Category Archives: Writing

After the Thrill is Gone

18 Tuesday Oct 2022

Posted by in Jersey, Writing

≈ 5 Comments

Time passes and you must move on
Half the distance takes you twice as long
So you keep on singing for the sake of the song
After the thrill is gone – Henley/Frey

A certain air of melancholy descends once the last person has left an event and the gate has closed. Different in the case, say, of a football stadium with the knowledge that the next game will soon be coming along in the next few days or weeks.

The recent Jersey Festival of Words took place here recently in a huge marquee in Howard Davis Park for the first time. Putting it up was one thing, setting up the audio and video, laying the flooring, setting out the seating was quite another. Then the panic of the day before with the setting up of the various desks and stalls in the separate foyer marquee and the arrival of the food and other stalls. Then the few days of appearances by authors famous and not so much, playing to the public. Then at 10pm on the Saturday night as Lionel Shriver stepped out into the foyer for her book signing session, the take-down in the main marquee had already begun.

On Saturday and Sunday last we had our annual Faîs’sie d’Cidre (Cider Festival). It is one of the remaining old Jersey country fairs and we have unaccustomed crowds visiting Hamptonne to see the big horse helping crush the apples as part of the cider-making process. There is music, food, and lots of other stalls and entertainment. But everyone is gone by 5pm to the relief of our local residents.

Going back in for my Monday shift was a little sad. The remnants of the previous day were being cleared away, the last pressing of the apples was dripping into barrels, very much interesting the wasps. We awaited collection of the last mobile vans by the various vendors. A couple of the staff were recreating their cricket glory days, bowling apples at a bench. I even had a go, reminding myself why I haven’t played for 20 years or more.

And what about the folk who lived here for centuries up to fairly recent times – the young Charles II in waiting was thought to have been a visitor here in late 1649 during his exile. There are fewer places more likely to harbour the ghosts and spirits of those who have passed this way, and the merriment of the weekend must have roused them. But as things returned slowly to normal and the first day visitors arrived, I was not privileged to meet them.

Simpler Times

20 Tuesday Sep 2022

Posted by in Ireland, Running, Writing

≈ 14 Comments

Out on a little run this morning I was pondering on how simple life can be. Yes, of course all of us have worries, issues, problems to a greater or lesser degree. But as with the practice of mindfulness, running a few miles along quiet lanes on a fine morning can reduce the world momentarily to the one you are living in – the buildings, the fields, sky, sun, clouds. Nothing else matters. The past is gone and can’t be changed. The future is uncertain and can be dealt with as and when it comes. You are experiencing and enjoying the now, which is usually, at least, OK.

But the meditative effect of putting one foot in front of the other can also have other, surprising effects. In the past I have suddenly had worrying problems unknot themselves, unbidden, on a long run. I have, now and again, ‘lost’ a mile or so of a run – no recollection of having run the roads which have got me to my present position.

And this morning I thought of a little thing that happened over 50 years ago. It was of no consequence, one of the millions of memories which are generally stored in the dark recesses of one’s brain to stay there, but occasionally to pop to the forefront for no reason. I was still at school and it was the early 1970s. I was in west Cork with a school friend of mine, looking up relatives who were plentiful at that time – aunts, uncles, cousins. We visited a woman whose identity escapes me, but we were aware her daughter (or granddaughter) was celebrating her birthday – maybe her third or fourth. Accordingly we bought a cheap doll, duly arrived at the house, and presented the parcel to the little girl. I don’t think I’ve ever seen wonder on anyone’s face such as that of the little girl as she unwrapped the present and saw the doll. Enraptured, she removed it from the box and clutched it to her chest.

(Not the actual doll)

Then she carefully put the doll back into its box and wrapped it up before walking away, returning to it and reliving the joy of opening the present once more.

That little girl will be in her 50s now. If she has children and maybe grandchildren I don’t think they’d be so easily pleased.

Tuula says, “Hi Roy!”

02 Tuesday Aug 2022

Posted by in Jersey, Writing

≈ 10 Comments

I have mentioned before my slight obsession with a 20-year-old au pair from Finland, Tuula Hoeoek, battered to death here in Jersey in the final hours of 1966. Yes, I still pass by the field entrance where she was found dead, 2-3 times a week. I say, “Hi”, remind her of the date, give her a weather update. I move on, never expecting or receiving a reply

This morning I paused there as usual, happy to catch my breath after a bit of a climb. The field is overgrown right now, but something had appeared that wasn’t there 48 hours earlier. Standing all alone.

Edit 10th August, eight days later. The sunflower has gone, no trace remains. Another life snuffed out too early.

Ballad of Easy Runner

30 Saturday Jul 2022

Posted by in Poetry, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

(Apologies to Glenn Frey)

I’m running down the road feeling overshadowed
Got sixty runners on my mind
Most of them are faster
And those I’ll never master
But there are still a few behind

Can’t take it easy, can’t take it easy
Can’t let the sound of my own footsteps drive me crazy

I’m running round the corner I’m a long way down the order
But what a fine sight to see
A water stop my Lord which I can afford
And that’s because it’s absolutely free

Can’t take it easy, can’t take it easy
Can’t let the sound of my own footsteps drive me crazy

Come on baby legs don’t fail me
I wanna know if I can do it when I’m eighty
I may lose I may win
But I will never be here again
And that’s the day I might slow down and
Take it easy

Chasing a Girl

23 Saturday Jul 2022

Posted by in Poetry, Running, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

The sun’s going down and I have her in sight
She glances back and realises her plight
Will she resist and put up a fight

She knows that no one will come to her aid
Is she worried or unafraid
Her reputation disarrayed

Ten metres now we both breathe hard
All other matters disregard
She should have brought a bodyguard

Looks back again and with a smile
Knows now that I’m nothing worthwhile
And speeds up for the final mile

For road racing throws up these duels
Just one can win the others fools
But it’s our race too it’s in the rules

Joseph Hudson – a Paean

12 Tuesday Jul 2022

Posted by in Poetry, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Back in the days when football was new
The players were honest and blackguards were few
The captains decided the rules which were best
Third parties weren’t needed they’d just cause unrest

But as time went on the game took a turn
Now winning was foremost a living to earn
The disputes were many and fretful and long
Now umpires were needed to tell right from wrong

So two umpires were chosen the game it began
The fouls multiplied upsetting the plan
The umpires tried hard as they waved their flags
No notice was taken by the player scallywags

The bosses sat down and said what will we do
The umpires aren’t working we haven’t a clue
Our game is in danger the players run amok
Without law and order the game is a crock

Then up spake a quiet man, they listened to him
He said there’s a man down in old Birmingham
He’ll possibly come up with a great invention
That will answer our call and relieve all the tension

Joe Hudson he sat there in Brummagem Town
The troubles of football he read with a frown
And then it came to him like an epistle
I know he said, I’ll invent the whistle

Football was eventually saved at the death
By a whistle blown by the referee’s breath
The play is now stopped and is brought to a halt
And when told the players accept who’s at fault

All hail to Hudson for his invention
Is worth more than a mere passing mention
Without a whistle to compete
Football would be obsolete

The Real Owner

08 Friday Jul 2022

Posted by in Jersey local history, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

The scene is Hamptonne Country Life Museum, Jersey

Visitor at front desk: “We thought you should know, one of your chickens is inside one of the houses, down there.”
Visitor Services Assistant (VSA): “A big white cockerel?”
Visitor: “Yes! It’s upstairs, in a cupboard.”
VSA: “Upstairs in Syvret House? OK, that’s normal. I’ll get the gardien to shoo it out. Thanks.” *Phones gardien* “When you have a minute could you shoo the white cockerel out of Syvret House please?”
Gardien: *Sighs* “OK, on my way.”

Cockerel: “Okay, okay I’m going. But I’ll go at my own pace if you please. And if I seem indignant then I have a right to. Yes, I know that I’m a cockerel and, by the customs and protocols of the world, us birds rank below humans and are governed by them. We are subject to the whims and fancies of our human masters. I don’t wish to lodge a formal complaint though, or to appear difficult. It might not end well. Anyway, I am fortunate enough here at Hamptonne. I know only too well that the majority of the world’s chickens never see the light of day. They lead a (fortunately short) life of misery until their throats are cut. Here I can wander more or less where I wish, food and water for nothing and my chicks for free.

“But, you see, I wasn’t always a bird. I was Jack Syvret and that was my family home right there. I was born in 1899, the oldest of seven children, and I was brought up there. It was a working farm then. My father was the farmer and he kept cows and sheep, grew a little grain. Mother kept house and us children did what we could. I went to the new St Lawrence School down the road, next to the church. We knew everyone in the village. Then when the war came, off I went to serve with the Jersey Pals. I didn’t last long. I was shot dead on the second day of the Battle of the Somme. I’ve come back a few times, but never before as a cockerel. See, if I’d have lived, I’d have inherited the property.”

Gardien: “OK, all done.”
VSA: “Good. That cockerel thinks he owns the place.”

June in Jersey

19 Sunday Jun 2022

Posted by in Writing

≈ 8 Comments

(With a nod towards Peter Sarstedt)

Where did you go lovely sunshine
Just when we got used to you
The temperature’s dropped and it’s raining
And we’ll all end up with the flu (yes we will)

The visitors all dressed in T-shirts
And bright tops with uncovered arms
They’re all crowded into our cafes
And don’t wish to see Jersey’s charms (no they don’t)

And yesterday down at the cricket
It was like April again
Sad spectators huddled in corners
And peering outside at the rain (yes they were)

But at least Jersey’s farmers are happy
And the reservoirs do need the rain
So we shiver a while without grumbling
And the sun will return once again (yes it will)

For tomorrow the weather is changing
And our misery will be forgot
We’ll huddle in corners and grumble
Cos the weather’s too bloomin’ hot (yes it is)

An Ugly Word

18 Saturday Jun 2022

Posted by in Writing

≈ 4 Comments

I’m reading what is turning out to be an intriguing and quietly powerful book right now – The Phone Box at the Edge of the World. And, unusually, I’m bookmarking certain passages. Here’s one:

Takeshi was convinced that it was the survivors, the people left behind, who gave death a face. That without them, death would be nothing more than an ugly word. Ugly but, deep down, harmless.

What a myriad of thoughts, reactions, little side roads of consideration that quote has set off. And how true – we all tend to contemplate our own deaths with apprehension, but with nothing like the alarm we feel when thinking of when our own nearest and dearest will depart and exist only in the past tense. Do we have the capacity to look upon death dispassionately and therefore take the power out of the word? Probably not.

And for some reason I recall Anthony Trollope’s 1882 novel The Fixed Period. This concerns a country whose rulers decide that it would be good for the ongoing health and vitality of the nation that its inhabitants should be gently euthanised with honour at a certain fixed age. Like pruning a bush or deadheading flowers. The logic is embraced and the law unanimously approved. Inevitably doubts creep in as the first of the citizens approach the age decided on. Should there not perhaps be exceptions if, say, the person in question is in perfect health and his continued existence and acquired experience is in fact of benefit to the country? Inevitably the whole thing falls apart. I wonder if Trollope meant it to come across as humorously as it actually did?

But that novel, and one or two others since, imply that death – planned or unplanned – might be accepted as merely an extension of life and thus become merely a harmless word, though perhaps an ugly one.

Any thoughts?

Around the Corner

08 Wednesday Jun 2022

Posted by in Poetry, Writing

≈ 5 Comments

Upon a dreary Sunday morning
May be June but hard to tell
A chilly wind blows in the drizzle
The hour tolled by the mournful bell
But we know the skies will brighten
If not today tomorrow sure
We can allow our hearts to lighten
Expectation is the cure

Day 4 at Lords the people gather
An England win they hope to cheer
But this England team is fragile
Talented but plagued by fear
Too many times our expectations
Turn to dust leave us forlorn
The previous night our hopes assemble
Resignation come the morn

The farmyard pig is loved by children
Playing in its muddy hole
The next day they will gaily chatter
Eating up their bacon roll
And when too soon the van approaches
Unsmiling men with kicks and blows
Transport the animal to the chamber
And as that animal goes it knows

The young man’s sure to get there early
Wait at the bus stop as arranged
For his date agreed to meet him
At eight o’clock and nothing’s changed
The eight o’clock bus isn’t stopping
The lad’s dismayed but not for long
For sure nine was the time agreed on
And so he waits his hopes still strong

Us Blues fans sing a merry ditty
Of lots of joys and sorrows too
For many years we’ve seen the sorrows
The joys are very far and few
The ghosts of previous generations
Sit on the roof and watch the games
Though we in turn grow old and weary
Our optimism never wanes

The wife stays with her drunkard husband
The more he hits the more she stays
You have to leave him say the neighbours
He’ll go too far one of these days
But she remembers those sweet evenings
When he was loving full of care
She prays that soon he too will recall
And things will become as they were

And as the years march quickly forward
It seems that they accelerate
We turn to thinking of our passing
For hopes and dreams it is too late
Will it come easy in the night time
Or will our end of days come hard
There’s only doubts as to the timing
The fact we cannot disregard

But in our world of war and famine
Of climate change catastrophe
Can our children halt the passage
Of things which we have failed to see
Or at least have failed to conquer
We’ve given up without a fight
Our selfish hopes inconsequential
The knowing clock soon strikes midnight