Carole Anne Carr

Moving and River Dark!

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Thu, 07 Jul 2016 13:58:00 +0000

A hectic year so far. We hope to be moving to a warden assisted apartment in Shrewsbury in a few weeks' time, should be easier in a smaller place and with some assistance. Although I have not been able to continue with my writing for several months, due to husband's illness, I have now been able to return to the completion of the sadly neglected book, River Dark, and in order to re-motivate myself have joined the new Open University course, begining in October, to complete my M.A. in Creative Writing.

'All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.'

Mother Julian of Norwich.

Reading from First Wolf.

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Mon, 19 Oct 2015 18:34:00 +0000

Had a wonderful day reading from my book 'First Wolf ' to Yr 5 and Yr 6 at St. Winefride's Convent School,
http://stwinefrides.weebly.com/ Shrewsbury.

Having taught primary children for 30 years, it was a delight to visit such an excellent school. Lovely children, they were fascinated by my book, asked intelligent questions, and made me feel so welcome. And teacher Mrs. Lamb arranged for a photographer to visit, so hope I find that copy of the Shropshire Star.

St Winefride's RC Independent School - Home

stwinefrides.weebly.com

Halloween Children's Book.

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Fri, 16 Oct 2015 17:19:00 +0000

Hoping you are happy and well?

I have been so busy looking after poorly husband, (he has had another fall, now slowly recovering), and looking after an autumnal garden, that I have neglected the writing of my books and online promotion.

Must try harder! You might be interested in my Halloween book, Thin Time, reduced price for this creepy time. So sad that postage to America and other parts of the world make this reasonably priced book more expensive. But I shall be looking for a publisher for my grown-up book, and maybe then I shall have books available in other countries. However, first I must find the time to edit it!!

THIN TIME
at the CAKE AND CUSTARD BOOKSHOP
FOR HALLOWEEN
http://caroleannecarr.co.uk/shop/

Looking for a Halloween book for a 9 -11 yr old? Thin Time is Halloween, when the veil between the worlds is so thin that it is possible to pass into the other world...
Alice is chosen by mistake to be Task Bearer by Fymm, a bad tempered tomb dog who is five hundred years old. She must bring back the New Year seeds at Halloween to prevent the world from dying and complete her task before Thin Time ends at midnight. Reluctantly she sets out on her dangerous quest with her small stepbrother Thomas, Fymm, and Ratatosk the Messenger Squirrel who cannot be trusted. Attacked by gargoyles and guided by Matilda from the altar tomb in Tong Church, Alice finds the door into Eihwaz, the Tree of Life, and enters the Other World, just as the gnarled roots close over her head. Descending deep in the earth, and helped by the singing cockerel stolen from the church tower, she must face the three terrible Sisters at the Well of Wyrd and the fury of Nidhogg the Snake-Dragon. Fearful her two gifts will not be enough to protect her, for she foolishly ate the third gift in a fit of bad temper, she faces the Niddhogg armed only with a stone and a gargoyle s shield. But even if she finds the seeds and defeats the terrible Niddhogg, she knows that without a loving heart she will never be able to return to her own world. And how will she know if her heart is loving enough before it is too late? Will she be trapped in the Niddhogg's Cave of Mists forever?

Hello Again!

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Sun, 30 Aug 2015 14:37:00 +0000

A woman's work...

Those friends who have kindly commented on my blog may know that I am my husband's official carer, I have to undertake the running of our home, the gardening, and now must move to be nearer to the hospital. At present it is a 60 mile round trip, not much fun in the snow.

Therefore, over the next months, I shall be preparing to transfer husband, myself and all our possessions back to the town of Shrewsbury. I won't be able to complete my next book, River Dark, as planned, it will have to wait until the new year. So I've restored this blog, given up the battle with the book for a while, shall concentrate upon finding a new home and the relating of my humorous trials and tribulations to anyone who might be listening :0)

What do you think?

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Mon, 27 Jul 2015 10:46:00 +0000

I received a letter today from a distributor of books for our region, wanting me to stock their non-fiction products. Lovely when people think I sell books other than those I've written myself. It is well worth thinking about. Maybe this would work, provided the books are similar to some of my own i.e. history?

http://caroleannecarr.co.uk/shop/

Just realised...

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Tue, 30 Jun 2015 13:35:00 +0000

Hope this heatwave is not too much for you. At the moment we are warmer in the south of England than the Mediterranean. Almost as fierce a the present heat in Atlanta, but without the air conditioning. Reminds me of my years in Africa working in the bank, had no air conditioning in those days, either.

After having deciding to post to a page on on my website, instead of on this blog, (to prevent posting twice, haven't yet learned how to send items to both sites, the Wordpress was set up and coded by my Grandson and my coding is at kindergarten level), I suddenly remembered that I am involved in a blog tour, helping to advertise a book, and therefore need Blogspot to give maximum exposure to the event...

Children of St. Cuthbert's R.C. School, Chester-le-Street, County Durham

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Wed, 20 May 2015 13:39:00 +0000

20th May - Mrs. Garrity and Class 5 - children making models of characters and writing accounts after readings from my book First Wolf. Do click on the link and see more of their work. It was a wonderful experience, talking to them via Skype.

Monk scribes

Model making

St. Cuthbert at Prayer

Setting sail for Lindisfarne

Talking to the author of First Wolf via Skype

The children as Anglo-Saxons and Vikings

Scribes and Viking Huscarls

I.W.S.G. Day!

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Wed, 06 May 2015 07:00:00 +0000

It's Alex J. Cavanaugh's time again, a time to review what has happened in the last month and share. For too long, I have written very little of my sequel, River Dark. I told myself that it was because my husband is constantly ill, that I hated sequels, that the book wasn't any good.

So I resorted to N.L.P., listening on the iPod every night for a week or so and have programmed myself to return to work. With a re-wired brain -good old N.L.P. - I now find that every morning, the task of recommencing the sequel is no longer a chore, and that I now have a more than positive attitude to the book. However, the wonderful reviews I received from you, concerning my poetry book Kaleidoscope, also encouraged me to keep going. So thank you all.

Kaleidoscope available free - Amazon Kindle

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Fri, 01 May 2015 10:29:00 +0000

Kaleidoscope - Poetry by Carole Anne Carr [Kindle Edition]

Carole Anne Carr (Author)

www.amazon.co.uk/Carole-Anne-Carr/e/B0034PC204

£0.00 includes free wireless delivery via Amazon Whispernet

available from 1st to 5th May

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

Wonderful! - I absolutely love them

By G. Appleton on 25 Jan. 2015

These poems are wonderful! I absolutely love them. They draw the reader in from the first line, and one feels not only totally engaged, but often greatly moved. Artistic sensitivity is in evidence throughout - pictures are painted with colour and texture and vivid appeal to the senses, all making for wonderful imagery and use of metaphor. To me this is a very fine collection of poems, which I find myself mysteriously drawn back to, such is the freshness and pull of the narrative.

Weaving youth to adulthood in a women's poems. 8 Jan. 2015

By Patricia Kennington - Published on Amazon.com

‘Kaleidoscope’ by Carole Anne Carr, is a story of child-woman growing into woman-child. Her shared lyrics become a vehicle to convey dreams, memories, hopes, and desires for “the more.” Through her poems, Carole invites us to relive and feel both the clarity and confusion of moving from child to adult. Her poetry encourages us to re-experience the poignant and the painful, self-realization, and the recognition of human failure. We return to past decisions, joys, failures, and the anguish of being alive and moving on.

Patricia Kennington, TSSF, Ph.D., Spiritual Director

My May Newsletter goes out today with this month's free book offer. I do hope you will sign up for this, the form is in the column on the right. It is my first attempt at such a thing. The interest shown in my first newsletter at Easter was 60%, so very hopeful. Thank you and hugs for being kind enough to get this far with reading my post xx

X is for Ex-Pats

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Tue, 28 Apr 2015 16:24:00 +0000

from Kaleidoscope....

African Christmas in the bush near Bulawayo

The date’s the only recognisable fact for us ex-pats,

as we gather under corrugated roof on the crumbling, concrete stoep.

Pots of poinsettia droop at our feet as we sit under a wing-infested lamp, greeting each other, the compliments of the season, and attempt to make the best of it.

Sweating, we idly watch a small scaly lizard, pop-eyed, panting,

crawl from a crack in the wall, flick a sticky tongue, and scuttle in the dust.

Someone treads on it, trapping it, breaking off the tail.

No one comments. Ice clinks in glasses, and bored, we turn to see

a mountain of polished flesh in snowy caftan, his oiled face

beaming with pride, the pudding held aloft by one strong hand.

Half-heartedly we applaud, and through the brandy haze,

the shrivelled artificial holly, think of home.

W is for Writers' Weekend

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Mon, 27 Apr 2015 09:35:00 +0000

....from my poetry book Kaleidoscope

Writers’ Weekend - forgot to say this actually happened, exactly as described! At a writing course on the North East coast of England....

Cross country driving through grey sleet,

skies overcast, wet roads a black deserted ribbon,

fame spurred me on, what if I should meet

someone who’d recognise my skills that had been hidden?

There on the hill, behind high rusting gates,

thin wintery hedges, crunching gravel

sinister ivy walls, a frozen lake,

poor welcome after miles I’d had to travel.

I rang the bell, listening to the echoing silence

spreading across the cold wet hills

and waited on the step, stamped in the snow,

much more of this and I’d be very ill.

Silence... if no one came I’d freeze to death

and slithering along the icy paths through cheerless gloom

I peered through unwashed windows, cold and wet,

a single electric bar glowed in a darkened room.

My hostess, tiring of the empty sweep of lawn,

discovered me and led me through a hall where Mr. Pugh

among his poison vats would be at home,

‘Had I been here before, did I admire the view?’

‘A ghost appears where you are standing,

your room is on the topmost floor

there’s no disturbance on that landing,

three people have arrived, there’ll not be more.’

‘It is the time of year, the snow is falling,

sorry about the dreadful lack of heat.

Fuel costs go up, it really is appalling,

but there’s a coal fire in one room, do take a seat.’

Huddled by the fire we shut the door

the fuel in the bucket’s growing less.

Oliver like, I dared to ask for more

but, sad to say with just as much success.

Retiring for the night to white-washed cell

colder than sheep pen open to the stars,

I dressed in all I had pell-mell,

three jumpers, woolly socks, and scarves.

A sudden thought, the other rooms were empty,

switch on the light to keep the ghosts away.

Collect the quilts; there surely would be plenty.

The longest night turned slowly into day.

Our breath formed clouds at breakfast as we ate,
we rubbed our arms and clapped our hands together,

watching the food congealing on the plate,

and smiled politely at each other.

After two days, I felt that we could face

anything the army could put us through or worse.

Manoeuvres would be easy; we’d swim the frozen lake,

hardened by the rigours of the course.

What we learned I really can’t remember...

V is for Village

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Sun, 26 Apr 2015 14:06:00 +0000

...from Little Boy Good-for-Nothing and the Shongololo - my original African folktale for the very young, illustrated by me and six year old children from a local school

Chapter One - Where is the Rain-Cloud?

In a small thatched hut, in a far away village in Africa, there lived Little Boy Dakarai and his Grandmother.

Grandmother was worried. There had been no rain for days and days. She looked for the Rain-Cloud across the far Chizarira Hills. But all Grandmother could see was the hot scarlet sun digging his fingers in the dry, sandy soil.

‘If the rain does not hiss and burst on the Mealy-Meal-Pods in the vegetable patch, we shall go hungry,’ Grandmother said. ‘Dakarai,’ she said to Little Boy. ‘Go down to the vegetable patch and see if the Mealy-Meal-Pods are ready to eat.’

So Dakarai trotted along the sandy path to the vegetable patch. On the way he met some bigger boys carrying their hunting spears.

‘Hello, Dakarai,’ they said. ‘We’re going hunting, but you can’t come. You’re too small. You must look after the vegetable patch. Little Boy Good-For-Nothing! Little Boy Good-For-Nothing!’ they shouted. They laughed at him and ran away.

‘I am not Good-For-Nothing,’ Dakarai said fiercely. ‘I sweep the floor and wash the food bowls for Grandmother.’

But he wished he could go hunting too.

When he reached the vegetable patch, he heard a gruff voice.

‘‘One…two…three….four….that’s right….five…six….bother!’

It was his friend the Shongololo, the millipede with seed bright eyes. He was busy trying to count his feet, but he could never remember what number came after six.

He was so busy counting that he didn’t see Chapungu the eagle, high up in the sky, hunting for his dinner. Chapungu swooped down and snapped up the Shongololo in his beak.

‘Put me down!’ shouted the Shongololo.

‘Let go, let go!’ shouted brave Little Boy Dakarai. He clapped his hands and ran towards

the eagle with the cruel beak.

Chapungu dropped the Shongololo and flew away. The Shongololo fell onto his back in the soft sand, wriggling his feet in the air. Then he turned himself the right way up. ‘You saved my life, Dakarai, so I shall help you. Ugh! The Mealy-Meal-Pods are too tough to eat. Go to the Rain-Keeper, who lives beyond the Chizarira Hills,’ he said.

‘What must I do when I get there?’ asked Little Boy Dakarai.

‘You must ask the Rain-Keeper to bring the Rain-Cloud. Look for the Rain-Keeper’s hut beside the Zambezi River. Oh, and watch out for the Crocodiles!’ Then the Shongololo scuttled under a stone.

If We Were Having Coffee

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Sun, 26 Apr 2015 14:01:00 +0000

Don't mind if you prefer decaf or another beverage, would be great to have company. Next week, all being well, my summerhouse should be in the garden, and given the weather, not too hot, not too cold - sounds like the Three Bears - it will be a lovely place to share. First I'd want to know how your week has been. Then I would tell you that I'm thankful that the A to Z Challenge is almost at an end, and that soon there will be no excuse I can use as a reason for not finishing and publishing River Dark. After that, I would ask you if you would mind listening to to the first chapter of this sequel, as I'd love to hear what you think.

Celebrate the Small Things Friday

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Fri, 24 Apr 2015 13:36:00 +0000

Thinking of things to celebrate this week...

1. Well the A to Z is nearly complete, despite the struggle.

2. After twenty years wanting my own summerhouse to use as an office, it has at last been ordered.

3. Having struggled to start from scratch with a neglected garden - the correct word would be jungle - I might have found a gardener at last. They seem to be as scarce as hens' teeth.

4. Reading a book about the way in which writing forms have changed since the 18th century and it is helping enormously with my own writing themes.

5. The editing to my sequel, River Dark, is slowly moving ahead. I often despair that I will ever complete it. More on that later....

U is for Uhtred

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Fri, 24 Apr 2015 08:10:00 +0000

from First Wolf...

Strong, and wilful for his years, Rinan took no notice. He reached the top of the ladder and made a grab for the walkway, wobbling dangerously. I snatched at the back of his cloak, hauling him through the air, and I was dumping him beside me when I heard father bellow the call to arms.

Seizing Rinan’s hand, I hurried him along the platform so fast his feet hardly touched the planks, and he wriggled and tried to kick me. It was then that my father flung the wolf’s head high into the air, and I saw it land with a soft thud on the far side of the newly dug earthworks, right in the path of Eorl Uhtred’s horse.

The piebald sidestepped, rolling its liquid eyes in fear. The eorl cursed, savagely spinning the animal in a tight circle and bringing it to stand obedient and quivering before our gates. Moments later the eorl’s household bodyguards reined in their lathered ponies beside him, their steaming mounts moving restlessly on the far side of the ditch.

They were near enough for me to see their scarlet armbands, worn over their leather tunics showing their rank, and their close fitting helmets. Each man carried a shield painted with a snarling bear, the eorl’s emblem, and held a light throwing spear. They were ready for battle, but they were small in number, and thinking we would easily defend our settlement against them, I heard shouting in the yard as my kinsfolk ran to defend the gates.

Our archers pushed and shoved to be first to climb the ladders. Now leaping onto the walkway, they raced towards me, their feet thundering in the hollow space beneath the planks. Then jostling for position, they trained their weapons on Uhtred and his men, their bowstrings drawn, the iron tipped arrows ready to let fly.

I held tight to Rinan’s cloak, peered over the spiked tops of the palisade, and was startled to see Eorl Uhtred gripping the reins of his warhorse and staring up at me. A long chainmail shirt protected his powerful body. The beaked nose and cheek guards of his helmet covered his beardless, battle scarred face, and he tilted back his head to look defiantly at our archers’ goose-flighted arrows.

Then lifting his sword, the blade flashed in the cold sunlight, and his black cloak billowed out behind him. He looked like a sea eagle, hovering with spread wings in search of prey, and it was good to be with my kinsmen on the walkway, safe from the eorl’s sword arm.

‘Look well, Godwin,’ Uhtred shouted, his voice harsh above the tugging wind. ‘The blood of your hearth lord Leof is on this blade. I killed him in fair fight – his land is now mine. I am your new hearth lord. Open the gates and pay your taxes to me, if you have wit enough to accept my protection to save your people.’

T is for Tales

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Thu, 23 Apr 2015 07:29:00 +0000

Fairy Tales ....from Kaleidoscope

she stares into the fire and weaves

castles, dragons, caves into stories

shutting out loneliness and bitter weather

remembers pages of well loved fairy tales, wishing

to be carried off to that land where things happen

and she is the princess, dazzling, beautiful

where the hot bellied dragon

gazes in awe at the sight of her

unable to gobble her up

wanting to be loved and take the hero’s place

and carry her off to his bed of emeralds, pearls

and other hoarded treasure

but knowing tradition on these occasions

she marries the prince, allows chaste kisses

for a place at the castle

years late, remembering the dragon

she sighs regret, wonders if he ever forgave her

and if another, gazing into embers on a winter’s night

made the right decision.

S is for Sisters

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Wed, 22 Apr 2015 15:35:00 +0000

from Thin Time.... in the Shropshire village of Tong, a bad tempered dog called Fymm, who is many centuries old, makes a mistake and chooses the wrong girl to be Task Bearer. Chased by gargoyles, Alice reaches the Green Lady’s cottage, receives the first of her three gifts, and learns that she must enter the Other World at Thin Time. Her task is to bring back the New Year seeds before midnight and prevent the world from dying. With her small stepbrother Thomas, Ratatosk the squirrel who can’t be trusted, and Fymm by her side, she sets out on her dangerous quest. Using the skipping rhyme password to enter the door into the Tree of Life, she travels into the Other World. With the help of the singing cockerel from Tong’s church tower, and armed only with a stone and a gargoyle’s shield, she must face the three terrible Sisters at the Well of Wyrd and the fury of Nidhogg the Snake-Dragon. But does she possess the one thing that will protect her – a loving heart? For without that, she will never be able to return to her own time, and the treasure, whatever it may be, will never be hers.

Fifteen - Knitting Frog Skins at the Well of Wyrd
The three sister’s clothes were twisted layers of dripping pondweed. Long ribbons of frogspawn hung round their wrinkled faces. They were knitting strips of wet frog skin on clacking fish-bone needles. I shuddered because the heaps of skins at their feet were wriggling and trying to crawl away.

‘The Three Sisters of the Well of Wyrd,’ whispered Fymm, settling beside me and pointing at the women sitting on the wall. ‘They are the Guardians of all the knowledge in the world. It is knowledge written in magic symbols on stones at the bottom of the well. Go on, Task Bearer. Speak to the sisters. Ask them to read the runes and to tell you where to find the seeds. Be quick, there can only be an hour or two left before midnight. Thin Time will soon be over.’
‘You ask them,’ I said angrily. ‘They are horrible. Why must it always be me?’
Fymm growled under his breath and I backed away, trying to keep clear of his snapping teeth, and not looking where I was going, stumbled into the clearing.

The three sisters saw me, stopped knitting, and stared at me through strands of frogspawn hair. Their silvery, fish-scale skins glittered in the moonlight, and on the sides of their necks were gill slits that flapped as they breathed.
They looked so alike it was impossible to tell one from another, and I stared at them in horror. There were bubbling watery sounds coming from their throats and they chanted, ‘Go away, go away, GO AWAY!’ Waving their strips of frog skin knitting at me, I saw the leathery skins on their needles lift their heads, their bulging frog throats croaking like kettledrums.

R is for Recruiting Officer

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Tue, 21 Apr 2015 22:10:00 +0000

Recruiting Officer from my poetry book, Kaleidoscope

You old devil, performing conjuring tricks

in the bleak December classroom.

You ham act the nativity, roll up your sleeves.

The ginger hairs on your arms glisten

under the naked bulb.

Your fists scoop out manure, cleansing the stable floor,

warm dung drips between your coarse fingers,

as your sour breath touches open faces.

You revel in their reaction, forming young minds,

creating an hypnotic state.

Your stoat to their frozen rabbit,

you teach them original sin,

tell them they shut the inn door, and weave

a glowing lantern slide before their astonished gaze,

with towering Magi bearing bitter gifts.

Lord of your chalk domain, exhausted by your

matinee performance now replete,

you close moist fleshy mouth, replace the lens cap

over thrusting tongue, and Pied Piper them

into a leafless playground.

Years later, standing in that empty classroom,

the stage of your many triumphs, you look at the rows of

iron-runner desks, breathing the fumes from the
pot-bellied stove, and rummage in your bag of tricks.

Your hopes for your future, your religious faith, now gone,
have you forgotten the Christian army you sent into battle?

Q is for Quest

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Mon, 20 Apr 2015 09:25:00 +0000

My children's books are often in the form of a quest, one of the most popular forms of literature. In First Wolf the hero must carry the Lindisfarne gospels to safety, in Thin Time, the heroine must bring back the seeds of life before thin time ends and save the world from dying. Even in the picture book for the very young, Little Boy Good-for-Nothing and the Shongololo, brave Little Boy must bring back the rain cloud and save his Grandmother and the villagers from drought...

from First Wolf...

Lurcher by Lucy Bodell

I limped through the gates with Grandmother struggling beside me, and I was thankful when we crossed the bridge and stood on the other side of the ditch. Then my heart sank when I looked along the stony track. The cold sun had begun its slide towards the Edring Hills.

It seemed such a distance to the forest. I longed to be back in bed, safe under the covers, not standing there in the tugging wind with Heolstor’s crowing laughter loud in my head and the gates thudding shut behind me.

‘We’ll be all right, Grandmother,’ I said, but I was more miserable than I’d ever been in my life before.

Then my lurcher thrust his damp nose into the palm of my hand, and looking down into his loving brown eyes, I was comforted. With Bodo beside me it wouldn’t be so frightening, whatever happened.

‘Good dog, good dog, Bodo,’ I said, and the hound wagged his long thin tail against my legs. Then thinking he’d soon be coursing the wild brown hares, his body quivered with excitement.

The last of our women and children were hurrying up the track to the forest, the sound of a little one’s cries carrying to me on the wind. ‘It’s not far, we’ll soon catch up with the others,’ I said, but in my heart I knew they would leave us far behind.

‘Well, come on. What are you waiting for? Going to stand there till I’m froze to death?’ Grandmother grunted, pulling at my arm. ‘Shan’t need Uhtred to kill me. I’ll be dead and stiff long before he gets here.’

The icy wind whipped strands of her hair across her sooty, apple-wrinkled face, and I took a firmer hold of her stick-like arm and felt her body shaking. I tried to hurry her along, but this made her wince with pain. There was no sign of Uhtred, but mingled with my fear of him, something else was bothering me. I’d stupidly forgotten my cloak. I had only my woollen tunic and trousers against the bitter weather.

It took a long time to walk from the gates to the nearby pig keeper’s shelter, and we were some way from the empty pigpens when Grandmother let go of my arm and gasped, ‘I’ve got to stop – I can’t breathe.’

‘You can’t stop,’ I said in despair. ‘Uhtred is coming – we must keep going.’

‘Then he’ll have to catch me. He won’t want an old woman like me, anyway. Lot of nonsense,’ she panted. She flapped her hands to push me from her and nearly fell over.

It was no use shouting at her. She was too weak to go on, and she collapsed wearily on the path. I crouched by her side, listening to the wheezing sound in her chest and waiting anxiously for her to recover. It was dangerous to stay where we were, for men on horseback would see us easily. I was wishing I could be like the hares, hiding in a scrape, when Grandmother tapped my arm.

Hollow eyed and weary, she held out her hands to me and I pulled her up. ‘Not far now,’ I said, ‘you’ll sleep safe and warm in Elwick this night.’
‘Humph – want to sleep in my own bed. I’ve no use for Elwick,’ she grunted.
‘How do you know? You’ve never been to Elwick.’

P is for Dame Elizabeth de Pembrugge

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Sat, 18 Apr 2015 07:53:00 +0000

from Kaleidoscope, my first book of poems,
broadcast on BBC Northwest

photograph taken at Tong Church, Tong village,
where my book Thin Time is set

Dame Elizabeth de Pembrugge

Push open the baize covered door,

and step into the dust filled, underwater light,

the smell of damp hymn books, decaying flowers,

and in this time stood still for all eternity,

here on the altar tomb lies one grand dame

beside her chain-mailed husband,

her dignity still intact, despite the best attentions

of Cromwell’s bigots, who hacked her nose,

her feet, her hands.

The clatter of the latch announces the departure

of another visitor, as I remain in the evening sunlight

that slides across the paving, and listen to those two proud figures

repeat their nightly conversation,

and wonder if she thought the cause was just.

Or did she scorn Sir Fulke beside her,

having no admiration for armoured splendour,

lion guarded feet and noble chivalry, preferring him

to stay, defend the castle, fulfil his feudal obligations,

rather than to dash in religious blood lust

to the first crusade?

I hear her icy words crackle through the vaulted air,

berating him for his stupidity, his early death,

saying that she would gladly have forgone the honour,

the cost of this expensive tomb,

if he’d had the sense to forsake the glory,

and remain with her at home!

O is for Oswald

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Sat, 18 Apr 2015 06:35:00 +0000

from First Wolf...

‘Keep still, wriggly little eel,’ I whispered angrily. ‘If the men see us, we’ll both be beaten.’

This quietened him, for he knew about beatings, and I settled to watch the members of the folk moot with a feeling of great bitterness in my heart. I was old enough to attend the meetings, to join their war talk, but there was no place for me. With my useless leg, they would never send me into the forest to kill my first wolf. They would never think of me as a man.

Many nights I dreamed I was searching for the wolf, only to wake sweating, shouting, and filled with sick fear. The creatures often hunted in packs, it would be dangerous work, but I longed for my chance to prove my worth. Boys of my age had slain the wolf; they sat by right at the meeting place and pitied me. Their pity did not upset me much, for it was kindly meant, but some like Oswold, uncle Heolstor’s son, threw stones at me and shouted insults that made me burn with anger.

At my birth, my kinsfolk saw my useless leg and voted to leave me on the hillside for the wild beasts to eat, but Father would not let them tear me from my mother’s arms. He followed the teachings of the good Saint Cuthbert, knowing it wrong to kill a helpless child, and I was thinking it was a blessing to have such a father, when a sudden shout made me jump.

‘Godwin, what use is your folk moot?’ It was Heolstor, his face like thunder. Spitting angry words, he threatened my father with the ash spear. ‘There’s no king’s man to attend the meeting,’ he shouted, ‘there’s no one with the right to hold the spear, to judge what should be done!’
My father growled, wrenching the spear from his brother’s hand. An anxious cry went up, for only the king’s high reeve held the ash spear to decide right from wrong. Then clenching the spear in his fist, as tough as the hammers he used to beat the glowing iron on his anvil, my father gave so threatening a look that the men placed their weapons on the ground, squatting in the sand to listen to him speak.

Celebrate the Small Things Friday

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Fri, 17 Apr 2015 13:59:00 +0000

Today is Celebrate the Small Things Friday. Hosted by Lexa Cain, L.G. Keltner of Writing Off the Edge, and Katie of The Cyborg Mom, Celebrate the Small Things is a time when we all take a moment to celebrate something good from our week. It can be small, it can be big, just something to look back on the week and celebrate! It is sometimes hard to find something to celebrate, but well worth trying. Just pop along to Lexa Cain's blog and add the link.

So what's to celebrate. The fact that husband managed to drive to town and walk a short distance today. Marvellous! At long last I have begun to work on my book River Dark again. On, and despite my age, I am working on a very neglected garden and making a difference. Yes, lots to celebrate. Have you have something to celebrate, too?

If We Were Having Coffee - Quiet Moments

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Fri, 17 Apr 2015 08:09:00 +0000

I came across Eclectic Alli 's post this weekend and followed the link to others who have joined the very relaxing and beautifully written posts.

It seems to have been found by Part Time Monster, do visit the blog, and has increased from there. Whoever had the first idea, it is well worth spending a quiet time sharing a coffee. Very therapeutic.

N is for Northmen

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Thu, 16 Apr 2015 13:32:00 +0000

from First Wolf..

Monks working in the fields, close to the beehive huts, ran towards the leeward side of the island. Others came from the long house, helping those who were old or ill. Abbot Higbald ordered them to seek safety in the church and protect Saint Cuthbert’s gospels. He ran towards the building, flinging open the door. Monks followed him, and as we hurried after them into the church Modig raced ahead of us and one man locked and bolted the door behind us.

The abbot seized a heavy, silver cross from the altar, and holding it before him, ran back to the door crying, ‘Deliver us O Lord, from the fury of the Northmen, deliver us O Lord, from the fury of the Northmen!’

There were heavy, running footsteps coming across the enclosure, men shouting in that strange language. Axe heads thudded against the stout, oak door, making me shake with fright. There were terrifying screams. I smelled burning thatch, there was a terrible crackling and a frightening whoosh above my head. Thick smoke drifted under the door, swirling round my feet.

‘Quick,’ an old monk shouted at me, the one who sent poor Desmond to his death, ‘follow me.’

He hurried as fast as his old body would allow and ran to the altar. Snatching up the book covered with Juliana’s jewels, he thrust it into my hands and cried, ‘This is more precious than your life – you must bring it safely to the monks at the White Church – close by the monastery at Durham.’ Then picking up a tall candlestick, fear giving him strength, he swung it above his head, smashing the coloured glass in the high window above the altar.

Screams from the enclosure froze my blood. Modig was barking, the church door splintering. The old monk peered through the wreathing smoke towards the door, grabbed me by my tunic, and shouted, ‘Swear you’ll do this. Swear on the holy book that you will guard it with your life!’

He seized my wrist, slamming my hand hard onto the surface of the gospels, the jewels digging into my flesh, and I cried, ‘I swear! I swear!’

M is for Matilda

noreply@blogger.com (Carole Anne Carr) — Wed, 15 Apr 2015 10:34:00 +0000

Scribble on her Dress .... from the book Thin Time

Matilda - illustration by Sophie Bignall

I was furious with Thomas for running off, but I had to find him. Crawling from under the bench, I tiptoed along the aisle to the wooden trellised gates and was shocked and surprised to hear Thomas giggling and the sound of gentle laughter. There was someone else in the church!

The laughter was such a comforting noise in that gloomy place and I hurried between the high-backed choir stalls into the cold moonlight pouring through the huge, stained glass window that filled most of the east wall of the church. In front of me was a vast expanse of dirty red carpet stained with candle wax. It covered the paving and the three wide shallow steps that led up to a low platform against the back wall of the church. On the platform was the altar, a long stone table draped with an old grey cloth, and sitting on the bottom step was Thomas with the young girl from the knight’s tomb beside him!

Her long hair fell in a colourless shawl round her thin shoulders. Her dress was like the cloth on the stone table, threadbare and so old it was hard to tell the colour it had once been. The folds of her dress were full of dust, but I saw smudges of gold paint on the cords and tassels of her cloak. Recovering a little from the shock of seeing her, I remembered something else and went hot and cold inside. I’d scribbled my name all over her. Thank goodness, I hadn’t scribbled on her hands and face!