Tag: author

Stories Stories Everywhere

Comic Con, the perfect excuse for dipping into Somerset in February. As expected, it was a perfectly eclectic and colourful day. The fun at these events is infectious, and it’s inspiring to see stories embraced so whole-heartedly. And it was wonderful to be there with my fantasy series, Blood Gift Chronicles. As I meet new readers, it’s always a thrill to wonder what people will make of the stories, what parts might reach them and linger, which scenes will prove memorable. I’m also always happy to have my own character art with me on the journey, emboldening answers to what the stories are about – it is their story after all.

And of course, while in Somerset, why not take a trip to Wells Cathedral, which soared beyond expectation with its voluminous chambers and endless passageways. The outer walls encased in a stone labyrinth, are alive with flocks of roosting pigeons among other birds. Inside, stories upon stories unfold, of history, and of imagined possibility in this magical place. It is home to the second oldest clock in the world, which has the oldest working clock face in the world, which is a beautiful piece of art in its own right. To add further interest, we stumbled on an art exhibit, where old meets new in reconstructed wedding dresses raising money for local charities. Spying a rainbow flag in amongst the gowns was a bonus. And to top off a glorious visit, meet Basil the cat, who happily takes up residence in the gift shop, whenever he chooses.

To end the day, storybook scenes continue at nearby Bishop’s Palace, with a flagstone drawbridge and surrounding moat, where for centuries, swans have been trained to ring the bell at dinnertime…

And I’ll leave you with a story of a different kind, told in a memorable sculpture found at The Box, in Plymouth. The sculpture is entitled, ‘End of Empire’, depicting two figures with globe heads on a steam-punk seesaw in a symbol of Victorian industrialism. It’s fascinating to watch the slow-swinging seesaw, in a movement symbolising a rebalancing and move towards end of empire.

Ah, the power of stories… xx

 

Shades of Inspiration

It’s been a busy start to the year. Approaching the end of January and I wonder where the month has gone. Manuscript edits are under way, and I’m enjoying time spent with my characters in a world that grows more colourful, and more daring with each scene. And my collection of shorts and poetry is also growing; it’s wonderful to get out and about sharing words.

As always, January is the time for making plans, signing up, and getting dates in the diary. The excitement of the year is WorldCon coming to the UK. Plans are underway for the trip to Glasgow, with the added bonus of the guest of honour who just happens to be one of my favourite authors… guess who…

‘People get inspired to write, paint, draw, sing, sculpt, dance in many different ways. And there are many types of art. But the one thing that they all have in common is that they are all a sort of magic. Sometimes the magic flows from one’s fingers, other times it is transferred to the person who experiences the result. Magic has always worked in mysterious ways.’ – Nnedi Okorafor.

And a recent book-haul is just waiting to be devoured.

Inspiration comes in many forms, and I’m lucky to have so much around to inspire. A recent trip to the Pulp Exhibit in Bovey Tracey was a glorious injection of colour on a cold afternoon, and an interesting look at the interface between art, the environment and how we question the world. The sculptures are made from recycled cardboard and it’s the second time for me viewing this artist’s work. James Lake, it won’t be the last.

My own art project is underway, inspired by local Devon and Cornwall surrounds – more at a later date. And I continue to venture out and about, soaking up scenery that one way or another finds its way into writing.

From big skies over the Teign valley, watched over by Castle Drogo…

To waterwheels, ancient bridges, giant oaks and winter snowdrops, lining the River Bovey.

Close encounters with the outdoors, spying the layers of nature and colour making up the scenic tapestry, is the best inspiration for building worlds. And that’s where I’ll leave you for today, while I travel through the pages of my latest instalment of Blood Gift Chronicles. There may not be snowdrops, but there is yellow gorse and purple heather, and natural extracts to ward off the curse of the evil eye…

Have a great week!

The Gift of Stories

Stopping by to wish everyone Seasons Greetings & Happy Holidays, and to offer a huge thanks to all of my readers of Blood Gift Chronicles, for your continued support and enjoyment of my beloved characters in Return of the Mantra, and The Warder.

And as Xmas approaches, along with seasonal traditions of jolabokaflod, as a writer and an avid reader I am once again reminded that stories are a gift.

To that end, I offer a short story of mine, entitled Moorbrooke; a ghost story set on the misty moors for those who enjoy an atmospheric haunting. Moorbrooke was recently published in audio, by The Other Stories. To listen to the audio version, click here.

Moorbrooke

By Susie Williamson

Deep in the heart of Dartmoor, John is a guilty man. As the mist closes in, he wonders, will he escape retribution?

***

John stared at his reflection in the hallway mirror. Cool grey eyes looked back. He hadn’t meant to kill her, he told himself with an affirming nod.

            There was an expected knock at the door. The estate agent was on time. John would be glad to sell Moorbrooke and get back to civilisation. He brushed a hand back through his hair, straightened his collar, fixed a smile on his face, and opened the door. There was no one there.

            ‘Hello,’ John called. No answer.

            He stepped outside and called again, wondering how the mist had rolled in without him noticing. There was still no answer and no sign of a car in the yard. He rubbed his arms, feeling the October chill, and paused, seeing a card blowing across the ground, landing at his feet. He bent down and picked it up, gritting his teeth at the sight of the tarot card’s picture of Justice. He looked out across the yard, towards moorland part-hidden in the misty haze. A lone, hooded figure stood beyond the gate. It was Hannah’s witch-friend, Sue. He clenched his fist, screwing the card up in his hand, then turned and headed back into the cottage.

            The lounge door was ajar. John was sure he had closed it. He paused, confused by the sight of green-swirled threadbare carpet showing through the open doorway. He stepped towards it and placed a hand on the door. When he pushed it open, everything was as it should be: polished wood flooring with a cream woollen rug by the fireplace. He stopped to gather himself. He was just imagining things. He went in and opened the door of the wood burner, placed a log on the dying fire, and watched with satisfaction as the flames took hold. He dropped the screwed-up tarot card into the fire, closed the door, then went to the window. Sue was still there, watching the cottage, her face framed by the furry parka hood. John looked back, until her outline disappeared as mist turned to fog. He sighed at the thought that the roads would be impassable. A remote life on Dartmoor had been his idea, and he’d enjoyed it while it lasted, but the moor’s temperamental weather was something he wouldn’t be sad to leave behind.

            He went into the kitchen to make a start on dinner, glad he’d done a week’s shop only the day before. While browning chicken, he diced an onion, so strong it made his eyes smart. He wiped the tears blurring his eyes, picked up a carrot and started to chop. Feeling a sudden chill at his back, his concentration faltered. The knife slipped, cutting into his finger. He winced, pausing at the sight of pooling blood, then went to the sink to wash his hand. Once a plaster was firmly in place, he turned and paused mid-stride. The tarot card, with edges still smouldering, lay on the chopping board. His heart was racing as he picked up the card and headed back to the lounge. Passing the hallway, he saw the front door was open ajar. He went to it and stood leaning out of the doorway.

            ‘Stay away from my house, you fucking witch!’ he yelled into the fog.

            He slammed the door and locked it, then went into the lounge, placed another log on the fire, and watched the tarot card burn.

            Once dinner was cooking in the oven, John returned to the lounge and settled down in the armchair, answering a call from the estate agent who confirmed they would try to visit the next day. The call ended and John paused, eyes fixed on the painting on the wall: an autumnal Dartmoor landscape painted by his dead girlfriend, Hannah. He slowly stood and cracked his knuckles. With teeth clenched, he went to the painting and lifted it down from the wall. He hadn’t allowed Hannah’s trash in the house when she was alive, he sure as hell wouldn’t have them on the wall now that she was dead. But just how was that bitch, Sue, doing this.

            In the hallway he put on his coat and headed out to the back of the house, one arm clutching the painting, one arm held out in front as he struggled to see in the thick fog. Inching his way to the garage, he reached the old wooden door, fiddled with the key in the lock until the rusty padlock gave way. He pulled the door open, clicked on the drawstring light that bathed the room in a sickly yellow glow. Hannah’s paintings were stacked beneath a clear plastic sheet that offered little protection from encroaching damp: various moorland scenes and nearby towns with moody tones of blue, grey and brown. John dropped the painting on top of the pile, and glanced across at Hannah’s old workbench. It might be cold and damp but it was a place of her own to work: she always had been ungrateful. He was about to leave but reconsidered, stopping to tuck the painting under the sheeting along with the rest.

            Back inside, he ate dinner, sucking the chicken bones clean, then settled in the armchair sipping Jack Daniels, staring at the empty picture hook where Hannah’s painting had been. Why couldn’t he remember what had been hanging there? He didn’t remember feeling sleepy or seeing the sky outside turn dark. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in the chair with morning sun shining in at the window. He stretched his stiff arms, rubbed the back of his neck, and slowly stood. After a morning pot of tea, he opened the front door, surprised by how warm it was and relieved to see no sign of any mist. The estate agent would surely make it out today, but first, a walk and some fresh air.

            John headed out across the yard, through the gate, and over moorland, towards nearby Rowtor, nestled among the red/golden glow of turning leaves and fading ferns. The distant sound of chattering, chirping, flocking birds approached, bringing the sky to life. He gazed up at the pink tinged sky, blossoming with rosy hues, surprised to see the starling murmuration so early in the day. Mesmerised by the kaleidoscope of flowing, shifting, mushrooming waves, a perfect balance of unity, in comparison, he felt strangely disconnected. It was a thought that stayed with him as he trekked up to the Tor, wondering at the distance between body and mind. Reaching the granite top, he lay a hand on the cold stone, but felt the ground shift beneath his feet. He stepped back, and watched something push up through the grass: it was a bone, perhaps a humerus or femur, that came to rest at his feet. The ground stirred all around, and John knew where to look. He had chopped up Hannah’s body as easily as he would dice a chicken, and discarded her bones in shallow graves across the moor; a suitable meal for passing scavengers.

            John was awoken by a sudden thump. He sat up with a start, and stared at the window to see a dead starling slumped against the pane. He rubbed his eyes, feeling his skin doused in a cold sweat, and checked the time on his phone. It was morning. It was still foggy. It had been just a nightmare. He slid the phone into his back pocket, rose stiffly from the chair, and went to make tea. He opened the kitchen door and froze, seeing the room appear as it had when they had first moved in several years ago: a vintage wood effect laminate surface set against orange and green flowered retro tiles straight out of the 70s, and in the corner, an old rumbling boiler making an intermittent dull clunk. Thud. He turned briefly, anticipating another starling hitting the window. When he looked back, the kitchen had returned to its usual natural ivory. John inhaled a long slow breath and walked towards the kettle, where a tarot card lay in wait, pictured with The Hanged Man.

            John stared at the card, wiping a hand across his mouth, then opened the junk drawer, slid the card in, and slammed the drawer shut.

            ‘You’re dead,’ he said out loud. He turned around and said it louder: ‘Do you hear me, Hannah. You’re dead.’ He pointed to his chest. ‘I killed you.’ He waited, hearing only silence, and let out a nervous laugh. ‘As soon as the estate agent gets here, this house will be on the market.’ He laughed again, then quietly added, ‘Talking to yourself. Now you’re the mad bastard.’

            He poured a cup of tea, staring at the light rippling on the surface as he stirred, one hand resting on the counter that turned grainy to the touch. He lifted his hand away from what looked like granite stone. Before his eyes, grey stone transformed back into the kitchen surface, while granite dust still lingered on his fingers. He balanced two digestive biscuits on the saucer, and carried the tea into the lounge. At the door one biscuit fell to the ground. He stopped and bent down, seeing the biscuit lying in grass at his feet. Slowly, he picked it up and returned it to the saucer, while a familiar sound, faint at first but growing louder, rang through the cottage: the chattering and chirping of a starling murmuration. He was walking through moorland grass, surrounded by calling birds, and he was in his lounge with the usual furniture, and ivory painted walls… Except Hannah’s painting was back on the picture hook.

            Should he run and take his chances in the fog? Thud. Another dead starling hit the window, leaving a crack in the pane. John placed the teacup down on the table, and walked slowly towards the painting. This time he would burn it. He reached up, taking hold of the frame with both hands, and felt a sudden force pull on his arms. He tried to pull back, tried to let go, but his hands were stuck fast. The textured oil-painted surface pressed into his skin, sinking into his flesh. John pressed his head forward, feeling the urge to swallow as nausea surged. When it subsided, he was standing bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing fresh moorland air with grass beneath his feet. He slowly stood, feeling his hands tacky as he prised them from his knees. He held his hands in front, inspected the palms, seeing his fingertips marked with dried oil paint.

            He staggered over to the nearby rocks of Rowtor, and collapsed down against the cool granite. Distracted by vibrating in his back pocket, he reached in and took out his phone. A card fell out at the same time, and dropped onto the stony ground, picture up of The Hanged man. John stared at the phone, seeing Hannah’s name flash across the screen. He raised a finger to the screen, wavering, before he pressed to answer the video call. It was Hannah’s face looking back at him. She didn’t speak, just held a solemn expression, her eyes gently narrowed as though curiously inspecting him. Then she held the phone away, holding it out, moving it around the cottage so that John could see. Outside the window, the fog was slowly lifting, the log fire burning, the kettle was boiling, and Hannah’s Dartmoor landscape was hanging on the wall. She closed the phone in on the painting. John got a close up view of the rocks of Rowtor, and of a lone man, himself, standing beside the granite outcrops, looking out over moorland with a red/golden glow of turning leaves and fading ferns. A rosy pink sky topped the scene, dotted with a starling murmuration. And as the sound of chattering, chirping, flocking birds grew near, John looked skywards, lost in the feathered kaleidoscope.

THE END

Changing Seasons

In the UK, it’s the time of year for big skies and changing colours, from autumn fall when the most ordinary routes transform into otherworldly, and pumpkins litter the ground of muddy fields alongside newly sprouting brussel sprouts. These are the picture postcard fields of nearby Darts Farm, with views all the way to the sea.

Onto Plymouth, where shorter days change the light in just a few hours, transforming the harbour’s morning dusk, to cool light. Disappearing into Plymouth aquarium for a while, which boasts the biggest aquarium in the UK, was a treat. Home to smiling stingrays, gliding sharks, and a special turtle named Friday who is a delight. All of this and so much more, including fascinating insights into mermaid purses.

The sun is still shining, for a while at least, with streaking skies topping the lighthouse of Smeaton’s tower, before dusk quickly falls again, and you soak the atmosphere of sleeping boats.

Colder still, and back home the river Exe turns clear like glass, topped by breath-taking skies that alter the light minute by minute depending on the angle of the view. As perfect reflections look back from water’s deep, topped by swans, ducks and geese unfazed by the cold, it brings the perfect sense of calm.

Onto an afternoon in Totnes, and lights of a different kind, from views over the River Dart where daylight depends which side of the bridge you’re looking out from, to golden lights that light the night. All for a visit to the wonderful Castle Books for magical poetry sharing.

Before home, and work, for some at least.

Have a great week, everyone… xx

A Season of SFF

The start of a busy week, following a busy bookish weekend, at a time of year I’ve come to think of as convention season. Saturday saw a day trip to Bristol, for this year’s BristolCon, and what a wonderful day! A great time was had in the dealer’s room, and in particular in our corner of the room alongside inspiring authors and innovative small presses. The lovely Josie Jaffrey, author of The Wolf and the Water, was a pleasure to chat to, as was Max Turner, writer and producer of the diverse press, A Coup of Owls. And of course it was a pleasure to meet and talk with readers at my own book table.

There was chance to give a reading to a roomful of fantasy lovers, swept away with Wanda’s hawk flight over the grasslands of Shendi, from The Warder, Book 2 of Blood Gift Chronicles. And it was great to take part in a panel that kicked off the day, answering that all-important question, how to turn an idea into a novel, or novella, or short story for that matter. It reminded me of my humble beginnings, living in a bedsit that was a beautiful, creative space, with a door that was covered in post-it notes scribbled with characters, settings, scenes, plots… notes that frequently got moved around, repositioned, added to, until a story was slowly taking shape. That story turned into Return of the Mantra, many, many drafts later.

Into this week and I’m looking forward to the coming weekend spent tucked up in my writing room for the four day online convention that is World Fantasy Con, live all the way from Kansas, a place that inspires the word, story. With authors from around the world, I love the international feel, and look forward to taking part in the programme, discussing representation, and in particular, disability.

For now, a moment to savour my current read, The Green Man’s Heir by Juliet E. McKenna, a simply magical read with a whole new contemporary feel to the folklore of Dryads.

What are you reading?

Wishing everyone a great week ahead…

Stories, Writing and Comic Fun

A busy weekend gone by at Comic Con, surrounded by stories old and new that have inspired through the ages, demonstrated by those who fully embrace the characters they love, with impressive cosplay and fun encounters. The craftmanship and animatronics is always awe inspiring, from clockwork owls, giant centaurs, a transformer or two, many more, and of course, Darth Vadar and his army of storm troopers. The Star Wars franchise is always a favourite of mine, not least because the time span of the series demonstrates the progress made for equality. The evolution of female characters is a subject in its own right, but oh, I do love Rey – maybe one day I will see her make an appearance there… In the meantime…

It was of course also great to discover new readers, and to chat with those who have read or are reading my own Blood Gift Chronicles. Accompanied by my artwork, and self-made props, it was great to be able to offer more immersion into my world, from the crystal mines of Shendi and the lost mountain lions, through the changing landscapes and the faces of those who carry us through, to tales of dragons, and real-life colonies of flying lizards. The geography and wildlife that inhabits the various land and waterscapes is as real in my mind’s eye as a blackbird’s song, and it’s lovely to share that vision with others. This is what stories are made of.

And of course some readers are writers, and with a fair few years under my belt, with various ups and downs along the way, I’m always happy share, to inspire, and of course in turn be inspired. And so for any budding writers out there, a few points that came up in conversation amid comic fun:

Find your routine, your groove, your working motivators whether that’s allocated time or word counts, and Just Write. Procrastination is the enemy. Talking about writing is not writing. Wanting to be a writer is not writing. Just write. Don’t get caught in edits, just get the story down. Beware of rabbit holes, maintain perspective, you’re the writer not a player, so Just Write. Writing is rewriting is rewriting… that’s how you build, that’s how you discover, that’s how you finish… And then you start all over again. Just Write. If you’re looking for an easy way through, you’ll be disappointed: there is no easy way, there’s just you. Are you a writer? Then Just Write.

Have a wonderful week…

R&R

Heading into the weekend and it’s a day for organising, before Monday comes and it’s back to the novel. I’m looking forward to returning to my characters and the colours of their world, after a break and a trip away to lovely Cornwall. Outside, it’s a drizzly grey day, windy and cool, and perfect for looking back on those sandy beaches, blooming gardens, colour, stories, and art – the perfect recipe for R&R and a big dose of inspiration.

Ah, Cornwall, and heady sea air is the best place for a gulp of fresh air, among the chatter of gulls, sprawling sands, and dreamy boats. And what better way to see the coastline than out at sea. I love St Ives for many reasons, and it was lovely to discover more, with a boat ride out to Godrevy Island to see the latest colony of seals. Not so much tranquil waters, more like the ups and downs of 2 metre waves felt with startling impact from the back of the boat!

The well-informed crew shared amazing facts about these wonderful and enormous creatures, like the fact they have polar bear-sized claws, and can weigh as much as 70 stones!! The crew were also wildlife rescuers and only the night before had untangled a frisbee from around the neck of a seal. No mean feat considering seals are apparently more challenging to handle than great white sharks!

And no trip to St Ives would be complete without a visit to the Barbara Hepworth Museum.

Sigh – as I remember the peace and tranquilite of those gorgeous gardens.

Onto the Eden Project: an unsurprisingly blooming extravaganza, and a wonderful example of creative initiative, inspirational in leading the way transforming a once sterile clay pit into a natural haven. Stories are everywhere, and I’ve only recently discovered the fun fact that the original clay pit was used as the planet surface in the series, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy – unrecognisable now as a garden paradise with impressive biomes. And the initiative is expanding, with plans for projects from Dundee to Qingdao, China, I believe. Nature finds a way.

The biomes are a sight to see, with dizzy heights inside…

And gorgeous art, colour, and vibrancy… Like I said, inspiring.

Then back to the coast to the bustling maritime port of Falmouth, taking the ferry on a magical route to the old fishing harbour of St Mawes, where an ancient castle awaits…

Talking of magic, ah for the sights of St Michael’s Mount, a tidal island in Mount’s Bay, with an ancient castle still inhabited, impressive gardens carved into the cliff, and the iconic granite causeway. The tide rules, and it was a boat there, and a walk back, with a dreamy day in-between, soaking up the sights of a place used in the location of the House of Dragons in Game of Thrones – an interesting connection, not that it was needed for such a unique and fascinating place.

And last but by no means least, to the ancient woodlands of The Lost Gardens of Heligan, where stories merge. It was wonderful to finally meet The Mud Maid… and the giant, and the grey lady, and all the other stories just waiting to be told, in a place of magic…

Now I look forward to returning to the magic of Blood Gift Chronicles.

Have a great weekend!

Nature’s Magic

Summer is upon us and the weather is warm warm warm. Still, no excuse for not sitting indoors writing! And the writing is flowing, for an array of shorts, and for the novel. Inspiration is a common theme, and I don’t have to look far to be inspired, by nature, by colour, by stories both personal and fictional.

A recent trip to the river Otter gave a glorious fix of wildlife, or at least a tantalising reminder of those special moments of hope. Following Devon Wildlife Trust’s successful reintroduction of beavers into the area, I had hoped that maybe, just maybe, I might see one. Alas, it was not meant to be, but special in any case to see gnawed trees and an impressive dam. Given a chance, these industrious creatures are fighting back against flooding, while bringing a whole host of species back into area – the magic of nature. And so we looked, scouring the riverbank, soaking up the wild atmosphere.

(Click here for more about the river Otter in a previous blogpost – #lovedevon)

Nature is a prominent theme in my series, Blood Gift Chronicles. In Return of the Mantra, I explore the cost of exploitation; in The Warder, it’s the fight to preserve wildlife; and in Book 3, there’s a personal connection with the natural world, so personal we might actually merge. Like its predecessors, Book 3 is bringing a personal arc that is out of this world, transformational, and colourful.

Colour…

At home, flowers are starting to bloom…

The bikes are out…

There’s art in the cathedral on the theme of nature…

And my own art is slowly taking shape.

Colour, nature, magic…

What’s your inspiration?

Wild Inspiration

With a rush of book events this spring, I was forced to take a break from the novel writing, though that will begin again soon in earnest. A recent event, Hartland Book Festival, gave food for thought and a big dose of inspiration. It was my first time venturing to Hartland Peninsular, and it was great to meet local authors, network, share ideas, and chat to new readers. It was also great to meet the hosts of the event, The Resurgence Trust, and share thoughts on the connection between social justice, community and environmental concerns, as well as the connection with the arts – core values of the organisation, and themes present in my series, Blood Gift Chronicles.

Thanks to my lovely wife for keeping me company, and after a few bookish hours, also involving coffee and cake, we headed out for some sight-seeing to the dramatic quay coast, with sharp edges and rugged bronze and black rocks, like stepping into the Iron Islands of Game of Thrones. Talking of themes in my books, spot the dragon part-submerged.

It was a perfect day to venture on to Speke’s Mill Mouth Waterfall, and finish up with a drink at the quay with a view of Lundy island. With various information snippets scattered among the old fishing cottages, it’s a comfort to feel the presence of stories.

And like I said, it was a day of inspiration, among jagged cliff edges, wild coastline, and moorland heath, I was reminded of the archipelago of islands in The Warder, and the island of Evren, a place we return to in Book 3. Soon…

 

Eastercon 2023

Reflections of a busy weekend in Birmingham for this year’s Eastercon, an annual convention of all things sci-fi, fantasy and horror. It was great to be there in person, representing Blood Gift Chronicles with readings from The Warder.

And it was a great chance to catch up with my publishers, Stairwell Books, at home with a fabulous book table in the dealer’s room.

As a writer/reader/watcher of these genres, the fact that I love them goes without saying. But it’s conventions like these that give you the deep dive into a world that knows no bounds, and demands that you look harder, root further, for all we bring as writers, and for all we celebrate as readers. I took part in many great panels, which in themselves is revealing, including topics around feminism, LGBTQ+, young adult, older protagonists, and cats – which proved popular for a nation of cat lovers!!! Plus it was great to meet new people, talk with readers, share ideas, support and encouragement, and be inspired by possibility.

It is always interesting to reflect on the power of representation and its role in fuelling liberation, on a personal level with the potential to translating into wider society. Empowered people seek liberation. And then, while standing on the shoulders of giants, (thank you Ursula Le Guin and Octavia Butler, among others) we imagine anew and expand on ideas of possibility. As far as the environment goes, it has never been more urgently needed. Whilst I may expand on some ideas in future blogs, for now, a special mention to the ever-growing young adult market, a genre for all ages, with enormous range, scope and potential. Personally, as far as politics goes, the future depends on young people, as well as an open line of communication across generations. And what better way to share than through stories.

“We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begins in art, and very often in our art, the art of words.” Ursula K. LeGuin

Speaking of the environment, it was a breath of fresh air to appreciate a big pocket of wilding among the urban, from Canada geese at the NEC, to promising bat boxes. And a special injection of art, with lilies on the water, and a sculpture entitled ‘Beyond All Limits’ by Luke Burton, specially commissioned to commemorate the London 2012 Olympics and Paralympics, and dedicated to Help for Heroes.

 

 On a different note, it was a special someone’s birthday on Monday, and since we were in Birmingham, what better way to celebrate than a visit to Cadbury’s World, followed by dinner at TJI Fridays…

Goodnight Birmingham…xxx