Tag Archives: #Memories

Where We Walked – Marloes Sands #BoxingDay #Pembrokeshire #Wales #Walks #Photographs #memories

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The last time we were here was last summer, on a warm and sunny day. After parking the car we’d walked down the winding track to the beach. The tide was well out and we’d strolled along the edge of the lapping gentle waves on the long stretch of sand.

This time: Boxing Day 2025, so bitterly cold that initially it took away our breath. But the sun was shining and the sky was a gloriously clear blue. It was good to be outside after days of rain. We sauntered down the track to the grassy path that led to the beach

The tide was in. In the distance we could see Skomer Island which we’d visited inJuly. An adventure I’d written about here and here.

We turned away from the beach and, after only slight hesitation, we crossed a small footbridge over a stream and followed a path to the top of the cliff that we’d not walked on before.

It was a little hair-raising to be honest. But the views were wonderful. After half an hour along an ever rising, and narrowing path we came to a halt at the top of steep and winding steps that obviously led down to the beach. Go on, or go back? We’re not very good at going back on walks, however lost we are, or in this case, however daunting the steps. So we decided – in for a penny and all that…

It took us ten minutes of walking sideways down each step and being very grateful for the walking poles we’d debated on bringing with us – (After all, it’ll only be a beach walk!” I’d said, foolishly).

I don’t know who’d built those steps but they’d obviously decided that anyone who could navigate them thus far would be fit enough to leap over the last two metres of sheer rock at the bottom to reach the beach.

Before I could decide to either slide down the rock on my backside, or roll down through the gorse bushes on either side of the path I heard a cry. ” Bravo! You are legends!” A lady appeared below. “Stay there. I’ll help you down, you legend. Grab my hand.” I was, I have to say, very grateful for the help.

Until, finally on level ground – (levelish – i looked it up, there is such a word, specially invented i guess for rocky beaches) – I looked at this lovely lady – and realised she was probably around our age.

To be clear though, she did tell us she’d arrived at this particular spot at low tide, and had walked along the wide stretch of sand from the other end of the beach – where we’d we’d originally planned to walk from. And also that the steps we’d come down were locally know as the emergency exit steps for when someone was caught out by the high tide. So that was the answer – whoever built the steps knew that anyone wanting to use them would probably be swimming to them – and not by choice; to escape being trapped by the tide.

Luckily for us the tide was on its way out. There was no way I was tackling those steps again to the top of the cliffs. We judged that, if we took our time, we could navigate around and over the rocks to get back to our originally planned starting point at the other end of the beach.

Having navigated rocks near the sea’s edge we made our way to the top of the beach near the cliffs where there was a gap between two tall, jagged rocks. A group of people came through as we were deciding on our next move. If they could do it so could we! Yes, I know … mad!! But we don’t like to be beaten.

We made it to the other side. “No problem,” said the photographer (He was standing on the sand taking this photograph with the path that leads up to the track, and on up to the car park, behind us). I ignored his confident smile; there were a few moments when I’d thought we would be needing a sea rescue.

N.B: Just as a matter of interests, Marloes Sands was the filming location for: Snow White & the Huntsman (September 2011). The Lion in Winter (1968).

And could I, should I, leave this post without a small metion of my books?

As I’m hoping the book I’m working on at the moment, and hope to publish in 2026 (Well, one can always live in hope!), I guess not. So here is the link to my Amazon page.

Thank you to all my readers; I appreciate each and every one of you.

It’s Been an Odd Day…

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 Today – Remembrance Day – has been a day when we paid homage to so many who gave their lives in past wars. A day that must have brought back memories for many. It has for me.

It’s eight years since my mother died. My sister arranged the funeral for eleven o’clock today. Eleven o’clock, on the eleven day of the year – perhaps no one else wanted that time or day – I was never told.

This is a post I wrote shortly afterwards. The relationship between Mum and me, and the one between her and my sister, proved so very different. There’s nothing wrong in that, but at no time was it more obvious than on that day…

I wrote… 

Last week I was at my mother’s funeral. I say at because I felt it was a funeral I was a spectator to, not part of.

During the service I realised something strange. Being the eldest, and living nearer to Mum than me,  my sister had insisted on organising the whole thing. It was a Humanist service which was fine; my mother had no beliefs.

But what was odd, was that what my sister had written about my mother was totally unlike the mum I knew. And I wonder if that is something all siblings share; a different view of the characters of their parents.

The mother my sister saw was a woman who liked poetry. So there were three poems in the service. I’ve never once seen my mother read poetry although she did like to misquote two lines from ‘ What is this life if, full of care…’

The mum I knew read and enjoyed what she herself called ‘trashy books.’ They weren’t, but she did love a romance and the odd ‘Northern-themed’ novels. (I’m always glad she was able to enjoy the first book of my trilogy – dementia had claimed her by the time the next two were published) She still managed a smiling grumble, though, telling me it had  taken me ‘long enough to get a book out there’) And she loved reading anything about the history of Yorkshire and Lancashire. Oh, and recipe books… she had dozens of recipe books and could pour over them for hours. I often challenged her to make something from them. She never did… it was a shared joke.

Mum had a beautiful singing voice in her younger days.  She and my father would sing duets together. Anybody remember Pearl Carr and Teddy Johnson?  My parents knew all their songs. And so did my sister and I… I thought. The songs and singers chosen were not ones I remembered. And Mum loved brass bands! She’d have loved to have gone out to a rousing piece from a brass band, preferably the local band. She loved everything about the area and the house she’d live in for almost sixty years

Which brings me to the main gist of the service. No mention of Mum’s love of nature, of gardening, of walking. Nothing about Mum’s sense of humour; often rude, always hilarious. When telling a tale she had no compunction about swearing if it fitted the story. And her ability to mimic, together with her timing, was impeccable. She was smart, walking as upright in her later years as she had when in the ATS as a young woman, during the Second World War. She worked hard all her life;  as a winder in a cotton mill, later as a carer, sometimes as a cleaner. Throughout the service there was no inkling of the proud Northern woman willing to turn her hand to any job as long as it paid. No mention of her as a loyal wife to a difficult man.

Thinking about it on the way home I realised that my sister had seen none of what I’d known and I knew nothing of what she’d seen in Mum. And then I thought, perhaps as we were such dissimilar daughters to her, Mum became a different mother to each of us? Hence the completely opposite funeral to the one I would have arranged for her.

Is that the answer? A funeral is a public service. Are they all edited, eased into the acceptable, the correct way to be presented for public consumption? Because it reflects on those left behind? I don’t know.

Perhaps, unless we’ve had the foresight to set out the plan for our own funerals, this will  always be the case.

So I’d like it on record that, at my funeral,  I’d like Unforgettable by Nat King Cole (modest as always!), a reading of Jenny Joseph’s When I Am Old (yes, I do know it’s been performed to death but won’t that be appropriate?). I’d like anybody who wants to say anything…yes anything…about me to be able to…as long as it’s true, of course! And then I’d like the curtains closed on me to Swan Lake’s Dance of the Little Swans. (Because this was the first record bought for me by my favourite aunt when I was ten. And because, although as a child I dreamt of being a ballet dancer, the actual size and shape of me has since prevented it.)

Thank you for reading this. I do hope I haven’t offended (or, even worse, bored) anyone. I was tempted to put this under the category ‘Fantasy’ but thought better of it!

And, today, I’ve also had thoughts of my grandad. Like do many young men he served in WW1

This is a post from quite a while ago, as well. Today was the day my grandad died. I never really knew him. He was always in bed in the front room of my grandmother’s house and had no patience for a small child. But I do remember that day: my mother crying, the fear of not knowing why, what had happened. Of not knowing what to do.

And I have only one small black and white photograph of him on my study wall. He’s standing in the backyard of the terraced house they lived in in Oldham. Lancashire. This is a poem I wrote about him a long time ago. My mother once told me that he was gassed in WW1 and never recovered.

My Grandad

I look at the photograph.

He smiles,and silently

he tells me

his story…

In my backyard I stand,

Hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

Shirt sleeves, rolled back,

Reveal tattoos – slack muscles.

I grin.

All teeth.

Who cares that they’re more black

Than white.

Underneath

That’s my life.

That’s the grin I learned

When burned

By poison

Spreading

Like wild garlic.

That’s the grin I wear

When I look

But don’t see

The dark oil glistening,

Blistering, inside me.

When I hear, but don’t listen

To my lungs closing.

I posture,

Braces fastened for the photo,

Chest puffed out.

Nothing touches me –

Now.

Later I cough my guts up –

Chuck up.

I trod on corpses: dead horses,

Blown up in a field

Where grass had yielded

To strong yellow nashers.

And in the pastures

I shat myself.

But smelled no worse

Than my mate, Henry, next to me

Whose head grinned down from the parapet –

Ten yards away.

He has perfect, white teeth.

Much good they’ve done him,

Except for that last night at home

When the girl smiled back.

It feels right that I post the images below – if it wasn’t for my mother and grandad, I probably wouldn’t have had the inspiration to write these books.

Looking Back over my Writing Years – Is it Safe to Smile Now? #memories #writing #agents #publishing #MondayBlogs @Honno

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Me in a thoughtful mood.

I thought I would revisit a time of my life when I despaired of ever being in print. It cheers me up as I agonise over yesterday’s efforts, altering and editing before I can even start with today’s writing and the realisation that one of my lovely characters has a cob on and won’t do as I want her to do. I’ve spent hours trying to persuade her, putting her in different scenarios, story lines. But no, she’s adamant – she wouldn’t act in that way,

So I’ve gone back to the heady day when I found an agent. And I kept a diary.

Sometime… a long time ago.

It’s been a fortnight since I met with my agent (get me! – and it was in London and she treated me to a meal in a posh restaurant). Carried away with her enthusiasm for my writing, her promises to make me into a ‘brand name’ and her assurance that she had many contacts in the publishing world that would ‘snap her hand off for my novel’, I signed on the dotted line.

Today she telephones, summarily dismissing an offer. ‘We can do better than this.’

What? What’s better than getting this novel published? Than seeing, holding, a book in my hand that I’ve actually written? I get an offer, perfectly acceptable to me, but according to this agent, it’s not enough. ‘We’ll try other publishers, bigger publishers,’ she says.

Image courtesy of Pixabay

I’m worried. But she knows the business.

Doesn’t she?

Still a long time ago … It’s been six months of waiting.

So far, four rejections from publishers. Couched, mind you, in encouraging remarks:

“Believable characters … strong and powerful writing … gripping story … Judith has an exciting flair for plot … evocative descriptions.”

And then the death knell on my hopes:

Image courtesy of Pixabay

‘Unfortunately … our lists are full … we’ve just accepted a similar book … we are only a small publishers … (what? The agent rejects one small independant publishers who I really liked the sound of, but then sends the manuscript to another?) …’I’m sure you’ll find a platform for Judith’s work …’

Yes, yes, we did, we did find ‘a platform’, as they put it. Or rather I did. I found a publisher: I liked their ethos, the way they presented and supported their authors – a feminist press, for goodness sake; one right up my street.

The self-doubt, the frustration, floods back. I’m never going to get the book published.
 
Still a long time ago: Another three months later.

I’ve had a call from the agent; ‘I think it’s time to re-evaluate the comments we’ve had so far,’ she says. ‘Parts of the storyline need tweaking. I’ve negotiated a deal with a commercial editor for you. It’s a realistic charge by today’s standards,’ she says. ’Think about it,’ she says. ‘In the end we’ll have a book that will take you to the top of your field.’

I think about it. Reject the idea. Listen to advice from my various acquaintances. Think about it again.

And think about it some more.

And then I ring the agent. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll pay’

I have no choice; after all she’s the expert. What do I know?

Still sometime … a long time ago (I have to keep saying “a long time ago”. just in case you think I’m still as gullible as I was then).

Another six months gone. The first commercial editor (the best, apparently) has succumbed to maternity leave. The one who was finally chosen by my agent (the second best?) has had my script all this time. I’ve already paid her.

You’re now wondering what kind of credulous idiot is this, yes? Well, let me say here that this latest saga (an apt word as my first book is actually a saga!) has been going on for over eighteen months and I’m desperate.

All creativity has gone. I can’t write anything but emails – and believe me, there are plenty on this subject. The commercial editor’s reasons (excuses) for the delay are numerous: an urgent journey to Europe to do research for a project, a family crisis (alright, I’ll believe that one) she’s ghost writing a celebrity’s autobiography (how can it be an autobiography if someone else is writing it? That always puzzles me. Surely then, it’s a biography?) Okay, okay, bitterness is creeping in.

We were supposed to be having a meeting to discuss the way forward with my book. It didn’t happen.

Now a friend, a successful and published author herself, is concerned I’m being conned. So am I! I feel foolish but say surely it’s only a few things that need tweaking.

It’s back!

I read it in disbelief; if I follow all the ‘suggestions’ it will change from being a saga into romantic fiction. Okay, I like a bit romance; don’t we all? The book does have some romance threaded throughout, but it also crosses other genres: history, crime, domestic thriller.

I ring my agent,

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘it is a little more drastic than I expected but go with it.’

I tried- really I did. For two months I worked. With less and less interest. In the end I stopped. I didn’t recognise my story; I had no empathy with the characters. It wasn’t my book any-more.

So…

I made a decision, one of the biggest I’ve ever made. I sent a letter terminating our contract. Despite persuasive tactics from her I don’t waiver.

In trepidation I start again; I contact the publisher I first found, submit my manuscript. And wait

They will meet with me. No promises…

 Pattern of Shadows, the first book of my Haworth trilogy published by Honno finally made the shelves.

This is my favourite review of all time for the trilogy: Mary’s story: WWII in Howarth family generational saga: “Every now and then, I come across books so beautifully written that their characters follow me around, demanding I understand their lives, their mistakes, their loves, and in this case, their families. Taken together, the Howarth Family stories are an achievement worth every one of the five stars I’d give them.”

Sixteen years late I’m still with Honno.

And, in November, Honno will be publishing my eighth book with them. Cover reveal on the 30th July… so tomorrow!! Hooray!!!

The Stranger in My House.

A gripping ‘cuckoo in the nest’ domestic thriller

After the death of their mum, twins Chloe and Charlie are shocked when their dad introduces Lynne as their ‘new mummy’. Lynne, a district nurse, is trusted in the community, but the twins can see her kind smile doesn’t meet her eyes. In the months that follow they suffer the torment Lynne brings to their house as she stops at nothing in her need to be in control.

Betrayed, separated and alone, the twins struggle to build new lives as adults, but will they find happiness or repeat past mistakes? Will they discover Lynne’s secret plans for their father? Will they find each other in time?

The Stranger in My House is a gripping ‘cuckoo in the nest’ domestic thriller, exploring how coercive control can tear a family apart. Set in Yorkshire and Cardiff, from the 60s to the winter of discontent, The Stranger in My House dramatises both the cruelty and the love families hide behind closed doors.

“Judith Barrow’s greatest strength is her understanding of her characters and the time.” TerryTyler

Our One and Only Adventure in a Helicopter #MondayBlogs #Memories #photographs #Adventures @NewZealand @MountCook

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We’d wanted to go to New Zealand for years. And one of us had wanted to go in a helicoptor for … well… for a long time. So, when the opportunity came, and finances allowed, we went. What I didn’t know was that someone had booked a trip to the summit of Mount Cook.

The New Zealand Southern Alps are a range of mountains formed millions of years ago by the clashing of the Pacific and Indo-Australian tectonic plates. Mount Cook (also called Aoraki – Cloud Piercer) at 3753 metres is the highest peak. And the highest place I’ve ever been – and most probably ever will go. It was truly spectacular. And, if I’m honest, rather Intimidating. But, if we’d gone before 1991, it would have been even more nail-biting. In that year a mighty avalanche sent millions of tons of debris crashing onto the glacier below, losing ten metres from the summit and completely changing the eastern face of the mountain.

Mount Cook is bordered by two glaciers: the Tasman Glacier to the east and the Hooker Glacier towards the west coast. I think, at this stage I was just hoping we could land safely… and not on a glacier.

Mount Cook, helped Sir Edmund Hillary to develop his climbing skills in preparation for the conquest of Everest at the age of thirty-three. On the twenty-ninth of May 1953, at around 11:30am he and his Sherpa mountain guide Tenzing Norgay successfully reached the summit of Mount Everest (8844.43m), becoming the first man to stand on the top of the highest mountain in the world.

The first recorded ascent of Mount Cook is by the New Zealand climbing trio of Jack Clarke, Tom Fyfe and George Graham, who reached the top of the mountain on Christmas day in 1894.

According to Māori (Ngāi Tahu) legend, Aoraki and his three brothers were the sons of Rakinui (the Sky Father). While on a sea voyage around the Papatūānuku, (the Earth Mother) their canoe became stranded on a reef. Aoraki and his brothers climbed onto the top side of their canoe when it overturned. The freezing south wind turned them to stone.

Those tiny figures are us, together with the other passenger and the pilot. As I’d glued the photographer to my side when we first got out of the helicopter, I haven’t a clue who took this photo! Whoever it was, they didn’t get back in the helicopter with us. There could be a story somewhere in that!

It was rather bright… and cold… and windy. The photographer clutched tight hold of his camera. And, as I said, I clutched tight hold to him.

I think by the time he’d finished we had about fifty photographs of the summit and surrounding mountain peaks. He does like to take every angle from all accessible places. I did get a little worried at times at his definition of accessible.

Back safe! It occurred to me afterwards, when I looked back on some of the more difficult hikes we’ve done, how different it is being in control of where your feet go on rocky trails, and how nervous I was actually standing on top of Mount Cook when I knew there was only one way down!

I think this is his “we did it” stance. And let’s go again! 

But I was happy to go to the Aoraki Mount Cook village (known mostly for being the top South Island basecamp for climbers, where about only two hundred and fifty people live and there are only around ten pupils in the local school; New Zealand’s only school inside a national park) for some much needed refreshments.

And, anyway, the clouds had descended once more and all flights were off for the day. Phew!!

Walking the Samaria Gorge – White Mountains National Park #memories #holidays #photographs #MondayBlogs

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Twenty years ago we went to Crete. Enticed by the write up in brochure in a cafe we decided to walk the Samaria Gorge. The entrance to the Gorge is from Xyloscalo, near the village of Omalos, leads past the old village of Samaria and (sixteen kilometres, that’s ten miles in old money) later eventually ends at Agia Rouméli, a small pretty coastal village with glorious views of the Mediterranean Sea. And tavernas under canopies of eucalyptus and cypress trees. I have to say it was the thought of this last description that persuaded me.

Last week, much to his excitement, husband (the photographer) found some of his photographs taken with one of his old cameras. These reminded me that this was the very first long walk that we actually did together.

Shades of things to come!

When I say “together” I actually mean that, if I didn’t keep an eye on what he was doing, I’d often be walking for ages before realising I’d been talking to myself and he was nowhere in sight. Since then I’ve learned to take a notebook and pen on these excursions so I can sit and write while he takes dozens of different photographs of the same scene, but from different angles, with different lenses, and all that technical stuff.

Armed with strong hiking boots, sunhats, sun cream, bottles of water and snacks we caught the bus at Chania to take us to Xiloskalo at five in the morning. By the end of the hike I was glad we’d started so early; it was sweltering. But I must admit that, at first, I wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as the photographer to be getting up at that time on holiday.

How wrong I was. This is one hike I will never forget.

Declared a National Park in 1962, mainly to protect the endangered Cretan goats (Kri-Kri) which live in the area, the gorge has a rich history dating back to ancient times. Inhabited by people who worshipped the goddess Samaria. It also served as a refuge for Cretan rebels and freedom fighters during various periods of oppression and occupation by foreign powers such as the Turks, the Germans, and the British.

It also is home to the most exquisite plant life…

The Cretan ebony is found only in Crete, with purple flowers that adorn the Cretan mountains. Other endemic Cretan plant species are the Cretan crocus, the beautiful Cretan bell several aromatic herbs that thrive on the island. ( N.B. This is not one of husband’s photographs but courtesy of CRETA MARIS. I couldn’t resist showing this gorgeous plant, which wasn’t flowering at the time we went – otherwise you would definitely be seeing various angles and shots of it courtesy of husband)

The above is the narrowest and most famous section of the gorge – called Portes or The Iron Gates. It’s thirteen foot wide and one thousand six hundred and forty foot high. This was the most rocky part to walk – though as far as I remember we did much clambering over and around boulders all the way. I was very glad of the stout boots.

It took us six hours before we reached Agia Roumeli and relaxed outside a taverna with a cold glass of water and a dakos ( a hard barley rusk soaked in olive oil with coriander seeds, chopped tomatoes, oregano and cheese). I asked how this was made but I’ve never quite managed to achieve that special flavour we tasted that day)

The gorge is only open from May to October; in the first and last few weeks of that period it may close if there’s a danger of flash floods.

And I was glad that I wasn’t told before we set off that the gorge is home to four different snakes, the Balkan whip snake, the dice snake, the cat snake and the leopard snake. Although not dangerous I’m relieved i didn’t see one.

Now husband has discovered photographs from his old camera I’m hoping he can find more from other walks we’ve done over the years. They’ve brought back many memories.

Where We Walked @Catrigg Force @YorkshireDales @England #walks #photographs #memories

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This was a walk we did twice when we were in the Yorkshire Dales. The second time we were here was by accident. We got lost – surprise, surprise – and came over a hill to find us again at …

Catrigg Force … a small but impressive waterfall just east of the village of Stainforth. The first time we found it we’d actually planned to call to see it as the first part of a longer walk (more to come on that another time!)

After a snack in the local pub (called the The Craven Heifer in Stainforth – spot a theme in these posts?!!) we headed up a bridleway called Goat Lane. (not sure why it’s called that, we only saw sheep and lambs – definitely no cows… well not at this point anyway!). The track, between parallel stone walls, is a small section of the Pennine Bridleway

We meandered along the upward track for about a mile, past several derelict farm buildings, and stopping to admire the view. In the distance on the moorland, are the Winskill Stones, pedestals of limestone and topped with slate, left behind by ice-age glaciers. Finally we reached the signpost for Catrigg Foss on the left of the track.

No stile this time, a kissing gate, leading to a steep, rocky, narrow, path, down to the stream, Catrigg Beck, which flows from the hills and feeds the waterfall.

The poor quality and lack of any particular viewpoint/perspective in this photograph is because it was taken by me, on my mobile phone, while balancing on the edge of the waterfall and hanging onto a branch of a nearby tree. All without the knowledge of the photographer, who’d wandered off to find the the base of the waterfall.

I followed. Leaving the stream, I made my way down another narrow path alongside a sheer wall of limestone rock and a tree-lined drop to a deep, hidden gully that holds the waterfall and the shallow river, the continuation of Catrigg Beck. There were two separate, quite magical falls, well over six metres in height in the long wooded copse. The sprays of water, a sparkling shower of colours in the sunshine that flickered through the leaves, landed all around us. The only sounds were the waterfalls and the calls of birds. Perfect peace …

Ah well… as I said, this was only the start of a massively, more strenuous, longer walk – a longer walk, planned by the photographer, to take in the landscape from the Victoria Cave in Ribblesdale (discovered by chance in 1837, the year of Queen Victoria’s coronation). This second time we were here was purely by coincidence, and at the end of a quite sedate walk … for us! We ambled through fields, back to where we were staying in a tiny cottage in Langcliffe.

By the way…

Apparently Catrigg Force was a favourite haunt of composer Edward Elgar. He visited the waterfalls and, during his visits to the Yorkshire Dales, was inspired to compose Pomp and Circumstance and the Enigma Variations, his most famous works.

Three fun facts about Elgar – Not only was he a composer, but he was also an amateur chemist. In his spare time, he would tinker with experiments. He was the first composer to fully embrace recording music. And he loved cycling. He had a Royal Sunbeam bicycle that he nicknamed ‘Mr. Phoebus. ‘

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Where We Walked – Oxenber & Wharfe Woods #Walks #Photographs @Yorkshire Dales @England #MondayBlogs #Holidays #memories #PathsandStiles

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I was promised an easy walk on one of the days. This is it; the Oxenber and Wharf Wood and Feizor walk from Austwick. It should have taken around two hours… we didn’t allow for the stiles.

We left Austwick by the Pennine Bridleway and walked over the Flascoe footbridge heading up the path towards Oxenber Wood.

We met the obligatory cow – who followed us along her side of the wall in the next field. In fact, by the time we reached the end of this path, there were six of them jostling for a view of us.

And the first of the stiles. This one was stone, sturdy, easy to climb over. We’ve got this sussed, I thought; easy walk, conventional stiles. The photographer couldn’t resist taking in the view of Austwick and the miles of glorious scenery around Ingleborough and Fountains Fell. Then he casually strode halfway over the stile – and was abruptly stopped when his rucksack decided to stay on the other side. We manhandled it over the wall, and carried on, ignoring the snorts from the cows…

And saw this…

Bluebells! Stretching seemingly for miles. And, miles away on the horizon … Pen y Ghent, the destination of one of our … hmm!… shall I say … more strenuous walks in that week: https://tinyurl.com/3e48vc7a

Hundreds of years ago, this area of woodland and pasture was part of the village quarry, and is still rough underfoot with hollows and dips under the grass. We were told it’s a site of special scientific interest and an area of conservation. The trees (as stated on the information board at the beginning of the walk) are mainly Ash, Hazel and Hawthorn.

As we clambered over the limestone rocks to enter the woods, a young man came puffing up behind us. He was a teacher, supposed to be on a day out with a colleague and their class from his school, but had overslept and was now in pursuit. We stopped to let him pass, pretending we didn’t need the break to get our breath back. That hill was steeper than we thought… or looks.

From the loud cheer that rang out a few minutes later, the teacher had obviously found the children.

In the woodland there were areas of slabs of limestone paving with various wild flowers and plants.

Wood Sorrel

Hart’s Tongue Fern.

Dog’s Mercury

There was quite a lot of the Dog’s Mercury (as stated on the Information Board) We were told, by a man in the pub where we were having a meal that evening – (we did seem to meet the local naturalist, whichever pub we went in) – that it is a poisonous coloniser of ancient woodland. But, if thoroughly dried, apparently (I’m stressing the “apparently” here), the plant loses its poisonous quality. The juice of the plant is emetic, ophthalmic and purgative, and can be used externally to treat ear and eye problems, warts, and sores. And other ailments!

As a writer I couldn’t help thinking about using this last plant in a story … to kill off a character … maybe?!!

We left the woods, through a wooden gate and onto a path which at first gently rose and then zig-zagged down through a jumble of exposed limestone towards the hamlet of Feizor. Where we stopped at a tea room for a cuppa.

Leaving the tea room we climbed over the first of five high stiles in a stone wall, and along a public footpath through four sloping fields.

You may have noticed that I have no photographs of the fields, nor of the stiles here. We were either too anxiously gazing across the fields, knowing we’d have difficulty both going back to the tea room lane or forwards to continue our walk. This was because of the stiles. There was the stile where the first stone step was three foot high in the wall (“You need to get your leg higher,” I encouraged the photographer), having only been able to reach it myself by taking a running jump at the thing. Then there was the one where the middle stone was broken off revealing only a sharp corner that protruded only enough for the toe of our boots (That one resulted in scraped shins). The two wooden stiles had seesaw wobbles enough to cause seasickness, and the next seemed fine until we found that the space in the wall for us to get through was the width off one boot only. (One narrow ladies’ walking boot – which isn’t mine) Which meant a dare-devil leap forward to the next field was the only way to ‘dismount’!)

At this point I said I was never going over another stile again. Before I saw the next one! We were only glad there was no one nearby who could see us struggling, or worse still, waiting for their turn to climb over any of them.

Finally we triumphed over the last stile (more a small hole in the wall, thankfully), and back onto the tarmac lane… when we realised that, if we’d only walked a few metres further along the lane after leaving the cafe, we would have met the main road that eventually led to the tarmac lane.

And on to the first path … where the cows were waiting for us.

And so into Austwick again.

‘Easier today wasn’t it? Rested now?’ He said later. ‘Try for a longer walk tomorrow?’

Where We Walked – @Malham Tarn #Walks #Photographs @Yorkshire Dales #MondayBlog

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Malham Tarn is a shallow glacial lake three hundred and seventy seven metres above sea level, making it the highest lake in England. Situated above the village of Malham in the Yorkshire Dales National Park, it’s owned by the National Trust. It’s also the source of the River Aire; water flows out of the southern end of the lake and disappears underground to reappear as the River Aire at the foot of Malham Cove about one and a half miles away. Later, we were told by someone local that Malham Tarn is unusual because the water doesn’t sink into the ground. Apparently, during the Ice Age glaciers scraped away the the limestone down to the ancient slate layer underneath, and because slate is impermeable, it doesn’t let the water through. Then, when the glacier melted, the mouth of the Tarn was sealed by banks of clay and gravel.

I studied the map. ‘You said we were having an easy day today.’

‘I told you; eleven miles,’ said the photographer.

‘No, you said a mile.’

It’ s all flat, so it is easy… most of the way.’ And off he strides…

Towards some cows. Who look at us with interest and then decide to follow.

All the way as we walked along the shore of the tarn, through a gate and along a path into the woods.

We passed Tarn House, which was built as a hunting box in the late-18th century, and is now now owned by the National Trust. Used as a Field Studies Centre, there is an Orchid House, which usually has an exhibition area. Seeing the exhibition subject on our day, I passed by.

The house itself must once have been quite grand. It still is impressive, though obviously needs money spending on it.

There isn’t a lot of open water in the area, and, in the Stone Age, the lake was inundated with herds of wild animals, and consequently brought hunters from far and wide. Archaeologists have found the remains of their campsites and stone tools along the shoreline. We walked down to the bird hide.

Although we saw Canada geese, a pair of mallard ducks, a greater-spotted woodpecker – and many sparrows, this was the only other wildlife we found…

But what was really impressive was the man-made track that leads to the National Nature Reserve. We leisurely followed the boardwalk through the reserve for the next half an hour.

We came out of the reserve onto an unmade track . I expected to turn right to retrace our steps.

‘No left, we’re only halfway around the walk,’ the photographer said. Earlier on I’d seen this in the distance.

Reassured that he’d said the walk was a flat walk, I’d just admired the shape of Great Close Scar. I said nothing. I was saving my breath … and waiting…

More next time!

Our Past Shapes Our Present And Our Future. (Whether We Like That Or Not) #BOTY2021 #memories #secrets #TheMemory #ThursdayThrowback @honno

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Seeing the results of the Wales Book of the Year Award 2024, and reading one or two of the books of the shortlisted authors over the last month, brought back memories of 2021 when I was nominated for the Literature Wales Book of the Year Award. It still feels strange.

The Memory was published around the first week of the first lockdown and I thought it became lost in all the disruption and anxiety of the pandemic. So, when I first heard that the book was being nominated, it was a complete surprise. Naturally I was also thrilled because, at that time,The Memory was so different from my first four novels, which are historical family sagas. And I wasn’t sure how it would be received by the readers who had enjoyed those books. So, to be recognised by Literature Wales for the Wales Book of the Year Award 2021, The Rhys Davies Trust Fiction Award, was a great accolade for me.

I believe we are all affected by our pasts; experiences that shape our present and future. And, as writers, memories feed our stories. Families fascinate me: the love, the loyalties, the rivalry, the complex relationships. Layers that are in all families. The casual acceptance of one another in a family can bring the best and the worst out in all of us, so there is a wealth of human emotions to work with. This is how The Memory evolved. A little of the background comes from a time when I was a carer for my aunt who lived with us. She developed dementia and I kept a journal so we could talk about what we’d done each day. Many years after she’d died, some of those recollections crept into The Memory. And then there are the memories from my childhood, when I had a friend who was a Downs Syndrome child. The affection she gave, the happiness that seemed to surround her, is something I remembered long after she died of heart failure at the age of eleven. And I wanted that love to be a huge part of the book, a main theme. Fundamentally it’s the story of a secret that is never discussed within a family, but which has had a profound lifelong effect on the relationship between the mother and daughter. The Memory is sometimes poignant, sometimes sad, but is threaded throughout with humour.

Reviews for The Memory:

“… As a reader, when a character becomes as completely real to me as Irene does, I often find myself wondering what happened next for her. But Irene’s story is so perfectly and elegantly resolved that I know without a shade of doubt what her future holds.The Memory is not a comfortable or easy read. But if you’re looking for a beautifully written, character-driven story with a dark base but superb resolution, it just might be the perfect choice.”

” …The writing is what I’ve come to expect from Judith Barrow. The effortless prose brings a fresh quality to the mundane and familiar.
There’s also a building menace to the book and a sense of foreboding that drives you on right to the surprising end.
The Memory is a remarkable book and I wholeheartedly recommend it.”

When The Memory was shortlisted for the Wales Book of the Year Award in 2021 I was also pleased for Honno. I’d been published by them for many years and I believe it also gave them some much deserved recognition.

And I’m thrilled that Honno will be publishing my eighth book with them in November.

The Stranger in My House.

After the death of their mum, twins Chloe and Charlie are shocked when their dad introduces Lynne as their ‘new mummy’. Lynne, a district nurse, is trusted in the community, but the twins can see her kind smile doesn’t meet her eyes. In the months that follow they suffer the torment Lynne brings to their house as she stops at nothing in her need to be in control.

Betrayed, separated and alone, the twins struggle to build new lives as adults, but will they find happiness or repeat past mistakes? Will they discover Lynne’s secret plans for their father? Will they find each other in time?

The Stranger in My House is a gripping ‘cuckoo in the nest’ domestic thriller, exploring how coercive control can tear a family apart. Set in Yorkshire and Cardiff, from the 60s to the winter of discontent, The Stranger in My House dramatises both the cruelty and the love families hide behind closed doors.

“Judith Barrow’s greatest strength is her understanding of her characters and the time.” TerryTyler

Our Walk Around lake Vyrnwy (With a bit of History Thrown in) #photography #walks #memories #humour #MondayBlogs

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‘Let’s go to Lake Vyrnwy,’ Husband said. ‘Take some photos.‘

“Take some photos”, is a phrase that has been used many time down the years of our marriage. Sometimes it makes my heart sink; it often means I carry on walking along a chosen trail, before realising I’ve left Husband behind, oblivious, and capturing, “just the right shot” and have to retrace my steps. I have complained that this means I have walked miles more than him, but he, (“quite reasonably,” he says) means I’m burning more calories off. I ignore the implication of this… normally… but make sure I eat his chocolate bar as well as my own, when we stop for lunch.

Anyway… Lake Vyrnwy...

Just on the edge of The Snowdonia National Park and south of Lake Bala, Lake Vyrnwy is set amidst the remote and beautiful Berwyn Mountains. With spectacular waterfalls, and unspoilt open countryside. Except that, although the scenery is, as always, fantastic, the waterfalls are sadly depleted. As is the reservoir. However, since these photos were taken in August, and we’ve had such downpours, with fingers crossed, an inch or two may have been added to the water level. One can but hope!

We parked in a designated area that was supposed to be on the edge of the lake. It wasn’t; the water was so low we could have walked quite a few metres on shingle that should… would … in ‘normal times’ be submerged. It reminded us that, underneath, was a village, lost many years ago.

Llanwddyn was a village on the hillside next to the Cedig river. There were thirty-seven houses, three chapels and a Church of St John, and, in the surrounding countryside, ten farmsteads. Farming was the main occupation of the people in the valley, they ate simple food, such as mutton broth, porridge, gruel, and milk and burned peat from the moors in their fireplaces.

But, with expanding industries in the the Midlands and the north-west of England, and the prospect of higher wages, many people left. To make matters worse for those still trying to make a living from the land, in 1873 the local vicar,Reverend Thomas H. Evans published a report that the area was useless for agriculture, because it was waterlogged for much of the winter.

Seeing this, made us realise how many streams must has poured down the hills. Imaging the rush of water, I suppose it’s easy to understand the Reverend’s statement. Yet it has left me wondering why he wrote the report. Was he paid? Were the villagers aware of what he’d done? If they did find out, what was the reaction? I haven’t been able to discover that. The writer in me is itching to research that time. It did coincide with a time when the authorities of Liverpool were exploring the country for sites to build a new reservoir to cope with the growing population on both sides of the Mersey. So who’s to say!

Various sites were under consideration in northern England and Wales, but in most cases there were snags By 1877 a group of engineers arrived in Llanwddyn. Their visit was to look into the possibility of damming the river Vyrnwy. A survey revealed a large area of solid rock, just where the valley narrowed, two miles south of the village, which could act as a base for creating a large, artificial lake that had the potential for holding many millions of gallons of water.

It brings a feeling of awe, of sadness, almost, to be walking on land that is normally submerged under water, on land where a village once stood, where people once lived.

Driving further around the lake we pass a sign at the side of the road – “Track to impressive hillside view. Not to be missed”. Well, if ever there was a challenge to a photographer, that was it. Husband got out of the car and disappeared for a few minutes, soon to return. ‘It doesn’t look too bad. Come on.’

And indeed the first few steps were not too bad. And then we turned a corner… to be faced by an almost vertical path, a rocky vertical path. I stopped; why do I always let myself be fooled?

‘Come on, it’s not far!’ He said that numerous times for the next ten minutes. Hauling me from bend to bend. ” Think of the view!”

I couldn’t think of anything, except how to get my next breath.

But I had to admit, the view was worth it. The coniferous forests planted around the lake by the Forestry Commission are impressive.

On the way back, Husband found two stout branches to use as walking sticks, to scrabble down between mossy rocks and sliding muddy stones. It was either that or an undignified descent on my backside.

In 1880 the Liverpool Corporation Waterworks Act was passed by Parliament, and received the Royal Assent. Preparations were at once put in hand to gather the work-force and equipment necessary for the construction of what was to become the first large masonry dam in Britain and the largest artificial reservoir in Europe at the time. Work on the site began in July 1881.

The stone for the masonry was obtained from the quarry specially opened. All other materials were brought by horse and cart from the railway station at Llanfyllin, ten miles away. Stabling for up to 100 horses was built in Llanfyllin. The labour force topped 1,000 men at the busiest stage of the work on the dam. Many of them were stone masons working in the quarry, dressing the stone which was not easy to handle.

In a very short time the dam was completed. The village of Llanwddyn, and all buildings in the valley that were designated to be covered by the water, were demolished.

©Martin Edwards

St Wddyn’s church was built on the hill on the north side to replace the parish destroyed by the flooding of Vyrnwy valley. Many of the graves were relocated from the graveyard of the old church to St Wddyn’s before it was flooded. It was was consecrated on the 27 November 1888, the day before the valves were closed. It took a year before the water reached and spilled over the lip of the dam.

On a previous walk, some years before, we witnessed a wedding procession coming from the church, led by a chimney sweep in all his glory. Apparently it’s considered lucky to see a chimney sweep on your wedding day, the belief being they bring good luck, wealth, and happiness. The bride and groom did look joyous. I would have loved to have tagged onto the procession, but, that day, we were looking for “a good view of the water”, further along the road.

On the same hill as the church a monument was erected in memory of ten men who died in accidents on the site during the building of the dam and another thirty-four who died from other causes at the time.

Stone houses, matching the stone of the dam, were built on either side of the valley for the people whose homes had disappeared under the lake. I suppose there must have been a lot of opposition to flooding the valley to provide Liverpool with water at the time, and since, but records have apparently shown that it brought prosperity and stability to the area.

Our final excursion on our walk was to the waterfalls.

One of the highest is the Rhiwargor waterfall at the northern end of Lake Vyrnwy. From the car park I was relieved to see the relatively flat path along the valley of the river Eiddew. There was a trail leading up and up along the side of the falls. Despite much attempted persuasions, I declined, and opted for a coffee and a picnic at a nearby picnic table. And I ate his chocolate bar! Well, after that impromptu climb earlier, I thought I deserved it. Who said I hold grudges?!!

N.B. The Lake Vyrnwy Nature Reserve and Estate that surrounds the lake is jointly managed by the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) and the Hafren Dyfrdwy (Severn Dee). The reserve is designated as a national nature reserve, a Site of Special Scientific Interest, a Special Protection Area, and a Special Area of Conservation.