Train Diary


This was the project I did not complete and show at Lincoln because I became so disillusioned with the course. Instead I showed the ‘Suit of Nettles’ PR show fill the space as I felt this project was too complicated for what was basically a craft show….

The basic premise is as follows and over the next few weeks I shall start filling in the journeys week by week…

Every journey to Lincoln is annotated in a sketchbook. Informed by a reading of a single chapter from W.G.Sebald’s book ‘Rings of Saturn’. Thoughts and observations are written down as they occur with no linear logic.

Lowdham Festival Staple Launch

Saturday 28 June

Launch of the East Midlands edition of Staple

Roberta Dewa, Derrick Buttress, Antony Cropper, Shaun Belcher, Clare Brown and Michael Pinchbeck – all Nottinghamshire writers – launch a Staple special edition, with short fiction, poetry and a memoir of living in Wilford!

Non-fiction Marquee, behind the Village Hall

Staple Magazine: Three poems

Three poems published in latest Staple Magazine

Rivers I have Visited
The Drifting Village
The Weaver’s Lament




Featuring stories by Clare Brown,  Michael Pinchbeck, Roberta Dewa, Marilyn Ricci, Karen Jardine, Peter de Ville, James K Walker, Georgina Lock, Pascale Quiviger, Anthony Cropper,  Jonathan Taylor, poems by Martin Stannard, Rosie Garner, Derek Buttress, D.A. Prince, Alan Baker, Sheila Smith, Deborah Tyler Bennett, Shaun Belcher, Sue Dymoke, Robert Hamberger,  Robin Maunsell and Pat Marum, texts and photographs by Graham Lester George, documentary film-maker Jeanie Finlay’s ’Goth Till I Die’, John Lucas translating Baudelaire, a history of Nottingham Writers’ Studio, reviews, comments and much more. Catching the spirit of the East Midlands in a handy anthology with a picture of a man sitting on a duck on the front…


chalkfish and monkey

Chalkfish and Monkey

She picked the fish out of the box leaving a pool of mucus and blood slowly congealing on the shelf and dripped it toward the kitchen table. Outside the wind lashed the tops of the poplar trees together and rain sprayed from the barn roof opposite. She guessed the river would be rising now and looked across at the hills in the distance and wondered what time he’d be back and if the cartwheels were getting bogged down in the chalky mud again. They’d been gone three hours to market and she should be seeing their wagon slowly come around the curve on the down opposite soon.

She was used to watching it crawl along the white chalk road like a fly along cook’s apron string. She heard the master scraping his chair back on the wooden floorboards above and the gentle tap of his cane on the floor as he rose to leave the table. Every day he followed the same routine of moving slowly over to the bedroom where he’d sleep off the meal and wine. She heard the chattering of the monkey as it skipped after him and a curse as it got under his feet. Its tiny claws scratching on the boards as it scampered back to the windowsill where it would sit sucking at grapes it had been thrown from the table.

She started to grow nervous as the single horse started descending the chalk hill toward the farm. A single horse at this time of day always meant trouble…the men were in the fields and only vagabonds or bearers of bad tidings would be out in such filthy weather. She suddenly realised that she’d sliced through the gills and bone and without thinking through her finger. She screamed and ran to the jug of water and the china bowl …she just stood there dripping blood into the bowl that slowly swirled and disappeared in the fresh water. She bit her lip. He was late..

The cook came into the room and seeing her away from her task scolded her then came and held her hand up and bound the cut and told her to hold the cut above her head. Her rough hands gripped her hand tightly as she stemmed the blood. She could smell the smoke of that morning’s breakfast fire in her hair. They were both stood motionless as the latch was raised and the rider stumbled in,face red with exertion,and cried…the bridge has slid away with Tom and the cart on it…down by the weir…

He’d come to tell master..who hearing the commotion was clomping down the wooden stairs. She already knew…as the rain puddled on the stone floor, the red stain grew and eased into droplets of blood dripping into the wet floor and the fish leaked slowly into the bare wood of the table…she knew he was gone..

They stood motionless, all looking at each other, speechless and fearing the worst. The monkey screetching and jumping from the master’s shoulder and freed by the commotion span and danced around the kitchen..chattering like a death rattle…screetching and chattering madly and spitting a grape seed into the fire..

a crow in barley

The wide white sky was gone. In its place, pale yellow stalks, dry cracked dirt and empty ears of corn. His world had spun seven times and on the eighth his face had come to rest here. He blinked warm blood as it trickled down his forehead and into his right eye. Already dust and flecks of straw were sticking to it. His face was pressed into a tractor track. The rows of v-shaped ruts ran off into the corn. He thought of counting them, then he must have passed out. He came round and the world was moving again. Something was lifting him and pulling him up like a plant as he was dragged free of the field. His bed of chalk, flint and straw fell way. The top of the crop dazzled him as he rode across it. Could have been the sun shaking under him. Then he crossed the remains of the wire fence. A stretch of ten to fifteen feet had been flattened by the impact. Some of the barbed steel wire had snapped and sprang loose in the air. There was a v-shaped swathe through the corn as if someone had taken a scythe to it.

That was where they found him. Later he was told he’d come down like a shot crow, his leather jacket scratched and scarred like his machine. He was covered in celandines and poppies that had tangled around him. Someone said he looked like an angel lying there. He remembered looking up at the sky as it changed from blue to the white of the ambulance ceiling. All he could remember later was white, white flowers, white sky, clouds rising higher and higher and really high up a pair of black wings hovering. A hawk watching the fields below and that ambulance’s shining roof and the black speck of a bike to its right and the figures moving. He wished he was up there too. Could just slip away from all this on a thermal. But things had a way of coming out. Like rabbits dashing away from a combine harvester. Or like the ash floating down on the town when the fields were burnt. It would be all over the place.

to be continued….