Secret Rooms - Sue Purkiss

 The other day I saw a mention somewhere of the Grandmother's secret room, as featured in The Princess and the Goblin, a 19th century children's book by George MacDonald.

It's a strange book in some ways, but I remember being enchanted by it when I read it as a child. It's about a princess, Irene, who lives with her nurse, Lootie, in an isolated castle in the countryside. Nearby under the mountain there are mines, which are worked by local people (including a brave  and enterprising lad called Curdie) and by a race of goblins, who hate humans. Irene does not know about the goblins - and actually, now, it seems rather odd that her father, the King, should have chosen a castle so near them as a home for his daughter. But still, there we are - I suppose kings aren't always sensible. 

Irene climbs the stairs...

One day, Irene decides to explore the castle. At the top of several staircases, she finds a room in which a beautful old lady, also called Irene, sits spinning. The lady tells the princess that she is her several-times-great grandmother. She's a magical lady, who clearly intends to protect Irene from the dangers that surround her. She can only be found if she wants to be. As well as the workroom, she has a bedroom...

What was Irene's surprise to see the loveliest room she had ever seen in her life! It was large and lofty, and dome-shaped. From the centre hung a lamp as round as a ball, shining as if with the brightest moonlight, which made everything visible in the room, though not so clearly that the princess could tell what many of the things were. A large oval bed stood in the middle, with a coverlid of rose colour, and velvet curtains of a lovely pale blue. The walls were also blue - spangled all over with what looked like stars of silver.

The Grandmother. (Both illustrations are Arthur Hughes' original ones.) The Grandmother's appearance changes every time Irene sees her: sometimes she looks old, other times quite young. 

I forgot the details of the rest of the story, but that image of a secret room, which could only be found when its owner wished it, intrigued me and has stayed with me. I dug out the book - falling apart, but with Arthur Hughes' beautiful original illustrations - and as I revisited the Grandmother's secret room, it made me think of another 'secret' and certainly unexpected room, which I saw last year in real life.

I live in Somerset now, but I'm from Derbyshire. Last year I was holidaying with family in the Peak District, and on the way back, my son decided he wanted to show his family the place where my parents had lived - Stanley, between Ilkeston and Derby. 

The house is an end terrace, down a little unadopted road. My guess is that the houses were originally built for miners at the nearby pit, but it is only a guess. Dad bought it in 1968. It was a big thing for him: we had lived in council houses up till then, and I don't think anyone, on either side of the family, had actually owned their own house before. So he was immensely proud of it. It looked out onto fields at the back, Mum made a beautiful little garden, and they were very happy there.

Our old house.

So, there we were, outside the house, me taking a photograph, when the current owner popped his head out of an upstairs window, and, understandable curious, asked if he could help us. I explained, and he invited me in for a look round.

Like Dad over fifty years before, Andy was very proud of what he and his wife had done with the house. Apparently, the people who'd bought it after Dad died in 2004 had let the house and garden go, and it had been in a terrible state when they moved in. So they had completely renovated it - it was amazing to see what they had done: it was lovely. But the very best bit was this.

At the top of the stairs was a door which led, in our day, to a cupboard where Mum and Dad stored suitcases and suchlike. Andy paused. "I think you're going to like this," he said. He opened the door.

And there, instead of a cupboard, was a staircase. And at the top was a light and spacious room. To say I was astonished would be a huge understatement. In our day, there had been an attic, yes, but the only entrance to it was through a small trapdoor. I had never seen inside it, and I'd had no idea that there was all this space up there.

There was something very special about this. Knowing how much the house had meant to Dad, I was delighted to see that it was being loved and cared for and brought back to life by a new generation. And that unexpected room - well, it wasn't the kind of magic of Irene's grandmother's room, but there was nevertheless something quite magical about it: an utterly surprising new space.

Occasionally, I have dreams where the house I'm living in suddenly turns out to have extra rooms or outbuildings that I hadn't noticed before. I suppose it's something to do with finding out new possibilities, unexpected avenues. Secret rooms in literature can be pretty nasty places, where unfortunate victims are imprisoned or whatever. But they don't have to be. Sometimes, they can open up a whole new vista.

 

'Our Story': David Attenborough exhibition at the Natural History Museum - Sue Purkiss

I recently ventured out of Somerset to go up to London for a day - quite the adventure for me! All those people... The lure was a meeting-up with old friends, one from Essex and one from Brighton. One of us has problems with mobility, and can't walk or stand for too long - so we decided to opt for a sit-down experience: namely, the David Attenborough immersive exhibition at the Natural History Museum. It's called Our Story.

I don't know if you've been to one of these immersive exhibitions. I had, to the Van Gogh one, so I knew roughly what to expect. A large space is lined with boards/screens, on which are projected a series of moving images. The audience sits in the middle, while the 'story' plays out all around them. There's also, importantly, a soundscape - so you are, indeed, immersed in the experience. I would dearly love to know how these things are put together, how they work: I have no idea, so to me it all seems quite magical.

I've been to the Natural History Museum many times before. But it really struck me this time what an extraordinary building it is. It's huge, for one thing. But - the detail of it! It's composed of differently coloured bricks, inside and out. This is practical as well as ornate - you don't have to repaint every few years. But the thought that must have gone into designing the patterns and the shapes - the arches, the cornices, the windows - everything - and the references to the purpose of the building: the carvings of animals, birds, everything to do with the natural world. And now it's all set off by planting which references the botanical history of life on earth - so clever!

The museum was last year the most popular visitor attraction in Britain, with over seven million visitors. It's certainly buzzing, and busy. But the Attenborough exhibition is a welcome haven of peace and quietness - only a few people are allowed in at a time. It starts with darkness. Then gradually things start to happen. Points of light expand and coalesce: stars and planets are born. Then, tiny at first, something new appears: a blue planet, wreathed in trails of white cloud, serene and beautiful. And there we are. The whole thing only lasts for about 45 minutes, so of necessity it's a rather hasty gallop through the history of the planet. But it's enough to showcase the extraordinariness, the sheer improbability of what we have - and what, at the moment, we seem hell-bent on destroying: some of us, of course, more than others. I was particularly drawn to an image of the handprints found in caves in France and Spain: I have seen some of these for real, and as I gazed at them in a cave in the south-west of France, I felt a tangible sense of connection - quite spine-tingling - with the individuals who were moved to make these marks, to leave these messages, thousands and thousands of years ago. ( Back to the exhibition - one thing surprised me: the dinosaurs didn't appear. Something stirred in a primeval forest, and we all watched with bated breath - but it was a gorilla, not a diplodocus. I couldn't help but feel that this was a missed opportunity: children, in particular, are fascinated by dinosaurs.)

At the end, Sir David appeared, and spoke, quietly but clearly, of the threats facing Earth. This was well done. He didn't sugarcoat the dangers. But he ended with a message of hope - that we are the ones who've messed up, but we are also the ones with capacity to put the brakes on and find solutions. We can only hope he's right. 

Sorry - this is not a very good picture of the outside of the museum, but it's the only one I took.

The red planet

Home

Handprints - greetings across the ages

The human race marches on.

Chocolate Nation - Sue Purkiss

 Belgium is well-known for a number of things: beautiful old cities, waffles, moules et frites, the European Commission, Tintin - and, of course, chocolate. So when earlier this week my grandson Casper suggested visiting a chocolate museum in Antwerp (my son and his family live in Brussels, and I was visiting them), I certainly wasn't going to say no.

We went by train to Antwerp - whose station, incidentally, is quite incredible: immensely tall, with a beautifully decorated ceiling and an extraordinarily ornate clock. The museum, which is only a few years old, is just a couple of minutes'walk from the station, and if you're a chocolate lover, it's a must. (If you're not, then probably best stay away.)

It's an extraordinary piece of design and technology. You're only allowed in a very few people at a time: the doors to each of the first four rooms open to let you in, then swing closed behind you. And these four rooms take you on the journey of the cocoa pod, from the trees where it grows in South America to its eventual transformation in Belgium into delicious chocolate. The whole experience is really clever: light and sound and heaven knows what else combine to show you each stage of the process. It's beautiful, but it's also very informative: you learn without realising you're learning. 

After these four rooms, you go first into a sort of virtual restaurant, where you sit down in front of a plate and watch as tiny people zoom around in front of you - to be honest, I'm not quite sure what they were doing, but it was all very pretty and entertaining.

And then you go into a room with a slightly more conventional layout, where you learn about the history of chocolate making in Belgium, and the people involved. I was intigued to learn about Guylian - those chocolate seashells that are in every supermarket. They were developed in 1958, by a young couple named Guy and Liliane. Guy was a passionate chocolate maker. He spotted a gap in the market. Chocolate tended to be more of a winter thing - but what if you could create something that evoked summer? On holiday at the Belgian seaside, the couple hit on the idea of creating chocolate seashells filled with praline. Guy's responsibility was creating the chocolate and praline, and Liliane's job was the all-important design. Guylian was born, and now their chocolates are sold all over the world.

Innovation continues. A few years ago, someone discovered that if you combined certain types of cocoa beans, the chocolate that emerged was pink, with a taste that's creamy, but also fruity - and completely natural.

By this time, I was beginning to wonder if we were going to get to actually taste some of this deliciousness. The next room concerned the people who actually grow the trees and harvest the pods, and the initiatives which have been created to help them succeed and imrove their conditions and outcomes. Then, passing this beautiful castle, made entirely, of course, out of chocolate, we finally came to the tasting room, where we judiciously sampled around ten different strengths of liquid chocolate - "Hm, not sure whether I prefer this one or the one back at the beginning - maybe better have another taste, just to be sure..."

And of course, there was a shop.

It's a fascinating museum - not just because of the pervading chocolatiness, but also because of the innovative ways in which it tells its stories. Very well worth a visit - and Antwerp too is lovely, though we only had time for a quick hike round to the old town and the river.

Reading the magic: The Children of Green Knowe - Sue Purkiss

 Have recently been doing a lot of sorting out/chucking out of all kinds of things. (There's something very liberating about it, isn't there? It certainly brings out the ruthless streak in me.)

Part of this was making room on bookshelves. (We buy far too many books, and have historically been far too averse to recycling ones that, in our heart of hearts, we know we'll never read again.) As I was sorting through a shelf full of children's books, I came across this one by Lucy M. Boston, The Children of Green Knowe.

Now I know that many of the people reading this are very knowledgeable about children's books, and will be very familiar with this book. But I wasn't. I first heard of it some years ago on one of the Charney retreats that the Scattered Authors used to run, and I guess that's when I bought the book. If I read it then, I had forgotten it - which would be a very strange thing, because I've just sat down and read it and found it literally enchanting.

I'm quite puzzled by my feelings about fantasy in children's books. Some of my favourite books ever are fantasy: Lord of the Rings, Alan Garner's early works, C S Lewis, His Dark Materials, Harry Potter. But I haven't felt the same about recent fantasies I've read, and I'm really not sure why. I've enjoyed them, but I haven't been totally drawn into and mesmerised by that world, in the same way as I was by those I've mentioned. (Harry Potter not quite so much, perhaps.)

But this book - yes. Lucy Boston's Green Knowe is based on the house she lived in herself - not as a child, interestingly: she didn't come across this ancient, magical building till she was middle-aged. The premise of this first book in the series is that Tolly, a seven year old boy in the thirties, has been virtually abandoned by his father: his mother has died, and his father has remarried to an evidently unsympatheic stepmother and gone to live abroad, leaving Tolly at a boarding school, till he is rescued by his great grandmother, Mrs Oldknow, who invites him to stay with her in the holidays. Tolly instantly bonds with her - and quickly senses that the old house is full of magic - and also of the ghosts of children from the past, who become his playmates.

The actual story is pretty much that - there is no quest, no journey, no powerful narrative arc - though there are lots of extraordinary encounters. And yet it is completely gripping. The house and its inhabitants became as real to us as they do to Tolly: it is, literally, enchanting. This is partly to do with the detailed and luscious descriptions of the house - it's clear that Lucy Boston is describing a very real place that she loves, not somewhere that she's made up. Here she describes part of the stables: Here and there a ray of white light came slanting through a broken roof tile, against which you could see the golden motes of dust in the air. It looked mysterious and enticing. And in such a place, would you not expect magical things to happen?

I was so enchanted that I sent off for three more of the books in the series, and also a memoir by Lucy Boston of her early life. What I am very interested to see is whether the books will appeal to my eight year-old grandson, who is a keen and very good reader. Their world is a very long way from his - but it's also a very long way from mine. We'll see.

The Hunt for the Golden Scarab, by M G Leonard

 

I first became aware of M G Leonard through her Adventures on Trains series of books, each of which is set on a different famous train and features the young hero and his uncle solving crimes which have taken place on the train. (Clearly, train travel is much more dangerous than I'd realised...) One of my grandsons is a huge fan of trains, so this series was ideal for him - and it's great fun, so I enjoyed it too.

So I was interested to hear of M G's new series, which features time travel. Sim discovers that his mother, Callidora, can travel through time - and place - by opening special doors, which Callidora does by means of playing a tune. Sim and Callidora live next to Sir John Soane's house, and the first time that Sim becomes aware of these doors and his mother's ability to open them, they go into the past to meet Sir John - and to hide from dangerous hunters sent by a body called the Council.

In their flight from the hunters, Sim and his mum go to seek shelter with Sim's uncle, Emmet, and Sim meets his cousin, Jeopardy, for the first time. The hunters are searching for a magical amulet, the Golden Scarab, which is said to be able to prolong youth, and Callidora is determined to stop them from finding it. It belongs to an ancient Egyptian queen - so the action moves to Egypt and the pyramids.

It's an exciting story, full of colour and interest. The characters are vivid, energetic and resourceful: M G has created a likeable 'gang', which I'm convinced is one of the main things you need if you're going to write a series which will collect a band of loyal readers: and the set-up enables her in future books to take her characters wherever, and whenever, she likes. It's very enjoyable, and I'm sure it will find lots of enthusiastic readers.

'I am Rebel', by Ross Montgomery - review by Sue Purkiss

I've decided to use my monthly post to review books for children between about 5 and 12. Ish. So post picture books, and pre-teens. If anyone has recommendations/a book they'd like to put forward, please get in touch!

The first one I've chosen is I am Rebel, by Ross Montgomery. This is the Waterstones Children's Book of the Year, and comes bearing words of praise from such successful writers as Natasha Farrant, Abi Elphinstone and Katya Balen. (I do wonder a bit whether such plaudits are helpful or the reverse: they set the bar high. And anyway, how on earth do you settle on a book of the year? It's a big ask. But still...)

I am Rebel is set in an imaginary country, in a time which is something like our Middle Ages. The narrator is a dog. He belongs to a boy called Tom, who lives on a subsistence farm with his parents. Times are hard, in particular because the king keeps raising taxes. Tom is outraged by the unfairness of this, and when he meets a member of the rebel movement, he lies about his age and runs away to join it - leaving Rebel behind.

Rebel adores Tom, and is very happy with life as it is. As long as he is close to Tom, he is happy. So when Tom disappears, he is bereft, and decides that he must follow Tom and bring him home. The rest of the book is about his quest for Tom: inevitably he has adventures along the way, encountering all kinds of dangers, making new friends and learning about the world beyond the farm.

It's an exciting story, and it has the main prerequisite for success with young readers - it carries you along with it, it makes you keep turning the pages. Rebel is an engaging narrator, and a lot of humour is drawn from the gap between how he, as a faithful hound, sees the world, and how the various characters he encounters see him. By the end of the book, he's still the same Rebel, but he's learned a great deal.

It's an enjoyable adventure. Of course there are underlying messages - about freedom and tyranny, about the reality of war, about living in the wild versus living as a pet. But these emerge naturally from the story: there's no sense that they're imposed. Best of all - it's a good read!

Small Stories of Great Artists, by Laurence Anholt - reviewed by Sue Purkiss

This is an extremely beautiful book. It's satisfyingly hefty, it has a cobalt and gold blue cover, and it's full of good stories, gorgeous illustrations, and intriguing information about famous artists. It's come out at the perfect time to be a gorgeous Christmas present.

I didn't know this, but Laurence Anholt has been writing stories for children about artists for many years. Now they've been gathered together into one volume, with extra illustrations and notes.

I've taken the illustrations from the first story in the series, which is about Van Gogh.  Other subjects include Chagall, Degas, Monet, Frida Kahlo, Picasso and more. The clever thing - one of the clever things - about these stories is that each is told from the point of view of a child. And each child is - was - real. So for instance, in this first story, the child is the son of the postman in the Arles, the town in the south of France to which Van Gogh moved with such high hopes of forming a community of artists. His plans did not work out, but he produced some of his most extraordinary paintings here - and among them is a series of portraits of the postman's family, including one of this boy. Through the boy's eyes, we see the famous room which Van Gogh prepared for the man he hoped would be a close colleague and friend, Gauguin, and we see the artist creating that iconic picture of a swirling sky scattered with stars and a golden moon. And we see Van Gogh sadly accepting that what he hoped for has not come to pass, and that it is time for him to leave.

(Incidentally, it's a tragic story: Vincent didn't receive recognition in his lifetime. But through the magic of television, an alternative ending was created some years ago by the writers of Doctor Who. They created an episode in which the doctor and Amy Pond take Vincent into the future, to show him a prestigious exhibition of his work at the Musee d'Orsay in Paris. I do recommend this episode - it's here, and it's just lovely!)

After each story, the artist 'steps forward' to relate a short autobiography about their life. There is also a 'gallery' spread, showing some of the artist's most famous paintings: and a section which gently poses some questions about what we can learn from these stories - not just about art history, but about how to live.

This is a very special book. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it, and look forward to sharing it with grandchildren. I can imagine that it would be a stimulating source of ideas for work in primary schools, too. A book to treasure.

 

Reawakening? By Steve Way

Last month I was in a rush and to my eternal shame I forgot to thank Sue Purkiss, Claire Fayers and Penny Dolan, three wonderful ladies who helped a dam idiot in distress when I couldn't sign into Google and therefore the blog. Thank you all, I regret belatedly, for stepping so kindly into the breach. 

I noticed a news article this week describing how scientists have discovered complete copies of Mammoth DNA that had been perfectly preserved. It reminded me of a piece I wrote as part of an exercise in a writing group. I thought it would be fun to share it with you as, possibly, a salutary warning...

~~~~~~~

Time Set: Future

Century: 22^nd

Genre: Romance

Must include:

  A person who is startled or scared or in fear

 A woolly mammoth

A meteor strike

The Mammoth’s Tale.

Miranda and Alberto were gazing into the night sky, trunks entwined, tusk to tusk, watching the meteor storm.

‘I was so afraid when the reports showed that two of the largest meteors might hit the Earth… and make us extinct once again,’ said Alberto, tickling Miranda’s ear with the edge of his own… he really was a hopeless romantic.

‘One last bequest from humanity,’ replied Miranda grimly. ‘They sent up the last of their nuclear devices and after all this time they’ve blasted the two interstellar torpedoes that were heading this way…’

‘… which is why we’ve ended up enjoying this dazzling display rather than with a couple of devastating dents in the planet,’ continued Alberto, as so often, ending Miranda’s sentences with a more positive outlook than she was like to add.

‘It’s odd isn’t it. In several ways it’s been some of the worst aspects of the human civilisation that have ensured our survival,’ Alberto mused a little later after having untangled some of the knots in Miranda’s beautifully thick and course coat. ‘There were the warmongering humans who developed the nuclear missiles that saved us today, and the over-ambitious, greedy scientists, who tinkered with our DNA.’

Miranda snorted in agreement. Like most modern mammoths of the 22^nd Century R.E. (Re-emergence) she despised the group of scientists that following the success of others to end their extinction had added a few human genes, linked to intelligence, into the mammoth genome. They had been hoping to create powerful intelligent beasts that could be trained to do their bidding, like-super intelligent dogs, not having predicted, as proved to be the case, that the products of their genetic meddling would be far more intelligent than themselves. Rather than the modified mammoths becoming intelligent slaves the tables were soon turned on the humans. However, as the humans proved pretty useless servants, and were basically not even edible, they were eventually left to survive in the few corners of the world not occupied by their new masters, which they didn’t.

‘They say our scientists have discovered some human DNA samples and are wondering whether we should end their extinction,’ Alberto told Miranda after offering her a cartload of delicious straw. He really knew how to treat a girl.

‘I hope they don’t,’ replied Miranda, somewhat predictably. ‘Those vile two-legged monstrosities made us extinct once, we don’t want to give them the chance to do it again. I know it’s unlikely but what if one of our scientists tried adding some of our genes to theirs? No. Leave their bones in the museums and their bodies in the permafrost where they left us.’

As he was steeling up the courage to propose Alberto didn’t think it would help to point out that it was in the permafrost where the humans found the bodies of the mammoths whose DNA they used to set off the glorious re-emergence.

‘Did I mention that my company brought a new prairie last week?’ he asked, building up to the big question…

BBC Maestro - Sue Purkiss

 

Ken Follett

A few weeks ago, I noticed an ad with a special offer for the BBC Maestro courses. Now, I like a good course. It's always interesting to hear other writers talking about their craft, and I find there's always something to learn.

So I investigated. The courses aren't just about writing - they cover all sorts of other topics too, such as painting, well-being, music, script-writing - but these were the ones I was interested in. I decided to look at Ken Follett. If you haven't come across him, Ken (I feel we are good friends now, so I'm sure he won't mind if I call him Ken) is a writer of hugely popular historical fiction and thrillers. You can click on any of the couses and see a trailer, and I liked the sound of Ken's course, so I decided to buy it. The offer price was £47.40 for 22 lessons/six hours, which seemed to me extremely reasonable compared to what you would pay for any real-life course. 

And I have found it absolutely brilliant. I think one of the main standouts is that, despite the fact that Ken has clearly made enough from his writing to retire several times over, he's still absolutely passionate  about it. He loves writing, and he works really hard at it. Of course, now, he can afford to pay researchers, and also has a vast network of very useful contacts and a very supportive publisher - but he still puts in the hours and the work, typically taking about three years to write one of his epics. The research takes a long time: he doesn't specialise in one period, so often, he's starting from scratch - he ranges from the Vikings to nuclear war. 

I had read a few of his books a while ago, but I've read a lot more since watching the course. Even if these are not the type of fiction you normally read (he is entirely upfront about the fact that he is not writing literary fiction: he wants to write books that lots of people will want to read - and that will, incidentally, become bestsellers and make him lots of money), you will, if you're anything like me, find yourself unable to stop turning the pages. And he tells you just how he does this - he is very generous in the way he shares what he has learnt over many years. Of course, it's a very different thing writing a vast historical epic with a large cast of characters and many interweaving stories, as opposed to a very much shorter book for children, but still, there's a lot of carryover.

Having thoroughly enjoyed listening to Ken, I discovered that for another £36 I could have access to all of the courses for a year. So I followed up Ken with Jojo Moyes - also a delight, and so generous in sharing her expertise - and then with Lee Child. (I'm taking longer over Lee Child. To be honest, I find him slightly scary. Especially after reading some of the books.) Malorie Blackman awaits, also Harlan Coban and many others - I have my eye on a storytelling course, and also one on public speaking.

What emerges from all the ones I've listened to so far is a) how hard they all work, and b) how different their processes are. Lee Child, for instance, works in an utterly different way from Ken: Ken is a planner, Lee Child is - not. For one the story is paramount, for another it's the characters. Lee Child is particularly interesting on language: he considers every word: the weight of it, the sound of it, the meaning of it. 

I may not be about to write a multi-million selling adult novel of my own (though you never know, you never know...), but I have found these courses invigorating and, yes - inspiring. But for now, as they all point out, you don't get anywhere unless you get on with it. So - er - off I go to do just that. Although I might just listen to one or two more lessons first. And there is the washing to get out of the tumble dryer - and maybe it's time for another coffee...

Lord Byron - 'mad, bad, and dangerous to know'?

The very Romantic Lord Byron

I read somewhere this morning that in April, it will be 200 years since the death of Lord Byron at the age of thirty six. I was immediately reminded of a very beautiful collection of Byron's poems which I have had for a very, very long time: since, in fact, 1970.

I was about to head off to Durham University to begin an English degree. My sister and I were the first in our family to go to university, and I had little idea of what to expect. I'd applied to Durham on the basis of a newspaper article I'd read: it looked like a very pretty place, and I wanted to live somewhere nice. Luckily, I got in. 

The course was taught in two separate departments, English Language and English Literature (which, it turned out, were often at daggers drawn). English Language was mainly about Anglo-Saxon. The literature department aimed to cover everything from Chaucer to 1900; the older professors were pretty sniffy about anything after 1900, though a few revolutionary young things dared to offer optional courses in things like American Studies, and some 20th century stuff sneaked into the Drama course.

Anyway, the central course was on a rolling programme, and the year I started, it had reached the late eighteenth century. So in the first term we were to cover the Romantic Poets, plus Jane Austen, and were accordingly sent a reading list. 

So off I went to see what I could find in Derby.

Isn't it splendid?

Now, you must remember, there was no Amazon then, and no Waterstones. Derby wasn't a university town, so there were no academic bookshops. There must surely have been other bookshops, but I don't remember them. Even so, I somehow got hold of the collected works of Shelley, Wordsworth and Keats: but for some reason - probably to keep the cost down - I went to a second-hand stall on Derby market to find Byron - and I did. It cost fifteen shillings - 75p - and it had gold-sprayed pages, beautiful illustrations, and apparently every poem that Byron ever wrote. (The illustrators were Kenny Meadows, Birket Foster, Hablot K Browne, Gustave Janet and Edward Morin. Marvellous names, aren't they?)

We must have had two or three lectures on his lordship, but I never wrote an essay. I took notes, and I did try to read the poems referred to, but in all honesty, they were heavy going. And most of them were long - really, really long. All the others - yes, I could see why they were such big names, and at least some of their poems spoke to me, and still do. But Byron? No, not so much.

But the thing about Byron, it seems to me, wasn't really his poetry. It was his life. One of his lovers, Lady Caroline Lamb, famously described him as 'mad, bad, and dangerous to know', and that seems about right. Mind you, if you look up his life on Wikipedia, you'll soon see where he got it from him: his father was an absolute bounder, and his mother found young George really too much to cope with. He spent a lot of his rather short life rampaging over Europe, having affairs with both sexes, breaking up marriages, abandonning lovers - and writing masses of poetry in between. 

The Waltz. I do like this illustration.

His break-out work was a lengthy poem called Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, with the publication of which he became an overnight sensation, and was much-feted until he had a scandalous affair with his half-sister, Augusta, which resulted in an illegitimate baby: even for Regency London, this was too much to stomach, especially as his affair (and others) continued even after his marriage. It was at this point that he fled London for Europe, never to return; at one point he met up with Shelley and co, and was there when Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, and when Shelley himself tragically died in a boating accident.

Byron himself died in Greece - not in battle, but from illness - where he had gone to help the Greeks fight for their freedom from the Ottoman Empire: he poured money into the cause, selling his estates in England, and is still revered as a hero in Greece to this day. I wonder if anyone will have thought of making a TV series about him, to be released in this anniversary year? If not, a trick has been missed.

The only lines of his that echo in my memory are these below, from a collection called Hebrew Melodies. No doubt there must be other good stuff, but I confess I've never taken the trouble to track it down. Yet still, I treasure the book. It really is very lovely.

'She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies:
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes...'

Creative Writing - Sue Purkiss

 As you may know from previous posts of mine, I teach creative writing, and have been doing for twelve years plus. I don't teach in a university, but in the community; our group meets weekly, and we've published several collections of our work, mostly via KDP.

I really got started with my own writing - many years ago - on first of all an Arvon course, and then on a part-time course with the continuing education department of Bristol University.And the trigger that really worked for me was just being given a prompt, then being told to get on with it, for twenty minutes, or for the next session, whatever it might be. Having havered about for years trying to get going by myself, I was astonished at how easily the words now began to flow.

I've used pretty much the same method in the class I teach. I set a task, and they - we - write. Sometimes I will address a specific issue, but basically, that's the process, and it seems to work.

So I was interested to see this article by Tim Pears, published on The Royal Literary Fund Collected website, in which he explores the practice of teaching creative writing. See what you think - it's here.

By the way - during Covid, the class moved online, and I set up a blog to post each weekly task. I've recently taken to doing this again - it is predominantly aimed at my class, but the tasks are listed quite clearly, I think. Feel free to browse and use! Let's Write is here.

Drawing on a few more of dad's illustrations By Steve Way

 

Having received several kind comments regarding dad’s illustrations, from fellow ABBA bloggers Susan Price and Sue Purkiss and from friends who read the blogs – and because I couldn’t think of anything else to put forward or write about this month! – I decided to post a few more of his drawings this month as well. To my delight in the act of searching for some of the pictures I particularly wanted to share, I discovered several others that I had completely forgotten about. I also haven’t yet rediscovered others that I’d like to share but hopefully I’ll be able to do that in the future.

When teaching maths to children I came up with the idea of an unusual car, the ForD X 100. The idea was that the name of the fictional high-performance car acted as a code for the idea that ‘A fraction or a decimal times 100 equal a percentage’. I discussed this notion with dad and he produced this illustration. (PS I know the car looks irresistible, but I have to emphasize that it’s not really available!)

For another attempt to make maths more interesting I wrote a piece about the adventures of Sir Cumference (an old joke I know). Here’s sir Cumference marching on the city of Ius and about to raid Ius…

To explore coordinates a mother entered a teenager’s bedroom…

Getting back to Sir Cumference, having ensured in his bid to rid the kingdom of references to circles, King Arthur declares that all the pies in the area should be squared (and so the pies are squared). They come in different sizes but King Arthur (with a sceptical Merlin looking on) believes that Sir Cumference is equal to pie D.

We also worked on a 'History of Numbers'. Part of the story is set in Babylon...

Where there could be a problem with numbers as they hadn't invented zero...

The Mayans (who did invent zero) had a different problem. They insisted on having a year of exactly 360 days... the extra days were 'unlucky days'.

Gnn, I was hoping to show you a few more on other subjects but for some reason they won't load. Anyhow I hope you enjoy the drawings I've been able to include.

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The illustrations appear in 'Using Stories to teach maths Ages 9 -11' ISBN 978190986001 except the 'History of Numbers' illustrations which are included in 'Using Stories to teach maths Ages 9 - 11 ISBN 9781909860018 (www.hopscotchbooks.com)

The collection of stories relating to last month's illustrations Hugh McPearson Ten of Spades Detective The Inconsequential Investigations Collection Volume One is now available! Kindle ASIN: BOCHBKJ475

Paperback ISBN: 979-8860393295 Hardback 979-8860663824

Searching For Sugar Man, by Sue Purkiss

 I wrote this ten years ago - I'm republishing it because the subject of the post, Sixto Rodriguez, has just died. It starts off as a sad story, but ends, I think, as a happy one. There's a lovely film about him, well worth seeking out.

Someone in my book group recently recommended to me a DVD called Searching for Sugar Man. I don't normally buy DVDs, but it just happened that the shop in Bristol where she found it is on my beat at the moment, and so I went in and asked for it.

It's a documentary, and it tells a real Cinderella of a story. In the early 1970s, two eminent record producers discovered a singer playing his guitar in a bar in the back streets of Detroit. No-one knew much about him; he even played with his back to the audience and a hat shading his face, as if he shunned publicity and played only for the sake of his music. His tunes were melodic, the kind that stuck in your head; his words were intriguing and seemed to come from the heart. He reminded them of Bob Dylan, but with a sweeter voice. He was called Sixto Rodriguez.

They made an album with him, using all their considerable expertise and resources, and, delighted with the results, they sat back to wait for America to fall at his feet. But it didn't happen. There was nothing but a resounding silence. Inexplicably, it bombed, as did the next one. Talking about this in the film, one of the producers was almost in tears, even after so many years: he simply could not understand why it failed. The record company let him go, just before Christmas: prophetically, one of his songs had been the story of a man who lost his job two weeks before Christmas.

That would have been the end of the story. But unbeknown to anyone in America, somehow or other a bootleg recording found its way to South Africa, where his protest songs found an echo in the hearts and minds of the people there who were rising up against apartheid. Over the next twenty years, Rodriguez became huge in South Africa: anyone who had a record collection would have his music in pride of place. It was the background to their lives.

No-one knew anything about him. There were rumours that he had committed an ultimate act of protest or despair, and killed himself on stage. Eventually, two South African fans decided to investigate. As far as they were able, they followed the money: to whom had the profits from all his record sales gone? The trail grew blurred, but in the end, they found a different lead - and a simple phone call established that Rodriguez was not tragically dead; he had simply returned to his life as a builder, and continued to live in the same house he'd always lived in. No-one he worked with had a clue about his early brush with fame, and he had absolutely no idea about his extraordinary popularity on another continent.

Well, the two investigators went to see him. They persuaded him to visit South Africa, where he played concerts to thousands and thousands of ecstatic fans. He strolled out there into the spotlight as if he'd been doing it all his life. His voice was just as good as ever. And the profits from his new-found fame? He wasn't interested. Apparently, he has given much of the money from recent concerts and records away to family and friends. he still lives in the same house, and he doesn't give two hoots for all the lost profits from the million of his records sold in South Africa during the lost years.

The film is absolutely gripping. It's just won a Bafta, and deservedly so. 

Of course, I could make a parallel between the undiscovered genius of this likable  unassuming man, and the fate of who knows how many other artists - children's writers among them! - who have also languished in obscurity, in or out of a garret. But in truth, that isn't the point. I just want you to look out for this film, because it's the most feel-good work of art I've come across in a good while. And the music's good too!

Burnham Book Festival: Sue Purkiss

 Last weekend, I was invited to be part of a book festival at Burnham on Sea, which is in Somerset, just down the coast from Weston Super Mare. I was part of a panel of children's writers, with Alex Cotter and Lu Hersey (both, coincidentally, contributors to this magnificent blog). The session was moderated by Jonathan Pinnock, who writes seriously clever and very funny mathematical mysteries. (If you're like me, you'll be bewildered by them half the time, but you'll also be thoroughly entertained.)

Lu, myself, and Alex.

It was a truly delightful experience. This was only the second year of the festival, but I'm sure it's going to grow. It had a very distinct feel to it: friendly, welcoming, relaxed, inclusive - and very well-organised. Local writers had been invited in to talk about, and hopefully sell their books, as well as the writers doing actual events. Alex led a workshop in the morning for local schoolchildren, who then crossed the road to be shown round the local library. When they came back, and bumped into Alex, they greeted her like an old friend. (The subject all of them were most interested in was how much chocolate she actually needs to fuel her writing.) Going by the programme, there were lots of writing workshops people could sign up for - so altogether, a really good variety of types of event.

We didn't have a huge audience for our particular session, but the people who were there were interesting and interested and had lots of good questions. The title was something about where the magic comes from - but it was generally about children's writing, with reference to our own work. Big shout-out to Nataliya, who took the photograph!

Definitely one to look out for

The Willow Man, by Sue Purkiss

 It's interesting how sometimes, it turns out that a book you've written isn't really about quite what you thought it was. I thought for sure that I knew what The Willow Man (first published by Walker Books in 2006) was about. It was, first and foremost, about children who were stuck: one of the children in the book, Sophie, is quite literally stuck, because a sudden illness has paralysed her on one side. Another, Ash, is stuck because he's dyslexic and can't read. And Sophie's brother, Tom, is stuck because Sophie's illness has turned his family's world upside down, and he doesn't quite know how to cope with it. 

The Willow Man of the title was the great willow figure which used to stand proudly beside the M5 near Bridgwater in Somerset. (It's now, sadly, a shadow of its former self: much of the willow is missing, and it's hemmed in by a huge supermarket warehouse on one side and a housing estate on the other.) Like the children, it was stuck: Within him, woven with the living willow into his great frame, power lay coiled. But the power was captive. Strong as he was, he couldn't move. 

So I thought - I knew - that it was a cry for help for children who were stuck, in whatever way that might be.

But I realised as I was writing it that it was also about the way that children often aren't listened to, and indeed I dedicated it to my own children, but also to 'children anywhere who feel that no-one is listening'.

And now, writing about it here because I've just republished it, I realise that it's also about something that's subtly different. Before I explain, I should perhaps say that this is far and away the most personal book I've ever written. It draws on my own experiences in the years just before writing it. But I've only just realised that it also draws on an experience from many years before that.

When I was about eight, I realised I couldn't see properly. I suppose it must in fact have come on gradually, but the way I remember it is that I could see properly - and then I couldn't. I couldn't see what was written on the board at school, and had to enlist the help of the person next to me. I remember being on holiday, and we went to see an end-of-pier show, and I couldn't see what was happening on the stage. And I do remember being very upset by that, almost to the point of tears.

But I didn't tell anybody. I didn't tell my parents that I couldn't see the show, and I didn't tell the teacher that I couldn't see the board. This went on for at least a year. Nobody noticed, and I didn't tell anyone, even though I was getting more and more upset about it. It wasn't that I was worried about wearing glasses - I quite liked the idea. I wasn't afraid that it was anything really serious. I simply didn't know how to tell an adult what was wrong.

In the end, I broke free when my sister mentioned at tea that in her class they'd had sight tests, and one of her friends turned out to need glasses. At last! "I think I need glasses too," I squeaked. Oh, the relief of getting it out in the open! (And, once I had glasses, of being able to see again.)

And that's the thing that I hadn't realised The Willow Man was about. It's not just about adults not listening: it's also about children not being able to put into words what's wrong - because sometimes, particularly when the problem is a big one, they just don't know how to do it.

Perhaps this all sounds rather heavy. It's certainly not a lovely, frothy, magical fantasy - though there is magic in it, quite definitely.

The Willow Man as it used to be.

But in the years after it first came out, I used to go into schools to talk about it. When you read something to an audience, you can soon tell if you've 'got' them. And when I read extracts from The Willow Man, that happened. Every time. Particularly with classes where there was very clearly a student who was having similsr problems to Ash. With the questions they asked, with the expressions on their faces, you could see that they were thinking, He's like me. He's just like me!

It wasn't the kind of book that easily becomes a bestseller, and it came out before Twitter and social media generally might have helped spread the word. So it didn't become a bestseller, and, eventually, it went out of print. 

But I think there are still children out there who might see themselves in this book. And so, just on the off-chance that it might find them, I've brought out a new edition. It's available from Amazon, and it would be just lovely if a few people would buy it. Go on - let's set the Willow Man free once more!

The Egtved Girl - by Sue Purkiss

 (Full disclosure: I first posted this story not long after I'd written it. I've had a busy couple of weeks and my date for posting has snuck up on me: so I sifted through some old posts in search of one to repost. This is the one I chose: once you've met the Egtved Girl, you don't forget her.)

A few years ago, I came across the Egtved Girl in Copenhagen Museum. She was buried 3370 years ago, carefully placed in an oaken coffin and laid to rest under a mound. Her grave was discovered near the the beginning of the 20th century, and she was brought to the museum; here's a replica of the chic little costume she was wearing - a mini-skirt and cropped top, and a beautifully wrought belt.

Her story haunted me, and eventually I wrote about her.

The Egtved Girl

Many intriguing things were buried with the Egtved Girl - but the most touching, the one that lingers in my mind, was a yarrow flower, which someone had laid in the grave before it was closed. Someone, I guess, who cared about her very much.

It was the kind of day when the cold winds of winter are just a half-forgotten dream: a day to feel the sun soft on your skin, the gentle breeze riffling through your hair – through her hair, gold and silky, dancing round her dear face like a halo.

            But she wasn’t there. Not any more. All that life, all that loveliness – gone. Snuffed out over the space of a few days. A week ago, she had taken part in the ceremonies at the summer solstice. She had danced as only she could dance. Lithe and graceful – as if she were made of air, not a creature of earth like the rest of them. When it began to rain, she laughed, and shook her hair till the raindrops flew out like glittering jewels, and still she danced. Even when the thunder came, and lightening slashed the heavens, she would not stop: even though people cried out in fear and concern for her – even though he had begged her to. It was as if she were possessed by some wild spirit. And then the sky had truly opened and rain had fallen in gleaming daggers, until at last she had sunk to the ground, shivering, and he had rushed to her with a cloak to warm her, and carried her into her father’s hut, and the wise-woman had brought a warm drink infused with herbs and bound with spells.

            But none of it worked. She hadn’t stopped shivering. Her skin – her lovely, golden skin – had grown hot to the touch. She had tossed and turned, and cried out at visions only she could see. Her spirit had gone wandering, and it had never returned.

            Because she was the chief’s daughter and a priestess, they had cut down a great oak for her to lie in, and filled it with gifts she would take with her on her final journey to the spirit world. They had dressed her again in her dancing clothes, the short corded skirt that whirled when she danced, the top that showed her fine, taut midriff. And she wore the ceremonial belt of her rank, with the great circular buckle engraved with spirals.

            The dance goes on, the wise-woman told him, seeing his grief. She goes on.

            But it wasn’t true – or if it was, it was no comfort. He didn’t want her to be in some distant spirit world. He wanted her here, beside him, now. They'd had plans, dreams. In her short life, she had already travelled far. Together, they would have travelled further, made new stories together.

            He caught the salty tang of the sea. It was a silky blue line in the distance.

            The people were gathered round her oak bed. He climbed the mound to see her one last time. The crowd parted to let him through. There she lay, as if she were just asleep. He bent and picked a flower: creamy yarrow, its leaves delicately feathered. It was a medicinal plant, meant to cure ills. It hadn’t worked for her. Still, it shared a little of her beauty. He placed it tenderly beside her. Then he walked away without looking back. He would go to the coast and join a trading ship. He would travel away from this wind-raked northern outpost, and he would not return. But he would not leave this land behind. It would stay safe in his heart.

            As would she.