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Malcolm Redford

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Malcolm Redford

Painter. Illustrator. Writer. Artist. Cyclist. Adventurer and overcomer of Obstacles I have been an artist for as long as I can remember. This was to BE AN ARTIST.

It was not something I had to learn. I remember drawing the Eiffel Tower aged 5 when we went there on a family holiday. I liked to draw boats from the front; not straight on but from a slight angle, because when seen like this the effect of perspective on the almost unseen side of the bow would make it curl while the nearest side ton the viewer would look almost horizontal. That apart, this appa

rent self confidence then worked against me, since the presumption that this led to made a block to further learning as well as a laziness that impeded development. I got a ‘B’ at ‘A’ level, which I unthinkingly snorted at with an ‘I could have done better if I really tried’. My study of Art History at University was a neat cover to obscure what I really wanted to do, which, for years I refused to acknowledge. I would sneak art into whatever I was doing, without being able to formalise my commitment. When I was at RMA Sandhurst I would take my easel out into the grounds if I had some rare free time and try to paint the view of the grounds. When, after the freak aye accident that ended my army career, and I became a teacher, sketches would always be a resort when I should have been doing something else. This habit then became an obsession. I felt that I was trying to ‘catch up’ with where I should have been after wasting so much time in ignoring my true vacation. I’ve held exhibitions of my work, some quite successful, but have not cracked the mystery of what makes something ‘commercial’. As time has passed and other responsibilities have teamed up with my macular degeneration to conspire against my modest aspirations (loosing the right to drive, for example) my artistic urge has remained strong. Landscapes, portraits and still life are subjects that inspire me to an equal level, as do making sketches of the most inconsequential nature. My diagnosis with incurable prostate cancer has, if anything, pushed me on to make the most of any talent In art. I have come to terms with with the fact that it is a very personal thing, and that ‘success’ is not the factor that makes it important for me. If my work does not please others, that is not the criteria that concerns me. It is whether it pleases me or not.

21/03/2026

This mixture of a cycle ride and walk was my own attempt to pay homage to the genius of Emily Bronte, including as it does, a pilgrimage to Top Withens. This house, now ruined, was reputedly used by Emily Bronte as the focus of her novel ‘Wuthering Heights’.

It lies high on the barren and and treeless moors on the Lancashire and Yorkshire border, where it is given to wild weather and high winds, hence the name ‘Wutherring’ being a significant provincial adjective of atmospheric tumult, as the narrator, Lockwood, put it in the book.

Good weather would be a bonus, and so this classic sunny winter day gave me an
invitation I could not decline. With bags packed and sandwiches made I set off along the lonely road to Hebden Bridge. I was soon on the tops above Colne, where I live, past the reservoir at Widdop, overlooked by a jutting rock face. Half a mile further along the Pennine Way crooses over and forks up the hillside towards Haworth and all places north.

This footpath is one whose scenic attractions have attracted thousands of walkers (including me forty years ago) since its creation in 1965. Many must have a penchant for masochism owing to the repetitive slogging through the peat bogs that characterise much of its length.

There are occasional stretches along a tarmac road which provide a brief respite. I was now on one of those, which leads to a trio of reservoirs built by a Irish navvies in the 19 th century. I had planned to ride that far before folding my bike up and sliding it into the backpack I had brought with me to carry it across the moor.

That was the plan, but the driver of the 4x4 that suddenly appeared next to me had other ideas. ‘Yah can’t soickle dahn this rowde’ he roared at me. ‘ Yer’ll ‘ave ter go dahn ther’ , he said, referring to the track that leads to Hebden Bridge. Going ‘dahn ther’ would not go to Top Withens, so it was time to put my bike in its bag and carry it. This was agreeable to him, but I was not expert in doing this and something hard and pointed, the end of a fork or an axle, kept prodding me in the
back; periodic wriggles eased discomfort to some extent.

The reservoirs were now well below me and the view stretched for miles in each direction. It was a landscape of moor and heather, devoid of people, their pettiness and preoccupations, and an area given over, instead, to burbling curlews and buzzing lapwings, the embodiments of the
liberating wilderness. If I looked the other way I could now see the silhouette of the ruin of Top Withens across the plateau. So this was where Catherine and Heathcliff wandered endlessly over the moors. This is where their identities found such a unity that they could never be separated. This is where Mr Lockwood found the books where Catherine had described the tyranny of her brother his roof. This
is where Heathcliff took his revenge and where love between them took its spiritual course.

Before long I had reached it, and thankfully eased myself free of the weight on my back, shrugging the soreness from my shoulders. This was my chance of a few minutes rest and I sat on a wall that could have been the remains of the stable where Hindley hit Heathcliff when they were children and threw at him the iron weights used to weigh potatoes and hay.

I bit into my sandwiches, imagining the scene, years later, when Heathcliff, now
Hindley’s merciless creditor, viciously disarmed him when the latter threatened to kill him. Surely this place could not have been such a residence as described in the pages that Emma wrote. Now it had nothing of the massive character that the book suggests with deeply set windows and jutting stones. It had more the look of a modest ruined cottage. Putting oneself in Emily Bronte’s place, however, it is an ideal spur for the imagination. Miles away from anywhere else, isolated in a
wilderness and separate from society, it fitted her inspiration to write a romantic tale like no other. Still preoccupied by my musings but with lunch eaten, it was time to get going again. As I was shouldering my unwieldy baggage a fell runner appeared around the corner of the building, bringing me back to the present day with his light-hearted banter about jogging around the ‘tops’ as well as
his bemused reaction to the load on my back. Off he loped, who knows, possibly repeating Catherine’s own steps, as she went in search of Heathcliff on that terrible night when he disappeared.

The path set off down a hillocky grassy slope towards a rocky span that has come to be known as Bronte Bridge, where a peaty stream burbles down from the fells before descending to the valley below. Playful shadows danced among the rocks. It was a pleasant spot to sit and survey the scene. The other significant dwelling in ‘Wuthering Heights’ is Thrushcross Grange’, which is thought to be the present day Ponden Hall. I had at least another mile of scrambling and plodding from Bronte Bridge, along a rough stony track before reaching the road from Haworth to Colne.

I could now put the bike to its proper use and, relieved, cycled through the village of Stanbury before reaching the left turn that took me past another reservoir towards a steep rise that led to Ponden Hall. It is a fine house and that evening was dappled with shadows from the lofty ash tree that has grown at one corner.

Was that the very window that Catherine and Heathcliff looked through when they first saw Edgar and Isabel fighting over their miserable pet dog? Was it here, years later, where Catherine, grief stricken by her separation from Heathcliff, her true love, finally died?

Fascinated at the enchantment lent to these stones and mortar by Emily Bronte’s
invention, I did my sketch, enjoying my imaginative recreation. Then I turned for home, soon reaching the moor-top with evening sunlight flooding the landscape and picking out the whaleback silhouette of Pendle Hill in the background.

12/02/2026

Not exactly a cycle trip, although there's no denying its usefulness.
These days I have got so used to having my bike with me and I feel at a loss without it. Like a businessman without his briefcase or a teenager without their mobile phone. I was going to spend a day doing some sketches in Manchester, so it would come in handy in searching for scenes to draw.

Its entry into the club for useful gadgets took me unaware. Cycling on it towards Burnley station I was surprised by the number of police officers I passed. Then there was the large crowd gathering at the station itself. I suspected an accident, or something more sinister, but everyone was good humoured and patient. "It’s the queen's visit!" was the answer to my embarrassingly innocent question. "Oh yes, of course" I said, as if I had momentarily forgotten. I was totally unaware of it of course! There being no entry allowed to the platform to catch my train, I proceeded to search for somewhere that gave me a good view down to the platform where the royal train was expected. Quite a few people had arrived. The best spaces having been taken, and, deprived of a decent view, it dawned on me that my bike could have another use. The massive wall there guards the railway line, and also the expected arrival of her majesty from view. It could be conquered if I stood on my bike and peeked over it.

I could suddenly see the expectant platform full of local dignitaries assembled to receive her. Using my monocular(an eyepiece like a little telescope that helps with my partial vision) I could pick out a pair of the Queen’s Cavalry, usually on horse back, but this time standing erect and motionless, their upright sabres glinting, their helmets gleaming; an unusual sight on such a lowly place as the platform of Burnley station .
On 'my' side was a man proudly cradling his camera and zoom lens, who had secured the best place. A young policeman stood barring the way down to the platform and humorously answering queries. ‘No, ma’am, it’s not a bomb, although she could squeeze one into her handbag. That might solve a lot of Burnley’s problems!… It’s the Queen.’ ‘Oh, well I never!’ Parents looked after children who did not seem impressed by the imminent arrival of her majesty. Someone in a flat cap sat crossed legged on the wall adjacent to where I was, reading the paper. Others, with take away mugs of coffee in their hands, swapped chit-chat and
debated the likelihood of Burnley doing any better in the league under
the capable leadership of Sean Dyche, or whether they were doomed to
drop before the season was over

19/01/2026

‘The Watermeetings’ is not very far, but makes an ideal stroll for us oldies with painful knees. Probably altogether only a mile there and back, it still has the kind of variety and interest you might admire in a walk three times its length. I grant you there are no hills to climb, but there is the lively river Pendle Water that drains from the nearby Pendle hill and is met by another, smaller beck, Blacko Water hence the name ‘Watermeetings’ . If you have the fitness, stamina and time available, the walk can be extended towards Pendle Hill along one branch, or towards Blacko Tower along the other tributary. The tower resulted from the quaint and mistaken belief of the landowner that building it on the prominence would be high enough to
see over Pendle Hill to the coast.

Leaving Barrowford, along a narrow lane that follows the river, past an historic old cobbled packhorse bridge that spans the river and then some picturesque cottages brings you to a track where a kissing gate opens onto the stream-side path, along the edge of the field. With kisses duly exchanged, we stepped away along the good path, without many stones or uneven areas to catch us out. The stream was gurgling merrily past us on the other side of the fence. Empty fields stretched away to the left towards the ridge, where Pasture Lane takes cars out of Barrowford towards Pendle Hill.

How nice to get away from the traffic, so quickly. The burbling of the stream took over, sometimes quieter, sometimes more noisy as it descended the stone steps that made the gradient. The autumn colours added to the aura of the atmosphere. The dying sun slanted through and the shadows of the trees in the garden which we were now passing to our left spread themselves over the track. The recently mown lawn gave the garden a civilzed appearance, which I was restrained on commenting on, since I know how much Caroline dislikes this. Biodiversity, from her point of view, is far more important!

The end of the track soon appeared. The route then led over a robust wooden bridge, whose thick planks, lain carefully close together, gave it a sense of security despite its obvious age. Then the countryside opened out, and we turned left to continue across the adjoining field.

The stream, now on the left continued to babble away, and soon the target of this little excursion came into view. It’s no use in pretending that such a modest outing was more than it was, but it had the very helpful function of providing a reason for exercise that is so necessary to maintain both physical and mental health. A large boulder next to the junction of the two streams gave us the chance of sitting down (if we avoided the puddle that occupied its dented centre!) and contemplating the rushing water that twisted and turned through the jumble of rocks in front of us. I have seen sheep doing much the same thing, but from the opposite bank, without the nerve to launch themselves across the gushing stream.

After sharing some memories of the many visits we have made to this spot, and getting cold from inactivity, it was time to retrace our steps. Following the same route offered no surprises, apart from the sinking sun making more of the autumnal air. Thinking that my memory might need a little help in recollecting such a special episode, I took my iPad out of my bag and turned it on, recording the rest of our walk.True to my intentions, it recorded the various tones of the water as well as (if i listen hard enough) the subtle crunch of my feet on the stony path.
It was back to the car and a resumption of daily tasks. What was it to be? Was it shopping or back for some tea? Either way, we were pleased with ourselves for the excursion and the opportunity to stretch our legs and admire the natural charm of this unambitious walk. We haven’t counted how many times we have done it, nor will we dare to estimate how many are still in the future. To enjoy the one is enough.

23/12/2025

Well, strange to say, but it’s that time of year again. Suddenly, without warning, and following a whole year, which, as youngsters, we thought would be everlasting, it’s nearly here. ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas’ eternalised by Bing Crosby, still has that fantasy of waking up to see everything through the lounge window draped in a white cloak, and delightful white flakes drifting down from the sky. I can’t remember this ever happening, but I suppose it could
and in some places it does.

What with the over commercialisation and the absurd oneupmanship that can be seen as one drives down the street looking at houses plastered with all kinds of lights and flickering colours. Despite Caroline’s sarcastic saying ‘whoever invented Christmas should have been crucified!’ we have been sucked into the whirl, creating our own Christmas card (usually based on some current political event), one was based on nurses going to food banks, another with
Joseph, troubled by an infected injured foot, having to go to A and E in one town, Blackburn, while Mary had to go to the maternity unit in Burnley. This year’s card is of the two of them, Mary cuddling baby Jesus, on a donkey led by Joseph, being stopped by armed forces at the closed border with Egypt, as they try to flee the massacre of the innocents.

Once again I have been asked to play Santa Claus at the Christmas party of the home where my autistic and learning disabled brother-in-law, Ant, lives. Everyone was gathered, sitting and eating their Christmas lunch. The tombola was going well. Gleeful winners had returned to their seats with their prizes and chocolate.

Then it was time for me to go to the disabled toilet to put on my costume. I returned, entering the hall with a rumbustuous ‘HO, HO, HO!’ and started giving out the individual presents that Andrea (the manager of Stanley Grange Community Association ) handed to me one by one. The delight that was evident at this long anticipated arrival of Father Christmas was touching, and I felt I had to do my best to fulfil their expectations. Paternal hugs and friendly embraces
abounded as photographs were taken to record each precious moment, so residents and relations had a souvenir of the day. The next morning, when I got up, snuffling and sneezing, I prayed that I had not distributed my incubating cold, of which I’d been asymptomatic and so completely unaware, to forty cheerful followers the day before.
Repeating ‘HO, HO, HO’ loudly as I moved from table to table was about all I could think of to bellow, in my best dramatic voice, hoping it wouldn’t suffer from strain and give out on me before I had finished. I added a few comments about the reindeer, waiting patiently outside, and something about what a pleasure it was to come to this special place and give presents to such terrific people. It took about an hour. When my starring stint was nearly over, I announced, regretfully (and this was true) that I had to get off to all the other destinations that were expecting
a delivery (obviously not true) and hoping they would have a very happy Christmas,

Once my costume was divested in the disabled loo, it was back into the hall for me, to pick up some lunch from the counter and chat to some of the relations. One or
two winks were forthcoming, and I asked if Father Christmas had come yet, voicing my disappointment at missing him when I was told that he had.

I can say it is both rewarding as well as somewhat disheartening to realise that l have almost gone through the four stages of man. Believing in Father Christmas, not believing in Father Christmas. Being Father Christmas. Looking like Father Christmas.

I must have believed in him when I woke up early to find a pillow case stuffed with a wide range of presents wedged against the bottom of my bed. I still have fond memories of the Lone Ranger suit that was my essential apparel for the rest of Christmas Day. The unparalleled excitement I felt on that day has taken a long time to diminish. Even now, when the tree is up and the house is festooned with twinkling lights, anticipation is still something difficult to deny. Even that day when it did really snow in that winter of ‘62, and my dad showed me how to build an igloo in the back garden, has been mentally moved backwards to that still magical day.

Of course there is a confusion of beliefs. The religious one; the real inspiration behind Christmas Day, has to take precedence, to which Father Christmas can be seen as an irreligious introduction. The ceremony, the prayers and carols underscore belief. Going to see the nine lessons and carols at Kings College, Cambridge, with my schoolboy chum, Steven, is still a powerful memory. Caroline and I regularly attend the same service at Blackburn Cathedral. This is where the question of belief reveals its substantially. How can one not believe in these
circumstances? How could I, when dressed as Father Christmas at the Stanley Grange Christmas party, not believe in who I was when amongst all those residents who showed their belief with such certainty?

18/12/2025

Lancashire is the county in which I live. Although I was born in north London, I have no pretensions to return there for any protracted interval beyond a customary ‘tourist’ excursion: It does not have the pull that signifies more than the pride of the occasional hum of ‘Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner….’No. Lancashire has all the attractions I need, from a varied landscape, friendly folk, cultural inspiration to unpredictable, sometimes glorious, sometimes alarmingly disagreeable weather.
As a cyclist and an artist, and knowing that only a carefully chosen portion of its attractions are suited to a manageable blog, I will concentrate on views that can be seen as I pedal along.

The word splendid is one that does not easily fit with this county, which is a shame, since its reputation for cheeky brashness is definitely undeserved. Perhaps the whole county has become infected with the tackiness of Blackpool. Splendid certainly does apply to the many stately homes, like Leighton Hall, Browsholme Hall, Gawthorpe Hall and Towneley Hall, which can trace their lineage back hundreds of years.

The fortunes made by industrial entrepreneurs enabled them to build grand houses too, like Singleton Hall, to show off their wealth, well away from the ignominious row upon row of unhealthy back-to-back terraced housing and a forest of belching chimneys. Some remain as picturesque memorials to what made England the ‘workshop of the world’. A few of these can still be seen in Burnley. I remember seeing an old photo which shows Burnley as it was over a hundred years ago,
with the town dominated by the extraordinary number of chimneys and the atmosphere blackened by the noxious fumes that came from them.

Nowadays there is no disputing how things have changed and the ubiquitous use of the car has highlighted this. A motorway network criss-crosses the county, while the M62 the trans-Pennine motorway, links Lancashire with Yorkshire. The Leeds-Liverpool canal, which carried so much of the industrial production, is now a peaceful backwater, and a popular tourist and leisure resource. Restored
old picturesque narrow and broad boats (some lived on full-time as floating homes) ply the channel, while the former towpath provides an easily accessible escape from the motor traffic for walkers, runners and cyclists.

With so much road traffic choosing the more convenient motorway alternative,
the narrower, winding lanes are left much as they were, and ideal for the cyclist to explore. There is some delightful country in our area of Pendle, with wooded ridges, moorland massifs and great views with onward access to the Aire and Calder Valleys in W Yorkshire, to the Brontë country or to the softer pastoral idyllic Ribble Valley and the attractive market town of Clitheroe.

Having mentioned it, I think Pendle deserves a little more. It is not a mountain, but only misses out bya few feet. The walk up, from Barley, is a little more than a pleasant stroll, but the stone flags up the steep slope have made its summit easily accessible. Of course the very name is redolent of the ‘Pendle Witches’ and the accusations and trial of 1612 that has given this story widespread fame. The 12
women accused, tried and all but one condemned at Lancaster assizes, for 10 local deaths through ‘witchcraft’, were hung and buried in unmarked graves. Pendle Hill was also where George Fox experienced his religious vision and subsequently founded the Quaker movement.

Nestling in Pendle’s ‘foothills’ can be found the last remaining Clarion House. This is more like a hut, built by the Independent Labour Party in 1912 to provide somewhere for refreshments to workers who wanted to get out of the confines of their industrial labour and neighbourhood and walk or cycle out into the country. Every Sunday walkers and cyclists can still be found there chatting, enjoying the
wildlife meadow and scenery ora blazing fire in a stove, according to season while sipping at pint mugs of tea or coffee. My painting of it shows Caroline with her mum on one of the occasions we took her there during a fine summer.

After motoring or cycling northward along a pattern of narrow, tree lined lanes followed by high, open moorland, comes a steep descent to Whitewell. Here you find the idyllic Inn at Whitewell, built in the 17th century, where we celebrated our wedding anniversary and breakfasted on the patio at the back, with its lovely view of the River Hodder, and meadows and the uplands of Bowland behind.

A few miles further on is the charming hamlet of Dunsop Bridge and the entry into the Trough of Bowland. From here the road winds its way through fells and mysterious woodland, with the very occasional farmhouse to remind you that you are still in habitable country. You finally emerge to be reminded that you are very much in England as you pass under the M6 motorway with its endless drone of traffic, on its way to Penrith and places north. Lancaster, the attractive county town of Lancashire, is not far off, with its offer of consumerism, history and culture. If you are looking for a relaxing days drive in the country, followed by an
evenings cultural escapism, I couldn’t recommend anything better.

03/12/2025

Rome is the eternal city. I discovered this on a weekend visit on my (folding) bike. I hadn’t
got there by bike. I hadn’t cycled all the way there, of course, which explains the word ‘folding’.
Once the plane had arrived, all I had to do was to unfold it and cycle there.
I was duly amazed to arrive at the River Tiber without the lengthy traverse of
innumerable suburbs, as is the case with London and other large conurbations in the UK. Here I
was! The city that stretched back in time. How much had it changed? The one thing that hadn’t
bothered the Romans at the dawn of its eternity was the internal combustion engine and the
inevitable congestion of so many cars. How would I cope on my little folding bike?
The first thing to do was to find the Youth Hostel. I knew that, as a 64 year old, I can no
longer pretend to be a youth, but I still had my card, and, so far, I had not been told to leave for
being over-age. All I wanted was a bed and food. I wasn’t asking for a single room and any form
of luxury.
When morning came it was a surprise to discover that it was raining. Rain and sketching
was not a good mixture. Nor was the getting around on a bike on slippery tarmac in busy traffic. I
had no choice, all the same, and set off, looking for my first destination. Where should I go? Well,
the road I was on took me to the Colosseum, so the problem was solved. It stands, massively,
next to the growling highway. It is not a total ruin. In fact, it is amazing how much of it is as it was
when built, in the first century. The eastern section still stands to its full three stories. This
amphitheatre is the largest ever built, and a crowd of 80000 could watch bloodthirsty gladiatorial
combat, animal hunts and executions.
I found a little umbrella (suitable name) pine on a hillock on the north side and settled
down (not easy to do when you’re standing up) to sketch. This was my first task on this trip, and
I had to be in close charge of myself. Representing the elliptical shape in perspective, and the
many arched openings demanded getting the proportions right. I was quite pleased with the
result, and added a few cars that were getting in each others way, for verisimilitude.
The Roman Forum, the centre of Ancient Rome, with the public buildings, market,
and meeting place, was next door, so all I had to do was to swap my shelter under the umbrella
pine to an outside cafe table with a good view and an awning as protection from the persistent
rain. There were a couple of (English?) tourists sitting at the next table. I thought of chatting to
them, but I had a provisional schedule and had to get going when I had finished.
Cycling in Rome was not at all the life threatening activity that I had imagined it would be.
In fact I rather enjoyed it. There was no sign of the narcissistic maniacs that one encounters so
often on English roads.
There was another cafe in front of the Pantheon, my next objective. It was built as a
temple by the emperor Hadrian in AD 128, to replace the temple built by Agrippa, which burnt
down. In front is a row of eight large Corinthian columns. Above this is the pediment which
completes the portico. Behind this is the rotunda, the body of the building, and above this is the
roof, still the world’s largest reinforced concrete dome. In the centre is a hole, the oculus. Since
the seventh century it has been a church dedicated to St. Mary and the Martyrs. Its state of
preservation is largely explained by it having been in continuous use since its construction.
I hadn’t thought about food, but I was having plenty of coffee. I knew I would get a meal
later, at the hostel, so I knew I would survive. There were plenty of people there, sheltering from
the rain. No one spoke to me, but this is how I imagine a conversation may have gone;
‘Cosa stai facendo, amino?’ Might have said the dark haired moustachioed character
sitting beside me. ‘Sono venuto dall’Inghilterra per disegnare gli edifici piu famosi di Roma’ I said
in my schoolboy Italian. ‘E vero? He might have replied, ‘e come pensi passare dall’uno all’altro?’
‘Oh, e facile. Sto usando la mia biccicletta preghevole, che ho portato con me sull’aero’ ‘ va

bene. Sei pazzo! E poi?’ ‘Voglio andare da Roma a Ginevra e poi prendere l’aero per tornare
all’Inghilterra.’ ‘Oh dio mio. Sei Veramente pazzo!’
The Vatican was not far away. I sheltered under the circular colonnade that surrounds
the piazza in front of St Peter’s. I thought the queue of umbrella-toting pilgrims waiting to go in
would make a suitable foreground to my sketch. By this time I was, despite the weather,
thoroughly enjoying myself, dipping the pen and the lines appearing, as if automatically.
Concentration is a funny thing. I felt strangely pleased when I had finished. It was not as if I had
created a unique piece of art, or anything that would grace the pages of any publication, but it
was what I had done, and what resulted from my eccentric use of time.
Supper was probably spaghetti bolognese. I honestly can’t remember, but it was
satisfying enough for a good nights sleep. It had been a good day. What about the morrow?

25/10/2025

Our visit to Brittany was just a short hop over the Channel
and a motor around, but it was good fun, although not without
its moment of trauma, (see below).
A month or so into my 2nd marriage, it did not seem
inappropriate for me to take the kids away on a little camping
trip by myself. Caroline was a full time GP and could not take
the time off. There was still the remainder of school holidays left,
the schools in East Lancashire having separate July &
September holidays, or wakes weeks, as they were called then.
So we packed the car with camping stuff and what we needed
for a few days away and headed for the ferry.
The kids were excited by the bumpy trip across the
channel. It seemed like an adventure had begun. This applied to
me, too, although perhaps from a different point of view. Seen
with the ageing eyes of a man sill blessed with the imagination
to put together a story that recalls the enthusiasm of earlier
times, my children, now in their late thirties, are divested of the
effects of those intervening years.
We made our way to St Malo, where I aimed to camp.
The very idea of camping, now, is one that, I’m not afraid to
admit, is one that has lost its initial attraction. I don’t mind the
thought of pe***ng out the tent, making sure that the angle of
each line counterbalances its opposite, and that all is taut and
the tent is free of unsightly creases. Then the mats are laid out
and sleeping bags arranged. Cooking things are put in the
entrance, ready for a mug of tea later in the day and breakfast in
the morning. The romanticism of it still lingers. The lying down
after all the events and chores of the day are over and
reassured by the kids contented regular breathing before I too
slip into slumber are pleasant memories.
That is where it stops. Now, the resistance of painful
knees makes a mockery of it. The worry about pouring rain
dripping in through any unwelcome gaps is accompanied by
another, that of somehow having to get up in the middle of the
night to relieve myself outside in the pouring rain, is undeniable.
Being woken up by two playfully excitable children
jumping up and down on me, chanting ‘wake up Daddy!’ and
‘time for breakfast!’ Is one I am happy to remember, but not very
interested in repeating, even with our grandchildren now!
‘We want to go to the sea!’ was the anticipated
demand, once breakfast was out of the way. With plates and
pans washed up and tidied away, now armed with towels and
swimming costumes, we followed the path out of the campsite.
This was sited within what must have been an old
fortress, now vacant and open for public access. The crumbling
walls were, in places, high enough to give some idea of what an
impregnable citadel it must have been. Now, cloaked in history,
only the marks upon it suggested what had happened to it. I
imagined the assault of allied troops after D-day, evidenced by
the cavities and perforations of machine gun and shell fire. I
tried to point these out to Lucy and James, realising that the
marks of modern warfare would mean little to them.
It was old-fashioned castles that would interest them,
one with ruins that they could clamber around on. There was
one just like this across the beach, that had been released by
the retreating sea. It was built by that French master castle
builder; Sebastian Vauban.
There was a most enthralling view of the town’s sea
front from there, so I thought it would be an ideal, and safe
place to sit and do some sketching of what I could see, the
characteristically upright and formal frontages jigsawed
together. I thought the kids would be ok, since there was
nowhere for them to go, apart from round to the sea on the
other side. Even then there was no choice for them other than to
carry on round and back to me, or retrace their steps to where
they had left me.
I didn’t spend long on what I was doing, but with the
children not having reappeared, I thought it best to go and find
them. My confidence in doing this maintained itself as I
clambered over the rocks, peering this way and that and
listening for cries of ‘Hi! Daddy, we’re here!’ Despite this, I
found myself back where I had been, facing the view I had
sketched. There were no children.
My worry was close to panic. It made no sense. One
moment they were there and the next, they were gone. What
could I do? What would Lucy have done if they couldn’t find me?
The car seemed the only option. So I went back across the
sand, thoughts paralysed with anxiety & guilt. As I approached
the car, I hardly dared to look, but……. there they were! Lucy
explained what had happened as we hugged with relief. Of
course they had returned to where I had been, while I was
following them. Then, as I had done, going to the car was the
only alternative.
The trip then alternated between visits to the sea and
drives around, exploring. When I did any sketches I was mindful
of the near disaster in St Malo. Erquy, I made sure they didn’t
go out of sight. Erquy, a sweet fishing village, was an example.
Propped up on the beech was a characteristic little vessel,
which was just asking me to draw it.
Once back at the camp, with the kids fast asleep, I
realised that domestic chores followed you around wherever you
go. I found myself doing the washing. On such a short trip it may
not have been necessary, but routine was difficult to ignore. Oh,
the joys of parenthood!

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