My new life as a wannabe writer – II

June 13, 2011 § Leave a comment

Well here it is, as promised, my update on my life as a wannabe writer . . . . . two. A little early, but I have finally found the time to sit infront of my mac.

I need to admit, it’s been a difficult second month. After making the very positive decision to move away from web development, I have already found myself being sucked back into the matrix, to pay the bills.

I wish I’d made this decision before I had children, a house and other financial responsibilities – *coughs*, Taxes. Oh how hindsight is the most cherished of all thought processes as one gets older. I also wish I knew how to bottle hindsight, I have a youth market that would love it and pay a handsome sum for its powers. Although the government wouldn’t be able to tax it, so it would be classed as illegal. Oh crap, oh how the powers-that-be spoil everything Sorry, just a rant – I don’t do it often.

I’ve had a difficult week trying to find the time to commit to the blog and feeling suitably guilty that I haven’t kept it up as much as I said I would. I am going to try harder this week.

I have, however, been working on a new children’s rhyming book. An idea I had a while ago. I have uploaded the front cover design. (not actual size) I would love to hear your thoughts. I am hoping to have it completed for the end of July. I will then present it to a publisher for (fingers crossed) publishing. I will then use the revenues, if any, from the book to finally move away from web development and live my life as a wannabe writer like I have planned.

If anyone has any advice on getting a children’s book published, I would be extremely grateful. For the first time in my life, I am out of my comfort zone.

I would like to thank everyone (again) for your help advice and support over the past few weeks. Without you, I wouldn’t be progressing as fast as I am. My confidence is definitely increasing as a writer. A big shout out goes to Marantha, of GHOSTWRITER fame, for her support and warm, lovely comments all over my blog. And to Monica, of Amalias Story, for her grammar and lessons in languag tuition. It is appreciated.

Thank you for reading my blog. I will be blogging again sometime this week with something more interesting.


Wait for my signal . . . .

June 3, 2011 § 11 Comments

THERE HE IS – GET HIM, was all I heard as I walked through the main gates of my school. I looked over at my left shoulder to see Kevin Haigh and Dean Hughes running as fast as their 13 year old legs could carry them in my direction. I turned in an instance, knowing full-well they were after me, and dug the fronts of my new Reebok trainers into the pavement and started running towards home. Home was only three streets away, down New hill, but it may as well have been on the dark side of the moon. It felt like an eternity from hearing those words to seeing my front door.

As a thirteen year old, I had already experienced more than my fair share of confrontation and violence at school and at home, so a run home from the school bullies was all part of my daily grind. Anyway, it kept me fit and in preparation for Sports Day. Not that I did very well on Sports Day but I had to look at my bullying in a positive light or go through what I had gone through when I was Ten years old all over again. I wasn’t prepared to do that.

Dean Hughes was the cock of our year, for those of you that are not familiar with the term, it means the hardest, most violent kid there is in that particular year. He was a big lad for his age. I would secretly call him Dim Huge. Never to his face, that would have been suicide. He dwarfed everyone else in the school, even the year five kids. His size definitely contributed to his status. Kevin Haigh on the other hand was a short, squeaky, mixed-up kid who lived directly across from my house, in another house of course. He followed Dean around like a three-legged lap dog. He did everything Dean asked him to. The muppet.

It all started in Mrs Martins’ Pottery class. Dean was being a real pain, as usual, creating pottery willies. The rest of the class however were doing their very best to create little teacups, as per the teachers brief. In all honestly, mine looked more like a small bag of knuckles, but at least I was trying and being a good student – for once.

Dean wasn’t happy being annoying on his own, he needed an audience, and found a victim in me, to elevate his status that little bit more. He saw my teacup and decided to drive his gnarled-up fist straight through the middle of my creation while cackling like a hyena. I saw red. I stood up, grabbed my teacup and pushed it straight into the middle of his face. Every kid in the class turned to look. There were gasps and moans of disbelief. Then there was silence, deathly silence, it seemed to last for ages. All you could hear was the whirring of the kiln as it warmed, ready to receive our clay offerings. Willies and all.

Dean froze for a moment before standing up, bringing him clay-covered hand up behind his ear then throwing it into the middle of face. He must of had a lot of clay on his hand because I didn’t feel it as much as I would have expected. I immediately fell to floor from my wooden stool, I looked up and stared up at Dean and the rest of the class who’d gathered to see what would happen next. Dean stood above me pointed the gnarly clay hand at my head and said – “You’re dead you freak, you’re dead”. He appeared to mean it, but I didn’t feel dead. I did feel a little bit freaky with the other kids staring at me, but I definitely didn’t feel dead. I felt alive and, at the time very lucky . . . . . . but I was soon to discover, not for long.

I overheard as Dean turned to Kevin. “We’ll get the little turd after School, wait at the main doors, when I see him, we’ll pounce. Just wait for my signal.” Kevin nodded in agreement. I was prepared for the worst.

I spent the whole of the day looking over my shoulder and staying away from anyone who knocked around with them. I was aware that word would spread fast that I was around and what was inevitable after school would come a lot sooner. I was even tempted to skip school, but getting into trouble with my Dad would be a lot worse than anything Dim Huge and lap-dog Haigh could dish out. They didn’t use leather belts and slippers.

Every stride felt like one step forward and six steps backwards. I didn’t feel like I was getting anywhere. They were gaining on me. They must have been quicker than I was, somehow. Dean sure could run fast for a fatty, I kept saying over and over again in my head. I dug my trainers further into the ground and leant forward to make myself more streamlined. I had seen it on TV when Daley Thomson ran the one hundred metres. He put his head down so he could go faster, but my rucksack ruined it. I couldn’t stop to take it off, it would have been curtains for me. I had to just go for it.

I must have ran through every kid walking home trying to duck and dive to lose them. But little did I know, I should have run in a straight line. The quickest distance between two points. I will never forget that, thank you Mr Woodward (my Maths teacher).

It was too late, I had managed to get to the bottom of the lane at the top of my street before Dean, or Kevin – I didn’t see who had done it, I was flying through the air, legged me up. My face hit the mud. As I stopped, the rucksack went all the way up over my head and off my back. Dean and Kevin started kicking me and punching me in the back of my head, all of a sudden my dad came out the house shouting, “What the hell’s going on here?”, he walked over to where I was laying and picked me up with one hand from the mud. He was very strong my Dad, fat but strong. Before anyone could explain, he sent Dean and Kevin packing. “Get back home you little bastards. And you, get up them stairs. I’ll teach ya to fight outside my house and show me up, you’re getting my belt. When will you ever learn?”

“But Dad . . . ” I manage to chelp before he stopped me. “Do you want me to give you it out here, in front of everyone?”, he screamed as he pulled me towards his face, our noses almost touching. He may as well have done. Everyone knew what was coming. Everyone in our street knew what would happen if I got into trouble or made him look bad.

Dean and Kevin knew what my Dad had done to me the previous night and came over the next morning to apologise for getting my into trouble.

Less than two hours later, Kevin drew a massive willy all over my Picasso-esque tree painting in Mrs Whitehouse’s art class, so I threw a pot of paint over his drawing. Sufficed to say, I made it home that night and there wasn’t an apology the following day or the day after that or the . . . . .

This piece was inspired by prompt “Wait for my signal” on the bekindrewrite site from their InMon XIV page. I haven’t been writing for very long. I am using my blog to experiment and find my natural style. I would love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!

Touched the son . . . .

May 24, 2011 § 24 Comments

Saturday’s were always the same. Wait for my Dad to let us out of our bedroom, usually after he’d been to the toilet. Go downstairs – quietly. Sit on the sofa in silence, making sure our feet weren’t up on the cushions. Wait for Mum to come downstairs to see if she had a black-eye, I couldn’t look at her if she did – Dad would stare and frown at me. Dad had the bushiest eyebrows in the world, they scared me. Dad scared me.

Dad would sit in his usual chair beside the door to the stairs reading his paper. He was the gatekeeper to all of our nice things in our bedrooms. You see, I couldn’t have toys downstairs, it would make too much of a mess, plus Dad doesn’t like the noise children make. And I couldn’t play upstairs because the noise from the ceiling would disturb him while he did the crossword in the paper. I understood, he needed to concentrate. Sometimes I don’t know why Mum and Dad had children. There are three of us, me – the eldest, my younger brother and my youngest sister.

My sister is from a different man. Mum said that’s why my Dad was so angry all of the time and took his anger out on her. But that doesn’t explain why he took his anger out on me. Why I made him so mad and why he threatened to put me in a children’s home if I did anything wrong. It doesn’t explain why he would smack my face so hard it felt like it was touching the sun and shouted like he was trying to crumble the house to the ground, if I looked at him in a certain way. It also, doesn’t explain why I was locked away in the cupboard above the stairs and couldn’t come down, all day, to play with my friend. I could hear my friend laughing outside, playing with his other friends. Maybe I was a bad child and I deserved it.

If I could talk to my Dad, if he would listen, I would ask him what was wrong. I would tell him I loved him and I didn’t mean to be naughty. I would tell him, he could love me and I would loved him back for always. I would explain that I didn’t mean to make him mad, I used to have dreams about that.

I used to have dreams . . . Saturdays were happy days.

I used to have dreams . . . I was happy.

This piece was inspired by prompt “I used to dream” on the bekindrewrite site from their InMon XIII page. I have just started writing. I am using my blog to experiment and find my natural style. I would love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!

Evils of camping . . . . .

May 20, 2011 § 4 Comments

The 3pm drive into the village was an hair-raising one to say the least, from the tight and even tighter 90 degree turns of the roads to the seemingly aimless sheep who, through some unfathomable sense of divine navigation, had decided to adorn the middle of the bending meandering B roads like fallen, unkempt clouds.

With a few more turns, twists and titchy tiny hump backed bridges came the entrance to the campsite, or rather the gates to a darker, less favourable, outdoor living experience.

The surroundings looked excellent, the canal – with its boats, yachts and barges – looked idyllic. Was this the holy grail of campsites? Had we found the Shangri-La of camping? And on my birthday too, this was the beginning of a successful year of travelling heaven . . . or so I thought, would all my hopes, wishes and dreams be dashed? I was only 300m from knowing the horrible truth.

The smell . . . it was the eternal odour of decay, death and disease. The burning smells, the animal smells, the smouldering flesh from the barbeque smells, the stench was rank, it was all wrong, it was all right-now.

Greeted by a dog, at least it appeared to be a dog. On closer inspection, it only had 3 legs, its left ear was missing and one good eye.  It was and still is a dog of whose description escapes me – I am still shocked. It looked like its last meal would have been remains of Lucifer’s last supper. It hobbled around trying to follow our wallowing van into the second gates. The gates that signalled the last chance to get the hell out of there and to get out of they’re alive. Not that anyone would ever survive getting out of somewhere not alive or dead.

The last few gear changes, the last few rotations of the wheels and turns of the steering wheel, revealed the gate master, the keeper of the camp-yards deepest and darkest secrets. She, the one who covets the gold and silver the weary travellers wish to part with for a piece of camping nirvana.

“Herrrlllo” was the greeting from the withered lips below the crooked nose on her tarnished face.

She couldn’t have been taller than 4 feet tall, slightly built with long brown scruffy hair.  She didn’t have anything on here feet apart from dog mess and chicken droppings. Not the type of shoes you could find on the shelves of Barratts Shoes, wearing a brown cardigan that looked like it had been made from the pelt of the campsites previous dog – it smelled like it too. I couldn’t follow directly behind her; I had to follow just to the left with my head in the air to get a fresh breath to stop the stink building up on the inner walls of my nose.

“Thiiiissss waaaay”, she crowed

“Am I ok to leave my van here?” I nervously answered

“It’s aaalllll gooooood” was her response, then she turned and walked away.

With a building sense of dread, regret and tense nervousness I couldn’t shake – I left the security of the van and made my way to the doorway of the wooden shack from which all transactions were executed, for want of a better expression.

Time seemed to expand, things outside looked to me as if they were being distorted, was this nerves? Was it some strange bend in evil time I was experiencing? Oh I wanted to be in my van again. Oh I wanted to be at another campsite. But I was here, I was going to survive, it wasn’t in my ever-crumbling nature to give in, to relent.

“How much do I owe you?”, there was no turning back now, I had created the first bond with the demon, was she a demon? Or was she simply an innocent old lady trying to make a living and provide expectant travellers a warming place to stay in the wilderness? I don’t think so. She-shaman-demon-hose-beast would be more fitting.

There was a cat, glaring, smelly striped feline of evil. I went to stroke it, it let out a screech, a noise so disturbing it could be used to signal the start to the end of all time. Maybe it was, maybe this was the last time I would be camping, living outdoors, experiencing any camper recreational bliss. I would soon find out.

She-demon appeared from nowhere, “Fifteeeeen poouuunds!” she barked. I nearly jumped out of my, already crawling, undulating skin. While I was outlining my spiritual demise, she had summonsed the toll for my stay from the devils dowry.

I handed her a crisp twenty-pound note, which I have acquired from the ATM in the previous village. Her eyes gazed upon it like it was some kind of extraterrestrial monetary offering.

“Fiiiiive pooouuunds chaaaaange!” she had done her maths, she was from this planet, thank god– or was it a rouse? So many questions. I hardly had room in my brain for the sense I would need to survive this leg of my journey.

I removed the five pounds change from her unwashed, wizened old hand quicker than a hare going round a dog track, she didn’t even see my hand move. I just wanted to get away from her before she turned me into a large, wet slimy toad. I didn’t even want to hang around long enough to check if the note was from this century or a darker time where paying the ferryman was as regular as the plague.

With a final screech and scrawk from the cat and a final exhale of my own clean breath I left the cabin.

“Theeere iiis yoooour pllllot” was the final banshee moan from the old woman as she pointed to a spidery-branched bush with an crushed orange traffic cone behind it. Why I heard “weeellllcommme to Saaallloms lllllot”, I do not know. Maybe it was the sounds that resembled the devils garden all around me, maybe it was the stares from all of the farm yard and domestic animals everywhere I turned, whichever it was it was nurturing the dark thoughts whirring around my head and they weren’t subsiding.

“Are you happy with your site?”, before I’d reversed the van into the bumpy, potholed pitch, a voice from half-a-toyota-rav-four hollered.

With a puzzled look on my face, “er . . . . its fine thanks, is this all yours” I replied, looking around and pointing at the grounds, animals, strange woman in the cabin and with nervous anticipation of any sort of recognisable response.

“Yup, unfortunately!” looking as if he’s been landed with sorting out the national debt in an hour, “It’s all mine” Then he drove off towards the cluster of caravans and campers that adorned the entrance when I arrived.

Without hesitation I climbed back in my van, turned the key and put it into gear. There was no measurable time between me getting the van going to actually being on the pitch with the electric hook-up plugged in and the doors of the van locked and me safe inside. I felt like a 12 year old after watching Jaws for the first time, I felt stupid. All this was in my head but yet the fear was still there, but still felt I should be hiding behind a sofa somewhere, not here facing this horror.

“Bugger!” I needed a pee.  Why now? What a time to need a pee. Should I play it safe and use a pot-noodle container instead? It was a king-sized pot-noodle container, it would definitely hold but I would still have to discard it. “Damn! – I need to go for a wee!”

I played the whole journey, to the shower block, over in my mind.

Get out of the front door, drivers door. Lock it with the key that has “FB”on it. Be sure to have it ready. Have the shower block key in the other hand. Quickly open the van door, lock it behind me. Walk briskly to the shower block, making sure not to walk in an animal remains or droppings, get into the shower room, got to the loo, wash hands. Head down another brisk walk on the opposite direction to the van, get in, lock the door . . . . . safe and bloody well sound.

What actually happened was; I fell out of the van, dropped the keys, walked into a pile of dog poo and tripped over the steps to the shower block. I couldn’t find the right shower room, no loo roll when I finally did, no soap, barely any water. Slightly stressed, I walked back to the van after a very satisfying pee – washed the dog poo from my shoes, got back in the van, crawled into my sleeping bag . . . .safe and bloody well sound . . . . until night time.

It’s 8pm before I actually settle and stop peering out of the window to see if someone’s tampering with the van, the bikes or my sanity. The strange looking cluster of well-embedded caravans that welcomed me when I arrived are still active with the joys, merriment and ruckus of a teen party gone wrong, when will it end? The dogs are barking. Are they the beasts that call the demons to their nightly endeavours?

It is now 11pm, the ducks are still squawking, the dogs are the still barking, the demons are still screaming and I am sitting in horrid anticipation of a night of debauchery and din and, honestly, I am shitting myself.

Will I survive till morning? If this is my last line of text and I haven’t written anything else . . . . . then no, I was right and this was the hell site of all campsites, get my body out of here.

I wrote this while sitting in my campervan on my birthday this year. It was an interesting time, to say the least.It is only a draft – a germ of an idea. Let me know what you think of my writing. I will use your comments to improve. Thank you in advance.

Who loves you baby?

May 18, 2011 § Leave a comment

We have been together for 3 years now my love. I can safely say, they have been the best years of my life. The more time we have spend together the more I have grown to love you. And love you with all my heart. I don’t know what I would do without you. You have given me a love and affection which is irreplaceable.

We have an unexplainable tenderness and understanding. When we first met, I knew you were the one. I saw you across the room, your face sparkled. You had a glow I was drawn to. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I know this is cheeky, but I fell for your curves.

I held off meeting you for so long. I wasn’t sure if we would be compatible, get on or have the same interests. I just didn’t get to know you – I guess. But now I have, I am very happy I did and I know I made the right choice.

You are beautiful. You’re beauty is that of a Keats sonnet – “But being too happy in thine happiness” – you are poetry. You inspire me. You make me want to be a better man.

When we go out together I feel very lucky. People notice when we are sat together in our favourite coffee shop. I feel lucky that I discovered a love as we have. I could never have believed it would happen to me. I spend so many years in meaningless relationships. Relationships which weren’t going anywhere. It is plain to see, I wasn’t with the right one. You definitely complete me.

When we touch, I feel complete. I feel whole, like never before. You give me and my life so much joy. When I hold you in my hands, it feels so right. You are definitely the one my love. I hope you know that. I don’t want you to ever leave me.

I have rid my life of anything that reminds me of the others. I have discarded any memory of my past. I want you feel as you are my only one. I want to you feel at home. The others didn’t mean as much to me as you did. You are my soulmate. I don’t need anyone when I have you.

Because we have been together for so long, I think its time we moved on to the next level. I don’t want you to tire of our relationship or our affections for one another. I need to make a commitment to our future. I want you to feel more stable. I want you to feel as though we can cope with anything as long as we are together, as I do.

As I bend down on one knee and take you in my hand, I can only say this because I mean it and I know it will allow us to stay together for longer. I’m upgrading your memory from 4gb to 8gb. That should do the trick. £55 from ebay, get in – only the best for you baby.

Just a little piece on the love I have for my macbook. This story is based on true events. No Mac was harmed in the writing of this piece. ;o)

Please comment and tell me your stories of technology love. I would be really interested to know.

life loneliness love longing

May 12, 2011 § Leave a comment

Life’s first sketch dictates, from our life’s dawning, that we stand alone in an autonomous existence. But time has other organic concepts of our natural place in the cosmos. We seek closeness, yearn for touch and tenderness, take that away and what is left is an emptiness in the ether?

We overhear societies whispers, we are not meant to be alone, you need more friends than your friends, you must not die alone, you need love for your soul to flourish. By life’s meandering pathways and darkest mazes lead us into lonelier moments.

The strangeness of the situation lies in the decision to stay  lonely, only ending a 2 year relationship yesterday.

Sad Selfish Sorrow Survive.

Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss.

Loneliness is life’s default state.

A nothingness I yearn to be a something.

A missed lost love is a lonely clock, ticking away time.

I am currently writing a short story on loneliness written in the above style. Please leave any feedback or comments you may have, it would be gratefully received.

Open Road, Open Mind, Open Throttle

May 12, 2011 § Leave a comment

Day One // Home Comforts or midnight tent erecting.

For some bizarre reason I have decided to load up my bike at 10:30pm on 17th April 2009 and travel the not so quiet roads of the peak district and camp out for the night.

I had the option of staying in my nice cosey house, tv on watching Ewan and Charley going the long way round taking notes and wishing I was doing what they are doing, but I decide to upsticks and get on my own bike in the middle of the night and go into the middle of somewhere, maybe thats what being a true biker/explorer is all about, I don’t know yet – this is all new to me.

After loading the bike up with the necessities (tent, spare socks, bananas, water, spare biking gloves, bike lock, trainers, books), I positioned myself upright on the bike, put it in gear, opened the throttle . . . . then . . . . . remembered I hadn’t charged my phone up. How was anyone gonna contact me, or how was I gonna contact anyone if this whole things went tits and I fell into a deep ravine in the middle of nowhere and couldn’t be found? So I sat in the car for half and hour to charge the phone. it only went upto 30% which would probably give me enough time to call myself out of any situation if I turned the phone off after receiving every text/email – it is an iphone after all.

Again, I sat on the bike (upright), put it into gear, slowly let the clutch out and opened the throttle – I was finally setting off.

Its amazing the thoughts that go through your head when you are setting off for the first time on a motorbike into the unknown and on your own. Where shall I go next? (I hadn’t even completed my first trip), had I packed the right stuff, had I remembered my tent pegs. The last thought I had was . . . I hope the camp site has room for me.

I had decided, in my infinite wisdom, to just ride there and see, rather than ringing ahead and making sure, I thought it would only add to the adventure if there wasn’t any room and I had to sleep on my bike under the stars in the freezing cold, was ignorance and stupidity part of being an adventure biker? I’m sure I would find out.

I was travelling on the A616 for what seemed ages, getting more and more tired, then a sign appeared “Welcome to Crowden”, then before I knew it I was in Tintwhistle, I had totally gone past the camp site, slightly miffed, I got off the bike to have a drink before setting off back, so I thought I’d take the first pic of my bike (see pic above, just in case you were wondering). I imagine this to be the first of many, I suppose you have to take a pic of your bike in different locations to prove to the viewer/reader that you had actually ridden there.

I rode back to the camp site, only to suddenly find, what I can only describe as a complete fuckwit, driving stupidly quick behind me in a white van just as I turned into the campsite entrance. It gave me my first experience of other drivers not having any consideration for me as a biker, there was more to follow . . . . all character building stuff.

I finally pulled into the campsite at 12:30pm it was eerily silent, there wasn’t a soul in sight and all camper van lights were off and all tents were blowing in the breeze that was slowly building up to quite a strong wind. I looked around for the strange man that I had seen the week before when I took my son to the camp site for the first time, but he was nowhere to be seen. Not that I expected him to be around at that time of night.

Suddenly this beared man appeared from the toilets with a torch, putting 2 and 2 together I’d decide he worked at the camp, “can I pitch my tent up and pay you in the morning” I said, a voice from behind the beard said “you can but I will only spend the money on booze, I don’t work here” – it was an easy mistake to make, it was late and pitch black. It was then that he educated me in the ways of camping. I could pitch my tent up then see the fella running the site in the morning and pay him then . . . I heard what he’d said, but for some reason I thought . . .”I’ll go and see if he is up and pay him now”, just trying to be right.

I strolled all the way around his camper van, there were lights on, so I knocked on his door. Like a scene from “confessions of a campsite attendent”, an old man with no teeth in and his tweeds around his ankles appeared at the door. So many questions were going through my mind, the one at the forefront was, how deep in a wank does a man need to be to forget to pull his trousers up before answering the door and when he got there what the hell was he going to expect?

“Is it ok to pitch my tent and see you in the morning” I said, trying to look him square in the eyes so as not to rome and see little campsite attendent looking right at me. “Justh pifth up and thee me in tha morning” he spat through his gums . . . . “no worries, night” I sloped off quickly.

Shall I start my bike and wake everyone up I thought or shall I struggle and try and turn the bike round and push it up the hill to a nice plot? Yeah fuck it, if I close my eyes they will never hear me (late night thinking, still shell shocked from the sight of my campsite attendent).

Getting everything off my bike I needed to pitch the tent I laid the main part of the tent down on the ground, all of a sudden a gust of wind whipped the tent up and the metal ring on the corner snapped up and hit me clean in the left eye, I laughed . . . . its 12:30 at night, I am cold, tired, stupid and the cherry on the cake may have just given me a black eye . . . .what a great start to my first journey.

30minutes struggling and 15 minutes getting to grips with the basic logistics of bike camping, I finally slipped into my sleeping bag turned off my lamp and shut my eyes . . . . the first part over, only 2 nights and 2 days to go!

Day Two // Mind Mapping with new people

Good morning . . . .was it though? I was fucking freezing, the sleeping bag, although lightweight, was also lightweight in warmth. I had managed to pitch my tent on the gnarliest piece of ground and I woke up with a back feeling like the child catchers cane from Chitty Chitty bang bang!

The birds were tweeting, the sheep were bleatingand the cocks were crowing, I’ll leave that there before it sounds like a scene from a bestialitymovie.

I couldn’t stay in that position any longer, back into my biker trousers, which by some stupid late night school boy error was the only pair of trousers I had packed,. They were already started to smell funky . . .betty swollocks.

I headed up the road towards the Youth Hostel for a well earned breakfast. What I needed was a full English to start my day off and get me ready for my journey ahead to the welsh hills. On my way I came across a pheasant (again, not wanting to sound like a bestiality movie). On my last visit to this campsite Bayley had asked me to take a picture of one, but it was too quick and escaped the clutches of my 5 x optical zoom. Not this time though, he’s there somewhere in the middle of the pic, honestly.

I arrived at the hostel doors, there wasn’t anyone in sight, I had arisen and not even looked to see what time it was . . . just then a man came to the door and opened it, “you were here last week, where’s your son” he asked. He was the man that was kind enough to let Bayley and I have a breakfast each for half the price. We exchanged pleasantries then I asked “if I could have a breakfast?”. “You will have to wait half an hour, you can sit and have a coffee if you like and I will fetch some bread for toast” he said and showed me to the canteen.

After about 20 minutes, he appeared with a tray of bread for toast, I was starving by this point. I asked him “Do you run this place then”, “no, I am the assistant manager” he replied. We then entered into a conversation where he told me he was originally a teacher and got despondentwith the bureaucracy of the job and decide to do something more spiritually and community based and found Crowden YHA.

Leaving the canteen a second time, he returned with the the tray for the plates and cutlery . . . “What brings you back” he asked, “I am in search of a new me” I joyfully replied, yes, joyfully . . I was happy I had gotten on the bike in the dark to be hit in the eye by my tent and to be stood in front of a complete stranger talking about something other than making money and asp programming.

” I went through that a while ago” he added, “I am now doing a PHD in my spare time and doing this as my job”, I asked him how he was doing in his PHD and he said ” much better after discovering Mind Mapping”. Now I think about it, if I wouldn’t have asked that question, I wouldn’t be sat here tying this blog, If I would have left the conversation there or asked another totally different question my life and that weekend would have been ordinary and just the same . . . . but I did.

He went on to explain about Tony Buzan and his incredible discovery and development of Mind Mapping. “I have a book upstairs yau can read while having breakfast if you like”, “Of course I’d love to” I replied instantly.

While eating my breakfast which consisted (if you are interested, if not too late), 3 sausages, beans, bacon and toast . . oh and a yoghurt and some coffee, I had learned about the basics of how the brain works, how to make mind mapping lists and how it could change my life. I was hungry for more, not breakfast!, mind mapping. I was going to go into the nearest town to buy a copy of The Mind Map Book, by Tony and Barry Buzan straight away. I walked into the kitchen and went to hand the book back, “That is incredible and may have just changed my life, what is your name by the way?”, “Peter”, he replied. “What a coincidence, so is mine”. I had a “doodoo, doodoo” (tales from the unexpected theme) moment. Something was happening here, something out of the ordinary.

“You can have that copy” Peter said. “Really, are you sure?”.
“Of course you can, I have another copy at home”
“Well if you sure” I added.
“What I will do then” I said “is, go away and read it, then come back and discuss what I think over something to eat and a coffee”
“that sounds good to me” Said Peter and took down my number.

I walked away from the hostel, after paying Peter for the lovely breakfast . . . . I felt like a new person, I had just experienced an epiphany. I could feel the start of a new me.

I strolled down the hill, past the sheep, past the pheasants and past the cocks, that were no longer crowing and back to my tent with a massive grin on my face.

I was half an hour into packing my stuff up when the man with the beard and torch from the previous night came over to me “how did it go last night?”, “Ok” I replied and told him about the man with the ankle high tweeds and wonderful speecth. He laughed, “I thought he was strange” he added.

We talked for about an hour . . about children, life, work experiences, travelling and how not look trendy at 40. Don’t ask.

After another half an hour, everything was packed, I sat on my bike, read my map and list of directions once more. Sat upright on the bike, popped it into gear, slowly let out the clutch, opened the throttle and off I went again onto the next leg of my journey.

Wales here I come or rather . . . Gwrymiau ‘ma ddeuwn. Try saying that with your teeth out you perv!

Day Three // Don’t talk to strangers . . . . bollocks . . . . talk to em, they are interesting, just don’t accept sweets!

I pulled out of the entrance of the camp site, it felt good to be back on the bike, natural and I was looking forward to being on it for the morning.
I am so glad I chose to buy a dual-sport, a bike made for the job, its a comfortable and on long distance journeys you thank, whoever it is that looks down on us, that you didn’t got for a sports bike, my old back couldn’t handle it. (now there’s an admittance)

All I had to do was get to Colwyn Bay that morning and I would have completed the first part of my first alone bike trip. I stopped off at a petrol station just after leaving the camp site and bought myself an A5 map of England, I figured it would come in handy if I got lost in between the places I had printed out, it turns out that it was one of my better ideas that day.

Another admittance, please don’t tell anyone, but I’m not the greatest at directions and my map reading skills left a lot to be desired. I have since developed the ability to point the map in the direction of where I am going and read the roads that way, it works. And yes, as Victorian as it may be, I refuse point blank to use GPS or Sat Navs when ,I feel, the idea of riding a bike on your own to places you have never ridden before with the aid of technology defeats the object. For me this is all about discovery, discovering myself and my limits, discovering new places and discovering and meeting new people. I don’t want any help doing it, the only guidance I need is the divine kind, whatever that may be.

I rode through Tintwhistle . . . . .again, it looks different in the light, smaller somehow, a bit like . . . *cough* . .well . . .nothing, never mind.

Anyway back to the story, the list of places I had printed off and taped to my tank for ease of use, before leaving home read as follows;

• Doncaster to Goldthorpe
• Then follow A6195 to Kingston
• Then A628 to Tintwhistle as the other day.
• A560 to Bredbury to cheadle to Altrincham
• A56 to Lymm
• A56 to Stockton Heath
• A56 to Hapsford
• A5117 to Shotwick
• A548 – coastal road to pensarn
• A55 to colwyn bay

All I had to do was get to each of these points using my new map book and jobs a good-un. There was a sense of massive achievement when I actually saw a sign with the name of one of my keypoints on it, the phrase “yyeeeeaaahhhh, oh I’m good” was used quite a few times, and not just cos of my new directional and map reading abilities, also the fact that I had got on my bike in the first place when I could have stayed at home in comfort.

The sign for Bredbury was whizzing by me, I was heading towards Cheadle, a sign appeared “yyeeeeaaahhhh, oh I’m good”, I followed the road intently, still having problems with knowing which gear I was in “It’ll come to me, don’t stress” I said to myself on many occasions, remembering what Warren has said to me just before my last test.

I had lost all sense of time, so I can’t tell you how long it took to get through Cheadle to Stockport, if I was gonna guess I would say three quarters of an hour, but I was there.

There was a massive roundabout just off the M60 with signs too all areas of Manchester, this confused the hell out of me. This was my first (more than 2 lane) roundabout that I had to navigate, my senses where on full alert – I approached what I thought was the correct lane, then all of a sudden a car appeared from nowhere just to the right of me, trying to get in my lane – what had just gone on?, was I wrong to be in this lane?

Even though I had been driving for over 15 years and knew I was in the right lane, probably because riding a bike was new to me, I questioned whether I was right or not – If I had been in the car I wouldn’t have questioned it at all. Maybe its because I felt so vunerable on the bike being inexperienced that I let him cut across me into my lane and took it on the chin, admittance number 3, there probably would have been an exchange of sweet words and helpful hand gestures if I had been in the car.

I remember something my motorbike instructor told me . . . “if someone is being a cock, don’t antagonise them, just pull over and let them be a cock somewhere else”, now why didn’t my car driving instructor say that to me, my driving experiences over the last 15 years would have been a lot less stressful.

I needed a coffee to continue with this level of awareness. I pulled off the roundabout in the correct lane and not a cock car driver anywhere.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted an outdoors shop to the left of me, “brilliant” I thought, I can pick up some essentials, warmer socks, some other trousers, some kind of tool kit and some thermals . . . for anyone out there that hasn’t invested in a set of thermals, GET SOME NOW!

As I pulled in I saw a woman standing by a burger van watching me riding my bike, my male ego automatically kicked in, Britney Spears was playing in my head . . . .”do you wanna piece of me” Which piece she wanted was unclear, but which ever piece it was . . . was cold and in need of thermals.

After spending 10 minutes getting off the bike, getting out of my gear and clearing my head of Britney Spears, I entered the shop . . . “fuck me this place is huge” I thought, there was so much stuff I just couldn’t concentrate. I did what I always do when I go to a shop I can’t be arsed to navigate around, I went to the nearest assistant and I told her what I wanted and was hoping she could guide me round. She was new and couldn’t even tell me whether they sold camping gear or not, what the hell was she doing on the shop floor . . . . . ya just can’t get the staff . . . .to help!

A helpful man called Peter, (thats the second Peter I had encountered in one day that helped me out – maybe its something to do with it being a saintly name ;o)) “What is that you’re after” he asked in a thick Manc accent. If I had closed my eyes I could have sworn that Liam Gallagher was helping my find some whooly thermals. “thermals, tools and socks” I said. “follow me, they are over here, here and here”. “Do you sell bike cigarette adapters?” I aksed him
“No we don’t you’ll need to go to a bike shop I think” he said
“Gutted, no worries, you don’t know of any around here do you!?” I asked
“yeah theres a large store around the corner on the A34, I will draw you directions”
“thank you thats great, I appreciate it”

I went to the counter to pay for my new camping gear and to cause the woman behind the counter some stress over the packaging I didn’t want.

That’s one thing about travelling by bike that you don’t have to consider when travelling by car . . .weight. I could carry the whole japanese sumo wrestling team in the boot of my car and could still do 150 and drive the car round a penny for an hour, but on a bike the story is totally the opposite. You have to make sure that everything you are carrying on a bike is evenily distributed or cornering becomes an issue – listen at me talking like I know anything about biking, the arrogance.

I got a bargain, the full amount I should have paid for my camping gear was £75, if I bought a discount card for £4, I got the lot for £54 . . . .what a saving. After leaving the store I did think “but was the gear expensive beforehand?” too late, I has ripped off all the packaging right in front of the store assistant and handed it to her, I couldn’t take any of it back now, oh um!.

After putting my new stuff in my panniers, I looked over at the burger van and decided a coffee was in order, but the woman was still there, I could do with a coffee without someone feeling my up in my biking pants. Bugger it I’ll suffer a molestation, the coffee had better be good and she had better have warm hands.

As I approached the van the woman popped her head from inside the van. . . .”you a biker then?”, I had an helmet in my hands, I was covered in biker gear from head to toe and I had just ridden in on a bike, but I still didn’t class myself as a biker. “yeah, I guess so” I said with a cheeky grin on my face.

We entered into a conversation about, how her friend – who for legal reasons shall remain nameless – was an idiot on a bike, didn’t wear the right gear and took corners like a she was trying to end it. “its nice to see somone thats dressed for the occasion”, “which occasion is that then” I said. “riding properly, looking after themsleves and being sensible”. she added.
“I’ve only just passed my test and I don’t intent to END IT, by being a biker knobhead”, yeah I said knobhead to a complete stranger, a female one at that – I felt a tad ashamed but because I couldn’t see a noticable change in her facial expression that she noticed I had said it, I didn’t worry too much.

We stood talking for about an hour (again, lost all sense of time, so this is my best guestimate). We spoke about the two Peters, the doo-doo moment, mind mapping and changing who we are and having the ability to become a better person if we really wanted to . . . . it was great.

I don’t talk to strangers, not because my mum told me not to, but because I have been sat behind a computer all my life and have lost the ability to talk to a complete stranger and enjoy it, she didn’t give me any sweets so I wasn’t suspicious. I have discovered listening, the more you listen to peoples stories, the more you learn and if theres one thing I enjoy most in this world, its learning and discovering.

I have waffled on a bit now, anyway, I got back on the bike truned left up, continued up the A560 and headed towards Altrincham., nothing much happened, onto the A56 through Lymm, still nothing much happening, just me the bike my thoughts and lots of traffic lights and stopping. continued up the A56 through Stockton Heath and Hapsford then onto the Welsh Costal Road, the A55.

Now is it me or when you see a coastal road on a map, you automatically think its going to scenic, there are going to views to die for, time to stop for photos, horizons that disappear into the sea . . . blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda. Well the welsh coastal road (at the uk end anyway) is completely obscurred by fences, walls and roads, it wasn’t till I go to Colwyn Bay that I actually saw the sea. I was on my own so I couldn’t do the . . . “are we there yet!”, if I had started it I would have done my head in, and when you’re trapped in an helmet with your own head that wouldn’t have been advisable.

The A55 down towards Colwyn Bay is a beautiful road, you can just see Llanudno in the background, its beautiful. I was getting excited, but feeling a little bit vunerable, I didn’t know where I was, what signs to read, which roads to take, what time it was or where I was going. But thats what its all about I kept saying to myself.

I saw a sign that said “Conwyn”, it looked like Colwyn, so I headed down there, pulled off the first roundabout and into a service station. I pulled up at the side of two bikers, I was nervous . . . “please don’t drop the fucking bike, ya knobhead” I said to myself. I professionally pulled up got off my bike and tried to do everything I could not to look like I had just passed my test. I runied the image by telling the biker beside me “where am I, I have just passed my test, I am so glad I have managed to get here”.
“nice one, exciting times” he said to me
“yeah guess so, I’ve loved every mile” I added with a big grin on my face

I was talking to bikers about biking, nervous times. I always wondered what it was like to talk to other bikers about biking, would they be looking for tell-tale signs that you didn’t have a clue about what you were talking about, would they know that from the bike you chose or the gear you wore . . .fuck me, the pressure if I thought about it, was immense. I think thats why I told him straight away, so there was no doubt. It seemed to work. I arrogantly complimented his bike and how it sounded, what else was I going to say, I didn’t even know what it was except it was white and sounded hard.

After going through that, I still didn’t have a clue where I was or where I needed to be. I swallowed my pride in my helmet (no one could see me do it). Theres not a lot you can do in an helmet apart from swallow your pride and think to yourself. I asked a man getting out of his car, “where is the campsite?”, “which one?” he asked, SHIT! I was in my gloves, map in the pannier and it would take me a few minutes to get sorted, it wouldn’t have been fair to ask him to stay put . . .then . . . “is that the address of the place” he asked while pointing at my fake tank with the directions taped to it. I had totally forgotten my efficiency, I had put the address on the paper – phew! He pointed my in the right direction, I got back on my bike and after missing a car pulling out of the petrol station by a whisker set off towards the camp site.

Less than 2 miles down the road there was a sign that said “Dinarth Hall” and I could see a few tents in the field at the site of it, I had passed the sign so I had to ride up the next roundabout, turn round. . . obviusly, thats what round abouts are for . . . and head back. The word roundabout is loosly used on this occasion as what it was, was a blob of paint on the road . . now this is going to test my slow manouvering technique . . it was close, I nearly lost it at one point, but there was no one around and if there was ever a time to do my first fall-off-your-bike, it was then.

I pulled into the entrance of the campsite and entered the reception, which was an old caravan with an old couple sat watching a group of teens modifying a group of ford cars, one of which was an escort cosworth, which I was impressed with. The couple had a combined age of around 190 I’d guess and between them had enough functionality to get the job done . . . I am sure the old man, who throughout half an hours conversation, didn’t take his eyes off my groin, impressive as it is and I could understand, I still felt uncomfortable.

I paid my £9 to pitch my tent, left the staring dirty old man (what is it about camp site attendents?) to watch someone elses groin and rode down to the campsite, I rode over the gnarly field nearly flying over the handlebars after missing the biggest ditch in the middle of the field, again . . there was noone around, so it would have been an ideal time to have my fall-off-your-bike for the first time, but again, I survived and parked up on the flattest piece of ground I could find.

I was here, yippeeeeeeeeee, the first treck under my belt and few more biker miles to talk about and impress my fellow bikers with . . . . . . chroesawa at gwrymiau! (welcome to wales)

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