Only 200 words? Couldn't do it

Ynys Môn      (Anglesey) 

I don’t know if it’s the mystical attraction involving the cult of the Druids or my family roots, but the need to visit the island was massive. 

Connected from the mainland Wales, crossing (spanning) the Menai Strait is the Menai suspension bridge, an impressive sight today, but originally a wooden construction, completed in 1826. 

It was mentioned by Lewis Carrol, in Through the Looking Glass: 

White Knight says to Alice,

'I heard him then, for I had just completed my design.

To keep the Menai Bridge from rust.

By boiling it in wine.'

The other bridge that crosses the strait is the Britania bridge, plans were drawn up for a new bridge by Robert Stephenson, son of the locomotive pioneer George Stephenson, and completed in March 1850. It’s not as impressive to look as the suspension bridge, but worth crossing on, as you can see the Menai suspension bridge. What you can’t see, if you’re travelling by car, are the train lines underneath, that link Wales to Holyhead. (pronounced holly-head) and on to Ireland. 

The Britania bridge was reconstructed after a disastrous fire in 1970.

I can’t find out why Holyhead is pronounce holly-head, but it’s the largest town, but officially not on Anglesey. It’s connected by a 4 mile bridge (yes it is 4 miles long) and is on Holy island, a major ferry port to Ireland. 

The Romans were attracted by the rich amounts of copper & the foundations of Caer Gybi, a fort at Holyhead are Roman and the road (the A5- probably an old Roman road) from Holyhead leads to Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch 

(yes that’s all one word and is the longest official place name in the U.K.) But 

it’s Llanfair pg for the non Welsh speakers.  

On the east side of Anglesey is Beaumaris, 'beautiful marsh' translated from Norman French workers.

The castle actually stands mostly within in a different and much older town, called Llanfaes, 

In the 1290s, when King Edward I of England moved to suppress the rebel Welsh on Anglesey, he naturally targeted Llanfaes. Not only did he conquer it, he removed it!

Edward uprooted all the village's residents and forcibly moved them across the island, to a brand new village the English called Newborough. Then he started to work on the castle.

A short distance from Beaumaris is Bryn Celli Ddu (the mound in the dark grove) a prehistoric site, with a burial chamber. Visitors can now enter the chamber, filled with patterned stones, a mysterious pillar, sinuous serpentine deigns, carved into the stone. The site was once a henge with a stone circle, constructed around 3000 BC. 

Either going to, or coming from Anglesey, it’s worth going to Conwy, a walled market town on the north coast of Wales. It faces Deganwy, across the river Conwy and it also has a castle.

Also built under the instruction of Edward the 1st, between 1283 and 1289. No villages where removed then.

It is also where the smallest house in Britain is. It’s in the Guinness book of world records and stands on the harbour of Conwy. The house was lived in until 1900, the owner was Robert James, a 6’ 3” fisherman, who couldn’t stand up fully in the house. He was forced to move out, as the council declared the house unfit for human habitation.The house is still owned by his descendants and for a small entrance fee, you can go inside. 

I couldn’t write about all the places to visit, I didn’t mention the beaches, mountain or coastline walks, there is so much to do on this historic island, I hope you can find the time to visit, you won’t regret it! 

Chris. 

Ye Blogge of ye Elizabethan, Johannef Bruufe

 

Verily and forfoothe. Att ye commande of ye moofte Perfecte Flower off Avon, for twaf by thine requeft, I ftareth nowe thif, ye Elizabethan Blogge of Johannef Bruufe. Herewith, and whattever followeth aftter, being nought butt a tru accounte of ye dayyef that paffeth af certainlie af ye celeftial boddies turneth and ye night becommef dayye.

Thuf, I maketh thif moofte humble dedicafioun and I deemeth itt moofte appropriyate that thif be compof’d for ye moofte efteem’d Ftratforde-upon-Avon, Wordfmith’f Writerf’ Grupe in apprerciatione ofe ther moofte treafur’d companie and grate jollitie ofe witte.

Being nought nowe but  ye moofte ag’d of anciente and graybearde menne, I had forgotte, being nowe poffeff’d on butte lyttle, fhrunkenn, wittes, that ye conventionf ofe ye Elizabethan fpeake demandeth that, notte onlie ye moofte astownding and gratte inconfiftancief off fpellyng, butt that ye “f” becometh ye “f” att alle tymef. Appologief if ye hereaftter, withe keenr brightter eye ofe youthe, fhould fpotteth fuch ane errour.

I throweth myn felf att thyne tendereft of mercief, fouldft I ftrayest frome fuch a courfe off actioun and forgiveth me if, inne thif ftayte ofe dotage I, perchance, flippeth inne fom Chaucer bye miftake.

Ye Dayye 1.

Thuf, I ftarteth oute nowe, as thoughe I were butt the meareft ftripplyng ofe midfhippemanne upon hif mayden voyage, bounde for ye moofte wondrouf Indief and before whom lieth ye moofte fearful perilf off ye oceane. Ye phyfeter and ye moofte drede Oliphant beaft that, by ye bankef of ye Nyle, fwalloweth wholle, by meanf of hif gygantic mouthe and ivorie tufkef, onnie manne foolifh enuf to ftandeth in hif pathe.

Twaf uppon thine comande I did discerne the onfe hydroptic Earth fpeweth forth her myftef and phantoums ofe ye Paft. For I was butt thenn fat ine ye inn, ye Fhakefeare Inn, upoun ye High Ftreet, in the afourmention’d pleasour’d companie ofe hackf. Att onfe, as tho ye gravef open’deft and, in myne cuppf, from within ye darkeft realm of ye colectif unconfoiufneff, arofe ye fpiritf of Ftratford, and they fpaketh with butt one voyce and in accorde faytheth too me, thuf;

“Johannef Bruufe! Fitteft nowe in Ftratford and ine thine pretence, pretendeth thine felf to be a hack of fuch meafour af wouldft moveth the pathf of all celeciftial bodief in th’ Univerf? Meaneft of hackf art thou if ye discerneft not ye gratte fpiritf of olde; Fhakefpeare, Marlowe, Ben Jonfoun and ye Metaphfyicall Poetf, Donne, et al, who hath op’d ye very Gatewyef of Humanityef Perceptioun to ye bejewell’d treafuryef of Philofophie! For fhame! Feefth thou not ye rankf of houfbandrie and ye tradefmenne ofe ye paft who fayte befott’d, verily, in that faym place af thou parkeft nowe thine gratte and mooft flatullante of arfef” Poppynjay! ‘Odsblod! Noddle of porke! Fhifteth it, thine fcaly buttockf from thif place and fet thine compaff on ye compofioun off a blogge as thou wer’t ask’d off. Twat.”. 

Thuf, nowe do I moofte humblie fetteth forthe on this vouyage of difcouverie and by ye meanf of ye magygic of electirickerie, and fouche alchemie as I poffeffeth, fend forth thru ye veryt’ble Fpheres of Heav,n ye email’d accounte of thefe travailef...

Ye Dayye 2

Earlie thif morn, waf I befet by fom forme ofe fpirit of ye paft who announceth himflef af “Will’m” and bade me underftand that, fomehow, I fould kno ofe him. Uponn expreffiounf of bewyldermente he turn’d to namyng me for, “clodpoll” and, “truckulent youthe”, “the mereft maggott fprung for ye fmall partf of ye ewef behind”. For fuch wordef I wouldft feign have fiez’d th’ doltard by hif privvie partf, but, vouchfay’d, forbade myfelf to the mutt’ryng of, “Bald’d loon. Thou haft ne’er a winfom ftrumpet knon! Ney, not e’en a dark haired one” and continu’d inne ye difcourf. By myne feeming fo unaffect’d by hif dyatribef, that deceav’d hif perceptiounf, and being thuf nouw playcated in his mufingf, he availeth me ofe hif opioun that I “muft fpeaketh pleyen to ye Hackf of Avon and bid them forfake all and ony opioun” other than, “Furedly, they muftte nameth ofe theyre blogge, ‘Ye more fool I’, bye refon ofe theyre refidenfe wythin ye ruftyck Gladef of Arden”. Addyng, at hif partyng, “Whence mony a wench, fool and creme fac’d loon hath dwelt, befotte’d, in theyre poetrie and philofophie, before ye”. Then, wyth the fpeakyng ofe, “A-ho! A-ho! Tra-lee!”, befoothe, he diffolveth into ayre af do ye Autmnal Fprytef of Arden att ye dawn’f funrife. Thinketh, I “Paltroon!”.

Ye Dayye 3

Being a difcorf upoun myne loathyng ofe Horace Fletcher.

Fince, by ye Grace of Godde, mine deareft Mother haft been depriv’d of her wittef and fought almf withyn myne humble dwellyng, I hav been encoumber’d by ye moofte horryd rememberancf. Befhreweth me if fhe doth not butt maketh the moofte loud and toothie noifef at ye breakyng of her faft, att her luncheoun, att alle tymf, by refon of thyf manne knon at hif tymef af, “Ye Gratte Mafticator”.

Verily, twaf mine Grandmother, that in her tender yeref ofe being noght butt a fimple Victoryan nymph and thuf plyable ofe mynd, that fhe availeth herfelf ofe hif phylofophie that, verily, a perfoun fhud cheweth upon eche morfel of theyre foode one hundred tymef a minit afore it defcendeth to ye ftoumuck. Thif, he theorifeth, affifteth ye digestioun.

“Ftrweth! I recolleceth myne Auntie Liz befeache me wyth grate dygnatie whylst I waf yet a youthe in fhortpantf of feven foummerf, “Thou mufte mafticate ev’ry mouthfule of thyne fupper no leff than eythie tymef yf’t thou wouldft be grac’d wyth ftrenth ofe arm and ofe wifdom”. Whence ye five Rigg fifterf (theyre being that mony female fiblyngf, and mightie fierf to butt a tinie laddie) wouldft partaketh ofe ye luncheoun wyth muche gnafyng ofe theyre teeth accompani’d by flurpyngf and floofhyngf of falivic juifef and ye luncheoun taketh three houref ‘fore confumptioun by refon of thyf dictat. Ev’ry dayye was I, ‘til I of layter yearf cud bedeck myne leggef in ye hofe and longpantf ofe manlyneff and make free from hence, fo befet bye thyf cullinarie pendantrie and bye fouch caufe, caft into Bedl’m.

Egad! butt doft nott myne deareft Mother do herefat’r af fhe waf taughte? Thuf, att dawn’f neuw dayye and att alle myne prandialf thereafter, do I lifteneth, echoyng lowder than ye mynfterlf and chorifterf in fulleft voyce in ye emptie’d cathedr’l of Ft. Palf’f, to ye munchyngf and clankyng of jawf and It taketh her five minitf to fwalloweth, pardoun drynketh, butt one bufcuit!

For fuch refon do I defpyeth Horace Fletcher and nameth him for nonce, fod, befhitter of bedf, weafel witte, and baftard fonne ofe a doxy. I fayeft, aftour Ye Gratte Ben Jonfoun, may he hath defcend’d into Hell and, thenceforeth for alle eternitie, be forc’d to licketh ye figgef that hangeth from ye Devil’f Arfe, fuckyng on ef’ry oun a hundred tymef a minit.

Ye Dayye 4

Thys blogge beginneth to peyneth me in myne hyndmofte partf and myne familiar, ye catte, Molly who, whence nature is betry’d at Hallow’f Eve, forfoothe, tranfformeth to ye imp, Black and Whyte Malkin, doth fouch a rackett make af fhe diftracteth me fromm purpoufe.

Thuf, bye God’f Graf I hope thys difcourf hath not a difpleafour’d countanance upoun thy fine ftarr’d browf caft fuch darkneff’f that bye fouch travailf it caufef myne lov’d labour’f to be loft upoun ye.

Fo nowe theef revellf are alle ended,

But, as of olde, a rhymef appended.

“Alle ye Worlde’f a blogge”, t’if faid.

Juft ye way to gette aheade.

In bufineff and in focial contacte

Get thee to keyeborde, make a contracte.

No longer if thyf Worlde a ftage,

Fuch ftuffe is off a biegone age.

And, thynketh thee who did not lyke it,

Ye ravyngf of thyf radddl’d idyot,

If thyf blogge hath fent thee madly,

I hope ye will nott take it badly.

For bardf ofe olde woulde alle nowe be

Quite lyt’rate in technologie.

(Exeunt left, quickly.)

Dodi and Di

Not really a stand alone piece, this one; I wrote it for inclusion in something else.  But it's inspired by the picture!

I was thirteen when the Paris tunnel crash happened.  I was a teenage boy: I couldn’t have given a flying fuck about Diana or Dodi or any of that crap.  But there was something palpable in the air the day the news broke – like something so profound had happened, the world would never be the same again.  The radio didn’t play any decent music for about a week, out of respect for the dead.  That really pissed me off at the time.

My dad said that the media coverage reminded him of when England won the World Cup – there was a feeling of collective emotion.  The event was so big, it formed a connection between people.  And my dad’s a raving socialist; he can’t stand the Royal Family.

I didn’t get it.  The funeral, with the carpet of flowers, was like watching a film.  Quite sad, I supposed, but just a poignant piece of fiction – there was nothing for me to relate to.  And later, when Mohammed Al Fayed kicked up the massive fuss and started spouting conspiracy theories and ranting about the royal family to anyone who would listen, I simply felt slight contempt.  Even my young teenage self knew that he was embarrassing himself, making himself look foolish.  Yes, he’d lost a child, but why couldn’t he grieve with dignity?  I remember saying quite scathingly during a form time debate (Miss Hanrahan was keen on covering current affairs), he just needs to maintain some self-respect.  He needs to man-up.  All this, at thirteen.

God, I was a little cock.





PSK

We need to talk

We do need to talk,

how can I put this,

it's not going well, 

you're not very happy, 

I can tell.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

It's been going on far too long, 

but I wrote you a song, 

it didn't take me long. 

It's not me, it's you.

I've tried my best, 

but still you need to test!

Was it consciously un-coupling you said?

Really can't get that thought out of my head.

For the kids, I'd like it to be tame,

then there will be no crying or blame.

I bet we still see each other,

we'll probably end up in bed, 

but the phrase consciously coupling 

is also going round in my head. 

Chris.

Did you know? Stories from long, long ago.

Did you know?

Stories from long, long ago.                                                                                                                       

(from Greek Mythology and later Roman Mythology)

A skull was found in the ground. This skull must have belonged to some sort of creature similar to man, as no current creature existed with a skull like this. It was a skull that had been turned into stone. There was a large hole in the middle of the large skull. That must have been where the eye socket was.                                                       

There was only one socket, so there must have been only one eye.

This creature must have been massive, as the skull was much bigger than any normal human skull, so it was a giant and it must have been such a horrible creature, terrorising villages and humans all around Greece, as the same skull was found in lots of areas close by.  

There must be a hero, who saved everybody from this horrible monster. He must have out witted it, tricked it, as he was clever and the creature wasn’t. He (not a she) must have done a good job, as the creature was not seen any more, anywhere.                     

There also must be a reason why it was a stone skull. Something must have turned it into stone, it must be another horrible creature, that was a ‘normal human’ before she (not a he) was punished and turned into this creature. (And another hero who killed her, with some help)

Who could do such an amazing transformation and given help to these heroes? (and without them, the result would have been the opposite)                                       

The Gods of course! Can’t they do everything when there is no known answer?                 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The skull, assumed to be of the Cyclops (one killed by Apollo), was an extinct fossilised ancient elephant skull, not dissimilar to modern day elephants, now not found in Greece. (not the only mythical creature to be inspired by the discovery of fossilised bones) The assumed eye socket in the large skull was the nasal passage, where the trunk once extended. It was fossilised, so it was seen as being turned into stone. (need some more info from John about fossils) The creature that turned living things into stone was Medusa, turned into the hideous creature by the Gods, killed by the hero Perseus.   

                                                        

Chris.

                                                         

Krays Haiku

Ronnie and Reggie
K.I.L.L.I.N.G.
Get caught and get life.                                                        


                                                                                  Chris.

Like this Sally?

Trying to write?

So many other things get in the way!

So much to do, so much to say.

I want to write LOTS in a day!

Where does the time go?

If you want to write.

Balancing things is such a fight.

TV off, and the phone,

need to get into the zone,

no distractions in the home,

my thoughts I need to hone.

Things to do, people to see,

I NEED TIME JUST FOR ME!

So much research to be done,

and so much reading to do,

try to get it written,

for me and especially for you.

Chwis,

hang on, I meant Chris.

Chwiss' task...

The month of May was approaching rather fast and the weather was warming up nicely. Not only had the buds been bursting, the birds been a-twittering, the bees a-buzzing and the skies a-brightening but, for another very different reason, it was a dreadfully exciting time for Chris. He’d volunteered to chair the next meeting of the Stratford-upon-Avon Wordsmith’s writing group. My gosh! Some ruddy great responsibility that! What! This meant that, chairing the stinky old meeting itself in April aside, he’d have the vitally important job of dreaming up some jolly good and inspirational ideas for the dear old writing group to scribble about and post on that batty old blog of theirs over the following month. But, dash it all, what to do?

Putting on his thinking cap, Chris, agitatedly, strode around his room.  He’d had several sleepless nights about this already and, crumbs, ought to have come to some sort of witty, genius, conclusion by now! However, the challenge sort of got to him and oops, crikey, poor show so far. Can’t let the side down though. Gosh, this really was a task that required some pretty hard thought... and he had to get it right. But how? 

It was one of those occasions he really needed some extra solid grey matter for help. A bit of intelligence and learning wouldn’t go amiss either, what! Picking up the old dog and bone he dialed a number. There was a brief ringing that was casually answered by a man both of gentlemanly conduct and responsible voice. “Hello”, it enquired, with an upward intonation. 

“Ah! Oh! Ah! I say, Chris here. What! Is that you, Andy”? 

“Christopher! My dear Old Tin of Fruit! Indeed it is. Dear sir, how may I help you”?

“Oh, it’s like this”, Chris continued with a slight stutter and nervous lisp, brought about by the headiness of the moment. “D... d...d... Do’you know I thort of, well, v...v... volunteered to d...do that chairing thing for the old W...w...w... Wordsmith’s this Apwil”? 

“Yes, Dear Boy. I do recall you made that sorry, sorry, crew that most generous offer”. 

“Well, you kn... kn... know they have that thort of wr... wr... write your own th... thingie thing eveweh month”?

“Yes, dear Boy. I do recall they do”.

“Well, sorry to s... say but I’m a tiny bit st... st... stumped for ideas. You know. The th... th... thort of thing that gets them all w... w... wound up and jittewy and jolly ex... ex... excited. So I’m out to k... k... kind of p... pick the old bwains. What? If you don’t m... m... mind”.

“Christopher! My dear fellow. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. May I suggest we discuss the matter over high tea... on the lawn? Tomorrow afternoon at... ah... shall we agree... three. Hang on a mo’... I know. We’ll invite Beth along as well. She’s a jolly, jolly, bright spark and is sure to have something tucked away in that cavernous mind of hers. One thing though. May I suggest we all arrive in disguise. It wouldn’t do for the other motley lot to come spying about and know there’s been a bit of mutual collaboration. Do you agree”? 

“Oh, I say. What! Oh”! Chris could hardly, hardly, contain himself! 

This really was just so very, very, exciting! He’d even just had the idea of taking along a lot of old photos. “Blimey! That might just work!” he exclaimed aloud and shot off to give some scrofulous youth a bit of a driving lesson, relaxed and untroubled in his mind for the first time in several days.

The following afternoon was all it promised to be. More. Although the disguises had proven a tad confusing for them all. Andy had appeared cunningly attired as a hirsute Vivian Stanshall, complete with trilby, baggies, tweed jacket, brogues and a rolly rather gauchly drooped, chain-smoker style, from his left hand. Chris had dressed almost entirely as he used to do, all those many, many, years ago when a mere strippling of a boy. Halcyon days! When learning the rules of the road. By bike. He even had and retained, his favourite old bicycle clip, gripping the right trouser leg in the traditional style throughout the entire event. 

But as for Beth. By jingo! She’d really pulled out all the plugs and excelled herself. “Golly gosh! What a stunner!” the boys agreed and, admiringly, “Oh, I say...” That sweet little black bob and cunningly cut mid-calf cotton skirt with matching blazer and trim, sort of suited her perfectly! She was as she was meant to be, a of goddess of the Avon. She had even brought her own punt pole, all twelve feet of it. “Made out of hardwood, By Jove!” a few onlookers and by-passers had remarked, in starry-eyed awe of the gracious and glorious spectacle.

Yes, indeed. What a success that day was, and such wonderful, wonderful, memories! They sat on deck-chairs and cushions in the sun, drinking tea and enjoying the excitement of picking out all the photos they would give to the Wordsmiths at the next meeting. Beth had even brought along one herself, that of a little cat and dog sitting, together, in a basket, on a rainbow cushion! “It’s my dark side, you know. When things get sort of, well, you know... saucy and risque” she giggled. “Oh rather, What!” The boys agreed. 

That had made the day, and Chris just knew his idea was sure to bring such happiness and joy to all his friends at the next Wordsmith’s meeting. They’d even had their portrait taken together by a passing cameraman and added it to the photo collection. “That’ll fool ‘em, eh? What!” they joked together.

Absolutely! What? Oh!  Ding dong!

(Please... No offence intended! It's just what came out.  J.B.)

Beth, Andy (alias John?) & Chris.

Stratford Wordsmiths- the early years.

Chris. 

Running Away

She stands on the edge of the dark lake, blackness engulfing her.

The lake reflects the face in the moon as a perfect circle. She holds her breath.

Drip-drip, drip, that bloody tap! If it wasn’t that it was the leaky guttering outside the bedroom window, the same but slower, drip… drip… drip… She has lain awake all night, waiting, listening to that incessant dripping, knowing each drip brings her a second closer.  It is time. She slithers out from under the sheets and in the moonlight, gathering her clothes from the broken wicker chair at the foot of the bed, she shivers and silently pads barefoot towards the bedroom door.

On the lake a gentle breeze sends ripples across the face of the moon.  

*** 

The previous evening, after the party, after he knew that she had seen him with ‘The Other’, she had studied her reflection in the broken mirror above the washbasin and she had known it was time. The lines beneath her eyes betrayed the years of waiting, hoping and disappointment. She had given up so much for him, too much.  All she had wanted had been a sign of commitment but somehow he was always waiting too, waiting for something… or was it someone… someone better maybe? But he had always said he wanted her, and she had wanted him.

In the distance, the dried up waterfall that feeds the lake began to trickle.

“Will you marry me,” he had said.

“Why now?” she had replied, surprised.

“Because I need you.”

Drip-drip, drip-drip, drip. She had turned the tap tighter, then suddenly overcome by the hopelessness of the action she had turn the tap on full and watched as the basin had filled. It was time, she knew it was time. The closer to the edge the faster the water level seemed to rise, faster than the overflow could cope with.

The waterfall was suddenly full and crashed onto the jagged rocks below, the lake shuddering in rippled surprise.

“No, I won’t,” she had replied.

“But why, I thought that was what you had always wanted?”

“Why? Because you need me but no longer want me.”

She had pulled out the plug and watched the speeding vortex descending until the basin was empty.

***

The dark lake is still once more, reflecting hollow eyes on the face in the moon.

She dresses quickly in the hallway then opens the front door and slipping silently outside she closes it gently behind her. Drip… drip… the dripping gutter above her head suddenly releases a cold torrent. She pauses to watch as the rainwater runs across the pavement, into the gutter and disappears down the drain. She buttons her coat against the hostility of the darkness.

She walks slowly into the dark lake. As she breaths out the bubbles gently break the surface.

The face in the moon diminishes, a little more each night, until it’s gone.   

(by Sally)