Helen Glynn Jones

Wednesday Wander – Pont Du Gard, France

This rather splendid aqueduct is the Pont Du Gard, a Unesco World Heritage site located in France. Pont Du Gard is about 2000 years old, built by the Romans when they were occupying what was then Gaul, to channel water from a spring at Ucetia (now Uzes) to the city of Nemausus (modern Nimes). The aqueduct is the best preserved section remaining of a system that ran for about 50km, or 31 miles.

On an overcast day in May, many years ago, I climbed the steps to the top level of the aqueduct (along with quite a few other people), crossing to the other side. A few brave souls walked along the top of the outer walls, but most of us stuck to the safety of the water channel running along the centre. To give you an idea of scale, the small dots visible on the top level are people.

When I dug these images out of an old photo album, there were exclamation marks on the captions I’d written underneath – I’d obviously been impressed. By the age, the precision and the sheer scale of the aqueduct – the fact that it was part of a much larger system says much about the Romans and how technologically advanced they were. And I was not the only one impressed – the aqueduct has fascinated visitors through the centuries. The novelist Henry James, visiting in 1884, wrote that,

‘The hugeness, the solidity, the unexpectedness, the monumental rectitude of the whole thing leave you nothing to say – at the time – and make you stand gazing. You simply feel that it is noble and perfect, that it has the quality of greatness …’

I think the Romans would have been pleased with that.

Thanks for coming on another Wednesday Wander with me – see you next time 🙂

The Crypt – or – a Tale With No Ending (Yet)

Wow! On Saturday night, as a bit of fun, I posted a story that Craig Boyack had started based on a photograph I’d taken, in the hope we might get a few other writers to contribute to the tale of the archaeologist in the crypt. And we did! So many comments, in fact, that I’ve decided to collate them here in the order they were received, so that hopefully we can finish the story and get this poor archaeologist out of the crypt, or into the monster’s lair, or Janine’s embrace, or wherever he ends up. I won’t tag the commenters – if you want to see who added what, head over to the original post and scroll through the comments. So, here we go:

For over a thousand years, the ancient evil remained walled up behind a blessed doorway at St. Mary’s Cathedral.
In the summer of 2016, an overzealous archaeologist detected something behind the wall using electromagnetic sounding equipment…

…entering through the old crypt, the archaeologist made their way through the vaulted chambers, footsteps echoing as they headed deeper into the dark…

The smell of moss and rot filled their nostrils. The light failed. A slight dragging noise came from farther down…

… the smell grew stronger, but with a hint of something darker, like smoke from a funeral pyre. All at once the archaeologist was aware of the great weight of stone pressing down from above…

Go back. Wait for the others, that would be the sensible move. A dark mist, present and palpable seemed to ooze from the floor, tendrils curling and clawing at the archaeologist’s feet, impelling them onward, deeper, consuming the pale beam of the torch. To hell with the others… a cold smile and a glint of teeth in the darkness…

A low rumble filled the tunnel and the torch light sputtered out. Squeezing his eyes tight shut the archeologist opened them again hoping to see through the velvet black that filled the tunnel. He felt something drip on his face. Looking up two green eyes greeted him.

The archeologist wanted nothing more but to turn and flee, but alas his legs had turned to jelly. Frozen in place, his only option was to wait like a lamb to slaughter as those piercing green eyes drew nearer.

Out of the darkness the eyes moved towards him, the creature’s feet scraping along the floor.

Not for the first time, the archaeologist thought about all the other career choices he could have made, choices that would have included nice offices and bright lighting, not dusty crypts and lurking monsters. He closed his eyes, bracing himself. Then a hand gripped his shoulder.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
Janine. He exhaled in relief. That was one thing he never regretted about becoming an archaeologist – the fact that he had met the extraordinary Janine.

Janine smiled at him, revealing two fangs and a tongue that had the shape of the end of the Devil’s tail. She hissed at him, making him jump back in terror. What on earth had happened to the woman he had so much wanted to ask out?

Janine said, “I want you to meet my mother.”

“Er, Janine, hi. I was about to call you on your cell…” (Always thought it felt a little strange when we did a bit of tonguing) “Can meeting your mother wait, I’m kinda caught up in the middle of something right now.” The archaeologist puts on his innocent smile and shrugs.

Archie shook himself. This was getting too bizarre – like something out of a nightmare. Wait – *was* this a nightmare? He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, counted to ten, then pinched himself, hard. Ouch! His eyes snapped open, and his gaze met the crumbling stone vaulting of the crypt. He shone his torch up, down, and behind himself. Nothing. A slow sigh of relief escaped him, and he chuckled to himself. How silly of him! Janine, with drooling fangs, wanting him to meet her mother! He directed the torch beam ahead and took a step further into the vault. He was an archaeologist, a scientist – he had no time for silly fancies.
From out of the deep shadows, the green eyes glowed as they watched him, narrowed in speculation.

It would make sure that he met her mother all right. On a cold slab in the deepest portion of the crypt. After all, a mother had to put out the welcoming mat…

The archaeologist, unaware of the shadowy watcher, pressed on, wiping sweat from the back of his neck as he moved further into the crypt. According to the old plans, he should be almost at the other side of the sealed door- He stopped short. A wall was in front of him, blocking his way. Shining his torch on it, he could see it was built of the same ancient stones as the rest of the crypt, and that it stretched for a couple of metres in either direction.
‘Christ Al-‘ Then he stopped, remembering where he was. Right. What to do now? This was almost his last chance to make that elusive big discovery, every archaeologist’s dream. And there was no way he was letting hallucinations and old stone walls stand in his way…

He took his rucksack off his back and, on opening it, took out a hammer and chisel. He would hack away at some of the old bricks and try and dislodge them so he could shine his torch through the gap and see what was on the other side of the wall. Just as he was about to make the first blow, he was shocked to hear some tapping come from on the other side of the wall.

And in the dark he heard her scream. Her scream was abruptly cut off and he heard a thump to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the glistening of her hair on the floor and with his lantern he couldn’t bare to move it to the right. What would he find? Her eyes wide open and dead with the glaze of fear? He felt a fog come over his shoulder and as he willed to escape, his body betrayed him when he needed it most. The scent was a foul, sour burning. The breath of a dark, obscure, ancient beast for sure. For as the scent drew nearer, the wheezing of the beast enclosed him further.

He wouldn’t let that stop him though. He’d looked death in the face more than a few times. Now, where had Janine disappeared to? It wasn’t like her not to be down in the depths of things with him. Just a little further, that’s all he needed. Blood speckled his shoulder…

The speckles rapidly developed into great gobbets of thick, foul smelling liquid that was more than just blood – it glistened like saliva…

And it was coming from high above his head…

He brushed the gobbets from his shoulder. ‘Bloody pipes,’ he thought as he kept working at the wall, hoping to dislodge more of the great stones. The tapping became louder, as he pushed one through to the other side…

The red eyes glared at him. While he had been distracted, the archaeologist had completely forgotten about the beast, and now it was almost upon him…

He backed away, stumbling over a brick on the grass behind him.

“Do be careful,” the beast licked its teeth. “I would hate to have to explain your death to the Queen. Follow me,” it turned mumbling something about clumsy humans…

And there we have it, folks. I think there’s the makings of a great story here – thanks again to Craig for starting the ball rolling with his story idea. Let’s see if we can take it all the way to the end – we have until Thursday, August 4th to make it happen!

What Happens Next? Add To The Story…

On Thursday I posted my usual Thursday Doors post, although my door this week was blocked up. It happened to tickle the fancy of Craig Boyack, who started to write a tale based upon what he thought was behind the door:

Then I added another bit:

…entering through the old crypt, the archaeologist made their way through the vaulted chambers, footsteps echoing as they headed deeper into the dark…

Then Craig wrote another bit, adding that maybe we could invite participants:

The smell of moss and rot filled their nostrils. The light failed. A slight dragging noise came from farther down…

So I added another bit:

… the smell grew stronger, but with a hint of something darker, like smoke from a funeral pyre. All at once the archaeologist was aware of the great weight of stone pressing down from above…

And I agreed with Craig – it would be fun to get some more writers involved. So, what happens next? Make sure you read the comments, and let’s see if we can keep this story thread going 🙂

The Stable Bow

July is almost over and, with it, another round of Camp NaNoWriMo. Don’t ask me why I signed up to do it a second time, but I did, and I’ve just hit my word count goal – yay!

Over two months of writing – April and July Camp – I’ve ended up with 50,000 words and the bones of a vampire novel, Silver and Black. It’s taken some interesting turns, and I think it might turn out to be a not so bad story. But now I need to let it rest for a few weeks, while I focus on other things. (sorry Sacha!)

For it is school holidays, and I have a gorgeous girl at home with me. She’s still young enough that she wants to hang out with me, but I’m under no illusion that these days of cosy companionship are numbered, so I’ll take them while I can get them. She’s already starting to spread her wings and I’m having to step back and let her fly, remembering the words of Kahlil Gibran:

‘You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth… Let your bending in the Archer’s hand be for gladness; for even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.’

I don’t doubt that we will always be close, but it is just that the level of closeness will change. All too soon she will want her own time, her own friends, her own way of doing things, and I just have to hope I’ve given her enough grounding that she can make sensible, capable decisions for herself. I guess that’s what most parents would want.

When they are small and into everything, and you feel as though you will never ever get another moment to yourself, you look ahead to a time when they can do things for themselves, recalling vaguely how it felt to sit and read, or take a long shower uninterrupted, or go out whenever you feel like it. Yet now, as she approaches that independence, I find myself looking back to precious hours full of games and whispered confidences and small chubby hands, and I count my blessings that I was able to experience them with her.

I can have no more children – that’s just how it is for me. But I’ve been lucky to have one; many who want to are denied even that. So for now, I’m going to make the most of it.

And I remain the stable bow while she is the arrow that flies.

Poetry Challenge – Rain

This lovely painting is by Franz Marc, and is titled In The Rain. Jane Dougherty has challenged us to write a poem about it, using any form we like. I didn’t manage to use all of her suggested words, but here’s my effort:

The queen approaches

Jewelled brow gleaming, her head bowed

I bow, also

Rain grey against my coat

My hat remains

She passes by

All light and colour, scent and dream

I watch, alone

Rain bright against the pavement

My heart alight

Attendants follow,

Trailing leaves, each step a rainbow

I blink, dazzled

Rain dancing in the colours

My vision blurred.

The queen is gone,

All is grey, where once was colour

I weep, forlorn

Rain, relentless, echoing my tears

My love unrequited.

Thursday Doors – When Is A Door Not A Door?

Sorry, I don’t have a snappy punchline 😀 Instead I have a door – or, to be more precise, a doorway. The door is long gone, the doorway bricked over and its only ornament a crown of green. But once there was a door here, probably nine hundred years or so ago.

This is the corner of St Mary’s Cathedral, Coventry, the first cathedral to exist in the city. The original monastery on the site was built in 1043 by Leofric and Godiva (yes, that Godiva), Earl and Lady of Mercia at that time. The cathedral was completed about two hundred years later, and remained there until the 16th century, when good old Henry VIII, busy dissolving monasteries around the country, ordered it destroyed.

In 1856, the Blue Coats School built a new school building on the site, incorporating part of the ruins in the base – this is what you can see here, the newer red brick contrasting with the ancient stones of the old cathedral. The rest of the cathedral was buried, gradually, only bits and pieces remaining above ground.

Then, in 1999, Time Team were invited to Coventry to excavate St Mary’s. The archaeology was so good that the TV show broke their rule of staying only three days on one site and stayed an extra day, eventually discovering a long-forgotten burial chamber containing the bones of one of Coventry’s first priors. A subsequent visit revealed more artifacts, and their excavation is preserved, the ancient cathedral site revealed once more.

This is my entry to this week’s Thursday Doors Challenge, courtesy of Norm 2.0. For more doors, or to add one of your own, visit Norm’s site and click the link.

Wednesday Wander – Surfing Santa Cruz, California

I’ve been away for a few days visiting family, so have been a little bit absent on the blog front. However, it’s Wednesday, and I couldn’t let it pass without taking my usual Wednesday Wander.

I am married to a man who loves to surf so, when we visited California last year, we spent a fair bit of time looking at beaches, watching the waves roll in. Not so bad a way to pass the time, really. We drove south from San Francisco to Cambria, and a stop at Santa Cruz was a definite highlight.

After all, this is the place where, in 1885, three Hawaiian princes surfed the entrance to the San Mateo river, on redwood boards they’d ordered from a local lumber yard. It was the introduction of surfing to the U.S. mainland and the rest, as they say, is history.

These days the waves still break, rolling and blue, and the surfers still come to surf, though the fibreglass boards they ride are a world away from the floating redwoods of Hawaiian royalty.

And yet, the spirit remains the same. To capture, for a moment, how it feels to fly, or to be a dolphin – to be one with the ocean. To honour the waves, and be free.

Thank you for joining me on another Wednesday Wander – see you next time!

Take The Scenic Route

There are a lot of articles around these days about “Life Hacks’. Ways to do things quickly, so you can move on to the next thing and not waste any precious time. Some of them are actually pretty cool and useful, but at the same time I feel that, as the pace of life grows ever faster, we are losing our capacity to wait for things, to work for things, to enjoy the reward that comes after time spent moving towards something. You see it in queues, in shops and restaurants, people getting frustrated when they can’t have what they want straight away, instant gratification, constant moving between this screen and that screen, updating emails, Instagram, Facebook. Hack, hackity, hack.

I’ve studied martial arts for many years and one of the basic tenets is that ‘The journey is the reward.’ That the years you spend training, improving your technique, working with other students, mastering breathing and focus and control and becoming the best person you can be, is the real reward. At the end of it, sure, you get a belt. A signifier of the journey taken, a signpost in the road. But black belt is only the beginning. There are levels above it requiring even more study and dedication. You can’t hack this stuff. And I believe that to be true of creative endeavours as well. Of course there are always going to be prodigies, people in whom talent shines so bright it is oozing from their pores at an early age, their lives dedicated to that one thing that fills them. But for most of us creativity grows and changes as we do – the things we write or create or dream a product of our experiences, of the journey we’ve been on. And writing a book is a journey in itself. Resting your manuscript is essential, it really is. For a minimum of six weeks. You can’t ‘hack’ this, there’s no way around it, you need to leave it alone.

I sometimes think about ‘what might have been.’ I think most of us do. About what would have happened if I’d chosen a different path. Sacha Black wrote a post the other day asking us why we write, and I responded by saying I wrote stories where characters explore choice and consequences, how one act or decision can change everything. This was actually a bit of an eye-opener to me. While I knew this already on a sub-conscious level, it was interesting to acknowledge it and put it into words. I suppose when they say, ‘write what you know,’ perhaps they mean ‘write what you want to explore.’

So, when I chose not to do the Creative Writing degree I was offered at eighteen, I set myself on a different path. But I don’t think I’d be the writer I am today if I hadn’t had the life I’ve had. That all the years in jobs I really didn’t love, the time spent travelling, the people I’ve met and the things I’ve experienced, have brought me to this point. I know that I’m fortunate to have had a lot of choice in life, and so I choose not to hack any of it. It’s far too much of a gift to fritter away.

I’ll end with a Douglas Adams quote I particularly enjoy: ‘I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.’

This is an updated version of a post first published in 2014, when my blog dwelt alone in a barren wasteland, and no-one ever came to visit. I’ve re-worked the first two paragraphs, but the rest is new.

Thursday Doors – All-Hallows-By-The-Tower, London

These two lovely doors are both from the church of All-Hallows-By-The-Tower, in London, England. The church was founded in 675AD, making it one of the oldest Christian churches in London, and parts of the original building are still visible inside. Standing outside, if you look one way you see the Tower of London;

And if you look the other way, you see the ‘Walkie-Talkie-, one of the newest buildings in the city.

If there was ever a building that could be said to encompass the history of a place, then All-Hallows-By-The-Tower is it. Built on the site of an earlier Roman building, you can go down into the original crypt and walk on tiles laid almost 2000 years ago. You can see a Saxon arch made using Roman roof tiles, and interior walls still blackened by a direct hit from the Luftwaffe during the Second World War, which reduced much of the building to a shell. Beheaded victims from the nearby Tower of London were sent to All Hallows for temporary burial, before heading to their final place of rest and the church tower, built in 1658, was the place where Samuel Pepys, the famous diarist, watched London burn during the Great Fire of 1666, the church itself only narrowly escaping destruction in the flames. Truly it is a building that spans millennia – if only the walls could talk.

This is my entry for Norm 2.0’s Thursday Doors challenge – for more doors, or to add one of your own, head over to Norm’s and click the link.

Wednesday Wander – Whistler, BC

As it’s been so warm here these past few days, for my Wednesday Wander this week I wanted to go somewhere cold. I had a few options – the mountains of Australia or Andorra, inside a glacier in the Swiss Alps, or a view across a frozen Lake Ontario, taken from high above in the CN Tower. But in the end I decided to go with this photograph:

This is me, back in the days when I used to go snowboarding, standing at almost the top of Blackcomb Mountain in Whistler, BC. I’m wrapped to the gills because it is freezing up there, early January when the snows run deep. You can see the line of the valley below me, and the Cascade mountains stretching beyond towards the Rockies.

I met my husband in Whistler. He was an Aussie on his big world trip; I’d just finished university and had headed west, wondering what to do next in the face of a major recession and dwindling job market. A friend decided she was going to Whistler to work for a season, then invited me up as well, to meet her new roommate. One thing led to another and within weeks he and I were sharing a small room in a house (how small? Let’s just say the bed was half in the wardrobe, as it was the only way it would fit in the room). It was destiny, obviously 😉

So, as I sit here in sticky heat, the sun setting golden outside my window, I can remember fresh cold air, the sun glinting off frost, the crisp bite of snow squeaking under the edge of my board. And for a moment, I’m a bit cooler.

Thanks for coming on another Wednesday Wander with me – see you next time!

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