From The Mouths of Babes

I am married to a remarkable woman who has spent the last thirty years studying metaphysics and spirituality. Our house is graced by hundreds of books by pioneers like Emerson, Thoreau, Troward, Holmes, Goldsmith and Tolle. I examine the library and think that If I had not had the dormant seed of enlightenment within me, I would have been spun off years ago ... like a pea on a centrifuge! But the seed was there ... and it is flourishing. It manifests in so many unexpected ways.

Yesterday, I was walking in the town of Warwick as I do every day. I was accosted by a young man, my antenna immediately suspecting his questioning. 'Do you live round here?' he asked looking at me benignly. I was reluctant to answer. 'In the neighbourhood, yes.'
'Well, I wonder if you could help me? I'm trying to start a small window cleaning business. It's hard going but I don't want to rely on the state and am determined to succeed. Do you know if people in this street have a regular cleaner? I'm a big believer in positive thinking. Have you ever heard of that? You have! Amazing! All my mates think I'm weird thinking about such things but it all makes sense. I've been reading the thoughts of a dude called Confucius. Ever heard of him?'

The young man in question had a sheaf of home produced flyers, a bucket and sponge and nothing else. For now he possesses no transport or ladders ... but he is standing tall and is determined to succeed.

Evensong

Lore and I attended the evensong service in the ancient church of St. Mary's, Warwick on Sunday evening. Although the congregation was sparse, the atmosphere was intensely atmospheric, the lilting, angelic voices of the choir drifting to heaven above the candlelight.

It was an interlude for stillness and reflection - time taken out from the hubbub of modern life to draw spirtual breath and ponder. In an age of instant gratification, the experience was anchoring and connecting, a clergman reminding us that such simple services of song and short prayer have been a feature of worship at St. Mary's for over 700 years.

Our attendance set our compass on course for Christmas.

Image of New Book Cover

Here's my Press Here Books logo and the front cover image for my new book

Press Here Books - New Publication

In an era when bookshops are closing and publishers are committing hari- kari, my fledgling small press is doing rather nicely, motivated entirely by the passion to see my own work and the work of others in print. Press Here Books latest venture 'Where's Teddy?', a bedtime story book for small children is just out. The author is delighted that a collection of watercolours that have gathered dust in a drawer for 12 years are now printed and bound and reading to grace the Santa sacks of her grandchildren.

The maxim I've adopted for my venture is:

WORDS ARE THE KEYS TO THE UNIVERSE - LET US HOT-FORGE YOURS.

I've not advertised, although I shall organise a webpage before too long - all my commissions to date coming from personal recommendations - most indisputably the finest route for any business.

I always seek to align myself with the mysterious force that shapes all our destinies, positivity and expectancy attracting people and happenings into my life that enrich and reward.

All very exciting!

I'm currently working on a new book on Yorkshire humour and would welcome advance orders?

Dovedale Delights

The weather Gods smiled on us this weekend when we visited glorious Dovedale in Derbyshire. At 66 years of age, I set myself a challenge, arranging a hectic programme of walking and cycling for myself and two relatives - Tom and Lee - both half my age.

We stayed in the romantic Izaak Walton Hotel in the shadow of Thorp Cloud - a diminutive pimple of a mountain around 600 feet high. After breakfast we walked north along the river enjoying the scenery and the palette of rich autumnal tints, our conversations sparkling like the river. Crossing Viator's Bridge in Milldale, we continued bankside and entered the wilder Wolfscotedale, passing the most hallowed spot for anglers in the world - the Pike Pool below the heights where the ghosts of Beresford Hall still roam. I pointed out Charles Cotton's still surviving but reclusive Fishing House in the sward by the river. And lunch in Hartington before returning to the hotel.

Ravenous like trout in May after fifteen miles of energetic walking, we scoured the dinner menu for sustenance appropriate for mountain men. But what did we find? Descriptions of sweetmeats and confections that had the stomach groaning. We ordered with trepidation and received a most colourful assemblage of what once had been pure, unadulterated and unmolested food, now contorted, twisted and skillfully manipulated, the ensemble resembling some gaudy abstract painting. Wary trout, instantly realising that these flashy baubles were pure artifice, would have spat them out but men of decorum, we munched (very briefly) eyeing with covetous glances the plump fish in the glass cases that adorned the walls. 

Next day, after twenty five miles cycling on the Tissington Trail we eschewed the gimcracks of the hotel restaurant and gorged on three big fat juicy beefsteaks ... with chips!

Despite offering the two lads (pictured) lashings of Yorkshire Puddings and copious helpings of bangers and mash (just like Peter Seller's mother used to make) they high-tailed it back home with me waiting on the shores of Carsington Reservoir alone to complete the final event in the triathlon. They wouldn't even hold my towel!