time and now and then casually cracking dry branches under their boots or crying out when one of them caught themselves on a stray prickly bramble.
The further into the forest, the darker it became. The low bushes, honeysuckle, hornbeam and varied undergrowth below the oak and beech trees gave way to a soft dry mattress of pine needles and a dense, dark covering of gloomy green pine trees the only hint of colour in the black and white of winteriness. I couldn't hear them so well now; I was sometimes running, sometimes hiding and then the forest road split two ways. Panicking I chose the wider track. It was patch worked with deep muddy puddles and soon i was covered in cold, sticky mud. Evening was creeping in - I stopped and listened - which way had they gone? I had no idea – I had lost them! Suddenly the ominous silence was broken by a trundling roar as a dirty, mud spattered 4x4 rumbled round the corner. In terror I turned round and raced down the road chased by the 4x4.                               I could feel my heart pumping, I knew I was panting loudly, gasping for breath but I managed to veer to one side, in amongst the army of towering trunks of fir tree. Perhaps it wasn't a hunter but some evil guy who preyed on children. I stayed cowering for many minutes; once or twice I thought I heard someone calling out faintly in the distance. But who? It might be him trying to entice me. It was impossible to tell as the sounds were so muffled in the steadily darkening forest. I realised I had no idea anymore which way was home and my heart was still pounding. Perhaps I should just rest up for while against the dry hollow of a tree. I must have dozed off because Iwas awoken by a steady drizzle of rain. My legs ached and I was drenched through and then I heard ominous grunts close by. Frozen against the tree I saw -and smelt -a family of wild boar picking their way through the scrub, snuffling and snorting as they riffled through the leaves and snouted up the earth looking for acorns. I had never seen a real boar before and the male looked terrifying, huge tusks glinting in the dying evening light. When it felt safe I painstakingly picked my way through the pine needles, brambles and muddy paths.
I was completely lost, I tried different paths; threatening shapes appeared in the gloom and I still had no idea which way was home. Then, cutting through the dark silence and the fearsome cold I imagined I heard a tinkling sound .I had been very brave setting out but now I jumped at every sound, an owl hooting from its lofty perch, some deers lightly tiptoeing across a clearing and any amount of scuffling and scrunching amongst the dry crispy leaves on the ground.

It must have been at least four hours since the near miss with the 4x4 , it was pitch dark, misty and no moonless and all I could do was try and find the source of the faint tinkling sound which had a vague familiarity about it.. My legs were tired, wet and claggy with mud, my heart still pattering away as gradually I left the forest behind and came to open fields. Then again I heard that clanking noise and glimpsed a light in the distance. I waited hidden behind a large wooden farm gate watching as the wavering light grew nearer. Every now and again it was motionless and I heard the clanking again and - was that my name being called? The light closed in, it was a bicycle ridden by a man who stopped to tap against a tin and yes he had called 'Barney'!
He picked me up, my fur wet, soggy and muddy, my little heart still beating fast, he hunkered me inside his jacket and we wobbled our weary way home in the dark.
Now when they go for a walk I stop at the gate and watch and wait until they come home - no more forest adventures for this cat!

 Contribution by Jackie:

The Light in the Distance

The bloodstain spread its hungry red fingers in and out of the loosely woven linen fibers of Captain Richards freshly ironed cream shirt.  It lay under him now like a crumpled teacloth that had seen the back of crystal glass.  The Captain's hat lay soaked by the heavy swell that crashed regularly on deck sending spray and seaweed onto his once highly polished shoes now scuffed and dirtied.

Joe the 1st officer bent over the figure and showed no guilty remorse nor distress but a feeling of relief.     Soon the boat would be his to govern as he liked, the five young matelots would be under his charge and he would be in control at long last.  Wasn’t it a well know fact that 1st officer always inherited a position from a Captain.
He would be able to choose his cargo from now on, order his own supplies choose the sea route that they would take and stop at as many ports on their way - spend three days on land instead of just 24 hours, drink to his hearts content - bring on board his female conquests to romp and play, sleep late in the mornings without the strict rules that Captain Richards imposed on his crew.  

After three long months at sea conflicts had arisen between the two men, one man devoted to his family, his beloved young wife who he had married late in life due to his influential job as Captain of the Cargo ship “Lulling of the Seas”  sailing  from one end of the earth to the other forcing him to see his family only once every 3 months;  On the other hand the 1st officer was a young man alone in the world with no family,  few scruples and a tendency to drown himself in the bosoms of the girls hanging round sea ports, drinking tequila and brandy to escape his hapless past.

1st officer Joe had known that the Captain was particularly keen on arriving home early in March for his son Gregory’s second birthday.   Born while they had been at sea the Captain was particularly anxious to get back for this special date having missed his son’s 1st birthday.   Photos sent by Theresa his wife showed a very alert young boy with bright blue eyes and a tuft of ginger hair that the Captain longed to ruffle, hug and hear the words Dada for the first time. He had promised Gregory to be home for the party this year and had therefore shortened the home route cutting out port stops, reducing time spent on land therefore not allowing 1st Officer Joe and crew to stop for more than 12 hours at a time and thus limiting access to his favourite pastimes which he, Joe, begrudged the Captain.  Conflicts had been raised, jealously developed and exploded into a deep loathing, fighting rage and eventually to the crime that had just been committed.    

  These last weeks as tropical storms, a hurricane in the Gulf Pacific had prevented them from travelling their normal speed - then slowed by a broken mast and then a large unknown obstacle that had severely hit the bows - time had been running out.    

 Captain Richards 46 year old body was splayed in an unhappy position,  belly down and legs awry rolling from one side of the deck to the other in rhythm to the dark grey swell of the angry sea.    Slowly then and bit by bit an arm moved to wipe away the salt that had formed on his lips Captain Richards gradually came too, lifted his head, focused his eyes and peered through the foggy cloud caused by the pain and gash in his side - they were approaching the shore and he could see two lone figures standing on the seacoast - a female figure, long red hair blowing in the breeze with a small boy by her side holding a lantern - Captain Richards heart lifted and soared at the sight;   the gash in his side tightened and sent a searing pain through his body - he could still feel the cold steel of the knife that 1st officer Joe had plunged into his body -the surprise and shock had weakened him and he felt betrayed and disappointment all at the same time;   fighting against the throbbing and almost fainting with distress he managed to lift himself up off the deck - raise a hand to that light in the distance, to his family who awaited him and love spilled over the deck and rolled towards the shore in a last surge of emotion.

The Moment of Truth - Burgundy writing group by Annemarie W.

The Moment of Truth.
She had known the two boys since childhood. They had lived in the same street, played together as children and attended the same primary school. The three families had holidayed together, spent endless summers barbecuing and playing in each other's homes. David and Jansen treated Katy like a kid sister. She, being an only child, hero-worshipped both of them. But it was always David who waited for her as she dragged behind on their walks, who encouraged her to be brave, to learn to swim, who ran alongside holding her bike until she was courageous enough to allow him to let go, whilst Jansen dived off the highest board, wheeled down the steepest inclines, showing off his derring-do and prowess. At primary school the three of them spent break time together, both Katy and David protecting Jansen when the other children teased him about his strange hand, the only apparent defect in his handsome young person. Born with a webbed left hand he was teased at school, the other children taunting him and calling him ‘the 'man from Atlantis '.
When Katy was fifteen, her father was posted overseas and the family moved to Hong Kong. David, as a parting gift gave her a snowstorm souvenir of the Tower of London. 'Look at this, give it a shake and remember your friends in the cold snow of a London winter while you sun yourself out there.'
In the intervening years their lives were very different. Katy graduated in marine science, working in various tropical countries, enjoying life to the full; David and Jansen on the other hand had remained in Britain both of them going on to medical school and graduating as doctors, David in obstetrics and Jansen in heart surgery, still in London but at different hospitals. The three of them kept in touch, postcards of sunshine and sea from Katy and now and again a Christmas letter from the boys. Of course when Facebook emerged it was so much easier to share their lives. Viewing their posts, seeing photos of them both, Katy would pick up the little souvenir snowstorm of London, now very scratched and give it a shake and gaze at the snow falling over Tower bridge. She felt a longing for the nostalgic days of her time in England and to see her two old friends.
She arranged a six month sabbatical and arrived on a dreary afternoon in London, her first visit back in the ten years since leaving. She rented a flat near Highgate and it wasn't long before she met up with David and Jansen. Just as she remembered them but Jansen taller, better-looking, if she were honest, than the quieter David. Like many young doctors they worked hard and partied hard and the three of them enjoyed a hedonistic lifestyle. Extreme sports, wild swimming and fast drives in his flashy Alfa Romeo, his hands engulfed in his specially made leather driving gloves to accommodate his webbed hand, Jansen was always the life and soul of any adventure. However it was David who stole Katy's heart. He took her to concerts and art galleries, weekends for wind blown walks in the country and quiet evenings in hidden restaurants, and it was not long before she realised her childhood hero-worship had turned into something deep and enduring. Occasionally Jansen joined them on their excursions, always adding an element of excitement and joke de vivre and usually with yet another beautiful girl hanging on his arm.
Jacking in her job, Katy and David planned a simple wedding - close friends and family only, Jansen their best man - and they bought a quaint little mews house in London in preparation for their married life together. With a new part-time job as a lecturer at the local college Katy couldn't be happier, renovating the cottage , searching the antique shops for suitable furniture. A week before their wedding she asked Jansen to help set up her surprise for David - a top of the range sound system and antique chair from where he could relax and listen to the music he loved so much.
The bottle of wine which Jansen and Katy drank to celebrate the completion of house and home led to a second bottle and without knowing how it happened the two of them were making love with drunken passion before the glowing fire, snow falling silently outside.
Now here she was, married, she and David ecstatically happy apart from those dark moments when Katy suffered such pangs of remorse and shame. She and Jansen had vowed never to mention that evening again, not to each other nor to David. Whatever could have possessed her? Euphoria over finishing the cottage, her surprise for David and then, a moment of absolute stupidity after the wine-fuelled celebration? It could not be allowed to threaten their happiness or the men's lifelong friendship.She looked again at the snowstorm souvenir but could not bear to see it shaken, reminding her as it did of that evening of traitorous lunacy and the snow falling silently outside.

David stayed with her during the birth, not an arduous labour but so comforting to have him there clutching her hand and gently encouraging her. Their baby would complete their perfect little world. A cry and here he was. Cleaned and swaddled in a little white sheet the nurse presented the wrinkled little being to his proud parents. Like all new parents they unwrapped the sheet and  counted his ten little toes and on to his hands. Yes all present.

 Then David gazed at Katy in disbelief and back again at the baby's webbed left hand.

Writing club assignement - An annoying habit

An Annoying habit

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful Princess.   Her hair was spun of gold and curled gently into ringlets, her complexion of peaches and cream and her emerald green eyes seemed to brighten the world.   Her parents the King and Queen of the land of Fortune were desperate to see her married as having brought up and already wedded  their 5 other daughters   -   she was the last one to leave the nest.

  They were eager to start their own life again - travel and see the world as they were still young at heart and soul having married when they were very young.   
 So the King and Queen of the land of Fortune searched high and low among their holdings for a suitor - interviewed and invited  suitable candidats who came from far and wide to meet the beautiful Princess and eventually ask for her hand in mariage.   Many of them spoke to her, tried to bring her into conversation and enticed her with delicious things to eat and drink.   Asked her well thought out questions - drew her into fascinating debates and complimented generously upon her fair self - tempted her into real discussions about her favorite dogs and again her horses.    - It wasn’t as if their conversation was boring,  their well  prepared questions and stories were interesting enough,  she just remained silent.   They went away disappointed that she had not  revealed what should have been a honey silk voice to go with the beautifulness of herself.

A sovereign brought golden frogs from his country, a Prince from Mongolia spices from far away,  another well born young man exotic silks from Morocco - an Egyptian of noble birth some ancient coins and a Russian Csar his sapphires from the transvaal.     Still the Princess didn’t speak.      She remained silent just nodding her head with a slight smile on her enticingly cupid shaped lips.     Although she looked divine, dressed beautifully and her perfume sent most pretendents into a swoon - she refused to open her mouth.   One by one the young men turned away unable to bear not hearing  her voice and not wanting to take the risk of marrying her and have a lifetime of silence.

 The King and Queen of the land of Fortune looked on approvingly at their last daughter as she did as she was told and kept her mouth shut at all times.    They continued to present suitable young men to the palace.  They had made a bargain with their daughter that she should not utter a word and remain silent at all times and only when she was married would they permit her to converse.  
 The trouble was that the lovely princess had a terrible annoying habit that would have frightened off any man if he ever heard her speak before mariage.  

Every time she opened her mouth, her tongue, which was  twice the normal size and deformed into a knot got jumbled up with her crooked front teeth, which were  terribly pointy and spiky and so when she spoke every other word came out as a clucking sound like a chicken.  (Cluck How cluck do cluck you do cluck …. )
the sound came out of her exquisite mouth and sounded like a mother hen calling her chicks ……So she didn’t speak but she “clucked”.    This annoying unfortunateness had been with her all her childhood and was so irritating and exasperating to her immediate family that all of them had worn earplugs whenever she was in a room so irksome was the noise.  So as it was now the time for her to find a husband, the King and Queen of the land of Fortune had forbade her to speak so as not to put off any future lover

Imagine her clucking her way through official receptions, squawking to heads of state, attending state balls, paying visits to hospitals and speaking at official functions not speaking but cluckety clucking like a swarm of old hens. 

One day a young man presented himself to the court.  He shook hands with the King and bowed deeply to the Queen but did not utter a sound. The King and Queen exchanged complicit  glances ….maybe this could be the one.    A speechless Prince.     The appealing Princess curtseyed and met the handsome Princes admiring gaze.  They observed each other and very gently took each others hands and danced the night away.    Never a word was spoken.
On their wedding night the Prince and Princess decided that at last they would speak to each other.
She clucked like a chicken and he barked like a fox and they started to chase each other around their honeymoon suite - having the most wonderful time but upsetting the hotel staff considerably who thought there was a farmyard installed in their expensive honeymoon suite.
The couple had 6 children who all grew up to all have very annoying habits -moooooo ….quack quack    squeak queak etc. etc.

The subject for this writing group project was - The moment of Truth

The moment of truth …….

…….The moment of truth When you rush to get your train only to discover when you hear the announcement by the conductor that you’re going in the wrong direction

……The moment of truth When you buy a very large packet of dried dog food - haul it to the car then  lug it up the steep steps home - feed your by then starving dog only to discover that they are the wrong brand and she won’t eat them

……The moment of truth When you find that stamped ready to post envelope that has been hiding under the linen pile to find that it was an unpaid bill and the fine is even bigger than the bill itself

…..The moment of truth is when A glance in an outside mirror brings a “moment of truth”

…………..The moment of truth When you try on your last years jeans and can’t get them past your expanding thighs

………The moment of truth When you’ve been on holiday in a white and beige rented flat and come home to your cluttered house and feel claustrophobic

……The moment of truth When little children call you Granny and you realize that it is yes yourself

The moment of truth When you’ve been by the sea where everything is blue, sky, sea, pool, blue striped T shirts and you come home to green countryside and get the blues

The moment of truth is when you Prepare a big bag of old clothes to throw away only to discover weeks later that you’ve mistakenly got rid of your brand new jacket that cost a fortune

The moment of truth is When you sit for hours trying to figure out something on your computer and a 9 year old shows it to you in one click 5 seconds

The moment of truth is when you say yes to a dinner invitation only to discover that you had already said yes to another person on the same night …. The moment of truth when you might have Alzeimhers

The moment of truth when you take time to make a list for shopping and get to the shops to find you’ve left it behind..

the theme of this writing club story was "Not letting Go"

“Not Letting go”

Dear Mr Matchmaker,  

I am writing to complain about the number of matches in the box I bought today.  I had run out of matches to light my fire and had to wait until Thursday of this week to go to buy them.   Thursday is the day I do my shopping and although I know the shops are open all day every day in this country I do not allow my routine to be changed.    So I waited for the store to open - normally you open the door at 8 am sharp.   (and as it happens I know you from way back, in fact we were at school together but if you’ll excuse me for saying so, you were never a very precise person )   But on this particular Thursday it was all of 4 minutes past 8 when you deigned to open the door of your store . This late opening set my metabolism in a twist to say the least because I am a methodical person and do not like to upset my routine.   ( I’m out of work at the moment and have never had a job since leaving school in fact so time is on my hands -I can’t understand it really and all these rejections are depressing but this is another matter ) After having brought my box of matches home - I read on the box that there were 100 matches in it.  Being a well-ordered  person and liking to verify things I counted the matches.  I include two photographs I took this afternoon that show the box with the number 100 in clear black and white numbers.   I should like to inform you that there are in fact only 97 matches in this particular box. A number which is totally false and incorrect.  Matches cannot be matched with uneven numbers.   Also I have calculated that I need to light my fire in my sitting room plus light the gas three times a day which amounts to 100 matches to be struck every month.   Having only 97 matches in the box means that I shall have to go without food and warmth  for one day on this month - this very coldest month of the year ——January.  If it had been in the month of July for example or even August I wouldn’t have bothered you but really this inconvenience is just too much.  I do appreciate that your staff can possibly make mistakes in counting out the matches that you put in your boxes - but you are the boss after all and I really think it is your duty to check on the counting a little more frequently.   I am therefore asking you for a refund of the 80 cents I spent on this uneven box of matches.  

Dear David (may I call you that as you so kindly reminded me we were at school together although I don’t recollect any pleasant memories in your company - were you the boy with the thick glasses and slicked by brillantine hair style sitting at the back row checking that the number of pages in the exercise books were correct? Thumbing through them licking your finger and clicking your tongue to turn over the pages as you mumbled and grumbled preventing us all from concentrating on what the teacher was saying? )  I also do recall your raising havoc on the time it took to eat lunch.    In Mrs Jones’s class we had 15 minutes to eat our sandwiches and drink our milk - and if I recall you went round the lunch room with a timer to make sure we finished on the dot.    You then had your parents send in a letter to the school principal complaining of the fact that most boys took 17.5 minutes to finish lunch and threatened to make a further fuss to the town council if the lunch time wasn’t changed from this 15 minutes to 17.5 minutes.       It seems to me that we all have only one life to live and would it best not to live it counting out and checking number silly ocities.

I most humbly apologise for the lack of said matches in the box but as you know I am a busy man and counting matches is not on my schedule.   I really cannot understand why you are making such a hubbub about having 97 matches in a box instead of 100 -   I am happy to reimburse you the 80 cents if this makes you happy but if I may be so bold as to give you a little bit of advice  - just cool down relax and live without counting, calculating, and tallying up everything and everybody.   

Not letting go of your childhood maniacal phobias is hindering you in this world, preventing you from getting a job and moving forward.  

You’ll see life will improve and be a better place for you and especially for others.

Yours sincerely,

The matchmaker