SUN SEA & SAND Pt 2.

 
 
                                                                            Apple & Thread.
  
 So many little clips of my younger life run around my head, things that I often reminisce about nowadays when I am attempting to get some sleep. I have found that this practice has often helped me to skate away into that dark forgetful void, and also allowed me to drift away to Nod on a cloud of fond memories. 
 Lately I’ve begun dredging through some of my vaguer memories, and today I have selected two of the longer recollections at the edge of my filed thoughts.
          I’m still very young in this first memory, and this first one relates to my father, and something that he always did in the late summer – autumn when he was out with me.
          
 He and I would be walking the dogs in Porth, some of the time, it would be a walk out onto Trevelgue Headland’s island. 
 The island back then was much wilder, and after crossing the slatted wooden bridge to the island, you then walked through high earthworks to get into the interior. These fortifications were very interesting to me as a child, and although I’ll talk more of these in memories to come, I’ll also dally slightly on them now.
  
          When the bridge had been constructed, the engineers had cut through these earthworks and exposed the inside layers. My father had been intensely interested in Archaeology, and between us, we had discovered many flint arrowheads, and even a flint knife. 
 He’d explained to me that these arrowheads must have been used during a battle to defend the island, and then lost to the soil. 
 He would often paint vivid images on my young mind of how these battles may looked, with me listening in awe.
  
 During the war, and before I was born, the family had lived in Dorset, and he had visited ‘Maiden Castle’ a lot. Often as he talked to me about Porth’s history, but he had also told me of Maiden Castle, and just how impressive it was. 
 Eventually I had visited it for myself, sadly though, a short while after my father had died, for I would have loved to walk its slopes with, see it again through his eyes. 
 For the first few years after his demise, I often walked on my own with my own dogs, out onto Porth island and its fortifications, and thought back on him, and regretted the things we would never share again.
  
          Back then, and once we’d gotten out onto the island proper, we’d then make the slow ten-minute walk to the farthest point on the right-hand side. 
          It was then that we’d sit on the rocks in the warm sun facing out over the Atlantic. There might be a slight breeze that would bring ozone to our nostrils, an aroma as of slightly rotting seaweed, salt and mixed with a mysterious fragrance that to my romantic mind thought of as far away exotic destinations. 
          After a while, and we would sit there for at least thirty minutes, it was then that he’d always suddenly produce two small apples. They were usually small Cox’s Orange Pippin, their skins would be striped with shiny red, orange and green, and they’d be warm and fragrant from the heat of father’s pocket. 
  
 We’d sit there eating their juicy flesh, sometimes he would regale me of tales of foreign countries, and on others there would be a silence between us. 
 I would often find myself lost in observing the restless water, and their ebb and flow. I found the sounds of the ocean, the gulls and breezes, very relaxing, and even today, I love to sit near to water, especially an Ocean. 
 I’ve sat next to the Atlantic, Pacific and Indian Oceans, and they seemed too vibrant, it’s hard today for me to believe that human stupidity is killing them.
  
 My second memory today, is of my father taking me to a large rock pool on Whipsiderry, it was situated next to a large natural stone archway. 
 The archway in itself was interesting, it was raised from the sands on a pedestal made of hard rock, and the mainstay curve stood a good fifty at its highest point. 
 Underneath and to the right-hand side of this massive rock doorway, there was a deep and wide rockpool. It was a microcosm of the sea, with its own seaweeds, anemones, fish, crabs and prawns, and its waters were replenished at every tide rise. 
 I have memories to tell of just this pool, of my sisters, my friends, and Sharon and I, but it will feature later in this telling of my life on the beach.
  
 The rock pool I will talk about now however, was on the left of this archway with its massive pillar. This pool was set into a large dark rock that I guess was made when the archway was slowly being formed by the rumbling strength of winter storms.
 We’d scrambled to the top on that day, and once there, had hunkered down by the side of this pool. Its jagged edged side went straight down into the surface of its salty waters, it was a wide largish pool with a depth of eighteen inches. The bottom was covered in fine sand, weed and a few large flattish stones.
 As I had crouched there in my T-shirt, chino shorts and bare feet, he’d taken his penknife out. 
 He had a cream bone handled knife, and it went everywhere that he went. Over the years to come, I saw him use it many times in the garden, peeling fruit, cutting up pears and apples to eat. Although he ate the cores, much as I do today, leaving no waste behind us when out, my mother and sisters didn’t, hence his needing it. 
 He’d pare twigs on shrubs for cuttings, and basically used this knife to cut anything he had need of to slice.
  
 So, on this day, he used it to cut up a limpet, a fat limpet that he’d knocked from its mooring on the rocks surface with a quick blow of his hand. He’d then removed the flesh from its almost unbreakable shell and he’d sliced away all the inedible parts, and finally portioned it into four.
 Next from his pocket, he’d produced some strong black cotton thread on a spool, it was slightly waxed. He’d unrolled about eight feet, and then cut that length off, and then repeated his actions.
 He’d shown me how with a simple knot, he could tie the little portion of limpet flesh to the thread. 
 Having made his, he’d had me make my own, the orange, grey, cream flesh of the shellfish was slippery and hard to tie onto the thread. I remember that I wasn’t too impressed by the tangy smell of the limpet either, but I never have told him that, I had wanted to seem brave.
 He had then lifted me and sat me securely on the edge with my little legs dangling, he’d then hunkered down by me, and shown me how to dangle the line into the water below. 
 I’d watched fascinated as he had jigged the tiny piece of limp meat up and down near one of the larger flat stones.
 He had then pointed out that the stone was lifted at one end because it was sitting awkwardly on another stone under it. As I had watched, I had spotted movement under this part of the stone, and then out had popped the dark greenish head of a little fish.
 With a little more tempting, the fish had left its home, and moved on the bait like a flash before dragging it back out of sight.
  
 We had waited a short while, and then he had gently pulled the line back to him, complete with the wriggling fish, the fish that he had explained to me, was a common Blenny. 
 I had examined it as it had lain in the palm of his hand, watched its wide mouth opening and closing, it’s gills juddering, and felt its slightly slimy skin. 
 I’d then watched as he had carefully pulled on the thread with the bait still attached, as it had slipped from the fish’s mouth. I’d seen him drop his hand down near to the water, and then he released the fish back into the pool. I had watched it dash back to its hidey hole and disappear, and then he gave me an important lesson. “Never kill anything unless you intend to eat it, or it is threatening you, and you cannot safely run away.”
  
 We stayed there for maybe an hour, me fishing in the pool, and him identifying what every catch was, whilst he lay back in the sun.
 I caught crabs, both brown and green, Goby’s, and more than once, the same Blenny. 
 It was an idyllic afternoon for me, being with my father on my own, the adventure of fishing, the interest in the all the life in the pool. 
 In later years as I got older, I found that I just couldn’t recapture that excitement, although I did still enjoy catching crabs and prawns around the rock pools, which I then ate, and did right up to when I married Sharon, also subject to a memory to be written. 

The Lizards Tale – Part 7 – 2.

Tom pushed the driver’s door open, and then once again he is out in the torrential rain, the wind gusts are trying to push him off his feet. The storm suddenly rises in voracity, so much so that it almost appears as if it is trying to push Tom away from the front door. He then realises that now he is out of the car, just how loud the mysterious noise has become, and he looks towards the gates again. The patch of ground outside the gates, and the tiny piece of lane that Tom can see through the rain from where he stands, is empty! The sky is nearly all purple now in that direction, and it is shot through with vermillion streaks. Staring into the skies, Tom thinks he can almost perceive butterfly wings of enormous size, and they appear to be approaching the house, then he looks again and this apparition gone. Something in the sky though is strange, it’s as though Tom is seeing a wild horse in flight and it’s charging towards him, it seems to be borne on gossamer wings and there is an unbelievable rider on its back. Tom hurriedly turns back to the house and steps up onto the dirty front step. He proffers the key to the ornate brass lock, and for a moment Tom feels almost unwilling to place the key in the shadowed hole. Nonetheless, he nervously pushes on and pokes it into place, and then turns it. Tom reaches for the doorknob, turns it, and pushes the old heavy door open; the house is filled with inky blackness inside beyond the doorstep. Tom turns away from the blankness of the doorway to see if Cora is getting out of the car, and he sees her wane face staring out through the rain slicked glass of the Morris, and beckons hastily for her to come to him. Tom is impatient to be inside and out of this stormy weather and away from his strange visions. Cora opens the passenger door and slides her jeans clad legs out, her feet are encased in black All Stars baseball boots that crunch on the sodden gravel driveway. The Rain stops abruptly, almost like an act of God, the wind is silenced, and the garden suddenly brightens somewhat. From the doorway Tom can see under the trees for a little way before the brambles and other overgrown ground cover obscures further observation. There would appear to be movement out there amongst the trees, movement between the trees that sends an inexplicable chill down Tom’s spine

Btu Chun deep below Carniggy House.

Chun has felt the arrival of Cordelia and her father, and he is dismayed! Chun has caused the storm raging over Cornwall at this present time; he had thought that Cordelia would not ever come to the house after his hex had been cast; yet here she is. Chun rears to his full height amongst the mighty pillars of the murky cavern and conjures a powerful spell, commanding the winds to thrash the cliffs beneath Carniggy House, driving huge white crested waves onto the rocks, forcing fishermen to fear for their lives. With this wind came driving rains that pommeled all who stood before them, and so torrential were the showers, that the very ground beneath the houses walls became sodden and as a swamp. Chun’s rage at his bonds made by the Green Man, and remaining unknowing of Gaia’s hand in his fate, coupled with the arrival of the heir to Carniggy, made Chun reckless and uncaring of any retribution that his Lord may later bring down on his head. So lost in his ire was Chun that he unthinkingly rose up through the ground of the garden, and then he appeared just with the tree line. Chun saw Cordelia leaving the car and he crossed from the tree line onto the driveway and advanced towards where Cordelia was now standing. Above Chun however Oona flew towards the open doorway of Carniggy, her steeds insect wings beating mightily, she neither saw Chun, nor cared of his presence, for she wished to harm Cordelia as much as Chun, and as Chun had his back to her, he was completely unaware of her.

Jago inside the Morris at Carniggy House.

There has been something strange about Cordelia ever since she had her birthday party. Cordelia had been ignoring him, and it is almost as though she could not see him anymore, even when he intentionally stands before her and shouts. Jago cannot understand who the jester like fool was that appeared at the party, when he had come around from a mysterious blow to his head, all the excitement of the event had been over, however he smelt Chun’s hand in this somewhere. There had been a time as his Lords vassal that he had trusted Chun in a way, and he had occasionally been commanded to give Chun orders, but this was no longer so, as he felt Chun had in someway changed. Jago had hung about the house until it became obvious that Cordelia’s father was selling up and moving with her to Cornwall, and on investigation Jago had discovered from a letter to her father that they were off to live at Carniggy! On the day of the move, and after instructing Rook to fly home and report all that Jago had spied, he secreted himself in the car, for he would rather travel back to Cornwall in a much more sedate style than on Rooks feathery back.

It had been a relatively uneventful journey for Jago after climbing into Cordelia’s father’s car. But as the car had gotten nearer to Carniggy and had entered the Lizard peninsula, Jago had heard heavy rains lashing at the outside of vehicle as it chugged it’s way west, and the rains were closely followed the wind rising, and then a sudden tempest raged outside the car. A little later Jago sensed that they have arrived at the gates of Carniggy, and feels the car lurch as Cordelia’s father leaves the car; and then shortly after Jago has the impression of him getting back into the vehicle once again, and then the car being driven through the gates and onto the driveway of the house. Once again Cordelia’s father left the car and would seem to be shutting the gates, Jago hears what can only be Pan arriving in his hope that he can breach the gates, and then search the garden to find his true love Kynyav. Pan’s breathing is heavy, and he starts to batter at the gates as the car drives away. Again Jago feels Cordelia’s father leave the car, but Jago feels there is something else, something in the sky above, and within the storm, but what is worse, Jago feels his skin crawl as he becomes aware that somewhere close, is Chun, and he releases a curse under his breath. Jago feels the car move on its springs, and he knows that Cordelia is about to leave its security, and so he wriggles around and tries to get free of his hidey-hole, this might be Jago’s last opportunity to leave the car tonight, and also he needs to be ready for anything Chun may have planned.

As Cordelia swings her legs out of the car seat and into the night, she is looking towards the front door of the house. Jago slips out on her left-hand side, goes underneath her, and then he is away into the dark wet night. Once on the ground Jago runs as quickly as his little legs will carry him towards the door into the house, and as Tom stares into the sky into the eye of the storm, Jago slips past him unseen. Once inside Jago turns and from his vantage point low down in the heavy shadows, he looks back outside. He sees Chun come out of the trees, but it’s not Chun, it’s a fool or jester, Jago is not sure which? And then yet again, he feels it is Chun somehow? Above Chun and coming fast into the garden is a Faery on winged steed, and Jago recognises her as Oona the faery Queen, of Pan however, there is no sign.

Finvarra, Nonetoogood and the faery hunt.

Finvarra and his court saddle up their steeds; Nonetoobright hurries to help his King to secure his saddle on his powerful flying horse, but gets in Finvarra’s way and receives a mighty punch to his head from Finvarra for his trouble. Finvarra is in a foul mood tonight, and not even Nonetoobright’s gesturing and usual foolish play has lightened his Kings mood. Once again Finvarra finds himself jealous of his wife Oona’s apparent infidelity, although he cannot directly accuse her, and as of yet he has no proof. Finvarra is certain that Nonetoogood knows more than he is telling, but if he threatens him, then it will be a sign of weakness, and he is sure that Nonetoogood and his two brothers would conspire to remove him from the throne. In the top of Finvarra’s mind is the fact that once again Oona is missing from the palace, and on this night of nights when there is to be a banquet to honour him, oh where is his tricksy Queen! Finally Finvarra is astride his steed, and motioning to the other fae, he lets the strength of his horse take its head, and then he rises into the air above the assembled faery Court, wheels in the skies and with his steed flapping its wide rainbow coloured dragonfly wings, Finvarra heads towards the bridge that crosses the gap between faery land and the world of man. Behind him in a straggling line, follow the lords and ladies of his court; all dressed in their resplendent finery and blowing on their strident hunting horns, for tonight they hunt human to be the main course of the coming banquet.

The Halzephron Inn.

The Landlady Lowena is past her prime now, and finds running the Inn quite tiring nowadays. Over the last few years, the rumours about the house high on the cliffs have diminished, and of course her clientele has changed as well. Now customers to the Halzephron Inn are not so prone to gossip, the world is changing fast and not always in a good way. Punters were more inclined to be talking about world issues and especially how many wars there were now, the whole of the Isles seemed, as one drinker said, “To hav gorn to the dogs”. There are many more summer visitors now, and she is not only full with guests today, but the bar is full of casual drinkers, the fact her husband Jim died a few years back doesn’t help either, as she seems to spend most of her time dashing from one thing to the next! Outside the Inn, a cruel storm has descended upon the Lizards coast, and even now lashes at the front of the Inn. It is dry and warm inside, and the holidaymakers are all choosing from her menu and ordering drinks at the bar. Craddock, once the boy about the pub, is the head barman now, and invaluable to Lowena who just could not do without him. Several more drinkers arrive in a rush, excitedly exclaiming of how they had run from their cars to escape the savage rains, and how the sky has lowered to an intense purple colour, unlike anything they have ever seen in their lives. One of the new punters is telling Craddock of the strange noise to the wind, just like a high-pitched engine under load. An odd old local who is sitting quietly in a corner, is heard to comment that a noise like that usually means a typhoon is about to take to the land, but no one even turns his or her head at his gossip. Craddock however takes note of the old grumbler in the corner, he’s never known old Ted to be wrong about local weather events, and so at the earliest convenience Craddock steps out of the Inn’s backdoor to see and hear this unusual clash of the elements for himself. It’s certainly windy outside, there’s no doubt about that fact, and Craddock finds himself being pushed away from the shelter of the old Inn buildings by the buffeting squalls that seem to run through the pasture behind the Inn like waves on the sea. This small pasture behind the Halzephron Inn isn’t used unless it is mid summer, and then only as an occasional overflow car park. Craddock is pushed and pulled until he stands in the midst of the meadow; the grasses are blown flat at his feet, and his countenance is streaming with the hard rains, his eyes mere cracks, his mouth drawn into a grimace. Craddock stands gazing straight up into the storm, his mouth then opens in wonder, for he seems to spy great white horses with multi-coloured wings whirling and whirring in the sky as their wings thrash the heavens, and upon their backs the most wondrously beautiful people he has ever seen…

Finvarra and his faery hunt high above the Halzephron Inn.

The horns are blowing; excitement rises as a man is spotted by the hunt out in the open amidst the storm that is mysteriously racking the Cornish countryside tonight. Several of the court vie for Finvarra’s attention to attempt a kill, and from amongst them, Finvarra chooses ‘Asstoobig’ to be his champion of the royal hunt. Asstoobig unstraps his boar spear from his saddle, and then his steed with mightily battering wings, descends downwards upon the head of the unwitting man. Asstoobig, his mind set on a clean kill, hunkers down in his saddle made of best blue dragon skin, and then drops his spear forwards of his mount to hang like a lance, for if he is successful, then the whole court can feast on tasty morsels of human and Finvarra will toast him tonight at the banquet.

My Broken Promise.

 

 

Your foot print will cross my ghost in golden grains of sand

But you must question why I lied to you, and yet I lied to you

You sense I left while love was fraught, and me?

I can but cajole and endeavour not to be so sad

 

Forgive and forget me when I have to go, I made you a promise which I just broke

I rail at the sky; beat my breast, I’m on a journey where only I can go

Cast my body to the golden sands, and so dispatch me on a voyage far away from you

 

Summer sun, Ocean wind to a Beach Boy theme

And all for I try to loosely hold your hand, you pass on by so fleet of foot

Winter storms which blow and beat

And I would be there to hold your weight, but you pass me by without thought

 

Forgive and forget me when I have to go, I made you a promise which I just broke

I rail at the sky; beat my breast, I’m on a journey where only I can go

Cast my body to the golden sands, and so dispatch me on a voyage far away from you

 

The years have passed like flickering cards

And yet I rail at the skies and beat my breast, as all I could do was lie to you

Your ears hear distant sounds, your eyes see far and wide

And yet you never hear or see me too

 

I will stand for what seems like to forever beseeching you

Although all my wailing will never do

So pointlessly I rail at the skies and beat my breast weeping for my lies to you

Forgive and forget me when I have to go, I made you a promise which I just broke

I rail at the sky; beat my breast, I’m on a journey where only I can go

Cast my body to the golden sands, and so dispatch me on a voyage far away from you

 

In every breath I take I can feel and count your hate and you could shout and pull your hair

But that is surely not your way you’d rather sit alone to cry away your lasting tears

While sadly all I can do is stand and shout or sit and wait

I rail at the skies and beat my breast

I could cajole and be so sad, rip my heart in tears for you

But I must stand on the golden sands until you appear for me

But of course I lied to you and there is disbelief you will want me back

 

So I can only hope that time will heal your tears

With summer passing and winter near

Maybe you will walk the sand and forgive me dear

Talk to me where I can hear, visit me and be so near

And then I can wait for you to appear

Instead if railing at the skies and beating my breast

As I wait for you to come and rest

 

Forgive and forget me when I have to go, I made you a promise which I just broke

I rail at the sky; beat my breast, I’m on a journey where only I can go

Cast my body to the golden sands, and so dispatch me on a voyage far away from you