Pangolin Issue 22

Every holiday needs a frisson of uncertainty. In Dubya speak, I misunderestimated the distance to the Singing Kettle services on the A55. We made it with only a few kilowatt-hours to spare. A polite but imperious electronic voice insisted that ‘your destination is on the right’.  We obeyed, despite our profound disagreement with her political opinions, for these were desperate times. After circumnavigating the Drive-Thru McDonalds we were finally rescued by a lone white charger hiding in the lee of a SPAR, which was, of course, on the left.

Our destination was a cottage just south of Beddgelert where we celebrated my mindful soulmate’s second successful hip replacement (thanks to brilliant teamwork at the NHS hospital in Chapel Allerton) with a week of sunshine and showers, walking and sketching, writing and painting. There’s pleasure to be found in studying the OS map, thinking about the direction of the light and the wind, then walking to a chosen vantage point, not forgetting the need to factor in the possibility of midges and bogs, seeing how reality compares to the map.

One of my grannies was a Davies, the other grandpa was a Pritchard, so perhaps It’s not surprising I love Welsh mountains, though my solo ascent of Moel Hebog, which loomed cloud-topped and irresistible behind the cottage, resulted in four days of aching quads. Ascents are not a problem, it’s the coming down that’s tricksy. The one properly wet day enabled me to finish plotting novel 2 so I’m well-chuffed. I’m now 9000 words in and enjoying wresting words to show Freya, my main protagonist, wrestling her world.

Here’s a sample from Chapter 1:

I’m not alone for long. Two runners pad along the path towards me, their slim legs fast, confident. That was me, once upon a time, without their paraphernalia of course. We didn’t have pedometers, monitors, water bottles shaped like bagels.

“You OK?” One of them pants, hardly breaking stride.

“Fine, thanks,” I lie.

They breeze past me, leaving me stranded in their sleek and scented wake.

I watch them go. My old running rhythm is still there, ingrained in the brain, and probably the body – if I ever get fit enough again. A familiar beat, the one that accompanied the teenaged me, pounding woodland paths and neighbourhood streets: Freya, Freya, Dragonslayer; Freya, Freya, Dragonslayer.

 

“Too twee”, “Two-dimensional”, “It’s turned to mud” – all phrases that my mindful soulmate uttered during our week away with reference to her painting, all phrases that could equally well be applied to my writing. She brought with her a beautiful book expressive portraits by Jean Pederson which is full of top tips on the use of watercolour and mixed media to envision the essence of a person. Some of her headings: Know your subject, let expression and body language speak, eliminate the inessential, explore and experiment – are all wise words of advice for writers.

It’s about time I reminded readers why these blogs are called Pangolins. One of the characters in Yetunde’s House is a latter-day Alan Turing called Thomas. He is a visa-expired Ugandan, who names his world-beating security software ‘Pangolin’ on account of its flexible defences. Real world pangolins continue to have a very hard time. My next one is due to emerge with the new moon on September 20th.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *