Tag Archives: Wendy Breckon

Return Ticket To Ireland Please by Wendy Breckon

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The year is 1968, September, in the gentle mist on the dark, dark, sea.  There I stand, age fifteen, on the top deck, watching the twinkling lights of Belfast harbour slowly vanishing.  With an Ulster accent, a case crammed full of Irish potato bread and some ‘cracking’ memories, I am on my way to England’s green and pleasant land.

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My return visits over the years have been frequent and much documented.  Lingering walks by Loch Neigh, and gazing upon the beautiful Mourne Mountains.  Ambling through Carlingford in search of the perfect Irish coffee.  Following the haunting sound of the fiddle and an Irish voice or two to the nearest pub.

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There is one place though that is more than magical.  The small village of my roots,  Scarva, (Scarbhach in Irish), in County Down.  It is placed on the map beside County Armagh and marked by the Newry canal.

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Visitors come by bike or foot, or the humble motor car, to relax by the water, to take refreshments or maybe like me, to people watch with a notebook not too far away.  It’s a delightful way to spend a day.

My grandparents lived in a cottage with a small holding up a nearby lane.  They grappled with mucky pigs, squawking hens, belligerent cows and needy sheep.  Paradise!. Eventually they moved down to the village in the main street minus the livestock and the early hours.  Here their new window on the world gave me many opportunities for writing a story or two., but I missed the early sound of the cockerel and the clanking of the milk churns. though I’m sure they didn’t.

In search of nostalgia, I recently revisited the now tumbled down and derelict Drumilla Cottage where the seeds of my writing first appeared.  There it was … a crumbling reminder of a childhood spent amongst the fields and lanes of the delightful County Down.

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We decided to take the winding road to Portadown, eight miles from Scarva in County Armagh.  This used to be a small market town in the fifties and sixties, where I attended secondary school, Portadown College, until the age of fifteen.

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One of the defining moments for me will always be the morning that Mary Peters (our ex Head Girl) hid behind the curtain on the school stage.  Curious?  So were we young first years.  She had recently won a medal for Great Britain and Northern Ireland in the Pentathlon, so how on earth did she have the time to be here?

“Well, I’m sure you have no idea who is behind the curtain children?”  Said our headmaster, mischievously.

“Could it be Jesus Christ sir?” said a brave lad in the front row.

Mary appeared with her warm, friendly grin clutching her medal. Everyone cheered.

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“Go for what you want in life.  Aim high.  Never give up” she told us with great passion.  We all nodded like a hundred puppy dogs in the back of a vintage camper van.

Later that morning, Mary visited my cookery class to judge a pastry rolling competition.

“Now then class, who can roll the longest piece of pastry for our local champion and there’s a prize …”.

I was off… the class were completely mesmerised.  The long, thin, discoloured snake of pastry touched the ground, sweeping up the fluff at the bottom.

“And the shilling goes to Wendy, it’s a  really good effort.  Well done”.

“But it’s a wee bit dirty miss,” said one girl in a disgruntled manner.

“Colour doesn’t matter dear.  It’s all about the attitude”, said the teacher passing me the shilling.

Mary Peters kissed me on the cheek and I got to hold the shiny medal.

As the car ambles through the winding roads on the way back to the ferry, there was much laughter as I recall this and other moments, to him beside me.  We both agree, not just because I was born there, that Ireland is magical, mystical and magnificent.  If you haven’t been before why not cross over the Irish Sea this year.  Drive to the North or to the South for a short while or even longer.  Just say, “RETURN TICKET TO IRELAND PLEASE”.

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The Charity Chic Series Brings You The Charity Shops of Lyme Regis

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FAITH, HOPE AND CHARITY  by Wendy Breckon

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I’ve got an addiction.  Can I share it with you?  Charity shops.

Even writing the words, makes me want to wiz round the room faster than a small child on a red scooter.

Something happens when I catapult myself, bottoms up through the door, clutching the bag that can hold everything.  “I’ve got a theory. Have you got a minute?” Maybe, giant magnets inside the door suck us in, rendering us incapable of rational behaviour.

“Can I help you?” says the volunteer looking down with curiosity at my jellyfish like movements and inane grin. Yes, there is no place I would rather be than rifling through the bits of material and matching buttons in the bin at the back.

Some people dismiss the idea of charity shops with a bit of a sniff, (although less so these days) so why don’t I?  It is probably FAITH that when I turn up at five to five the volunteers will take pity and usher me in. HOPE that the dress I wriggled into yesterday is still there, in my size today and CHARITY; do not forget when you are searching for a bargain that sliding money over the desk is helping those less fortunate.

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Charity shops can test the fragility of personal friendships.  Take for example, “one husband and a leather jacket”.  One morning when browsing in one in Hertfordshire, my other half tried on a brown jacket that he really wanted.  Slight problem. He didn’t have enough cash so put it back on the hanger.  Later on we went for a walk and spotted the very attractive brown jacket moving towards us.  Guess what?  His best mate was wearing it.  But… hey… whatever, they are still good friends.

We have two charity shops in Broad Street, Lyme Regis, Dorset.  Both are in the perfect position for a saunter down to the sea afterwards with the smell of coffee following your path.

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Today I am visiting the Tenovus charity shop.  This is a British charity committed to the control of cancer through quality research  / education counselling and patient care.  It was established in 1943 by ten business men, (hence the ten of us).  Tenovus scientists have been recognised for their pioneering work.  They have a free phone cancer support line (0800 800 100), free counselling and benefits advice.  Check out the official web site – www.tenovus.org.uk.

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It was bitterly cold outside, but beyond the door there was a friendly welcome from Sam Green the manager and her two volunteers Sue and Rosemary.  Vibrant colours, great displays and lots to buy at excellent value.  I needed very little encouragement to take home the papier mache rocking horse that was part of the window display.  Now it rests gently on the ledge beside my stained glass window.

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 So what is my passion? Jugs, all sizes, shapes, chipped not a problem.  Bit of a history, fine with me.  No holes in the bottom, even better.

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Old frames, where I remove the print inside and replace with photographs and a funky surround.  Wallpaper, wrapping paper, shells or fossils.  All you need is a trusty glue gun.

Now let us not forget the magical world of the charity shop bookshelves.  Faded paperbacks, celebrity hardbacks, pop-up or pop-out books. How To Make Sand Candles Or Origami Figures, One Dark Night In Lyme Regis or a Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Cobb.  I’m an avid reader and love them all.

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After a good night’s sleep dreaming of my purchases I awake refreshed.  The thought that the money spent is playing such a vital part to the relevant charity, is never far from my mind.  If you have any spare time, why not consider volunteering, or at the very least, buy some fantastic bargains from them.  Whenever we go through the door we can make a difference to someone’s life.

 

 

 

 

All Hell Let Loose In World War 1 By Wendy Breckon

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THE UNTOLD STORY OF WILLIAM AND TOM so that we can give thanks to all those represented by the poppies planted in commemoration at the Tower before memory fades into the frenzy of Christmas.

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Patriotic fever, uncertainty and a touch of sadness are in the air. The year is 1915. Our country is at war. This is the moving story of two men, both connected to my family.

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The first, my great grandfather William Ralph Wootton, was born in 1877 in Ardwick Manchester.  The other, born in Bedfordshire in 1884 many miles away, Thomas Henry Seamer, my husband’s grandfather.

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Two young men leaving their families, not sure of their future, but that is where the similarity ends.  One returned and sadly one did not.

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The father of five sons, William Ralph, Lance Corporal Wootton (2748) of the 5/7th Lancashire Fusiliers was killed on the 9th August 1915 in Gallipoli.  He met his bloody end a few weeks after joining up in the battle of Krithie Vineyard.

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My poor great grandmother paid the price as he did, for the ‘Hell Let Loose’ campaign, (a term coined by one of the battalion survivors).  Now the repercussions started.  My grandfather, William Richard, the oldest son, had to go out to work to support the family.  As well as losing his dad, his dreams of further education as he was such a bright lad, were scuppered.  He never got over this and remained resentful.

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Years later, he and his brothers were working in a mill in Lancashire when Winston Churchill visited.  As they blamed him for their father’s death, due to the mishandling of the Gallipoli conflict, all five of then turned their backs on him and continued working, as Churchill walked down the aisles.  Each of the Wootton brothers had their pay docked for not switching off their machines.  Such feelings are understandable, as sadly they had all paid the price of growing up without their father.

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In my hand, there is a faded brown leather wallet, a bullet, and a selection of torn letters. Their owner was my husband’s late grandfather, Private Tom Henry Seamer of the 1/8 Middlesex Battalion who fought at Ypres in France.  One of these was from his little daughter Lizzie, saying ‘she looked like a toff in her new coat’ and ‘please come home soon daddy’.

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The other one was from his employer who owned a flour mill in Hertford.  The rich owner of the business, wrote from Falmouth on his honeymoon, to Tom in the trenches.

‘We are having a blissful time.  The weather is beautiful.   You wouldn’t have thought there was a war on here Seamer because all the men are away’.

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One evening whilst on active service, Tom took out his prayer book to read a psalm and noticed that… a stray bullet had penetrated the wallet which he kept in his breast pocket.

This had ripped through his letters and photographs but miraculously, because of its full contents, his life had been saved.

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Private Tom Henry Seamer did return to Hertford after the war to his wife and daughter, taking up his old job with the mill, driving a cart and his horse.  Life in the trenches was rarely talked about to friends and family.  Always at the back of his mind, he would have realised that he was a survivor, whilst too many of his friends were not. I suspect a great loneliness was his companion as he went through life.

 

 This article is dedicated to the memory of Lance Corporal Wootton and Private Seamer and written by Wendy Breckon, (nee Wootton) x

 

 

 

The Call of The Wild Art Exhibition by Wendy Breckon

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In search of the creative experience, my curiosity takes me away from the hustle and bustle of Broad Street in Lyme Regis and the sea down to the Town Mill. This feels like the artistic hub, an enclosed, pretty area with a restored 700 year old flour mill and two art galleries (the Malt House and Courtyard).  Here is a tranquil place, tucked away where one can write, sketch or sip tea as the world goes by.

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I love art exhibitions; who doesn’t.  I feel the magnetic pull of the Malt House Gallery.  A light filled, calming space with the apt title of ‘CALL OF THE WILD’.

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This is closing on 23rd November, but there is a new exhibition every three weeks so have a look at the work of these artists and see the essence of the gallery.  The opening hours are normally from 10.30 to 16.30 except in early January (www.townmillartsguild.com).

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By the entrance off to the right, are three adorable and quirky figures keeping watch on all who pass through. These ladies mean business. With umbrellas over their heads and animated expressions, they clutch their handbags very tightly! Owning one is not enough, I want them all PLEASE.

I have competition in Margaret Graham though, who wonders if she’ll need a mortgage to acquire them. She treats herself to a work of art every time one of her books is published, and Easterleigh Hall is just out. We’ll have to get our elbows going, and the best girl wins.

These are the wonderful creations of ceramicist Linda Bristow, soft muted colours that would look perfect in my sitting room.

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In Linda’s collection there are also unusual shaped pots with daisies on top.  A very popular ceramicist, her work is displayed beautifully. Linda Bristow was originally a nurse but when her children grew older she went to Bath Spa University as a mature student to do an art course.  Gaining a first class honours degree in 2007, her final design piece, an instillation of 200 porcelain and bronze flowers, was snapped up by one person. Sadly it wasn’t me.

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Linda has exhibited everywhere in the UK.  She loves being outdoors and is fascinated by nature.  It is easy to visualise her working in the garden studio taking in the wonderful views of Charmouth.

Elizabeth Wilson is another artist exhibiting in the gallery, who I was lucky enough to meet today.  Her visually beautiful oil paintings capture the light and movement in the skies and seas around Lyme Regis perfectly.  My favourite three are ‘The Cobb’, ‘Storm on The Cobb’ and ‘The Seagull’.  Will her oils she has captured the iconic scenes, that those of us who live here and those who visit enjoy so much.

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Liz lives in Lyme Regis.  She originally completed a botany degree and has always had a fascination for the ‘conversation between the landscape and nature’.  It was only seven years ago that she started painting in oils.  Liz has been both influenced and inspired by Constable the landscape painter and the modernist painter Martin Kaneer for whom she has a great admiration.  Liz has always preferred being outside and likes to revisit a scene many times to achieve her end result.

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So visit Lyme Regis.  Seek out the Town Mill.  Enjoy the fabulous art in both galleries.  Meet the artists, but please leave one of those fabulous ceramic females for me.

For other activities and courses at the Town Mill, check out www.townmill.org.uk and Philip Clayton the Curator of the Arts Guild (curatorartsguild@yahoo.co.uk)

 

 

A Day In The Life Of Wendy Breckon – Writer And Storyteller

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5.00 am. Wake up early, too early as usual. The creative mind cannot sleep. Wonder where the piece of paper I shoved under the pillow is? One gets many ideas in the middle of the night, but what good is a pencil, if there’s nothing to write on. Aah… it’s Wednesday today. The alarm was set for 6:30 am. Our son Olly, is a producer for Good Morning Britain  (ITV) and often texts us when his features are on.

“Do you think that is one of his items?” I mumble to my other half, through bleary eyes, holding a cuppa and crunching a half fat biscuit.
Mmmm… his reply could be considered interesting…Where is that pen and paper?

Today of all days I am feeling so delighted. Last night, I read one of the stories from my memoirs of an Ulster childhood, at the Bridport (Dorset) Story Slam, and was fortunate to win the first prize. This reflection on my early experiences and my wonderfully eccentric grandmother, has motivated me to keep writing… and writing… and writing.

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So where did this passion first begin? Probably on her farmhouse table in County Down when I was seven and not quite eight. As I scribble, the words fly across the page and she is there; dancing in a Cossack hat, making soda farls for tea and whispering unbelievable French words.

The day continues downstairs with a large cup of coffee and later on, lunch. In the room overlooking the garden, blushing apples on gnarled, old trees and the faded blooms of lupins are waving gently. I reach for another new notebook and pencil. Handbags and shoes don’t thrill me, but writing materials increase my excitement to dangerous levels. We are talking dotty, spotty, cute pets and London buses. I own many but never stop craving more.

When I need to clear my head, or just let ideas and memories simmer, I head for the front at Lyme Regis and just let things work themselves out.

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Sometimes as a break from memoir writing, I send letters to magazines and have had a few published. The funniest one appeared in Homes and Antiques, where I told the tale of chasing a shoplifter in John Lewis down three escalators, before she disappeared without trace. My punishment as a student employee involved a ‘brief’ stint in men’s underwear and pyjamas. Naturally it took ages to recover!

Over the years the family has been very supportive of my writing. When my two sons were teenagers however, the fact that I had taught English and Drama to Glenn Hoddle the footballer in the 1970s, was much more interesting. They both loved the idea that their mum wouldn’t let him go to football because he dived over the desk.

As dusk settles, hopefully tonight we will get the chance to Skype our son Sam, partner Lorraine and grandson Finn (three), who live near Dublin.

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I light one of my own home-made organic candles – fig and pink grapefruit, (another great passion), while we plan our next big adventure to Ireland.  Naturally, the latest story will be tucked in my suitcase.

Wendy Breckon

wendybreckon@outlook.com