Hail fellow, well met.

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She wore a flowing yellow gown and her long fair hair was dotted with pink and white blooms. She bowed her head. “Hail fellow, well met” she said.

Such was my welcome to England’s largest Medieval Festival.

You would be forgiven for thinking that I spend all my time visiting castles! Certainly several of my local ones have featured in my posts recently, and today’s is no exception, for this amazing event is held annually in a magnificent red brick Tudor castle dating back to 1441 which is just a few miles from my home in the village of Herstmonceux.

Hundreds of medieval enthusiasts come from all over the England and spend three days in authentic encampments in the countryside surrounding the castle. There they live as our ancient ancestors did. Small children play with wooden toys and run around with hoops. Babies slumber in woven baskets whilst their mothers prepare meals in heavy cast iron pots suspended above open fires. Women sit on stools stitching and sewing while most of the men busily go about their trades. Many are involved in the production of armour and weapons, for this was the era of the great medieval battles and the War of the Roses.

The whole experience is one of sights sounds and smells of England in the mid 1400’s.We are treated to displays of falconry, jousting tournaments and archery. We watch on as butchers prepare joints of meat from wild game and cooks tend whole hogs which hang above glowing embers. We taste cakes and sweetmeats and biscuits all washed down with traditionally brewed ale poured from wooden firkins. Musicians wander about playing crude wooden instruments and a small girl runs around blowing into a bull’s horn. Sheets of metal are heated to red hot, then battered and hammered into breast plates and shields. Highly polished helmets and chain mail vests are everywhere to be seen.

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On a nearby hillside the army of the House of Lancaster live in their tented barracks, whilst a mile or so away the House of York prepare for battle, for this was the period when there was fierce rivalry for the throne of England. And today we are to witness a re-enactment of such a battle with hundreds of armour clad soldiers wielding bows and arrows, chains and huge swords.
At three pm the leaders of each of the army meet in the middle of the field close to the castle walls. Neither side agree to yield so a battle is declared. An ear splitting explosion from a war cannon signals the start of the hostilities. Forty minutes or so later, the ground is strewn with the bodies of fallen soldiers from the House of York and true to history, the Lancastrians are victorious once again.

As I left I walked between two rows of girls in yellow gowns with flowers in their hair. As I did so each of them bowed, and bid me “God speed, fare thee well”.

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inspiration

This week’s prompt at Sunday Scribblings presents me with my greatest nightmare –writing poetry! It’s something I’ve struggled with for years. I simply don’t understand it. Having said that, the comments I receive when I write a piece are always encouraging, goodness knows why!


But I plough on and occasionally knock out the odd rhyme or two and I’ve even started a blog where I can put my meagre efforts on public display - it’s called ‘No Rhyme or Reason' by the way!


I’m not going to write a new piece today. Instead I’ve decided to reproduce a piece I wrote especially for a friend a couple of months ago. If you have read it before please accept my apologies for using it again. It is however a piece which means a lot to me and one which I don’t feel I can better.


May I ask one thing of you? Please press the arrow on theYouTube screen before you read it. Thank you.

Words not said

no need

She felt his happiness

he sensed her pain

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Just a glance

no more

She saw his anguish

he witnessed her joy

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Two minds joined as one

He was her soul mate

she his inspiration..

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The love we loved

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My contribution to Carry On Tuesday # 15

Click anywhere on poem to enlarge.

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Hide and seek

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My story is of two events in the life of one person, the first during childhood and the other as an adult. It brings together the prompts from Sunday Scribblings, Adult, and (Fiction) Friday, Hide and Seek.
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August 1979
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It was pitch dark in the cupboard under the stairs. It was so eerily quiet she could hear her own heart beating. ‘Let’s play hide and seek’ her friends had said. ‘You hide,we’ll count to twenty and then we’ll come looking for you’.

Why was it so quiet? Why couldn’t she hear her friends running around in search of her? They must be creeping around in the hope of luring her out. They must have thought she would take a little peep out of the door and then they’d pounce on her! She was shaking with excitement. This was going to be the best fun she’d had for ages..

Minutes later it was still silent. Perhaps they were having trouble finding her she thought. Sitting in the dark wasn’t so much fun now. Why was it so quiet?
Suddenly something tickled her forehead. She leapt out of the cupboard frantically ruffling her hair with her hands. It must have been a little spider. She expected her friends to come running toward her laughing, but there was no one to be seen. They must have decided to leave her and go out to play, it was not the first time it had happened. A tear trickled down her cheek.
She was alone in the house. So alone..

August 2009

It was her husband's birthday and she thought she'd surprise him. He'd said he would be late home from the office because he had a meeting to attend, so she decided to make his homecoming a bit special. She prepared a meal fit for a king, put champagne on ice and scattered red rose petals across the table. Then she changed into the most alluring dress she could find. Just before he was due to arrive home she lit some candles and hid behind the door to the dining room.

She waited for what seemed like an eternity. Several times she thought she heard his car pulling into the driveway, but it must have been the neighbours.
Then she heard a key in the lock and the front door opening. She could feel her heart pounding with excitement. She waited for him to come into the room. And she waited and she waited. Eventually she ventured out from her hiding place. He was nowhere to be seen. On the hall table she found his note. She didn't need to read it. A tear trickled down her cheek.
She was alone in the house. So alone.


PS. A quick plug for my friend Rosey who has written an 'interesting' piece for Sunday Scribbs! Click here.
And another thing! The new Carry On Tuesday prompt is ready and waiting right here!
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A visit to Bodiam Castle

click on photos to enlarge to full screen

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If you drop in regularly I need not tell you that I live in a region of England that’s thick with castles! The stretch of coastline on which I live is just a short distance from France and the rest of mainline Europe and most of these castles were built as defences from invading forces. My local beaches have been landing places for many hundreds of years from the Romans, through William the Conqueror to today’s invaders – illegal immigrants who are looking for a better life (and free health care) in the UK.

A few months back I did a piece on my nearest castle at Pevensey which was built as a shore fort by the Romans in the 290 AD. Today I met my son, daughter in law and my two grandchildren at the newest of our local castles, Bodiam. This is a relative ‘new-build’ compared to many of the others in the area having been constructed as recently as 1385.

It was built by soldier of fortune Edward Dalyngrigge to show off his power and wealth as well as to defend the surrounding countryside. Bodiam Castle was a grand and comfortable house as well as a fortress, and its setting was a working estate with farmland and even a flour mill.

I’ll leave you with a few pictures which I took a few hours ago. Click on them to enlarge.

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In the beginning.....

.I strongly believe that to grab the attention of your reader you need to start your piece of writing with a strong first sentence. This is what led me to start Carry On Tuesday, and why week after week I spend a considerable amount of my scarce spare time trawling through lists of first lines to use as prompts. Probably about ninety nine out of a hundred are unsuitable, but I thought you might like to see some of the weird and wonderful ones which though totally unusable are nonetheless very amusing!


Iain Banks started his 1992 book The Crow Bank with the words ‘It was the day my Grandmother exploded’. Rose MacAulay also wrote about a relative in The Towers of Trebizond in 1956. ‘“Take my camel dear” said my aunt Dot as she climbed down from this animal on her return from High Mass’. Emotionally Wierd by Kate Atkinson kicks off with ‘My mother is a virgin (trust me)’


Body parts pop up in quite a few first lines. In Larry McMurtry’s 2007 novel When the Light Goes we read ‘“Wow, look at those two!” the young woman exclaimed – by “those two” she seemed to be referring to her own stiffening nipples, plainly visible beneath a pale shirt that showed her small breasts as clearly as if she’d been naked’.


This brought a smile to my face ‘Helen woke up in the middle of the night wearing someone else’s breasts. Not her own insignificant, almost nondescript bumps, but huge pendulous full ones’. That was written by Barbara Hodgson as the opener to The Sensualist, 1998.


How about this one? ‘Of course an erect penis is all very well at the end of a party, rather to be desired really, but it’s not the first thing you expect to see when you enter a room’, so said Maggie Alderson in her 2000 tale When the Light Goes. However, John Varley in his book Steel Beach writes ‘“In five years the penis will be obsolete” said the salesman’.


The opening sentence of Notes from Underground by the fabulously named Fyodor Dostoyevsky is ‘I am a sick man...I am a wicked man. An unattractive man, I think my liver hurts’.


I liked this. ‘My mother didn’t try to stab my father until I was six, but she must have shown signs of oddness before that’. Those opening words appear in the wonderfully titled Never Have Your Dog Stuffed: And Other Things I’ve Learned by Alan Alda, 2006.


Alice Walker tells in her 1992 book Possessing the Secret of Joy ‘I did not realize for a long time I was dead’.


This opener paints a wonderful picture. ‘The mayor was found shortly after eleven with his bronze, brooding face lying on the last two slices of a prosciutto and artichoke pizza, his head turned and his mouth wide open gaping, as if gulping for a smashed brown bulb of garlic with life’s last breath’. Those were the words of Scott Simon in his 2008 novel Windy City: A Novel of Politics.
Pete McCarthy tells us at the beginning of his 2000 book McCarthy’s Bar ‘The harp player had just fallen off the stage and cracked his head on an Italian tourist’s pint’.


The title of this next one is as good as its opening line. Alesia Holliday tells us at the start of her story Nice Girls Finish First ‘It’s hard to meet nice guys when you sell sex toys for a living’.


I could go on and on, and maybe I’ll bring you some more at some time in the future. But right now I’ll leave you with Gabriel Garcia Marques who tells us at the start of A Memoir of My Sad Whores. ‘For my 90th birthday I wanted to give myself the gift of a night of mad love with an adolescent virgin’. The mind boggles!
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The dinner party

This week at Sunday Scribblings we are to write about a fictitious dinner party.

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For the best part of a lifetime the words of Phaedrus lived inside Mike's head. The words were written 2000 years ago, yet they could have been written yesterday. They could have been written especially for him. ‘The old knives that have rusted in my back I drive in yours’.




For the best part of a lifetime Mike had been the victim of taunts, deceit and scorn. Quite what happened I know not, but suddenly some kind of higher being scooped him up and promised him that his time had come. Time to reap the revenge he so deserved.




He’d lived in the area all of his life. He’d walked in the woods since he was a child yet he’d never before seen the crumbling gothic bastion he saw before him that day. The rusty iron gate was open, a chain and padlock swinging from the bolt. An irresistible force drew him in, along an overgrown avenue and through the sagging doors of Hades Hall. He found himself descending a flight of stone steps and entering a grey cellar illuminated by a dozen flickering candles. A table was set along the length of the room. It was covered with a white cloth and adorned with gleaming cutlery and sparkling crystal glasses. There were huge vases of white lilies and in the centre sat the skull and twisting horns of a deer.


A voice inside his head told him what he must do. The scene was set. All he needed now were the players. Seven people were to be chosen, and seven people were to each receive an invitation. An invitation they were strangely powerless to refuse.
.Childhood for most people is a precious time, but for Mike it was a time when he was bullied and isolated from his peers. One boy in particular made his life a misery, and one of his teachers persuaded him that he was worthless and inferior. They were both invited.


His real father had died when he was quite young and his mother remarried. His stepfather abused him both mentally and physically and when he went to his mother for comfort she accused him of lying and punished him severely. She died believing that everything he’d said was nothing more than attention seeking. He couldn’t blame her. After all her man could be very persuasive. But her man was to be one of the seven guests at the table tonight.




It came as a complete surprise to everyone when Mike married. His young wife was an outsider but she made sure she integrated herself into village life from the day she arrived. His parents had been comfortably off and somehow she just knew that when Mikes mother died he would be heir to a small fortune. She gained a somewhat unsavoury reputation in the village. It seemed that there was hardly a young man in the area had not fallen prey to her not inconsiderable charms. Mike knew of course but was too weak to do anything about it. When his mother eventually died his wife made off with more than half of his inheritance, plus the boy from the blacksmiths. But tonight she would be back. She was powerless to resist.
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There were three more places to fill and he chose one person from each of the last three decades, someone who had taken advantage of him, ignored him or made him feel inferior. A place was laid for the bank manager who tried to help himself to the money entrusted to him in the hope it would go unnoticed. There was place for the so-called friend who had tipped a beer over his head in the pub one night. He did it for no other reason than to get everybody laughing at our sad victim. It was not to be forgotten.


The seventh chair was to be taken by the counsellor who he’d had by his side for most of his life. The counsellor had done nothing to help him. If anything he’d made him feel even more inferior. It was obvious that to him the regular meetings were an unnecessary chore and a waste of time. It didn’t go un-noticed and the counsellor was to join the others at the table tonight.


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The night arrived and the guests assembled in the cellar. A ghostly looking master of ceremonies rapped three times on the table then asked everyone to take their place at the table. A fleet of waiters carried in platter after of platter of delicious food and the wine flowed.


Mike stood up and banged the table with the back of a spoon. All seven people stopped talking and stared in his direction. ‘The old knives that have rusted in my back I drive in yours’ he said. It was greeted with mocking laughter, then the seven got back to their talking.


Nobody noticed him slip away. So intense was the conversation that the locking of the doors and the sliding of the bolts went unheard. So did the sound of his laughter as he walked through the gates, locking them behind him, then into the woods. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. Hades Hall was no longer to be seen.
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Perhaps it was never there. Maybe this was all a dream. But he still held in his hand a bunch of rusting keys. At least, he did until he tossed them into the stream. A distant clock struck midnight. The day which was about to start was to be the first day of the rest of his life. A new life. Mike's life.
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Hello Mr Jones

Let me read it to you. Single click on arrow!

If James Brown hadn’t tried to be a hero he wouldn’t have been hurt. He would still be valuing precious stones for one of London’s premier jewellers.

Ricky Jones had planned this day over several weeks. He’d watched the comings and goings at Montague Diamond Studios in London’s Hatton Garden from a tiny flat which he rented above the shop opposite. He knew exactly when the night guard would be replaced by the doorman. He knew what time the manager arrived in the morning and exactly when the staff went home from work. He even knew the times at which the police patrolled this famous street filled with some of the world’s best known jewellers.

He had visited the studio on several occasions and made a couple of substantial purchases, so when he arrived that August afternoon he was greeted with the due deference all loyal customers deserve. ‘Hello Mr Jones’ said the doorman raising his silk top hat and opening the door to the shop.

But today Ricky Jones’s visit was to be slightly different. He certainly expected to leave with some new pieces but today he had no intention of paying for them.

Most of the staff did exactly as Ricky Jones demanded. After all, he was the one holding the gun. But one young man, James Brown, decided that he was not going to allow the burglary to happen. It was an unwise move. He survived but he would never work again.

By the time the police arrived he was well away from the scene of his crime. Inspector Grayson of the Metropolitan Police promised that it would only be a matter of time before Ricky Jones would be brought to justice.

But he was wrong. Five years later he retired, frustrated that he’d never got even close to Ricky Jones. At least, that’s what he thought.

In fact Mr Jones took a lot of trouble to make himself invisible. The lush black hair was cut to a business-like short back and sides and coloured a mousey shade of brown. His neat beard was gone. He had changed his contacts for a pair of functional looking spectacles. He even managed to shrink by swapping his trendy high shoes for a pair of glossy black brogues. His extravagant colourful clothes were changed for a drab grey suit. He took great pleasure in deliberately passing Inspector Grayson in the street unnoticed.

Despite the burglary Montague Diamond Studios remained one of London’s most prestigious Jewellers. The staff remained loyal and most of the members that had witnessed the event all those years were still there serving the firms select clientele.

At a high desk in one corner of the studio sat Montague’s new diamond expert, Richard who was affectionately known as Dickie Diamond. He was handling a sparkling bracelet with gloved hands, and examining it through his eyeglass. It was said that he didn’t actually need to work because he was a man of means. But he got enormous pleasure in spending his days doing what he loved to do most, studying precious stones.

The day was nothing special. Customers came and went. Then the doorman announced the arrival of a young man in a wheelchair. The staff rushed to greet him. It was James Brown visiting his old place of work for the first time since that fateful day. He suddenly spun his chair around and faced the diamond expert. A gasp went round the room as James Brown produced a gun from beneath the blanket over his lap.

‘Hello Mr Jones’ he said.

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A celestial show

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The night is still, the sea just ripples
Not a sound spoils the silence.

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Above the horizon
A half moon glows in the deep blue velvet black yonder
Which sparkles with a scattering of silver stars.

I lay on my back staring into infinity
Wondering what lies beyond
The pressures of the day are dismissed from my mind
I am at one with myself, at one with my thoughts.

Suddenly the heavens put on a show
Streaks of silver shoot across the sky
Four or five then ten or more

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Then just as suddenly stillness returns

There is nowhere in the world I’d rather be now
Nowhere in the world.

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We think we know.....

.This weeks prompt on Carry On Tuesday is the opening sentence from The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Sean Greer. 'We think we know the ones we love'
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We think we know the ones we love. But do we really? Can you put your hand on your heart and say that there’s not one part of your life you’ve kept to yourself? Can you be certain there’s not one little detail tucked away in the recesses of your loved ones mind that you will never be party to?


Can you imagine what would happen if we held an amnesty on deeply held secrets? Suppose that on one particular day everyone in the world told their partners something that they‘d kept to themselves!
As for me, I’m all for secrets. They keep you your toes. I certainly believe that there would be far fewer successful relationships if everyone was wholly truthful with each other.




Perhaps I was always too honest. Just maybe that’s where I went wrong.


Discuss!
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ps. This is a quick plug for my friend Roseys rather odd contribution. Click here to take a look.

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Mary bought lots of new things!

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The subject at Sunday Scribblings this week is New

It was years ago. I was only a kid but I remember her so well. Her name was Mary and she was ancient! Well, when you are eight anyone twice your height is ancient! But Mary really was. She always looked cross to us. Several of my friends were convinced she was a witch!

Anyway, one day she won some money. Seems she came up trumps on the football pools.
According to the grownups it really was quite a lot of money.

Mary decided to spend it all on herself, after all she lived on her own and we were sure she never had any children. Imagine having her as your mum! Woo!

She only had one tooth. It was right at the front and she used to call it her pickle chaser. The first thing she treated herself to was a new set of false teeth! I remember the first time we saw her with them in. She grinned at us and looked just like a pantomime horse! She was in the cafe later that day and she obviously thought she’d treat herself to something that required a full set of gnashers. I suppose she’d had got fed up with gumming her food for years! I can’t remember what it was she ordered but I’ll never forget the sight of her sitting there chewing something. Trouble was, whilst her jaw was chomping up and down, her teeth were standing still, stuck together!

She never had much hair. What she had was sort of white and wispy! So you can imagine our surprise when one day she appeared with a pile of new hair on her head! Not just any hair. It was dark brown and wavy and with each step she took it jerked an inch or so to the right and every now and then she had to straighten it! It was so funny to watch!

Mary used to ride a bicycle. A funny old ‘sit up and beg’ one with a wicker basket on the front in which she carried her scruffy little dog. She used to wobble all over the place. How she never had an accident I’ll never know. Well, the next purchase she made was a new bike. Actually it wasn’t a bicycle because it had three wheels! One at the front and two at the back so I suppose that made it a tricycle. It took her a while to get used to it. She seemed to forget it was wider than her old one and she kept catching one of the back wheels on the kerb and suddenly grinding to a halt! I saw it happen once and she stopped so suddenly that her wig shot forward over her eyes!

Talking of eyes, she got some fancy new spectacles. She looked as if she had a giant multicoloured butterfly perched on her nose!

I’m sure she bought lots of other new things, but I can’t remember them all now. I know she gave a lot of money to the dogs home when her little dog died, but I’m not sure what became of Mary. I must try and find out just for old times sake!
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Just a reminder that the new prompt for Carry On Tuesday can be seen HERE!
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A night at the opera

The Park Theatre was housed in a modern yet modest building crammed in between a bank and a bistro in the main street of Salting by Sea.

Despite its size it managed to attract more than its fair share of travelling productions. Plays, concerts and recitals featured week and in week out, and although its seats were rarely filled it did have a loyal and appreciative audience.

It was the second Saturday in June and every seat in the theatre had been sold. In fact there had been something of a rush on the tickets. After all, it was not every week that Salting by Sea played host to a visiting opera company from Prague. For one night only Bizet’s opera Carmen was to be performed to an eager and excited capacity crowd.

The burble of voices was suddenly hushed as the orchestra filed in and took their seats, followed by their conductor who turned to the audience and beamed as the auditorium was filled with the sound of applause. After the playing of the overture, the velvet curtains swept back and the scene was set for an evening of music and song.

In the basement of the bank next door, three men crouched beside metal door which stood between them and a safe. They had planned this evening several weeks ago, and so far their plan had come together like clockwork. Gaining entry had been simpler than expected, partly due to the help of a bank employee who had come on board with the promise of a healthy reward and anonymity

The audience was spellbound as one by one their favourite choruses and arias played out before them. In what seemed no time at all the first half came to an end and the audience roared and clapped as the music died down.

It was time to make their first move. The applause from the crowd in the theatre drowned the dull thud of the explosion, and the door flew backwards off its hinges. Another part of operation was completed and now they had to patiently wait amongst the rubble and the dust for a while longer.

An hour or so later the opera was reaching its climax. The audience held its breath as the voice of the soloist climbed higher and higher....

In the bank vault one of the men held a drill, its bit positioned in the lock of the safe. They listened as the soprano sang, and at the precise moment she reached her highest note, they pressed the drill into action, its high pitched screech indiscernible to the outside world.

The evening had been a triumph. The audience spilt out onto the street, the music still ringing in its ears. The men from the bank made a discreet exit and melted away into the darkness.

To hear Habanera from Carmen click on arrow.

Découvrez la playlist New playlist de keithsramblings

Wordless Wednesday

A recycled elderly person!

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Click on picture to enlarge
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He didn't expect that!

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This week the prompt at Sunday Scribblings is one word - anticipate!
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Let me read along! Just click on the arrow.


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Benjamin Franklin once said do not anticipate trouble, or worry about what may never happen. Keep in the sunlight.

Once upon a time there was man called Jim. A middle aged man, nothing unusual about him. The sort of person you’d hardly ever notice. Everything in his house was neat and tidy and in perfect working order. He was a reliable hard working soul who loved his wife Jenny without really showing it. She was like him. A wife in the traditional sense. She cleaned and cooked and dusted and preened.

Jim always had a stock of bulbs for the lights. You never know when one will need replacing he always said. And he knew exactly where to lay his hand on a candle no matter which room he was in. You need to be prepared in case of a power cut he would say.

Jenny liked to keep the larder stocked. We need to have plenty of food in stock in case we get snowed in she told her friends. She had a cupboard stuffed with toilet rolls too. She couldn’t bear the thought of running out.

They always took their holidays in the same place in the same caravan on the same site. We wouldn’t risk going anywhere else they said. This way we can be sure of a good time they said. They didn’t trust foreign places. People get upset stomachs abroad they’d heard. All that strange foreign food. They eat horses in France.

Jenny liked to do competitions. The competitions you find on packets and in magazines and newspapers. She was quite good. She once won a television and she was forever claiming small prizes and free samples. Then one day she won a holiday. She didn’t want to win a holiday. The second prize was a year’s supply of washing powder which would have been very useful. After all you never know when you might run out.

Jim and Jenny’s son made up his mind they would accept the prize. It would do them good to go somewhere different he thought. And it always rained when they went to the caravan. It didn’t often rain in Barbados. The sunshine would do them good.

Quite how he persuaded them remains a mystery but persuade them he did and three months later they were sitting in a plane rushing down the tarmac in the direction of the Caribbean. They spent the first hour or so studying the safety leaflet in case they landed in the sea then practicing the exercises – they heard that some people disembarked with something called deep vein thrombosis and they didn’t want to be one of them.

They settled into their hotel quite well. Barbados was a bit hot for their taste but they made their minds up that they would have a good time.

They liked the beach. The beach where they normally holiday that is. Nothing wrong with pebbles, they don’t get into your sandwiches the way sand does. But there was one thing they didn’t anticipate – ladies with their breasts exposed. They weren’t so concerned about the semi-nudity although they didn’t fully approve. Jenny certainly wasn’t going to go native! No, it was the fact that they were exposing so much of their bodies to the scorching sun. They had read about the deadly effect that it could have. But Jenny decided to sit in the sun. After all, a few hours a day for a couple of weeks could do no harm.

Jim was not happy about it. Don’t blame me if you are dead in a year he told her. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. He decided he would sit under a palm tree in the shade.

Unfortunately that was to be their last holiday together. A coconut dropped on his head and killed him. Such a shame he didn’t heed the advice of Benjamin Franklin!


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Don't forget Carry On Tuesday. The new prompt can be found HERE!

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