The Quiet Woman

I've entered this piece into the Mob Flash Writing Competition. It goes live on the 21st June here: http://flashmob2013.wordpress.com/

This is not a travel piece in the conventional sense. It is a journey through life.

The Quiet Woman

She rarely spoke to me.

A quiet woman.

Yet her body told a thousand stories.

Her hair

snowy-owl white, feathery, falling in wisps about her face. She’d no time for herself, always tending others: a husband, twelve children and any other strays who came her way - the homeless, the abandoned, the neglected and the orphaned; the endless stream of farmhands passing through, stopping by her kitchen table. She thought nothing of cooking up breakfast for twenty.

Her skin

weathered brown and rough like an old chamois. Lined and cracked, I’d trace each story line with my mind - a lifetime of lines, a lifetime of stories.

 Her hands

 gnarled and twisted. Hands that cradled babies, buried month old twins, wiped away tears, smacked bottoms, shook a child in anger, held a child in love. Those hands had tugged knots from hair, twisted strands into braids or tied them down in rags.

Hands that manhandled pigs, wrung the necks of turkeys, squeezed the teats of milking cows and laid orphaned lambs into the Aga to thaw.

Hands that chopped wood, baked countless cakes, kneaded dough upon dough, pulled the sour fruit from garden shrubs and trees; sliced and diced, stirred and beat, pressed and shaped and supplied endless mouths.

Hands that scythed hay, dug earthy potatoes, mucked out, hauled meal bags, wiped away sweat, wiped away tears, wiped away fear and longing and all the other emotions never expressed.

Her body

 savaged by childbirth, farm labour and domesticity. Stooped, twisted, worn down, worn out, well used, not loved enough.

Her eyes now closed, her words ran out, her heart given up. No words at all: the quiet woman.

Looking back, I wish I’d asked her about the stories; wish I’d held her more - for she was my grandmother.

Very Inspiring Blogger Award

To accept the award, the rules are as follows:

1) Display the Award logo.
2) Link back to the blogger(s) who nominated you.
3) State seven things about yourself.
4) Nominate 5 bloggers for the award.
5) Notify chosen bloggers.

1) See above. I have displayed the Award logo

2) I have been nominated by The cycling Scot. Colin has written a useful and inspirational blog about cycling, specifically in Scotland..

3) Seven things about me:
>I live in the great Peak District of England.
>I'm hoping to cycle to Istanbul next year.
>I once did a cross country ski marathon.
>I have climbed to above 9,000 feet in Switzerland - and would love to complete a peak over 10,000ft one day.
>I am a sucker for travel writing comps.
>I've walked the Wainwright Coast to Coast.
>I can't resist a packet of crisps.

4) 
http://www.followtheboat.com/
http://helenwatsontravelwriting.blogspot.co.uk/
http://www.juliahammond.co.uk/Travel/HOME.html
http://www.frankaboutcroatia.com/
http://kerrycarrie.wordpress.com/http://www.leavingcairo.com/
5) I hope that you do not mind me nominating you. Your blogs are fantastic and inspirational.

A ride to a Sri Lankan temple

Abridged version published in July-August issue of Wanderlust magazine.

 “You like to go for a ride?” Raja asks.

I peer into the open-sided shed to see Raja’s mean machine gleaming red in the dimming light. The New Lion is Raja’s pride and joy and he’s keen to show it off.

Earlier I had visited the ancient civilisations of Anuradhapura and Polonnaruwa, marvelling at the soaring columns of stone, the carved moonstones, the crumbling temples and the giant Buddhas carved out of rock faces.

At nightfall, my Sri Lankan hosts and I had visited the great stupa of Anuradhapura, taking 10 minutes to circle its perfectly rounded circumference. We’d relished the coolness of the stone beneath our bare feet in the sultry evening as we lit oil dishes and incense sticks and offered up perfumed Jasmine. All around us ghostly worshipers floated by in swathes of white. On the steps, a female priest preached to a group of followers who listened with rapt attention. Above orange-robed monks provided a splash of colour in an otherwise white and sky-black world.

 At dawn, we’d driven past blood-red lakes carpeted with lily pads. When I awoke, we were somewhere deep in rural Sri Lanka, bumping along a canal road, the riverbed dried out but for patches of muddy water now the sluice gates were closed. Still families bathed in the remaining stretches of water or thrashed laundered clothes on rocks. Once, a kingfisher flew across the canal before disappearing into the rainforest, while egrets stood like graceful ornaments on the water’s edge.

Eventually we’d reached the small hamlet of houses owned by Raja and his brothers. I’d eaten oil cakes with tea, showered in the garden in a bathing cloth and brought out the whole neighbourhood who came to gawk at the pale-faced westerner racing the lane on a child’s bike.

Now Raja drags out his mean machine, the vehicle that has transformed his life: a three-wheeler tractor.  No longer does he need to harvest the paddy fields with a scythe. Forget the ancient civilisations - this is progress.

“Come, Madam Helan. We go!” Raja’s children, nieces and nephews cry. The fathers gather round in their western, collared shirts and patterned sarongs, smiling encouragement. The wives nod emphatically. 

Raja’s son jumps onto the trailer, sweeping it out with a broom for the foreign visitor. “Climb on,” the cousins implore me, pulling me up. The trailer is crammed with shouting, giggling children. Someone waves a giant tortoise in my face and we’re off, puttering along the jungle-edged lane in the dusky evening.

We arrive at the village square as night falls. The school is in darkness but light is radiating from the temple. Inside garish statues retell the story of Buddha’s journey to enlightenment: encounters with an old, a sick, a dead and a holy man.

Outside again, one of the children runs across the dusty square to switch on the lights surrounding the Buddha shrine. Bulbs flash on and off, but Raja’s revving the engine - it’s time to go home.

A Grand Day Out In Sri Lanka

It’s early morning in a quiet corner of Galle, the light still soft and milky, the air cool. Behind the garden, Langur monkeys leap from tree to tree. On the lane beyond the house, a solitary cow grazes on the verge. A figure wanders into view pulling an empty cart; then disappears again. A cyclist wobbles round the corner before dipping behind the hedgerow.

Back inside the house, quiet Buddhist chants fill the air and the television screen shows Lord Buddha from every angle as he sits in quiet serenity. Madam Kahandagamage hands a china cup of sweetened tea to the driver.

It’s the lull before the storm.

Then our motley crew pile into the hired van: Dimuthu, Dimuthu's sister Purna,  Purna's best friend Vi, her father, mother and brother; then there's the distant cousin, Yasas, and a pale-faced European. It’s going to be a grand day out: we’re off to Yala National Park.

First stop, breakfast by the Indian Ocean, Sri Lankan style: spicy chickpeas and egg and onion toasties. Further up the road, we pause at the temple. Mr Kahandagamage drops the perfumed jasmine. Contaminated, the flower heads can no longer be offered up. Instead oil and incense sticks are lit, palms placed together and heads bowed. The karma is still good.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time we reach Yala National Park. We’ve been waylaid by coastal blowholes, opportunities for toe-dipping and beach-combing for miniature crabs, corals and shells. Then there’s the endless distraction of food: displays of skeletal (dried) fish, unrecognisable tropical fruits, watery ice-creams and takeaway noodles.

At Yala, we hope to see leopard. We spy boar and buffalo, jungle fowl and wild peacock, even a family of elephants, but the leopard remains elusive. Driving out of the park again, the light is fading out. A youngster herds cattle from his motorbike, farmhands drift past us huddled on tractor trailers. The street lights dance like fireflies on Lunugarnvehera reservoir. Above it the pale sky swirls a signature.

“I wish I could write in the sky,” Dimuthu says as we gaze upwards.

On and on we drive through the night, passing open-fronted shops of garish souvenirs. We stop by one of them, weaving through tomato-red lions and fluorescent-orange dogs while ducking jelly-green bats, nets of balls and cascading plastic bald-headed dolls.

Incongruously, the counter is laden with great blocks of dodol, a toffee-like delicacy made of coconut milk and rice flour. Sticky, thick and sweet, it’s food heaven and figure hell.

We pounce on the samples offered, trying every variety on offer.

“We could make our way down the street just sampling dodol from every shop without having to buy any,” Vi giggles.

On the way out, Yasas, the distant cousin and our travelling clown, picks up a revolver and presses it to his head. His head falls, his eyes roll in his head and his tongue lolls.

“Cheer up, Yasas,” I say. “We mightn’t have seen any leopards, but I’ve got a kilo of dodol for the journey home.”

Yasas is resurrected.

Have map, will find way

 I love the concept behind the ezine Intravel.

Sections include

Incognito

In good taste

Indulge

In love

and best of all ...

Inept.

The magazine has published a piece of mine in the 'Inept' section called 'Have map, will find way'.

I love looking at maps - I just can't read them.

My husband says it would help if I realised you actually have to follow one to know where you are on the map.

So if Tom was driving and I was 'map reading', we might have a conversation like this:

Tom: Where do we turn off?

Me: Not sure

Tom: Where are we on the map then?

Me: Don't know

Nowadays I drive and he reads the map. It works better.

Of course, when I'm on my own, I've got no choice but to read a map. This piece is about my attempt to get around Basel with a street map.
If you vote for me, I just might get paid for this piece. So, please register on the website (see lefthand tab) and vote if you like my ineptitude at map reading!
Link here:
http://intravelmag.com/intrave…..l-find-way

Silver Award from Wanderlust for Travel Blog of the Year

Way back in 2011 I entered a writing competition in Wanderlust magazine with the theme of train journeys. I was new to writing then and it must have been one of the first travel competitions I'd entered. The piece entitled 'Returning to Belfast' didn't win.

C'est la vie, I thought philosophically, and rewrote the piece to put up on this blog. Almost two years later, I submitted it to Wanderlust's 'Blog of the Week'. Wanderlust selected it, and I was thrilled when they added to my profile:

Mother, wife, teacher, music lover, dreamer, hill walker, travel addict and writer. And Helen still has time to create one of the most beautifully written travel blogs on the web.

http://www.wanderlust.co.uk/magazine/blogs/blog-of-the-week/blog-of-the-week-returning-to-belfast

I thought that would be the end of it, but once again I was delighted to find out that my 'Blog of the Week' had been shortlisted (to one of eight) best of the blogs of the week.
I imagined that would be as far as it would go. But no, not quite, and although I didn't win (again), Wanderlust has given me a special silver award,  calling my blog entry, an inspiring read.
So here's to you at Wanderlust and a very big thank you. Funny how things turn out, and life unexpectedly returns you to the place you started!

Through Germany with the Book Thief and Zusak

First the colours.
Then the humans.
That's how I usually see things.
Or at least, how I try.

Markus Zusak perspective of Nazi Germany is a strange one - observed through the eyes of death. And it is his quirky, original way take on the world that made me fall in love with his novel, The Book Thief. Zusak takes one of Europe's (and the world's) darkest moments and injects it with humour and hope - but doesn't shrink from describing the horrors of that grim period of history.
The book is not perfect but it is original and clever. The characterisation (larger than life; cartoon-like) is a joy to read. The creativity of his language is inspirational, but when Zusak gets caught up with telling his story, he doesn't manage to sustain the level of creativity found in the first pages of the book.
The structure of the book, however, is innovative: The small fact files that break up the text, act as pointers, glossary and sub-titles all rolled into one, allowing the book to breathe.
The grim reaper as protagonist works well too, and the motif of colour throughout allows Zusak to write scenes of sumptious creativity.
Zusak's portrayal of Liesel and her relationship with her foster family and the street kids she befriends could verge on the sentimental, but the tough and humorous characters he creates lets him off the hook.
This book was my companion as I travelled through Germany, camping along the Baltic coast and on down through Swiss Saxony before reaching Bavaria. I started seeing Germany through Zusak's eyes: the absurdity, the generousity, the small-mindedness, the individuality, the humour, the weaknesses and the strengths of my fellow human beings encountered along the way:
There was the wild-eyed German at one campsite who threatened to call the police because we'd kicked a flaming gas canister into the centre of the field (out of the way of our tent, car and children), even though we had put the fire out!
There was the large-bellied cook in dungarees on a Ruegen campsite (who had built a metal cocoon, segments of tapered corrugated tin, called the 'Woodpecker Cave') who fed us on pineapple and shouted so loudly he might as well have been speaking through a megaphone.
 There was the monstrous Hitler 'holiday camp,'  5 miles long (but never saw a single  holidaymaker); a building of such misguided ambition, it stood like a decaying beached whale on the shoreline with its cracked concrete and broken windows.
There was the excited carpark attendant on the Island of Usedom whose eyes nearly popped out of his head when he 'saw' my young son driving - he had never seen a right-hand drive before. So thrilled to meet a Brit, he exclaimed he would have bought me a bunch of flowers if only he had known I was coming.
There was the rattling trabi on the autobahn trundling along at a stately 40 miles per hour; an older couple peering through the window. They'd waited years to get their precious car. The metal wasn't much thicker than a can of baked beans - but all their dreams were contained in that scrap of metal. They weren't about to give it up any day soon.
Sometimes as I travelled, the absurd, the funny, the tragic and the colour of Zusak's created world merged with my own real life journey through Germany. He added flavour to an unusual holiday, and I realised, his larger-than-life portrayal of war-time Germany was not so far removed from real life in the present day Germany.
Zusak just helped me see it ...

This post has been entered into the blogging competition at the works here:
http://www.theworks.co.uk/travelbloggercomp

I nominate 3 bloggers:
http://richlakin.wordpress.com/

http://www.juliahammond.co.uk/Travel/HOME.html

http://chrisgalvinwriter.wordpress.com/