A Spot Of Gardening

I hadn't done much in the garden recently, I must confess. The neighbours' incessant noisy dogs barking, angry shouting, loud radio and arguments have pretty much destroyed any enjoyment I'd hoped to get out of the garden. It's gotten to the stage we hardly use the back door any more in order to avoid the commotion. The back garden is in danger of falling into neglect. 

The avocado seems to be doing well

Nevertheless, my son and I stuck a bunch of potatoes in the new plot in the spring and since then I've been weeding a bit and watering over the dry months, but other than that it's just been a case of crossing my fingers and hoping for a big yield. Since this is the first weekend I've had off in what seems like forever, I thought I'd spend a bit of time going round the garden and seeing what's to be seen.

Space for Plot 3 on right before plum tree

When we moved in I instantly envisioned three strips of arable plots for crop rotation: brassicas, legumes and root vegetables. I dug up the second plot last summer (if I remember rightly. It's all been a bit of a blur since Covid reared its ugly head) and the plan should have been to dig up the third and final one this summer, but to be honest my spirit was not in it. Plus I was beginning to realise - more land needs more water. And more work. So I really need to get another water butt as well as get off my own.

Anyway, it's not too late. Maybe I can do some tomorrow morning. (Yeah right.)

This morning's fruit harvest

The great things about growing your own veg, even as a beginner, are: exercise, fresh air, cheap organic food, better for the environment, low carbon footprint. It's also educational for the kids. "Look, remember the potatoes I made you plant against your will and you complained about being dragged away from your screens for five minutes three months ago?" "Nope." "Well, look at this." "That's great, Dad. Big wow. Potatoes. Dude, I'm 12 years old, did you care about potatoes when you were 12?" "No, I was spending all my time watching TV and throwing cake ingredients at neighbours' windows." "Riiight."

Hopefully get a few more mini toms before the frost sets in

First I poked my head in the greenhouse, after using a stick to de-spider-web the place of course. Nothing better than getting a cobweb, several dead flies, spider exoskeletons and arachnid babies in your hair just after a shower. I plucked a napping snail off the inside of a pane and cast it onto the front lawn, where it tumbled to a halt near the hedge, no doubt thinking to itself, "WTF!" or whatever the snail equivalent is. Then I talked to the tomato plants. I apologised for ignoring them, I said thank you for their fruit. I asked them how their day was. The usual. They didn't respond but I like to think they appreciated it. 

The Monster Beetroot may soon get up and walk by itself

The beetroot was doing well. Not sure whether to dig it up now or leave it a bit longer. I imagine it might rot if I leave it in too long.

The strawberry

Then I examined the strawberry plant. Interesting thing about that is, last year it was overcome by grass until I left it for dead for several months. The grass died out but the strawberry survived. Now it has its pot pretty much to itself. Maybe I should rehome it.

Before

I looked at one end of the potato plot. Gathered three containers : one for weeds, dead plant stems and mouldy spuds destined for the compost; one for plastic or other inorganic matter that somehow found itself into the previous compost and therefore soil, destined for the rubbish bin, and a third for potatoes, destined for the kitchen. Got a spade and steeled myself for some hard, back-breaking, physical labour.

After

About 40 minutes later and some minor back pains I had half a sack of spuds and 1/6 of the plots had been turned over. Looked pretty good. Very satisfying. Didn't want to stop because the sight of potatoes popping up just by turning over the soil is always very rewarding. Food from the ground. Hooda thunk?

5.1 kg

The compost went into the compost, the rubbish went into the rubbish, the spuds went into the kitchen. I went for a lie down. 

Job done.

Brenda The Carrot

Heart Of Scotland 4 : Aberfeldy & Dun Coillich

Woke up at around 6:30am and decided to try my hand with the volcano kettle. Unfortunately we were only allowed to make a fire in the fire pit at the corner of the campsite near the river, which made lighting with the zippo problematic. Also, the sticks we'd harvested from the bush near our house turned out to be not very flammable. Experimented with building a small fire with kettle on it first, which didn't work, then starting the fire first and putting the kettle on top, which burnt my hands, before trying to light a fire outside the fire pit, which someone else had done on the sand, which didn't work either. Luckily, however, between the three ways the water had, although not boiled, gotten hot enough to make coffee.

We had a nice breakfast and I began to feel better after my volcanic failure. Used the gas stove to heat more water for tea. Ahh, technology!

At some point we realised our son had left his walking boots outside the car in the car park back in Callander 50 miles away. Wonderful. No doubt because he'd been so absorbed by the crappy blue cap gun and its crappy silencer. I'd toyed with the idea of driving  back to see if they were still there (50% chance of that, I reckoned) but in the end decided the two hour round-trip, cost of fuel, wear and tear on the car etc. all probably accumulated to about the same cost of a new pair of boots. So we decided to drive in to Aberfeldy for some new ones instead.

Castle Menzies

Stopped at Castle Menzies for coffee and carrot cake. If my second name had been Menzies we may have even forked out the twenty odd quid to go round the museum. (Actually on second thoughts I'd probably have felt we should have gotten in for free!) Saw a stallion urinating in a field round the back. That was a first. No idea if he was Italian so don't ask.

Aberfeldy Cinema Cafe Bar

Aberfeldy, described (perhaps a little unfairly) in the Lonely Planet Guide To Scotland as "a shabby town and rough after dark", seemed fine to me. We parked behind Tesco and walked up to the centre where we saw a nice cinema/cafe/bar and had lunch in the Fountain. (There I killed a wasp with said Lonely Planet and put another outside by trapping it within two coke glasses, elevating myself to undisputed wasp-exiting legend in the eyes of staff and customers both). I had lasagne, my wife had a baked potato, and our son had an enormous cheese burger and chips which I helped him finish (Delicious. The clever lad had even had the forethought to put a few chips in the burger). 

There was a guy outside at a table who was the spitting image of Eric Clapton and I was tempted to go out and ask for his autograph (even if it was "To Chris, all the best, Dave").

Made our way up the road apiece to a shop called Munros which had some good walking boots and a face scarf for our boy, 4 replacement Maglight bulbs (which I'd been searching for for about twenty years), and a bunch of other great stuff. Very helpful staff too. 

Made sure to get the hell out before sunset.

Climbing Dun Coillich

After stocking up on supplies we drove back to the campsite, and I decided I was going to climb the hill at the back called Dun Coillich (572m - known as a Marilyn on Walkhighlands.co.uk). Our son said he'd join me.

We drove up the 500 yards to the car park (as per the campsite owner's advice) only to find a message on my phone from wifey asking us to bring the cool box back to the campsite to put the recently purchased perishables into. So we drove back to the campsite, off-loaded said cool box, and returned to the car park (I got the turning right this time) and at last set off.

Our route up Dun Coillich.
Note Geographical Centre Of Scotland nearby

The way was marked with green and white markers which helped greatly. (If only life was thus signposted. "Fame and Stardom 50yds on left") They were painted stakes stuck in the ground every 20 yards or so. We were to follow green & white until roughly between the two hills, and there was to be another path branching off to the right that would hopefully take us up to the peak. I was wearing my blue shorts, waterproof jacket and JCB work boots. Son was in new boots, black trousers and black jacket. I thought to take the umbrella just in case. Turned out good we did as it f*&^ing p*^&(*ed down.

I was a little concerned about ticks and checked and rubbed my legs continuously. My son and I took turns taking point and pushing on through the ferns, nettles and showers as best we could. It wasn't long before our feet were thoroughly soaked, and the hill didn't seem to be getting any closer, although the views of the campsite below were definitely getting better and further away. My son kept voicing his concerns and I did my best to encourage him and press onwards and upwards. It helped to focus on our feet and not fret about the immensity of the task ahead.

Whose idea was this again?

At last we came to the turn off - white dots on green. We turned right at a red marker and followed the new ones up between two more peaks, unsure which one we'd be scaling. It got pretty steep and we decided to just keep our heads down and rest at every marker. After the steep bit it levelled out again and a little later we came to a solitary, final marker in the mist, but no cairn. And it didn't feel like we'd reached the top. Felt more like we were in a saddle. But no more markers. On a hunch we headed up the right hand slope, doubling back southwards, just tramping over the shallow heather/gorse/bracken, slightly ascending and looking back now and then to keep the final marker in our sights.

The cairn! Damn, forgot to bring a rock. Back to the bottom!

We made it! After about a hundred yards we reached the top, and simultaneously found the cairn, saw a cloudy, mist-laden panoramic view, and were blasted in the face by quasi-sleet being blown hard at a 30º angle. We only paused at the top to take a couple of out-of-focus selfies, partake in one or two well-earned high fives and catch our breath before withdrawing to the lee-side of our approach and back to the relative safety of the final marker.

Click to expand

Coming down we were rewarded every few yards with what seemed like a different photo opportunity, and there was a lot of fishing in the pouch for the camera to snap a great view. It had taken us about an hour to get to the top and we took our way down slowly and carefully.

This, however, did not prevent me from twisting my left ankle badly and taking a tumble, ending up with a few spikes from some thistle or other in my palm, but otherwise unscathed. Fortunately this happened near the foot of the hill. Turns out my JCB steel-toe capped workbooks were not suitable for hillwalking after all.

These boots were not made for walking

Glad also it was me and not my son, because that would have put him off hill-walking for life and completely negated the whole point of the character-building exercise.

We got back to the car and my ankle felt fine. Very glad of the walking stick I'd bought on instinct in Callander. Poured water out of our boots. Dried off as best we could. Note to self: Have dry shoes, socks and a towel in the car next time you go hiking in Scotland.

The descent also took about an hour, meaning a round trip of two hours up and down. Would have been 1:45 without tumble and selfies.

Really glad of the automatic Toyota as we drove down the hill back to the campsite (no need to use left foot on clutch).

Anyway, it was a great experience and I hope my son will carry it on in the future.

We treated ourselves to a hot chocolate as a reward

Heart Of Scotland 3 : Glengoulandie

We packed up, checked out and assured the nice Chinese man at reception that everything had been perfect even though it would have been more beneficial for him to know that it wasn't perfect for the simple reasons that:

1) I had no bedside table until we bought the camping one

2) there were no biscuits with the tea and coffee

3) breakfast had not been included (even though I hadn't paid for or ordered any)

Map of Callander (click to enlarge) 

   My wife wanted to stroll around town again so we did that and stopped at our usual place for coffee and danish. The young woman who was assisting the boss quipped some very funny one-liners in a kind of laid-back, stoner style which made me want to sign her up immediately for a podcast. Instead, we ordered our brunch, including among other things a gluten-free muffin for my intolerant wife. She opened the wrapping and then decided to read the ingredients. Turned out the muffin had gluten coming out of its ears. It had gluten up the wazoo. It had more gluten than you could shake a stick at. It was basically a wheat muffin. She was not impressed. I was charged with returning the product and informing the owner of the extent of its glutenness maximus. The owner was mortified, very apologetic and grateful we had pointed it out as her child was also gluten intolerant and appreciated how bad a situation it could have become. They gave us a refund and our son a free apple & cinnamon bun that was so delicious he ended up eating half the wrapper. Luckily it had no nuts in it because that would have been ... ironic.

   After getting a new fishing reel and a cheap, crappy, blue cap gun with no caps included (I had not been privy to this transaction) for our son, I wanted to at least do one of the walks in the booklets I'd procured from the tourist info. So we set off, with our car and roof-box all fully packed and ready to go, in search of Bracklinn Falls. We drove up to the woods, changed into our walking boots, and set off.

Bracklinn Falls

   It was a pleasant stroll and a good choice for a small family training for the Munros I thought. We were to go along, over a bridge, up the other side, over another bridge and back down to the car park. Sadly though, our walk was cut short as the first bridge near the falls was shut for maintenance, so we had no choice but to retrace our steps (deja vu, I know). 

A nice bridge, but alas currently not functional

   We got into the car, changed our shoes (while my son complained about the crappiness of the crappy silencer on his crappy blue cap gun that had no caps) and headed to Tesco's for supplies before setting off on the next leg of our four-legged journey, along the top of Loch Tay to Glengoulandie campsite.

   On the way I tried to progress our son's musical education with a listen to 'Hour Of The Bewilderbeast' by Badly Drawn Boy, but to my dismay he fell asleep almost instantly. At least he didn't throw up.

Map to Glen Goulandie Campsite

   I had hoped to stop somewhere on the north bank of Loch Tay to spark up the volcano kettle but unfortunately the road was too high for access, so we had no choice to drive on. I took a turn prematurely (Ooh, Matron) and we had a moment of disorientation (at one point there were three cars pausing at an intersection probably all thinking the same thing - where the fuck are we?) before realising we could just continue parallel to the road we'd been on towards Coshieville, hang a left, and push on through the driving rain up the 1.5 track road to the campsite. Our son was no help, snoring as he was in the passenger seat, blissfully unaware of either Badly Drawn Boy or our moment of being lost.

No idea what this is

   Our son came to just as we pulled into the campsite, we checked in (very nice couple) and succeeded in getting the big green tent up in between showers. What hassle that was! All the doors and windows had been left open and the guy ropes were all loose and tying the thing up. The beast was half inside-out. We'd put in the groundsheet too early and the straps which were now over the groundsheet should have been under it. It was like trying to put a lime-green, screaming toddler octopus into a car seat.

Warning: Both male and female chickens check these toilets

   The shop only sold coffee, snacks and other essentials, so we had to depend on what we'd purchased from Tesco for the night and breakfast tomorrow. We dined in the tent at the table, played some cards and D & D and went to bed when the light failed badly enough for us to not be able to read the monster character cards. I didn't sleep that great, but if I'd known how bad it was going to be the next night I would have appreciated it more.

A view of Glengoulandie Campsite. Deer abound

   The soporific sounds of raindrops on tent carried us off on a one-way ticket to airbed unconsciousness. 

   Next - Part 4 : Aberfeldy & Dun Coillich

Heart Of Scotland 2 : Beinn Dearg

Woke up still a bit painful behind the eyes and almost threw up attempting to look at myself in the mirror. Now I know how other people feel. (Having to look at my face, I mean, not their own). 

After nursing a gentle breakfast of croissants, fruit and coffee, though, I began to come around while watching Nightmare Kitchens USA with Gordon Ramsay, which was a lot of fun (I mean he was on TV, not we were sharing a room). I used to work as a waiter and kitchen porter so I can totally understand where he's coming from a lot of the time. It's very satisfying seeing him butt heads with people who think they're king of the castle.

A beautiful big church dominates Callander square

After breakfast, it being a much cooler, cloudier, breezier day, we strolled down the north side of the street and popped in and out of occasional stores that piqued our interest. In the hope of musically educating our son during car journeys I bought a couple of CDs (Finley Quaye ("It's great when we're together..." A Scottish musician!) and Badly Drawn Boy). A cup of coffee and apricot danish which we (I) enjoyed while sitting outside near the church went down well and put paid to my headache. The Main Street was so busy with caravans and motorhomes it seemed that Callander was just a place to pause in transit - or just drive through - on the way to and from other spots for most people.

Some nice architecture in town

We continued our stroll and bought the last camping table in Regatta for £25 (which would turn out to be invaluable), an ornate walking stick for £30 in the fishing/camping shop (to fight off wolves and bears while climbing Munros), and a Dungeons and Dragons starter pack for £25 in the games shop. "I haven't tried this one yet," said the shop assistant, "but I want to." "Something to play with the kids," I said, and then worried it sounded like I thought role playing games were not a dignified way for adults to spend their time, "And myself of course!"

Don't forget to hashtag Hashtag

We came home, had a very nice lunch, and my son and I played the first half of D & D and killed a few monsters using too many dice with too many sides, before going out to attempt to climb a nearby hill called Beinn Dearg (427m). 

I was beginning to realise that a Munro was out of the question for my family to do together, so a touch of training was in order. I scanned the walkhighlands website for nearby hills under 2000 feet, and Beinn Dearg came up.

The path to Beinn Dearg never did run smooth

 Only trouble was, there was no route to the top according to Walkhighlands. There was a path halfway up and then Google just drew a rather optimistic 'as the crow flies' blue dotted curve to the summit. On closer inspection there seemed to be a line through the trees I thought we could follow. So we set off in the car around 3pm. There must be a way, I thought, if there's a will.

A mountain to the north, viewed from Beinn Dearg, capped with cloud

The drive southwest from Callander was pleasant enough, and it was easy to find the car park next to the loch (we could have used the volcano kettle on the shore but alas no coffee, milk, tea or sugar! (note to self : keep stuff together!))

The views along Loch Venachar from Beinn Dearg were well worth it

We walked up a zigzag forestry commission road which allowed for some great views up and down the loch, but after 45 minutes' climb it just stopped at a viewpoint, and the trees uphill seemed impenetrable. Insects were also beginning to devour my wife. Turned out there was neither a will nor a way, so we retraced our steps. Failed to reach top but good starter hike for us all. Total walk round trip: 90 mins. Then back to town.

Who could forget that shop where we bought the fudge?
What was it called again?

Went back to the hotel after waiting 50 mins for our order to be made up at the Chinese Village restaurant (I was about to walk out before ordering (as I'm sure Gordon Ramsay would have done) but we were assured it was worth the wait by a couple who left, and it was. To be fair, everywhere in Callander seemed to be short-staffed, probably due to the change in lockdown restrictions. We got prawn fried rice, sweet & sour chicken and I had a kind of sweet garlic and honey chicken strips thing with boiled rice and a side order of prawn crackers. It was delicious and we stuffed our faces with plenty to spare. They'd even given us an extra order of fried rice, either by mistake or by way of apology. Very kind!

This could be Rotterdam.

After finishing our game of D & D, our son was out like a light and we all followed suit.

Next - Part 3 : Glengoulandie

Heart Of Scotland 1 : Callander

I had the vague notion of wanting to do some hiking this trip, possibly an easier Munro or two (Scottish mountain over 3000 feet), so I researched the route using a combination of booking.com for the hotels, walk highlands.co.uk for the Munros, and pitchup.com and Google for the campsites. The plan was to alternate between two nights in a B&B and two nights at a campsite : total 8 nights.

Ben Vorlich (985m) was supposedly a good one for beginners, and seemed within easy reach of Callander.

Our Intended Route

Before leaving, I spent the morning searching high and low for the fishing reel for our son's rod and tidying up the (blisteringly hot) shed, but to no avail. (Note to self: keep all your stuff together) In the end we had lunch at home (onigiri rice balls) and set out for Callander at around 2:30pm.

The Dreadnought Hotel

We checked in to the Dreadnought (£161 for two nights, room for three), put the bags in the room, and then went to reacquaint ourselves with the town. We bought fish and chips which we ate near the grassy knoll at the river, followed by the mother and father of all ice cream cones (mine was choc chip in a chocolate-dipped cone costing £5.50!)

Shops have amusing names in Callander

After strolling along the river to a play park and across the street, a woman stopped us to expound the faults of the mini golf course next to the hotel, slamming it repeatedly and mercilessly, recommending the one instead near the river, saying it was, 'much better.' We thanked her for her advice, but it was all moot anyway as they were both closed. 

On The Grassy Knoll - a Bon Motte (The Hill Of St Kessog)

We bought some breakfast supplies in Tesco (the hotel booking was room only) where my wife met the 'crazy golf lady' again who set forth the pros and cons of various shelf items in the supermarket. 

By the time we got back to the hotel and upstairs I had developed the mother, father and great grand parent of all head-aches. I lay on the bed feeling terrible while my wife and son watched TV and enjoyed their first night on holiday. I realised later that the headache was probably due to the heat of working in the shed earlier and dehydration, coupled with a sugar rush. The salty fish supper probably hadn't helped much either.

What a way to start the trip!

Next - Part 2 : Beinn Dearg

Rename Sunday Earthday

On Sundays we used to rest. Nap. Potter around. Remember? Spend time with family. Because nothing was open. Perhaps the reason for this has changed, as beliefs change, but the effect was kind to the planet. And us. It gave the planet one day to breathe. And us a chance to relax.

As you may have heard, 97% of peer-reviewed scientists who studied climate change "endorsed the consensus that humans are causing global warming."

This is a problem for us on Earth, but not so much for the sun.

The sun can look after itself. We need to protect the earth. For this reason I propose we change the name of Sunday to Earthday, and on this day

• close shops and businesses
• limit non essential travel
• pedestrianise suitable roads
• encourage cycling, skating and other non fossil-fuel burning activities
• encourage local protests, demonstrations, talks in aid of the earth
• encourage meetings in local parks or halls for music, storytelling, poetry
• discourage non-renewable energy use
• plant trees locally
• celebrate our planet

Knowing our current situation is unsustainable, we should and eventually must change our ways as a tribe, country, people, species. It's that simple.

Better late than never. But what if late is too late? Imagine the good it could do.

Add your support to this cause by signing the petition. This petition is to the People Of The World. This means you. Because we don't need to ask anyone's permission to rename Sunday Earthday. New words are added to the dictionary every year. Because language changes. So we can just start doing it. 

Image credit https://www.hdwallpapers.in/planet_earth_stars-wallpapers.html

Sunday Thoughts

Well, here I am sitting in the glorious sunshine in our back garden having a spot of brunch in a bid to fend off the ‘pre lunch energy crash’ that I’ve been experiencing a lot recently (probably due to the nightly Heinekens (I bought four cans for the slugs and drank three myself (these days the slugs in my garden have two choices: salt or beer; some of them wisely choose the beer))))

I haven’t done much gardening of late and I’m not sure why. They say, “Spend time not money on your <insert valuable thing here>” and I haven’t been doing much of that at all. Sunday mornings were traditionally my gardening time but to be honest I haven’t been bothered. I’ve planted the spuds but the brassica and legumes patches lie empty. I guess I could move the broad bean saplings to the outside now we’ve hopefully seen the last of the frost. Why has my gardening spirit deserted me? I still don’t really know what brassicas are, but I have a feeling I don’t like them. Are they the green leafy veg like kale and Brussels sprouts? Sounds like ideal food for slugs to enjoy with beer and salt.

I read an article in last week’s Times Magazine by Rachel Riley of Countdown fame (she’s now 35!) and she said some of the best advice she’d ever received was: Decide what would be a good outcome of a project and if you achieve that, be happy with it. She also wrote: Only concern yourself with what will be important in five years’ time.

Rachel Riley in 2011. Source : Wikipedia CC by 3.0
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

This got me to thinking. Where will I be in five years’ time? What will be important to us then?

Well, I’ll be 51. I can’t even relax enough to imagine what that will be like. Probably just be exactly the same as now, except hopefully we’ll be closer to paying off the mortgage. Too much time wasted on social media. Failed half-empty writing promises. Not enough money. Unachieved goals.

I remember in 2008 I wrote a five year plan and it involved becoming self sufficient. IE we’d own our own house, have our own homestay business. Teach English at home and tour people around Scotland. Sounded like a pretty good goal.

And to some extent we approached this. We had guests coming in with AirBnB and Homestay. We had a refreshing home. People came and went. They stayed in the spare room. We even had a lodger at one point. Admittedly the first night was always a bit nervy because we never knew if they’d kill us all in our sleep, but after that didn’t happen it was fine.

I mean we could grow more food, it’s just a case of me being arsed.

The dandelions are out in full force today, and so are daisies on the lawn. I’ve put fatballs in the bird feeder and the house sparrows are tweeting merrily. Currently no neighbours are playing radios or shouting at dogs. Things seem momentarily peaceful. In the distance someone’s mowing their lawn and dogs are barking their indifference at each other, but that’s at a distance so completely fine. No fitness company is shouting orders via a PA system at their clients, which even at a distance is insufferable. 

It seems I’ve become a cantankerous old man, which must have snuck up on me in the last five years...

So back to Rachel Riley. Where do I want to be in 2026, because there’s a fair to middling chance that it will come around eventually.

I don’t want to be 51 - that’s a start. That’s the main one.  I'd rather be 25.5. But that’s ridiculous. I’m going to be 51 whether I like it or not. The question is, what kind of 51-year-old do I want to be? 

Looking at people younger than me lamenting their age I always think, “Hmm, they should just be grateful for what they have.” So perhaps that’s how I should be. Grateful for what I have. I should be grateful for being 51 because five years after that I’ll be 56. More pain. More hardship. Further from the truth. Or closer, depending on how you look at it. 

Okay, can’t do anything about that, but I can presumably do something about my situation. Me and my books and my writing and my wedding videos and my car and my music. I want to be an ageing hippy, smoking dope and giving lectures. And my dog. I want to enjoy the twilight years of my life. 

I want to live in a small house near the sea in St Andrews, with a garden in a quiet place. 

And all I’d need to do that is £135 grand...

Better get writing!

Trappings Of A Gem Stealer - Short Story

Artok checked the harness one last time before slipping over the edge into the cave. Above him, the storm-filled but rainless sky began to recede as he let himself down into the cooler darkness below, which threatened to swallow him entirely. 

He didn't want to go into the Black Heart this late in the day, when dusk was already approaching, but if Enock's men came back in the night, as they'd threatened they would, and found no more stones, it would be another flogging for Artok. The pain was terrible, but the look on his wife's face and new born son's wails would be worse.

Damn Enock!

Lightning fired above, quickly followed by thunder so loud it numbed Artok's ears. Grimacing, Artok lowered himself into darkness.

Some moments later he felt his feet touch down. He detached one of his three torches, poured a little oil on the head, and struck it alight using pieces of flint from his pouch. That done, he released himself from the harness, held up the torch, and took a second to look around. A few black beetles scuttled off the crudely erected platforms away from the light, but apart from those, nothing else moved. The cavern stretched up overhead and its surface was covered in jagged shards of rock, which necessitated the building of these platforms for flooring, branching off in various directions and leading into the various tunnels and recesses throughout the maze of the Black Heart.

Artok made his way cautiously along one of the platforms, which creaked under his weight. A noise off to his left above his head made him pause. He hadn't heard that kind of noise down here before. It was three gruff snorts. Artok continued. Get in, get a few stones, and get out fast, he thought, dropping his free hand to the crossbow hanging at his hip. 

He wondered briefly if the stories the villagers were telling had some truth to them after all. About the hideous creatures down here. No. Just made up by some greedy folk to keep people out of the Black Heart and away from its precious stones.

Nonetheless, Artok's grip on the crossbow tightened.

Shortly the ceiling became low and the platform came to an end, forcing Artok to stoop and begin carefully navigating the crevices and knife-like rocks using his hands to steady himself. Occasionally he felt some downward jutting rocks scrape the thick protective cloth wrapping his head, and was glad of it. Sometimes the stone sliced through his mittens and caused his hands to become sticky with blood, or a beetle might crawl over the back and up his arm before he shook it off with a gasp .

Artok stopped for a second to catch his breath. While he regained his strength he waved the torch ahead of him, straining to see through the gloom. At last he saw the flickering reflections up ahead of a deposit and his heart warmed in his chest.

Then came the sound of another husky grunt, followed by a shrill noise that sent a shiver through Artok's bones. After that the flapping of many wings. Then nothing.

He swallowed, but his mouth had gone dry.

Artok started moving again.

The deposit that he'd seen was set beyond a tight narrowing of the cavern, where the ceiling came down to within a couple of feet of the floor. Artok found the widest part and as carefully as possible, eased himself through. A small stalagtite jabbed him sharply in the back, but otherwise he made it to the other side with little trouble.

Raising up the torch he examined the deposit. It was a good one, with a number of large gems that looked easy to remove. He set down the torch leaning against a nearby surface, unhooked his crossbow and laid it, too, down. Then, taking a smallish hammer-axe, began carefully chipping away the surrounding rock. He worked that way for some time, enthralled, alone in his little bubble of light, enclosed on all sides by leagues of darkness and earth.

Suddenly he realised something was watching him. He snatched up his crossbow and spun around in a flash.

Whatever it was disappeared.

He picked up the torch and waved it in front of him, trying to cast the light further than it would go.

Nothing. Except the sound of his own hard breathing.

A couple of beetles scuttled into the cracks.

Artok grunted, his veins flooded with adrenalin but nothing to shoot.

A shiver rolled through him, and he lowered his torch. His crossbow arm went limp, and he sighed. But the sensation of being observed wouldn't leave. The idea of something watching him as he quietly worked away in his own light, the view of himself from behind as he sat engrossed, made him shiver yet again.

He swore gently, and turned back to the deposit. He'd removed four gems from the rock, which now sat on the soft gem-bag to one side, and he examined them once more, enjoying their cool jagged surfaces in his blood-smeared hands. Would these four be enough? he asked himself. The desire to leave, now, as fast as possible, was quick and overwhelming, and laced with panic.

There hadn't been any more of those strange sounds, he noticed. Who knew what lay sleeping, dormant, hidden away in the unexplored depths of the Black Heart?

He looked again at the source of the deposit. Maybe three more stones could be extracted without much effort, he decided.

With shaking hands, Artok again laid down his torch and lifted the small hammer-axe up to the gems. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and began chipping away again at the rock around one of the precious stones. Once, twice, three times. He stopped. His hand was shaking so much he had shattered the gem with his third strike.

A noise came from behind him, a gruff snort.

The little hammer-axe dropped from his fingers.

Artok turned, slowly, his body trembling so much that he barely had control of it.

There, beyond the narrow gap, was a huge, grinning snout filled haphazardly with jutting, broken teeth, and above it, yellow, glowing eyes set hungrily on Artok. Slowly, it eased a long taloned claw through the gap towards Artok, who, frozen with shock, saw both the hairy, muck-covered humanoid arm and its eerie shadow thrown by the torch, and stumbled back against the gem deposit.

I'm going to die, was the only thought in Artok's mind that made it through the fog of terror.

Unable to reach Artok, the thing suddenly gave a brief flap of great black wings, changed its position, and tried to reach further into the space. The glint in the thing's eyes wasn't hunger, Artok then realized, but wrath. Wrath like molten lead. The creature was still unable to get at the small, quivering form of Artok, no matter how hard it pushed into the crack. The talons snapped together five inches from his face

It can't get me, Artok realised.

The thing gave a low growl of effort and pushed harder into the crack, breaking off pieces of rock, top and bottom.

Oh God, Artok's mind stuttered. Please don't come any closer.

But it was. It gained a little progrees, was stopped by the rocks, charged forwards with a grunt sending pieces of broken stone showering over Artok, and then was stopped again.

Artok's hand rested on something and he looked down. The cross bow. He aimed it directly at the creature's head and set his finger on the trigger, but the back of the thing's claw lashed out and sent the weapon flying against a wall. With a cry, Artok picked up the torch and jabbed it forwards, but the creature grabbed the end between its giant fist and extinguished the flame with a crunch as if it was nothing but a match.

Darkness.

But still sound. Sound that wrenched the core of Artok's being apart with fear. Falling pieces of rock. Grunting and slavering. Snapping of fangs. Wings moving in leathery foldings and unfoldings.

And then silence. The thing had paused before making its final lunge, Artok realized. And with the silence came calm. This is the end, Artok now understood. All men died, it was a universal truth.

Wordlessly, Artok said goodbye to his beautiful wife and precious son, gave the last sigh of his life, and closed his eyes to the darkness.

He waited for it to end.

A moment later, he found that he was still waiting.

“Artok!”

It was someone calling his name, echoed and distorted by the cavern walls.

There was a low growl, followed by the sound of dropping stones and scraping rock, and a gust of musty air, as the creature stole away, back to whatever dark recess it kept.

Artok tensed, waiting, listening, and then nearly fainted with relief.

“Artok!” came the voice again. “Can you hear me, down there?”

He breathed air deep into his lungs, savouring it again as if for the first time. The sensation of the rock under his hands. The ability of moving arms and legs without pain or discomfort. The miracle of existing again, in the here and now.

Almost overcome with gratitude, Artok rose shakily to his feet, feeling around for his other torches and flint pouch and listening to someone climb down into the cave.

“Well? Are you in here, Artok?” said the voice, a little louder now. Laughter followed.

Artok, about to speak, paused, trying to remember the owner of that voice. Frowning in the darkness, he poured a little oil on a fresh torch head.

“Maybe he's fallen down a crack and split open his dirty, thieving fucking head.” A second voice. Laughter.

“Probably all the better for him,” muttered the first.

Flints in hand, Artok paused in mid strike. Something about the tone of the man's voice had opened up a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He waited, listening.

“Artok! This news is important enough for me to come and deliver it myself!”

Realization dawned on Artok. This was Enock. In person.

What news?

“We've just come from your house!” called Enock. The voice sounded closer. “As you weren't there we had to wake up your family. I'm sorry about that, we had no choice.”

Artok's grip tightened on the flints.

“But to kill them.”

The world dropped away from Artok when he heard those words. It was as if the world had become a rock, falling down a well, away from his oustretched open hand.

“You owe us some stones, Artok. You're overdue again. Floggings are not enough to beat sense into you, it seems.” Enock cleared his throat. There was the click of a cross bow being charged. “Now where are they?” Artok watched the world drop, drop away, with what felt like indifference.

My beautiful wife, he thought. My boy.

He gazed at the vague outline of his hands, holding their flints. They seemed to belong to someone else.

“How can that bastard see down here without having a torch lit?” mumbled Enock's man. “We're never going to find him.”

I don't need a torch, Artok thought. Or what used to be Artok.

I can see without it.

He moved his fingers over the softness of the flints.

“He can't stay down here forever,” Enock grunted. “Isn't that right, Artok, old friend?”

Friend. The word ignited Artok's gaseous soul.

Something flew from the darkness at the two men - some terrible distortion of nature - with talons outstretched and fangs bared. A claw clipped the man next to Enock, knocking him over and sending the torch flying. Enock raised his crossbow and fired a bolt into the thing's wing. The creature recoiled a little, but while still airborne, and with one talon, tore the crossbolt out and cast it to the side. Enock stumbled backwards, his face like chalk, crossbow dropping from his hand. He was muttering nonsensical things when the thing swooped at him. It grabbed Enock by the throat in one huge claw, wings raised high over the man's head in a death veil, and thrust its snarling snout up to his face.

“Artok!” cried Enock. “Artok! Help us!” and he strained to hear any sound from where the gem-stealer might be hiding in the darkness.

The thing opened its jaws with a growl.

“I am Artok,” it said, and gnashed its fangs.

High above the Black Heart the rainless storm clouds continued to rage.

© Chris R Young 2021

The Dead Broad - A Short Story

This popped out of my head one day in 2001 when I was living in Japan. I was frustrated by my inability to stop smoking, and how in the grand scheme of things whether or not someone smokes is not really that big a deal.

"Okay, fine!" I said, and grabbed my jacket.

   As the door slammed behind me, I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and lit up, pausing only to shove open the gate on my way out the garden.

“Manipulative bitch,” I mumbled to myself while striding down the empty street. She had a nerve, she really did. Talking to me that way. I couldn’t believe it! After all we’d been through together. After all I’d sacrificed for her. I shook my head in disbelief. 

“The world is a dark, dark place,” I spat, to no-one in range.

As luck would have it, it was dark, the time being a little before 11 pm. And here was I, yet again, scouring the streets like vermin, searching for scraps, leftovers, of respect. Because that was all it seemed I was worth.

I puffed and raged, raged and puffed, and it wasn’t long before I could feel my anger begin to subside.

At last I came to rest, sitting on the low wall of a churchyard. 

It could be worse, I mused, gazing round at the headstones before the church building. I could have croaked. I could have been born in the nineteenth century, kicked the kettle nigh on fifty years ago and now be fodder for maggots and beetles buried six feet under in an old, wet, rot-bitten coffin, grinning through lipless, nicotine-stained teeth.

I blew smoke through my nose. I knew my method of obtaining optimism wasn’t the same as other folk’s, but it seemed to help me feel a little better when I was down.

Then it occurred to me she might have a point. Had I not gotten rat-faced last night I probably wouldn’t have slobbered all over the nearest bit of cream puff I could lay my saliva glands on. Still, one night of debauchery is no excuse for giving up alcohol entirely, now, is it? That’s just ridiculous. Where did she get that Jekyll and Hyde syndrome bollocks from? Hello? She spends too much time reading those magazines, and watching those goddam afternoon TV shows for the dead, or mentally dead, or at least some part of their brain must be dead to sit in all day glued to that fucking box watching people in tall hats show them how to spice their sardines and juice their lemons.

I flicked the stub into the graveyard where it bounced off a headstone sending a satisfying shower of sparks out into the grass.

Then I sighed and sat with my head in my hands.

Perhaps she was right. Maybe I do drink too much. I’m no spring chicken any more, that’s for sure. I patted my paunch. More like a Christmas turkey. All right then, I decided, for the sake of my wife, and my liver, I will give up alcohol for ever. No more nights out with the lads — more quality time at home playing scrabble with her indoors and expanding my intelligence reading, what were those things again, oh yeah, books. And no more hangovers. Thank God! Those are some things I will never miss. 

This is it. No more beer. Here begins my NEW LIFE!

That’s when I heard a noise behind me. 

It sounded like a sandcastle being kicked over by an old man  coughing up his insides.

I turned round. And there, dragging itself out of its grave — the one I’d flicked the cigarette butt at — was a corpse.

I watched it make its progress, myself unable to move a muscle, as the cadaver laid one knee, and then another, on the ground next to its grave, before rising shakily to its feet. Dressed in what had no doubt been its favourite red dress during life, the corpse staggered in my direction. It — she — no, it — was perhaps three years gone. It was hard to gauge, having never actually seen a dead body before, least of all one walking around the land of the living like it owned the place. As she approached me, I saw my unfinished cigarette butt between her teeth.

She stopped just short of the wall, placed one semi-skeletal hand on the small of her back, used the other to remove the cigarette from her mouth, leaned back and disgorged a terrible, lung-rattling cough up into the starlit sky. Then she looked at me.

I tried to think of something to say, but could not.

“Fancy a drink, deary?” she spluttered.

“A-All right,” I replied, clearing my throat. “Think I could use one.”

We went to the Ship and Anchor pub, just down from the church and on the left. 

It crossed my mind how churches and pubs had been common features of towns and cities throughout the ages, but failed to make any other connection. Perhaps people needed God and beer.

She was slow at walking. Bits of her kept dropping off as we made our way downhill. As we passed the opening to the park, a couple of stray dogs threatened to take her leg off. A few people stopped and stared. One woman screamed. Someone, amusingly, shouted that we should call for an ambulance.

We sat at the bar, which had quickly emptied when we’d opened the door.

“What’ll it be?” asked Mick, glancing sideways at the woman-corpse-thing.

“I’ll have a large whatever comes to hand first,” I said.

“And for the,” he paused, “lady?”

“A G and T, my darling,” the corpse said, grinning. “Ice but no lemon, thank you.”

We consumed our drinks. I drank mine, she spilt hers everywhere. Mick wiped the bar.

Suddenly the door burst open. I turned round and saw my wife standing there, her face full of love and forgiveness. “Danny!” she cried, and ran towards me. “I’m sorry! I should never have told you how to live your life. Please come home, I hate it when we fight. I’ve got something for you.” 

She smiled that smile, and gave me a huge hug.

I'd tried to block her view, but she saw over my shoulder.

“Who’s THAT!” she yelled, jumping back, her face drained of blood.

I swallowed and shrugged. “I dunno. Just some broad I gave a cigarette.”

This and other daft stories and poems will appear in the anthology 'Hidden In The Old Stone Wall' coming soon (hopefully).

© Chris R Young 2021