Mist and Ice
Today it is -3.5. Not much if you are from some parts of the globe, but in this damp climate it gets inside your bones. The mist covers everything creating shadows in the gloom. Snow covers the land and ice is under foot as the previous day's melted fall becomes solid once more.
My pet project, the novel, is set in Ceredigion. Currently the time I am working on is 1887. I am sitting in my warm office imagining the scene now of an ordinary day's work. The valley is cold, the hills shelter a lot of sun, giving the snow time to collect. The wind and the hill contours allow drifts to form. I went up and studied the old mine in this weather once. I was fortified by a thermos of hot honey and lemon, which was a godsend for my bones felt the cold. Those who worked outside in 1887 or underground would not have had the benefit of a thermos. They would have been lucky to have a warm drink before returning home. Well, nigh on miraculous, unless they were lucky and worked close to fire.
The drifts were heavy in parts, I managed to jump in one and sank to my shoulders . In 1887, without the benefit of snowploughs, gritters or landrovers, the roads would cover pretty quickly.
The man leaves the relative warmth of his cottage, a dimly lit, smokey and stuffy place, but relatively dry. He walks down the road, coat lapels up and flat hat as tight as can be to keep warm. The tops of his ears get it though. His hands grasp the front of his jacket to keep out the cold. They are rough hands, more immune to cold than mine, even so they are soon stiff. He walks stiffly, slowly through the snow. Each step takes him up to his ankles, so soon his boots and socks and the bottom of his trousers are damp, clammy cold damp. His toes have stopped complaining of the cold, they are past that. On a day like this, a cut can go untreated, because you don't feel it. That could lead to frostbite or gangrene if you don't keep an eye on your hands and feet.
He walks past a lake, frozen and still. The land is like a photographic negative and there is no sign of life. His feet take him onward, up the hills and down until he stands overlooking the mine. A collection of buildings, lakes and spoil. No great pit heads, but many waterwheels now solid with the frozen water. They will require clearing with pickaxes. If it is too bad, they just won't work. The wheels pump water, they take water from the depths of the mine they send water to the machines that grind and seperate the ore from the waste. If it is too bad and the mine is too wet, perhaps the man won't get any work. He won't be able to reach his pitch underground. It will be flooded. If he can't get to do any other work, such as clearing ice above, he won't get paid. In this land, the miners are paid for what ore they produce. This mine is richer than some and has some steam pumping engines, though they are little used, as coal is an expensive commodity here. Today they are going well and the man wonders if he can call on a few favours from the boilerman and get a brew.
If he gets to go underground, he must negotiate ladder after ladder climbing down below. The metal under each rung will make his hands feel frozen as he grips them. Perhaps underground he will feel warmer. If he goes deep enough, far enough in. Away from the savage wind. His body will warm to the hard labour also. The digging and shovelling will cause his body to sweat. On a really bad day, the sweat will feel frozen on him if he stops, causing his muscles to shiver. So breaks are kept to a minimum. If he is unlucky enough to have to hold a drill, for others to hammer into the rock, he will bound his hands with rags, but will still feel the cold iron sear his flesh. If he is trying to lay a charge, he will find his fingers will not work properly to tie knots, to grasp the bung of a powder keg, to strike a flint to fire it.
Then there's the climb back at the end of the day. Muscles complaining, hands trembling through cold and fatigue and back into the cold wind, now colder as it is dark. Perhaps a blizzard has started making the walk back even harder. At home, perhaps a wife not working for young children, perhaps older generations too old to do the work anymore. Perhaps they have made a fire, put on a brew for tea. Tea is the drink that cures all ills, that provides some sustenance with your bread and jam or vegetables. Today, it will be nothing short of a life restorer, a brief warmth before the man retires to a straw bed with damp blankets to instantly sleep and let the body recover for it all to start again on the morrow.
I look around the office where I am sitting. perhaps it's no longer such a bad place any more...
Quick message
Happy Christmas and a buoyant 2006 to one and all.
Nadolig Llawen a Blwyddyn Newydd Dda
Story Time
I have been fiddling with a short story written about 22 years ago with my good friends Paul Richards and Ifan Lloyd. It was a good evenings creativity and an excuse for beer. I have changed it a little, for we were young teenagers then and life was simple... Anyway, see what you think, a thriller with a twist.
Target Red 12:25 By Signal McFresh
The strange craft sped on through the polar night. The man at the controls knew that somewhere, hundreds of miles to the south, the sun had set on another winter’s day. There, as he sped over the cracked ice of the frozen wastelands of the North, night had reigned for several weeks now and so darkness shrouded his extraordinary machine as it silently powered on South. Tonight he had no ordinary mission, nor would it be an ordinary day.
After what seemed a timeless interval, the cloud cover broke, allowing the brittle silvery moonlight to dance a lapping silhouette on the cold angry waters below. Skilfully, he manipulated the controls so his craft effortlessly dodged the dark imposing shadows of icebergs that rushed into view. Dipping lower above the ocean, so that the spray painted a salt film on the underside, he set course for the nearest land. His craft swept over the coastline with no apparent effort, undetected by the probing radar that guarded this land. No missiles pursued him, no predatory fighters were scrambled to intercept and pluck him from the sky, so on he sped through the faint moonlight. For his mission was beyond the wild imagination of those who defended this noble land. His propulsion so fantastic that no weapon system was designed that could detect it.
Snow clad hills and forests passed beneath his feet, as ever onward he sped towards his goal. Gripping the controls of his craft, the man set it into an almost lazy bank, as he began to sense his objective was near. Ahead in the valley, the lights of a small village blinked in welcome. The man found a lonely, isolated field and gently brought his craft to land in a flurry of powdered snow. He sat at his controls and surveyed the area in the iridescent moonlight. Nothing stirred, he had not been spotted.
Slowly exiting the craft, the man silently opened the vast payload of his vehicle. He selected what he needed and then set off in the direction of the nearest dwelling, the snow crunching gently under his heavy black boots. He crouched silently in the shadow of a frost-rimmed hedge and surveyed the scene. He was alone, still. Nothing stirred in this white diorama.
In a split-second, his well trained eye summed up the situation. The ground floor entrances carried a great risk of detection, as they always would. However, his eyes fixed on the roof and an arcane ventilation system. There was no alternative, he thought, as he moved forward cautiously towards his objective. He would have to risk it to gain entry. He moved up the side of the building with apparent ease, his movements almost instinctive from years of practice as he edged slowly, quietly towards his chosen point of entry. On the lip of the shaft he paused, but he knew from past experience that there was no turning back. Slowly, he began to lower himself in and down the grimy shaft and with some difficulty, he reached the exit on what he judged to be the ground floor. Not bad for a man of my years, he thought sardonically to himself, before his instincts took over and he stood still waiting. Once more, silence was the only response and he continued on his mission.
The man stood in the middle of the room now. It was dark, but this was no barrier to his night trained eyes. Undetected he may have been, but he knew that time was his greatest enemy and so he moved on to rapidly reach the conclusion and exit before he was discovered. He deployed his equipment in the optimum positions, making sure they would have maximum coverage. But as he prepared for his final escape, his roving eyes fell upon a sight that turned his blood cold and froze him to the spot. All the years of training and preparation had finally come to naught, for despite the secrecy of his plan, they were expecting him. They had anticipated his every move.
The silence within the room crept insidiously towards him. The encompassing darkness seemed to press in on him, like the walls of a tomb. His red, one-piece flying suit now clung to him, heavy with perspiration. The spark in his hunter’s eye was now extinguished by the terrible sight before him. Slowly, with a trembling hand, he reached out to the apparition that chilled his existence. Could he endure it again?
Slowly the words formed on his lips. Groaning inwardly, he resigned himself to his fate. His voice rang out in a ragged whisper, hoarse with emotion. ‘Not traditional British sherry and home-made minced pies again!’ Grabbing the bunch of carrots, he made his escape, quickly vanishing into the darkness and the new challenges that awaited him. Copyright: Geraint Roberts2005
Cat Blues...
Non cat lovers cannot understand. Those who do not have pets who live with you in excess of 10 years do not know why and I'm sorry to keep on going on, but hey... After a decade, I am currently shedding cats on a quarterly basis and whilst having 2 left makes the place quieter and less claustrophobic. Whilst the food and vet bills go down and there is less issues that impact on the pregnancy, shed cat fur, destruction of carpets and furniture. Despite all this, it still comes back and hurts like hell.
Tiger was a little insecure, guilty of territorial weeing and using the stairs as a scratch post. At his most insecure I woke up to find he had weed on my feet, a friend came to stay for a gig and put his clothes out before showering only to find on his return that the little rascal had claimed them in the name of urine. However, he was always walking to the door, tail up in greeting. He would always be following you around the garden and was always there when you needed. I loved curling up on the bed with him for a snooze. Being diagnosed with kidney problems was heartbreaking having just told the vets he had no problems and when he faded to immobility, it was depressing.
Smudge was an old boy, not gregarious to other cats. He would find it difficult to sheathe his claws, leading to many clothes being pulled. As he grew older, his incontinence increased and the phantom weeing was the old man, caught short in the middle of the night and unused to litter trays. We found that using bed-wetting pads solved the problem and he used them gratefully.
I miss his contact (without the clawing), the comfort of having him on my lap as I typed. One day all his legs gave way and we knew it was time.
Panther was everyone's favorite, the cat who loved hugging. Always around, always happy. No, that's not true, I've had enough scratches to testify! One day, he brought a bird in and left the carcass on a shelf. I didn't know until I discovered a nest of maggots in the carpet and a queue wriggling along the shelf waiting to join them. One day, he walked in with half his forehead covered in light brown mud. I got a damp cloth and started gently washing it away. I'll never forget his rich purring as he sat and let me. He got cat flu, despite the jabs and for the past 10 months has been noisy as his sinuses were clogged with mucus. In the end, his bladder failed him it got blocked and I didn't know the signs to recognize. It became critical on a Friday night and I did not appreciate that we had 24 hour vets in the area until the Sunday. It probably made no difference, he was fading before that time. My memory of him walking up the stairs reaching out with a front paw to claw his way up is tragic. My memory of playing and his love and affection remains, as it does with them all. Playing the game of him poking his head through the stair rails to rub noses and so on.
You have to remember what they were like, the pain of emptiness remains and for those that believe as such, they will be there for you when your time moves on, as will the beautiful Poppy, ever happy and would roll over in greeting - tart! Also my childhood cats of Samson and Fluffy and my beautiful dalmatian dog William. If that theory is bunk, then it's just time to cherish the good times we had and thank them for their input in making your life a brighter and happier place.
I would caution anyone who sees a dramatic change in behavior to go to the vet asap, for this who can afford to insure and to be realistic as to when is the time to let go.
OK, wake over, I need to carry on. I still have 2 cats left, whinging pampered pusses, constantly demanding food and attention. Throwing up, leaving a mess and so on. Even more reason to love them.
There's no news on the book front. The sequel goes slowly, I am developing an idea and unsure as to whether to let it unravel or string it over a few chapters.
I may start dropping in some previous work on the page. A sort of light relief
More from the front
The last publisher responded to say that they were 18 months ahead with commissioning and not looking at Historical novels.
After a brief lull and sulk at the last publisher stringing me along for nearly half a year, I sent off another speculative application to another publisher. This one asked for a summary of the 'sales strengths of my proposal'. Oh that was so much fun...
They replied to acknowledge receipt and said it may take a few months. There was an element of personalisation in the mail, as the gentleman did sign it with (Mr!) at the end. Having lived this story for two and a half years, I have got into the habit of thinking that the name Ceri is female - as so is my female protagonist named. However it can be a male name in my homeland... Oh well, I hope he saw the funny side.
Also the name of my antagonist heppens to be the name of the publisher and the day after I sent it off, the news reported that postal services to that town were suspended due to snow. Still you gorrw larff an' you...
Book 2 is coming on slowly, I have the issue of creating a book out of 2 chapters of my original story. It is taking so much longer. Still, I am discovering more about my characters and life is getting rougher!
I have been doing a lot of reading on WW1 recently. If this saga ever gets going, I have a handy story for the offspring around book 5.
Farewell to the cheekie chap
In a year surprisingly full of mishap and bad luck, I have to now log the death of a third cat for 2005. Panther my little black puss with his bright green eyes. He had a ruptured bladder and combined with the respiratory tract infection, the vet decided he hadn't a chance of surviving surgery.
I spent the last 2 nights cuddling him at night and as I left the vet we had a hug, the little rascal as always placing a front paw on each shoulder and rubbing noses, as he has for ten years now. Now he's gone and I feel like shit.
He was a very friendly cat and was well lovd by many who got to know him. The old lady in my street back at my old place evn knocked on my door before I moved and tearfully begged me to leave him. He would always be looking for fuss, as you walked around the bed and he was on it. he would follow you and be sittingwaiting for the cuddle. In brighter times, he had a strange desire to wash my ears and perhaps more naturally, wash my hair. i know it sounds daft, it was actually very relaxing, albeit as long as I was not going out in public soon after! Perhaps it was a sign that I was accepted as 'one of the cats'
He and his dearly departed brother Tiger came to me when I lived in MK. Two adorable kittens, they were found in a sack and those who took them in actually would not let them inside the house. They were given a kennel and their natural curiosity took them to my doorstep, the door always open in the summer heat.
I let them in, but that was man for my 3 tabbies and those 2 kittens would roam around oblivious to the chorus of hisses, especially from Poppy. In the end, i pushed them out and hardened my heart. Until one January, it was -10 and snowy outside. I looked out the back door and there was a lump. A furry mass of two kittens curled up together, one head each side to keep warm. My heart melted and they were part of the house from then on. When Poppy died of kidney failure, they became part of the gang and unlike Smudge, were accepted by Alex and Thomas.
Now both are gone, one guards the plum tree and the other will soon join him nearby. I feel terrible, I had perhaps seen this coming for days, but it doesn't stop the hurt when you have to make the call that signals the end of a cheerful life. The memories are full and warm, but now that is all I have, my bundle of black warmth is no more.
Apologies if this is in bad English or the spelling is wrong, tonight I don't give a shit. Sorry.
