Indie publishing

Looking into this seriously after reading ‘The Indie Author Mindset’ by Adam Croft, which advises how changing the way you look at publishing can determine the degree of success. Interesting perspective, and, the author talks a lot of sense. DSCN3937

So – time to take the leap.

The Vladimir Circus has arrived.

at Oatlands Rec. Harrogate.

Tonight walking Beth on her 9 o’clock, last walk of the day, our circuit of the Rec was filling with vehicles pulling large caravans. Jim’s total excitement when he saw a ‘Do’nuts’ sign, Beth’s excitement that NOW life begins, so many people to fall at their feet and be adored. The next few days could be interesting at 7am when we walk Beth, and 9 pm, for her last walk of the day.  Gone will be the lads who sit at the only available bench like old men, smoking, whatever they smoke, but it smells a bit like cannabis [as it was called in my day] – though I don’t know what it smells like – other than the familiar smell that hung over Glastonbury the year I drove there with my gorgeous daughter, years ago. Beth falls at their feet, inhaling whatever they are smoking, before returning home to her last biscuit of the day, Chamomile, which settles and comforts her.

Tonight the young lads with their cannabis smoke weren’t there. Heck.  Will Beth sleep? She has eaten her Chamomile biscuit, and is now flat out, asleep in her bed.

Tomorrow morning holds total excitement on the Rec. Artistes arriving through the night, performers practising their routines, and Beth, loving every minute, falling at their feet, persuading them to ‘only’ tickle her tummy.  What more can a dog want, she looks lovingly up into their eyes.  Who wouldn’t, Who couldn’t?

She sleeps the dreams of dogs with her toys next to her.

When you’ve fewer years left

So now I’m 71.  I am just about beginning to think that the years ahead of me are fewer than those behind.  And so, where have they gone, what have I done with them.  All those years behind me.  My God!!! Where have they gone, dissipated, evaporated into a nothingness of vapourized memories; which, according to statistics will be totally lost through age related forms of dementia and/or Alzheimer’s disease.  MY GOD – Why worry. Just go ahead and enjoy what remains of the rest of my life.

I keep trying to.  But the world keeps invading my lovely and gorgeous peaceful world with Jim, my husband, and Beth my most wonderful, uplifting and happy SpringerXBorder Collie Beth. Happiness is out walking through the Crimple Valley, or anywhere, with those two.  What more can bliss be?

My list of places I want to visit is slowly dissipating – I no way want to visit places in danger of attack by sad people, misguided through their fanatical view of their religion, or other people angered to destruction by total dismay of life; or even face the thought of the danger of simply being there, airports for example.

Who would want, or even think of causing mayhem by blowing themselves up [so sad to think of such a terrible thing to do], in the lovely and lonely valley I walk through with my Beth. It simply wouldn’t be news worth reporting – and is the epitome of peace, which is worlds away from life known in our News Reporting World.

So – Do I really want to go to Paris, to visit the galleries and see the works of art I love so dearly.  do I really want to go to Barcelona or Madrid or Vienna – to see works created by artists – when I have bliss on my doorstep – in the form of nature – Galsworthy re-created. Yes – it would be lovely – to feel the warmth of the sun as well, but we have the internet.  Not quite the same as seeing the real thing.  But I have my allotment, and the flowers there, and the sweet peas, at last, are flowering in abundance. So beautiful, with heady perfume. What more from life but the heady perfume of growing flowers, my Jim by my side and Beth, my dog.  Life to perfection.DSCN3520 (1)



8th – 10th september 2016   |   7.45PM ACANTEEN   |   NEW LONDON ROAD   |   CHELMSFORD TICKETS £10 What’s the most awkward dinner conversation you’ve had?  For our debut at ACante…

Source: #awkward

About Us

Mad Apple Collective was formed in 2013 when Artistic Director Danny Segeth was approached by Chelmsford City Council to produce an event for The Fling Festival. Since then, we’ve been workin…

Source: About Us

Diary of a dog called Beth: Agility.


Equation: One hour at agility with Beth = a lifetime of pure frustration. 

‘You’re supposed to go through the tunnel. Not run along the top.’ Beth looks so pleased with herself. She is in paradise, all these dogs. This is pure playtime. The trainer I call ‘Grandma trainer’ shouts at her collie to stop chasing the long-haired hound round and through the course, totally distracting all the other dogs who want to join in, mayhem rules. I try to control Beth who desperately wants to join them. Once order is restored, we go back to the start of the course and I position Beth to go over the jump and through the tunnel.

She’s got the message, into the tunnel entrance she runs and in ecstasy I rush to the other end. She’s not there. No. Madam is still at the entrance, peering along the tunnel at me with a cheeky look, laughing at me.   Seems my signals still aren’t clear enough. ‘We’re getting there,’ says the grandmotherly trainer kindly.

At last all seems to click into place, the tunnel, yes, run through it. Now over the jump – There is a God, she has – throw her toy over the last jump. She stops, looks at me as if to say, ‘I’m on strike. Where’s my treat.’ So, back we trudge to the start for our nth attempt. ‘Don’t worry,’ says Grandma trainer. I’m not. ‘The others have been coming for a long time,’ she says sympathetically. My focus is Beth not the other dogs and owners. She needs the stimulus and I am in desperate need of the training.

Later, trying to get Beth along the plank, which, requires Beth stopping at the end with her two front paws on the grass and hind legs on the plank end I’m told ‘Your commands. They’re not clear enough. Beth doesn’t understand what you’re signalling, I mean, Beth’s great. She’s trying to understand. Just look at her.’ Miss Unpronounceable Greek name trainer says in a gooey voice. ‘She’s really enjoying herself.’ Basically Miss unpronounceable Greek name is saying ‘Beth’s great, you’re rubbish.’ Which is exactly the reason I am here, to learn how to do it.

Beth loves the seesaw, where the lessons learned on the plank come into their own. She stops like a good girl at the end with both front paws on the grass and hind paws on the plank. ‘Such a good dog,’ coos Miss Unpronounceable Greek name trainer. Beth glows in her glory.

The question is, will I survive? Let’s see what happens next week.

Jim was there to meet us to walk home over the fields. The Swan was en route, which gave me the opportunity to relax and Jim the excuse for a beer. Jim is quite taken with this agility plan. It was dark when we arrived home, with Venus shining brightly in a sky clear of cloud. Good day, tired dog, lovely walk home. Bliss is…… Let’s see what happens next week.

Autumn: time to move.

Places to go, places to see

When I used to keep bees Autumn was the cruelest time for drones, dragged mercilessly from the comfort of their hives by fierce worker bees, to be chucked out into the cold autumn weather. It’s hard being a male in the bee world, death by bee sting for those drones refusing to leave. Workers need to seal the hive from winter winds, collect and protect their food supplies. This is no place for Drones, who take rather than give to the colony. September worker bees will live through the winter months to support their queen and colony until the early spring sun warms the hive, with snowdrops and croci flowers, heavy with pollen, food for bee larvae and pupae. Then the workers know it’s time to alert their queen, directing her to cleaned wax cells to lay her eggs. Fertilized eggs for female, her new colony, it’s too early to lay drones. Here, the worker bees rule.

Autumn is a busy time for beekeepers. We’ve collected all our colonies and settled them into our winter Apiary beside the River Ure, where the river bends. Oh yes. We know advice from beekeepers is “don’t keep bees beside a river because of possible flooding.” But our bees are on what’s known locally as the “High Bank,” well away from floods, a place of magical mystery, thick with Himalayan balsam still in flower, which provide a late source of nectar for our bees to fan into honey, their food for the cold winter months. A row of lime trees border the High Bank, sheltering our colonies from the cold North wind, protected also from the wicked East wind by a thicket hedge. All our hives have been brought together, from the heather moors, the field beans and from my allotment, where they have expanded to strong colonies from the abundance of summertime pollen and nectar.

Fifteen colonies were prepared for winter. All had feeders over their Brood Boxes and Supers providing each colony with a gallon of thick syrup to supplement their foraging for nectar around this wild place. Each colony was cocooned with a quilt beneath the roof and a covering on the North and Eastern side of their hives. All on stands and belted tight should they be blown over or knocked by a predatory animal looking for food. Their entrances narrowed and nailed to help their sentry bees prevent wasp attack and hibernating field mice entering, looking for somewhere warm with stores of food to over winter.

One evening I remember the setting sun throwing its pale rays over the fallow field. Shivering in the chilly evening breeze we turned from watching our bees. All was calm. Breathing the aroma of damp soil and water it was time to journey back across the big field.  In the dimming light the sky of a sudden was full of geese. Canada Geese in migration fly towards this field to descend in RAF Formation, landing quietly, gabbling, and fluttering, settling in for a night’s rest. More geese in V-Shaped flight formations zoomed onto the field, followed by more, and more, and more. Soon the field was full of geese, resting overnight, before taking off at the rise of the sun to fly to their winter homelands. We felt the season’s change to winter in this wild world as we quietly stumbled awkwardly over the rough field in the rapidly failing light, trying not to disturb these birds. Alfred Hitchcock’s film, “the Birds” comes to mind. Flights were still arriving as we reached our car parked by the Keeper’s Cottage. We watched them settle onto the fallow field in wonder. How did they know which field was their resting place to gather on their migration routes? Why this particular field? Life is strange but beautiful. Total bliss.