Inspiration – Page 5

This week’s antics, hip hop and fiction

November 30, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam Russell2 Comments

An out of the ordinary week for me, as I got a new hip last Friday. Now six weeks to while away sitting on my bum, which shouldn’t be a challenge for a writer.

I pre-organised my marketing activites with a book promotion scheduled for the day of the operation. It was satisfying, in a weirdly macabre way, to know that while my physical self was under the knife virtual me was out there flogging books. Over 400 novels downloaded while I languished in groggy discomfort, and tracking the promo gave me amusment in my (few) wakeful moments.

The next challenge (aside from learning how to use crutches) is to get through the edits and re-writes on A Bed of Brambles. Frustratingly I can’t sit at my computer in it’s present set up, so I’ve set the Engineer and the Farmer to the task of resolving that. It’s a job that suits them better than nursing. My creativity still seems to be anaesthatised but I’m not going to panic – yet.

Any new experience, including surgery, delivers grist for the imagination. Hospitals host a world of stories. From the lives of the staff and the patients to the tragedies and miracles which play out inside their walls. Precious glimpses of other lives.

Even the frustration of awkward mobility is a useful insight. Thought provoking, empathy enducing. It reminds me how lucky I am that my troubles are temporary.

Farm and Family Life, Inspiration

Early awakenings and oh, what a beautiful morning

October 9, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

I’m so blessed to live in the country-side, with a 360 degree view of the sky. A blessing which it’s easy to be thankful for because nature reminds you so often. I confess I’m not always grateful when the wind is hurling rain horizontally across the farm, or snow drifts cover the drive. It’s a rare winter when we don’t lose electricity, telephone, internet, and satellite (occasionally all at once). But I figure that’s a small price to pay for the everyday glories we get to enjoy (she says valiantly, while the October sun is shining).

Today the terriers got me up early (they’re playing innocent in this shot but don’t be fooled. And yes she is sitting on him).

Terriers can be the cruellest of alarm clocks. A bark sharp enough to rouse you from sleep with instant palpitations. A sense of smell so keen it can sniff out varmint from three fields away, and a dogged (sic) determination to tell you all about it. I say varmint, but often I haven’t got a clue what has set them off. A fox, pheasant, or deer? More likely devilish spirits which drive them to wake me at an hour when all of God’s creatures should be tucked up in bed (apart from the nocturnal ones of course). Credit where credit is due though, this morning the moon was worthy of howling at.

A crescent so perfect it’s a cliché. I was out there, in my nightshirt, with the dogs, taking pictures which would never do the view justice. Nature does beauty on an epic scale which scoffs at my camera and photography skills. All the same, pretty eh?

An over-blanket of mist rolling across the fields…

And then the sun came up…

Sometimes I’m thankful for yappy dogs.

Farm and Family Life, Inspiration

A Very British Seaside Tradition – deck-chairs, ice-cream and sandy bottoms

September 14, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam Russell2 Comments

There were seven of us on that first beach hut adventure. Six adults and one tiny-eight-week old baby. My nephew. We lounged in deck-chairs as we read our books, and brewed cups of tea. Strolled along the coast and swam in the sea. Twelve arms to share one precious bundle.

Within ten years, the adults were outnumbered. Rumbustious kids, adventurous toddlers and sandy-bottomed babies. Buggys, pottys and sun-cream. We hauled a hand cart up and down the steep and winding path, heavy with picnics, towelling jackets, swimming suits. Buckets and spades. Saucepans, nappies and home-made cakes. Lounging became a dream of the past, forsaken to the glorious chaos of toddler pursuit, life-guard duties and feeding a hungry swarm. We cooked up fish fingers and baked beans on the gas stove in the hut, strung a mosquito net to fend off angry wasps. Embraced the weariness as we settled our gaggle of salty-haired offspring onto child-sized plastic chairs. As the beach cleared and the sun dropped, we sipped mugs of tea and smiled as they ate with an appetite born of a well lived day. Babies slept on impromptu beds spread on the beach hut floor. A weary-legged tramp took us back up to the top of the cliff. The sleep of the rosy-cheeked, sated child. Heads lolling in car seats, drunk on fresh air.

Tots grew into children. Bikinis and body boards, chips and arcades. Windy days brought waves to ride and kites to fly. Even when it rained the beach never failed to work its magic. Sandcastles became more adventurous. Shells gathered for bracelets, plaits beaded in hair. Granddad’s faithful frisbee, beach-boules and cricket. Suntan lotion glistened on youthful bodies which had evolved between our visits.

The whistle on the kettle changed its tune and more mugs were needed. We spread, our chairs spilling across the promenade. We took more than our share. Behind dark glasses teenage eyes watched passing talent. Youth swooped from angsty adolescent to playful child and back again with dizzying speed. Fireworks, air shows and smart phones. They might not want to come next year. Can they bring their girlfriend/boyfriend? But go without them, and oh they are pissed off.

We must buy our fish and chips from the very same place. Park at the cliff-top to take in the view of our beach. Ice cream cones, mugs of tea and rock cakes are compulsory. Change is good, but who can argue with those traditions. We number sixteen now, there is a new tot on the beach. My great nephew – sandy-bottomed, salty-haired and very precious.

Farm and Family Life, Inspiration

Swallows, migration and ploughing serendipities, all on a Saturday morning

September 5, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

Swallows circling the tractor and plough – dozens of them. We wonder, are they playing, or harvesting the flying insects which are put up from the stubble.

There’s a lot more like that, but my editing skills are worse than my filming skills and I had my finger over much of it.

It looks like a game, they swoop dangerously close to the tractor, as if surfing the thermals rising off of the engine, and dive across the plough to come around again. Maybe this is fitness training for the arduous journey ahead of them. Migrating birds, with hundreds of dangerous miles to cover. Topical at the moment. I wish all who embark on such fearful travels could be offered Godspeed and safe arrivals.

Here’s what the RSPB says about their journey:

By early September, most swallows are preparing to migrate. They flutter about restlessly, and often gather on telegraph wires. Most leave the UK during September, with early broods of youngsters being the first to go. But a few stragglers may hang around into October.

The return journey to Africa takes about six weeks. Swallows from different parts of Europe fly to different destinations. Ours end up in the very south. They travel down through western France and eastern Spain into Morocco, before crossing the Sahara Desert and the Congo rainforest – finally reaching South Africa and Namibia.

Swallows migrate during daylight, flying quite low and covering about 320 km (200 miles) each day. At night they roost in huge flocks in reed-beds at traditional stopover spots. Since swallows feed entirely on flying insects, they don’t need to fatten up before leaving, but can snap up their food along the way. Nonetheless, many die of starvation. If they survive, they can live for up to sixteen years.

Hard to believe that a small bird can conquer such an endeavour.

We unearthed a horseshoe too.

Every year the plough turns up interesting treasures, but this one intrigued us because it is round. Remedial shoeing for a horse which once pulled a plough? Or possibly more recent, it looks small for a heavy horse (5 1/4 inches across). Like many of our finds, it throws up more questions than answers.

It must be autumn.

Inspiration

August 15, 2015February 5, 2017by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

A Bed of Barley Straw by Sam Russell
The inspiration for A Bed of Barley Straw was multi-layered, but there were three things in particular which stirred my creative juices and got me writing.
The characters were my initial motivation. I saw Hettie, my heroine, as strong-willed and captivating, but far from perfect. Someone who hadn’t always got it right and still makes mistakes. I knew that Hettie would be no shrinking violet and that her history with men would be chequered. Complicated to the point that she had abandoned romance, Hettie would find it easier to love the quirky dogs and horses that she shares her life with.
My hero, Alexander Melton, is more darkly flawed. I enjoy a challenging character, but there had to be morality at the core. Finding the damaged decency buried in his heart was the crux for Alexander, a test of character development. To take a man with too much pride but create him worthy of love. Events which occur through the story were intended to shake both Alexander’s and the readers’ preconceptions. Leading him through his journey of discovery was deliciously infuriating.
The clash came next. I love a glorious mismatch. A freefall into lust with absolutely the wrong person; the gritty struggle which ensues between chemistry and reason. My idea was to delve into the minds of two people who are struggling against formidable attraction, and to find out if the wrong person can ever become the right one.
I had a lot of fun exploring that dilemma. The sparring, the spats, the stand-offs and the battles of will. The moments of physical and emotional connection. The stimulation to write became boundless!
And finally to the setting. My passion for the countryside and my background in horses and farming dropped the tale in rural England. I could clearly envisage the picturesque Cotswold village and the grandeur of Draymere Hall. Villages can be a wonderful stimulus, spurning a wealth of colourful characters, intrigue and gossip. Add to that the joys of a cosy local pub in which to play out the antics and my scene was ready to tempt the characters in.

Farm and Family Life, Inspiration

Gallivanting Granny takes a ride on the combine

August 7, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

Happy days.

Farm and Family Life, Inspiration, Writing Romance

The washing line

June 8, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam Russell2 Comments

In our first flat the washing line was actually an airer in the corner of the bathroom. It sported tidy newly-married clothes. Secretarial blouses, skirts and tights. Polo shirts and weekend jeans (his mother still laundering the boiler suit). Undies that showed we minded – elastic firmly in place and lace on display. Socks paired uniformly. Linen from the only bed hung on the banister. Shirts draped over radiators. Hand-wash delicates caringly spread on a nifty bath-top drier.

Fast forward a couple of years. The knickers have grown bigger to accommodate developing bump. The bras are impressive – in size if not in drama. Lace ratio has diminished and pant elastic thinned to drooping point. The cheap and cheerful bed clothes have lost vibrancy. Voluminous maternity dresses hog the airer, jostling for space against faded denims and work-a-day clothes. Comfortably lived in.

A semi-detached house – with garden! A family on the cusp of blooming mayhem. Tiny wee socks, smaller than pegs. Doll-sized button-down vests. Blue. White. Pastels. Cradled broderie anglaise. Soft baby cardigans gifted with love and kissed by the breeze as they flutter above the over-long grass of an un-tended garden. Embraced on either side by parental wear that will not require ironing and forgives baby posset. No hand-wash delicates here. Boxer shorts usurping the arse-out Y-fronts. Knickers – practical. Bras unhinge at the front.

And then comes the deluge. Pastels in pink next to bright-comic-strip, little man Ts. Cot sheets and bed sheets and changing mats. Romper suits, romper suits, romper suits. Toddler denims, dungarees, precious blankies. Cot sheets and bed sheets and changing mats. Bibs. Teddy-bears. Messy-play aprons. Sweatshirts emblazoned with diggers, princess duvet covers. The day-glow yellow washing line sags under the strain. Tumble drier is mentioned. Cot sheets and bed sheets and changing mats. Small socks lodged in filters. Potty training pants and jeans, pants and trousers, pants and joggers…

Move to the farm. Muddy coats, dog beds, wet woollen socks. Boiler suits! Bed sheets and bed sheets and pillowcases. School uniform – too soon! Little white collared shirts. Grey trousers, grey jumpers, grey, grey, grey. Airtex tops. Yards of Rayon. Tumble drier. PE kit. Dog towels and bath towels and washable door-mats. Nylon blazers, track suits, hockey skirts, football socks. Jodhpurs, leotards, shorts. Sweaty underarms. Horse hairs. Whipped and snapped by the wind gusting over the fields. Dusted with chaff. Dried and rained on and dried over again.

A single favoured shirt rotates alone in the tumble drier. Essential wear. Specific pants. Modified tartan school-skirts. Rock band Ts, designer labels, rude words. Black denim. Black, black and black. Hoodies, team kit, man-sized shirts. Strap tops, mini-skirts. Pastel trainer bras. Tailored white blouses, elbow-out blazers. Single socks of unknown ownership. Bed sheets, mascara stained pillowcases. Duvets and towels. Sleeping bags, hockey kit, rugby tops, riding clothes. Dog beds, numnahs, horse rugs. Buggered washing machine. Miniscule strings of lacy thongs. Wafts of over-used aftershave. Smudges of make-up.

Magical washing which hung itself, oddly pegged and abandoned to wilt. Eye-brow raising underwear. Skimpy dresses. Term-sized laundry bags coming home to roost. Unfamiliar clothes. University sweatshirts. Famine or feast for the washing machine. Rarely time for the washing-line. Four sets of bed sheets, three sets of bed sheets, two…

Summer-holiday clothes, bright and blousy. Khaki shorts, linen dresses, golfing trousers. Two sets of boiler suits. Yoga pants, walking coats. Dog beds and jodhpurs. Celebratory wine-splattered tablecloths. Garden cushions. Trainer socks. Winter holiday sun-dresses. Swimming suits, evening wear. M&S reliable pants. Lace on display.

Farm and Family Life, Inspiration, Writing Romance

Thirty years a farmer’s wife…not bad for a girl from Leytonstone

May 27, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam Russell6 Comments

On Bank Holiday Monday the Farmer and I celebrated thirty years wed. I say celebrated, but remembered would be factually correct (memory is a cause for celebration these days). By luck festivity was already underway: the killing of the fatted calf to welcome returning offspring who arrived with their delightful new/potential family members (I will be in trouble for that). With the exception of the Student who brought laundry with her instead.

It got me thinking about fate, luck, fortune. The paths our lives take. When my family moved to the countryside (the printing company my father worked for was relocating) I embraced RURAL with all the zeal of a born-again evangelist. I joined Farm Club, milked cows and goats. Kept an imaginary horse in the garage and wrote ‘pony’ on mother’s shopping list for countless years. I plagued the family to get a dog; built straw heaps in the stubble fields with the village kids, went rabiting (I never actually got one, and I don’t recall that any of us did). I ‘rescued’ dying fledgling birds (as successful in preserving life as my rabiting exploits were in ending it); fed the chickens and visiting hedgehogs. Even, during one traumatic summer, attempted to save the entire population of myxomatosis infected bunnies. Thirty years of farming hardens you up, but I will always loathe myxomatosis.

My Mother (the Gallivanting Granny) did not find the relocation quite so delightful. She had to learn to drive again (never her favourite sport). Her own mother was now hours and miles away, rather than two quick hops on the bus, and the only bus which arrived in our village was the one which took us to school. She doesn’t love dogs, and as for horses…when my pleas for a pony were finally fruitful the little bugger we ended up with ran her into the ditch. Several times. She watched me ride cross-country once, before announcing firmly that she would never do so again. Over time she adapted of course, that is what GG does. That is what we all do when fate stirs things up.

ED has now returned to the bright London lights and is loving it there. The Engineer has joined the family farm (for which we are eternally grateful in this high-tech high-admin era). He married a city girl from Birmingham. DIL is enchanting and has slotted into the family like the piece that was missing. She rides the combine with the Engineer when she gets off work in the summer. She has a rabbit and she’s getting chickens. My nephew works for the printing company which my father followed here.

The Student? Well we don’t know yet. At the moment maybe something to do with disadvantaged children/young offenders and a rural/farm angle. Ambitions, hopes and dreams. New horizons which fate will take a hand in shaping, because fate always does.

The farmer and I met at the village youth club. I read his shyness as cool aloofness, (a red rag to the bull of a teenage passion) and pursued him relentlessly. The rest, as they say, is history.

When I visit London it makes me think about how different my life would be if that relocation hadn’t happened. I eye Londoners navigating the tube with offhand ease, and remind myself that I was so very nearly one of them (as I check and triple check that the train I’ve got on is going in the right direction). GG had fantasies of retiring there, a little flat in the Barbican maybe where she could catch a bus to all the excitement which London has to offer.

Me, I’m sticking with the fields. Happy as a pig in mud. Swine before pearls.

Farm and Family Life, Inspiration, Writing Romance

Spring romance is in the air…

April 8, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

Spring is the time for romance, and I should be #amwriting. But the sun is shining and it’s April! The month when dreams, hope and resolution flourish anew. My optimistic imagination tells me that this month I am going to…

eat healthily
walk, run, ride, swim or cycle every day
write a book
buy a horse
spring clean the house
scrub the garden furniture
tidy up the garden
clip our geriatric dogs
buy new sandals

Amazing isn’t it, what a little bit of sun can do. Regrettably the sunshine creates the thoughts but rarely follows through. I haven’t eaten healthily, yet, because chaotic multi-tasking is not conducive to well-planned meals. The cupboards are empty save for crackers, a few forlorn vegetables and a bag of jelly babies (the latter has been my staple diet today). The car is in the garage, until we pick it up there will be no grocery shop and the farmer is too busy spring farming to run me to the garage.

Yes, I know I should walk, run, ride, swim or cycle to the garage…but hello?

My imagination would be better engaged inventing an edible meal from the strange oddment of delicacies which remain in the freezer. Pheasant? Mince? Cheese sauce? Not with crackers and jelly babies, no. That really will not do.

My study has been spring cleaned. Hurrah! Life de-cluttered. The cupboards from the utility room and farm office have been emptied and entirely fill the dining room and porch. Further spring cleaning is futile and I have lost motivation. I was going to scrub the patio table and chairs (which have grown a sinister green patina over winter) but we have the plumbers in re-modelling our downstairs loo. Between their activities and the farmer filling his spray tank there is insufficient water in the house to fill a glass, let alone several buckets.

The excavated loo bowl and basin sit prettily on the bench at the front of our house. Garden tidy on hold pending a trip to the dump. Trip to the dump impossible due to lack of vehicle.

April is also the end of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs tax year. Book keeping has replaced book writing. The accountant is coming tomorrow (hence the spring clean of the study getting bumped up the list). My first negative comment about “A Bed of Barley Straw” has dented my creative juices: The Gallivanting Granny, returned from Australia and flourishing anew, tells me “there are too many people in the kitchen scene! I couldn’t remember their names.” As GG often fails to recall my name, or those of my siblings, I am trying not to let this offhand comment affect me too much.

Engage the right hand side of your brain: A horse is not just for spring. As you very well know a horse takes time, commitment and energy come rain, shine, or tempest. They also use up lots and lots of money. Clip the animals who already need your attention (a thankless, tiresome job not relished by me or the dogs and best done outside on a very calm day).

Buy some sandals! Now, this one I can do. Whilst sitting at my computer so it almost counts as working. Sandal requirements; cute, trendy, gorgeous. Practical and comfortable. Suitable for dog walks over farmland and for wearing to all the summer parties I am bound to be attending this year. Deliciously irresistible but kind and gentle to feet and joints that have been abused for years. Damn.

My heroine found “a gorgeous pair of rose-gold stilettos, with a thin strap that buckled around the ankle.” The sandals cost more than the rest of her outfit put together, and she has a horse. Don’t you just love fiction.

Farm and Family Life, Inspiration

Internet downtime and getting in touch with spring

March 30, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

There is a reason the British spend so much time obsessing about the weather. We have so much of it, after all, in rapid cycles. It rarely appears in the anticipated order.

The clocks changed on Sunday, to British Summer Time. April is around the corner. But the farm remains doggedly cloaked in winter shades of brown and fawn and dull grey-green. These islands and their inhabitants are growing impatient. We are holding our breath in nervous conviction that we will get a spring, and that it will be followed by a heady summer. Neither is guaranteed in the fickle British Isles, but our bodies yearn for warm and our eyes crave the dazzle of sunlit colours.

The Farmer and I took a trip to the Norfolk Coast this weekend past. Despite the threat of cold, high wind and rain. All was serene when we arrived at dusk, in time to catch a glimpse of the grey North Sea in tranquil mood, softly slapping the sand with that beautiful whooshing sound that I for one could listen to forever. The waves played their music as our view slowly faded. On Sunday morning we strode out and eagerly watched some crab boats being hauled on to land. The first drops of splintery rain caught us returning from our walk. From the windows of our cosy cottage we saw the spit become a soft downpour. The Church bells jangled joyously. The brave and the hardy passed our window with hoods knotted around their heads and bright umbrellas held aloft. The young and the old alike were noisily invigorated by the adventure of forging on through our changeable March weather. We watched a sturdy toddler in a pink anorak pause in fascination to observe the crystal water gushing from a cast iron drain pipe. She was right to pause. The spouting rainwater chortled out and splattered onto the kerb before streaming to join the small river on the road and rushing downhill to the land drains which pour back to the sea.

On our journey home, we ploughed through endless torrential rain that the windscreen wipers could not cope with. The wind slammed the sides of the car ferociously. We eyed high sided vehicles nervously. March is said to “come in like a lion and go out like a lamb” but it seems the reverse is true this year. A fallen tree blocked the opposite carriageway, and a couple of miles from home we passed a ‘For Sale’ sign at the exact moment when the wind lifted it out of the ground and sent it spiralling into a field.

Power was off at the farm, not an infrequent occurrence when the wind gets up. Our dustbins had gone to visit the neighbours (this is quite a lengthy journey where we live). But roughly an hour later I was out walking the dogs in weak but welcome sunshine.

I am reading “The Summer Book” by Tove Jansson at the moment. A beautiful, simple, evocative tale which is reminding me to notice the details. Just like that sturdy toddler in her pink anorak. We had no internet connection in Norfolk, and limited mobile signal. I lost track of what my book was doing. I didn’t tweet I couldn’t check in with Facebook. I failed to post my weekly blog. I have to admit I could get used to being out of touch. I can see the small, tightly clenched buds on the trees from my window. I heard the strident bark of a restless dog fox last night. I could smell that dog fox this morning. As I type rain is cracking on the corrugated roof of the lean-to, but I can feel the promise of spring in my bones. My waters tell me it is going to be an absolute beauty.