TIMELESS IN LYME

TIMELESS

Ever had the feeling you belong somewhere or maybe that somewhere belongs to you ? It's how I feel about Lyme Regis of course, something in the fabric of the place calls to me......fanciful ? Maybe, but consider this :

Fell into a peaceful deep sleep two nights ago, of course it could have been wine induced as could have been the dream I had. In my dream I was at the top of Sherborne Lane, a very ancient trackway but in some respects it was a very different Lyme I saw, Broad Street, the main street, was instantly recgonisable although the shops were certainly different, they bore names unfamiliar to me and carried on businesses unknown to me, this then was a dream of the past. The air was chilly and I wrapped my fleece around me.I had no notion of the time but I suspected it was early evening. There were a few people around, all of them dressed in what I considered to be Victorian garb. There were one or two dog-carts outside and plenty of manure for the roses on the street. The whole dream was pretty much devoid of colour, almost monachrome in fact, except for myself, I could see myself wearing the red fleece very clearly along with blue jeans. I attempted to interact with the passers by but I was given a wide berth and wildly staring eyes followed my progress down Broad Street. I walked down to Cobb Gate and turned around the corner into Marine Parade, stood silently watching the sea for a moment and the next thing I knew was that was in my bed, fully awake and musing over the particular vividness of the dream.

That was two nights ago, yesterday I had to spend some time researching the Victorian period in Lyme for the Sherlock Holmes novel I am writing, very slowly it must be said,I was in the local Library poring over old newspapers of the period when the following report caught my eye....

16 th January 1896

' There was a most singular occurrence in Broad Street two days ago. Several people going about their business reported that they believed they had seen a phantom. The apparition if that's what it was, was attired in strange dress unlike anything the witnesses had seen before, they all agreed as one that he was an oldish man and had a very peculiar air about him. He was observed walking down to Cobb Gate and after looking out to sea, promptly vanished to the consternation of those present. No further reports have been received by these offices.'
14 th January, odd, that was the night of my dream. Oh well, perhaps I had come across this report before I thought and dreamt myself into it ! Funny what the mind can do.

A new book was published here today, 'Lyme Past' , really just a book of old photographs but very informative all the same, what really interested me were the lovely black and white photos of Victorian Lyme. I settled down on settee to study them more closely. I used my magnifying glass to pick up the finer details of the shop fronts etc, all of which would help the accuracy of my Sherlock Holmes in Lyme Regis novel. There is one in particular that caught my eye, taken from the bottom of Broad Street looking up the hill. The street is not very busy, the blurb accompanying the photo says it is early evening. I scanned the shops, buildings and people with my lens, and noticed an odd sort of figure walking down Broad Street, I looked more closely. I could just make out the grey hair and the glasses and although the jacket he is wearing is rendered dark by the black and white of the film, I , of course, know it was red.

Told you I belonged.

HOW TIRESOME !!

VAMPIRES

A slight movement. For all she knew, it could have been a shadow, cast by the moon. But, had she been paying attention, she may have noticed that there was no moon to cast such a shadow. A thick bank of ominous purple clouds hid the silvery orb, the only illumination coming from the single flickering streetlight standing at the end of the darkened street. The girl stood in this single patch of light, a dim orange circle floating in the inky midnight shadows.

The shadows stirred. The tattered edge of a crimson cloak drifted into the circle of light, the owner of the garment tantalisingly staying just out of sight. A crow caws harshly from the blackness, and the girl looked around, startled out of her dreams. She takes a few tentative steps forward. A pair of brown eyes, tinted red like mahogany wood, track her every move, their expression one of sadness and hunger. The eyes of a trapped, helpless beast.

The girl spins around, her long jacket fluttering around her knees. She meets the watchful gaze, her own emerald green eyes wide with shock. The mysterious stranger steps out of the shadows, keeping to the edge of the pool of orange light. He throws the hood of his cloak back. White hair, flowing over the figures shoulders and midway down his back, frames a face that is barely paler then his hair. The torn and stained red cloak swirls around his shoulders, caught in a sudden breeze. The eyes, locked onto the girl's, are narrowed with a sharp, cruel glint in them. The man smirks; a thin milky-white fang peering out under his top lip.

The girl steps back, an annoyed, defiant look forming on her face. She scowls, spitting out a slow, venom-filled sentence.

“You blood-sucking, filthy creep.”

The man crosses his arms over his chest, smiling disarmingly. “That’s a little bit harsh, lass. Appearances can be deceptive, after all. Here I am thinking you actually know what you’re up against.”

The girl glares at the man before her, her hand hidden behind her back beneath the heavy material of her coat. “I do know what I am up against, Sir,” she spits the last word with a voice heavy with hate. “And I think you may well find I’m more than I appear.”

The white-haired man grinned, baring needle sharp fangs. “Well, then, missy, instead of calling me a blood-sucking creep, why don’t you use the proper term?”

The girl sighed, withdrawing her hand and stepping forward, plunging the stake held in it into the man’s chest. He collapses, a startled look on his pale face, before dissolving into the shadows.

The girl walks off, muttering under her breath as she walks.

“Bloody vampires.”

JUST SOMETIMES......................

SOMETIMES WHEN YOU LOOK OVER THE RAILING

Sometimes, when you look over the railing, you happen to see the old caretaker who says that there used to be a floor there. Used to be a hall there. Used to be the school hall, before this new place was built.

Sometimes, when you look over the railing, you can almost see the place, the memories still rich and fresh, though it's been fifty years if it's been a day. The old caretaker smiles to himself. He did.....still does.... love those memories.

Sometimes, when you look over the railing, which is really high up even though this place is only two storeys, (because there are openings all the way to the basement) the old caretaker comes out and talks to you, never pressing, he just tells you stories about the old school.

Sometimes, when you look over the railing, the old caretaker will launch into the story of the horrible fire that destroyed the old school. The old school, and the school hall. His face will grow sad.

Sometimes, when you look over the railing, the old caretaker will finish that story and go on to the one about his daughter. His daughter was in the school. His daughter was a dancer. His daughter was in the fire. But the old caretaker does not talk about that in this story, in this story he talks of the dances.

Sometimes, when you look over the railing, you can almost see the dances, mostly the solo dance his daughter did. The dance she did the night of the fire. See the long black hair and listen...is that music?..... big hazel eyes.....her mother's eyes, he tells you, the long limbs, the simple white dress she was so proud of against the brown skin...she always was rather dark, he tells you, and the beautiful, graceful steps. The old caretaker tells you she always loved to dance.

Sometimes, when you look over the railing, the old caretaker comes out to keep you company...hey....he won't come out for just any body you know.... and he tells you stories and he asks you, "Isn't she beautiful?",as though you could see what he sees and without even waiting for an answer he's gone, though you didn't hear or see him go.....did you even see him come?..... and you turn back to look over the railing.

And sometimes, when you look over the railing, you see a pretty girl dance and you decide that it would be a shame to interrupt her and you leave, murmuring "lovely" under your breath. Somehow, you don't feel like jumping anymore. How odd.

When I look over the railing, I see the plaque suspended from the ceiling. I see a picture. Just a simple family picture, of a father and a daughter. A picture of a father and a daughter in a glass box with a once pretty, now soot blackened necklace he gave her in honour of her dance. The only remains of either father or daughter that they ever found.

And the old caretakers daughter dances. It's what she does best. It's what she's been doing for fifty years. It's what she'll do forever.

LIVE ! LIVE ! LIVE !

Good luck to the LymeRegisRadio team for tomorrow's initial Sunday broadcast with Philip Evans at the helm. Looks like another great idea from Nomad and Mary.....now....how the hell do I get myself on it ????

Have fun guys.

IDENTITY THEFT ?.......SO SO ALIKE !!!

IDENTITY THEFT ?


Another quiet day in Lyme police station thought the young PC assigned to desk duty on this sunny afternoon. The paperwork was laborious and never-ending; there had been no phone calls to alleviate the boredom nor any visitors. Surely someone somewhere had a problem which could do with his attention, a lost tourist for instance or a local resident with a missing pet - a cat,dog, goldfish....anything !

Ah......here comes someone.....he hasn't that certain tourist look....a resident maybe....looks to be in his fifties....walking gingerly.....not as fit as he could be, maybe.

" Good afternoon Sir, how can I help you ?" he said.

" Hello, my name is Charles Russell andyou can help me by finding the person who is impersonating me." the man said simply.

Hey, this could be more exciting than a missing goldfish the PC thought. He took stock of the man in front of him, certainly looked to be in his fifties with short, grey hair and a wrinkled, lined face.

" Impersonating you Sir ? as in identity theft you mean ?"

" If's that what you call someone who goes around pretending to be you, yes."

" Have you contacted your bank and cancelled all your credit cards ?"

" No it's not like that...he just pretends to be me......goes where I go.....claims my friends as his own."

" Best you explain it to me Sir, give me all the details."

" Take today for example.... I have just been to the Harbour Inn, Martyn the barman was on duty who I know quite well. He seemed surprised to see me as he thought I was only having the one. I replied I am only having the one, but he said does that include the one I had earlier. "

" And you hadn't been in earlier I take it ?"

" No, precisely. Same thing happened at the chip shop more or less. Fancied some chips and when I walked in and ordered, Anthony who works there, who I know quite well too, said didn't the last portion fill me up then. When I replied that I didn't know what he was talking about, he said that I had been in earlier. I would question my sanity but for one thing."

" What is that Sir ?"

" I have seen this imposter myself.....walking ahead of me on Marine Parade. From the back he looked just like me, similar clothing, identical gait. I ran towards him but he got wind of it and ran himself. I could not catch him."

Our young friend on the desk tried to picture this out of condition elderly ( to him ) guy running, grimaced and looked at this character in front of him.

" Right, Sir...let me get some details down, first of all could I have your age ?"

" Yes, I'm eighteen."

NO NEWS IS.................

Since last post have been editing the Holmes novel once again, taking out superfluous apostrophes, putting them in, taking out commas, putting them in !! Shortening sentences, lengthening conversations....but....hey.....think its now as complete as I can make it......well.....maybe.

UPDATE !!!

Very remiss of me.....have not added anything here for over a month !!! Good excuse though, was determined to finish writing my Sherlock Holmes novella by Easter and managed to do so !!!

The last 19,000 words tumbled out over the Easter weekend and it has now gone soaring to prospective publishers under the snappy, snazzy title ' Sherlock Holmes in Lyme Regis '. Fingers crossed !!!!

ANOTHER LIGHT HOLMES PIECE !!!!!

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DIGESTIVE TRACT


It was a Friday in the early summer of 1896 and I had arrived back at the rooms in Baker Street I shared with Sherlock Holmes, late the preceding evening. I slept soundly and rose somewhat later than my usual time and prepared myself to do full justice to a handsome breakfast Mrs. Hudson had prepared.

Holmes was sitting in one of the arm chairs with papers strewn everywhere as was his wont, he appeared to be deep in thought as I entered the room and my cheery greeting was greeted less affably than could have been. I was used to this behaviour from him and busied myself amongst the ham and eggs laid out on the table. I was reflecting on my recent stay in Lyme Regis, I had stayed on in that delighful town after a case there was brought to a triumphant conclusion by Holmes, a case which, for various reasons, may never see the light of day. ( editors note: In fact the manuscript of this adventure turned up in Lyme Regis itself in 2007 and is being prepared for publication. )

My attention was drawn to Holmes by his occasional moan as though in pain and his fidgeting around in the arm chair, which had the result of not only disturbing my breakfast, but also tumbled yet more papers on to floor.

" You appear to be in some discomfiture Holmes. " I ventured.

" It's nothing Watson, I assure you dear fellow."

" Nevertheless, Holmes you do not even look well, have you been overdoing things in my absence ? "

" No more than is usual my friend, unfortunately the criminal classes do not adhere to convenient hours and I in my position as hunter have to follow suit. " he replied.

He followed up this statement with a prolonged coughing fit, I brought him some water from the carafe on the table " Here, my old friend, drink this down." He swallowed thirstily and languished once more in the chair.

" Holmes, you must see that even your own iron constitution cannot take much more and as I am to some extent answerable for your constitution by dint of being not only a physician but also your comrade and friend, pray, let me examine you and advise a course of action."

" Thank you my old friend, but I am starting to feel more my old self now."

" Did you eat yesterday Holmes, or the day before come to that ? "

I had known Holmes go for days without food when his mind had chafed before some problem while his thin eager features became more accentuated with the prolonged complete mental concentration.

" I must admit I have not thought of food recently Doctor." he answered meekly.

" Then I insist you let me examine you Holmes."

" Very well Watson, I can see I will not have the peace I crave until I succumb to your earnest request."

A brief examination told me all I needed to know, Holmes has been abusing his body for too long, particularly as regards his food intake and the regularity thereof.

" What is your diagnosis, pray, Doctor ? "

" The problem lies with your digestive tract Holmes, in fact you could say......."

" Yes, Watson ? "

" It's alimentary my dear Holmes. "

ANOTHER LIGHT HOLMES PIECE....IT'S ALL IN THE PUN !!!

THE CASE OF THE CHILDISH PUN

It was a cold yet bright February morning and we had arisen to be met by the sight of snow lying deep on the street below, now turning brown in the middle of Baker Street where the daily traffic had ploughed through it but still a shimmering white on the edges of the road and footpaths.

Holmes was deep in thought and as usual this meant also being shrouded in clouds of tobacco smoke. He was curled up, almost feline like in the basket chair and was practically immobile and had said not a word in almost two hours.

I was busying myself bringing my notes of the last case Holmes and myself had worked on, up to date. It involved the prominent Conservative politician Sir Eustace Makeworthy and his exposure as a thief and embezzler and his subsequent fall from grace. His wife, the fair Lady Hilda had recently won a divorce from this rather unlikeable man and his attempts to blame her for his downfall and wrongdoing because of the large alimony payments he now had to make, were pitiful and lamentable. The case itself was hardly the most exciting that Holmes had figured in but there were some quite sublime moments of analytical reasoning which deserve a wider audience. My major problem was to come up with a title for this case, should it ever have occasion to be published and to this end I was failing miserably.

" I believe I may be able to help you there Watson" said Holmes from the basket chair.

" Help me with what Holmes ? " I replied.

" With a title for your scribblings my dear fellow. "

I tried to counter the urge to be baffled and astounded but in this too, I failed miserably.

" What is this Holmes, I am baffled and indeed astounded by your deduction.....how, pray, could you have possibly known what I was thinking ? "

" It was simplicity itself my friend, as soon as you started to assemble your many notes and to put them in some kind of order, it was obvious to me that these were notes of the Makeworthy case, your enthusiasm to get the facts down on paper in a logical fashion at the conclusion of a case is, of course, well known to me. "

" Yes I see that Holmes, but two other cases were also brought to a successful conclusion recently, why could it not have been one of those I was preparing for publication ? " I asked.

" Most simple, Watson, no other case involved so closely a husband and wife and when I saw you quietly open the bureau drawer wherein lies your marriage certificate and steal a brief look at it, I knew then you were reflecting on your brief happy marriage and indeed, on the sanctity of marriage itself . "

" Bravo, Holmes, excellently reasoned out.......but how did you know I was trying to think of a title for this affair ? "

" You then proceeded to pick up your casebooks and thumbed through them, pausing briefly after every few pages, with the look of someone looking for inspiration, what else could you have been looking at but the frontispiece for each story and your furrowed brows told me you were studying the title of each tale."

" How absurdly simple Holmes" I cried.

" Quite so" said he " every problem becomes very simple when explained to you my friend. "

" And you say you have a title for me Holmes ? "

" Yes I believe I do" he replied.

He rose to his feet, knocked the dottles from his pipe into the fire and picked out a cheroot from the coal-scuttle, as he lit it, he turned around to look at me, his eyes shining.

" Watson, it must be called...........The Case of the..."

" Yes, Holmes" I interjected.

" Alimony Tory my dear Watson. "

A LYME GHOST STORY ( A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC )

A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC


A new home, a new life.......something which had been on the cards for sometime but now fully realised at last. A chance visit to an old friend in a quiet seaside town had given me the impetus to make the changes I needed to make and a few short months later here I was. I had purchased a cottage in the old part of town with enough money left over to live fairly comfortably. It is a town much frequented by writers and artists and whilst I considered myself as neither one or the other, I had ambitions in those directions.

I found myself a part time job to while away some of my time, the job was neither demanding nor exciting, just a little driving position, if nothing else, it gave me the opportunity to see more of the area than perhaps I would have done otherwise. I managed to get the cottage straight and almost homely within days, my possessions were few and my needs simple, as long as I had a home for my CDs and books, I was happy.

I noticed quickly how the narrowness of the street combined with the height of the buildings conspired to trap noise and amplify it, conversations of a not particularly loud nature could be heard clearly at night when all else was still but still I was surprised one night to be woken by the sound of a violin being played. I was only disturbed momentarily however, long enough to register the beauty of the playing before I fell back into a deep sleep. In the morning, I could not be sure whether I had dreamt the episode, I had never heard it being played before, but then maybe last night was especially quiet, but then again it must have been around one in the morning and would I really expect to hear someone practising on their instrument at that time ? . It was hardly important anyway and I resolved to put it out of my head.

A few nights later I found my sleep disturbed again by the sound of the violin, I knew this time it definitely wasn't a dream......I sat upright in bed listening and as before it was truly beautiful, I couldn't tell you what was being played, my knowledge of classical music was skimpy to the point of it being non-existent but even I could appreciate the wonder of the piece, it was both hypnoptic and comforting. I glanced at my watch, one-thirty in the morning. I listened for a couple of minutes before and then the playing abruptly stopped and although my night had been disturbed I was strangely disappointed at the cessation of this night music.

The next day was taken up with more mundane matters such as work in the morning and in the afternoon I had arranged for a local electrician to have a look in the wiring in the cottage, it looked as though it had had no attention for a long time. He comfirmed my fears after inspecting fully the intricacies of the electrics and announced it would need re-wiring completely and the sooner the better. It was an expense I had not budgeted for yet I could hardly not have the work done, safety was paramount.

That night, I was again awoken by the sound of the violin, this time my violinist, whoever he or she may be, was playing a more urgent piece, it filled my mind, my soul even......I was entranced. Strangely, it seemed much louder.....was this due to the different nature of the piece being played ?.......but, no it seemed not only louder but closer too. I got out of bed and crossed to the window and looked out into the empty street, all was peaceful out there and as far as I could tell, no one else was disturbed by the quite, quite beautiful music.

The next day, I had the notion of asking around to see if I could shed any light on the violinist who felt the need to practice at such unsociable hours. In the end I thought better of it and one of the reasons was that I did not want it to stop, I had become enraptured by the music as though it was only for me and I did not want to take the chance that by asking questions I may inadvertently have put he or she off from playing.

That night again followed the same pattern as before, the music would wake me around one-thirty and shut off abruptly a few minutes later, The difference this time was that the music was undeniably louder and closer to me, if I hadn't known better I would have sworn that the music was coming from within the bedroom itself. I put my ear to the wall which connected me to the next cottage, it wasn't coming from there but it was so very near, again I looked out of the window into the empty street, I don't know what I thought I was going to see....a man or woman playing the violin feverishly under the street lamp maybe ?

The day passed in a dream, all I could think about was this strange, beautiful music which visited me night after night and that night I was in a positive hurry to go to bed. I slept well surprisingly but was drawn out of my sleep once again by the sound of the violin. I can't really describe to you how this music made me feel it was possibly the most beautiful melody I had ever heard or maybe, will ever hear. I looked towards the bedroom door for it seemed to be that's where this spellbinding music was coming from. There was a dim light by the door which became a glow and gradually this nebulous shape became the figure of a man, his right hand gliding the bow across his violin, he backed away from the door towards the stairs, his eyes imploring me to follow. I was by now wholly trapped within this glorious, bewitching music and I followed willingly.....all the way down the stairs he went, playing all the time. Before I knew it, I was out in the street, he was out there, still playing although I had not seen him open the front door, in fact I knew he hadn't as I had to draw the bolt back. He looked at me one last time and this fabulous melody, this beautiful melody came to an end abruptly. He was gone. I had not time to ponder on this for there came a sharp crack from within the cottage and all at once the bedroom was engulfed in flames. There was a phone box on the corner and I sprinted those few yards in record time and dialled 999.

The first fire engine was there in minutes and I watched them go about their work, the flames were everywhere now, licking out from every window, the smoke billowing down the street taking with it my dreams.
After a few hours, the fire was out and everything had been dampened down, the fire chief was sifting through the wreckage, no doubt looking for the cause of the fire. I was in a neighbours' house, she had very kindly taken me in and had given me a breakfast and kept me supplied with an endless stream of coffee. All I think about was how I would still have been in the bedroom had I not followed my violinist into the street, was it a precognitive dream then ?.....an apparition formed only in my mind by God knows what processes ?.....I did not know, only that I had been saved.

There was a knock at the door and the fire chief came in, his eyes were full of pity for me " Sorry Sir, we weren't able to save much I'm afraid".
I mumbled something in return. " It looks as though the wiring may have been at fault Sir, started in the bedroom and spread very quickly through the rest of the house....some of your books may have survived Sir but little else, save for this, which we found in the bedroom and somehow it wasn't touched by the fire. "

He handed me a violin, unmarked, untouched.

A LYME RHAPSODY ( DREAMS BY THE SEA )

DREAMS BY THE SEA


The sea is calm and expectant
On the horizon a flash of light
The sun casts its rays across the sea
Like the shadows of a unfurling hand
The golden light bathes the town
And people awake from their dreams
Dreams by the sea

The aches and pains of the day before
Are forgotten as the life enriching sun empowers them
The fishermen stretch and yawn
And gaze at the calm waters
They smile at each other knowingly
Today will be a good day for their dreams
Dreams from the sea

The sun reflects on the sails of the boats
The harbour is awash with light colour and noise
Pleasure boats and speedboats arrive
Their owners eager to sail
A flotilla twists and turns out of the harbour
Each man woman and child fulfilling their dreams
Dreams of the sea

The sea is calm once again
Fishermen have returned home with their catch
A restfulness spreads over the town
Parents put their children to bed
And wish them pleasant dreams
Dreams of the sea.

LYME REGIS

LYME REGIS


Lyme Regis, Lyme Regis...
There is a magic about the place.
An aura or atmosphere which pervades the air
and seems to be in the fabric of each building.......
a sense of being, a sense of history, a sense of permanence.
The houses tumble dizzingly down towards the sea,
as though they are in motion.
And when they reach the sea,
there is a challenge to be met,
questions to be asked.....
inviting the sea to do its worst.....
which it can do......and.....yet,
the sea has never quite held mastery
over the town and its people.
And although the mortal remains of those that have loved and lived here
have crumbled and returned to dust,
their spirit and love of Lyme lives on......
their phantoms and shades are sensed and heard
as quiet footsteps echoing through the ancient lanes,
seen as fleeting shadows out of the corner of the eye....
and heard as half caught conversations carried on the breeze.
Lyme says " Love me.....and I will love you back"
And you do. For it is so.