AT LAST
The final draft is in the Amazon machine and should be available within the next 72 hours. In both kindle and paperback versions .ISBN 9781520908878.
AT LAST
The final draft is in the Amazon machine and should be available within the next 72 hours. In both kindle and paperback versions .ISBN 9781520908878.
A merchant, mercenary and currently, a spy for the Parthian army sat at a table, in one of the darker porticos of the tavern, opposite a noisy group of men who had obviously disembarked, quite recently, after the long sea journey from their homeland. They were in search of food, drink and whatever else was for sale in the establishment.
Kallias was a tall, sallow man with short brown hair. He was the only son of the chief elder of his home village. He spoke several languages, picked up from the many merchants that passed along the trade route between Parthian Merv and distant Kashgar, the westernmost city of the mysterious Han Empire.
Throughout the day, he had been taking note of the numbers of roman soldiers as they took up designated positions in the army compound. He had estimated the latest landing of almost one thousand enemy cavalry, had brought a total of some ten thousand men were preparing to join the main roman army, commanded by Marcus Licinius Crassus that even now, acting on false information, was marching, across the Mesopotamian desert towards the city of Carrhae.
His sources in the Kasbah told him that the Romans were not about to compromise and so it appeared that war would be inevitable. He had decided that this was to be his men’s final battle and that any tribute his father had owed the Parthians would be fully paid at its end, whatever the result. He had already lost a quarter of his men and like the remainder yearned to return to his homeland.
.. excerpt from – A PAWN OF DESTINY – to be published soon
An extract from the book introducing: The Han Dynasty,General Chen Tang. A stocky man of average height, sat dressed in a dark blue silk robe, decorated on the wide cuffs with a gold abstract motive. His dark hair was tied informally while the two sides of his moustache trailed below his chin. He had not eaten his meal, which was minced mutton with a variety of vegetables. He wondered absent-mindedly when the supply wagons would arrive and he could have a portion of rice to eat. Outside he heard the night guard coming on duty. They were his own handpicked men at least he would be safe from his perceived enemies that night. He is planning to lay seige on the stronghold of the rebel barbarian, Zhizhi Chanyu. Following a victory he takes Darquin and his group prisoner …once more their lives hang by a silken thread ….
Read the novel soon…
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An extract from the book introducing: The Han Dynasty,General Chen Tang. A stocky man of average height, sat dressed in a dark blue silk robe, decorated on the wide cuffs with a gold abstract motive. His dark hair was tied informally while the two sides of his moustache trailed below his chin. He had not eaten his meal, which was minced mutton with a variety of vegetables. He wondered absent-mindedly when the supply wagons would arrive and he could have a portion of rice to eat. Outside he heard the night guard coming on duty. They were his own handpicked men at least he would be safe from his perceived enemies that night. He is planning to lay seige on the stronghold of the rebel barbarian, Zhizhi Chanyu. Following a victory he takes Darquin and his group prisoner …once more their lives hang by a silken thread ….
Read the novel soon to be published.
John Pilger on twitter @johnpilger
A new friend recently asked if I lived in a castle. This made me realise how many people have disappeared from my list of contacts over the last 12 month’s and how many new friends have entered this domain, knowing little of the writer. This is a rambling explanation I wrote some 3 years ago when I first began this space.
I imagine there is a name for it: defending your own personal space. We walk through the busy shopping precincts, crowded with Christmas shoppers, we queue at the checkouts, each one of us defending that infinite gap of privacy from the people around us, trying to invisibly input our pin numbers! As a single diner, you would smile at the efforts that folk take in not occupying one of the three vacant seats at your table. The village pub, posh restaurant, theatre, soccer match, a moorland walk and most obvious of all, the beach – we huddle alone or in groups ‘defending’ our [dubious] ownership of a table, chair, area of sand and guarded on three sides by a multi coloured, ‘windbreak.’
Then an Englishman, invented the WWW. [Yes folks, another British invention that we have failed to capitalise on!]. The internet was soon available to us all. We could speak to people all over the planet – from our isolated dens/bedrooms. The screen and the electrical impulses, are as near as we allowed anyone to get close to us. I am amazed on reflection that I have been part of this revolution for some ten years now. Sadly, this complete freedom is being sadly eroded, the “system” now provides names to contact! The first rule in the distant past was that you created and sustained your anonymity. My first effort reflected the strange world I was entering – ‘Alien Dream’. In French you are aware they have masculine and feminine words, even in English ‘A D’ was deemed to be ‘feminine’. The problems are obvious!
My hobby is Genealogy, the history of my family. It will be plain to all that history is my favourite subject. History, is usually written by the main players, I find it more interesting to learn about how our ancestors coped with the social and economic problems of their days. The Hymn, ‘All things bright an beautiful’, says: “The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate.” Well my lot were both. All civilisations have protected family, in Barrows, Motte and Baileys and castles.
The Anjovian Empire, extended from the borders of Scotland to the Mediterranean Sea. Strategically placed hills, rivers and on estuaries loomed the power of the invader – Castles. Some large and significant while others were small and now, largely forgotton. Testimony to the rich accomplishments of England and France. They are foreboding structures. Haunted by the spirits of the past. My fascination with castles began when I heard the methods employed during sieges. Two of which were the hurling of rancid meat into the castle for the starving defenders to eat. The catapult like structure, bears the name of one line of ancestors – did they make them? Did they fire them? Another was the idea of the besiegers digging under the castle foundations and shoring the castle up with tarred wood. This was ignited, [later gunpowder was used], and the wall of the castle collapsed. On school holidays my family would visit places like Conwy and Scarborough. They hung huge carpets up on the walls to stop the draughts and called them tapestries. Castle stairs apparently spiral to the right almost universally. The reason for this is most people are right handed and hold their sword in this hand. An attacker running up the stairs is therefore hampered by the central supporting column of the staircase. The defenders however did not suffer such problems. They drank and caroused the days away between battles. The castle owner paid for all these festivities and this became a recognised method for the monarch of the day to stop his followers from becoming too rich, and powerful!
Sir William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, in 1766 made an impassioned defence of private homeowners against discretionary government searches. He enunciated on the right of an Englishman to be secure in his home: “The poorest man may in his cottage bid defiance to all the forces of the Crown. It may be frail — its roof may shake — the wind may blow through it — the storm may enter — the rain may enter — but the King of England cannot enter; all his forces dare not cross the threshold of that ruined tenement.” In England, law is created by precedent – not a written constitution, so it is that this right, dates back to 1604, the year that Shakespeare presented Othello. An individual named Semayne complained that his home had been broken into and his assets seized by the sheriff. The judgment that followed declared: ‘The house of everyone is his castle.‘ It went on to say, ‘That if a door is open, a sheriff may enter but that it is not lawful for the sheriff, on request made and denied, at the suit of a common person to break the defendant’s house.’ One 18th-century commentator wrote: ‘The law of England has so particular and tender a regard to the immunity of a man’s house, that it styles it his castle, and will never suffer it to be violated with impunity. For this reason, no doors can in general be broken open to execute any civil process; though, in criminal cases, the public safety supersedes the private.
This right, “Of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated,” is enshrined in the constitution of the Commonwealth of United States. [Fourth Amendment]. Written incidentally from the works of French and English philosophers.
The above is a rather convoluted explanation of why my space is named as it is. So yes, I do live in a castle, my home IS my castle. As with most strategic edifices, it is built on a hill, overlooking the Trent Valley in Middle England. Unlike nearby Ashby Castle it has double glazing and the larder is always well stocked. [This latter fact comes from my genes who learnt to hoard during War time rationing!].
Whilst having had the title by document – it seemed that Glencairn was an appropriate name to use on the internet. I do not display a picture of the real Castle Glencairn for obvious reasons. As children we would play, King of the Castle and today I work on my computer and access the internet from my castle. It is the refuge from whence I travel around the world from this book lined room, isolated from, but close to you my friends the world over.
Laird. 2010
Behind one dead policeman are thousands of other public servants – all prepared to put their lives on the line to keep you, me and our families safe.
Perhaps those in power should remember, we vote to send our representatives to Westminster. Yet once in the corridors of power they forget. They continue to cut spending on essential services. They walk past the men and women who,as we have seen, are prepared to die to uphold peace and security in our streets.
Prayers and vigils will not return someone’s husband, wife son or daughter. Recognition of their value should NOT mean government cuts in staff numbers. It should NOT mean a wage freeze or paltry payrises of less than the cost of living .
The prayers should turn into meaningful demands for higher salaries for those who live on the front line every day of their lives.
March 26th is the fourth Sunday of Lent and traditionally is the day when children give presents, flowers, and homemade cards to their mothers. It has no connection with the Hallmarkian Americanized jamboree of that name where Mother’s Day is now the second Sunday in May and Internationally recognised May Day,has been moved to September.
In common with most of my readers I do not need a special day to remember mine, because later in the month on March 25th is her birthday. It only takes a word overheard or someone’s gesture, as I go about my daily duties, to remind me of both my departed parents.
Most Sundays in the year churchgoers in England worshipped at their nearest parish or “daughter church”. Centuries ago it was considered important for people to return to their home or “mother” church once a year. So in the middle of Lent, everyone would visit their “mother” church, or the main church or Cathedral of the area. It was the return to the “Mother” church which led to the tradition of children, particularly those working as domestic servants, or as apprentices, being given the day off to visit their mother and family.
It was quite common in those days for children to leave home for work once they were ten years old. As they walked along the country lanes, children would pick wild flowers or violets to take to church or give to their mother as a small gift.
With such a richness of strong and vital images of motherhood, we have much to celebrate on Mother’s Day. However it isn’t especially our birth mothers we are celebrating but more spiritually we thank Mother Nature, who sustains us in life and to whom we all eventually return.
Thanksgiving to Mother has ties to ancient pagan rituals. Prehistoric artefact’s, bare proof of this. The earliest recorded festival in history honoured the Egyptian goddess Nut. She was goddess of the sky and wife of Re, the god of the sun and creator of all, and was known for her incredible beauty and kindness. Her generous and loving nature was apparently extensive, leading her into affairs with Geb, the god of the earth, and Thoth, the god of divine words. Re found out and, understandably, was furious with her, issuing a curse that his pregnant wife would not give birth to the child within her in any month of any year! Filled with sorrow that she would never be a mother, Nut turned to Thoth for comfort. Like most males, he couldn’t stand to see a woman cry and promised to find a solution. Using his divine powers of persuasion, Thoth persuaded the Moon into gambling with him. If he won he would get just a little bit of the Moon’s light. The games went on for months, and at the end Thoth had won enough light to create five complete days. Nut didn’t waste a precious moment of those five days. She gave birth to a different child on each day. From that day forward she was called “Mother of the Gods”. Her firstborn, Osiris, was the son of Re and went on to become the god of all the earth. The Great Goddess Isis, daughter of Thoth, was born on the third day. Later as husband and wife they ruled together, creating the first great nation of Western civilization during the “Golden Age of Egypt”
Another Mother figure, Eostre a Saxon deity, marked not only the passage of time but also symbolised new life and fertility. We remember her at the timing of the vernal equinox, also known as Ostara. Legend has it that the goddess was saved by a bird whose wings had become frozen by the cold of winter. This process turned the bird into a hare that could also lay eggs. As usual the church borrowed these pagan symbols for Easter, so the egg and bunny became additional symbols for fertility and the resurrection of life.
On a less serious note I leave these memories which most children have of their Mother.
‘If you’re going to kill each other, do it outside. I just finished cleaning.’
‘You better pray that this will come out of the carpet.’
‘If you don’t straighten up, I’m going to knock you into the middle of
next week!’
’Because I said so, that’s why.’
‘If you fall out of that swing and break your neck, you’re not going
to the store with me.’
‘Make sure you wear clean underwear, in case you’re in an accident.’
‘Keep crying and I’ll give you something to cry about.’
‘Shut your mouth and eat your dinner.’
‘Will you look at that dirt on the back of your neck?’
‘You’ll sit there until all those vegetables are eaten up.’
‘This room of yours looks as if a tornado went through it.’
‘If I told you once, I’ve told you a million times. Don’t exaggerate!’
’I brought you into this world, and I can take you out.’
‘Stop acting like your father!’
‘There are millions of less fortunate children in this world who don’t
have wonderful parents like you do….’
‘Just wait until we get home.
’You are going to get it when you get home!’
’If you don’t stop crossing your eyes, they are going to get stuck
that way.’
‘put your sweater on; don’t you think I know when you are cold?’
‘When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don’t come running to me….’
‘If you don’t eat your vegetables, you’ll never grow up.’
‘You’re just like your father.’
‘Shut that door behind you. Do you think you were born in a barn?’
‘When you get to be my age, you’ll understand.’
‘One day you’ll have children, and I hope they turn out just like you’
*_*_*_*_*_*
In the church calendar this coming Sunday, commemorates the banquet given by Joseph to his brethren and forms the first lesson of the day. The story of the feeding of the five thousand, forms the gospel for the day. For this reason, Simnel Cakes, rich fruit cakes often covered with marzipan, were eaten on Mothering Sunday, a tradition that persists today.
I’ll to thee a Simnell bring
‘Gainst thou go’st a mothering,
So that, when she blesseth thee,
Half that blessing thou’lt give to me.
[Robert Herrick 1648]
This posting, one week in advance will give my reader’s time to prepare this Receipe for baking a Simnel Cake:
INGREDIENTS:
CAKE:
Softened Butter – 225g (8oz);
Castor sugar – 225g (8oz);
Eggs 4;
Self- Raising flour – 225g (8oz);
Sultanas. – 225g (8oz);
Currants. – 110g (4oz);
Glacé Cherries – 110g (4oz), quartered;
Chopped candied peel – 50g (2oz);
Zest of 2 lemons;
Mixed spice – 2 teaspoon
FILLING AND TOPPING:
Almond paste – 450g (1lb);
Apricot jam – 2 Tablespoons;
1 beaten egg (for glaze).
METHOD
Finally,as a genealogist, I dedicate this quotation to all Mothers.
“Mothers are fonder than fathers of their children because they are more certain they are their own.” ~Aristotle
They were alive once and dwelt among us. Now they are gone. It’s an old story, maybe the oldest there is, and it’s been told many millions of times. The year now ending has been no exception. The departed in 2016 include writers, actors, musicians and other ‘celebrities’. We know who they were. Their departures, amply covered by the news media and have been marked, applauded or mourned, at length by the public.
The huge obituaries and the blanket media coverage belong primarily to those who became famous, or infamous, in life, or to those whose deaths were sufficiently lurid or shocking that they generated instant fame at the last minute. Some luminaries manage to achieve notoriety on both counts.
Other lives also ended in 2016. Just as precious, just as loved by those who loved them deeply, and who love them still. Unnoticed unknown. That’s death, of course, and everyone knows it. Most people lead more circumscribed lives, ending in private deaths that are felt directly by only a few. Yet these factors do not diminish the worth of those lives or the pain engendered by their end.
This time of year brings back thoughts of those who crossed my path and too soon passed on. Whose smile, wise words and affection live on in my memory. These few, and the many others may well be unsung, but that doesn’t mean they lived without song.
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