New Year Resolutions

New Year resolutions are easy to make but keeping to them is another thing altogether. So far I am doing alright though getting up in the dark leaving a warm bed and sleeping husband takes a lot of will power. I have gone back to one of the two novels I was writing in 2006 and edited all twelve chapters in pencil. Now I have to transfer all this to my computer and then, in theory I should be able to go back to the world I was creating. I shall have to relearn the art of persuading my friends that although I am at home, I am actually working and gossiping over coffee is not on the agenda until the day's word count is complete!

Past and Future

2011 - a year stuffed full of events and surprises as a slice of Christmas pudding filled with fruit and treasurers, still topped with the flickering flames of brandy as it arrived on my plate. Among the raisins and cherries was the glint of a wedding ring, a silver ship, a car, a greyhound and a treasure I had always dreamed of but never expected to find, and tiny silver book. Five treasures in one year, such riches all handed to me on a plate.

The greyhound? I have heard it said that in a life time of living with dogs one will be more special than the rest and Muffin has found the key to my heart, he has been my constant companion through some very difficult years. I have never spent so much time in a car, computers and mobile phones are great aids to courting but the time comes when you want to meet face to face and courting over two hundred and seventy miles would be difficult without a car. The ship took us to far away places as we took time out to get to know each other. The wedding ring became mine in October and the book? My first novel, Phoenix House, was published in July. It is for sale on Amazon as well as in some of the shops in Dorset.
Being a new comer to all this I have a lot to learn about advertising and PR. I had read that I should have a presence on Youtube but had no idea how to go about it and spent much of the night before a pre-Christmas Book Signing in Weymouth lying awake and worrying. It was a vile day, bitterly cold with sheeting rain so few people had ventured out. Only half a dozen people came to the event but among them was a knight in shining amour. At least that is the way I saw his rain soaked coat for instead of a sword he was carrying a video camera. You can see the video on Youtube if you go to www.youtube.co/Zzippster and look for Carenza Hayhoe.
The story of Phoenix House begins for my heroine Ginny on the day of her grandmother's funeral. After a year filled with adventures she discovers that her grandmother isn't so very far away after all and that she has inherited her talent for writing. Now I have the problem of making sure I make time every day so that I can fulfill all Ginny's ambitions!

To find out more about Portland and Phoenix House go to www.carenza.net

The return of hope

The turn of the year, traditionally a time for review and resolve, so much has changed since I wrote The Fledgling. I didn’t know then it would be the last thing I would write for nearly three years for I would have neither the time nor the energy. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other and pray that I would be able to keep going as I experienced the depths of sorrow, grief and loneliness. I lived with the hope that the old saying ‘the darkest hour of the night is just before the dawn’ would prove to be true, but as days became months and months turned into years the darkness became darker and I came close to despair.
During the past year I have discovered you are never too old to laugh, love and start all over again. Creative energy has been regained and with it has come the restoration of the belief that there is nothing so bad that it cannot be turned over for good.

The Fledgling

(when I wrote this gulls were nesting on the roof opposite the kitchen window, the youngest was ready to fly)

They told me that I have to live
Before I come to die
They told me that I have to fall
Before I learn to fly.

They told me that the path is long
And we must learn the way
To live and love and sing life’s song
Before the end of day.

Magellan’s Straits and Hudson’s Bay
I’ve sailed and see them all
I’ve plumbed the depths and scaled the heights
I’ve heard the bell bird’s call.

I’ve sung my way around the world
And laughed to hide my tears
As one by one those that I’ve loved
Are overcome by years.

I’ve lived and loved and run the course
The end is now in sight
I’ve fallen but I’m fully fledged
And ready to take flight.

The Frog Prince

I had been in the garden with the dogs before locking up the house for the night. We were all glad to be going indoors for the rain had been falling steadily for hours and the garden was a sea of puddles. The light was on in the sitting room dimly lighting the conservatory and as I opened the door I thought a leaf blew in ahead of us. The younger dog ran ahead, sniffed the dark shape and backed off and I realised he was looking a very smallfrog. Pushing both dogs ahead of me I fetched a soft duster from under the stairs, dropped it over the frog and bent to pick it up. Too late, before I could hold it firmly it had slipped through my fingers and hopped through the door into the sitting room where it sheltered under my desk.
No good leaving it there, I thought, goodness knows where it would be by the morning. I would lose it and it might be months before I would find its small dried-out form behind a book case or some other piece of furniture too heavy to move in the general course of housework.
I waited quietly and eventually the dark stranger hopped out from under the desk making for the hall. It sat and gazed up at me, its dark eyes shining in the lamp light. I dropped the duster again and this time moved fast enough to grab its small form. As I carried it towards the garden door I felt its tiny cold body move in my cupped hand and I murmured ‘Don’t worry little one, I’m not going to kiss you and force you to turn into a human prince.’ Gently I released him into plants that grow around the pond and listened to the leaves rustling as he leaped away.
Will a handsome stranger knock on the door before I lock up tonight, I wondered. Of such things are fairy tales made!

Of Concertinas and Seagulls

I've just about got things sorted since getting back from Iceland although there are still lists of things I've got to get done like getting CRB checked, essential if I want to tell stories to children in libraries even though I will never be alone with them. Apparently I shall also need to get myself public liability insurance and though storytelling must be a low risk occupation premiums are very high and so far I've not found a specialist broker. The hunt continues. However all is not doom and gloom and the age of miracles, trust and generosity is far from over.
Two days ago I emailed a friend saying that as a storyteller I would love to have a small instrument to sing to and, as my ukalele is now only good for a wall decoration since it hit the cabin floor in a force nine gale (and that's another story) perhaps a concertina would be a good idea? Then I added 'am I quite mad?'
Yesterday morning the reply came back, 'No, not mad,' with a contact number. I rang the number and an encouraging voice gave me another number, a young mum called Carole. Half an hour later Carole, who I had never met before, was on my doorstep with a concertina for me to borrow 'for as long as you like!' I phoned a concertina specialist somewhere in the north of England for advice and told him, 'Oh,' he said, ' Concertina people are like that!
After such trust and kindness I've got to settle down and learn how to play it so, having trawled the net I'm printing off a free instruction manual. Fortunately I have a small room at the top of the house where I can practice in private and when I can escape for a few hours I shall be able to take it down to my Writing Hut where only the seagulls will be able to hear.
From the kitchen window I've been watching a pair of gulls raising three youngsters. They are very caring parents and got frantically worried when one chick fell from their nest on a chimney pot and slid down the roof into a gutter . They fed it, cajoled it and finally taught it to fly while still caring for the two remaining in the nest. Now the hen bird is enjoying a well earned rest sitting on the empty nest and gossiping with her friends sitting on the neighbouring chimney pots. Soon she will go too, but she and her life long partner will be back next year.

The land of ice and fire

I have longed to see the home of the Icelandic sagas since I was seven and still have the book that fired my imagination. Faced with fire in the landscape it is easy to understand how, when the first Vikings landed in 950AD they were convinced that the god Thor was in control, bashing out their fate on his anvil close beneath them. Trolls, now petrified in lava weathered by wind and time still inhabit the landscape, their dwellings are there for all to see. For a story teller this was a thrilling adventure.

The Icelandic people care for their fragile environment and waste nothing. Clouds of steam billow gently from cracks in the ground like trails of smoke left by the passing trains of my childhood. Modern technology has enabled them to harness the power underground where water is held at temperatures exceeding 300°C. Standing beside the steam emerging from the power station outside Reykjavik the ground vibrated with the energy of a primeval giant. It seemed as though nothing could prevent this monster from eventually breaking free.

Children don’t begin schooling until they are six and are not hemmed in by warnings of danger, real or imagined. As teenagers they are expected to do paid work for the community during their summer break and can be found cleaning the streets, working in municipal gardens or for older members of the community or, for those suitably gifted, working in museums demonstrating old skills, dancing, reading from the sagas or writing and putting on plays for younger children. I met some students in the museum in Akureyri, their English was excellent and spoke they with pride of their community and culture.

We had an RSPB party on board so bird watching was part of our itinerary. Among the fulmars swirling around our stern I saw a gannet drop out of the sky. Some days we were followed by clouds of artic terns; skuas were among the many birds I had never seen before and when we got to Haemaey puffins crowded the cliffs.

I have to confess that I have always found tour buses rather claustrophobic so I took advantage of an offer of a drive from Reykjavik to Thorsmork in a 4x4. Only seven of us volunteered as the majority didn’t fancy nine hours over rough ground. The truck turned out to be well padded and robustly sprung, very necessary as part of the way was over an ancient glacial moraine with descents into a river where we had to go down stream for fifty yards or so before scrambling up the other bank.

Like all holidays the end came far too quickly. I can’t speak highly enough of the care the crew of Spirit of Adventure took to ensure that every passenger enjoyed the cruise, from the Captain to the youngest steward fresh from the Philippines. Some of my travelling companions were very frail but no one was allowed to feel too old to take part in what ever appealed to them. We set off from Portsmouth into the teeth of storm force winds coming up the channel and met steep Atlantic rollers as we came down the west coast of Ireland. I was able to enjoy the gale, but did find the Atlantic swell a little uncomfortable. However I managed to sit down to every meal and enjoy the wonderful food which tasted even better because I hadn’t had to cook it. The Spirit of Adventure only carries 350 passengers and life on board is far more informal than in her bigger sisters Saga Rose and Saga Ruby. Her small size allows her to call into ports that couldn’t take larger ships, going into Haemaey would have been impossible fohad she been any bigger.

On the way to Iceland we visited Dublin and Tobermory, on the way home we stopped in Cork and Falmouth but to tell you about all of that would make this story far too long.

One thought remains to puzzle me. How did the Vikings manage to carry their sturdy little horses across stormy seas in open boats. Today the breed is still pure, they have never been crossed with any other breed and if one should leave Iceland for competition or sale it is not allowed to return.