Sometimes A Prayer Will Do lyrics

Sometimes we stumble
Sometimes we even fall
And we can’t find a friend
Can’t comprehend it all
And we are lost
With nothing to hold on to

When we can’t find the answer
Sometimes a Prayer will do
And though we wonder
Uncertain if we will get through
To face the future
Sometimes a prayer will do

Sometimes we reach
For what’s not really there
Sometimes we lose our grip
Come tumbling through midair
And we are searching
For something to hold on to

When we can’t find the answer
Sometimes a Prayer will do
And though we wonder
Uncertain if we will get through
To face the future
Sometimes a prayer will do

Then we are stronger
Somehow we know we will get through
To face the future
Sometimes a prayer will do

Yeah, we are stronger
Somehow we know we will get through
To face the future
Sometimes a prayer will do

Sometimes a prayer will do
© Brendan Graham, Rolf Lovland (Peermusic 111 Ltd. (BMI)
Universal Songs Of Polygram International Inc. (BMI)

(Song as performed by Susan McFadden of Celtic Woman and featured on their 2015 CD “Destiny”)

It is time to change.

It is time to change the misconception by big business franchises, hotels, breweries, pub bars, restaurants etc that the UK is full of couples, married, cohabiting or whatever proclivities take their fancy.

The fact is there are far more single people than couples in the UK and, according to the divorce statistics, that figure is growing by the day.

But blinkered pub bar restaurant chains in their greed for ever more profits to pay dividends to their avaricious shareholders continue to push 2 for 1 deals on meals, or, say, 2 for a £10er. You’ve all seen the signs, they are everywhere.

But those same companies could make even more profit if they offered straight-forward decently priced deals for single diners instead of robbing them in order to subsidise couples’ bills.

It’s not rocket science, it just needs companies to get rid of their portion-control-freak accountants and blind or blinkered university degree directors with no life experience, and just get real. They are all missing a trick.

Hotels charge single room supplements but, duhhh, those same rooms would more than likely be empty anyway; so they’d not be bringing in any revenue at all.

So what do they all offer the majority of the population who are single?

Answer: Sweet FA.

My local village pub, the Bay Horse in Thornton Lancashire, has been variously described as “an adult dining experience” by previous so called ‘brewery’ owners – but there’s no sign of any table dancers or topless waitresses, or male strippers to titillate the ladies. And the latest brewery owners still make the mistake of describing the location as being in Blackpool – some 5 miles away. It shows how much they know, or care.

And on TripAdvisor it is shown as a “Gastro Pub”; wrong wrong wrong on all counts – it is a village pub that serves ting-ting meals (microwave in case you’re wondering) and, for a number of reasons, trade is dropping off so fast I fear for its future. But it does have THE Best beer garden on the Fylde Coast.

But this isn’t all about me and my ‘local’, it is about all of us Singlies, wherever we are in the UK, who are victims of discrimination against single people .

If you are single and feel the same as me then let’s all get together as one voice and demand change.

It is against the law to discriminate against Race, Religion, Sexual Orientation, Muslims, the Thought Police are everywhere, yet so many UK pub / restaurant businesses blatantly and openly discriminate against Single People with impunity. You can see the signs everywhere. Two for One means one thing, Single People have to pay twice as much for a meal as two people each eating that same meal – but seated and ordering together. That is Single Discrimination plain and simple, and it must be stopped.

It isn’t only the ‘hospitality’ sector that is guilty of Single Discrimination; I even saw a notice in a Northern Rail carriage just a couple of days ago offering 1/3 off the price for two people travelling together on their trains. Ok, I know there are numerous railcard discounts for various qualifiers, and yes I do qualify for a Senior Railcard but it does seem that there is an element of discrimination against Single People there too.

It doesn’t end there either. No doubt you could add other cases of Discrimination against Single People from your own experiences, the points that I have mentioned here are a few that immediately come to mind.

So come on all you Singlies out there. Rise up. It’s time to shake the trees, it’s time to rattle the cage; it’s time to end the discrimination against Single People by the ignorant mindless accountant-led corporate status quo – for the benefit of all.

Be Single. Be Proud. Be You. Be an Individual. Together we CAN make a change. Join the movement and make change happen.

Shareholders in the companies concerned are only in it for the dividends, the companies for the profits. Wake up you guys, stop discriminating against Single People and start encouraging us into your premises – and watch your profits and dividends rise exponentially. It’s not rocket science, just plain and simple joined up thinking, oh, and experience – something those university graduate young gun accountants just out of short pants seemingly never learn (or maybe are never taught?)

Let us all join together and turn our collective lone voices into a concerted chorus and shout it out loud: “I’m Single and I have rights”.

Spread the word.

Together we can make a difference.

Together we can make it happen.

Let’s do it.

Early morning Mist on the meadow.
Vapour trails, white lines crossing.
Blue sky above, winter sun hangs low,
Along the lane, coloured leaves still falling.

Early morning Mist on the hillside,
Swirling all around at knee height
Can’t see the ground beneath our feet,
Tread with care but savour the sight.

Early morning Mist on the river
Trees all bare now, in the frost they shiver.
Gorse flowers bloom like bushes of fire
As scents and blossoms pervade the cold air.

Early morning Mist on the outside
Peek through the curtains, stay inside
No work today, no walking either
Crawl back into bed and under the eider.

(C) R Morton 10 Oct 2015

Dear Ian

So, onward to Scotland.

Once upon a time there was an intrepid traveller who lived beside the sea on the northwest frontier, and seeking further adventure he

and a disparate group of other like-minded people ventured far to the north way out into the wild northern lands beyond the great wall.

There were more people than usual who boarded the coach at 7.10am in Cleveleys on the morning of Monday 20^th July. A quick drive down the prom to Blackpool for the second pick-up and then it was out onto the motorway to Preston bus station before heading over to Blackburn for the final pick-up. And then it was time to go north, so after two hours we were on the M6 and stopped at the Lancaster services (Lancaster is less than 20 miles from here). The drive northwards was pleasant and uneventful and we successfully crossed (unchallenged) in to that wild land that lies beyond the wall .

On arrival at ‘The Hotel’ (actually grandly titled Adamton Country House Hotel but henceforth shall be known as Faulty Towers on Steroids) the duty manager, Janet, came onto the coach, introduced herself and proceeded to pass amongst us handing out our room keys from a wicker basket. That was rather novel, thought I, but I could see the virtue of not having to queue in line at reception waiting to get checked in. But more of that later.

And that’s when the fun started.. Spoiler alert – You need to be good with numbers to follow this next bit. Now before I go on, just imagine the scenario – 54 passengers on the coach, not all of whom were pensioners but shall we say some were less than A1 physically fit specimens and indeed there were a couple of wheelchair users too. As we stepped down from the coach the driver was unloading the baggage (and wheelchairs). Collecting our bags, Janet the manageress directed us down three steps (two loose bricks on the top step) to be met by Mike or Matt or something like that, could have been Mac as we were in Scotland after all. He checked our key cards to see what rooms we were in and directed us all appropriately to make (find) our ways to our rooms. For me that meant climbing two flights of stairs (others had to go one flight higher) to get onto the right floor. I’m really glad I’d decided to travel light this trip and hadn’t overfilled my small case. Mike/Matt/Mac said that I should turn left at the top of the second flight of stairs and carry on along the corridor to the end. Oh, Janet had explained on the coach while giving out the keys that the first number related to the annexe and the three remaining numbers were the room numbers, so mine was 6110 – remember that because by the time I did eventually find it the penny had dropped that this was indeed going to be something of an adventure training camp. So, anyway I’m up on the second floor which is actually the first floor because the ground floor is called ‘The Basement’.

Are you still with me? I hope so because I still haven’t found my room yet (for the sake of this story – I’m trying to create a mental image for you of the real sort of time line involved here). There I was on the second floor, or first floor in Annexe 1 or 2 (I don’t think I ever managed to work that one out) and I was really glad my little case has little wheels as it followed me for miles along identical corridors through a maze of identical annexes. Eventually I found Annexe 6 (btw – there were 7 annexes in total) but could I find my room 6110? I saw 6001 and all identical doors along the corridor to 6009 and then through a fire door into an open space where there was a lift door on my left and the entrance to Annexe 7 to the left of the lift. Just to the right of the Annexe 7 fire door was another door with a notice saying ‘Staff Only’ (it was actually the linen cupboard – a bedroom sized linen cupboard) I peered through into Annexe 7 to see if 6110 was hidden away through there but it wasn’t. So I retraced my steps back to where I started at the top of the 2^nd flight of stairs.

And started the search all over again,

And again.

Three bloody times I trailed the length of those corridors, remaining surprisingly reasonably calm as the will to live was fading away. So, there I was, back in that space by the lift door, the door to Annexe 7 and the linen cupboard. Just to the right of the linen cupboard door was a window so I paused to look out and survey the building site. At least I was looking out at some daylight anyway. Now it may just have been me being a bit tired after the long day/drive or I might just have been a bit slow but as I was about to try a 4^th time I noticed that there was another door in the open space by the lift. Yep, you’ve guessed it, Room 6110.

That was something of a relief, and what do you know, the key actually fitted the lock on the door. It was a good sized airy bedroom and the bathroom was a good size too, and apart from lumps of plaster fallen from one of the walls, and exposed carpet gripper rods where two sections of carpets were not quite joined up properly, it was quite clean and tidy. The bed felt comfortable too and it was only for three nights anyway so hey ho, not to worry. It’ll all be OK.

I put the kettle on and got a brew going while I unpacked and had a quick swill and changed out of my travelling clothes.

At this point it may be helpful for you my dear reader to hark back to an earlier paragraph, the one that begins with “On arrival at….”.

OK, are you back with me now?

Right, here we go.

I set off walking the corridors again, it’s a good job I like walking isn’t it, this time in search of Reception. There were nice clear signs supposedly strategically situated with helpful arrows pointing the way to Reception. I followed them diligently all the way back to where I started at the top of the second flight of stairs that I’d started from. No sign of reception, but there was another sign (and another) pointing out that Reception was in the opposite direction. After a couple of attempts I met some other lost souls wandering aimlessly along the corridor somewhere in Annexe 3 – or it might have been 4 – and they had been looking for reception too (I didn’t have the heart to ask them how long they’d been searching – could have been since a year ago last Monday for all I knew) Anyway we decided that the signs were there pointing a way to Reception that didn’t really exist yet – we reckon it was hidden away behind some wooden boarding along one bit of the corridor. On the other hand it may have been other lost souls from a previous generation that had been walled in, there was an occasional odd knocking sound coming from the other side, and that light moaning sound could just have been the wind whistling through the Trossachs.

It turned out later that part of the building work going on was indeed the erection of a direct internal link between the annexes and the actual Reception. So, that little riddle was semi resolved. The episode also explained why Janet had come on board the coach to hand out the keys – because there was no Reception in the Annexes building!

By now there was about an hour to go until our allotted meal time so the next priority was a) to find the dining room and b) to find the bar.

Back along to Annexe 6 and my room door (6110 in case you’ve forgotten or nodded off along the way) and the paper sign stuck beside the lift door instructs that for the Coach Party’s Dining Room we should press the -1 button (i.e. not the G or Ground Floor but the -1 for Basement as the automated lift voice would have it) but for the sake of clarity the -1 floor is not the basement at all but 5 steps above the ground floor outside. And the Dining Room for Coach Parties was down another 3 brick steps– with no handrails and along the outside path to the entrance .At least now I knew where the Dining Room was so I wouldn’t starve.

But I was also still searching for the Reception – if only to see if there really was one!

Opposite the entrance to the Dining Room was a steep flight of stairs leading upwards to two big doors, so I thought I’d go and do a bit of exploring. I opened one of the doors and found myself in (another) dining room (the posh hotel people’s dining room) where a waitress was busy setting tables. “Hello”, said I, “Is there a Reception anywhere and / or a bar at all in this hotel?” “Yes” said she, “It’s just through there”, pointing off into the deep dark recess. Well hey, there was a Reception after all. So, I asked the receptionist if they had a bar in the building and she directed me through another doorway and sure enough there was The Bar. I got some strange looks from the few people seated around the small bar area , Later on I realised that they weren’t used to seeing …….someone from The Annexes who had actually broken out and stumbled on their hideaway. But the girl behind the bar was friendly enough so I spent a pleasant half hour chatting with her.

But then I had to find my way back to the Annexe People’s Dining Room. I got to the posh people’s dining room where the waitress was still busy setting up tables and I had to ask her how could I get back down to The Annexes and the Coach Parties’ Dining Room. “You’ve nearly made it” she smiled, “It’s just through those doors and down the steep flight of stairs”. And so it was.

Even I’m finding this all a bit longwinded now, and I am conscious that I haven’t started cooking anything for tea yet so I’d better crack on and tell you a few things about “The Dining Room”.

Each coach party is allocated tables and ours were designated with Green napkins (as opposed to Yellow, Red, Blue, or whatever) and the food was all self-service. I don’t have a problem with that at all, but I do expect clean plates to plonk my food onto and on three occasions had to ask for clean plates to be brought out to the servery. The dirty plates weren’t dirty as in stuck on leftover food, they were just plain dirty – like they’d been washed in a dirty puddle on the building site and stacked up while still wet. One meal included what I think was euphemistically called roast beef in red wine. I think the beef was nearer to inedible (and uncuttable) old shoe leather rather than any long-horned four-legged bovine. A final one here on the food front – another dinner – Beef Burbignone (sorry about the spelling) which included chopped up left over pork sausages from the previous breakfast time.

Meanwhile, back in The Annexes, a couple of anecdotes:

A couple of sisters from Blackburn running the hot water for a bath – but they could turn the hot water tap off and the water was flowing into the bath faster than it could drain out. But there were no phones in any of the rooms and the ladies had no idea where reception was. So they phoned National Holidays office (over near Hull) and explained the problem and asked to be put through to reception at the Hotel – which they duly did and after a few frantic hours the problem was resolved.

I guess the maintenance man was kept very busy what with leaking radiators, soaking carpets and broken showers etc.

One old guy just got lost. He’d gone in search of Reception and having decided to give up on the hunt he went back to his room – only he could remember which room, which floor or even which annexe he was in. That one was resolved when someone found his wife in an extremely distressed state wondering what had happened to her husband and with the aid of a couple of helpful people who managed to successfully reunite the couple.

I think I still remain as one of the few people who did actually find The Reception and The Bar.

For us plebs in the Coach Parties’ Dining Room they had a makeshift bar area set up beside the food server.

A nice thing happened on the way home. I’d been talking to Nigel the coach driver the day before and asked him if he was going to do the return drop-offs in reverse order (Blackburn, Preston, Blackpool and Cleveleys which is the usual way of things) or as he was driving north to south could he do it the other way for a change – it would save us at least 3 hours, possibly 4 hours, and as he was travelling on home to Manchester after his last drop, he would be heading in the right direction without having to double back over the same stretches of road. So, we got dropped off in Cleveleys first just 2 hours after leaving Gretna where we’d had a 45 minute break after leaving Prestwick.

Oh, amongst the contingent travelling form Cleveleys was one lady who I see most days walking her dog along School Road here, and a couple who live down Victoria Road in Cleveleys and go in the Bay occasionally. Neil and I went to watch / listen to the band who were very good, the best they’ve had on for over a year in our opinion. And the couple from Victoria Road were in too so we had a good chat – and a laugh reliving and sharing the memories. I’m definitely going to write to National Holidays to express my disappointment with the hotel – it really should not be open to the public until everything is sorted out and all building work is finished. Everything else about the trip was fine.

So, there you go. If you’ve stuck with it and managed to get to this line then you deserve a medal for endurance.

Now I really must sign off and turn my attention to cooking something up for tea – and serving it up on clean plates! At ground level a million miles from Annexe 6.

Take care Ian, I hope you’ve enjoyed the read.

Russ.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hi Ian,

A few additional thoughts which didn’t quite make it in to the previous email.

One of the points I will be making when I write to National Holidays about my Scottish trip is that they should state absolutely clearly to everyone looking at or thinking about booking a holiday at the same hotel (Adamton Country House Hotel) near Prestwick is the unsuitability for any guests who rely on wheelchairs, Zimmer frames or are generally bad on their feet / legs. There is only one lift which will only carry up to 4 people at a time and that is situated at one end of the Annexe complex. Even if guests are able to specially request a ground floor room there are still umpteen steps or stairs to negotiate, some of the steps outside between the Annexe (lift end) and the Coach Parties’ Dining Room don’t even have a handrail.

This should not be allowed, I don’t know how they are allowed to operate. There are steps and staircases everywhere and only the one lift, no sign of any easy fire escapes for the disabled or infirm.

I’m still fairly agile and active so most of the step problems don’t affect me but having said that even I would have felt more comfortable if there had been a handrail on some of them.

The path alongside the Dining Room (between the Annexe door and the Dining Room entrance is outside with no cover – no problem if the weather is fine but you’d get soaked when it rains. Contrary to what everyone says about how it always rains UP in Scotland, I know for a fact that it does rain DOWN too.

The building work: Yes, there is fair bit of new building work going on but that is fairly quiet and let’s face it, we were out and about on excursions during the daytime hours so it didn’t affect us, and I think it would also be fair to say that when they have done the current work the result should look pretty good. But there is so much that needs doing to the existing buildings. In my opinion, National Holidays should pull this one and stop offering holidays there until all the work is complete and all rooms are fully functioning. If it takes a year to get it right then so be it. What price do they put on customer satisfaction. I consider myself fairly easy going, a trainee grumpy old man, and prepared to put up with a bit of ‘hassle’ – like it is only for a few nights, and I’ve slept in worse places (oh really? I begin to ask myself). And the National Holiday trips are generally reasonable value and enable a lot of people to go away for a few days here and there with similar minded people. But, cheap and cheerful is one thing at the end of the day it all costs money and let’s face it we are all (or certainly should be) demanding better value for our £’s.

A final thought on the building work – none of the builders were wearing hard hats or high viz jackets, and from what I saw their hoodies and shorts were complemented by nice comfy trainers – none of the obligatory steel toecap protective footwear there. Using a circular saw/grinder to cut through concrete – no sign of any goggles or face mask to protect against flying bits & pieces or the clouds of concrete dust created. Perhaps they do breed them tougher up there?

I think I might have just worked out why there were so many stacks of dirty dinner plates – they may have been using one of the builders’ cement mixers as a dish washer when the workers had clocked off for the day.

On our last night there I was talking to Janet, the duty Manager, and asked what she planned to do about us all and our room keys before we left in the morning – would she be coming on to the coach to collect the keys same as she’d handed them out? I made the point that only a few of us had actually managed to find Reception and I for one wasn’t going to traipse all that way, up and down all the stairs – with my suitcase just to hand in my key after breakfast. She asked what I thought was best and I asked what does she normally do – but that I’d leave my key in my room door, and she said that would be fine. So I spread the word to the other nine people with whom I shared a dining table and they in turn passed on the message to others so I reckon in the end everyone followed that advice.

As I’ve noted before, none of the travails really affected me directly but they were a cumulative source of disappointment and mild frustration. However, rather than follow the herd of malcontents complaining, shouting, stamping their feet, or finger wagging etc at the manager I tried to remain relatively calm and offer some constructive suggestions – which did actually seem to go down quite well.

I’m looking forward to my next National Holidays trip (in August) to Oxford and Stratford on Avon, but as the brochure says we’ll be staying in one of their ‘Select Hotels’ I won’t know which hotel – or even which town I’ll be staying in. After that, who knows, I have no further plans to book any more breaks with them. I might have a think about investing in a senior citizens railcard for next year and look at sorting out some trips of my own to do. A few days in York are very appealing at the moment but there are a few places I’d like to visit and explore for a few days at a time.

One final thought on the Adamton CH Hotel, in fact this applies equally to all hotels – why, in this day and age do they not all provide free Wi-Fi as standard? Some places can and do, why then can’t they all ?

That’s your lot for tonight. It is still grey, miserable, raining and blowy outside and it has gone COLD so I’d better put another layer on before I go and sit down to watch tonight’s episode of Odyssey – don’t know if you’ve been following that but I think it is pretty good.

I’m glad it has rained today, normally on inclement days I do a bit of extra curricula cleaning / housework but today the cleaning has been put on hold while I’ve spent a few happy hours with you and that has to be good.

Take care, and do wrap up warm. 26^th July? Feels more like the end of October here right now.

Russ.

Santa or Satan
Close your eyes and look
Saint Nick or Old Nick
Contradictions enough to fill a book.

Reindeers on rooftops late in the night
Where now the magic of Christmas dreaming
No chimneys these days, no fires burning bright
In houses warmed by central heating?

(C) Russ Morton 24 Dec 2014

With so much corruption, violence, hatred and intolerance going on in the world, perhaps the time is right for everyone to step back, pause for thought, remember, and just think about these words which meant a lot to me at the time, and still do so to this day, and they clearly struck a chord with many people in the past. May they have the same effect now. If you feel the same way after reading this then please share the words around the world – they apply to everyone.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
And remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender,
Be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others –
Even the dull and ignorant, they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons – they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter,
Always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career –
However humble, it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
For the world is full of trickery.
But do not let this blind you to what virtue there is.

Many persons strive for high ideals,
And everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially do not feign affection, neither be cynical about love.
For in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
It is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the council of the years,
Gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you from sudden misfortune,
Do not distress yourself with imaginings –
Many fears are borne of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe.
No less that the trees and the stars you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive him to be.
And whatever your labours and aspirations,
In the noisy confusion of life,
Keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
It is still a beautiful world.
Be careful. Strive to be happy.

Seasons turning in a parallel universe

For most of us, its short days and long nights.
For Taxi drivers and Christmas workers,
Hoteliers, it’s a time of long days and short nights

For most, a time of giving and receiving.
For some it’s a time for taking and making.
For those with kids its all for the children.
For others a week of nothing but drinking.

Save your time, and save your money
Buy next year’s cards half price in January.
Last weekend of August, Christmas decs are in store,
Switch on the illuminations, light up the tower.

Twinkling lights along the strand
Fibre optic, halogen, tungsten and filament
Bulbs by the thousands light up the sand
LED, Laser, neon, and fluorescent.

Throughout September and in to November
And who’s to say this isn’t right
Lights on the prom extinguished before Christmas.
As the tower, like a tree, shines bright in the night.

So who’s to say what happens next
In four years’ time they must all be replaced
Stop global warming, save the planet.
Low energy bulbs are the future, the government dictates.

So who’s to say ‘25th December’?
Christians, Prince Albert and Coca Cola
Hijacked and defined the turning of the year
As the old world marked the sun’s rebirth.

Stonehenge they do say
Marks the sunrise on the longest day.
But turn it around and what does it say?
Only the sunset on the shortest day!

So who’s to say? We know they stole our yuletide solstice.
It could have been in November; not likely our ‘Christmas’
When three kings followed their star all a-glow
And shepherds watched their flocks in the snow.

So who’s to say?
That long ago and far away,
Away in a manger
Wasn’t really in November.

(c) Russ Morton 23 Nov 2014

The Hag is astride,
This night for to ride,
The devil and she together;
Through thick and through thin,
Now out, and then in,
Though ne’er so foul be the weather.

A thorn or a bur
She takes for a spur;
With a lash of a bramble she rides now,
Through brakes and through briars,
O’er ditches and mires,
She follows the spirit that guides now.

No beast, for his food,
Dares now range the wood,
But hush’d in his lair he lies lurking;
While mischiefs, by these,
On land and on seas,
At noon of night are a-working.

The storm will arise,
And trouble the skies This night;
and, more for the wonder,
The ghost from the tomb
Affrighted shall come,
Call’d out by the clap of the thunder.

Robert Herrick

“Live your life in truth, as truth is freedom; lies are a never ending maze that grows. Take some time each day to be silent, what you hear will truly surprise you.” – Pamela Sutherland #PSMyWords

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have always believed in the old gods – they provided hope and stability. -RM MyQuote- 

(The Witches, the Sea Ogre and the Sea Snail)

Join me as the Witching Hour approaches and we will face the struggle together.

The Black Witch:

There was a time when the land knew peace love and harmony, and forgiveness. Maybe there have always been monsters and perhaps there always will. This black witch was a real monster who planted her foul seeds of evil into all around her so they could go out and infect the world.

At first, on the surface, she may appear as a normal woman but scratch the surface and deep down…… pray that you never find out.

It was the stench of decay that gave her away. Sheer poison, greater than the deepest cess pit. Jezendor Orydon was a black witch, probably the most twisted, darkest, and cruellest of all black witches; whose greatest pleasure in her miserable misguided life was in destroying children and dreams of happiness for all. She had to be stopped.

Her world is a most dangerous place to be; invisible, darkly insidious it grows silently like a cancer. For anyone with the misfortune to find themselves ensnared in her tangled web it can drag them down, way down, into the depths of despair; and beyond. Not a good place to be.

A time for the support of real friends, people who will reach out, lend a helping hand. But how do you know who is a friend? Who is a real friend? Who is a true friend? Real true friends are very few and far between; yet all it takes is someone with a lamp, a steady arm to hold it high, a quiet voice – and the patience to see it through. No-one said it would be easy.

How many friends, real friends, true friends, does a person really have? You find out very quickly when you need help the most – and the answer is “very few”. Fair-weather friends are like fallen leaves in a gale. So much chaff. Vultures flapping around a corpse. Vitriolic.

But then, just when things seem like they cannot get any worse, you somehow have to find that tiny piece of inner strength; that fragment of the indomitable spirit which remains, like a spark, somewhere within you. Time to realise there are still a few real friends out there who are still there for you, still with you, still helping, supporting and nurturing you and your dreams. Helping to build a new life, a better future. Hold on to those helping hands. Re-igniting the fire. Bringing Hope.

Room 101 is very real. Everyone needs to be aware that the Thought Police are alive and thriving in the real world where corruption is endemic. Corruption feeds hatred. Who polices the Thought Police?

I think, therefore I am, I think. And so, darkness falls.

Jezendor Orydon had never approved of anyone. The evil black witch, the real monster in all of this, so deeply mired within her own neurotic state that the only way she could survive was to infect everyone she came in contact with. Spreading her destructive vile poison on to the youngest and most vulnerable. And beyond!

But for now she is happy to wallow in her own stinking midden.

And so it begins…..

The Sea Ogre

Deplon Torebach was a Sea Ogre from the hidden undersea world of the Lune Deep. Sub-marine reef cliffs cut during the last ice age and forged by the strong currents raging some 70 metres below the surface of Morecambe Bay, where the incoming tide can run faster than a man. From the depths of his home in the grand canyon beneath the waves Deplon Torebach would occasionally rise up and with his huge paddle row his giant canoe around the wide treacherous bay.

Although for most of the time he lived a quiet contemplative life, always slow to anger, he was a formidable creature who could strike fear into the hearts of those who entered and abused his domain; the many wrecks that litter the seabed along this coastline lay as stark reminders of the perils of the sea.

His story is not yet known, but he will live on in the memories of those who sought his help to rid the world of Jezendor Orydon whose pervasive stinking poison contaminated not only the people around her but the land too and the wide bay beyond, polluting even the very deepest channels on the seabed. But it would need the help of another witch to conjure up the spells to defy and defeat the sheer evil that was the black witch. The battle would not be easy and there were bound to be casualties.** **

The White Witch – Part 1

Siobhan, a Wiccan of the old Order, the white witch in the coastal village, possessed considerable powers to harness the elemental balances of goodness over evil; always ready to come to the aid of those who sought her help. Her charms were legendary. But would she be able to conjure up the forces strong enough to defeat the black witch? It would take the strongest spell, the most potent brew that she had ever devised and all her powers of endurance to succeed. But Siobhan was not in the best of health herself and her strengths were already weakened. She heeded the call for help but she would also need to call upon Deplon Torebach for his help and tremendous physical strength in the struggle ahead. Siobhan also gave me the inner strength to carry on writing this journal. Faith. Without her this story might never have been told.

The White Witch – Part 2, The Black Witch, The Sea Ogre, and The Sea Snail

The ancient leather-bound volume was opened, its’ well-thumbed faded pages turned and searched. Words were spoken, the candles were lighted, the spirits summoned and their powers invoked; the spell was cast. Now it began. But where and how would it end? This was a world beyond me. I will try to record the battle precisely, exactly as it happened and as accurately as possible – here I must rely on my contemporary notes made at the time but forgive me if my recollections fail me!

It was midnight. The witching hour on the wild Fylde Coast. Gale force winds blasting in from the sea. High raging tide, full moon bathing the heaving surging broken surface of the Bay in an eerie silver light. White horses galloping along the crests of the waves racing headlong, unstoppable, across the foaming surf towards the land.

On land all windows were shuttered, all doors bolted tight. A wild night at sea. The storm raging. Flood gates closed. Cold and wet. No hiding place. Salt spray stinging, blinding the eyes. The noise of the storm deafening. Overpowering the senses. Terrifying.

Siobhan stood on the shoreline, at the very edge of the water. Her back to the land, facing the might of the storm, with crashing waves swirling around her legs, trying to drag her down; freezing cold and soaked to the skin. But she stood firm. Arms raised, outstretched, holding the bright silver moon between the pale white palms of her hands as she first called out for the Black Witch to stand before her. The Black Witch’s powers were strong, it’s true, but the strength of her arrogance was itself a weakness that Siobhan had to probe and break.

Siobhan then summoned up her friend the Sea Ogre, awakening him from his undersea world. He was ready for the call and he knew instinctively what needed to be done. He would not let Siobhan down, come what may he would not desert her – however hard the struggle ahead may be, and whatever the cost.

Delusion v Illusion. Deception v Perception. Destruction v Creation. Hubris v Humility.

Black and White. Right and Wrong. Truth and Lies.

The magic was working. It had to work, it must not fail. No surrender. Truth and goodness must and will prevail.

At last the White Witch had the Black Witch under her spell, controlling, holding her suspended, kicking and screaming, twisting and turning above the crashing waves.

Just then a yellowy grey green glow began to appear from the west, spreading over the surface of the bay, drifting slowly towards them. Beneath the clouds, eyes appeared in the sky, eyes in the sky looking down, watching, like spectres. Strong eyes, burning with fire. Seeking revenge.

The glow, like a fog, settled around the Black Witch still held above the water under the power of the White Witch. Huge hands, his barnacled fingers like tentacles, reaching up from beneath the waves, the Sea Ogre had arrived. Dragging the Black Witch down, ever downward, into his world, the world she had polluted. Deep down into the very depths of the pollution she herself had created with her evil.

Lightning flashed, super-charged energy, its power splitting the night sky. Thunder roared. Waves crashed. Shrieking. Howling. Wind or Witch? Impossible to tell. The noise deafening. Stand Fast. Stand Tall. Stand True. Old gods rule….

Siobhan’s strength was fading, but she was not finished yet.

The Black Witch cast a spell on the Sea Ogre, turning him to stone. He lost his grip, she changed shape into a Sea Snail as she sought to escape and hide. But the eyes in the sky saw it all and flashed their message to Siobhan waiting on the shore. With the last of the forces at her command, the White Witch cast one final spell – and blasted the Sea Snail with a crashing bolt of lightning.

The Sea Ogre’s Paddle

The Sea Ogre’s paddle drifted up to lay on the shore like some strange offering. His giant canoe lost in the raging battle out at sea.

Dawn – Night turns into day. The calm after the storm. Time moves on but what remains? Ebb and flow. Swallowed up on each incoming tide they are lost beneath the waves but as the tides go out, the sea retreats once more and the beach reveals a Sea Ogre turned to stone gazing out across the sands to the shattered spiral shell of a giant Sea Snail.

And the Sea Ogre’s Paddle? It is now raised just above the reach of the tide. They are all still there, caught in time, standing as reminders to us all of what happened here that night.

The White Witch – Part 3

Siobhan was there for me when I was stranded, lost for words, alone. Now she is drained, I must be there to support her as she recovers her strength. To be there for her when she needs help in her next battle to fight and overcome the fatigue and illness. No need to ask, and no questions asked. Same space, same time, different worlds, Siobhan is a bridge. She holds the lantern way up high to light the way. Simple basic humanity and understanding, common sense or magic? That’s what this is all about.

Riders on the Storm – Lessons Learned

No-one ever said life was easy – and they were right.

When you need help you’re on your own – but you are not alone.

When you have to bail out be sure to have your parachute strapped on – and trust the packer.

When a mountain blocks your way, search for the pass, find a new path, there will be a way around it. Get over it or get round it, but just move on.

When shit happens, hold your nerve – and your nose!

Blackbirds still sing in the morning, ladybirds still return each spring.

Time: Moves on.

Down: We’ve all been there. When you’ve been down so long, learn to reach out, reach up and move on. Be strong.

Riders on the Storm – Final Thoughts

I grow weary of battle.

Thanks to Bill and Marion, to Ray, to Pat and Ken. Their views were invaluable. They gave me the time to rest a while and the space to pause for thought, to recover, to find my feet once more in this ever changing world. Time to move on. I close this journal. Thanks Siobhan, you made it happen.

© Russ Morton 31st October 2014

Gone are the days when we all believed that we knew our own preordained retirement date. Constant tinkering by successive big governments carelessly messing with people’s lives put an end to yet another certainty as we understood it.

Not content with moving the retirement-date goal posts, through gross financial ineptitude (and in collusion with their friendly bankers and insurance companies) our governments continue to eagerly display their total contempt of the general public whom they’re elected to serve and represent; then proceed to wipe out returns on any savings and annuities of prudent workers. And, to add further insult upon insult, proceed to tax savings accumulated from salaries already taxed under PAYE and National Insurance during our working lives.

For those of us who have worked hard from age 16, paying our ever increasing taxes, I strongly feel that by age 65 we’ve contributed our fair share to society; kept our side of the bargain and paid our dues through thick and thin whilst riding the Big One that is life’s roller-coaster: always used and occasionally abused.

And what about the great, as yet unmentioned, mis-selling scandal that is the many thousands of mortgages sold to people who would be retired (i.e. not working and therefore not earning) years before their mortgages would be paid off? To my mind, perhaps the biggest crime of all in this respect is the sale of interest-only mortgages to anyone approaching retirement. Yes, of course, everyone should make up their own minds but the mortgage lenders surely must take some responsibility for their actions and advise clients appropriately. The lenders have a vested interest though because at the end of the day, if you can’t pay off the capital they still actually ‘own’ the house and you’re out on your own. When will this scandal ever be addressed?

Approaching the second anniversary of retirement, I began to think about jotting down a few random notes to reflect, and record, some of my own experiences leading up to the transition from a busy and often hectic career into a fruitful ‘life of leisure’. One of the over-riding considerations before sitting down to write this account was my wish to be as accurate as possible whilst, essentially, to offer an insight into my own thoughts and ideas and, hopefully, to perhaps help others who are either approaching the end of their own working lives and are concerned about the future, or have found themselves already there and are wondering what to do to make the best use of their well-earned ‘Me Time’.

It is all purely relative of course and in the end it all comes down to individual circumstances, personal choices, priorities and resources. So, as you’ve travelled this far to be with me today let’s say a warm “Hello and welcome”, please come in and sit down, have a brew, and if you’re comfortable, and have the time, then we’ll get started.

Luckily for me and for the purpose of this blog, I can still pinpoint exactly when the decision was finally made to call it a day: to say farewell to the office, to step off the treadmill of my working life, to cast off the yoke; to close that book. To move on. To get a life.

It began before that of course, but the decision day is still clear: Sunday 2nd of September 2012 about 11.30pm whilst driving home from the Fylde Folk Festival – so that will be my starting point but, it has to be said, previous events had already been nudging me towards one particular pathway. As I was driving home, the words of the chorus to one particular song kept running through my head: “I’m gonna go to work on Monday one more time, one more time, I’m gonna go to work on Monday one more time”. (Those words stayed with me right through to my final week, especially as I kept substituting Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday as appropriate, becoming a daily mantra which always raised a wide smile)

The change (or the challenge – you choose). The winds of change were blowing, carrying me along willingly; urging me just for this once to take control of events. To decide for myself when I wanted to retire, to give up the day job, to take that leap into the unknown; to actually do it, and begin a whole new chapter in the Book of Life.

Did you know that at work nowadays, they’re not allowed to ask directly if you’re going to retire but of course there are numerous other indirect ways of them asking the same question. As I had no plans to carry on working after my 65th birthday I was happy to discuss my thoughts and plans for a life beyond the daily 9 to 5 ritual and the associated twice daily commute. So they knew I would be leaving.

I don’t want to bore you with a long list, but feel that I should mention the one particular incident which brought so many thoughts to their inevitable and, probably, the obvious conclusion.

Phil is best described as an old acquaintance but his death in August 2012 had a most profound effect on my own outlook on the whole work/life balance. I had known him for about twelve years. Like me, he was a keen walker and we both shared a love of the local river bank, the quiet country lanes and field paths. Perhaps the most shocking thing was that at just 47 Phil was some 17 years younger and fitter than me when his heart gave out. He collapsed during a walk, phoned for an ambulance and was taken directly to hospital where he died the following day. It certainly brings about serious thoughts of your own mortality.

So, having made my decision on the way home from Fleetwood, the next question was “When do I want to finish work?” In reality I only needed to give four weeks’ notice but my official retirement date would not be until late the following February.

Monday 3rd September was my recovery day off work after the festival  weekend, time to chill out, go for a walk beside the river, clear my head and compose my resignation / retirement letter. Eventually, after several drafts with each amendment making the letter shorter, I finally arrived at the finished product and it felt really weird as I looked at the four short paragraphs which would close the book on a lifetime of work. The letter was done and signed, and I felt quite a rush of excitement.

If you’re still with me and are simply itching to know what my chosen retirement date was; 31st December and I will expand on that in just a moment for you.

The following day, 4th September, was, coincidentally, the anniversary of the date I’d joined the firm five years previously so there was a sense of symmetry as I handed the letter to my director and sat down to talk through my feelings and reasoning. Her offer for me to go back and work three days a week was considered for maybe a nanosecond – and declined with a smile although I did suggest that if she ever needed my help I’d go in but only if they would pay me on Consultant terms. I even offered a special discounted rate. As if….I certainly wasn’t holding my breath!

Why did I choose 31st December instead of 4th October? Well, it would give me time to a) use my remaining holidays to only work Four Day weeks and b) also enable me to teach my work colleague Sam as much as I could and hand over to her as smoothly as possible to minimise any disruption on my department. I had no qualms at all though, Sam and I had worked closely together for the past five years so I was totally confident that she’d be OK, and it would also mean promotion for her which was a good thing and very well deserved. My other considerations for selecting that date were quite simply selfish and probably obvious to you by now: The company would be closing on Friday 21st (my last working day) for the Christmas & New Year holidays so I only needed to save four days entitlement to cover the whole ten days and I’d be officially finishing work on the last day of the year. And my new life would begin on the first day of the New Year. More good omens, and even more symmetry. Oh, and one other consideration: Did I really want to spend the next seven or eight weeks of the freezing cold winter months scraping the ice off my car windscreen, driving to and from work in the dark, not seeing daylight? Nah, of course not. I was determined to break away from the Mushroom Syndrome.

They let me go early on my last day, which was nice of them, and as I started the car and drove out of my old parking slot I simply couldn’t resist shouting “FREEDOM!!!”

Anyway, the roads were fairly quiet and I got home safely, put the car away in the garage and went for a long hot shower – symbolically washing away “work”. Turned off the clock radio alarm, stripped all my ‘working clothes’ out of the wardrobe and put them in a pile to go into the next charity collection bag. And then I walked round to my local pub to celebrate. Happiness is Retirement.

For everyone who has only ever taken a maximum period of two weeks off in one ‘go’ for holidays you will appreciate that your body clock has that as a set timeframe, therefore with that in mind I could effectively treat the next two weeks as real holiday days but with the added bonus that after those two weeks I was already acclimatised to not having to go to work.

I suppose I’m quite lucky in that I’m divorced and self-sufficient so there was no-one at home nagging me or asking where I’m going, what am I doing today, in short I was free. I am lucky also to have had a number of non-work related interests to which I was able to devote far more time and energy and, being a keen walker, one of the first things I did was to join a local walking group.

I’m fortunate to live in a rather special (to me at any rate) part of the country with the River Wyre some 15 minutes’ walk away and the north Fylde Coast about 40 minutes stroll from my doorstep. The local area, the river and the coastline provide me with the inspiration to write my short stories and from them to progress to setting up my own website (with considerable help and support from my son) to share my thoughts, plus a few stories and poems, with anyone who is interested.

With a couple of stories still in the early ‘thought’ phase I currently have one particular writing project which should keep me busy through the dark winter nights to have finished in time for next spring. Perhaps also, the next big new project will be looking into on-line publishing. Another challenge.

Besides all the walking and writing, I enjoy going to the theatre and again I’m lucky to have a great choice of venues with the Marine Hall in Fleetwood, Thornton Little Theatre, the Opera House Blackpool, and my personal favourite – Blackpool’s Grand Theatre. With the Lowther Pavilion further along the coast in Lytham St Annes there is no shortage of live music, plays, shows and concerts.

Volunteering is also a good venture but for now I do prefer to help people on a one-to-one basis, where I can assist in resolving what to them often appear to be insurmountable obstacles. From letter writing, form filling, phone calls to service providers; standing up for vulnerable individuals and generally challenging the often intransigent and clearly mindless jobsworths of officialdom. Tilting at windmills? Perhaps so, but someone has to do it and whilst I can I will.

Days out and trips away all add to the rich tapestry of life in retirement for me. Plus, I have the time to talk to the local neighbours and folks who I meet along the way. It’s good to talk, and to listen too. To share a smile and a joke, or just to be there with a shoulder to lean on or an ear to hear.

Do I miss work? Have I missed work? The answer is the same to both, a loud resounding “NO”.

Do I get bored? No, I have not felt bored at all, not for a single minute.

Have I succumbed to daytime T.V.? Grrr, No, never, but I do enjoy watching ‘Eggheads’ and playing along with the contestants.

Would I recommend Retirement? Yes, most definitely, and I would also add “don’t leave it too late”. There is a life out there so grasp it firmly – and live the dream, while you can.

To sum it all up in two words: – Freedom and Happiness.

Oh, and one final thought, treat yourself to a large diary – ’cause you’re going to need it! And you’ll begin to wonder how the heck you ever managed to find time to go to work.

Russ Morton

October 2014

It was early Saturday morning. Actually it was really early on Saturday morning. In fact it was so early in the morning that the cockerel had not yet crowed and the blackbird was only just beginning to clear his throat as he prepared to lead the dawn chorus to greet the brand new day.

The playground was empty now, or was it? Still too early for the invasion of noisy, eager, happy laughing children. Birds began to sing brightly in the trees around the park whilst ducks quacked and flapped their wings as they waddled along the track, and rabbits hopped quietly around the climbing frame and rode the see-saw. Two magpies hopped side by side along the path between the leafy rowan trees, branches heavy with clusters of bright red berries and crystal clear dew drops slowly dripped from the tips of the leaves.

~

In the playground down by the riverside it was so early that the three white Witches of Wyre were only just returning home from their night-time broomstick rides as they flew into the playground for some fun on the swings before cooking frogspawn on toast for breakfast. Bees buzzed among the clover heads and fragrant elder flowers, collecting pollen to make into the nicest sweetest tasting honey on this side of the valley. Toads’ toe and newts’ tail porridge burbled and bubbled in the cauldron. Witches brew.

A welcoming aroma of freshly filtered coffee, toast and grilled bacon threaded through the air as it drifted over from the nearby Wyreside Café – tempting the old man to wander along the track and sit for a while at one of the wooden tables clustered outside. A solitary swallow flew in, flitting low around the tables and a woodpecker began his day’s drilling into the tree trunk high above. Six snow-white swans swooped by overhead, their wide wings sighing as they scythed through the cool morning sky above the park.

The Countryside Ranger drove into the car park and parked his white pick-up truck outside the visitor centre before opening up his office to get a brew going and prepare for the day ahead. It was a very pleasant place to be on that early Saturday morning and with a forecast of good weather it would be another busy day in the Award winning Wyre Estuary Country Park, a real jewel in the crown, right here beside the wide flowing waters of the River Wyre.

From just along the lane came the sound of the weekend caravanners stirring, stretching, scratching and yawning as they awoke to the morning light; door catches clip clicking, awning zips unzipping in concert. Who woke up first? I think it’s usually the granddads and then the grandchildren, but then again it could be the other way round of course. Time to get the kettle on, maybe take a wander down to the river bank, or along to the corner store at the farm gate to pick up the morning paper. And then it is time for breakfast. “Can we go down to the playground now?” a familiar chorus from the grandkids begins to rise, and peace has gone once more.

Back in the playground, songbirds continued their singing as they hopped higher into the branches, welcoming the warmth of the rising sun on their feathers, and the ducks flapped their wings again before waddling off across the grass to the waters’ edge. The rabbits had a last ride on the see-saw and a final quick spin on the roundabout before heading off to their burrows along the drumlin. And the three witches jumped onto their broomsticks and zoomed off to the old fairy-tale cottage hidden just out of sight deep in the dark wood.

For about fifteen minutes, or maybe twenty at most, the playground was empty. But a robin flew in to enjoy a few moments of hopping around on the climbing frame, catching any insects found lurking in the heavy braided rope squares.

And then the first of the children arrived, happy and excited, and the Playground was alive once more buzzing with their shrieks, shouts and laughter.

© Russ Morton – 3^rd October 2014

Capt. Jack Sparrow: [to Elizabeth] “One word luv; curiosity. You long for freedom. You long to do what you want to do because you want it. To act on selfish impulse. You want to see what it’s like. One day you won’t be able to resist.”

Pirates of the Caribbean

~

One chapter has been omitted so far from the standard histories – that of the Barbary corsairs. The usual reason given for this is that since it deals with slavery, the subject is politically touchy. Yet there is another reason: the sheer scale of the story makes it hard to believe today, because it was not a single event but a drama that lasted two centuries.

Along the stretch of North African coast that is now Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya stood a series of well-fortified ports: Derne, Tunis, Tripoli, Tangiers, Salè or Sallee (Rabat), and most powerful, Algiers. From these bases, the corsairs soon ruled the western Mediterranean and routinely took Europeans captive for ransom. In 1585, Dorset’s MP, the Elizabethan courtier and sailor Sir Walter Raleigh, had reported English captives held for ransom on the Barbary Coast.

Altogether, an estimated 20,000 people would be snatched from the south coast of England – men, women and children. Most simply vanished, with no word as to their fate, but a few were ransomed by missionaries and returned to tell their tales. The men and boys were used mainly as galley slaves, around 200 per ship, chained to their oars till they died. The women and girls met a different fate, as servants or in the harems of the sultans or wealthy merchants.

(Taken from, and with special thanks to, ‘The Coming Of The Corsairs’ by David Stanton)

~

Almost 12 long months have passed since the events of this account took place. Only now can the full story of Aleysha’s latest adventure into the world of magic, myth and legend be told…….

The first full moon of autumn hung huge and low in the eastern sky. Silver beams of light shone brightly over the Amber Bay’s three tall wooden masts as her sails filled, billowed and cracked noisily in the night wind. The old wooden three-masted sailing ship was a Poulton trader and creaked as it rolled in the swell. High above, stars twinkled in the crisp clean air of the black night sky.

Captain Jack Thurnham was a merchant sailor from Sunderland Point. He had sailed his ship down across the bay and into Skippool that very day to pick up provisions at the local stores beside the creek in readiness for the voyage ahead. He and his crew were now ready to cast off on the full fast flowing high tide.

Aleysha has had a number of adventures but this one was very different from all the others – little did she know at the time that it would take her on a personal voyage of discovery, from the stinging drifting sands of Fleetwood’s shoreline to the baking hot desert sands of North Africa’s Barbary Coast.

Along Skippool Creek the warmth of the late Indian summer was coming to an end at last and there was the hint of a slight chill to the night air, so Aleysha was glad she was wearing her favourite pink fleece jumpsuit to keep her warm as she stepped carefully onto the deck.

Captain Jack welcomed young Aleysha aboard the Amber Bay and noticed that other than a small back-pack she had brought no luggage with her, but, tucked into the top of her suit were two little stuffed pink pigs, Peppa and George, their snouts poking out above the zip fastener. The ship slipped quietly away from the quay and out into the creek; frogs croaked a warning and in the moonlight dark bright eyes shone wildly, watching from the warren on the far bank. Aleysha was only just a tiny little bit scared but the Sandman swung his lantern to show that all was well.

A gaggle of geese winged their way overhead, invisible in the night sky but gabbling noisily on their annual migration flight southwards from snowbound Greenland and Iceland to the warmer climes and rich feeding grounds of the great tidal river estuaries along the west coast of England.

It was dark, the wooden deck was wet and slick from sea spray tossed up as the bow plunged into the next wave, ever onward. Aleysha held on tightly to the wooden rail while the experienced captain pointed out the lights of the ports ashore as they sailed quietly on down along the coastline through the night.

The Amber Bay stopped off in the port of Bristol to load more cargo and fill up the water barrels on deck in final preparation for the journey to Malta. Aleysha leaned on the rail watching and listening to the sounds of the old port; she looked around at the dozens of great wooden sailing ships bobbing at anchor as they were lined up bow to stern along the river below the cliffs of the Avon Gorge and she shuddered now as she thought of the infamous Bristol slavers.

Bristol is believed to be the place where Edward Teach – the infamous ‘Blackbeard’, one of the most famous British pirates, was born around the year 1680. He died in battle and is said to have had 14 wives.

Two days later they were crossing the Bay of Biscay.

The weather was kind. As the ship ploughed on through the waves, the crew shared their tales of pirates on the Spanish Main, around the islands of the Caribbean Sea. She listened, wide eyed, to the stories of a one-legged old sea-cook with a parrot on his shoulder who became one of the most famous pirates of all time. Other yarns were spun which told of buried treasure, Pieces of Eight and gold doubloons; Blackbeard, Bluebeard and Davy Jones’ locker.

Cap’n Jack told stories of even more pirates. John “Calico Jack” Rackham liked to wear brightly coloured clothing, and he is remembered for employing two female pirates: Anne Bonny from Ireland was said to be intelligent, attractive and quick-tempered. Mary Read from London joined Calico Jack’s crew and went on to become one of history’s most fearsome female pirates, she spent much of her time dressed as a man.

The crew sang songs of the sea and of their women folk waiting on the shore back at home. The line of one song in particular made Aleysha smile:

“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum”.

Aleysha told Cap’n Jack about her Grandad’s writings and the story of an adventure she had had a few years earlier with Draco the young river dragon. The captain laughed out loud at that story and he gave her a small sword as a present. For many hours on the voyage he taught Aleysha how to handle the weapon like a real pirate princess and she ran happily around the deck chasing dragons with her new plastic sword.

All was well on the voyage, and the crew was relaxed as their captain gave the order to change course and head east between the Pillars of Hercules and on in to the Mediterranean Sea, The great wooden wheel was turned, sails filled once again and the helm responded immediately as the ship moved from the cold grey rolling waters of the Atlantic Ocean into the warmer blue inland sea at the centre of the world.

On a Poulton trader: Mediterranean Sea, bound for Malta’s strand, 8th day of October – the day Aleysha’s life changed.

The Amber Bay was caught and boarded by a Moorish galley; there was no time for a warning. The battle was short and the outcome was clear. Only Aleysha was spared. A frightened Lancashire girl, plucked from hearth and home by a Barbary corsair, she was taken in chains and sold in a market in Tangiers.

The North African coastline was bathed in red in dawn’s early light as the merchants left the market square with their new slaves. Aleysha, with her bright blue eyes and long flowing golden hair was one of the youngest slaves and highly prized by Khimji the kind rich old Arab merchant who had bought her from the Barbary pirate.

Aleysha was taken on a journey southward through the hot desert sands. At night they stopped in a grove of flowering almond trees on the mountain slope and she shared the meal of fragrant couscous, bread, dates, walnuts, almonds and goats cheese, drinking glasses of hot sweet spearmint tea poured from an ornate metal pot. She slept in a tent.

Khimji spoke four languages: Arabic was his first language from his homeland of Oman far away to the east, Moroccan, some French, and a little bit of English so she was able to understand almost everything he said to her.

A celebration was in full swing when they arrived at Khimji’s house. Men in djellabas played drums, blew musical pipes and twanged strange looking instruments. Women in flowing black robes, dark eyes gleaming, hands hiding their mouths, sang wildly in high-pitched voices and they danced to the pulsing rhythms of the beat.

Aleysha was very lucky to be so well treated by Khimji and members of his household. A very fast learner, she learned to speak French. Dressed in the colourful flowing dresses of the local young girls she was soon able to prepare and cook spicy Moroccan food.

She watched in fascination as snake charmers performed in the garden; hooded cobras swaying slowly to the music of the pipes.

Although life seemed to be good for Aleysha, she was still a slave, and could not leave the house. At night she was locked in a tiny room furnished only with a small wooden cupboard and a rough lumpy mattress on the hard sand floor. She knew that she had to plan a way to escape and return to England.

Sayeed was one of the young boys in the household and he had grown very fond of Aleysha; when they were not working they would play together or sit and talk quietly to each other.

Aleysha remembered that in her adventure with the Witches of Wyre she had been given a magic box from the ancient past. She remembered the instructions from Netty, Annie and Rowena to keep it with her forever because inside the box was an invisible secret key which would open many doors for her in the future.

So now Aleysha had a key to unlock the door of her tiny room, but how could she return to England? The merchant would search for her in the desert, and the pirates still patrolled the coastline. Sayeed offered to help her and promised to come to the door of her room at four o’clock the next morning when everyone else would be fast asleep.

Aleysha did not see Sayeed at the evening meal, and after everything was cleared away she was locked in her room. She was worried now. What had happened to Sayeed? Had he told Khimji of her plan to escape? Had he been sent away?

He had gone to the souk in town where he knew an old man with long white hair and a pointy white beard. The wrinkled old man had a tiny one roomed shop down the darkest narrow alleyway and his little shop was full of brightly coloured rugs and carpets.

“I need small carpet please”, said Sayeed. “It has to be a special magic carpet for a very special friend of mine”.

“Ah, then let me see”, said the old man as he began pushing and shoving rolls of carpet around the store. “What about this one? This is my most special magic carpet.” He untied the string which was wrapped around the roll and laid the carpet flat on the floor.

On the carpet were bright pictures of moons, stars, pirate ships, swords, dragons, mermaids, witches hats, and little pink pigs.

“Perfect!” said Sayeed. “Can I buy it please?”

“Yes, of course you can.” the old man replied as he rolled up the carpet and re-tied the string.

Sayeed carried the roll in his arms as he walked back to Khimji’s household and he was surprised at just how light the carpet was. His fingers curled around the roll and he felt a tingling, vibrating sensation. He knew this really was a magic carpet.

He entered the house and moved silently along the darkened passage.

It was ten minutes past four in the morning as he scratched quietly on Aleysha’s door.

She was ready and waiting, why was Sayeed late?

Quickly she turned her invisible secret key in the lock and slowly opened the door. Sayeed entered her room and laid the carpet over the old mattress on the floor.

“What is that?” whispered Aleysha.

“It’s a magic carpet and it will take you all the way back to your home”, the boy replied.

“What do I have to do, how does it work?” she asked nervously.

“You have to sit on the carpet, hold on tight to the sides, stay very still, and make a wish of where you want it to take you. But hurry now, there is no time to lose”, answered Sayeed

“But what about you? Will you come with me?” she asked.

“No, I have to stay here. This is my home.”

“You have been so kind to me”, said Aleysha. “How can I ever thank you enough?”

“Just one kiss from you Aleysha, and a big hug, will be more than enough. Oh, and a promise that you will never forget me.”

“I promise,” Aleysha said as she sat down on the carpet, clutching the sides then, grabbing hold of Sayeed’s outstretched hand as a final thank you, she made her wish.

The carpet began to rise up from the mattress and she heard a soft almost silent humming sound. Very quickly she was flying high; riding the magic carpet out over the tree tops, across the desert sands.

The full moon was sinking in the western sky, shining brightly through Aleysha’s window as she woke up in the morning in her own bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

Was it all really just a dream?

© Russ Morton 21/09/2014

“Should you ask me, whence these stories? Whence the legends and traditions,With the odours of the forest, with the dew and damp of meadows, with the curling smoke of wigwams.” 

“Ye who love a nation’s legends, Love the ballads of a people, that, like voices from afar off, Waving like a hand that beckons, Call to us to pause and listen.”

(From ‘The Song of Hiawatha’ – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

~

“I look out and I see a land, Young and lovely, hard and strong. For fifty thousand years We’ve danced her praises Prayed our thanks and we’ve just begun”

(From ‘Soldier Blue’ – Buffy Sainte-Marie)

~

Smoke drifted silently in the warm night breeze that lazily stirred the starry sky arching in a giant celestial dome above the wigwam whilst, inside, seated around the hearth, the old women were gathered together awaiting the birth of a new child into the tribe.

Pails of water heated by hot stones, clumps of fresh green moss and a newly woven blanket in the wicker basket crib all ready at hand. Kai (Willow Tree), the mother-to-be, damp with sweat in the oppressive heated air, lay listlessly on a bed of fresh fern fronds spread out over the heavy buffalo-hide blanket. An owl hooted noisily nearby and a wolf yapped in the distance.

The braves waited patiently outside seated around their communal camp fire, in good spirits as they passed the pipe around, telling tales of their prowess in battles fought and won. Each tale growing taller and louder than the last. Wide eyed children restless and excited, peeked out from under the flaps of their teepees, giggling at the old familiar stories.

Their leader, Shilah (Red Thunder), a greatly respected warrior chieftain, leader of their tribe, was also an important chief who led other tribes; yet he was, by age-old established tribal tradition for all the men, forced to live away from his wife during the final days of her confinement; he sat together with his men cross-legged around the fire, their faces aglow from the flickering flames. The omens were good: It was the night of a huge and brightly shining Super Moon which grew larger as it rose high above the camp, shooting stars flashed their ways across the sky. Auspiciously good omens promising a night of great change and renewal, by morning he would be holding his first-born. Would it be a boy or a girl? Who could tell? Only the Great Spirit knew what was already written in the Book of Life, closely guarding his secret plans for the child.

Under a line of silver birch trees at the edge of the village encampment, Red Thunder’s line of ponies whinnied around the nervously twitching Palomino mare about to deliver her first foal.

At last the first cry of freedom was heard from the new born. It was a girl. One of the old women carried the baby out of the wigwam and Red Thunder held out his arms to cradle his first child, his daughter, he checked her arms and kicking legs, counted her fingers and toes, all perfect, before turning to his men and holding her up high for them all to see. The glowing moon beamed down its’ white light on their upturned faces; a shooting star flashed by directly overhead, reflected in the infant’s wide blue eyes and illuminating her fair skin which was far fairer than many in the tribe.

Under the drooping branches of the trees, at precisely the same time, the Palomino mare moaned and heaved one more time and a fine long-legged Bay colt was born.

Drums began to beat out a heady pulsing rhythm, vibrating the night air, rising and falling in tune with the pounding heartbeats. Everyone was laughing, singing, whooping and dancing around the main camp fire; casting their giant shadows which, in their turn, danced like ghostly spectres on the walls of the wigwams standing around the fire. Bullfrogs croaked loudly in the creek while coal black crows cawed and kerwarked in the corn; crickets chirruped in chorus. Fireflies flashed brightly in the scrub beyond the glow of the blazing campfire. In the darkest places beyond the shadows from the flickering firelight, the spirits of the Old Ones, the Departed, swayed and swirled soundlessly, celebrating in the misty gloom that separated them from the land of the living. A special time on a special night. A time of magic. Party time.

Red Thunder carried his daughter into their wigwam and hugged both the baby and his wife as they lay together in each other’s arms, giving silent thanks to the Great Spirit that all was well. It had been a good night.

In the morning the village awoke late. Bleary eyed revellers made their ways to the teepee of Red Thunder and Willow Tree bringing with them gifts for the papoose: A small bow and a decorated buckskin quiver of twelve arrows with slim ash shafts and flights of light grey goose feathers, moccasins of the finest softest deerskin; a corded horsehair bracelet and an amulet necklace of leather thong with an exquisitely carved horse pendant. One brought a fine copper comb and a small silver mirror, and another presented her with a dress of the palest tan buckskin trimmed with a pattern of tiny blue beads to match the colour of her bright blue eyes. A golden braided headband came next to compliment and tame her wildly flowing, stunningly luxuriant, long flaming ginger hair. Willow Tree’s own gift for her daughter was a dream catcher. Special gifts for the very special girl.

Willow Tree graciously accepted the gifts for her baby daughter, carefully noting who had brought which. Many of the presents would be packed safely away until the child was ready to use or wear them. Red Thunder’s nativity gift for his daughter was Zac, the new-born foal of his much prized Palomino mare, and so named because they both arrived at exactly the same time.

The two new-borns; the girl and the foal, would grow together, each learning from and supporting the other as is the way of their world. Everyone asked the same question: “What will you call her?”. It was a happy day.

Usually, by tradition, it was right to take time before deciding upon a name. Time to consider so many things; simultaneous events, special animals, natural signs, and, of course, the child’s own developing characteristics. But Red Thunder and his wife soon saw that their daughter was special, quite awesome in fact, so they formally named her Alsoomse (which means ‘Independent’) Miakoda (Power of the Moon) in their tribal language and quickly gave her the nickname by which she would henceforth be known to everyone – Alex.

The Bay Horse tribe, like most native tribes are semi-nomadic people, moving as with rhythm of the Earth, sometimes with the seasons, to take full advantage of Nature’s bounty at times of plenty. They were hunters and farmers; they grew corn and other crops.

It was a time when the land was free, the frontier still existed, open wild and free before the invaders arrived. They were settled beside a creek of pure clear water by a bend in the great river which flowed onward to the shining sea. Plains and prairie lands, wide open spaces, the horizon endless. Where you can see forever. In your dreams you would call this home.

Though the future was impossible to predict, the future was already written, as predictable as the Autumnal gales on the wild Fylde coast of Wyre.

Red Thunder proudly carried Alex around the village and its’ surrounding area, pointing out key features along the way. He also showed the baby Alex the quiet safe places of solitude and contentment and contemplation, the hills and the plains, the forests, the valley, creek and river. He showed her the place where the mountain lioness raised her cubs each year and the high rocky outcrop which held the eagle’s nest. Early morning mists hung low above the riverbank, refreshingly cooling the air before the heat of the day built up steadily, in pace with the rising of the sun.

Naturally respected as the chief’s wife, Willow Tree was also highly revered as both the tribe’s Wise Woman and their Medicine Woman skilled in the ways of nature’s healing and restorative powers. She carried Alex around with her as she collected the herbs, plants, berries and roots that she needed to prepare her potions and ointments. All the time talking to Alex, explaining where to find them, which seasons they would grow and most importantly of all, how they were to be prepared and used. Willow Tree taught Alex quietly and Alex learned quickly, soaking up knowledge just as mosses take up water.

By the time Alex could walk she was ready to play with the other children of the tribe: amongst the girls – Huyana (Rain Falling), Soyala (Time of Winter), Genesee (Beautiful Valley) and Sihu (Little Flower) and there were also two boys, Zaltac (High Mountain) and Rotag (Fire). All the games were fun but all the time each game was a part of the learning the ways of the tribe and of life itself. They played in the village and in the forest, and worked well together; and as they grew together they also supported each other as their talents and skills blossomed and individual personalities developed.

Taught well by Red Thunder and Willow Tree; at the age of 10 years Alex already knew every inch of their land; the names and habits of all the animals, fish, trees and plants through the turning of the seasons. She respected the land and the waters. She loved life.

Alex was a fast learner and an eager student. Always highly competitive, especially so as the chief’s daughter she had to prove herself more capable, more adept. Athletic, she learned to swim in the river and lakes, to fish the waters, to sail, to shoot, to run, ride, and hunt deer in the forest. And to win, to be the best at everything. She blossomed and grew. By the age of 15 she could outshoot, out hunt and outride the braves five years older than herself. A success in whatever she chose to do Alex was loved and respected by the tribe. A consummate charmer, at one with the animals of the land, the birds of the sky and the fish of the waters. In harmony with the world around her.

From time to time Alex would return to the quiet places that her father had shown her over the years, and she grew to know and be accepted by the mountain lioness, while the white eagle would stand beside her unchallenging and unflinching. The braves carved images of both the mountain lioness and the eagle onto the village totem pole as defining symbols of Alex, their acknowledged and respected princess. A wild child, a child of the universe. With her ever-present dream catcher she was able to hold on to the good things in life while bad thoughts and feelings were filtered out through the holes.

In common with many girls in their late teens she was tempted by the lights of the big city where, with her fair skin and long flowing locks of gorgeous flaming ginger hair she could wander at will. For a time she journeyed to the big city and began to study their ways. Extremely attractive, Alex was like honey to the bees, a flame to the moths; and soon she was surrounded by strange men from other tribes from distant lands with strange customs of their own.

Following the training she had learned from her mother, Willow Tree, Alex sought to further expand her knowledge in the field of medicine gained from Willow Trees’ teachings through childhood and began to learn the skills of nursing and supporting patients.

That was then, but this is now, and, aged 21, the lure of the village was as strong in her heart as the life-blood pounding through her veins. So, drawn by an invisible magical magnet of thread Alex returned to the village and was warmly, fondly, greeted back into the bosom of the Bay Horse tribe.

Alex, the awesome charmer, the ultimate enchantress, is back – to cast her spell and bedazzle us all.

© Russ Morton: 4^th Sept 2014.

“I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.”

‘Sea Fever’ by John Masefield

Tales of mermaids have been around for centuries, and form a large part of seafaring lore, especially round the coastal areas of Britain. Their sighting was thought to be a bad omen, foretelling storms and rough seas. There are numerous folk tales describing their interaction with humans.

Although most tales describe sea dwelling mermaids they were not restricted to the sea, and there are several examples of mermaids haunting rivers and deep pools. The creek at Skippool, near the old port town of Poulton, and Marton Mere – the black pool from which the resort town of Blackpool was named – are two such locations, and people would gather and gaze from the reedy banks in search of a sighting of the Mermaid of Marton Mere. It is possible that the term mermaid was used to describe a wider range of supernatural water creatures. Historically there has been belief in part-fish and part-human creatures for thousands of years. The first reference to these creatures is in the form of the god Oannes, who was the lord of the waters worshiped at the beginning of civilisation in ancient Babylon. There are several other fishtailed gods, but the classic mermaid known in Britain, is more likely derived from Celtic legend, folklore and local sea lore, in places where people were in contact with the sea as part of everyday life. There have been several actual recorded sightings of mermaids over the last few hundred years, even into the 20th century, especially in places where the old beliefs die hard. Although these sightings strain credulity they may be related to the same mechanisms that cause people to see ghosts, black dogs etc.

Six swans swinging overhead across the steel grey sky of the cold October morning gabbled loudly to warn us of the approaching rain and wind that followed in their wake.

Rain fell heavily, blasted in from the swollen storm-tossed sea. The wreck of the Abana lay close by, just metres away from where the Riverdance foundered and was stranded on the beach – the remains of both vessels clearly visible so close to the shoreline where they met their fate in the ships’ graveyard that is the Fylde coast.

On 2^nd of October 1929, the Belgian trawler ‘Commandant Bultinck’ lost her bearings in a storm of hail, rain, thunder and lightning and in a gale of 60 miles an hour the vessel went aground off Rossall. Most of the crew were rescued and saved by the boys from the famous old school. The trawler’s young deckhand, Pierre Luyens, tried to swim ashore but he struggled in vain through the foaming waves.

Sarah, Queen of the Mermaids, caught Pierre and carried him round to the shelter of the river bank where she tried to revive him. She nursed him for the rest of the month and even though she used all her Mermaid powers of magic she was unable to save Pierre. His body was found on Preesall Beach on 1^st November 1929 by some villagers who reported their grisly find to the local constabulary.

Pierre is buried in Fleetwood cemetery and a girl from the town placed flowers upon his grave. The young lass grew into an old lady and throughout her life she went regularly to take fresh flowers and say a few words so that all would remember the tragic death of the young Belgian deckhand, Pierre Luyens. And then she died and no-one was left to place flowers on his grave; so the story of Sarah the Mermaid Queen was lost in the mists of time.

That was once upon a time; but this happened just last week and so now here is another tale of Tiffy’s adventures into the world of magic, myth and legend where things are not always quite what they seem!

It was just an ordinary day. Rain poured down all morning and it was round about lunchtime when the sky cleared so Grandad set off with Tiffy rather later than usual for a wander along the river bank. If they had gone out earlier in the morning they would never have seen her, so what happened next was by sheer chance and very good luck.

The air was really clear after the rainfall, and the birds were singing overhead as the quiet gentle lapping of the rising tide swept along beside the riverside path and golden shafts of sunlight kissed the waves and spread across the water. Tiffy was laughing loudly as she jumped and splashed in the puddles on the path. A golden dragonfly flew around her shoulders.

They stopped for a while in the orchard beside the old hall as Grandad showed Tiffy the damson fruits hanging in profusion from the gnarled ancient trees. Then, as they walked further along the path, the rain began to fall heavily once again so they took shelter under the great spreading branches and huge green leaves of a chestnut tree until the shower had passed.

It is often possible to hear things before you actually see them and now they both heard the sound of a girl singing a song of the sea.

Gazing out from under the tree, Grandad was on the lookout for unicorns and more golden dragonflies and Painted Lady butterflies, but even he could never have imagined what he saw next. Holding Tiffy’s hand, he told her to stay very quiet and to listen and look.

Right there, sitting on a rock just a few metres out into the river was a real live mermaid. She sang quietly as she combed her long wet hair with a silver comb, her hazel coloured eyes with flecks of green flashing brightly in the watery sunshine as she watched her own reflection in the water lapping around her glistening tail.

“What is that, Grandad?” asked Tiffy.

“Shush, Tiffy”, replied Grandad. “Just stand here very still and very quietly for a few minutes and watch. That is a mermaid. I have read about them in books and seen them in films but I’ve never ever seen a real live mermaid before. Perhaps she has come to say hello to you.”

The mermaid stopped singing and looked across to the river bank where she saw Tiffy and Grandad on the path. She waved at them and with a glittering splash and one swish of her tail she swam over join them.

“Hello, you must be Tiffy”, said the mermaid. “I have heard some magical stories about you as I have travelled across the seas. My name is Sarah and I am Queen of the Mermaids.”

“Yes, I am Tiffy and I do seem to have had some magical adventures. I am very pleased to meet you, but how do you know my name?”

“Oh, about a year ago, I heard that your Grandad was carrying out some research into the shipwreck of the ‘Commandant Bultinck’ and the tragic death of young Pierre Luyens. I really really tried to save Pierre but I couldn’t. Not even my mermaid magic could save him.”

“Wow!” exclaimed Tiffy. “But where have you been and what have you been doing since that tragedy?”

“Come with me”, replied Sarah.

So Tiffy and Grandad followed Sarah to her secret place beside the creek. The floor of the cave was covered with brightly coloured sweet scented Samphire, Sea Asters and Sea Lavender which grew along the river bank.

Sarah explained that she was so upset after losing Pierre she just had to go away and hide for a while and hoped to build up her magic mermaid powers again. At first she wanted to go as far away as possible but then the call of the wild Fylde coast became too strong and she knew she had to come home once more.

She had been to the warmer waters of the Mediterranean Sea; she had seen a dolphin smile and even passed the Pyramids along the River Nile.

On her way back to England’s shores she had stopped for a rest on the rocky inlet of Beacon Cove where she swam with Aunt Agatha below the red cliffs just around the headland and out of sight of the tourists in Torquay.

Sarah was not quite ready to meet people again yet, so she made her way to Marton Mere where she stayed for some months, enjoying the calm waters and listening to the voices of the people who went there to walk around the lake and watch the birds and the wildlife.

Then she decided the time was right to return to the river and she found the cave beside the creek.

Taking her morning swim in the rain she explained to Tiffy and Grandad that she had not expected to see anyone out and about because “no-one actually walks in the rain”. But Grandad does walk in the rain sometimes and Tiffy loves to splash in the puddles.

It had been a fantastic day for Tiffy and her Grandad, and I think Sarah had enjoyed it too. But then it was time for them to part, Sarah swam in the pool. Grandad had to take Tiffy home to her Mum and Dad and Sarah had more places to see and things to do.

As a young girl at school, Sarah had often dreamed of becoming Queen of the Mermaids and she now knew what a busy life it is being the Mermaid Queen.

Halfway up Down Hill, Tiffy and Grandad stopped and looked back to see the clear pool but Sarah was no longer there. At the edge of the day, when only an echo can remember her name, who knows, the mermaid may return to our riverbank?

© RM 17/08/2009

Aleysha and the Unicorn

 “Now I will believe that there are unicorns…….”
— William Shakespeare —
(The Tempest)

Sta-Na the unicorn walked here for a while, he stirred the imagination, and revived the dream. This is a short story which tells something of his time amongst us and how he came to meet Aleysha, but to get to the heart of a story you have to go back to the beginning.

There are many stories of Unicorns throughout the cold lands of northern Europe; the dusty highlands of Ethiopia; the hot desert sands of Arabia and from Asia and the Orient where they were revered in the same way as the dragons with which they shared the continents.

Early paintings and texts tell us how the unicorn was the first and most beloved creature to be named by Adam in the Garden of Eden after the Creation. Some people believe that Unicorns became extinct many years ago, while some believe that they had refused to get on to the Ark before the floods. Many others believe that they never existed at all. But Unicorns will continue to thrive in the memories of those with open minds; and in the dreams of our children’s children who will never forgive us if we ever let such beauty disappear from the earth.

Generally to be found in the wilder and more remote special places, Unicorns live their own lives and refuse to be tamed or exploited like other animals, and even though they were once hunted and killed for the magical powers of their horns, they have always had a liking for people in general – and particularly for beautiful young maidens to whom they are irresistibly attracted.

~

No-one actually saw Sta-Na arrive but he came in the night by the bright silver light of a full moon; from a land of dragons and dreams somewhere out beyond the rising sun and the far distant horizon where the sky meets the sea. He was certainly around the area when Gwen Dragon the red sky dragon built her Weyr beside the river and laid the egg from which young Draco later hatched to become the first River Dragon on this stretch of water.

Even though he had never actually been here before, the knowledge of the area was already imprinted in his genes; passed on down through generations of his ancestors that once roamed free in the land beside the river.

The dew pond had dried up months before. In the pasture beside the river, the low-lying land had been a constant source of fresh water for some years past, but now the shallow water had disappeared, and only a few clumps of spiky marsh grass remained to mark the site. Another similar pond over on the other side of the hill, near the pylon beside the Underbank had gone too.

Through the turning of the seasons there had certainly been enough rain, but, rather than the soft regular showers which maintained the balance and order of the land, much of the rain had fallen in torrential day-long deluges which flooded the fields for a while and then quickly flowed away, down through the channels in the marsh, to the river, and on out into the sea. Maybe this was evidence of climate change at a local level; who knows? It was certainly not so unusual. After all, the hills around the river had themselves been created by glacial deposits left behind after the last ice-age.

Sta-Na may have travelled from in-land, and found himself by chance here on the northern shore of the coastal peninsula between the river and the western sea. It is possible that he came down from the remote high country forested areas beyond Pyrelick and Fiendsdale, and crossed the river further upstream, most likely near the old carter’s ford where it was much narrower, shallower, and easier to cross on foot. From there all he would have had to do was follow the river as it flowed south, then west and finally north down towards the sea.

But wherever he came from, he knew where he was when he arrived. This stretch of river is tidal and the murky muddy water is dirty and salty, and not good to drink at all – even for a unicorn. He also knew the secret places where he could find sweet clean fresh water to drink even though both the dew ponds had disappeared. The marshland beside the river is a dangerous place with hidden channels which can snap the legs of horses; and areas of deep muddy quicksand which can swallow up children and grown-ups alike if they are foolish enough to stray from the clear riverside path.

Sta-Na was always most careful to avoid the salt marshes even though they grew colourful wild marsh flowers throughout the year. He stayed on the path beside the river, but mostly he preferred the peace of the hill from where he could look out and see for miles around. Out to the west, white horses rode the wave crests rolling in across the wide sandy bay. To the south he could see over the treetops to where the huge tower stood pointing up into the sky. To the north he would gaze across the river at the panorama of hills where shapes and colours changed throughout the days with the passing of light and clouds. At times those same hills would appear clear and almost within reach, at other times they completely disappeared from view as if rubbed out or removed by some mysterious hand. To the east was a vista of green fields, hedgerows, trees and low undulating hills.

At times Unicorns take great pleasure in jumping over sleeping dragons, so Sta-Na felt quite at home sharing this stretch of land beside the river with Draco the young River Dragon. And just as the dragon gazed longingly out towards the western horizon, watching for his father the great golden sea dragon and his mother Gwen the fiery red sky dragon flying high in the sky, so too the young Unicorn was ever drawn towards the setting sun.

The unicorn and the dragon really enjoyed playing together and they spent many happy hours during the long warm sunny days of summer making up new games to play. Hiding and seeking, running and jumping; Sta-Na could run much faster than Draco of course, but Draco had small dragon-wings so he could fly.

While they played their games, Sta-Na took great care to avoid the crocodiles with their rows of sharp pointed teeth and great gaping snapping jaws. And he was always on the look out for the Trolls who lived down below the old bridge, waiting and watching for unwary travellers. Draco had no need to fear crocodiles – he could eat them, and trolls – well, he just laughed at them as he flew over their old bridge.

In the warm glow of evening-time on long lazy summer days, Sta-Na could often be seen running westward across the top of the hill and suddenly jumping up towards the sun in the hope that he would be carried up and away into the sky. But the biggest playground of all for the Unicorn right now is in our own dreams.

It is not easy to say how old he was. A Unicorn year is about the same as 50 human years, very much the same as it is for dragons but, as he stood about three and a half feet tall, and his horn was nearly 8 inches long, we can guess that he was probably a yearling.

[After the first year, Unicorn horns grow at about 1 inch each 50 years to a maximum of about 18 inches which means that unicorns can live for at least 500 years which is about the same life-span as that of dragons].

His horn was slim and spiral shaped; narrowing to a sharp point at the tip, and his coat was all gleaming white, as was his long shaggy mane and tail. But his big eyes were the colour of the deepest deep blue sea as they shone and twinkled with flashes of light like the brightest stars in the dark night sky.

The old man who walked beside the river was Aleysha’s Grandfather. It was he who had also discovered Draco the first River Dragon some time earlier, and now he was the first to see the young unicorn standing proud, in silhouette, against the skyline high up on top of the Hill of the Four Winds.

What had first caught her Grandfather’s attention was the hawk hovering about fifty feet above the hill top and the old man stood and watched in silence as the big bird floated on widespread wings and then swooped down towards the ground below. The old man thought the bird was probably diving to catch a fieldmouse but it was actually showing him where the unicorn stood. Even though the Unicorn had excellent eyesight and could see for many miles, the hawk was Sta-Na’s eyes high in the sky. They were good friends and had arrived together.

The unicorn ate well on the fruits of nature’s own larder which was packed through the changing seasons with a variety of crab apples and damsons, blackberries and hawthorn berries, juicy green grasses and wild herbs. Shiny nut brown chestnuts, winged sycamore seeds, pale amber acorns and bright golden gorse flowers all added to his menu in turn over the months.

Farmers on the land around Wood House, Nettleton and Aylesbeare put out fodder for their animals and did not seem to mind when Sta-Na came along to share the food supplies. Grandpa gathered up conkers which fell naturally or had been discarded by young boys, before squirrels took them and buried them in their winter larders under the hedgerows. The old ferryman’s cobbled cottage was long gone – now a pic-nic area but the old orchard still remains although now the few remaining trees are gnarled and overgrown among the brambles, burdock and banks of wild garlic.

A fellow way-farer who walked along over the hill with Grandpa one bright sunny morning told him that seals could sometimes be seen in the river down below. It is possible that one of those seals is actually a mythical Silkie from the cold dark waters around the remote islands off the shore of the wild lands to the far north.

Grandpa, who had discovered the dragons and the unicorn, had never ever seen a seal in the river before so now he knew to always be on the look out to see if he could discover a Silkie and maybe learn something about the legendary creature which can rise up out of the seas and change shape to live for a while on land amongst people before returning to the watery depths.

At times when Sta-Na was quietly relaxing and gazing out to where the sun kisses the sea, he could occasionally be seen laying down in his field of gold, content to simply watch the seasons turning, and measuring the passing of time by white seeds of the dandelion clock drifting by on the breeze blowing across the hillside.

There are also special magical times when rainbows bridge the river, joining shore to distant shore. Sta-Na knew the stories of what might be found at the end of a rainbow. But just as he told Aleysha that there isn’t always a pot of gold there, he did teach her the seven colours of the spectrum which make each rainbow; starting at the top down in turn through the layers of Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, and Violet.

It may have been a combination of natural events – a big bright full moon and very high tides over the weekend flooding paths beside the river. It may just have been time for Sta-Na to move on to live in someone else’s dream for a while. But what ever the reason; he was gone.

Although people in many parts of the world have tried to see unicorns and dragons, very few have ever succeeded. Only those dreamers with open hearts and the eyes to see are ever lucky enough to find them, and even then it is only by chance because it is the creatures who choose if and when to allow themselves to be seen by humankind.

Sometimes all you have to do to become a dreamer is throw your arms open wide, turn to face the wind, and look. And then find the magic to turn the dreams into the reality that creates myths and legends.

Social Vampirism: The Needy Personality

By Charles Shahar Posted: 07.06.2006

Needy types are people who drain your energy because they constantly require your attention, affection, or affirmation. In fact, they are desperate for any type of support you can give them.

They are generally demanding of your time and effort, and thus it is tiring to be around them. If you ignore or avoid them, they will be hurt by your rejection, and may get frantic, desperate or spiteful.

Few needy types are aware of just how much of a drain they are on others. Most would not care. Needy types are ultimately selfish. Their needs come first. No matter how caring or loving they seem, your desires and concerns are secondary issues for them. In fact, their neediness blinds them to the needs of others. If they do give of themselves, there is generally a price to pay, namely they will obligate you into returning their favors, by making sure you never forget their generosity.

The needy type has an overwhelming anxiety regarding rejection. They are sensitive to any indication that someone is withdrawing their attention from them. The needy type will view people who ignore them with intense dismay. They will try to change such a person’s opinion by falling over themselves to please them. But if such attempts fail they get bitter, and even nasty. For the needy person those who ignore them are enemies. They will be obsessed about such individuals, often bad-mouthing them to others.

There are a number of reasons why people become so needy for love and attention. Most needy types either did not have sufficient emotional nurturing in childhood, or had too much! It is easy to see that if a person is reared by cold, unresponsive parents they will be denied a basic need in childhood, and never grow past the stage of needing to have their worth confirmed. A needy person is in an arrested stage of development, still looking desperately for the emotional support they lacked in their younger years. People who grow up without the presence of their parents, in institutions for example, often have issues related to worth confirmation as adults.

It is interesting that those who get too much nurturing, who are reared by a compulsively doting parent, can also turn out to be needy. Despite the indulgence, the parent is too busy fulfilling their own needs agenda to pay attention to what the child actually wants. The child is taught to repress what they really feel, and to satisfy the expectations of their caregiver. The latter uses emotional blackmail: “I’ll give you all the loving you want, but I must always remain the centre of your universe. You must nurture me constantly in return.” The child’s actual needs and desires get lost in this equation.

The doting parent teaches the child to become dependant on the care and attention of others. The child isn’t given an opportunity to assert their needs, and make their own way in the world. They are not taught to be strong, to trust their own feelings, and to have confidence in themselves. The child is not given the opportunity to make mistakes or take responsibility for their actions. In short, the child does not come to know their own value, and to develop an inner evaluation of themselves. They continue to look for confirmation of their worth through others.

Needy parents make their kids needy. They make their children dependant on them to satisfy their own need for love and nurturing. They cling to the child, and are actually supremely selfish through this attitude. When it comes time for the child to emotionally detach from the parent, they sabotage this initiative by promoting fear (you are not strong enough; it’s a harsh world) or guilt (I have no one to look after me; after all I’ve done for you…). The child never becomes self-sufficient as an adult, particularly on an emotional level.

We all get needy at certain points in our life. There are days when we feel especially vulnerable. There are times when we crave encouragement, when we need to vent our feelings, or when we just require someone to tell us how special or wonderful we are. Nothing is wrong with that. But if we require such a confirmation continuously, and from every person we meet, then we have a neurotic need. If we become outraged or hurt every time someone fails to pay attention to us, then we are caught in a neurotic struggle that can bring us only suffering.

There are a number of features that define neurotic neediness. It is firstly insatiable. No matter how much confirmation or praise you give the needy person, the next day they will demand the same all over again. They seem to have an infinite need for approval. This has aptly been described as a black hole or bottomless pit of need. The reason is that they won’t stop needing affirmation until a fundamental inner transformation takes place. That is, until they love themselves!

Such an insatiable request for support makes needy types very frustrating to deal with. Their need is absolute. You just spent an afternoon reassuring them, and perhaps helping them with a problem. But a few days later you don’t pay careful attention to their complaints because you are just too busy or tired. They will be disappointed, surprised or even dismayed that you deny them such attention. They see your behaviours as a slight. You can support them till the cows come out, but the next day is like starting over.

Another feature of neurotic neediness is that it is driven by anxiety. The major fear is of rejection. Such a fear makes the neurotic behave irrationally. They will interpret events and actions in the context of this fear. They will frame your behaviours through the filter of their anxiety. Thus, whereas you pay less attention to them because you are busy, they believe (unconsciously) that you are bringing their worth into question. Perhaps you don’t care about them any more. They quickly start to panic as a result.

A final feature of extreme neediness is lack of insight. Needy people are usually not aware of their neurotic tendencies, and would not even describe themselves as needy. Particularly if they are a martyr type, they will never admit to themselves that their behaviours is inherently selfish. They expect something in return for their caring or helping behaviours. They are manipulative, and will use guilt or emotional blackmail to get attention or praise. Yet they have no clue that their behaviours are destructive, and that they are sneaky and deceitful in their dealings with people.

‘And this, which I have written, may be sufficient to satisfy any reasonable man that there are winged serpents and dragons in the world.’ Edward Topsell, 1658.

The signs were there. Some local people know this stretch of the river quite well and even though a few of them do stop on the track to look around, no-one had ever actually really seen a River Dragon. Until now.

They have lived here a long time, almost since time began; when dragons ruled the sky, the land, and the water. Hunted by the Slayers the few surviving dragons chose to stay out of the way of humankind and sought the most remote places in which to hide. For a while through the centuries they became lost in the mists of legends and mystery, myths, and magic. But they never really disappeared at all. Some of the dragons did continue with their quest for knowledge and even tried to teach the very few humans who had the desire to seek out the truth and possessed the power to see them and to learn from the wisdom of the Old Ones.

Just about two moons ago, the signs were clearer than usual to those with eyes to see. It was obvious that something was happening as new gaps appeared through the reeds across the marsh and strange new wet muddy prints crossed the track from the river bank into the undergrowth on the landward side where crab shells, bony old crocodile tails and grizzly gorgon heads lay half hidden amongst the roots at the entrance to the Weyr.

Deep within the dragon’s lair where the river water rarely reached except at times of the very highest of high tides was a nest of reeds, mosses and sweet smelling herbs. In the middle of the nest lay the egg.

It is likely that old Ben Dragon was the father. He was one of the Old Ones; a giant golden sea dragon who lives out over the western horizon where the sun hisses and bubbles and boils as it sets into the sea every night. The path of gold light on the surface of the water marks his flight path and sometimes the sunlight can be seen glinting off his golden scales as he glides across the sky.

The mother was Gwen Dragon, a cousin of Pen Dragon who was the favourite of Merlin, and she was a fierce fiery red sky dragon from the heights of the Great Orme and well known to the Celtic Druids of Ynys Mon. It was she who had built the nest beside the river.

During the passing of many moons she guarded the egg quietly but, believing that humans could no longer see or believed in dragons, it was she who was leaving the most signs – the remains of the bitten off gorgon heads just outside the Weyr were real tell-tales to those who could look, read, and learn. All the cattle in the fields had disappeared; she had eaten them up and drunk all their milk. Now only a few tough old moorland sheep and a unicorn remained.

Being a dragon, she could not possibly eat the last unicorn. Crops were gathered and the harvest was almost over for another year. And then the last of the gorgons had gone too.

With the meat supply at an end for this season, she turned to a rich vegetarian diet of fruit and nuts from the trees and bushes, berries from the hedgerows, herbs from beside the pathways; and the plentiful bounty from the river and the sea.

The time was rapidly approaching when the egg would hatch; there was nothing more she could do now except guard the Weyr and go out to catch crabs, eels, sea trout and silver salmon in the river and buy honey cakes and a jug of milk from the wise woman in the village.

[It is a fact that dragons love to drink milk and eat honey cakes]

She did not have money to pay for the cakes or the milk, but she did have knowledge to share with the woman in exchange.

Gaylar, tall, with flowing auburn hair and a kind smile was a medicine woman; the white witch from the greenwood. She travelled the villages along the coast and the hinterland, concocting and decocting, prescribing and dispensing her potions, lotions and balm from the herbs she grew in her garden by the river. Just as she had learned from the old dragon who had taught her.

Making sure the egg in the nest was good and safe; Gwen Dragon kept the Weyr totally clean while awaiting the arrival of her new offspring. Sometimes in the late evenings, in those rare magical moments when the sky turns red just before the sun sets, you might just see where she is flying along over the river or out above the hills beyond.

Now the time had arrived when the hatchling broke through the soft thick shell of the egg and found himself alone in the nest in the cool dark Weyr.

Unlike his golden sea dragon father or his red sky dragon mother, he is a brightly shining shimmering electric blue colour with small silvery wings. Born of the sea and the sky, he is a River Dragon.

His name is Draco. The first ever real River Dragon on our stretch of water near to where the river bends to the north and flows out into the great western sea.

~

Jenna, the beautiful young golden haired maiden had arrived almost three seasons earlier and the story of her earliest adventures has already been written and told around the tables and hearths of her kinfolk. It was Jenna’s grandfather, often to be seen wandering over the fields and beside the river in search of knowledge, who interpreted the signs and first saw the little hatchling.

Draco was just emerging from the Weyr and taking his first look around at the world outside the nest when her grandfather spotted the movement in the undergrowth beside the path on the river bank. Sitting down quietly on a nearby fallen tree trunk grandpa watched and waited in silence and awe as Draco the magnificent shiny blue little river dragon appeared.

Although Gwen Dragon had told him about people, he had never seen a humankind before. Seeing the white haired old man was quite strange for young Draco who had only ever seen his mother Gwen Dragon and the pair of water voles who shared his nest. Dogs and horses, the swallows and the trees; they all knew the old man and always said ‘Hello’ as they passed along the path.

Draco blinked his golden eyes in the bright sunlight and flapped his tiny little silver wings for the first time in the open air, looked in amazement at the old man, and then hopped up on to the log beside him. Where they began to chat.

As Draco taught grandpa some things about the dragons, grandpa shared his peanut butter sandwich and a small bar of chocolate with Draco and told him some things about the people and local places.

For hundreds of years it has been written that dragons eat maidens. But it would seem that this isn’t really true at all. What the old stories missed out, and what they should have said, is that most River Dragons love to see and to be with all the beautiful things in nature – especially young girls with big blue eyes and long golden hair.

So, as the old man learned a little about the ways of the dragons, the young Draco learned a little bit about young Jenna and a lot about humans. And he found that he loved peanut butter sandwiches, and chocolate for afters, and an occasional mint – his mother had not told him about them, but that is probably because she much preferred milk and honey. Of course little Draco enjoyed his milk and honey too, but then who doesn’t?

Gwen Dragon had her human friend Gaylar to talk to, and having already met the old man herself she knew he was a warm and kind human, she was therefore quite happy for Draco to talk to Jenna’s grandfather, each of them sharing with and learning from the other.

Over many weeks Draco and the old man would sit together on the log, learning from each other and sharing stories of the past times, talking of their fears and dreaming of their hopes for the future.

Where they sat you can still see: the log is filled with sweet smelling colourful wild flowers where butterflies gather in the sunshine and birds sing in the branches of the trees above. Another old man, the one who looks after the long-dog, maintains this magical miniature garden with tender loving care while out on his long riverside walks. Herons still wade in the shallows and the wind rustles through the reeds.

It is a special place where things may not always be quite just how they seem and new stories of magic and legends are born.

Travellers along the path are free to stop for a while to enjoy the peace and the view. But please do not touch. Take only fond memories and leave only kind thoughts. And if you ever take photographs then check the pictures very carefully when you get back home because even though you couldn’t see Draco or his family the camera might have!

Soon, now, Jenna was old enough to go walking with her grandfather and he took her along the riverbank to meet Draco.

Even though grandpa had told Draco about Jenna and had told Jenna about Draco, when first they met as total strangers they did not know they would become friends. It wasn’t even certain that she would actually be able to see him. Dragons can always see humans but very few humans can ever see a dragon.

The young river dragon had grown to about one dragon metre in height and Jenna was just about the same.

[1 dragon metre = slightly more than 1 yard which = 3 human 12 inch feet]

But whereas Draco had glowing golden eyes and shimmering electric blue scales and small shiny silvery wings, Jenna had bright blue eyes, long golden hair and soft rosy pink skin.

They saw each other and right there down by the bend in the river that is where their friendship started. And everyone who knows these things can tell you that if you ever have a river dragon for a friend, you have a true friend for life.

The adventures of Jenna and the River Dragons are only just beginning……

[a Weyr – pronounced as in sphere – is another name for a dragon’s lair. That it is also an anagram of the name of the river really is pure coincidence. R]

© Russ Morton 26/08/2007

In ancient days, in other lives, long past, but not forgotten.
In Adonai and Babylon, Etruscans and Egyptians came to my temple –
Journeyed to the valley of the moon. (Jim Gannon, Black Widow)

This is the account of Sir Craig Hudson, emeritus professor of Egyptology and Middle Eastern Studies at Bradenstoke College, Kingston University.

Archaeologists and a scholar with passion and a vision successfully located the tomb of Sophia in the land where the Pharaohs ruled. It was they who followed the dream and solved the riddle in their quest for Sophia, an Egyptian princess from a previously unknown dynasty dating back some 3,200 years to around 1,200BC. Her story had been lost in the mists of time but now it can be told for the very first time.

Regenerated through the ages, here in her thirteenth life, the mystic power of old, Sophia – Daughter of the Full Moon and, based upon the evidence we have been able to uncover, this is her story.

1971 AD: Masirah – We entered the encampment near the village of Hilf close to Turtle Beach, where old men of the sea, fishermen by trade, were seated around their camp fire, eating grilled barracuda and swordfish steaks, crayfish tails, dates, and almonds, drinking warm goats milk and hot sweet mint tea. We were honoured to be invited to join in their evening feast and as they shared their meal, Baksheesh, the Wali (headman on the island, appointed by the Sultan of Oman) told us a story, which had clearly been passed down through the centuries, to become a local legend, like a tale from the Arabian Nights, about a local girl from the island who had a dream of becoming a princess in the far off land of the Pharaohs. The Arabic and Persian name of that girl was Saphia – as derived from σοφία, the Greek word for “Wisdom”. Her name has changed over the centuries as she travelled through time across deserts and seas, until people came to know her as Sophia, and her name has represented the personification of wisdom around the world to this very day.

It is not known for certain what year the girl left the island, I have been unable to find any written texts, but, from the scant evidence, she must have begun her travels more than 3,000 years ago

One of the few creatures which survived the island’s burning desert heat was the scorpion, and the Wali explained that the girl had the magical power of a scorpion’s sting. Although outwardly calm and serene she could strike swiftly so it was no surprise when she adopted the scorpion as her ‘image’.

The old men’s story stayed with me and I vowed to follow in her footsteps, travelling back through the millennia, little knowing where my search may lead; to find out the truth of her story, to tell the world how the beautiful young Omani girl with a dream became an Egyptian princess.

And so our search for Sophia began….

The first part of my journey took me by dhow across the Arabian Sea to Oman at the southern end of the Arabian Peninsula where the hot desert sands end suddenly on the high escarpment towering above the fertile green coastal Batinah Plain which meets the waters of the Indian Ocean. After two days and one night at sea, the dhow dropped anchor in the sheltered bay at Rayzut where my interpreter Sayeed and I disembarked. At the time of our arrival in October, the wet monsoon period had just ended and the all-enveloping misty drizzle had cleared. It was hot but the heat was tempered by the on-shore breeze drifting in from the Indian Ocean. Although the monsoon mists were gone, my journey through the mists of time had only just begun.

We were escorted in Omani Blue long-wheel-based Land Rovers along the coast to a dazzlingly bright gleaming white walled structure, the Sultan’s Summer Palace, which stood proudly in the centre of Salalah city. And there we stayed for several weeks as guests of the Sultan who was intrigued by my quest and, kindly offering his help, he provided me with a knowledgeable guide, Kimji, who might set me off on the right path in my search for Sophia.

1972AD Salalah – Life in the Sultan’s palace was relaxing and gave me an opportunity to study the local culture and gain an understanding of how life must have been there some 3,000 years ago. We dined well on local produce, bananas dates and coconuts from the verdant plantations alongside the Indian Ocean shoreline. Fish and goat meat were sold alongside scrawny chickens and some indescribable cuts of meat on stone slabs in the old open market place just outside the palace walls.

Kimji, our bearded old Omani guide was most helpful telling me stories, recounting ancient legends of his land, of which he was immensely proud. Although he spoke passable English, and I was able to understand some Arabic, Sayeed was ever at hand translating some of the more difficult passages of our many conversations. One morning Kimji brought me a gift, a fantastically coloured chameleon, about 12 inches (30cm) in length from nose to the tip of its’ tail, colours constantly changing to mirror whatever the surrounding background, perfect camouflage. Eyes rotating through 360 degrees, long rolled-up tongue ever ready to shoot out and catch any flies which came within range.

Such a brilliant creature. Kimji went on to tell me his chameleon story which gave me the next tangible ‘lead’ in my quest. On Masirah Island the Wali had spoken of the Scorpion and how the young Sophia had adopted the animal as her image. Now Kimji was telling me of the legend of an island girl who had travelled to Salalah and was befriended by an Omani Chameleon which followed her everywhere. The girl’s name was Sophia, was this simply a coincidence or the same Sophia for whom I was searching?

The old man said that according to legend, his Sophia had held a Scorpion as her symbol and she was so touched by the friendly chameleon that she also adopted it as her second defining symbol. Sophia of the Scorpion and the Chameleon.

I was sure we were talking about the same girl, the story from the fishermen on the island and the legend as recounted by Kimji had to be linked, intertwined.

It was coming towards the end of my time in Salalah when the Sultan took myself, Kimji and Sayeed a short distance eastward along the coast to show me the ruins of what must have been a sizeable settlement, now only low walls of sun-blackened stone remain in the desert sands beside the ocean. Thousands of years ago, this place was an impressive royal palace with canals of cooling water; it was the original home, the birthplace of the Queen of Sheba.

I was excited and yet rather disappointed at this revelation; surely Sophia and Sheba could not be both one and the same person? Sheba’s story is well known and her life with Solomon is equally well documented. The two young women must be two different people. Had my quest ended at the first hurdle? What had happened to Sophia? The trail seemed to have gone cold. I needed time to pause and consider, to stay focused on my quest for Sophia or accept that the stories and legends ended here. What had happened to ‘my’ Sophia and if she was real then where had she gone?

Other duties meant that I had to return to England and put my search on hold indefinitely. But from time to time my thoughts would drift back to my old quest. Whenever possible I would discus with colleagues and study texts looking for clues. Theories were examined and either discarded or noted as worthy of further investigation.

Eventually, my regular duties came to an end and at last I was able to take the time to resume my quest; but where to begin?

Now I knew where I would restart my search – back in the very place where the trail had gone cold so long before: back to the desert heat of Oman.

The original story told to me on the island spoke of a girl who had dreamed of becoming an Egyptian princess. So, how would she have travelled to the land of the Pharaohs over 3,000 years ago?

The answer, or at least first part of the answer, was back in Salalah where I had lost the trail. The answer when it came to me was so simple, I had been trying to unravel a long lost complicated mystery but somehow I had completely overlooked the obvious. The answer was quite literally under my nose in the Omani desert.

Three of the many things for which Oman is rightly famous, are frankincense – the aromatic gum resin burned as incense over millennia and worth more than its weight in gold; myrrh – used in perfume and medicines: and camels. Frankincense, Myrrh (and Gold) – were the three gifts carried to a stable in Bethlehem by the three wise men, the Magi.

[First references to Oman, then called Magaa, were in Sumerian times – in 3000 BC. Sir Ranulph Fiennes author of “Where Soldiers Fear to Tread.” published by Hodder and Stoughton]

For thousands of years frankincense was traded throughout much of Asia and the known world. The route of the ancient Frankincense Trail travelled west across Oman and through Yemen to San’a where it turned north to follow the eastern coastline of the Red Sea up through Jordan, passing Mecca and Jeddah and on towards Aqaba. The precious cargos were carried by camel in long trains plodding, trekking ever onward, winding through the hot dried up dusty wadis (river beds) and the welcoming cool green shade of remote, secret oases.

This surely must be the way Sophia had travelled 3,000 years ago. It was the logical route.

Petra – also known as the Rose City due to the colour of the stone cliffs in the narrow gorge: rock carvings in the shadows beside a pool of crystal clear water bubbling up from the hidden springs that feed the water conduits. Paintings on the walls within the red stone temples

Was this the first ever recorded image of our Sophia? Did she stop here in the Rose City to rest for a while on her journey and dream her dream once again, and did she have her likeness painted on the wall? Maybe she painted it herself. I would like to think so but, really, who knows?

At Petra she left the company of the camel train team and boarded a sailing ship to travel south along the Gulf of Aqaba and then westward once more to the Red Sea port of Hurghada where she left the ship and set foot on Egyptian sand for the first time.

Sophia’s arrival in the Egyptian port coincided with the night of the full moon; here the moon was a symbol of rejuvenation and, given its cycle, this is understandable. Later texts in fact describe it as “the one that repeats its form”. Her timing would appear to be coincidental, but perhaps it was fate, pre-ordained, commanded by forces more powerful, that she should arrive on the eve of that auspicious event. Her dream was more than just a dream, it was her destiny. For the following 28 days of the lunar cycle she rested in the port town learning something of the ways and culture in this new land, until the night of the next full moon. The following morning she awoke well rested, feeling completely rejuvenated, she bathed and looked out over her new world. Sophia, the young woman from Masirah Island was now reborn as Sophia: Daughter of the Full Moon. She had a new name, no longer just ‘Sophia’ from the island, she is now called Sophia Badriyah [BADRIYAH (بدريّة): Feminine form of Arabic unisex Badr, meaning “full moon.”].

It could have been that this would be where my search would end. But I was sure there was more to her story.

Her journey had been long but it was not yet complete.

Now, as the new Sophia – Daughter of the Full Moon, she had gathered many followers, willing devotees drawn to her presence by some mysterious force. Together they left the port town and travelled west by northwest through mountain passes to reach the banks of the great River Nile. Along the way, she had gained more followers from each of the villages they passed through. She had to hire six Feluccas – the traditional Egyptian wooden sailing boats – to transport her and her people across the river to the western bank.

The captain of her vessel gave her directions to the Valley of the Moon, and as they landed he also gave her the name of local guide who would be willing to show her the way. She located the guide and he was so captivated by her serene beauty that he refused all payment for his services, instead he became an avid follower. By the time they reached the fabled valley in the New Kingdom, the Pharaoh Amenhotep greeted and welcomed Sophia into his temple at Soleb. Amenhotep fully identifies himself with the moon, and his temple at Soleb is dedicated to the Moon.

The Pharaoh presented her to his court as part of his family, Sophia: Daughter of the Full Moon, Egyptian Princess, and in recognition he instructed his scribe to create a cartouche to show the world her name in the official hieroglyphs of their written language.

She was home. She had arrived at last.

The records show that Sophia lived a long life but when the time came for her to join the realm of the departed, she was well prepared for an even longer journey through the eons of the afterlife.

At this point the records seem to end, but by now I was convinced that her story was not yet over.

Some years later whilst in Cyprus I visited an old monastery high in the Troodos Mountains and met a monk who was in charge of the library, he was custodian of a collection of ancient Greek scrolls and Egyptian papyri. And what I discovered within those texts was no less amazing than all the discoveries my research had previously uncovered. There, in the faded brittle documents, was a report of a very wise well-travelled woman of some considerable status who had arrived on the island, close to where the fortified harbour of Kyrenia stands on the northern shore.

The name of that woman was Saphia. The records do not show quite how long she lived on the island, but in the scrolls there is a reference to a Saphia who travelled to the south west coast and after visiting the Temple of Apollo she swam twice around the Rocks of Aphrodite before boarding a ship at Paphos harbour to sail west across the Mediterranean Sea and through the Pillars of Hercules. This was all too much to be simply more coincidence. The clues were there, waiting to be discovered, the riddle would be solved. How many incarnations had she had? A daughter of the moon indeed, continually being reborn.

A ship passed Tangier and steamed under the towering Rock of Gibraltar, leaving the warm blue Mediterranean waters in its wake and then turned north in the cold grey Atlantic swell until at last the shoreline of Britannia came into view. The ship continued to voyage northward along the western coast until it arrived at its destination – the port town of Fleetwood, where one passenger disembarked, walking down the steps onto the quayside. That passenger was Sophia.

My search for Sophia has taken over 40 years but it has been a fascinating quest

A journey that has taken us thousands of miles, through millennia of time, over lands and seas: All the way from the burning hot desert sands of Oman to the stinging blowing sands of Fleetwood.

Our quest is over. Sophia lives once more.

(C) Russ Morton – 3rd July 2014

To some it is just a high chair
But to me it’s something else
As the boys are at their wooden table,
On normal wooden chairs. 

While they sit there with plates
And eat with knives and forks
I’m sitting up here in my spaceship
On top of this four-legged rocket. 

Astronauts have food in bags
Dry meals to be re-hydrated
Mine comes in a plastic bowl
Nutritious rations for the flight. 

Dry rusks, teething biscuits
I can’t really bite them yet
But I certainly like to chew.
Feel good between my fingers too. 

Strapped in tight, sat back
Feet on footrest, table set,
It even has a luggage rack
Or is that a safety net? 

Spent months laying on my back
And always looking up to see
My world from ground level.
Now I can look out and down as well. 

Sitting here in my shiny spaceship
All ready for the flight, and counting:
Three. Two. One. Lift Off. ‘Where will I go’,
I wonder. ‘What will I see today?’

Russ Morton
16^th Sept. 2007.

Out along the wild Fylde Coast
Where flowing waters meet
And the River Wyre runs dry,
Where does the rolling sea go
On the ebbing of the tide?

When the air is clear as crystal
And the bay a blue flat calm
With gentle breezes wafting
Along a golden sandy shore
Relax in nature’s joy unfolding.

At Rossall Point look out to see
Where battling currents meet
Beside the ever changing strand.
A wondrous place, where seals glance
At strangers walking on the shore.

Brightly coloured beach umbrella
Paddling parents, children splash at leisure
Flying kites and ice cream melting.
Fishermen with rods and baited lines
And a solitary grey seal has taken all the fish.

Across the bay the sky turns grey,
Watch as storm clouds gather
Growing ever darker, moving even faster.
Observe the swinging moods of nature
Mirrored by the changing of the sea.

Billowing clouds race shoreward
Over swelling sea and tide.
Colours changing constantly
From blue to grey to turgid brown
As white horses stampede across the brine.

Where sands of time are flowing
And red sun sets to end another day.
As night must fall a new dawn awaits
The howling of the winds
And the crashing of the waves.

Russ Morton: 2^nd June – 2^nd August 2014.

Then hurrah for the Lancashire witches
Whose smiles every bosom enriches –
Oh, dearly I prize the pretty blue eyes,
Of the pride of the Lancashire witches.

(Axon Ballads 069)

There is a large boulder by the side of the path in the churchyard of St Anne’s in Woodplumpton and a small sign says that it marks the grave of Meg Shelton – a local witch in the late seventeenth century. Meg was known as the “Fylde Hag” and apparently got up to all sorts of mischief – stealing the milk from other people’s cattle and transforming herself into animals, etc.

The boulder is about three feet long by two feet wide – which doesn’t seem big enough to cover a grave. But it turns out that Meg was buried in a narrow shaft… like a fence post… head down…so that if she tried to dig her way out she’d be going the wrong way, all the way down to Australia! The boulder was put on top to keep her in the grave.

Many areas of Lancashire have legends associated with the rivers that run through the county. And there are many gruesome ghastly tales of witches in Lancashire.

One such story is of Peg o’Nell who is said to live under a bridge over the River Ribble near Clitheroe. There is also a similar story referring to Ginny Greenteeth who is said to live in the River Conder in north west Lancashire and her tale is also told in a song entitled “Jenny Greenteeth” written by Nicole Murray of Australian folk duo Cloudstreet – Nicole’s song is recorded on their cd ‘Violet Sarah and Muckle John’.

~

This is a story about Tiffy-Lou and how she came to meet Netty Nettlebags the white witch of Wyre.

With her pointed nose and pointed ears, broomstick always at the ready beside the back door and a tall pointed hat in the cupboard under the stairs Netty Nettlebags was the picture of witches known to millions.

Netty and her friends Annie Appletree and Rowena Rowanberry were the youngest members of the Bogworts and Bindweeds, two very ancient families who have been good white witches around here for over four hundred years.

They lived together in Dreamy Dell, a quiet little place surrounded by wild plants and the tall green trees of Farland Forest, close to the bend in the river.

The windy heights, hidden cloughs and remote homesteads of Pendle are only a forty minute ride away to the east and the gloomy dark brooding red sandstone bulk of Lancaster Castle with its echoing courtrooms and dark damp dungeons deep underground is just a fifteen minute hop northwards on a fast broomstick.

Sometimes Netty, Annie and Rowena would meet with another wise medicine woman, Gaylar, the white witch from the greenwood, who used to travel around the local villages on foot and on horseback collecting herbs and helping people and dragons with her lotions and potions.

~

Tiffy-Lou twitched her nose and the winter storms subsided and at the time it seemed like it was just a coincidence. But it soon became clear that this was only the beginning of another tale of Tiffy-Lou’s adventures in the world of magic, myth and legend, here beside the river where things are never always quite what they seem.

The swallows had just returned once more from their winter homeland in West Africa; flying in on the first wave of warm winds blowing up from the vast moist green tropical jungles and over the dry arid deserts thousands of miles to the south.

It all started soon after she met Dangerous Duncan the Drumlin Giant when she had first seen some of the natural wonders hereabouts. As a growing young girl Tiffy-Lou already knew Draco the river dragon and Sta-Na the unicorn, and Halich Vigr the Selkie who came ashore to rest for a while after being battered in a raging sea-storm last autumn, and she began to take an ever greater interest in the plants and animals all around. Tiffy-Lou was particularly amazed by the wonders in her own back garden where she gazed on in wonderment as lots of tiny black dots in clusters of clear slimy jelly-like goo grew and changed shape over the following days and weeks into wriggling swimming tadpoles.

Later, she watched fascinated when the tadpoles themselves began to change, as first two little back legs grew and then little front legs soon followed until at last what had begun life as silent little black dots no bigger than a full stop on a page, went on to change shape completely yet again to become noisy little green and black and brown frogs which were soon croaking and hopping out of the pond. So Tiffy-Lou had learned about the magic of one of nature’s miracles that is the evolution of frog-spawn, which happens every year and is always a joy to share.

Now it was springtime in the countryside. In the hedgerows, hawthorn bushes were covered in sweet scented creamy white blossom which fell like confetti along the tracks. Red Campion flowers grew bright and fresh among the head-high clouds of lacy white cow parsley on the verges of the lanes. Bluebells carpeted the woodland floor and buttercups turned the meadows into waving fields of gold.

Tiffy-Lou twitched her nose again and springtime changed into summer as golden headed dandelions were transformed into round white feathery clocks which began ticking silently all across the fields, measuring time by the lengthening daylight hours, before casting their seeds on the breeze to travel like fairies flying high over the hillside and out across the river.

One hot sunny day in mid-summer, Tiffy-Lou was out walking beside the river, listening to the birds and collecting herbs to take home in her basket. Fantastically bright coloured red and gold dragonflies and shiny azure blue damselflies flashed around in the hot sunlight along the path as a reed bunting sang his clear but hesitant song in short pauses and sounding like a young child trying to count and forgetting what comes next. And swallows swooped down low to fly around her shoulders and knees; when all of a sudden she bumped into her old friend Betty Bramble. Most of the local people knew Betty Bramble down along the river riverside path.

“Ah Ha!” said Betty. “I think the flying creatures like you, young Tiffy-Lou, and I see you already know your herbs. Have you seen my friends Netty Nettlebags and Annie Appletree and Rowena Rowanberry anywhere around here while you have been out and about today?”

“The dragonflies and damselflies know my Grandad, who also walks beside the river, and they often accompany him for a while along the path; and the swallows always watch out for him at the fork in the lanes when they come back every spring time. So, as they know my Grandad, they also now know me.” replied Tiffy-Lou. “I don’t think I know Netty Nettlebags or Annie Appletree or Rowena Rowanberry, but I do know Gaylar though – because she helped old Gwen Dragon before Draco the River Dragon was born.”

Betty Bramble took Tiffy-Lou along the path through the trees to Dreamy Dell and sure enough Nettie, Annie and Rowena were all there mixing their potions and chanting strange words like ‘Puccinelia Maritima’, ‘Spartina’, ‘Zostera’, ‘Juncus Maritimus’ as they stirred the cauldron.

“Hello girls,” called Betty, “I think you might like to meet young Tiffy-Lou here, she’s another friend of mine. She doesn’t realise yet that she is actually very much like you three so I’m sure you will all have some great fun together.”

And with that, Betty walked away and left Tiffy-Lou there with the three young witches.

Tiffy-Lou twitched her nose, and Netty, Annie and Rowena immediately ceased their chanting and stopped their stirring, and they welcomed young Tiffy-Lou into their home with a refreshing brew of herbal tea.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Tiffy-Lou.”

“Good day to you Tiffy-Lou, I am Netty and these two young ladies are my very good friends Annie and Rowena; we are the last of the witches of Wyre. But Netty said that you are very much like us so are you a witch too?”

“I don’t know,” replied Tiffy-Lou as she kept her nose very still. “But sometimes when I twitch my nose, strange things seem to happen around me.”

“Hmmm,” replied Netty. “I see from your basket that you are collecting herbs, and from what Betty Bramble says, you also have the creatures of the air flying down and around you. Tell me Tiffy-Lou, do you have a cat?”

“Yes, I have a cat called Pilchard.”

“Ah ha!” cackled Annie, as witches do, “you have a cat that is really a fish or is it a fish that is really a cat? Or is it really a catfish?”

“I don’t know,” murmured Tiffy-Lou nervously, “to me, Pilchard is a cat.”

“But the cat could be a fish in disguise, or maybe the cat is a fish that you can change into a cat or a cat that you can change into a fish?” asked Rowena.

“I don’t know!” said Tiffy-Lou. “Pilchard is a cat and has lived with me all my life. Why do you ask all these questions?”

“Because, young Tiffy-Lou, we think that perhaps you are very much like us. Have you got a broomstick?” asked Netty Nettlebags.

“No. I don’t have a broomstick, but I do help my Mum to clean up at home and I can brew a cup of tea.” replied Tiffy-Lou as she wondered what all these questions were about.

“We must remedy that immediately, and with all haste,” said Netty, “come on girls let us go into the forest together and gather the wood to make a broomstick.”

It did not take them very long to collect enough Birch twigs for the broom head and a fine straight branch of Ash for the handle. Back in the cottage yard Netty took a length of twine from a hook on the wall and together the three young witches made a brand new junior broomstick especially for Tiffy-Lou.

Netty, Annie and Rowena then taught Tiffy-Lou how to fly on her new broomstick. They started off with just a few short hops around Dreamy Dell before zooming over to Pheasant Wood to see the golden magic carpet of celandine flowers. From there it was another short flight to Towers Wood where they watched the geese on the pond and squirrels in the trees, before returning over Farland Forest and back to the cottage in the Dell.

Tiffy-Lou learned very quickly and was eager to be off again but her new friends said that she had done enough for today. They asked her if she had any brothers at home so she told them about Charlie and Simon who were both a few years older than her. “Oh, you must bring them with you next time you come to see us,” said Annie. “Leave your broomstick here with us and we will look after it for you.”

Some days later, Tiffy-Lou, Charlie and Simon walked together over the hill and through the trees to the cottage in Dreamy Dell. Netty, Annie and Rowena had been busy making two more new broomsticks for the boys and, after a few flying lessons, they all rode their broomsticks over to visit the famous Treacle Mines below Pendle Hill.

On the way back home, they stopped for a rest beside the magical Crystal Fountain in the meadow near Windy Harbour. “Have you got any magic words, Tiffy-Lou?” asked Netty. “Ooh, yes, she must have some magic words!” said Rowena. “Come on Tiffy-Lou,” prompted Annie. But Tiffy-Lou had already thought about this and had some words ready.

Spinning around and around three times, she then stopped and stood very still, and said her magic words: “Abda Abda Bott Bock and Bisky, Oh No!”

It was so quiet you could hear Gorse seed pods clicking and popping in the sunlight.

Then something very strange happened. As the three young witches and Tiffy-Lou and her brothers watched, the magical Crystal Fountain began to change. The fountain was made of hard glass crystals and stood silently in the field beside the junction on the track. But now the hard glass crystals were transformed into spouting clear wet water which leapt high into the sky before cascading noisily splashing around the youngsters. And skylarks trilled overhead.

Returning once more to Dreamy Dell at the end of the long day, they were all tired after their adventures. Tiffy-Lou and the boys walked home again over the hill. Netty flew after them and spoke quietly to Tiffy-Lou, “Come back and see us tomorrow afternoon.”

Tiffy-Lou went back the next day and Rowena met her at the end of the path through the trees. “We wanted you to come again today because you have been so good to us and we have really enjoyed you sharing some time with us. Now we have something very special to give you. Come over to the cottage, Netty and Annie are waiting.”

She stepped in to the cool dark cottage. “Come in Tiffy-Lou” said Annie. As the three young witches stood at the kitchen table, they uncovered a small wooden box. It was their gift to Tiffy-Lou and together they passed it into Tiffy-Lou’s outstretched hands.

“Take great care of this young Tiffy-Lou,” said Netty, “It is a mythical magic box from the distant past. Keep it with you for ever.” “Look inside, lift the lid.” Annie said. Tiffy-Lou lifted the lid and looked into the box but she could not see anything inside. Rowena could see the puzzled look pass across Tiffy-Lou’s face and explained that right there inside the magic box was an invisible secret magic key which was to open many doors in the future for Tiffy-Lou. She was now the new guardian of the invisible key in the magic box…

Now, the cottage is gone but Dreamy Dell is still there, as the family area by the river. On a warm summer day, if you sit quietly at one of the wooden pic-nic tables in the family area, and look out over the field, you might see three swallows dizzily swooping down low over the grass and around the tables. Surely the three swallows cannot really be Netty Nettlebags, Annie Appletree and Rowena Rowanberry in disguise? Or are they?

R.M