Travel, Trains and Teeny-Tiny (Uni) Towns

Travel, Trains and Teeny-Tiny Towns

A Rather Long Post About How A Book Made Me Realise I Love Trains, Visiting Small Towns And Referencing The Thirteenth King Who Can Time Travel. 

Settle in for this one. Make yourself comfortable. Set the scene - with a girl dressed for winter on your average East Coast Train, crappy biro in her hand and a little notebook full of incomplete anagram circles. 

The last few weeks I feel like I started to explore this lovely land I call home. I've been hopping on and off trains: to St Andrews, Glasgow, Durham - and realised how much I enjoy it. Similarly, I've also begun to noticed that those teeny-tiny towns (or itty-bitty-city in the case of Durham) have a delicious appeal. A fortnight past, I stepped off at Leuchars having meandered down the coast from Edinburgh, thrilled to visit Charlie and his incredibly wee kittens. Yesterday, I jumped out of the carriage onto the platform and gazed down the lush verdant hill across to Durham's Cathedral before, with a grin and the sun on my face, ambling into town. Both Saturdays were glorious. Bursting sunshine winked down from the sky with a bright, cold eye and the buzz of being somewhere new made me shiver with delight. There I stood, in the role of stranger, ready to see someone else's haunts and havens. 

As I mentioned, Charlie met me at the bus stop when I popped up to St Andrews but when I went to Durham it was to see my sister settled into her new room in Hatfield College's Rectory, so in this latter case I was meeting my family. Now, both of these places are home to world-renowned universities, hugely successful and prestigious colleges for some of the best and brightest students. Both are also ancient - buildings in both areas range from the medieval to Norman, histories going back even further. In terms of universities, St Andrews is much older, but that hardly detracts from how we should view Durham. Town and university merge in their respective centres and the both have that slightly odd feeling of locals vs students. 

But now, having been at Carolina for a year, I don't look at either place with the scorn or derision that used to curl my lips at the mention of small university campuses. Muttering judgementally, I'd make comments like 'they're just like school', or 'they're too bubble-like and insular' or 'they're full of the same people' - I imagined everyone decked out in Jack Wills and signing off (as one girl actually did on my sister's facebook) "#Durham #YAH". Well, I think I can safely say that I am an idiot and am very glad that UNC has opened my eyes. Squirrel.

It meant that whilst wandering in my happy daze alongside the nattering Mr Wild, I could laugh at myself, face to the bitter sea breeze and love that in that place and that time I seemed part of one of the most beautiful places in Britain. It meant that looking round Durham yesterday, twisting and turning through its higgledy-piggledy streets, I had to fight the urge to break off from my rag-tag family and go explore all the curious nooks and crannies. Yes, I think I'd be restless in any town as small as these two and I think I'd be mad if I had spent four years at either one straight after Haileybury. But I can see why my sister fell in love with the Cathedral and Castle. And I think there's a certain appeal in the small everyone-knowing-everyone atmosphere. Driving into her college today, we were clapped and cheered through the gates and the excitement of starting university somewhere like that was infectious. And you know... those 'Sylvia Plath cliffs' beneath crumbling stones that Alice described to me years ago... they're rather wonderful too... and I can't deny that living by the sea has enormous charm.

There's a couple more things to mention. 

Returning home from Durham, my pen finds itself in my hand. I finally finished a book I've been dipping in and out of over the last couple of weeks. It's an Ian McEwan novella - although it reads a lot like a collection of short stories (and there's something about them that makes me read it in the voice of that time-travelling master of the universe) - and it's called The Daydreamer. Vivid, fantastic and written with such insight to the way the dreaming, wondering, wonderful mind works, I sat for the remainder of the journey in a nostalgic, whimsical stupor, watching the dull green fields fly by beneath curling wisps of cloud and rain. 

In the aftermath of McEwan's words, I'm remembering things. The final chapter, 'The Grown Up', whisks me back to days down in Dorset when The Houseboat Gang raced the tide in,  building our castles higher and higher and moats deeper and deeper into dark wet sand, mornings spent splattering down the beach from Bounty to Sea Shanty and evenings wriggling sandy feet into sleeping bags. We would spring down the shoreline, nimble, weightless, flying through the dunes, making up games that would make any writer envious of all their miraculous storylines. There's a paragraph when he writes about how: 

'the sun sank... and the families gathered in one of the gardens for a barbecue. After they had eaten, the grownups would be far too content with their drinks and endless stories to set about putting the children to bed, and this was when The Beach Gang would drift away into the smooth calm of dusk, back to all their favourite daytime places. Except now there was the mystery of darkness and strange shadows, and the cooling sand beneath their feet, and the delicious feeling as they ran about in their games that they were playing on borrowed time. It was way past bedtime, and the children knew that sooner or later the grown-ups would stir themselves out of conversations and the names would ring out in the night air -' 

(McEwan, Daydreamer, 128-9)

As I read it I was back on Bramblebush Bay, barely aware of the echoing chink of the chain ferry down the beach, covered in white and black sand with Vicky, George, Rollo, Tom, Rosie and everyone else. It was our names on the end of the sentence. Every story has that wonderful allure, that assessment that's so perfect and evocative. Things like the 'Useful-Things Draw' (aka. the family-man-draw) that's inevitably full of junk like the tops of bottles, too short string and plain old peculiar 'stuff'. Or the contrast between a cat's morning and ours. 

The Houseboat Gang
Ludo, Rollo, George, Tom, Georgie, Rosie, Vicky and Me

At about this point, I realise I have a good couple hours left on the train and my face is twisted in a nonsensical smile that I'm sure made the boy sitting opposite me a little nervous. I also realise, watching the world disappear along the track, that I really enjoy travelling by train. That sentence could be followed by one that takes you back to the beginning of this post, back to Durham and the girl curled up on a train. What I failed to mention is the bubbling enthusiasm and sense of adventure that I've begun to identify in the last couple journeys. Standing on the platform, the time ticking down and the train about to approach - there's something in the anticipation. With a train, its rattle promises adventure. There's a hint of new places, new faces, new things to discover and explore and of course there's a little bit of risk too. Will you actually find your way to the right end of the line? Will the train take you where you want? Have you hopped on the right one? Who will you sit with? Who will you meet? You can meet anyone on a train and there's that feeling of infinite possibility... the same feeling I often have when crossing the Meadows, knowing you could bump into brilliance.

 So that's the last thing I really wanted to mention - how brilliant I've realised trains are. That's it. I won't write anymore. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 
SCRIBBLER

London, Travels and Other Stories

Probably, in all likelihood, any of you who so kindly followed me through the first nine days of my great big bus trek across America are still wondering what on earth happened next. And whilst following up on the whereabouts of my diary notes is still at the forefront of my mind, there's too much that's gone on in the months since I touched down in Heathrow Airport (after a decidedly uncomfortable and terrifyingly turbulent bump over the big blue Atlantic). Be warned - the following contains references to cats, internships, travelling and the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. All of these will probably be expanded upon if I have time.

London was cold when I arrived, grey and cool and as my sleepy mother and father drove home, both of whom had just arrived back from France a few hours before, the wonderful dense green of the Chilterns overwhelmed every sense of nostalgia and for maybe a second or two, I thought - okay, George Eliot, you had a point. Then I thought about the wonderful cup of tea that could only be found in a Twinnings teabag and the shiny new kettle in the kitchen and couldn't stop smiling after that. The happy return could only last so long. Relieved and tired and more than a little groggy from the quantity of sleeping pills I'd taken to calm myself during the flight, I popped on the kettle, dropped Bag One upstairs and then asked after Scampy. Scampy is my cat. Not my sister's or my brother's. Mine. He's a grumpy, black-haired moggy that likes to pretend he's Master of the House. The only problem is that all of those present tense verbs should be past tense. As soon as I ask where the cat is my sister's face falls into a placating frown and starts to say the horrible truth. My sixteen year old hissing-spitting hunter, my purring hug, has died. RIP Scampy - you scary ass mouse murderer. Two days later mum had decided on a new kitten who's so adorable and affectionate I actually miss her as I'm writing this. She's called Squeaky because she squeaks.

Jobs are all the rage when you're 21 and about to enter your fourth year of university. They're very in vogue, every one wants one, especially if they don't pay you and you're able to call yourself and intern. Luckily, I managed to attain one of these excitingly fashionable titles and spent two weeks buzzing with the hum of London life, bustling through the underground, commenting on the people, watching stranger play on the piano in Paternoster Square. 'Luther' was the lovely company to give me that opportunity and I have to say it was brilliant. Of course, there were things that were slow at times or too fast - sometimes time likes to play tricks on your mind, but as a PR Consultancy, the people are vibrant and interesting and the job itself is full of cryptic undercurrents and wonderful little quirks. It's busy and exciting and I hope to at least keep in touch with them all. 

It was at this point that the jetset life came back to haunt me. Restlessness became overwhelming in the wake  of all this rhythm. Unlike the year prior, familiar things surrounded me at all times, homey comforts and smells that both delighted me and drove me insane. I applied for another job, a different kind of job, a job back in the beautiful and much missed City Of My Soul: Edinburgh. The Fringe Festival called to me. I've wanted to  do the Fringe for as long as I can remember, plus I told myself I'd work there every year since I started university. It was settled rather quickly. Applications were filled in, deadlines met, opportunity after opportunity analysed and usually applied for. 

The Space UK and Fringe Guru responded. If you follow the links you'll see two quite different jobs had selected me. The SpaceUK is a company that essentially rents out theatre spaces, techs and staffs box offices and generally helps with back and front of house theatre events. Fringe Guru is a festival review site, a site for those who want to read up on what's on etc. I was going to be a Box Office Girl and an Official Reviewer. I couldn't be happier. 

But before Edinburgh I had two more stops: Dubrovnik and Paris. 

Dubrovnik was a whim. This summer in the UK, the summer sort of lost its way and buggered off somewhere that only it knows. Those long, eternally blue days where the bees come out and the flowers all burst into colour were no where to be found. Any flowers that dared to bloom quickly shrivelled up and died in their waterlogged pots and all the bees spent time cowering under any of the bigger leave that survived. So my mum was fed up. I was fed up. My sister had already gone off on her own adventure around Europe with her best friend Emma so her twin was feeling left out and my dad really just wanted to go somewhere that no one would complain about. So five days before take-off we're booked onto an easyjet flight to the beautiful Croatian city of Dubrovnik. 

Paris, on the other hand, was for my beloved Shmoo's 21st birthday. Between the two of us, I'd managed to book a month late, but it meant I had her all to myself which was perfect. With a whole year apart, I needed some best friend time and what a time we had. Descending into the corkscrew clouds that piled up like the towers of Versailles, nerves jittered about within me and the clinging, sticky heat was cloying. 

"I'm not much of a Paris person," I thought (and I said as much to Alex later), "I hate this Orlybus and this horrible sweaty heat and this gibberish language." 

Admittedly, I felt quite vulnerable not being able to understand or speak to anyone, but I think a lot of it was just post-flight anxiety and tiredness. I scribbled away with my pen on the subway though and by the time I was with Alex, I was ready to roll out in pink jeans and shirt. 

I think I saw a whole new side of Paris that weekend. Away from the tourist traps that most of us non-speakers would end up in, Paris is exquisite. Ambling to the canal, we ordered pizza from a hole-in-the-wall cafe that then gave us a pink balloon with instructions to sit on the river bank. The cool, rushing air funnelled through the wide watery space and freshened everything with a smile. The thrum of local life, the numbers of people huddled in groups on the banks, the awesomeness of that pizza made me reconsider all of those misgivings. Here was a Paris that, even though I didn't understand it, made sense. 

Cheers Alex, ma petite meuf, for such a wonderful time. 

NEXT COMES EDINBURGH. And you know what. I think that deserves a whole new post dedicated to it. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 

SCRIBBLER

Day Six - Vegas Baby

Day Six - 17th May - Vegas Baby!

Mes lectuers fantastinque! Here are some things that you ought to know about Vegas – from the free stuff to the nightlife (and no, unfortunately I did not do all this in two nights but I did do my research and I have found second opinions for a number of things). It's a long one so kudos to those who read it all!

FREE FUN

Almost all the big hotels and casinos have something unique about them that’s open to all of us, regardless of our gambling habits!

The Bellagio, for example, has a number of things that you can go see, including a stunning Conservatory that’s open all the time. Cultivated by a plethora of different horticulturalists, the artificial garden is elegant and elaborate – actually reminding me a lot of Willy Wonka’s chocolate garden only inedible. Bright and airy, it’s a nice place to walk around if you’re not in the mood to deal with the blistering outdoor heat but still want to see daylight rather than the usual yellow gloom of the casinos. Similarly, remember those Fountains that I mentioned last time? Those are free too. Just outside The Bellagio, you know them from the end scene of Ocean’s Eleven, the ten-acres of water shimmer gently in the daylight but from 3pm to Midnight on weekdays (last one 11.55pm), they spill up in choreographed motions full of light. Described as a ‘symphony of light and water’, they run every half hour until 7pm and then every 15minuted after that. On weekends you can even go see them at noon, though I’d always recommend the night viewing just so you see the full effect of the dazzling colours along with the fountains themselves.

Others include animal features:

Caesars has a water tank full of fish that you can see being fed at 1.15pm and 5.15pm each day by a diver inside the tank. They also have a weird show called ‘The Fall of Atlantis’ which includes water and fire effects around three creepy android-humanoids that are meant to represent the King, his most loyal, semi-nude female huntress and his most disloyal, fiery counterpart. I wouldn’t recommend it unless you’re a farcry from sober when it could be fun BUT if you are in the area you can still check out the Forum Shops which really are amazing. I’ve never seen an H&M look so swanky. For the record though the ‘Fall’ show happens every hour on the hour from 9am to 11pm (Sun-Thurs) and 9am to Midnight (Fri-Sat).

Then there are Lions that you can see being fed at 11.15am and 430pm at the MGM Grand. Opening at 11am and closing at 7pm, the wild beasts roam their habitat throughout the day, stalking the pen as guests and visitors click away on their cameras. You can find them inside the MGM located at the end of The Strip.

If I remember rightly, there are also Tigers at the Mirage. They’re found inside, in Seigfreid and Roy’s Secret Garden. The exotic, wondrous world inside this hotel ‘zoo’ also contains other big cats and there’s a Dolphin Habitat too. You do have to pay for this one though so it’s really a small aside.

Talking of amazing things though, if there’s the ONE REASON I WANT TO COME BACK TO VEGAS: THE SHOW IN THE SKY  at the Rio.  Oh yes – here is something that could actually bring me back – a sensual, upbeat, exciting journey through the greatest celebrations of the world  in their own massive daily festival. Dancers, costumes, masks – you can be part of it too either as a bystander (free) or as part of the parade itself ($12 BARGAIN). If you  want to do this then you should make your way to the Masquerade Village Main Stage thirty minutes earlier than you would just for the show. There are only twenty-one spots though so probably arrive EVEN EARLIER to guarantee your spot. Doing this means you end up in costume and ride in the show. Yup – I want to be part of this so bad

NOT SO FREE STUFF

 I have to start this with the Stratosphere Thrill Rides. At the top of our hotel was a bundle of rides that you can go on right at the top of the  108 storied hotel. $16 will take you to the top of the hotel for a view and $34 will give you a day pass to all the rides. If you’re not scared of heights and you like a little danger – this is probably for you as you hurtle off the building in a spinning harness or plunge down from the X Scream. The best are probably X Scream,  Big Shot and Insanity. You can also do what I wanted to do and pay from $109 to jump off the building properly – careening towards the earth from a terrifying 855ft . As you plummet, you’ll have the best view in the house of the Strip and the surrounding desert – plus you’ll have your five minutes of fame and probably earn yourself a drink or two from awed friends who were secretly more scared than you were.

You can also pretend to be in a different country by going to the top of the Eiffel Tower  for $10 (until 7.30pm) or $15 (after 7.30 pm) , or Take a Gondola Ride at The Venetian for $16  (rides last around a quarter of an hour)

TRAVEL

We used three kind of transport – the Monorail ($5/ride – discounts for multi-ride/all-day passes; starting at 7am/ finishing 2am-3am); the Duece Double Decker Bus (from Freemont St to the South Strip – it’s $7/day and you NEED EXACT CHANGE unless you’re able to blag your way on like my friends and I. We paid $8 between seven of us); Taxis – they will try to con you if they think they can but they should NOT COST MORE THAN $20 ANYWHERE. Vegas isn’t that big, especially not the places you probably want to be.

NIGHT LIFE

 We didn’t actually go out to any of the clubs or bars – preferring to  drink and party around the casinos. It’s easy enough to peruse the floors during the day and be given free entry or queue-jump passes  so keep an eye out for people with multicoloured bands in the casinos. Some of the places we wanted to go though were The Rio’s Rooftop Voodoo Bar that claims the best views in Vegas. The Ghostbar at the Palms also hails a whopping 55-floor view and the Skin Pool Lounge which you can see all the way through the transparent acrylic floor. The one we were most tempted to find on the first night was The Pussy Cat Dolls Lounge at Caesar’s Palace as it’s supposedly pretty chilled out but with a great vibe. The boys were also enticed by the burlesque dancers that come out every night, pretty much every thirty minutes. If you’re more of a high-end club goer though, we had a great time finding out about LUX the ‘destination of choice’ for everyone . From A-listers to the real socialites of the world, DJ AM and Vice pump out the beats at Luxor’s renowned club.

Others you might want to look up:

1.       Studio 54 (MGM GRAND) – 10pm opening Tues-Sat. Two storeys of pop and house. DRESS SPECTACULAR. Tuesdays are their EDEN (erotically delicious entertainters night) and Thursdays are their DOLLHOUSE night with live body dancers and all female DJ lineup.

2.         The Fountain Room (MANDALAY BAY) – “Great music, great music, great service and great view “ – just note they say nothing about the people.

3.       Coyote Ugly (NEW YORK NEW YORK) a la it’s namesake – see the movie and you have an idea of what you’re in for.

4.       Rain in the Desert (PALMS) – fourteen foot fireballs lighting up the elevated dance floor – this is supposedly the haunt of the under-30s – with a “slicker and edgier feel to it”. Great lighting and extraordinary layout make it exciting for even the seasoned night owl. MTV-friendly and mainstream.

5.       Marquee (COSMOPOLITAN)  - one of the biggest mega-clubs of the city and voted as 11^th  best club in the world and number ONE in North America – this could be worth your time. Drinks are expensive (albeit large and apparent fabulous). You will want a line-jump for this one as it can take HOURS (NB PLURAL) to conquer the queue otherwise!)

So that’s Vegas. My advice and gift and love to you. Also – the Skyjump was cancelled so I can’t do it – the winds are cray-cray tonight and they won’t let you jump when it’s  over 44mph winds which apparently it is. Oh well – another reason to come back right? We’ve had so much fun and I’ve loved it here. I don’t feel like I ever want to gamble again, it’s kind of boring even when you’re winning, but it is a laugh and it’s been a blast hanging out with all the guys, seeing all the absurdly designed casinos and basking in the wonderful dry heat. I’m not missing the Carolina humidity right now.

If you’ve read this far WELL DONE AND I LOVE YOU. I’ll write again soon. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 
SCRIBBLER

Good Morning UNC!

I'm here. I've arrived. The wait is over. The Scribbler is officially ON TOUR.


The flight over was interesting; we bought our tickets through BA and of course had assumed that it would be a BA flight as you do, but it wasn't - come check in we'd discovered it was an American Airlines flight (which really isn't the same product at all). The plane was a dark gun-bolt silver, the colour George used to paint his Space Marines before the lick of blue. Inside it was old, the seats still became floatation devices and everyone who wanted to watch a film had to do so on the hanging box-screens that, back in the nineties, was already old. It was bumpy at times, we lurched and we trembled and every time the seat belt signs went  on a tin voice told us to sit down and strap up. But we landed and that's what counts. Even if I doubted we would at times.


The sun was just coming out as we touched down after a brief electric storm (part of the reason the flight was so bumpy). Pathetic fallacy? I think so. I think the last few days have been a turbulent rollercoaster of emotions to use a cliché, but I feel quite settled here right now.


Mrs Hart, she's ever so lovely was there to collect us after the hour or so that we spent coming through customs - if you have a visa you need to fill out the I-94 as well as the arrival form - and she gave us a brilliant, scenic drive-by tour of the town showing me every place that I'll need to know. We started at Horton, my new halls of residence and we giggled at that, then saw all the stadiums (the most important of which is basketball - just across the road from me!!) and the main shopping street. It's a brilliant little town, although I think they call it a city, all that style that I imagined Blanche to come from in Street Car. There's a very strange sense of having stepped back in time. Everything is Southern style architecture but it's reminiscent of European designs - all pillars and equilateral porches.


I think I could love this place, albeit in a very different way than I love Edinburgh. Edinburgh is wonderful because it's a city, it's full of history and literature and culture (and pubs). I feel with Chapel Hill that I've stepped into the countryside, it's so unbelievably green, and as a place it's clearly very sports orientated.


Right now, as I sprawl out at 9am on the comfiest bed I've ever slept on in this  amazing place, I'm quite happy, very content and incredibly excited to explore.

The Scribbler on Tour

Another wonderful blogger who focuses on travel writing (there and back again) reminded me of the brilliance of Tolkein's travel quotes and just like her I'm jetsetting across the Atlantic to go and experience something new! I haven't arrived yet of course but I'm readying myself for the journey and this page is about to become my tick list of places that I want to go in my year in America. 

The quote that she used is this: "It's a dangerous business going out your front door. You step on to the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." Which of course is perfect - there's that sense of excitement and anticipation and slight nervousness like when a bug lands on your back and you feel it but by the time you reach for it it's gone.

Here is a rough list of what I want to do: 

I know that I want to Greyhound Bus around the country. 

Rush

Bourbon Street -New Orleans

Harry Potter Land

And meet extreme Democrats/Republicans

For now - because I'm going to try and brainstorm many exciting things when I have a wee bit more time - this is going to look a little insipid because I've not made many plans yet and I want to talk to people about places to go. If anyone has any suggestions then please let me know. 


Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER

Birth of a Blog

So I went to Dorset, down to the 'lonely sea and the sky' that I spent all my summers growing up. It was just me and dad, on the worst driving day I think you can have without there being a typhoon, heading through the quarries and the heathland of the New Forest towards Poole Harbour and the houseboat. We'd donned our longest wellington boots and layer upon layer of tatty clothes and then finally wrapped ourselves up in oversized Cuba Sails jackets that rustled around us in the steady wind.


I didn't want to go to Dorset, I was quite sullen on the way down (although I cheered up with a Simply British cocktail - ahhhhh Hendricks) and was relieved when, much to both our surprise, we saw shadows waving at us from Sea Snail.


That sentence probably makes very little sense to someone who doesn't know what the houseboats are... Well you see: over the ferry in Bramble Bay (that's where we - the houseboaters - all like to stay) there were seven houseboats all in a line, stretching from White Wings to Caroline. Now there are six because Dawn broke apart and the owners tried to replace her with a river boat but that was an epic fail as soon as the weather turned bad. So now there are six houseboats all in a line, stretching from White Wings to Sea Shanty. We're all lined up along the beach, four floating and two fixed (Kleco and Sea Shanty) and we're all slightly different. Our boat, Bounty, was originally a Life Boat, launched in the 1890s and savign 57 lives in her time. When she was 'retired' she was bought by a family who turned her into her new form - the houseboat. She's lovely, an old wooden girl with a smiling red stripe around her middle and a white 'box' on the top. My parents bought her and did her up nearly 25 years ago now when they saw that she was off the water and in a sorry state.


I think I have a photo somewhere. Let's see.... Well if I find one I'll stick it up asap. I know I have some down stairs that I can add. AH HA!! Actually I just stalked my brother's facebook and found this!!

This is Bounty, lovely thing that she is. Unfortunately I couldn't find a colour one because EVERYTHING he took seems to be in black and white or sepia. But you get the picture.


Anyway, so that is where this begins. In the cool grey seas of Poole Harbour. Now to introduce some key characters. The waving shadows from Sea Snail were Terry Fisher, travel writer and an original houseboater from when my dad and his family used to holiday down there as kids, and her two trickster sons George and Timmy. The two boys, with their skinny knees and and sandy feet are both cheeky wee things - the eldest George is a keen sailor with that amazing gumption that seems to be so crucial to naturals like him and my sister Vicky, they lack fear and I bet he goes down a ski slope with that same fearlessness. His little brother, Timmy, likes to simply paddle - and by that I mean he likes to sit on the full-sized surfboard and use a spade to push himself through the chilly waves. A little further down the beach lies White Wings, on our arrival occupied by Jonathon and Maria. They have three children now: Sophia, David and Simon. Simon's two and very sweet with blond hair and blue eyes and so pale like his dad where as the other two are more like Maria with sandy skin and honey hair. Jono, like Terry, was one of the original houseboaters and he and dad were always very close as young sailors on the big blue wet thing. And my god the stories the three of them have behind them.


I wonder if there are any photos of the three of them.


This blog, strange as it, starts with them. There's no electricity down there, just wind generators on the roof to power the meagre lighting that we figured was a tad safer than the original gas lamps (wooden boat... gas... hmmm?) and there's no running water, just a hand pump that can be used to pull water up from the plastic jugs underneath the sink. So how does a distinctly electronic dot-com thing come from them?


Well that means I have to introduce myself. You can call me Scribbler, I've been coming to Dorset since I was months old and I was part of a second generation of houseboaters between my dad and his friends and Timmy/George/Sophia etc. I grew up with AAMilne and the Swallows and Amazons. My favourite poem, as quoted above is by John Masefield, and my favourite book when I was growing up was Kidnapped (quickly followed by the Wolves of Willowby Chase but that doesn't quite fit with my point). By the time I was eight I had decided I wanted to be a writer and started my first novel. When I was 11 (?) I was published in a book of poetry and at secondary school I was published a number of times in the school magazine before I took over as the Editor. There are two things, therefore, that permeated my childhood, the Dorset sea and writing. The two are almost inextricably linked.


Of course, both are much extended now. I've sailed with my family across the Channel, through the Med, in the Atlantic around the Caribbean and even up in Scotland. I've written a great many stories and poems and books, all of which need much editing and TLC (truthful, like-it-is criticism). And I've tried and failed, numerous times, to keep a blog. I keep a diary almost religiously and yet typing up words on here has always been a struggle.


THAT IS NOW ABOUT TO CHANGE.


In August I'm going to the USofA to the University of North Carolina for a year. I'll still be studying philosophy and english literature like I do back in the Jekyll and Hyde City but I'm going to be over there in the plus degrees and sunshine. It was Terry's idea, when she discovered this little fact about my future plans, that spurred me on to therefore start a blog and do it properly. It'll be like travel writing I suppose, but mixed in with a lot of those typical musings of a literature student that have always been part of the way that I write. I also suspect that I'll put plot ideas and queries and creative moments etc up as I go. Furthermore, I plan on making this something that different people might take different things from, after all I'm sure many of those who might read this won't want to hear about how I'm totally obsessed with Joyce's Ulysses and the letter O and others might only really want to read about the places I go or the things that I experience out in the States rather than stuff about the people I meet or the ideas that I have. So I'm going to have each blog post (if it's of any length) start with a blurb and a list of headings so you can sort of skip to the bit that you're interested in. I'm also going to start making a list of places that I want to go to in America, things I want to do and people I want to see. Feel free to send suggestions about those things if you like.


Congratulations if you managed to read all of this. I know it's been quite long and waffly. Let the games begin!


Je serai poète et toi poésie,
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