Category Archives: Real Life

DIANE HARDING ON HER HARROWING MEMOIR, ALWAYS IN THE DARK

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My memoir ‘Always in the Dark’ tells of secrets, scandal and survival.  It is an extraordinary account of my bizarre homelife and is my search for answers from a family shrouded in secrets.  A mysterious tale of growing up, unbeknown to me, with my mother trapped in a menage a trois on a continent from which there was no escape, it tells of her selflessness, sacrifice and of putting others first.

After my parents emigrated post war, my idyllic and cosy childhood was ruined at the age of three after the arrival of a mysterious and glamorous visitor with my roller coaster existence and mother’s mental breakdown adding to my confusion during my formative years.

Although the first half of the mystery unfolded in the leafy suburbs of Cape Town, after moving to England at the age of fourteen the scandal continued to follow us around.  It was obvious my home life was a weird one and it was only after my mother’s death decades later that I rummaged through her secret box and discovered a wealth of staggering information I did not know about, the unimaginable circumstances cleverly hidden from me during my early years.  But I was a young child when it all began and the fact that I had lived my life to the point of naivety was beyond baffling.  But it was my mother’s life-long confidante, her sister Linda, who supplied me with many missing pieces of the puzzle and whose revelations helped clarify many of my childhood mysteries including the reason why I was to be an only child.

Making my heinous discovery was difficult to grasp and the realisation that I had lived through the trauma as the child of the victim equally upsetting; rage, bitterness, anger and a disbelief that my childhood had been dismantled by greed and my mother treated with such humiliation consuming me.  And because of the hurt and embarrassment my shocking revelation was not something I felt willing to talk about, least of all with my husband, a secret I kept from him for two long years.

The search for the truth sent me on numerous missions to talk with close friends and family only to discover that I was the last to know, hence the title ‘Always in the Dark’.

For too long domestic abuse has been a hidden issue and in order to raise aware of the horrors of coercive control I am now on a mission to encourage people to open up and tell their story which for me has been life changing.  It is a known fact that it is particularly hard for older people to open up and will experience abuse for twice as long before seeking help compared to those who are younger.  Writing my memoir has not been an easy ride but out of it has come great solace which has allowed me to come to terms with my past and move on.  I did not want to be someone with a massive grudge, determined never to allow my past to spoil my future.

This is a book about final freedom, my openness which I hope will help others to come forward and speak out and to understand that however traumatic a situation there is hope and a way through to happiness.  I am a firm believer that to experience the tough times gives us backbone in order to cope with what life throws our way.

 

 

 

 

 

WRITERS ON THE ROAD: PATSY COLLINS

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Hi! I’m Patsy Collins aka The Travelling Writer. Ten years ago I was a tour guide. That job kept me in one place but ever since being made redundant and becoming a full time writer I’ve spent a lot of time travelling – mostly in a campervan shared with my husband. We’re on the road for three months a year, so naturally I write in the van. So much so that I often refer to R’ten as the mobile writing retreat. She’s absolutely perfect for that. She’s also a pretty good photography base for Gary.

There are things about a campervan which may initially seem like disadvantages, such as limited internet access and restricted space, but are really the opposite. When we can go online it’s all too easy to ‘just quickly look that up’ and get distracted by emails, funny memes, brilliant opportunities to submit our work if we ever get it finished… If we have to go into another room to make a cup of tea, we don’t always return to the keyboard the moment the kettle has boiled. Even the limited power supply can be a plus, because it encourages me to get the words down straight away, rather than wasting battery power faffing about.

Sometimes the places we visit for Gary’s work inspire my stories. Sometimes we spend time in an area so I can write my novels and short stories ‘on location’. It’s really useful to be able to literally walk in my characters’ footsteps along the beach, up a mountain or through town. I enjoy seeing what they see, eating what they do, even sharing a few of their mishaps – my research has occasionally been more thorough than intended!

One of my six novels, Leave Nothing But Footprints, is actually set in a campervan, and that’s where it was written, even if it wasn’t always parked in the same country as Jess and Eliot took their own trip. Although the storyline is nothing like my own life, some of the small details are based on reality. I think they help make the story believable, and using them in a positive way helps me feel better about some of our mini disasters in the early days. Oh, and I might sometimes try convincing Gary to unleash his romantic side for the good of the current WIP!

Another book written entirely in R’ten is From Story Idea to Reader; an easily accessible guide to writing fiction, co written with Rosemary J Kind. We know each other well, but didn’t physically meet during the writing stage as when she was in England we were in Scotland, and when we came home she went to Switzerland. We did park the van on her drive while we worked on the promotion stuff though.

Having the van, and being able to go where we like has enabled me to deliver writing workshops and attend events which wouldn’t be practical if they couldn’t be incorporated into a working trip.

Of course the locations we visit provide distractions. We’ve parked up on beaches, in the depths of forests, at the foot of mountains, alongside rivers, in the grounds of a castle, in view of seals and otters or surrounded by wild deer … But I’ve been a writer for over twenty years now and have learned to accept the ups and downs which that entails.

If you’d like to learn more about me and my writing, then please visit patsycollins.uk where you’ll find links to all my books and lots more photos from my campervan adventures.

EVA GLYN’S HIDDEN CROATIA: THE SIXTH OF DECEMBER MIRACLE

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I remember the Balkan war in the ‘90s. The horror of it all; of Sarajevo and Srebenica, of genocide and ethnic cleansing. I remember the Siege of Dubrovnik too, almost the place where the fighting began, but I didn’t understand why. I still don’t to this day.

We stand next to the Amerling Fountain, Mato and me, and we look at Mount Srd, beyond the belching buses and their fumes, above the terracotta tiles of the Pucic family’s elegant summer residence,  beyond the houses stacked behind, and on to the mountain itself,  sentinel as ever above the city.

My eyes travel upwards, following his pointing finger. Above the luxuriant leaves of cypress and pine, above the scrubland strewn with rocks, steep and ever steeper, up four hundred metres to the grey bulk of Fort Imperial perched on top. The fort that saved the city.

The Serbs and Montenegrins attacked from the south, sweeping a wave of refugees before them. The attack on the mountain began on 30th September 1991 and a day later the communications centre was captured and the power cut off. No electricity, no water, would reach the city below for months.

Pockets of resistance remained. Mato’s own family home was fought over bitterly, changing hands several times as desperate local defenders staved off an army. By the middle of November the invaders had taken all of Mount Srd. Everything, that is, except the fort.

And then Mato tells me of the greatest act of heroism of all. How thirty-eight men saved the city. And it happened in front of us, at the top of Mount Srd. The miracle of 6th December 1991.

Thirty-two men manned Fort Imperial. Exhausted men, hungry and thirsty, the enemy surrounding them on almost every side. An enemy with tanks and weapons that hadn’t been made in a converted broom factory. And ammunition. The men in the fort had nothing left at all, so under cover of darkness they started to creep down the mountainside.

Meanwhile, in perfect safety, the politicians were negotiating. The Serbs and Montenegrins had one demand. Give up the fort and we’ll stop shelling. Somehow, somehow, the message got through to a detachment of men climbing Mount Srd with ammunition. They met the shattered defenders coming down. The enemy thought they were still holding out. So they turned around and crept back.

Thirty-eight men with basic guns and not enough ammo. Thirty-eight men against an army. But what could they do? They went up to the roof and used them. As Mato explained, a man defending his home will fight like a tiger. An army of conscripted attackers is not so brave.

The fighting became hand to hand, the defenders desperate men, believing themselves as good as dead. But eventually they had to retreat inside. All felt lost, so they kept up their spirits by singing.

Most say it was a miracle, but Mato told me the fort’s unusual acoustics helped. Their voices filled the barrel vaults, swelling from shattered windows and walls. Sounding like a thousand men. Men the invading army were not prepared to fight.

We walk through the cool shade of the Pile Gate, into the main street, Stradun. In the walls of the buildings, on the glossy paving stones, the bullet holes are everywhere, once you know how to look. On the morning of 6th December alone almost 700 missiles landed in the old walled city; some from ships out to sea, the rest from Mount Srd.

Like the men in the Fort, it buckled, but it did not break. The world watched as smoke blackened the skies, a bombardment so heavy that finally, finally, the world condemned and the tide of the war turned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living with Alzheimers – We Are Best Friends by Chris Suich

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Today, as I do three times a week, I visited my lovely husband Bob who has been in care since 10th March 2020 with the devastating illness Alzheimer’s.

It is amazing that he is still with us as he was not expected to live beyond last Christmas 2021 – according to our local GP who saw him after the first bout of Covid 19.

He is poorly there is no doubting that. He cannot walk or do anything for himself, even holding a chocolate button or a birthday card is beyond his cognition now. Recently it was our 43rd wedding anniversary. I took him a card that had a picture of two teddies in a car, I thought he might understand. Probably not.

However, he tries hard to communicate with me, chitter chattering nonsensical words, turning his head, looking at me directly and smiling. The love is still there for me and I see it in his eyes and mannerisms, and occasionally he speaks a phrase that makes sense, or he tries to sit up and puts his lips together for a kiss. For my part I still have him. I can kiss him and hold his hand. I can tell him my news and ring our sons and they talk to him when they can. He says ‘ Hello’ and he kisses the phone. I know he recognises their voices. They are wonderfully kind and patient but also brave and full of humanity. I am proud of the way they handle it all.

Today he is sat up in a Stirling chair (nice and deep and tipped slightly backwards so he can’t fall forwards), dressed nicely, shaved and clean, looking at the TV. He likes Tipping Point as he likes the bit where the coins drop down, and as he was brilliant with numbers in his past life he will read out the amounts the contestants win. Then it is The Chase. I tell him he is on my team and I try to answer the questions and he watches the red writing turn to green writing if I get it right.

The carers are kind and I know they make more effort when I come in. I insist they get him up as he likes to sit upright in a chair and I think is is better for his digestion. No one wants to lay in bed all day and he is not any different.

I take him the food we enjoyed together. He knows it. He looks for the red carrier bag with pictures of Parisian cartoons on we bought together in Paris. I like to think it evokes some happy memories of our time together. That and the food.  Maybe somewhere deep inside him he’ll associate the food with me. Sometimes I get a positive clue that this is the case. But in any case I am satisfied that he is enjoying the food and relishing every mouthful. He eats everything we would normally eat, apart from chewy meat or stringy chicken as he doesn’t like the texture. Or the sloppy food which is sometimes given by the home. I feed him from a teaspoon as he opens his mouth a little. He is used to a beaker and the home gives him fortified drinks to keep his weight up.

It takes a little while to get him going with a spoon, but once he gets the taste of the food he opens his mouth wide and as he has all his own teeth he chews well and swallows fine.  Today it is Lincolnshire sausages, two chopped, onion gravy, parsnips and broccoli and mash. Then chopped mince pies and extra thick cream blobs. It only takes me 30 mins and the swallowing is interspersed with ‘ lovely’. I have had a little victory with the food situation.

I couldn’t understand why he was on a semi-soft diet when he ate my food so magnificently. Once he pouched his food in one cheek with me and also with a carer but that was because he didn’t like the chewiness the stringy consistency but he never did it again. Not enough evidence I thought for giving him the sloppy soft diet daily that he clearly didn’t enjoy. I asked for a speech and language Dysphagia assessment as if these professionals thought the same then I would agree with it. However, Bob did not meet the criteria for a dysphagia assessment so therefore I reasoned he could still eat the chopped normal food. That is now supposed to  happen whether I’m present or not! Bob also has a beer, or some wine and on Sundays a tot of port. Everything I would normally give him at home. Why not?

After this nutrition he will often say something. ‘ Are you alright for money?’ or ‘Be careful’ or sadly ‘ Let’s go home’

I play a range of our favourite music and music videos I’ve downloaded onto my iPad for him to watch. He loves these. I show him ELO Mr Blue Sky, Telephone Line, Wild West Hero and several Beatles black and white films with music tracks. I have a great playlist now and Bob enjoys it. I see the light switch on behind his eyes and his fingers and toes twitch. He becomes relaxed and content. I know it makes a difference. It makes him feel better and it is good for his well being. I don’t like to think of him on his own laid in bed with limited interaction. But I know the carers are busy, and Bob is easier to manage in bed as many residents can walk and are more difficult to keep occupied and safe. But all residents need to have their well being addressed and music is game changing.

Emotionally for me it is a roller coaster. I hate to see him struggling to communicate getting frustrated, pulling at his hair, trying to explain. ‘It’s horrible!’ he says. I hate it when he says ‘Let’s go together’ or ‘Is it time to go home?’

I still look forward to seeing him and he is always in my mind even though I try to fill my life with being busy. I have my Inner Wheel and Rotary endeavours to take part in. I volunteer at a local school weekly and have a wide range of friends to see regularly. I dread a phone call from the care home in case it is some bad news and my stomach lurches when I see who is ringing me on the phone. Sleeping all night is difficult as Bob comes back to me in the middle of the night. I have tried to get on with my own things in the day but at night he is in my unconscious brain. I remember the little things we did together, often long forgotten. I am probably more anxious as Bob smoothed out all my worries. He was a good match for me.

It almost makes me cry nowadays, when he tells me ‘You’re lovely’ or ‘ I’m sorry’. I tell him everything is fine and not to worry and that he’s lovely too. He sometimes is sad and downcast and I have a job to get him to respond to me but he usually does in the end.

Sadly he doesn’t know I’m his wife but thinks I’m his best friend.

That is ok we are best friends.

 

EVA GLYN’S HIDDEN CROATIA: ON TOP OF MOUNT SRD

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Anyone who’s been to Dubrovnik will quite rightly question why I would call Mount Srd hidden Croatia. After all, it stands proudly four hundred metres above the city, a wall of rock protecting it from the outside world.

But that’s the point; we see it, but how well do we know it? The majority of visitors who actually venture up there do so by cable car, to admire the spectacular views for half an hour, perhaps drink a coffee, certainly take any number of selfies, then head straight back down again.

To discover Mount Srd properly you need to hike, bike (neither recommended in the height of summer), take the bus, or even better book a knowledgeable driver or small group tour. Because it’s what the majority don’t see that is so very fascinating.

To say we got lucky with our choice of driver is an understatement. We were staying in Cavtat along the coast so decided booking a car was the best option, and I’d ‘met’ Dubrovnik 4 U Transfers on Instagram so chose them. Kresimir is an absolute gem with a knowledge of, and a passion for, his city rarely seen in the UK. But then in the UK we haven’t had to fight for our homes.

To me that’s what Mount Srd was all about. It was certainly the focus of my visit there. I was in Croatia to add the final touches to my research for next summer’s book, where one of my main characters is a veteran of the Siege of Dubrovnik and I wanted to visit the Homeland War Museum in Fort Imperial that sits on top of the mountain.

But there was somewhere Kresimir wanted me to see first. The village of Bosanka that had been raised to the ground by the aggressors (Serbian and Montenegrin troops) during the autumn of 1991. Of course much of it has been rebuilt, but there are some ruins left amongst the trees, and a roadside picture board in Croatian and English, making sure that visitors understand what happened here.

In fact almost the whole of Mount Srd was taken. Everything except Fort Imperial and that was to make all the difference to the survival of the city below. How it held out against all the odds on 6th December 1991 is a miracle in itself, but that is a story for a few months hence.

The fort was built by Napoleonic troops, a long, low slab of the grey-gold rock of the region, almost blending into the hillside beneath it. Even now much of it is in a semi-ruined state, but a number of rooms have been turned into a museum where visitors can learn about the Homeland War. And if you want to understand Dubrovnik and its people, you have to understand what happened here thirty years ago.

There was a sepulchral silence as we wandered through the barrel-vaulted rooms, stunned by the images of destruction displayed on their walls. The museum tells the story more or less chronologically but it is the images that hit home the hardest; iconic sights in the city below in ruins or in flames, the faces of the refugees. You don’t have to read a word of the commentary. You just have to look to understand.

But deeper understanding comes from talking to someone who lived through the conflict and Kresimir shared his memories freely. For the first time I knew what it had been like to live in that city under siege; no power, little water, even less food. People dying around you.

After our visit to the museum he took me out to the viewpoint, where there is a memorial to 6th December 1991 and a Croatian flag. I watched him take a photo of it, his pride heartfelt and genuine. To me, that said it all.

ANNA HOLMES ON THE ENVIRONMENTAL INSPIRATION FOR HER LATEST NOVEL

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The back cover blurb for my novel begins like this:

Set in the Indonesian rainforest, Blind Eye is a fast-paced environmental political thriller exploring moral predicaments and personal choices.

In a nutshell Blind Eye is about illegal logging.

Governments’ failures to stop this practice is depleting the worlds rainforest at alarming rates. In the eleven years since I first wrote my story as a screenplay, to when I turned it into a novel, forest cover roughly the area of Mexico has been lost according to figures compiled by Global Forest Watch (GFW) of the World Resources Institute.

My background is in dance, theatre, yoga and writing. I know a lot about these subjects and next to nothing about trees and timber. So what drew me to write about this subject?

My partner was a founder member of Forest Stewardship Council (FSC) which promotes responsible management of the world’s forests. He is still involved. At that time, he had a company supplying FSC timber and he had travelled to different places in the world to support community forestry projects. I felt there was a story waiting to be hatched in my brain.

Many of us recognise that distinctive logo incorporating a tree with a tick on it and the initials FSC. It appears on toilet paper packaging, books, wooden kitchen utensils, garden furniture and much more. All these wood and paper products can demonstrate a chain of handlers from a well-managed forest or plantation through the milling process to the finished product. Big projects that signed up to sustainable building include the Senedd building (Welsh Parliament) in Cardiff Bay with its the magnificent curvy wooden interior and the hardwood decking outside leading to the waterfront. That is a project I know about as my partner’s company had a small role in this. Gosh, I even remember the name of the Brazilian hardwood decking: Massaranduba. Not bad!

As I said, the timber trade is not my thing, but I am environmentally conscious.

I love world-building and am a plot and character type of writer. With my debut historical novel, Wayward Voyage, (inspired by a true story) I thrust Anne Bonny into a harsh seafaring pirate life. In Blind Eye my protagonist, Ben Fletcher, is thrust into the murky world of illegal logging in an Indonesian rainforest.

With Blind Eye I am not interested in hammering readers over the head with a preachy, do-goody story. Who needs that? Readers should want to turn the page to find out what happens next. And I don’t want to just highlight the problems – we know what many of these are – so I leave readers with some hope and show that solutions are possible.

One review blogger writes: “Holmes has put together a first-rate thriller, mixed in a little romance, and shown the brutal side of business putting profits ahead of people. If the end result of reading this book is not just an enjoyable ride through some thrilling pages but also beginning to open our eyes a little wider, then we can be grateful for this story on multiple levels”.

Think about it. Don’t turn a blind eye when replacing your garden furniture or purchasing a new coffee table. That wood has a story to tell. What is it?

 

Links to Blind Eye retailers on Anna’s website

https://www.annamholmes.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living with Alzheimers – Trying to fathom a way forward for a ‘good’ visit by Chris Suich

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The-dementia-cafe

An ominous feeling came back to me today. Covid is back in the care home. Not in Bob’s wing but still, it seems to be getting closer. I have heard of so many people with it in our market town. I am being ultra careful. PCRs and lateral flows on visiting. I cannot go back to not seeing Bob again. As an Essential Caregiver I should be OK – even with an outbreak, providing I don’t catch it! At least that information is in the government guidance due to Bob being ‘end of life’.

I heard that some staff who have not been vaccinated (as Nov 21 government  direction) have left and I wonder how this will affect the staff ratio. At least I can help Bob when I’m here so they won’t have to worry about feeding him.  I put on the PPE and walk swiftly to his room. 

Bob is very tired today. He is laid in bed comfy and warm. His head has fallen off his pillow and he is lolling over the raised plastic sides of the special ripple bed. 

I kiss his forehead and tell him I am there. ‘Chris is here and I love you very much’ 

He smiles in his sleep and I am content with that. 

I arranged the things I had brought for him. The can of lemonade, the blackcurrant tart and the chocolate buttons. The iPad is already loaded with the music for the afternoon. Fleetwood Mac and The Beatles are the albums for today. I always show him the LP cover. Sometimes he reads the title and the group. I wonder if he can remember something of the design. These LP covers were so well thumbed by Bob in the 70s and 80s.

I start the music softly even though Bob is asleep because I think he might hear it and wake a little. I am struck by the beauty of the lyrics of Songbird.

Apparently McVeigh wrote it about the self sacrifice of love and about how much love the band members had shared together over many years. I too feel that sentiment  in the quietness of Bob’s almost stark room; an enormity of love for him. For everything we have shared together, a whole lifetime of experiences and good times. I know he is on his final journey and he is leaving me a little more each time.

He tries so hard to get back to me, and I still valiantly try to stir a memory, however faint. His furrowed brow, his look of bewilderment are etched on his face regularly now. He will put his hands to his head and will shout nonsensical words and sometimes pull at his head as though in an insane terrified fever. It must be terrible to try and make sense of something that was once so well known, or have a memory at arm’s length, never to grasp it. It is awful to watch. But he looks very peaceful today. 

Bob a Good Visit

I decide to clean his nails whilst he is asleep as he is sensitive to the slightest touch. He doesn’t resist when he is asleep and the liquid soap and wet ones soon do the job.  

I have decided to chat like I always would even if Bob is asleep or inside himself.  To be normal. To tell him my news and send all the messages from friends and family. I give him a kiss from Joe and a kiss from Eddie, our sons. I tell him I helped out at the sing a long at The Dementia Cafe this week. I tell him they gave me the microphone and I ended up singing at the front. I tell him someone asked me if I was your wife and told me that they had worked with you at Tedder Hall and to give you a hug from them. They said you were a lovely man. But of course I know this! 

After two hours you begin to wake. I sit next to you so that your eyes, when they open, are at my level. ‘ Hello darling it’s Chris and I’ve come to see you’ 

You smile like you know what I’m saying. Well that’s a good start. 

I ask the carers to sit him up as his core strength has gone and he always sleeps on a slant and then gets in an awkward position. The ladies move him onto a pillow and I sit him up on the ripple bed. I put on his glasses and tell him again who I am. He looks vacant and seems to be staring ahead, not really seeing. 

I have a routine and it is familiar to Bob as I do the same thing every visit. 

I tell him I’ve brought him chocolate buttons and he opens his mouth ready for me to put some in. He understood that alright! It gets him in a good mood. 

Then I try to get the drinks down him. He sometimes doesn’t seem to drink much. It takes a long time and patience is needed. I have that. I always see a difference once I get the fluids into him.  I pour the lemonade into a small lipped beaker. It’s a job to make sure I don’t give him too much at a time. Being vigilant I manage two beakers of drink. I try to get 3-4 down him in the 3-4 hrs I stay. He seems to wake a little more. 

‘I’m staying to give you your tea tonight Bob.’ It is mashed potato, carrots, spring greens and meatloaf, all chopped up of course. I have brought in the pudding – blackcurrant tart. I feed Bob with a spoon. He takes a while but today he eats quite well and doesn’t push it back on the spoon. The blackcurrant tart chopped into small pieces is enjoyed but it’s always the puddings that go down well. Recently I’ve taken to making him food from home and he loves that and his mouth opens wide. Pasta and poached salmon are his favourites.

After tea I put on the TV for the 6 pm news. Bob always watched the news. He sometimes says’ Hello’ to the newsreader. But before that it’s Tipping Point which he loves. He likes to see the counters dropping down and he can still read the amounts of money the contestants win. I always give him a commentary of what is happening and he seems to get something positive from it. 

I have learnt that to say ‘I’m going now’ makes him agitated so I now say ‘ I’m going to order you a hot chocolate’. I give him another kiss and leave. He is content.

It has become increasingly difficult to think how to help Bob have a good visit. He is getting so he is unable to respond or understand much nowadays. I have had to come to terms with the fact that perhaps this is a good visit now. This is the best I can expect. 

Occasionally he will say ‘ You’re lovely’ or You’re my best friend’ or if I’m lucky ‘Thank you, I love you’. In some ways that’s harder when he seems to realise, but I’d take those words any day.

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: JESSIE CAHALIN AND THE NO SIGN BAR

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Nobody followed me to the No Sign Bar, Swansea – a regular haunt of Dylan Thomas.  Seated next to the window, I searched inside my handbag for Collected Stories by Dylan Thomas. I found The Followers, a ghost story, hidden inside the anthology.

A ping from my phone confirmed a signal, but I ignored the emails. I sat in the bar Thomas renamed the Wine Vaults.  I read the opening lines of the story, but there was no sign of the beer I had just ordered.  Without anything to quench my thirst, there was nothing I could do apart from read on.  Between words, I felt compelled to search for two pairs of eyes outside of the window, but there was no sign of anyone.

Outside the window, ‘the rain spat and drizzled past the street lamps’. No one wore ‘squeaking galoshes, with mackintosh collars up and bowlers and trilbies’. Alas, the ‘rattle of bony trams’ was silenced long ago. Only the swish of car tyres, hum of engines and slamming of car doors filled the silence on the streets.  Gazing at the decaying red window frames, I did not see ‘a young man with his arm around a girl’. Instead, I glimpsed a young couple hand in hand dashing across the road while there was a break in the traffic.  Outside, there was a mass of coloured jackets and everyone wore jeans, leggings or trousers.  No one looked inside the tatty building. They didn’t seem to care that Dylan Thomas once frequented this watering hole.

Reading the short story, I pursued the followers, as they scurried through the alley.  Inside, No Sign Bar, I could smell the old musty wine cellar.  No one was responsible for the spontaneous spark of colour in the open fire. The pitted floorboards had been battered by tired and drunken feet for centuries. Words echoed around cavernous room. Perhaps, these were the words that inspired Dylan Thomas’s story The Followers: his only ghost story.  And I heard the rise and fall of the Welsh accent that probably escaped into the pages of Thomas’s mind, as he imagined the story.   I read the final sentence, ‘And we went our separate ways.’ I departed.

Near to Paradise Alley, I heard a voice echo.  ‘Spare some change, madam?’ The homeless soul was clutching a fleece blanket.  His watery, bloodshot eyes regarded me as he rolled himself a cigarette.  I spared him fifty pence, but this wouldn’t even buy him a beer. He caught the meagre offering with a grateful nod that punched my conscience.

‘Have you seen Leslie?’ mumbled the man. He looked at my handbag as I retrieved more change.I nodded.  ‘Only bread and jam in my handbag,’ I declared.

I ran to the car park. The rain drizzled until diluted my memory of the bar. I heard the distance tapping of footsteps and turned around. Thankfully, there was no sign of anyone following me. Checking Twitter, I did note I had two more followers.

 

No Sign Bar and The Followers

No Sign Bar is believed to be Swansea’s oldest pub and dates to 1690.  The wine cellars date back to the 15th century.  The name ‘No Sign’ originates from legislation of licencing when public bars had to have a recognisable sign.  This building was not public house and did not require a sign, hence was later given the name ‘No Sign’ to announce its presence!

Dylan Thomas frequented No Sign Bar, as a young man. No Sign Bar is featured as the Wine Vaults in Dylan Thomas’s story, The Followers.   Salubrious Passage, next to the bar, is referred to as Paradise Alley in the short story.