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Wednesday, 19 December 2012

The hare and the fox

20th December 2012.

Today, I saw a mountain hare.  He was magnificent, dressed in his winter finery, he surveyed his iced kingdom before bounding off in search of his snow hole. I’d set off in darkness to ascend a Munro, which is the classification of a Scottish mountain some three thousand feet in height. I found a welcome plateau and partook of hot chocolate from a flask. Something pricked my attention and peering through a fine coating of snow, I locked eyes with a mountain hare, camouflaged against predators, we shared a moment in time that cannot be explained by mere words. Perhaps he was communicating a warning from the past or a message from the future? Whatever his intent, the hare seemed at peace, unconcerned by this human’s interest. Soon, a cloud of snow blanketed his slender form and he vanished.  

I continued my descent and within a few hours, had returned to Log Cabin, my countenance cheered by an orange sunrise on the long drive home, black striped clouds pierced by a watery cobalt sky. 

I was re-acquainted this evening by my dear friend, Jasper and we shared a warming glass of Gl├╝hwein. He is a self styled man of the woods, who lives in a mountain bothy which overlooks a Scottish loch.  He looked quite incongruous amongst festive revellers carrying their Christmas packages and rolls of gaudy paper, bustling past to catch the seven forty five express. We embraced and I burrowed into the folds of his forest green cloak inhaling pine scent, and noticed an amulet over his left breast, it depicted an oak tree bejellewed with tiny green stones. Employed as a tree surgeon, tending the ancient forest of Scotland, his hands spoke of manual labour. Jasper lives a little way from a holiday camp, which is a fifty acre site, man made in construct with flush toilets and sub post office, Although tourists are encouraged not to feed the wild animals, occasionally spotted foraging around its environs – one particular fox was befriended by a tourist who fed it meat pies. It is unknown how the relationship developed. Jasper is led to believe that the lady invited the fox into her cabin and was delighted by its presence that she encouraged it to return. Regrettably, the frequent visits were reported by alarmed residents, the fox was trapped and its life terminated by a local veterinarian.

Jasper was delighted to hear that my novel is now at the print stage, and I promised him a preview copy.  He was excited about the prospect of a Highland book launch, and explained that he was keen to convert his own portfolio of animal drawings into a printed publication.

A bowl of barley broth was a fitting finale to the evening and prepared Jasper for the long journey home to the north.

 It was such a clear night, that I walked through the forest without the need of a torch, my steps punctuated by a barn owl's shriek, its heart shaped features illuminated by the silvered moon.  My meditative footsteps aided a drifting mind and I returned to my earlier encounter with the mountain hare and wondered about the certainty of his future. 

Later, I placed a log on the grate and watched flames rise. Settling into my winged arm chair, I tucked a cashmere shawl around my toes, smiling at Jasper’s Christmas gift of socks fashioned from finest sheep wool. His story of the fox resonated and I wondered how far humankind has really evolved, whereby an undomesticated animal must suffer a fatal consequence by accepting a food offering in winter from an Earth Mother, however misguided she might have been in the eyes of some.  Surely, we humans evolved from  woodland and once lived there in close kinship with what are now considered strangers who must not be trusted, otherwise they will revert to their brutal and wild nature.  How can this split be healed? Isn’t it simply an example of
survivalism for the fox to prefer an offering than to expend energy in hunting for food?

Pantheists believe that the Universe (nature) is at one with God. Spinoza, a devotee held that the mind, body and soul is deeply connected and no duality exists, this would imply that the lady and the fox are one and the same and perhaps she felt a deep calling from her well of human kindness to befriend the fox and in feeding it, she was nurturing her soul. Were either party aware of the danger, their short lived kinship would cause in twenty first century Scotland?  Roll back the years, and I hold that the controllers of 1600’s Scotland would have treated this alliance in no greater harmony of spirit.

I watched a candle flicker and must have dozed off, in the warmth of the night, for I woke with a start and felt the chill on my shoulders.I’d been dreaming about a traveller walking a forest trail, it seemed an interminable journey of hardship and toil and waiting for him at the end of the path, was an arctic fox, its coat silvered as though coated with time and wisdom. The man reached out and the fox walked towards him.The dream faded and consciousness became my reality.  I guess that Merlin had also sought warmth, for I found him snuggled into the blanket, we’d somehow shared. I looked down at the sleeping feline form.

“Oh Merlin, humankind has so much to learn, we have gained so much and lost even more – we must never be distracted, for it’s the children who will inherit this land and they must learn of the old wisdom before it’s too late.”

At that moment, Merlin yawned and gazed up at me through glacier eyes. I rose from the chair and watched him settle into the hollow I’d made.

Monday, 10 December 2012

The Blessings Tree, Christmas at Log Cabin.

10th December 2012.

I decorated Log Cabin today and lit a fire. Reclining in my battered arm chair, with Merlin purring contentedly, I watched salamanders dancing in the flames. After a heart warming bowl of spiced parsnip soup, I fastened my duffel coat, pushed a crocheted hat over my uncombed hair and headed outside, intending to visit Winter Wonderland festival in a city to the North.

I’d walked a little of the way, pausing to pick some pine cones when my ears became alert to the distinctive snap of a branch and I looked up, seeing a herd of deer scatter beyond a glade of trees. I peered, though they were quickly camouflaged and swallowed up by the forest. I walked further and spotted some mistletoe, I picked some sprigs intended for a table decoration, heading with purpose to a secret grove I was sure would offer up some red berried holly. 

A flock of swans flew overhead, and I watched the regular undulation of their wings. I turned quickly, startled by a man's face imprinted on bark. When I looked back, it had gone. Scotch mist, perhaps? However the image pricked my attention and I wondered whether it could be Father Time making an appearance.  Day light fading fast, I drew my scarf around my neck, discarding the idea of a city adventure, and set myself a task to research festive mythology. 

The earliest record of Father Christmas appeared during ancient British mid-winter festivals. He was a general pagan figure who represented the coming of spring. He would wear a long, green hooded cloak and a wreath of holly, ivy or mistletoe. It is the association with holly and mistletoe, and his ability to lift people's spirits, that we retain from this ancient Father Christmas. When Britain fell under Saxon rule in the fifth and sixth centuries AD, Father Christmas took on the characteristics of the Saxon Father Time, also known as King Frost or King Winter. Someone would dress up as King Winter and be welcomed into homes, where he would sit near the fire and be given something to eat and drink.  It was thought that by being kind to King Winter, the people would get something good in return: a milder winter. Thus Father Christmas became associated with receiving good things.  

I was asked recently by a friend what my three Christmas wishes would be?  I replied, that I would like to see my fantasy novel, “Do dragonflies lose their colour when they die?” in print. I’d like ONE person somewhere in the world, to read my book and for it to change at least ONE person’s life.  

What does this holiday Season mean to you?  I’m referring to what brings you lasting contentment, and also what you might do to re-create that feeling.

I finished dressing a yew log I’d carried from the forest, and prepared cards with dates which I fixed with ribbon along its branches. This is my wishing tree, and for each day, I read and meditate over each of the blessings I’ve recorded which includes; living in a beautiful environment surrounded by nature, the gifts of the forest, local rambling trails, heart warming food, books which I possess, friends and acquaintances, laughter, the ever changing palette of seasonal colours and the riches beyond measure - my health, an enquiring mind and spiritual abundance. 

I raise a glass of mulled wine to you, dear reader and wish you every happiness this holiday Season.  Find LOVE in every step you take, venture outside where possible and remember that whatever life seems to cast in your direction, always hold your head high, for you will be blessed with rainbows.

Sunday, 25 November 2012


Today, I wrapped up warm in my cashmere shawl, pulled on a pair of old sheepskin boots, pushed my fingers into hand knitted mittens and ventured forth from Log Cabin.  Merlin, the Snow Spot Bengal purred contentedly and snuggled deep into the battered sofa I’d heaved behind the door, to block wintry draughts.
Edinburgh is the destination, Scotland’s capital city and an architectural delight for anyone who doesn’t mind a craned neck from looking up and an icy wind that feels like it could sever bone.  

I arrived at eleven o’clock and was met by Ameline, at Waverley Station. 

“You’ve lost weight,” I exclaimed. 

Slender as a pin head, her long raven locks have been shorn into a fashionable bob, secreted under an olive green beret.  A tapestry coat, long leather boots with killer heels and a handbag which appeared fashioned from recycled drinks cans – I’m sure we turned heads on Princes Street as we walked arm in arm towards our favourite tea shop and its famed log fire.

Rose tea warmed the soul, and I listened attentively as Ameline enthused about the enclave of artists she’d met on her recent trip to Capri – I flicked through her portfolio of pastels depicting the Fagliolini rocks.  Later, I showed her a mock up of a book cover, for my soon to be launched fantasy novel, “Do dragonflies lose their colour when they die?”

"How awesome!”  Her faux American accent, carried to the rafters. Dare I say, she’d adopted the drawl on a stop over to Boston when her plane was grounded by fog.

Today, was a serendipitous occasion for both parties, as Ameline had secured a writing post and hearing about my forthcoming book launch, she was eager to find out about the inspiration behind the book and asked me an assortment of questions. I thought dear reader, you might like to hear where my rather outlandish ideas come from.

What is the (working title) of your book?
 Do Dragonflies lose their colour when they die?

Where did the idea come from for the book?
Vivid imagination can’t be contained, nor can dragonflies, it is their instinct to rise from the depths and dazzle in light. 

What genre does your book fall under?
Fantasy fiction/Magic Realism

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Angelina Jolie/Patrick Stewart

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Magical realms are explored by a girl who sets off on dream quests.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
Self Published.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
6 weeks – and many many drafts.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Angela Carter is an influence.  I have not discovered comparisons.

Who or What inspired you to write this book?

Stream of consciousness writing, the Universe created the Manuscript, my fingers
merely moved over the keyboard. Dragonflies are impressive subjects, old as dinosaurs, exquisitely beautiful and elusive.       

What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?
For all lovers of Unicorns, Pumas, Faeries and dragonflies of course – anyone who is willing to disengage the rational mindset will fly through the pages of this book.

And on that note, Ameline drained the last of the tea, grabbed a cup cake and swept from the premises.  I watched her race along Princes Street with copy in hand, settled the bill and placed the brown paper parcel in my straw basket – Ameline’s gift for Merlin. 

Although writing can seem a solitary business, on occasion I have the opportunity to communicate in person or online with some fascinating souls who inhabit the same territory, albeit in differing genres:-

Steve Christie, is a Scottish Crime Writer.  You can catch up with him and order a copy of his Novel, “Good Deeds.”

Sheila Applegate is an exciting US author, her soon to be launched novel “Enchanted One: The portal to Love” is apt at this current phase of the Universal life cycle.

Hunter S Jones, who lives in Atlanta US, is an author who describes herself as “writer of erotica, fiction, rock & roll...enlightened rogue & mischief maker extraordinaire. I'm the one your mother warned you about...”

Kenneth Balfour, London based Author of  The Chronicles of Draylon & The Witches of Barrow Wood has a festive publication available “Finding Christmas, Santa’s Tale”  Secure your copy at:

Tuesday, 20 November 2012

Treasure books - the gold is in their leaves.

Writing is a solitary pursuit, however it is not without compensation.  It is my niece’s birthday soon, she will be 8 years old and some would say that she has reached the point of maturity in her magical mindset, a short tenure in which society permits her to dream and her realm is expansive and filled with treasures of the imagination. Be a child at heart, discard numerical age and cherish the horizon that cannot be reached, invoke angels to be your guides on Earth.

For many days, I paced the Log Cabin pondering what to send my niece, perhaps a copy of my soon to be launched fantasy novel?  I have no care whether she finds some aspects imponderable in her early years, because it is written in tissue layers and a child’s heart is wise beyond age.  She will possess my gift forever if she is careful and one day when she is old enough, it will be understood for the wisdom contained within its leaves. However, what she will not be aware of is how my heart will swell, when she opens the lavishly  illustrated cover and her eyes fill with the richness of the prose. To cheer a child who longs to escape into a land of faeries weaving daisy chain bridges, to be present on the same page as Clara’s (the heroine) Unicorn protector and to wonder about the identity of a black puma who longs to be by Clara’s side – is a fitting reward for this author. 

A short extract should suffice for now, dear reader.  Be patient and all will be revealed before the year is at a close:--

"Unblinking, she watched him raise his head to reveal a striated horn which shimmered gold and with each movement he released a cloud of stardust, her neck was tight with emotion and she arched her back, willing the unicorn to see beyond its pure light into the realm of mortals. Imperiously, it shook its mane, and scattered spangles which danced along a path encircling Clara’s head and garlanding her body. Kind eyes alighted on Clara, who did not move a single nerve ending, her breathing was shallow and she did not care whether it was her last breath, humble in its presence, she offered a message straight from her heart. Thank you for believing in me". 
An extract from "Do dragonflies lose their colour when they die?"

A fantasy novel by Phyllis Anderson (c) 2012.