. . . Spiritual Homes, December 2024 I had been quite apprehensive about this trip as I was worried about my own personal excitability and spontaneous way of being — a concern/question as to how I could both be myself as well as act in an appropriate way in respect of my fellow pilgrim travellers,… Continue reading Pilgrimage to St Cuthbert’s . . .
Category: family
Greenhayes Across the Years
Mark at 13; a language student. my half-sister Mary at 7 — Is it legal to take stones from the massive deposits lying around the mountains? If it is illegal then who should I contact to collect said stones? — No, it would technically be theft—you'd need to ask the landowner for permission Originally Snowdon… Continue reading Greenhayes Across the Years
Happy Birthday Mary
Some pictures of Hastings that you and I will recognize from childhood. Much has changed since, I'm sure. Welcome to Memory Lane! . . .and there's a cave, long abandoned but didn't smell nice when I looked in as a child
Mother’s Day Visit
In England, Mother's Day was on Friday March 19th, a celebration for three Jamaican mothers who live in England. We're not in a position to visit them in South-East London, as we don't have a car any more. What with this and that, we weren't able to meet up till last Saturday 20th May. We… Continue reading Mother’s Day Visit
Eagle Flew Out Of the Night
Waking up at 3 am, I find a song playing endlessly in my head. Not just the tune, but some of the words too. It's one of the most extraordinary popular songs, more potent than anything by Bob Dylan or Leonard Cohen. Peter Gabriel has his own explanation for how it hatched in his mind… Continue reading Eagle Flew Out Of the Night
Revelations
Got out of bed this morning telling myself there's a close connection between sex and God. On reflection, love has to be in the equation: Love + sex = God This is surely why religion smiles on marriage but not one-night stands. As for homosexual relations, every religion so far as I know has frowned… Continue reading Revelations
An Old Cockney song
We've been together now for nineteen years, An' it don't seem a day too much, 'cos there ain't a lady livin' in the land As I'd swop for my dear old Dutch.
“Thank You NHS”
I went up to the hospital for a blood test and took these snaps of the approach road. They've been painted here for more than a year, and reflect a massive manifestation of affection for our National Health Service since the pandemic hit us. At various points it has drastically overloaded its workers at all… Continue reading “Thank You NHS”
What looks after us
Posted on Jan 4th , ’21 by Vincent I’ve been wanting to write about the role of angels in my life. Like most words in any language, it’s loaded with baggage going back millennia. Let’s strip off that heavy weight of meanings, leave it in a heap and walk lightly away. I want to go… Continue reading What looks after us
Jamaica, April 2018
We had a ten-day window free, so we seized it, took a plane to Jamaica. It was partly a surprise visit to see Karleen's granddaughter on her 21st birthday; but also to catch up with many old friends. It was too long since we'd last seen that extraordinary island, Karleen's home for more than fifty… Continue reading Jamaica, April 2018
Eleventh Child
I woke in the night after a dream, went downstairs to jot it down in the great leatherbound book from Margaret in Canada; then went back to bed and slept again. On awakening once more in the morning, I jotted down another dream. I tried to polish up the drafts into something coherent, but it… Continue reading Eleventh Child
The gift of literacy
When she was ten days old, Karleen was placed in the care of her grandparents, leaving her mother free to come to England, get properly settled, then call for her daughter to join her. But when she began to talk, her great-grandmother took her and brought her home to the country parish of Westmoreland, where… Continue reading The gift of literacy
Tsundoku
I’m writing this for Rob, to celebrate the fact that we have known one another 42 years, and that he rang me the other evening, and it was good. When we have been in touch he has been generous, but we have also fallen out a few times. When I was in need he was… Continue reading Tsundoku
Parallel Lives
In my last I tried to convey something of the fascination of Cowes in a few shots all taken within a hundred yards of each other. But I’m hardly interested in picturesqueness for its own sake; only in what touches the soul. Moving to Cowes in 1954 was the beginning of a new life. Till… Continue reading Parallel Lives
The Trip
Trip, n(1): 3. A short voyage or journey; a ‘run’. Apparently originally a sailor’s term, but very soon extended to a journey on land. 5. slang (orig. U.S.) a. A hallucinatory experience induced by a drug, esp. LSD. In my last I recalled three authors who pursued the Zen form of enlightenment and tried to… Continue reading The Trip
Invitation to a Close Encounter
I was invited to an evangelical-charismatic church service lasting a couple of hours. The invitation arrived by email: “On Sunday, if you would like to come with us to our church (it is an experience not to be missed!) we would love it ...” The church hasn't found a building of its own: that’s another… Continue reading Invitation to a Close Encounter
Evolution
It’s been a long time since I just wrote a post straight off, but when you have guests sometimes you have little time to yourself. I’m wondering if I am like other people. They often seem to plan their lives, both long-term and for a day at a time. I’m not the planning type. The… Continue reading Evolution
With a pinch of salt
I believe things because it pleases me to do so. I don’t require my belief to be anchored in verifiable truth. I’d sooner find allies, others who believe as I do. Doesn’t everyone behave like this, at the same time as denying it? Surely I am Everyman. Already in a few words I have placed… Continue reading With a pinch of salt
How I came to inhabit this body
Most days, I walk down the Desborough Road, to observe in passing the extraordinary variety of human life-forms on display. Suddenly the “brotherhood of all mankind” comes into my head. As usual, I’m glad to be me, thankful indeed. But then I reflect that my birth was no more of my choosing than theirs was… Continue reading How I came to inhabit this body
Reunion
I felt pleased on finishing my last piece, on Everything. What else was there to say? Much as Thomas Aquinas must have felt trying to wrap up his great work, Summa Theologica, but in a tiny way. But then in his latter years, Aquinas saw things in a different proportion, and said one day to… Continue reading Reunion
Jamaican album
This is a personal selection from 175 photos taken on the trip. Most are of reunions with Karleen’s family and friends, after five years’ absence. I will not bore you with that kind of vacation snaps; only with these! Jamaica has beautiful skies like England (or most places). These were taken from our hotel in… Continue reading Jamaican album
To a nephew
Afam is my nephew by marriage, nearly 15, and goes to a good school where good money must be paid for the education provided. So I was asking him about that, and he told me his vocabulary had become somewhat depleted. He didn’t actually use the word “depleted”.. He explained that in earlier years he… Continue reading To a nephew
Spring
To spare the young man’s blushes I shall abbreviate his name to A—. He’s my nephew by marriage, nearly 15, and goes to a good school. So I was asking him about that, and he told me his vocabulary had become somewhat depleted. He didn’t use the word “depleted” of course. He explained that in… Continue reading Spring
The past rewrites itself
Further to my last I’ve made a start on some real writing, as opposed to these blogging ephemera. Instead of an occasional post to commemorate a day, I am engaged on a so-far shapeless project to put down something a little more lasting: not just for a book, but a hardback; allowing myself a length… Continue reading The past rewrites itself
The pull of heredity
“When I was someone else, that I am not now ...” this is worth investigating. So said Ghetufool, commenting on one of my recent posts. I agreed the phrase is worth investigating, and it took me back through history, that fascinating subject, both the human and natural kinds, and especially the mysterious parts that we… Continue reading The pull of heredity
Nightmare
I’ve taken a vow to post here daily, to discover what is happening to me. A million things hit my consciousness each day, so what can I mean? I shall write in accordance with blind compulsion, with no guarantee of truth, other than some poetic kind. Yet, as they used to say in the slot-machine … Continue reading Nightmare
Intrepid Victorians (2)
I mentioned in my last that Dolomite Strongholds is illustrated by the author, with his photos, colour lithographs and pen drawings. As I browsed this beautifully-produced book, a delicate sheet of folded paper slid out, containing pen drawings (traced on top of original pencil sketches) on both sides. None of these were incorporated into the… Continue reading Intrepid Victorians (2)
Intrepid Victorians
I've inherited a little volume, illustrated by the author, who was also my great-grandfather, entitled Dolomite Strongholds: the last untrodden peaks; published in 1894. Don’t you love that Victorian prose, its characteristic style at once lofty and light, beloved of those who would make parodies of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, particularly those… Continue reading Intrepid Victorians
What the Alpine Club had to say
REVIEWS AND NOTICES. Dolomite Strongholds. B y the Rev. J. Sanger Davies. Illustrated. (London : Bell and Sons. 1894.) WE are informed on the title page of this book that it contains an account of ascents of the last untrodden Alpine peaks—namely, the Creda da Lago, the Little and Great Zinnen, the Cinque Torri, the… Continue reading What the Alpine Club had to say
Portrait of Two Kings
I'm sure it was done by a professional photographer. I don’t think amateurs would have been able to do much indoor photography in 1867. Electric flashguns had not been invented. If they had, there would be the problem of synchronizing flash with the camera's shutter. I'm no expert but remember from childhood a book which… Continue reading Portrait of Two Kings
The Gift Horse
Why do I have to be so like my grandfather? He bought a cheap Ford in 1935 and didn’t give it up, just replaced parts as necessary, till his younger daughter in 1967 (my mother's sister Peggy) told him time was up. Then he drove her VW Beetle till, in his late eighties, he managed… Continue reading The Gift Horse
Purpose
Outside the supermarket a three-year-old boy was expressing his distress in voice and reddened face. Solicitous, his mother bent down to him. No doubt he had wanted something in the shop and been denied it. He looked like me at that age and in a flash I recalled how I used to behave: a lot… Continue reading Purpose
Ant vs. sluggard
After my last post, you may be wondering what happened to the green slug? Has it yet found its way back into the kitchen yet after being flung to the other end of the back yard? Reader, I have to confess that I’ve blocked the hole where it climbed up to the unkempt corner of… Continue reading Ant vs. sluggard
Bus station
I was waiting at the bus station, that haunt of pensioners, new immigrants and indigent travellers---in short, the dispossessed. I feel at home there. For the first time in fifty-three years, the name of Morton Spencer came back to me. Katie Spencer was my mother’s schoolfriend: vivacious, pretty but still a spinster, still in her… Continue reading Bus station
Cherrydown (3)
There’s still a ragbag of memories to share with you about the time I spent in that house. If they have any common theme, I suppose it is wonders and miracles. I’m not saying there actually were any miracles: just incomprehensible things. I mentioned in a previous post that my mother started to suffer from… Continue reading Cherrydown (3)
Cherrydown (2)
If you have been following the halting progress of my childhood memoirs on this direct and intimate medium—where it is possible to publish worldwide before the ink has dried on one’s words though ink is not actually used—you might not be aware of just how halting the progress actually is. You might think that Vincent… Continue reading Cherrydown (2)
Norfolk House 3; the Back Story
” Beth said I was teasing, in my post Norfolk House (2). It’s so long since these memoirs were interrupted (since early September) that I ought to tell you The Story So Far. I have a head-cold today, but let us give it true dignity and call it man-flu. A woman would just get on… Continue reading Norfolk House 3; the Back Story
Problem Solved
from our backyard, facing west I’ve solved the problem that has baffled mankind through the ages. It’s taken me many years and I thought it might take as many years again to explain it to the world, to help others come to the same realization that I have reached single-handed about the true nature of… Continue reading Problem Solved
Writing Instrument
We think we know somebody. They think they know us. It’s nice because we can always be surprised. My son takes present-buying seriously. He went to a hippy shop and toyed with getting me a piece of angel merchandise or a Native American dream-catcher; but fortunately thought better. I received a hastily-wrapped book and opened… Continue reading Writing Instrument
The old telephones
One of the useful functions of retirement must surely be to relive one’s youth. In between comes a time of working-to-support-a-family-and-pay-a-mortgage, which can be irksome to the spirit. It’s easy to forget how hard it was to become adult: to find somewhere to live and pay a month’s rent in advance plus a month’s deposit… Continue reading The old telephones
Why Write Memoirs
Between July and September of 2007, before the move which brought me to my new home, a worker’s cottage in the factory district of a Chiltern town, I’d got into a rhythm of posting chapters of a memoir, on this very blog. I produced a series of vignettes, not always in chronological order, covering my… Continue reading Why Write Memoirs
King James I School
At the school there was a Scout Troop in addition to the Cadet Contingent. At some point in my bookish diversions I had read Baden-Powell’s Scouting for Boys and been seduced by it just like millions of others world-wide. The essence of this seductive power was contained in the bush-hat, the neckwear and the badge-adorned… Continue reading King James I School
I bear his name
I’m clearing things out and waiting to move to another house and it’s a jittery time for there are delays and dramas, so I cannot write anything coherent. On the other hand I can’t do anything practical till things clarify. Meanwhile I discovered this photo whilst gathering old papers together and deciding what to throw… Continue reading I bear his name
meeting and wooing
English divorce in the early Fifties wasn’t a sedate exchange of paperwork between lawyers. If you wanted to contest it—there was every reason to do so—you had to appear in court, and risk your pain being turned into Sunday morning entertainment by reporters from the News of the World. This humiliation happened to my mother… Continue reading meeting and wooing
The Princess Flying Boat
Saunders-Roe Princess Pic: John Howard Worsley Continued from Woodside. Some time after my ninth birthday my mother finally walked out on my stepfather. According to her story it was more like she ran not walked, with pots and pans hurled as she fled down the stairs. But then she was suing for divorce on grounds… Continue reading The Princess Flying Boat
Woodside
Aged eight to eleven, I was often taken by my mother & stepfather to Woodside, on the Isle of Wight, in the summer holidays. We reach the end of the country road. A sign says Woodside House Private and we go through the white gate, down a long winding drive to a red-brick residence, from… Continue reading Woodside
The cake-loving naturist
It took little time for my mother and stepfather to discover their marriage was a mistake. The knot was tied in church on a chilly day in January: my sister appeared in September. He was a bachelor of independent means—owning various properties around the town and living off their rents, while she was a woman… Continue reading The cake-loving naturist
Round and Round the Pampas Grass
Mark was the first child I met on arrival in England aged four, and is the living person I’ve known the longest. We had driven from Tilbury Docks in Grandpa’s old Ford and I slept all the way. I woke to tea in the garden. Mark pointed out his tortoise, which crouched with its… Continue reading Round and Round the Pampas Grass
How I learned the truth
(Continued from previous post) My mother’s beloved Singapore roadhouse was called The Gap: a prophetic name. After the war, it was nothing but a gap; one that she mourned forever and never really replaced. The gap in my life was a father. When I met him fifty years later, he admitted having been in the… Continue reading How I learned the truth
How my mother met her husband
I’ll tell you about my mother and how she got to spend the War years in a Perth suburb called Bassendean by the Swan River in Western Australia. As for my father, he lived there already. She was born on 31st August 1909 in East Sussex, England, to Vincent and Gwendolen. Her life spanned two… Continue reading How my mother met her husband
On Coombe Hill
My favourite and only sport is frisbee. No rules, no training, no special clothing. The only equipment required is a plastic disk available from any general store. It holds an hypnotic attraction for participants and spectators alike. Above all, it’s not competitive. It’s co-operative: you adjust your throw so that the other person can catch… Continue reading On Coombe Hill
Divine Anarchy
I want to speak theologically, to say what I think about God and angels. But then, it’s a bit hard putting abstractions into words. No, that’s completely wrong. It is all too easy to put abstractions into words, and give them an imaginary reality. So I’m rather glad to find myself talking about bees and… Continue reading Divine Anarchy
Fragile
The eastern sky glowed golden yesterday morning, over the chimney pots and the tower of All Saints’ Parish Church. I saw the outline of a hundred wheeling birds, swallows I think, gathering for their departure to North Africa. Later as I went walking, some half-denuded shrubs were full of birds chirping and hopping excitedly from… Continue reading Fragile
Powys and the dead frog
I don’t normally post extended quotes, but this—including the dead frog—expresses in more masterly language what I would have liked to write today. "When one considers how dependent we all are—especially such parasitic weaklings as artists, poets, writers, priests, philosophers—upon the hard one-track energies of the industrious producers and shrewd traders, it seems only fair… Continue reading Powys and the dead frog
What is life?
I’ve lived long enough to see lots of changes: both in the world and in me. I’ve been astonished in recent months, especially on solitary walks through the countryside, letting memories flow as they please, to discover that in essence I am the same person as I always was. Same person? This is extraordinary. Had… Continue reading What is life?
a wayfarer’s notes 