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I took a look round the small, cramped room, no bigger than the average walk-in wardrobe and tried hard to picture how I would feel shut up in there for an indeterminate time. I shuddered at the thought. Having introduced me to the Priest’s hole, John led on and I followed him along a passageway towards a welcoming looking doorway. On my right was an opening which appeared to be illuminated from above.

“Look up,” instructed John. I glanced up to the source of the light in expectation. Above me was a dark-wood varnished platform consisting of two short planks with a hole cut about the size of a washbasin. “A couple of hundred years ago you wouldn’t like to have been standing there, “ John said with a smile.

“Go on, tell me why?” I asked.

“Does that bit of wood look familiar?” John replied, “think about the size and shape.”

”I could only think of it as a medieval lampshade but that is obviously wide of the mark.” a remark I immediately regretted.

”Well I could say, ‘here’s mud in your eye’ it’s the garderobe, the forerunner of en-suite bathroom facilities, amazing eh!”

”Brilliant, “ I replied, with more than a hint of jealousy, “are there any more features you want to tempt me with.”

”Wait until tonight, you’ll be well impressed I guarantee but that is something for later, meanwhile it’s nearly time for a drink.”

The story continues…….

She sits on the frozen snow. Her nose twitches as she surveys the ice floes ahead. Beside her the mewing toddler is crying for more milk. She knows that she will have to kill soon after her long hibernation. In her icy den she successfully gave birth to one cub who at three months is becoming more and more demanding of food. But then she spots a dark shape lying on one of the numerous floating ice blocks , a seal snoozing in the Arctic sunshine. Motioning the cub  to sit quietly the huge white bear slips into the freezing waters and  with just her nose above the water gently swims towards her prey causing hardly a ripple. This is the opportunity she has been waiting for. On such a calm morning the ambush will be difficult but desperation favours the bold and the large seal will satisfy her and her cub’s hunger for many days. Judging her moment she risks one glance above the waves, the snoozing seal, oblivious to the danger, lazily draws a flipper across her itching nose but suspects nothing. A few more short strokes and the bear launches her attack, the ice floe rocks and sways and she manages to grip the seal by her fat-lined neck. The struggle is fierce but eventually the b ear drags the exhausted seal into the water and returns with the bloodied, limp carcass to the patient, hungry cub waiting on the icy shore.

Hunger drives her on

across the desolate ice

species survival

I am anonymous. Bobby Fairfield gives nothing away but has decided to write my little story following a documentary on Sky Arts which has jolted my memory bank. I have realised a connection with a famous writer to whom I would not like to cause any embarrassment but a story needs to be told. My story begins in the year of 1969, a year which could have meant the difference between a country boy passing examinations which would have lead to an extension of education in one of the great universities or obscurity in the University of Life. I chose the latter and decided I needed to see the world my parents had never dreamed of. The premier reason for this decision was an introduction to a completely different type of master at the Grammar school I was attending. Before I name this individual I feel I should pass on my thoughts and impressions of the man and his style. I was in the fifth form, preparing for the breeze known as GCE, “O levels.” Being excellent at English albeit with an accent that could peel the bark off a tree, it was considered that an O level in English Literature would be on a par with which I had passed all previous examinations. Our first day in our most important year and we sat waiting for the entry of our latest tutor. In through the door slouched a thin, grey-jacketed guy not much older than any of us in the class, long dark hair down past the shoulders, longer than most of the girls even, round spectacles, no suit, just casual. No sign of the black gown we had become accustomed to, as a sign of their educational prowess that gave the gravitas and right to superiority over us lower people. He introduced himself as Michael but was just another teacher as far as the class were concerned. From the first we could sense a difference in him, our weekly tests, instead of referring to the likes of Samuel Beckett or George Orwell consisted mainly of questions concerning which drugs were addictive, i.e. hard, or soft. Strangely enough the results were not announced. I was rather a disruptive influence, of which I am not proud but I was big and brawny, intelligent, scruffy and ugly. Mainly because I was from up on the moors, a true Devonian and he and I did not get on.  I was a difficult student, the sort he was either unprepared for in the training college if they existed in those days or could not have imagined in his worst nightmares. Classes were far from normal during the week culminating every Friday when he would bring in a little dansette type record player and would proceed to play a “Bob Dylan,” album. At that time I was more interested in rock, psychedelia, and loud music. To give him his due he would also, grudgingly, invite us to bring our own L.P.s in to be played during these lessons. I remember that I took in an Alvin Lee album, great music including extended version of, “Love like a Man,” which did not impress him. He would then invite discussions on the music that we had just heard. It was always obvious that he had an obsession with Bob Dylan and his music. Before you accuse me of bias I would like to advise you that it was always rumoured that this teacher was banned from appearing on stage at the school speech and prize-giving day as an undesirable, due to his hair length and refusal to wear the gown and mortar board. I have mentioned my disruptive tendency but it culminated in him calling me a, (if easily offended, please do not read the next word, “C..t,” amazing! the whole class gasped, with a few embarassed fists to the mouth “Oh!s” with reddened cheeks but even I realised there was truth in what he had said. One day shortly after a classmate saw him arriving in the school car park driving what I believe was an “Austin Princess,” or may have actually been a vintage Bentley, the Devon equivalent of a Rolls Royce. From then on it didn’t take long to find out that our weird teacher had written a best-selling autobiography of Bob Dylan, procured a book deal and sales rumoured to be worth “75,000 pounds.” a phenomenal amount at that time which writers even now would be well satisfied with.  Not withstanding his prowess I believe that this unusual apparition in our school was the reason why I never passed my English literature O’level thereby causing my non qualification for University education. I would like to belatedly thank him for a fabulous life without that benefit. If Michael, surname omitted for reasons of privacy as he maybe and probably still lives and writes, remembers me I am glad you have done so well. I would also like to emulate the rumoured original book deal if he feels that he could give me a helping hand.