An old article written for a Bass fishing magazine -

It's curious when I come across something I have written more than a year ago, I rarely remember the contents. There is a vague retelling in my head and some of the imagery remains, ghost-like and fleeting, but the detail is gone.

At first it worried me and now it comforts me. Suffering from insomnia, I find that writing in my journal or putting down some ideas, gives me peace and allows me to sleep if not well then at least better than I would have had I not sat down at my desk. It's an unburdening, a release.

Some years ago, a conversation with a work colleague and friend led to him saying "you should write an article". We had spoken about my recollections of fishing with my Grandfather (Grandad) and the difference between now and then.

Today, while idly going through some old writings on my computer I found the article and it was like reading something written by someone else. It's over five years old, but the warmth about my Grandad threads through and the simple toiling that he filled his retirement with, all focused on his family, bring him back to me.

Just for him, a simple man, with simple pleasures, content with his lot and always amusingly gruff, warm, a teacher, a gardener and a fisherman, here it is (slightly amended and updated for blog purposes):

"Things Change ….

“Things change” is a common statement and cliché and we’ve all heard it and accept it. But a recent conversation with a Bass fishing friend can make you realise how much has changed. The comparison between now and the late seventies when I was fishing with my Grandfather are eye-opening.

            Since my Grandfather’s death in the early eighties I have not been fishing or even been in a boat. As a young teenager it had a profound effect on me and it was twenty years before I stood on the beach to the bay where he moored his fishing boat. I lost the heart to fish but not the lessons he taught me during our spring and summer fishing trips together. He was a simple man, quiet and unassuming, knowledgeable about his vegetable garden and the prawn, crab, net and Bass fishing which were highlights in his life. He passed on his knowledge by showing you how and then getting you to work out why you did it this way or that. Not so much “show and tell” as “show and think”. 

A typical days fishing started at four am. We would walk the two miles to the coast, carrying our gear and talking quietly. We would get into his wooden boat named after my Mother, “Pat” and what would follow would be an hour or so of retrieving prawn pots, emptying out the catch into a tin bath. The contents were then sorted. A strong memory is the lecture I would get for missing a female prawn laden with opaque-pink eggs along her abdomen. He would say “that’s next year’s catch there, throw her back!”

            The prawn catch, devoid of fish and small crabs etc. which were thrown back, would be placed in an “Holly” – a wooden box - which was attached to a buoy and kept on the seafloor. Inside was a large bait trap packed with dead crab for the prawns to feed on until we wanted them. They were usually brought home on a Sunday for the family afternoon tea. 

When he saw the conditions were right the old man would keep back a few live prawns - no more than ten – in a small water filled bucket. I would row at a steady pace which would not disturb the fish - progress without haste was what mattered. He would get his rod ready as I rowed close to shore. The sun rising over the breakwater at our backs, we would work to the slap of ropes on the yacht masts and the cry of gulls.  When his rod was ready, he would push the hook through the tail of the live prawn; the bait was left alive, snapping its tail in his open hand and able to swim free on the hook attached to the line with a swivel. The flick of the old man’s wrist to throw the bait over and his placing of the rod in the boat over the stern was always the same. He would then assemble and prepare the my rod – the reel was modern (then) called “Black Prince”– which he hated, preferring to fish with his old centre pin Bakelite reel on his.

            We would row further out, drifting with a gentle, regular scull. What would follow would be a lesson is patience and silence, drifting with the tide and wind. He would watch the lines, telling me to scull a few strokes in this or that direction and then drift. The essence was quietness and the least disturbance when rowing.

            If we were lucky a fish would take the prawn and he would be into the fish, his back to me, reeling in and letting run; directing me away from mooring buoys in case the Bass wrapped the line around a chain to break it and escape – which happened a few times. He would also get me to turn the boat to avoid the fish heading under the boat and run to the bottom – so you had to be alert and follow his instructions. These moments of excitement, were a lesson in his knowledge and experience; sometimes with both of us bringing fish in together.  Any mistake that I made was treated with the comment “Jonah”, but then anyone who fished with him on an unsuccessful trip was called this. Something I only learned years later. 

It was recounting to my friend and that we never took a fish under four pounds (usually the old man could tell the weight before the fish came in the boat – if they were under they went back) that I was treated by a shake of my friends head in wonder. Any fish around four pounds we did not release – they were for eating – and it was not unusual to take two or three, four to five pound Bass at a time. When my friend told me that fishermen these days caught and released, I could hear the old man’s voice querying “why fish then!” But then for him it was not a hobby or sport; he got pleasure out of it but it was more like a post retirement activity that made him feel useful and put food on the table. My friend then told me about the reduced Bass stocks etc. and it was my turn to be shocked. In my naivety I had thought that other Grandfathers, Fathers and sons were fishing as we did.

As we talked my friend told me about lures used for Bass, something I had never heard of and I commented that we used live prawns and only live prawns for Bass; I believe my Grandfather thought it had to be the best of what the sea had to offer or the fish would not bite. Either that or no-one had got him to try a lure.

I can only imagine what the old man would have thought about the photographs in Bass Magazine (copies supplied by my friend) or the collapse of fish stocks. We have no photographs of him and his Bass – it was a different time. We, as a family, comment, thirty years after his death, on the size of Bass for sale in supermarkets. 

Things were different then and the knowledge he gave me about my local shoreline has all but faded. 

I hold onto fond memories linked to our years fishing. In so many ways he was ahead of his time – returning fish he thought too small, never taking more than he needed, making sure next year’s catch of prawns made it back into the water than onto a plate. I learned even as a child that not all fishermen were as forwarding thinking. He thought it was common sense to take what he needed rather than being greedy and keep in mind the next season. He made us think about the consequences, if you take too much, you famine next year. I think, after reading and re-reading the articles about the Bass fishing community and how they have changed from thirty years ago that the old man would have understood and even admired the sport of catch and release. I may be doing him an injustice in that he would have been less taken aback than I was.

I think he would have been practical about it and come to terms with fewer fish on his table. The photographs would have amused him but then I think he would have adapted and become a subscriber of the magazine. 

Maybe he would have had us packing a digital camera along with our other gear."

 https://www.ukbass.com/bass-magazine-141/

New Year

It has been three years plus since I put anything here. With the death of my Dad, the obtaining of my degree - a six year struggle - shortly after left me battered and exhausted. All my good intentions fell away and I was left hollow.

Why re-start now?

Because it's time.

2018 was an appalling year for our family, the events of which will be felt throughout our lives.

February -My Nephew at thirty years of age died. His mother, my Sister, proceeded to use his sudden and tragic death to continue the vendetta against her ex husband even using the inquest into her sons death to take a swipe at him and her middle surviving son.

I did not/could not attend his funeral, having foreseen this occurring two or so years before and stating that I would not go. At the time I believed his father and my sister shared equal responsibility for setting him on a path of alcohol and drugs which led to psychosis and an early death. In truth I blamed my ex-brother in law for distancing the family from us and for causing the breakdown in contact which lasted over seven years and broke the relationship between us and my nephews. My ex- brother in law, it was revealed, was not the monster my sister made him out to be and his actions while his son was alive and after his death proved his character. He has conducted himself as a gentleman and a repentant.

On the day of his funeral, I lit a candle in Wells Cathedral with my partner at my side. I am not a religious person but I am spiritual and for that reason a naked flame lit in a spiritual place felt right.  I said goodby to The Boy, as I always called him. His death, senseless and appalling in circumstance will haunt me for the rest of my life and even now I cannot let my thoughts and feeling touch there for fear of collapse.

May - My Uncle suffers a health problem and is taken to my Mums' house to recover. Subsequently, it comes to light that he is suffering from frontal lobe dementia. The tests show that the destruction of the frontal lobes of the brain have occurred because of alcohol and painkillers.

This as well as his prostate cancer which is now into it's seventh year has resulted in a care home. My sister and her partner have stood with him every step of the way, ensuring that he got the diagnosis he needed and the care he required. We have, because of work, tried to support them as much as we can along the way.

What I found was that I started to keep a log. At first this was to help and assist the medical staff to know the traits and strangeness the family were experiencing with my Uncle and his behaviour. It consisted of the physical book started and kept by my Sister and which she handed over to the doctors so they would have the whole family's view of my Uncles deterioration.

I returned to keeping my journal on the PC writing down my observations and feelings. My Sister kept the physical book at her home. After a visit, I would call and describe what he had said or how he had acted - this would be added to the log so the situation could be tracked. My journal expanded a little and it has allowed me to cope with the inevitable path our family is now on with my Uncle.

This sweet, kindly, gentlemanly man who has always been a huge part of our lives is now suffering bouts of delusion and confusion while at the same time prostate cancer has become bone cancer and, according to his physical symptoms, metastasized in his brain. Every now and then we have flashes of the Uncle we know and love which make up for the difficult times. We are with him as much as we can be; keeping him company sometimes just watching a movie with him and sometimes talking him through a television programme because he cannot keep track anymore.

We await the inevitable but try and keep him calm, positive and happy.

The conclusion I have come to is that there never is the right time to resume writing or restart a project. There is only now, a moment when you make time to put things down and capture ideas and feelings.

2018 has been a hellish year for that set measurement of time. But it is not over and our journey continues. Returning to this blog feels right and as the title suggests this is only my chaotic thought.

Goodbye 2015

This has been a challenging year. I have gained so much after a long struggle and a lot of work. My degree certificate has been safely gathered in.

 I am grateful that I started on this path, fulfilled a dream of working with supportive and encouraging Tutors like those at the Open College of the Arts. It has been fraught, difficult, challenging and wonderful.

It is that time of the year when, with the cold securely locked outside and the fires piled high with fuel you begin to look back; trouble is the path I chose is much longer than just this year. But in that spirit I have been thinking about the degree and those moments when I thought I couldn't do it. The poetry course was the main challenge - I find writing poetry restrictive and terrifying. There were moments (entirely of my own making) that I wanted to walk away and just take the qualification (HE5) that I had achieved at that time. How I got through that I am not quite sure but I remember thinking about advice from my Grandfather who always told me that when facing a hill you put you head down and so long as you take one step in front of another, regardless of pace, you have to get to the top. I think that is what I did - and when I couldn't move forward fast enough I read as much as I could.

Since the end of the final course and confirmation of the degree I have been exhausted, physically and emotionally. I never realized how much the studies had taken over my life until I got home one night and (my partner being on call and therefore not home for the night) I found myself wondering what to do.

The loss of my Dad in March was the emotional side. I feel the cliches of wanting another conversation, another (bear) hug or another bout of laughter with him as heavily as beast of burden. There is his voice in my head and I know how he would have reacted at my getting my degree - punching the air with his big right paw while laying in his sick bed. Then after a hug and a well done etc he would have fixed me with sparkling eyes and asked me "what now?" or "when you going to write a book then?". He always had his eyes on the future especially for his children.

So I am asking myself, as if he was still here, what would be my answer?

I have an outline to a novel for children (and even the idea for the second book) which made the majority of the project course. There's the title of the memoir of my life as a child growing up with an epileptic father, which has been in my head since I was around 15 years old. There is also a promise to be kept and a plethora of ideas, notes, half-ideas and scribbled observations which litter the papers/notebooks and files from each course.

My problem now is knowing where the start, what to start with; essentially putting my foot on the path again and starting in another direction. Now the creative life really begins - I said to my partner that I would like to get paid for a piece of writing in 2016. It was a joke...but then maybe not. Maybe that is my goal - not the payment - but the courage to get on with it and put my voice out there. Another hill, head down, one step, half step...

On Hold...but not blocked...paralysed possibly.

So here I am. Degree finished, awaiting the piece of paper and in true introvert fashion, not at all contemplating going to the graduation in 2016.

Every time I say this to friends and colleague I get besieged with complaints about how I should, the work involved, the journey and such like. I find myself having to justify over and over again why I do not want to go and stand in a room with people I don't know, who do not understand my personal journey (in the sense that we have not been friends etc) and are not on the whole interested in this bearded little man from Dorset. I am sure they would clap and I would, in turn, clap them; but the congratulations and smiles are meaningless to me. So I find myself defending my position and winning - of course.

Even my partner and his University educated friends have had to concede that their experience of gaining a degree differs from mine. Theirs of student flats, lectures and shared clubs (mostly drinking) and mine of emails, reading, working full time and battling through the night guided only by bloody mindedness and a Tutors encouragement.

What I cannot defend is this is the first real piece of writing I have undertaken since the final assessment of the final course. I could say it was because of my Father dying in March, or work stress; but the only real explanation is moving house and the unsettling effect that has had on me and my writing.

It took me a long time to create my writing space in my current home and to feel comfortable - to bed in the act of writing as a ritual which suited me. Now we await exchange of contracts, searching for the moving company and all the phone calls to the utilities and authorities before we land in the next sanctuary. It is hard to sit and wonder about a characters reaction or what he/she thinks about another character when you are thinking about whether you have enough boxes or you are (as I am right now) surrounded by boxes of books securely packed and labelled.

So I am on hold; my characters in FADE are frozen at the bridge awaiting the play button to be pushed. I am not blocked because every now and then there is a whisper or change of temperature around me which hints that something is nudging, trying to break through. The tiredness I am feeling is partly down to holding it back and partly to the tooing and froing or estate agents, contracts and whether the shrubs at the front of the house breach covenants placed on the land before I was born....(sigh!)

I keep telling myself it will happen. We will move, unpack, redecorate, settle in and then, in an office much bigger than the one I am currently in, I shall shake off the paralysis and begin again. But at least for now I have posted...which is good.

It's over...relief and remorse...

It's over, the long road, the great personal journey; my degree is finished. The credits are attributed and I have a Creative Writing Degree qualification 2:1 from the Open College of the Arts.

I am relieved that this journey is over and I have what I set out to achieve in my hands. There is nothing greater than looking back down the mountain and seeing the difficult and treacherous path you have walked. You don't remember every stumble or triumphant plateau but at the top you remember the highs and the lows in a fuzzy euphoria of arriving.

Contacting my Tutor, Nina Milton, was the first thing I did; sending her an email thanking her and hopefully making her blush (again) by telling her that she is the teacher I needed at school.

My partner arrived home and there were cheers, cuddles and glasses of Prosecco and then an indulgent dinner.

There was a moment when holding my fathers gold wedding ring which hangs on a chain around my neck I choked up at my Dad not being here. He would have loved it and I can see him punching the air from his bed and grinning. But this warm memory does not replace the feeling of loss entirely and I miss his open enthusiasm and delight at others getting their hearts desires.

Today, twenty four hours later, I wonder about this blog. Should it continue? It was for my Tutor(s). For them to read and to see my trials and experiences but it's over now. I was going to leave it. To let it hang here in cyber-space. But I think I cannot do that. I think I shall revamp the header - mission statement - and change it into a journey of writing. After all, it might have started with a Tutor and a degree pathway but my writing has not ended. So I need to turn around on the mountain top, enjoy the view and then climb higher or at least find a higher peak to climb.

A post of two halves...one sorrowful, one grateful.

On the 15th March 2015 my Dad, Alan Arthur Edward Goddard born 30 July 1936 Swindon, Wiltshire, passed away in Dorchester Hospital.

Our family was gathered around his bed, the nursing staff had prepared us over the previous four days and we knew once the oxygen had been removed he would slip away. This was his third bout of pneumonia in nine years and the two previous attempts to kick in the door of oblivion had failed.He used to joke that he just couldn't kick it hard enough.

The first bout was on my fortieth birthday and the second a few years later. He proved how strong he was despite his being disabled. But this time it wasn't to be relief and convalescence. A chest infection had brought the old lion down and it was only the nurses and doctors hard work that gave our family time to gather, understand and prepare.

At the last I stood by him and held his head in my arms and spoke to him about all of us being there and that things would be okay and he could rest now. I felt him slowly slip from me over the thirty five minutes it took once they removed the oxygen; for that great heart to slow and stop. I have not taken it all in yet. It's nearly twelve weeks and HE is gone. There is never a moment where I can fool myself that he's still here and we can have one more conversation but I can only think about it in little bits.

As a writer, there is a terrible feeling of always being an observer. That tool that allows you to take it all in, to gather the snippets, the atmosphere, the smell and taste of the air and slip it into some recess of your mind. You secretly never quite give in to the moment, not even when that moment is one you have been dreading since you first understood that the great ancient ones would leave you behind. Even at the moment he had stopped breathing, his face showing a restful expression, when the family began to cry I was the observer. I halted them; "His heart," I said. "It's still beating." Feeling the powerful pulse under my fingertips as I stroked his neck, cradling his head in the crook of my arm, my lips close to his ear. I then told him how much we loved him and how it would be alright, everything was alright. His heart didn't falter, stumble or fade - it stopped, in one crushing stillness.

The details of when, what, who etc. are for another time and place. The tightening in my throat is becoming in-swallow-able. I must wait to write it down in full, to bring is out and purge the loss in words when there has been enough distance between that hospital bed and my heart.

**********************************************************************************

It took a week after his passing that I realized. I said it out loud like a petulant child.

"Dad won't be here when I get my degree."

It was a truth. He won't. The man that always asked how I was doing and what I was working on; who showed the most enthusiasm for especially my autobiographical writing and the writing for children courses will not be here to see the end of the journey. It breaks my heart....my selfish, childish, arrogant heart. As if my accomplishment should make him stay when he cannot! Ridiculous. But what makes the lump in my throat rise again is knowing he would have been proud and, if he'd have known he wasn't going to be here, he would have been genuinely sorry - and my petulance shames me; a man of 49 years old.

So I am grateful. The strength he showed all through his life, his example to all his children and grand children, allowed me to help my Mum and family go through the funeral, to start adjusting to life without him and to gather the final course submission together and submit it for assessment and submit it weeks after he left us.

I have finished. I await the completion mark for the course and the degree; constantly wondering what he would think. I know what he would do. He would punch the air from his bed and tell me well done. He would be "chuffed" and ask how long has it been and gasp etc. Because it has been a long time with a lot of hard work.

But then, after a few moments and probably knowing him, over a large cup of tea, he would look up and, with a twinkle in his eye, he would ask "So, what's next then?"

I am grateful to him, for him and his strength.

“It was just like reading a book by a real author.” And “can I have the next (chapter) one please?”

So the five “chapters” came back from the 11 year old son of my colleague.  As he is in the age group of my target audience I was scared to death and excited in a hopeful kind of way. His dictated comments were written out by his mum.

He was enthusiastic and said it “hooks you in and makes you want to solve it”. He said the strange elements were “No cars on the Avenue and the stone not rippling the water” – the latter being the gateway of the mystery.  He and his mum noted that his eight year old brother didn’t think the lack of cars in the Avenue was anything odd. My colleague commented that she thought he was too young for the piece, to pick up on the nuances – it is intended for 9+.

Also the “chanting (Branwen), Aggy as a winged figure”. The latter comment about Aggy being a winged figure brought me up short – I re-read the section and realised that the crow passing over Aggy while she performs a ritual to protect the scene had not been clearly enough described. He had obviously read the words and clamped the two images together – which is very attractive but Aggy is no angel, or winged in anyway. 

He then went on to ask questions and postulate that the only living person was the boy Luan and that all the other characters were dead and the Avenue was possibly the waiting place before passing to the “other side of the curtain”. He is at a Catholic school and describes his ideas with this telling phrase “A bit like St Peter who lets people into heaven.”

He then goes on to equate the tragedy of Adams family being lost as being the event that brings all the characters together. 

I was disappointed that he’d gone down the wrong road (they are all very much living, somewhat) – but my initial feelings dropped away when I realised he was thinking, speculating and using his own knowledge and beliefs to reason out what was happening to Adam. 

He stated that he could close his eyes and see how each character “looked, walked, behaved …imagine each one” and he liked it being so descriptive as this made the story “more eerie”.  He wished me luck with my degree, thanked me and then asked “can I have the next (chapter) one please?”

I was utterly flattered, shocked and pleased that my experiment had been a success. It shows it’s is pitched for the right age group (something my Tutor had stated over and over to me) and had engaged him. It also showed in the 14-15,000 that I needed to refocus the scene where the elements had confused the image of Aggy and the protecting crow in flight over her as a single winged entity. A wonderful learning point.

This opportunity was another organic “happening”, something that just fell into place during the course and I seized it with both hands and held on. I feel so very lucky that I didn’t let my fear turn my back on this. 

My original fears were:-

What if "he" hates it? Phew! He didn’t.

What if it bores him? Phew! It didn’t bore him.

What if they all hate it? Not pitched for the 8 year old but the colleague and the target liked it and want more.

Was it worth all the apprehension? – OH YES!

Will he get the next chapters? Yes.