TAGs, The CONTROVERSY CONTINUES....

Maurice Clive Bisby

Just picked up that two leading Substack educators - Karen Cherry and Kristina God are going live with the next round on correctly using Substack Tags at 2100 GMT, Thursday 27th; which is 1300 in San Francisco, 1600 in Washington DC and 0700 Friday 28th in Sydney. It’s a live post for which you need to click the “I’m Interested” button on Karen’s newest post. If you are concerned about which “Gurus” give honest value for Your money, then this is for YOU !! Please, PLEASE, PLEASE…. FORWARD, SHARE, RESTACK this announcement - Now, and RE-Restack again Tomorrow, with an intelligent comment on NOTES too. Help your fellow Substackers to grow.

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Karen Cherry

Best Wishes, Maurice

For readers of Yes I author the date should have read 1st April.

My apologies, Maurice…..

The opportunity is within the so named “Gig Economy”, in fact it’s the “Performance Industry” - stuff I have previously done either as an entertainer or business speaker. It’s certainly enjoyable, and would not have come about had it not been for my presence here on Substack (Hurray !!).

However it’s intermittent travel to work, starting in weeks yet. Nevertheless I expect it to supplement my pension … to some degree greater than my writing income.

Thus the anticipated Authorship restrictions are a partial reduction in output and frequency. Hmmm …. how do I cope with that whilst continuing to serve my valued subscribers ? The chosen solution is to slowly transition This Creative Adventure and Yes, I Author …. into one new Publication, which I have registered today, under the (Pheonix-like ?) name “Rise Island”…. ALL CONTENT WILL BE FREE.

The next few weeks I will be busy reorganising the structure of my two existing publications, so that everything continues under Rise Island. We go live to both mailing lists on the 11th March, thereafter thrice monthly. To avoid lengthy posts the content will be a mixture of text with links to extra optional material.

I am dropping “Paid Subscriptions”, instead of which I’ll be examining the possibilities of low-cost, high-value digital products. A number of Substack Gurus are advocating such a model, and even offering courses on “How”.

On the subject of the AI threat there have been a number of interesting articles over the way AI is likely to push Humans to be ever more Creative than the soul-less machine. Can we rise to the challenge ?

With the implementation of these changes I’ll be able to maintain my passion for Substack and provide a better experience for all my lovely readers. I thank you all for being with me so far…. Consider yourself hugged !!

Best Wishes, Maurice

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I gave 16 concrete Barriers, of which 13 are solvable with variable amounts of hard work. Solutions are to be found scattered across Substack, and I have created my own first draft articles for each. Then My newsfeed dropped a potential bombshell…. See the two large asterixes below and the para that follows……

Yup, it’s a long list but DON’T DESPAIR YET….. Because barriers four to sixteen can all be resolved….. with help. I could give you that help, by writing my own story of my Substack Adventure… show you the shortcuts…. I came here in May 2023, believing the hype that Substack was the best place to earn as a writer. Yet not then knowing the numbers, ie:- only 5.7% of Subscribers actually pay, and approx 70% of authors give up within the first year.

Whilst I’ve been here “Notes” was introduced, we’ve been told it’s the best way to attract new subscribers, and it certainly worked well for me…. until “Following” was introduced - as a great way increase the new subscriber rate. Yet it has had the opposite effect for so many Writers that Substack has just announced major changes to both of these tools. Hmmmm. Recently some of the gurus have been telling us that the whole subscriber system is so old hat that we must now switch to producing digital products instead. Ergo : More barriers to overcome. Evolution…..

**

We also seen the incursion of Chat GP, and now Artificial Intelligence is Attacking us. Other news this morning (Tuesday 25th) is that the British Government is on the brink of destroying copyright restrictions to Aid AI….. Creative people rightly fear loosing their incomes….. So I spent most of today wondering how the heck is all this going to affect my career ? Publishing my writing is an absolute joy, in spite of all the hurdles…..

I don’t seek riches…. never did…. but I do need to Supplement my pension.

Incredibly, after a few hours of contemplation, I received an Opportunity that may resolve my dilemma. Before making a decision I need to know if it will generate the extra income I need, AND - if so, how much is it likely to restrict my Authorships.

As this may well prove a Tipping Point, I thought it only fair to publish this post now instead of the post prepared for Friday …. Hopefully I’ll be able to update you quickly.

Best Wishes, Maurice

12557BBBC.

The Totems were many, ornate & intricate, depicting significant figures from the past. One that held a long flat, shell inlaid board took Morgatn’s intense interest. Svelka translated Toraka’s explanation “The figure is Birgin, son of Moeder av Drefuss. It was he that created the first ziggazaag, without which none of our ships, halls or totems would exist. It was quite primitive compared with those you have seen on the wayside today. The Sailmaking figure there, is his Sister, Birgit”

“Aaaah yes, you have told me of the twins, raised by Wijken as her own” “Indeed, Toraka’s family have always served our peoples” “What ! Serve ? Is he not a Chief ?” Toraka picked up on this, shaking his head, laughing. Svelka continued “Just as we Whitten, none of our peoples have chiefs, just councils of Elders. Goethelanden maintains the tradition of an Octet. When there is no agreement the Guardian is asked to advise a decision. Yet otherwise he simply does their bidding” At Annavisker however, they still have - a Triphorlax” “How strange !” thought Morgatn, who as the senior Lanterna of the Hengelts was accustomed to settling all tribal matters himself.

The following day the three of them walked to Viskerbij’s Oval Hall to meet and confer with the Elders. Morgatn subjected himself to their teachings of Orolandus, far more extensive than he had envisaged. His daily visits lasted until beyond darkfall, either Toraka and Svelka translating. Whilst he was familiar with his own teachings of Kenna Warheid, he was surprised to discover these Golden Truths at Goathenlanden did not entirely match. Svelka suggested that as their peoples had been separated for four hundred cycles after the Vloede, perhaps some things had been forgotten…..

By midsummer Svelka’s crews were growing impatient to make the long trip home. Morgatn wished to continue his education by visiting Annavisker on the mainland. Svelka pointed out that she may not be able to return to ferry him later. Especially if Cheeid had remained with her people. She had already agreed to be his M’Kafferan, just as she had been for H’Alba. This was surely her destiny. Morgatn would have to ship-hop the long coastal route to Whitten Isle. Deep South initially, then far north along the opposite shore. Morgatn seemed to relish the idea, besides he spoke with confidence of Morgarth’s and Daffryedda’s capabilities to govern the tribe in his continued absence.

Presently they all set off for Annavisker, where they would load hide and meat for the voyage before leaving their friend for the Winter. The Elders had elected Toraka to accompany Morgatn as interpreter, which delighted them both…. (Annavisker’s dialect had drifted from it’s origins). The two had bonded via avidly exploring each others language - Morgatn would surely need help !

The morning of departure, Toraka exited the shrine carrying a hefty staff, as tall as Morgatn. The broader end was pierced by a cluster of wickedly sharp shells, the grip tightly wrapped with sturdy hidethong. It’s middle section bore fine artwork - Svelka’s parting gift - an engraved and whitened depiction of H’Alba. “This is my old hunting Kloebba” offering it to Morgatn for inspection “Ho ! a mighty weapon that would have suited an ancestor of mine, or at least a smaller version !! He was a great hunter, which was the meaning of his name - Ham’Shaffa” Grinning at each other, they made their way to the dock.

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Morgatn immersed himself in the culture of the mainland, much impressed by unexpected differences, quickly building a reputation as “He who questions all”. Whereas the island community were occupied in the studies of handskills and ancient truths, the folk of Annavisker were traders and explorers. Eight moons per cycle new expeditions departed to smaller settlements and beyond, following routes principally along the many broad rivers that fed their inland sea. Nevertheless these busy folk held Goethenlanten in high regard, considering it as a rebirth of the fabled long lost Orolandus, Origin of all wisdoms.

Annavisker also had a steady flow of hunter nomads bringing meat and hides to be cured and exported along the shores of the Saltenzee route to Whitten Isle. It was with parties of these nomads that Toraka would take Morgatn on short hunting trips. The giant swung his Kloebba with accurate ease, but it’s length and weight were, at first, too much for Morgatn. It was thus late in the winter before he finally managed a clean kill, felling a large beast with a single stroke…. “Ham’Shaffa !!” he roared, Toraka bellowing shared exhilaration “Ho ! the spirit of your ancestor has entered my Kloebba ! Henceforth to carry his name !” The pair rolled laughing, in the bloodied snow.

That night they burned a fatlamp at their camp, by it’s glow Toraka carved beneath H’Alba’s image “See my friend, the symbols for Great Hunter, a tale to carry to your people this Khlente !” “Not so soon, for I wish to first visit the Salt Mines founded by Janak av D’Akani, so long ago. Your Elders have spiced my appetite of discovery” “And your thirst for adventure ! Perhaps thou wouldst then seek Orolandus too ?” “Naynay, I am of the blood line of Naraga, who sisters enjoined with with Janak and Jameera his father. Perhaps there are descendants of our shared line at the mines. Just another cycle or two before returning to my family, my people. This life can nere be long enough to seek out the Origin” “Then I shall accompany you, and as we travel you must tell me more of more of this Naraga and Janak”

In fact Morgatn was actually busy with something else that he must not confide in, having long suspected that the Giant had been ordered to watch and report back to the Elders. Morgatn had a dangerous ambition.

To Be Continued……

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Random Tale #4, Mar 12. “Mr Marriot’s Heating System”

C & D #2 #4, Mar 19. “A conference on Shapeshifting”

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Soldiers in “The Aden Conflict” (War is War, whatever it’s named) were usually posted to that Theatre for two years. We were granted four weeks leave to their homeland, plus two weeks “Local Leave” - two choices…. Stay on base, excused all duties (except getting shot etc.,) Or flying to Mombassa, Kenya (less violence, more pickpockets, cleaner whores).

There in this ancient island city, we encountered an Otherworld of decaying empire, flush with anecdotes of the last remaining whites. Anecdotes to which we added our own, to regale our comrades in Aden. Corporal Jack Talbot, a long career soldier and thus a great raconteur, was the first of our unit to make the trip.

Jack extolled Mombassa, showing woodcarvings from the market. Described Beautiful women offering a fortnight of bliss, home from home with all benefits, at half hotel prices (actually seeking husbands and UK Citizenship. The ploy rarely worked as the British Army seldom granted Permission to Marry. Another cheap option was lodging at Nyali Beach, ex-home of 24 Brigade before Independence. A condition of said independence that Kenya would show friendship to civilian clothed, holidaying British soldiers. It also facilitated continued military presence, ostensibly, to protect the diminishing cadre of white business and tech personnel against a final few hard-line freedom fighters.

His two pieces of sagacious advice….. avoid Dipstick Pox, and the midday sun 'cos Jungle Humidity is worse than Desert Dry Heat !

Jack spent a few days astounded at the teeming railside wild life whilst travelling 600 miles by train to Nairobi, the capital city. Included were two nights Camera Safari at Tsavo National Game Reserve, which stretched the entire distance between the cities. The trip was not cheap, nor were the Hotels in Nairobi, now an international very busy business enclave…. The rest of Jack’s leave had been at the Rock Hotel…. A destination chosen also by Corporal Robbo Robinson, who’s leave followed Jack’s a couple of weeks later. Robbo was convinced by Jack’s description of of Gourmet repasts, cocktail bar and of Carole, the hotels receptionist, that The Rock was the accommodation for him. His subsequent endorsement of Jack’s experience was totally enthusiastic, especially over Carole.

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ARRIVAL.

Snooks and myself enthralled, booked leave, flights, and rooms at the Rock. I wrote to Mum, asking for fifty quid (1,000 East African Shillings) from my savings. The day before flying, her envelope arrived, promising remittance to Aden.….. OH Heck !! Had to send a telegram “Too late, send it to me quick c/o Rock Hotel” Not too worried as I had 20 Adeni Dinar (400 EAS) in my passport.

Jumping off the Aeroplane for a short Bus ride, and a short walk that turned into a dawdle, shop windows like I’d never seen before, a thrust & bustle crowd, past a pair of mammoth tusks forming the Uhuru Market’s arched portal. Pronounced by pushing all three “U”s - it means Freedom, the word everywhere, thanks to Jomo Kenjatta’s Mau-Mau….

Carole had the morning off so as I chatted with the Rock’s Lady owner, I put my hand in my hip pocket ….. OH Heck !! Passport gone, Noooo !! I explained there was cash in the mail, which was fine by this Lovely Lass. Thankfully. She pointed out for registered mail I’d need to show my passport before the Post Office would let me sign for it !! Four days later at breakfast she informed me the postwallah had asked her to personally introduce me to the Postmaster. Hurray !! I was able to settle my bill for the whole period, and put the rest in her safe for later. Now I could spend my 20 Dinar.

I celebrated my relief by purchasing all pressies at the market, plus a few beers. Then a happy stroll, like any Mad Dog or Englishman out in the Midday Sun. Perhaps three hours later, I walked into the Rock, ordered a Large Pernod, felt suddenly faint, unable to drink it. Trob (Somali for Sand) our Barman got Bert, The hotel’s longest (15 years) resident to help me up to my room “Heatstroke” he said taking my arm “Everybody gets it the first week here” in my confusion I wondered what he meant by “Here”…. The Rock ? Africa ? Was the beer the trigger ? Or missing lunch ? Waking up too late for Dinner, this was the only time I managed supper - to the chuckles of the other residents.

GOURMET.

Jack and Robbo marvelled at the Rock’s cuisine…. sixty years later, I still marvel at the Seven Course Breakfast - a quart jug of fresh pressed juice, a selection of all popular British cereals, oatmeal porridge - four varieties, breaded freshwater fish with slices of citrus fruits, Main course - “How many eggs Sahib ? All same-same all different ? three or four sausages ? Five Sahib ! Certainly, same-same bacon ? Medium or crispy ? Two toast to start two to follow Sahib ? Then - Intermission !! A break to request which international or British Newspapers to read tomorrow…. Course six was a thick slice of pineapple, fresh picked before dawn - broad as the dinner plate it came on, Sahib always requested and received a double portion. Finally, escorted to one’s own lounge table, selection of cheeses jams crackers and newspapers. Moments later joined by complete Silver Coffee Service.

The other three meals I do not recall in detail, other than Lunch, which I usually skipped, was also 7 courses, some cold, Supper somewhat lighter, but Dinner, always a different menu 9 course festival, beyond anything previously experienced, thus rarely skipped. The Empire waned with a flourish….

The cost ?…. for non residents the total price of these four meals was greater than the Full Board (subsidised) rate for Her Majesties Forces,… A mere 50 EAS per night…. inc laundry. For comparison, back then in England that sum bought a decent Bed and Breakfast. Army pay was 230 EAS per week.

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CAROLE.

Day two we introduced ourselves. Over the previous two years, most white families had fled or been ejected, Carole at eighteen missing her childhood chums, her new social circle comprised eligible hotel bachelors, often morphing into Pen Pals, just like Jack & Robbo. Those particularly liked were invited to meet her parents. Derek had been a 24 Brigade Pay Corps Colonel, retiring to a Kenyan Government job, a means of staying longer in the country they loved so much. He worked as an accountant, one month “On Safari” teaching bookkeeping to remote village stores, so to access Government modernisation Funds. Then a month at home writing reports.

Peggy a WRAC in Derek’s Office twenty years earlier, quit the Army to marry him. As Independence was gearing up for Tourism, she had recently found work as a Curator, turning the Old Portuguese Fort Jesus into a museum. Apparently miles of Smugglers tunnels were yet to be re-excavated. She had the huge task to search for related documents. For my first visit she prepared Rice baked within Lakefish, with Sweet potato, mmmmm dish delish. Over the meal she told me that until the struggle for Uhuru, house servants would cook such meals. To serve the families of the early colonists, servants were compelled to carry food whilst shuffling on their knees, a precaution against rebellion….. If any small mistake occurred the nearest white could smash a plate over the servants head. She had, on occasion been chided by other whites for her criticism of such “Tradition”.

After eating, they left to collect Susan, their 11 year old, and would return late. Carol and I were left to flirt, just a little, simultaneously delighted and rather nervous. We drank a sherry, danced the cha-cha, talked about our imagined respective futures. Two subsequent visits were afternoon opportunities for all to enjoy getting better acquainted….

The rest of my time was spent exploring the island or chatting with residents in the Rock’s bar. Predominantly seniors in Factory, Road & Dam Construction, glumly making themselves obsolete as they taught locals the intricacies of their professions. One fellow, a German in his thirties, attempted to attack me, blaming me as a soldier, for the Horrific Fire Bombing of Dresden, where as a child, everyone he’d known had perished. I could not understand his attitude over a massacre three months prior to my birth. The other guests gently maneuvered him out into the garden. However this incident together with Peggy’s plate story opened my mind. My Army daze often provided unexpected education.

NYALI.

On the tenth day my money almost gone I asked the Rock’s owner for a refund, which she happily provided, enabling me to enjoy my last four days & nights on the white sands of Nyali, diving for Conch before making fond & sad farewells with Carole’s lovely family. We corresponded for years thereafter, a whole ‘Nother Story, for a ‘Nother time.

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Back in Aden, facing the Wrath of my Officer Commanding over my Passport got me thinking about returning to Civilian Life. Which led eventually to so many Creative Adventures, still happening, and publishing….

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CROSSPOSTING INFO.

This is an invitation for any Storyteller to showcase their work to a fresh audience, at Yes, I Author. Just as Jack Watson’s piece “Frida’s Dragon” was recently re-published here…. The offer is open to all, but restricted to a max length of 1,500 words in English. Can have been published elsewhere. Interested ? then send me a link that I may read the piece. There’s no Deadline. Full credit given.

N.B. This is a Separate Project to the Competition currently Running on Here’s the latest Update :-

WRITING COMPETITION, With Prizes, recently launched on Both Paid & Free Versions, and on “Yes, I Author !” 

The Brief :- Write a short story, in English, max 1,200 words.

Topics :- Choose from :- Adventure, Cats, Dragons, Climate.

Vein :- Sci-fi/fan, Humour, Political, Romance. Any combination is acceptable, for any age group.

Submission date :- No later than 16th March.

Results Date :- 11th April.

Restrictions :- 1)> No Photographs or Artwork, Please. 2)> Any submission Deemed written by a Non Human is unlikely to be accepted.

Eligibility :- Any Human Newbie Writer who reads this invitation. Newbie is defined as having less than 200 free or paid subscribers.

PRIZES :- TCA will take a Paid subscription to the winners stack, AND give a Complimentary 12 month Subs to TCA's Paid version. PLUS an Interview on the Free Version. Plus an offer to cross-post the winning story, on Yes, I Author ! and TCA Free Version. A selected number of submissions may also be offered Some of these prizes ! Sharpen your quills !!

Please email me your stories as a pdf with "Competition" as the subject…. to mcb25tca@aol.com ANY QUESTIONS ? Just Direct Message me !

Messages show up in Chats, Comments show up when readers click the Heart button.

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Thankyou, Maurice.

NeXt on Yes, I Author ! Wednesdays, thrice monthly (ex Dec/Jan).

Ancient Legend #16, Feb 26. “Annavisker, Friendship, Salt”

Random #4, Mar 12. “Mr Marriot’s Heating System”

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Monique is a trailblazing American Journalist, campaigning for Justice Equality in a better World. She lives in Paris.

“KNOWLEDGE” Said Eduard the Father “is imparted to one’s children as they grow in comprehension.” “Indeed” Replied Eduard the Son “and we are eager to learn, especially when ones parents are endowed of clandestine natures”.

“Aye, my young Prince, and it is within Noble families such as ours that Secret Knowledge is held, yet therefore withheld until the moment ripens for disclosure.” Then Sire, my own nature of curiosity, Nay ! of intrigue ! suspects that a fresh disclosure has this night ripened. Pray illuminate my ignorance, Dear Parent ?”

“A goodly choice of word for it is over works of ancient Illuminati that be mine incumbence to deliver Thee, on the veritable essence of we mortal souls”. “You mean the work of monken scribes, pray do proceed.” The younger smiled and bowed at his privilege for few are the Princes that may so command a King.

“Not just by Imitative Papal Scribes, yet by learned men of all beliefs and persuasions, committing their reasoning on the truths of the Heavens, the Origins and Destinies of our very selves, onto parchment, papyrus skin and stone. An accumulation of knowledge gathered over centuries unreckonable, wisdoms of greater value than Gold.” “Then Father, where layeth these treasures, and of what tongue ?”

“Rome seeks them out for conversion to Latin Scriptures, that only certain scholars may discuss, or alter. The originals are hidden away or oft destroyed.” “Are non rescued ?” “Indeed, yet not always intact, for Bibliaries become looted or burned by barbarian conquest !” The Prince sat silent, the King waited the contemplated result.

“So Father, I am but a Ladde of Twelve Winters, why do you choose this night to tell me of these treasures ?” “The tale began seven score years and ten afore, when the Pope commanded the Army of the God of Love to capture such Arabian originals as were in possession of Saladin the Turk”. Noting his Father’s wry description of the Templars, he intuitively asked “Is this of connection to my Grandfather Phillipe ?”

“Verily so, for it was revealed to King Phillipe that those Knighted Monken had defied the Pope, Capturing & holding the originals to make Latin and French Translations for their own gain. Yet many of the works were in script unknown to them, and were taken to Erin Isle for protection and study, then later to Schotland.” The boy stood, excited “Is this the reason you have sought war with the Schotten ?”

“Phillipe enlisted my aid, yes, and sealed the bargain with the hand of your Mother ! Isabella, the daughter of La Roi du Fer !” “Where then Father, are these Illuminations now ?”

“Where indeed !? I have not been successful, in this quest of near fourteen years. Your Mother is angry with me, Your Grandfather having no further patience has ordered her return to France, and you are to journey with her. The Bishops grant me no favours of support, and I fear for foule play”

Prince Eduard understood at once the implications of the predicament. “My own safety thus lies with my Grandfather, yet my loyalty is with my King. What then wouldst Thou wish of my conduct ?” “Go with all appearance of Joy and Obeisance. Discover what you can, my agent in the French Court will carry hither your words, and arrange your speedy flight if you are undone.”

“I obey only Thee, my Lord, my King, My Father”. As he went to kneel and bow, the elder Eduard instead seized the younger’s shoulders and the two embraced. “Your Mother has requested that her escort be ledde by Roger de Montfort. Trust neither !”

Well within the year, Isabelle of France and England, returned to London with her lover Montfort, her son and a band of French Mercenaries. Accompliced by Montfort and the Bishop Chancellor she Murdered King Eduard, and ensconced herself as Regent to her Son, the fourteen year old heir apparent.

Isabelle’s cruelty and manipulation did not sit well with neither the Royal Court or Parliament. Young Prince Eduard acted quickly, had the conspirators arrested and declared himself as King Eduard the 3rd of England. De Montfort was Executed, but pressure from the Catholic Church ensured that Isabelle and the Chancellor were soon freed.

Believing that he needed the Templar Secrets he continued the war against the Scots, declared himself King of France, via his Mothers lineage and went to war against her Father, Phillipe 4th.

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Ed N.B.,

The young Monarch knew not that ten years before these Royal Deceptions, the Templars had bundled the Illuminations together with records of their pan-European Financial Dealing & Property Holdings, all smuggled (ostensibly to Bremerhafen) hidden in Bales of Wool. Two ships, The Mercator & The Jewel, were employed, both disappeared en-route. The captains were the Brothers Whitton, stepsons of the ships owner, Jannes Vriesbein. **i.

The Wars against Scotland & France almost bankrupted Eduard and England. Dutch and Italian Catholics loaned vast sums that Eduard was unable to cover. Wool long being the hugely profitable prime export, was used to raise alarmingly increasing tax revenue to service the debt. The most wealthy traders campaigned against these taxes. Eduard appeased them by allowing them to collect the dues on his behalf. Most of the money went into the traders pockets. Whilst Eduard was acclaimed as a brilliant Military Strategist, like so many of his Royal ilk, he had little comprehension of how fiscal systems are inherently self destructive… and beyond the clergy, there were none who were Numerate. Year on year the taxes continued to rise…..

But, back to our story…..

Having imprisoned his Chancellor, he appointed another to the Office, one Henry Burgesh, also a Bishop: - of Lincoln. On visiting the Chancellery, Eduard found the Bishop seated on a large, imposing, exceptionally firm cushion. Burgesh informed him that it was made of compressed raw wool, a personal gift to his Linkolnshure Bishopricke. Eduard Commented that it would thus be perfect as a symbol of England’s Wealth, and suggested that it should become the Chancellors Official Seat at the Palace of Westminster. “Where none but Thine buttocks shall rest !” To which Burgesh readily agreed, mentioning that as it had been presented by a certain Widow, seeking Church assistance after loosing all of her menfolk at sea.

Eduard, assuming that the loss was in battle, ventured that this proud Woolsack, so humbly offered, was indeed a Jewel !”

And so, Dear Reader, the Woolsack Jewel stood Six Hundred and Eleven Years, an Icon of Might, until in 1938, sore in need of repair, Finally Divulged it’s Mighty Secret.**ii.

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Thankyou for reading Parts 1, 2 & 3 Of “The Woolsack Jewel”.

KEY>

**i = Jannes Vriesbein, his adventures in those turbulent times can be found in Part One, pub 13 Aug 2024, and in Part Two, 12 Nov. The Chaucer Family, is that of Geoffrey Chaucer, England’s Greatest Storyteller, He Who inspired Shakespeare…..

**ii = See Wikepedia / History / 1938.

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t’Otherwith Tales #10, Feb 19. “Snooks in Mombassa” + Crosspost Info….

Ancient Legend #16, Feb 26. “Annavisker, Friendship, Salt”

Random #4, Mar 12. “Mr Marriot’s Heating System”

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TCA #18, Feb 14. “Choosing a Guru, Why & How.”

Because of the extreme cold here, my long term Cervical Spondylosis became much more painful than it’s been for years. I’ve had to spend most of January on painkillers, either doing physio or resting, which has been effective. Hurrray !! ERM Big But - There’s a strong possibility that the issue could re-occur next Winter… Boo !!

Therefore, NeXt Wednesday I Will be back to Publishing my stories here on Yes, I Author ! Yet less often. Because I Must Concentrate on developing This Creative Adventure, as that’s bringing in more new Free & Paid subscribers. The income that generates goes to the two Green Planet projects I have instigated. ie: Trike Trek (which provides me with the necessary physio); and The Boulevard (which will provide both myself and others, with an Eco Home approx 1200 kilomters further south, ie : slightly shorter and slightly warmer Winters). Hurray !!

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NeXt on Yes, I Author ! Wednesdays, thrice monthly (except Dec/Jan).

Tales of Two Families #9, Feb 12. “The Woolsack Jewel 3/3, A Parliamentary Secret.”

t’Otherwith Tales #10, Feb 19. “Snooks in Mombassa”

Ancient Legend #16, Feb 26. “Annavisker, Friendship, Salt”

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NeXt on Fridays, Free Version, 2 x monthly, Paid Version 4 x monthly (except Dec/Jan).

TCA #17 Free, Feb 7. “Competition & Reschedule Updates” PLUS “How to gain a Complimentary Subscription”

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Thanks to everyone for your patience, interest and valuable time, Kind Regards, Maurice

.

A heatwave arrived that afternoon, during Goup Therapy in a sealed room. Walking back to the bus stop, we hoped that next week would be cooler.

It was much hotter.

The shrink refused us jugs of water….. “You just want to distract yourselves !”.

Refused to open the windows too. We sweated, removed jackets, etc “No more distractions !” Idiot ! the heat was the distraction….

Walking back to the bus stop, we decided to quit the idiot.

Then my own Doctor asked me why - “Your shrinkmate thinks we were there for His benefit”

“Hoho, that’s a good one ! I’ll have to give you stronger pills !”

Hallo Tipping Point….

“ No thanks, fed up with idiot Quacks, I’ll cure myself !!”

Opening the surgery door, Freedom Beckoned.

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TPT #4. SHAFTED.

London, expanding, short of water devised a plan. Dig a tunnel, link two rivers = new reservoir. Ten shafts, ten pumping stations.

How do you dig a 280 foot hole, without the Norfolk clay collapsing ?

You sink a 33ft wide x 5ft deep reinforced concrete, retaining collar into the mud.

You dig a 30ft wide x 5ft deep hole in the middle, using ammonia gas to freeze the clay as you go. The crane lowers a sectioned steel shuttering, to assemble and grease. You make rapid setting concrete with 100 gallons of boiling water and pour behind the shuttering. The concrete instantly melts & replaces the icewall. Once hard, you remove the shuttering, dynamite the still frozen clay floor.

Repeat.

24/7, relentless, short handed.

13 to 37 hour crazy shifts at a time, 11 hours off.

The only experts are the two blastmen, everyone else is clueless.

BELOW, six men heaving clay into the crane’s bucket, which doubles as their access lift.

ABOVE, three mixermen, a 400 gallon tank balance on scaffolding over a fire, that is never hot enough to properly boil the water, no matter how many sodden trees you burn. No matter how many tarred pit props you sacrifice.

One mixerman gets the title of Ganger (aka, someone to blame). After every mix he climbs the hot scaffold to check the refilling level. Overflow = no fire.

Everybody on site hurls insults. The unceasing Winter Blizzard impedes progress. The scaffold sinks lopsided. Nightlights fail - again. Work never stops. Only Chuckhouse Charlie and the two foremen keep warm.

With the Ganger checking the top up, the rig collapses. The ganger disappears under the mud, immediately rescued by a flood of lukewarm water. Sitting up he discovers a pole spearing the ground inches from each ear. Cries of anger at the cascade rise from the pit.

The scaffold is immediately rebuilt, tank hoisted, fire relit, but the concrete pour is half a night late.

Over the mouth of the pit protrude two winching platforms, covered in mud and snow, from which hang a work platform. To raise the work platform a few feet takes eight men. two per winch handle. No safety rails.

One man slips half over, instantly grabbed by the mixermen.

The pay is good, and for xmas dinner you get a full one hour break.

The new crane op seems uncertain, brakepawl fails, big iron bucket plummets, spills the work platform occupants.

Five injured, one dead.

Hallo Tipping Point.

The Ganger Quit.

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This story is set in the year that the British Government finally acknowledged the need for larger construction companies to employ a safety officer….. who’s recommendations were largely dismissed…… on financial grounds. Industry deaths remain under-reported.

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N.B.

My health issues are on-going. I do not intend to stop publishing on Substack. More about this soon, Thankyou for your time, for being here, Maurice.

Intro :- There are periods in our lives where we feel we have taken a wrong turn, and wonder not WHY we have chosen this path, but WHY we’ve stayed on it this long.

It’s often because we feel dependant on, OR, beholden to others. Soon enough we find ourself on the brink. Hallo Tipping Point.

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TPT #1). KID.

Mum had hardly spoken at breakfast. He’d sensed her discomfort but hadn’t thought to ask. Coins in pocket for school dinner and the bus, he set out to walk instead, deliberately to be late. A ruse to avoid the taunting bullies. Not many kids wore spectacles in those days. Seven hundred pupils, only one real friend.

Anyway, bus pennies gave more comfort converted to chocolate treats.

Teacher hassle was easier to deal with than a crowd who’s delight in rejection was beyond his comprehension.

Sneaking into the School field presented another opportunity for delay, the long jump beckoned. Wow, Best result yet ! Have another go, take Uncle Pete’s advice, try a different style. Crikey ! that was a good ‘un !! Feeling better, he suddenly remembered that today was his THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY !! Wow ! Teenager ! Nearly grown up now….

Mum’s Superstitious nature crept in, Friday the 13th. Oh heck ? He checked his body parts, no pain, contents of his satchel, all there, buttons, shoelaces. Hmmm, so all these weeks of trepidation for nothing. Hmmmm…. Uncle Pete had been right about that too.

Thinking about thinking Differently, maybe think differently about the meanstreak kids around……….. Ha ! Got it ! If they don’t want me as a pal…. then it’s their loss - not mine….. Hmmmm….. Oh EUREKA ! (Last week’s new word).

Hallo Tipping Point.

All fears Vanquished, he trotted happily into class, and was never late again.

Arriving home Mum smiling apologetically. A brand new Meccano Kit patiently waiting on his bed.

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TPT #2). SOLDIER.

Funny how a couple of years Desert Warfare gets yer thinking.

"Wot we doin' 'ere Sarge ?"
"Protectin' British Interests, Laddie"
"Wossat mean Sarge ?"
"Stoppin' effin terrorists stealin' British Oil, Laddie"
Private Mick Bell, the unit interlectyerell chips in wiv 
"I think Sarge means Arabs taking back their Oil from British Shareholders"
Which, when considerin' all the dead comrades who wouldn't get no pension, got this Soldier thinkin' about returnin' to Civilian Life.

Hallo Tipping Point. Later… This very ex-soldier wrote Samsons Tale…..

"Join the Army, learn a trade, see the World, be a man of Action" they said.
So Samson became a military man,
Action man.
They removed his hair, his Identity,
replaced it with a piece of card.
Sent him to the Garden of Aden,
"AKA the arsehole of the World" they said,
It stinks like that, quite literally,
Stinks of blood camel shit sweat fear death,
a thousand years of war.
Military Action Man and nine of his bretheren went 717 days and 717 nights into the Wilderness, Jesus left after 40, the rest of Samson's bretheren perished,
Shot up,
Blown up,
Run down,
Cut down,
Nine lives,
Nine deaths.
Samson laid down his arms, grew his hair, Lives to Tell the Tale.

Conclusion :- Our lives are a series of Turning Points, after a few one reflects on the pattern and begins to understand the process, and thereby oneself, and glimmerings of the Human Condition…

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Over on last Friday a short story competition, with valuable prizes, was announced. Take a Look ?

NeXt, back to previously planned Schedule by Wednesday 5th Feb.

This delightful True Story from Jack Watson is about how he celebrated the talents of one of his students. He calls her Frida, 8 years old, who could barely read and was unwilling to write.

HOW IT STARTED.

Socially, Frida faced constant challenges: diagnosed with neurological differences, yet previous schools hadn’t offered the correct understanding or support, Frida had spent little time in classrooms with peers, leaving them feeling marginalised, outcast and unwelcome; none of their behaviours fit what others - children or adults expected. To them, everything felt like punishment for simply being who they are.

Our school changed that.

Frida spent nearly every lesson with their peers. My role was to create resources they coulduse to access the same tasks as the rest of class and remain as part of the group, rather than being elsewhere like they don’t belong with us. For example, if the group was writing narratives, Frida’s goal might be a simplified version of each section, supported by a teaching assistant (TA). Together, they’d complete a full story.

Year 4 went well.

Year 5 did not. Frida was paired with a child who had even greater needs and they struggled to work together. A change in teacher and TA - meant to familiarise Frida with more adults - only disrupted their progress.

So Frida came back to me in year six.

HOW IT WENT.

A the class teacher, my official role was to help children develop skills outlined by the government and research. So did I conquer all of Frida’s academic challenges ? Did they reach the expected reading, writing and maths level for their age ?

No they didn’t.

But for Frida, these weren’t the goals. Because while Frida faced significant challenges, they also had extraordinary talent.

Here are just a couple of their year 4 creations :-

A clay dragon, crafted using only a drawing pin.

A chalk dragon (Frida had a real dragon phase) drawn in about ten minutes.

For an eight year old, this level of skill was extraordinary.

In year six, I gave Frida as much time as possible to practise their art. They kept a doodle book at their desk for use after finishing learning tasks or while I read to the class. In the back of the room they had a space for larger projects, working on these during the brain breaks or when they needed a moment of calm.

This approach gave Frida a sense of belonging that they’d never experienced before.

I also visited their future secondary school. I wanted to prepare the teachers for the unique child they were going to welcome and explained Frida’s strengths, childhood challenges and needs, hoping to ease the transition. I even reviewed their timetable so that I could mirror it’s structure during Frida’s final months in Primary school.

And of course I wanted to see the arts facilities.

CELEBRATING FRIDA.

We achieved academic progress we were proud of but, more importantly, we made school enriching. Frida attended regularly, gained social confidence and made friendships with a very popular group of children. By the end of the year, thy finally felt they belonged.

Inspired I created clothing featuring Frida’s drawings.

A T-shirt with an axolotl in a frog onesie.

Another one with an octopus wearing a bowtie.

And a jumper that I’m currently wearing adorned with a moustachioed spider holding a cup of tea and a croissant. (Look at his hat. Isn’t he to die for !)

Knowing their creations lived on in these tokens filled Frida with pride. They may never have expressed their gratitude in the way most of us do, but I know they valued the gesture. They may not understand why I felt the need to champion them but they felt the benefits in spades during their final year.

Many Thanks to Jack for allowing this crosspost, on a subject that touches on so many aspects of our caring lives.

For the full article https://substack.com/@howtobeateacher/p-152787015…

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Tales of Two Families #9, Jan 29th. “The Woolsack Jewel 3/3, A Parliamentary Secret.”

t’Otherwith Tales #10, Feb 5th. “Mombassa”.

Ancient Legend #16, Feb 12th. “Annavisker, Friendship, Salt”

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Double Issue, One Free, One Paid. T.C.A. #15, Jan 24th.

FREE. Includes : details of a storywriting competition with prizes. PLUS a list of Growth Articles to be published during 2025 on the PAID version of This Creative Adventure. PLUS How to obtain a Complimentary Subscription.

PAID : Full in depth Article “Why Follow, Why Subscribe”

IE:- A close look at what is often misunderstood by readers new to Substack, and a vexing issue for writers who believing that this was to be a platform where they could earn.

Finally, here’s a quick look at the banner for my soon forthcoming stack. Watch out for further announcements.

SO, Dear Readers, many thanks for being here, sharing your time with me, Maurice.

Over the previous cycle Morgatn had learned much of Wijken and Skandar, how they had survived the Vloede, how Moeder av Dreyfuss had not. Svelke continued “According to Asterigh there is but one starmark by day, Old Abala” with which she pointed at the quarter risen Sun. “What ! You mean Zalto is a starmark too, yet greater in size the the rest together ?” “It is of the same size, yet closer” “This Esterigh of yours spoke strange wisdoms, and from where ?” “It is taught that the Navani were seeded here, by those stars” “Enough ! Enough !! This I must ponder in silence” “Then go to Stinn, our steersman and observe the skill of our travel”

Barely coping with the movement of the sea, Morgatn made his way along the raised centredeck, between the wary and grinning crew, then sat quietly, queasily watching at the rear, until Zalto rose high and hot above those friendly blustery clouds. Feeling a little weak he inquired of the steersman how long must this discomfort last before seeing land beyond this rippling wilderness. “That is not known, we have never left landsight before” Alarmed at the answer, in spite of it’s gentle delivery, Morgatn groaned, turned about, gifting a colourful sour yawn to an eager fish and bird patrol.

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By nightfall the cheerful breeze dropped, down came the sails, half the crew set about rowing the night. Come dawnlight the breeze returned, but from the opposite direction. Time for the other half of the crew to relieve their fellows. By day the rowers pulled hard, driven by rhythmic chants, by night a little slower, in utter silence. Morgatn queried of Svelka as to how this may affect the journey time. “We need a wind in favour, that we may rest awhile, for this one that faces us could flex it’s muscles, prevent our progress” “What then is to be done ?” “We can bring aboard a pair of oarsmen from each of our other ships, who would progress in our lee, but that could bring danger of collision” “Or you could learn to steer, whilst I and Stinn join the rowers”

And so it went, with the spray from wind and oar, caking his eyes red for some nights and days with little respite, the small fleet pushed on. As the skins of brackish water gradually emptied, the ration diminished. “What now Svelke ?” “The remains of the fish we catch, we lay on the centredeck, as bait for birds instead of fish. We drink the blood of birds” “We will need many birds” “Jaiwah, Warreid ! We must be careful of many savage beaks, but it can be done, we will live” Two days later they became becalmed long enough to row with ease, pausing a while to gather many fish. The day after one oarsman took a nasty slash to his face from a heavy sharpbill. Svelke treated the wound with salt and herbs, but to no avail, the man died in agony. Morgatn took his place, his oar.

A wind of favour blew once more bringing cold refreshing rain to fill the skins, as they pressed on, and on. A Long half moon passed, when Svelke at the spit espied a small craft in the near distance. The three crews doubled manned the oars to speedily encircle the stranger. It’s occupants spoke a tongue that was impenetrable for the Hengelts, yet similar enough for Svelke’s Whitten to engage with. The good news was that in another day they would reach the coast, and perhaps two more to Skaelperstrandum. The commander of the heroes took a great deal of satisfaction from her people’s compliments on her Navigation skills. Completing the arduous voyage had Morgatn’s party in total Awe. They had survived…..

Once beached at the first island they rested and rejoiced with their ancient bretheren. Meanwhile a fast moving narrow sailboat carried away a M’Hernucus Maratoni to bring the tidings to Viskerbij and Annavisker.

Visiting the capital Harbour they were much impressed by the wood carvings, one in particular caught Morgatn’s attention. An exceptionally old and well cared for image of a wild haired woman, a small child in her arms, an ornate winged band encircling each head. One of the hosts explained that this was from a pair of ships that had established the community here. The figures were the only remains of one of those ships, now adapted as a Totem in honour of Wijken av Viskerbij, the first Edtwanna, Oracle to the Visker Goethenlanten. The child being Achana, one of her nephews. Once the visitors reached Annavisker, they would find another, his brother Aahno.

But first they would be escorted to the Shrine itself, where Totems of all the Historical Forebears of the Tribe could be seen and honoured. Then, and only then could they make the short coastal trip to the Great Oval Hall at Viskerbij. There they would be introduced to the Learned Elders, their Illuminatii, the History of the Long Trek from Alanadorus, the mystery of the vanished tribes, and the Fullness of Kenna Warreid. As Morgatn profusely thanked his host, he knew that he would not leave this New World for many cycles yet.

The Fleet of Five arrived at the shrine’s busy harbour, the seafarers joining thronging mainland pilgrims. Marvelling first at the piles of shells and stones being worked into ZiggerZaags and other tools, then at the singing log cutters. Commenting to Svelka on the similarities with the seamen’s singing, she she smiled “Why yes they have a common origin” More marvels at the woodcarving workshops, the hundreds of images in wood and on animal skins, along several walkways up to the shrine. Where a small circle of rocks had once stood was now a broader oval, timber roofed atop a surprisingly high stone wall. Near the entrance, a group of several massive totems, in the middle of which stood a massive live human, who walked toward Svelke and Morgatn greeting them by name, in the Witten Dialect. “Welcome friends, I am Toraka, descendant of Skandar and Gutenora, Guardian and bearer to the Elders here. They have instructed me to feed your companions by darkfall. Tomorrow I shall row with you to meet our elders at Viskerbij. But for now I will introduce you to our Totems”.

One does not argue with a smile that beams down from an arms length above your head.

To Be Continued.

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NeXt on Yes, I Author, most Wednesdays.

A, B, C + D #10, Jan 22nd. “Frida’s Dragon” (Courtesy of Jack Watson).

Tales of Two Families #9, Jan 29th. “The Woolsack Jewel 3/3”.

t”Otherwith Tales #10, Feb 5th. “Mombasa”

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T.C.A. #14, Jan 17th. “An Interview with Douglas McCleneghan” + “Tipsheet” +”A One _Off Opportunity to Obtain a Full 12 month Subscription for Only One month’s Cost ($5) - This Offer will only be open for just 27 hours, Never to be Repeated”

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Thankyou All for you time, likes, comments and interest, you inspire me to continue. Peace, Maurice…

The chest had four locks.

“Hmmmm, that’s me Great Grandfather, Hmmmm…. Kimberley ? Name is familiar…. Hmmmm…. see if I can get it open in the morning”

Part Two.

Carforth pushed up the loft hatch, reached for the chest, gingerly lowering it to the tiny landing on which the ladder stood. There was no room for his feet. Stepping awkwardly off the ladder, he almost pitched himself down the steep, narrow stairwell. All a-tremble he maneuvered the damn thing down to the kitchen table. Panting, he sat a while on the only stool and stared, wondering “What the bloody ‘eck am aah doin’?” Presently, dawn filtered the grimy pane, prompting him to rise, switch of the bulb, light the kettle, rummage for tools.

Three locks eventually succumbed before the old hacksaw blade succumbed too. Time for a bit ‘o toast, ‘nother brew, ‘nother rummage. A blunt chisel tandemed with a too small hammer busted the final lock…… but….. the hinges were siezed “Bloody ‘Eckers !!” He shouted, surprising himself so much - he - Laughed - for the first time in years. He sat down again, stood up immediately, reached for a bottle of brown ale that had inhabited it’s shelf for years, downed it, felt dizzy, sat once more, until grim determination arrived…..

A couple of hammer whacks - one hinge fell off, whack, then the other, revealing a pair of leather-holstered pistols and many oilcloth pouches. One by one, Carforth carefully emptied them. Lots of assorted bric-a-brac, including a few medals; Bundles of old envelopes addressed to the Major, containing faded scribbles in English; Carved Ivory & Ebony Trikets; Numerous wildlife sketches, equally faded; Documents of what appeared to be Mining records, written in what Carforth guessed was Afrikaans or German. Apart from maybe the pistols, nothing of discernable value. By this time Carforth had reached to a level that offered lids above two lower compartments.

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The Left compartment contained a Sam Browne wrapped in a cummerbund, A regimental peaked cap stuffed with ceremonial gloves, All sitting atop of a pair of fine tooled long leather riding boots, which fitted him well enough… “Bit too posh for me, round ‘ere, mebbe oor Ned ‘ud like ‘Em” Again he surprised himself, he’d not thought of his younger brother in ages…. He lifted the second lid…..

A great deal of padding had been insufficient to protect the glass display case. The remains of some stuffed small animal lay in the wreckage. The final straw for this day’s yoyo emotions, an end to his hopes for the Mill. Depressed and weary he cleared the table, dumping all but the boots and pistols in his ashbin. About to sweep, came a knock at the door. “Mr Carforth ? I’m Clara Johnson, I’m a social worker, can I come in for a minute” It wasn’t really a question. He nodded and shifted, perplexed, to one side. Projecting brisk professional concern she explained that he had only a week to leave his home, the street demolition was about to commence, the church and council couldn’t help, but the council’s solicitor had been authorized to pay out a tiny settlement for the compulsory purchase of his home. It would be enough for a van to move his stuff or for a few weeks in a lodging house.

Her back up action some day later was to ask the solicitor if Carforth had visited. He hadn’t so she went back to give him a stern talking to. The door was unlocked, the gas meter had run out of coin, but not before Garforth had taken his last long sleep, his head pillowed inside the oven.

In a middle class suburb of Birmingham, a plump, comfy middle aged couple were finishing their evening meal. “Ooh Edward, I nearly forgot, there’s a solicitor’s envelope come from Yorkshire, I’ll get it for you” Edward read in Disbelief “Bloody ‘Eckers, our Kid’s done topped ‘iself” “Ooh Edward Love, Why ?” “ ‘Ow the Eckers shud Aah know ! ain’ seen ‘im nigh on thotty odd year. Sez ‘ere they took a while ter find us, an I can claim ‘is belongins and a few quid fer ‘is ‘ouse.” “Ooh Love, we’d better send a wreath” “Too bloody late, ‘es been under near on two year already.” They sat quietly, each with their own thoughts. A few day later Ned caught the train to Huddersfield and back. Boots in a bag, cheque in his pocket, at the station he bought the afternoon edition of The West Yorkshire Daily Chronicle and Advertiser for his return journey, but fell asleep without reading.

Supper was on the table. Ned, not wanting to talk yet, laid the paper on the couch. Mrs Ned Carforth, having eaten already, picked it up. “Oooh Ned Love, it says here that a crystal that was found inside a mummified animal at the council dump has been declared the most valuable rough diamond in history. It has been sold for an undisclosed sum. Jim Frisby, the worker who found it was handsomely rewarded. Jim told our reporter that the money was enough to buy a large house and a brand new car !” “Bloody ‘Eckers ! Some people av all the Luck !!” “Oh Edward, I do so wish you’d stop swearing Love”

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Authors Note:

Jim Frisby was a direct descendant of James Arbuthnot Friesby, an ex-Weslyan preacher who, together with Trebor Goddard, founded the Mancunior Tall Hat Temperance Brass Marching Band. Goddard was a forebear of David Rogers, with whom I prospected for gold and minerals. We swapped many a night-time yarn under canvas. Frisby was probably a forebear of mine - still digging for clearer links….. M.C.B.

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WINTER BREAK: Maurice’s Historical Semi-Fiction returns on 13th January with Ancient Legend #15 “Viskergotten”.

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T.C.A. #11, 13th Dec. “An interview with Julie Gabrielli” + “Naming Our First Educator at T.C.A. Scholarships”

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Thankyou for being here again, I Love this atmosphere of mutual appreciation, the comments and engagement it brings. Tell me how you feel about that, Maurice.

Carforth’s Great-Grandfather had been a principle founder of the business, investing the vast fortune he’d made in colonial Africa. Early profits had gone into building most of the village, the directors mansions, and of course a church….. to appease the owner’s consciences. In it’s heyday over two thousand had toiled in the stench and gloom, whilst shareholders grew merrily fat, with lack of foresight enticing slow decline. Suddenly it was all over, ensured by the Great Fire. The mill’s debts were met in part by the insurance company, the rest by the forced sale of the housing stock. Most of which were snapped up by county landlords.

Grandfather Carforth had died in the fire, his will left some boxes of belonging with just enough cash for a nephew to afford one such bargain price home. One of just a very few families that owned their own houses. Thus unburdened by rent he managed to raise two sons, whilst the village endured a slow exodus. His lads attained school leaving age in 1911, facing little prospect of local work. Three years of odd jobs until the outbreak of world war, led them, lying about their age, to enlist in the local “Pals” regiment. Their father, had already found a job in a Sheffield armaments factory, rendering him exempt from the call up.

The war having passed, on return they found their mother sick with Grief - Dad had been killed in a drunken fall at the Victory Day celebrations. The boys safe homecoming did not lift her, before their bewildered gaze she wasted to death within weeks. They laid her to rest at Dad’s side. They held no wake.

Walking home from the grave, Ned, the younger, more ebullient, announced to his white faced companion that he wanted to seek work in Birmingham. “Ahv met this lorry drahver tha’sees, an’ eel gi’us a lift, only ‘es off ternight, like. ‘E can squeeze both on us in….. Why ! Colonel Baguley lives in Brum, than us, ah reckon ‘e cud fahnd us summat, like…..” The elder brother didn’t reply for some time.

They walked in silence, Ned looking silently sideways on. Rounding their corner, they stopped. “Nay, ah think as ahl stick aboot a bit” He gestured toward the blackened ruin, about to speak again, but merely shrugged. He had wanted to say something about roots, heritage, belonging, and about somehow, Some Bloody How… reopening the mill. Feeling daft he started walking again.

Once inside, he put the kettle on, boiling with it, seething with an inner confusion. “Aye, reet then” ventured Ned, perplexed, uncomfortable “Ah’d best be packin’ me bits, like….” Later, drinking silent teas - they’d never communicated much - wimim talked - men worked; Carforth searched futilely for a way to convey his dreams, Ned apprehensive of `summats up` fidgeted all the while “Eh, gi’ us a last cuppa” His brother sighed, nodded, resigned. One short embarrassed handshake, and Ned closed the front door very quietly.

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There was a shortage of eligible young men, not so many of the “Pals” regiments had survived the intense European slaughter. Carforth managed to find work as a clerk to a Huddersfield Ironmonger. Post war trade was brisk, thanks to rebuilding Britain. His bosses’ daughter wooed and coaxed Carforth into wedlock. Four years on, the fun was drifting into dull routine. One morning a pile of empty crates collapsed sending our hapless Carforth senseless to the floor. His Boss drove him to the hospital, thankful for a diagnosis of “No Serious Harm”, slipped Carforth a florin for his busfare home with a pint or two “Tek rester day off, Lad, ‘appen itser good job there wus nowt ‘evvey in yon ctates, Eh !?”

Sore and stiff he came into his home to discover his wife near naked in the arms of a stranger, who cursed and ran. She hurriedly pulled on her dress. They stood long, staring at each other, until, finally, his bandaged head and hand registered “OH !! what have you Done ?” “Me ? ME !! That’s a Bloody good laff innit !?” He pushed past, ascended the stairs, cried himself to sleep. During the quiet evening, he came trembling down. She’d gone, taking only the jar of meter coins, her hat, her coat. Shaken hard, he was unable to face returning to work. Some days on, her father stood at the door “Where the ‘eckers is our Mavis ?!”

Days of hostilities ensued including two police visits, the first an enquiry into the mysterious disappearance - the second, without apology to inform that Mrs Carforth, nee Busby, was now living with her aunt in Blackpool. They never spoke again, nor did he return to the Ironmongers.

As the lonely years drifted by, Carforth became increasingly aware that he could never save, or even earn enough to rebuild that damned mill. Even by selling the house, there’d be no significant gain, half the village stood unoccupied, rotting. That evening of chill Winter drizzle, where our story began, he arrived home, there affixed to his door, hung a Notice to Quit. Under the legal auspices of the Slum Clearance Act, the street and mill were to be compulsory purchased, demolished. He used the document to light a fire, into which he stared, numbed, the entire night. Subsequent official comms continued for many months, adding insult to injury. The last of his neighbours vacated.

One night, he dreamed of his Grandfathers boxes, undisturbed up in the loft, ever since his parent had moved in. One of the street’s departed resident had left a short ladder behind, which Carforth dragged up the stairs on the off chance there might be a few quid under the roof. A phenomenal carpet of dust and cobweb had him violently sneezing, then - Papers, clothes, trinkets in useless abundance, plus one very old, medium sized, brass bound chest, bearing an engraved plate “Major Thomas Reginald Carforth of Kimberley S.A.” The chest had four locks.

“Hmmmm, that’s me Great Grandfather, Hmmmm Kimberley ? Name is familiar…. Hmmmm…. see if I can get it open in the morning”

TO BE REVISITED.

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T.C.A. PROGRAMME 2025, 8th January. “Details of Schedule and Scholarships.”

A Big thankyou for all the likes, comments and restacks received, and a big thankyou to Substack for making everything Possible. Respect, Maurice….

Morgatn Llanterna, Chief of the Hengelts, direct descendant of Lord Kielt Voice and Aldaria, Mistress of the Stones, stood arms folded, high above his people, his gaze piercing the fading light. Halfway down the hill Morgarth his firstborn encouraged the tribe to seal all access points against the strangers now erecting their camp not so far beyond. Sentries scrambled to viewpoints as archers quietly formed their lines. Never had the tribe had to face a challenge such as this. Four hundred cycles had they waited for the return of Cheeid, their saviour from the Vloede; now he had finally arrived accompanied by a multitude of oddly garbed strangers….. A night of vigilance passed.

At dawn Cheeid rose high, repeatedly crossing the hill, swooping and rolling as if at play, somewhat lessening the watchers tension. Darkfall and Dawn made their rounds, with Cheeid again performing his ariel antics, sinking ever closer to the Hengelts. Come zenith he descended to the strangers camp, where a woman climbed about his neck, to be transported away to the waiting fleet. Soon they returned, lowered a basket near the tribe, before landing a short distance yonder. The contents proved to be a gift of fish, cleaned and cut. A gesture of peace.

The Hengelts promptly reciprocated, roasting and presenting the fish to the woman, who turned to wave to her people, some of whom made their way, unarmed, up the steep slopes. The repast consumed, the strangers beckoned the tribe closer to Cheeid, where all were encouraged to lay their hands against his flanks, whilst he lay prone, apparently asleep. More food and drink were provided and exchanged. Come Darkfall. both entire contingents lay interspersed around him.

Over the following days many mixed parties walked to the five ships, some experiencing short sails up or down the river, or even to the southern shore. A few nomads there observed these visits, yet kept themselves well distant.

The sailors showed no inclination to depart, indeed indicated a wish to overcome the great difficulties of language, a process that took very many moons. The crews were mostly male, other than two or three females per ship. These women were skilled in sineage, skin decoration and healing. Skills that matched or surpassed those of the Hengelt’s ruling Llanterna family, with whom Svelka, Cheeids rider, clearly the fleet commander, was spending most of her time. Gradually the two parties learned each others histories, but there was not a total ease between the menfolk. Some of the Hengelt women had begun to take up with the muscular Oarsmen. The very different hierarchy’s of both groups kept a careful eye.

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Wanting to know the origins of their visitors was paramount for the People of the hollow hill, Svelka first told the Legends of Wijken av Goetlaend, and of Skandar’s sons who, aided by Salter Dhoggermaens had created many settlements on the mainland. Here the story was interrupted ! - wonderful news for Morgatn once he saw connection with his own Krinjii forefathers. Svelka explained that over nearly three hundred cycles, ever better ships had explored hundreds of islands and rivers, coast hugging yet further south. Presently they had espied land across the sea, finding a large island splitting the mouth of a mighty river. They named this new land Whittenn for it’s chalk cliffs. and there created a new ship building base, to extend their Westward range. The base expanded, the settlers there named themselves Whittwikken.

Some tens of cycles passed before Whittwikken had fully explored the island, when a great section of its western extremities collapsed into the sea, exposing a vast cave system. Therein they encountered an ancient beast, maimed and weakened, her skin as white as the rocks where she laid, emitting a faint calming hum. Thus they felt safe to approach her. She was visited over many cycles by the Whittwikken healers who swore that communication was possible.

“And so my friends” said Svelka to her gaping listeners “this magnificent creature, told us that she was of a race of near immortal Doarakwaan. She had laid, damaged in these caves after taking shelter from the tempest that drove the Vloede. Her race is not of great numbers, that they sleep a span equal to many of our own lifetimes, and that her name was H’Alba. In her tolk this means white, and relates to their destiny, of which they are aware from birth. She was content then to end her time in these caves of chalk. She told us too of another such place in this land, far to the North where she had been separated from her young son, by that very same tempest which had carried her to our island home” At this point Cheeid snorted, and wandered off down the hill, leaving a heavy sense of discomfort in the air.

Following a lengthy pause, Svelka carried on “I was but a child when I was initiated to the Healing, I spent all of my days and nights with H’Alba for twelve cycles, until her end. She had asked me to be her M’Kafranne, which means Questor in my tongue and, I think, Seeker in yours. My people had long considered exploring the eastern coast of this land, thence striking off to navigate an alternative route to Viskerbij on Goatlaend. We thought we might seek H’Alba’s son at the same time”

“Aiwa ! yay ! That you have !” Shouted Morgatn “and returned him to us too !!” “Indeed, we found him asleep at the mouth of this river of yours. I was able to converse with him a while. Ha ! into the river he sprang and so led my ships to you”

There was much merriment that night. During which Morgatn and Svelka discussed splitting the fleet. Two ships would return to Whitten. Three would sail straight out across the open sea. Both tribes would travel, some of Whittwikkenn remain at the Hollow Hill. But first the bowsprit of Svelka’s vessel need a new bowspirit. Morgatn suggested that instead of the traditional human figure they should mount a carving of Cheeid. Oarshields perhaps decorated with similar images. Svelka the diplomat suggested that Daffryedda and Nanala, women to Morgatn, should oversee these creations. Cheeid indicated he wished to visit Whittenn, to complete, at last, his Mumsearch….

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12557 BBBC.

The two parties sailed, Cheeid swimming or flying alongside the Southbound vessels. Morgatn sailed due east with Svelka. Nanala, seething, heavy with child remained. Young Morgarth Llanterna, was now elevated to Lord Protector of the Hengelt, until his fathers return. Daffryedda, his mother would serve as the boy’s advisor.

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TO BE CONTINUED:

NeXt on Maurice’s Substack (Some Wednesdays - with a break in January).

Random #3, 4th Dec. “The Stone, Part 1/2”.

Random #3, 11th Dec. “The Stone, Part 2/2”.

NeXt on (Most Fridays - with a break in December).

T.C.A. #10, 29th Nov. “Hallo Goldie, An Introduction to Douglas McCleneghan” + “Now Here’s a Thought” + “January Competition” + “T.C.A. Scholarship, Terms of service”

T.C.A. #11, 13th Dec. “ Hallo Goldie, An Interview with Julie Gabrielli” + “T.C.A. Scholarships - Naming Our First Educator”.

N.B:

There is now a daily flow of new Free subscribers showing an interest in T.C.A. Scholarships - A programme that provides financial assistance to Newbie writers. Would you like to be considered for the Pilot Scheme ? Just Sub for free to @thiscreativeadventure.com

Thankyou one and all for your continued interest, lovely to have you here, lovely to read your comments too !! Big Hugs, Maurice….

VISION - “Something seen in the imagination” Etymonline.

"Vision birthed in Angre
Or in Foule Wilde Distaste !
Woulde Vision birthed at Langour
Conquer then
Madde Diction Un-candour
Noted when
Beschriven so in Haste ?"

Found inserted in Paul Burwell’s copy of Mein Kampf.

TIPSHEET:

This beautiful piece of Middle-English prose suggests that there is no need to Rush in formulating one’s Vision…. Just keep thinking about it, allow it to grow naturally…..

When one is dissatisfied with one’s Personal Circumstances, or with the unfair results of, say - Corrupt Political Economics, then one contemplates a more desirable future. Ambitions thus stirred we develop our Vision.

For some, that’s about acquiring Material Wealth. For others it’s more to do with gaining Wisdom and/or creating a sustainable Green and Pleasant Planet. We find these three (and more) Visions amongst Substack’s growing communities of Readers & Writers. As we continue to read, discuss and contemplate, our Visions naturally fluctuate, and at some point we desire to share them, to contribute to this Mutual Education, on this Our Platform. This is the process that leads us to consider stating our Goals.

GOALS.

“Without Goals, and plans to reach them, you are like a ship that sets sail with no destination” Fitzhugh Dodson.

It’s OK for a while, to simply write lots of stuff, About lots of stuff, whilst you figure out your destination, just don’t aim at publishing it all as you go. Leave it in draft form, read through and refine at least twice. Once you have a few ready to publish, you will be clearer about your potential goals. WRITE them down ! Why is this so important ? … ‘Cos it gets you thinking,… Clearly.

“Written Goals have a way of transforming wishes into wants; can’ts into Cans; dreams into plans; plans into realities. Don’t just think it - ink it !!” Michael Korda.

Now go through those drafts, Put them in order of precedence but not rapidly. (With a stock of drafts ready for final proof reading you will never need to panic over deadlines) First Goal (Ready To Rock) achieved. Now you can commence publishing.

As you move forwards you will add, refine and discard Goals. No need to set them in stone, allow them to develop just as you do. Keep ‘em handy, revisit fairly regularly as old friends are worth keeping in touch with. During these early days consider your exit strategy. This may be “Once I am earning X from my writings, I can give up my other job” or “Once the mortgage is paid off I can sell up, downsize to a campervan and just write a travelblog” Whatever your Exit Strategy is decided (Final Goal ?) you can think about the Actual Tactics (Intermediate Goals) to get you where you really wanna be….

TIPSHEET:

You will need an Over All Goal (Strategy), inc Final Goal, PLUS intermediate Step Goals (Tactics), inc a Postings Goal…. Be a little more than realistic… e.g: Carefully record:- Time spent those drafting, include subject research (which can vary considerably), Creation of your own artwork - OR finding appropriate free copyright images to download, Learning how to Substack (which can be frustrating for some), Reading others in your genre(s), having a snack (because multiple short screen breaks are essential)….. Now play safe and double the total time. Lets say that’s fourteen hours per post…. can you really dedicate two hours EVERY DAY ? Then your absolute max posting GOAL should be thrice monthly… to - avoid - burnout…. Such a schedule may allow you to stay in front, improve your work… and eventually, increase your output a little.

Here’s a tale by Jack Canfield, about why Written Goals are so, SOoo Important…. “When Olympic decathlon gold medalist Bruce Jenner asked a roomfull of Olympic hopefuls if they had a list of written goals, Everyone raised their hands. When he asked how many of them had the list with them right at that moment, only one person raised a hand - Dan O’Brien - who then went on to win the decathlon Gold medal at the 1996 Atlanta Olympics. Don’t underestimate the power of setting Goals and constantly reviewing them”.

If you DELAY in Setting your Goals, you will be late in improving your…. ?

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FOCUS !…..

Here’s a quote from Zig Ziglar, read it twice, focus on the last three words… “I don’t care how much power, brilliance or energy you have, if you don’t harness it and Focus it on a specific Target - and hold it there - you’re never going to Accomplish as much as Your Ability Warrants.”

Focus on Goal setting, early days…. Focus on, say, a bi-monthly re-evaluation and update of your Goals. Keeps ‘em fresh !! Reminds you of your route to … ?

Focus on Prioritization of tasks… A useful trick that is widely advocated is to keep a list handy of Stuff to Do, updated at the end of each working day, and underline just One, maybe Two, items for tomorrow’s Focus. To be a successful writer, item One should normally be Writing Related - this way you learn the importance of Developing a Degree of Discipline… Is this one of your written Goals ?

Read the Gurus on Focus. Note that they are not always in agreement.. Josiah Gilbert Holland suggests Focusing on One thing at a time, all things in Succession; Adam’s Rule suggests that instead of attempting to be the “Best” at just One - try to be Great at Two things, and combine them - thereby making your Skillset unique…. Personally, the latter makes more sense. What Pairing of Goals would You Prioritize ?

“Eighty percent of Success is showing up” Woody Allen. Focusing on Consistency is probably the most common advice given across Substack. It is far too easy to make the BIG Mistake of increasing one’s outpouring to gain more Subscribers. Focus on a Realistic No Burnout Timings Goal.

If your Dream is to become an Author, then all of the above is pertinent to your Success. “This Creative Adventure” exists to help you make your first, and ongoing, steps on your way. You will be introduced to other Educators, who can provide support, tips and wisdom, Educators whose words we trust. There are no Course Fees at T.C.A., everything is included in your Subscription - Which is FREE until 30th November, and you can cancel anytime. Between now that date you may decide to go paid, taking advantage of Substack’s Pledge system. This Creative Adventure is currently offering an 30% discount if you Pledge before the end of November, i.e: Thirty Euros instead of Fifty… FOLLOW THIS LINK

This Creative Adventure

Why the Big Discount ? Because it’s a core belief here that KNOWLEDGE IS NOT A COMMODITY…

If your Vision is to be an influential writer within the fast growing Niche tackling the Horrors of Climate Disaster, then ask yourself “Who would be your ideal readers ?” Surely they are folk who would be interested in your offer. SOoo how do you reach them ? Do you really know your stuff ? Have you done the courses ? YES = GOOD. Have you worked in the Field ? YES = BETTER. Is your related Life Experience Broad ? YES = BETTER STILL. Are you a Focused and Skilled Communicator / Engaging Educator ? AND, Do you strive to be an example ? YES = Wonderful, may I help you to Focus on achieving your Vision ? May I also promote your work ?

NOW HERE’S A THOUGHT: “You must be the change you wish to See.” Mahatma Gandhi.

NICHE.

Twentysix months ago I read a seriously interesting article prophesying Niche Communities as the Future of Social Media. Then on the 8th of this September article entitled ““ You Are Your Niche” Is Terrible Advice For 97% of Writers”, which prompted me to dig out that older article and read them side by side. Then I noticed Veronica’s Subtitle “How to join the remaining 3%”, which in turn prompted me to comment and praise both her and the welter of intelligent comments already there before me. A number of brief bright exchanges ensued. Now that got me subscribing to an equally interesting stack and brought me new followers. Which is a fine example of how Substack works, n’est-ce pas ?

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I pondered what “Niche authorship” might actually mean to different Minds, and resolved to add something to today’s post - and to write more, later, on Niche’s obvious and hidden values, with some considerations for Multi-Niching. For I believe that a Community of Planet Conscious Authors could do much towards peacefully Healing Our World. Will you visit us, will you join us ?

At This Creative Adventure, some posts will remain free. Now there is also a Scholarship Programme, see details at This Creative Adventure

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NeXt Stories on Maurice’s Substack, (Some Wednesdays). (Date corrected).

Ancient Legend #14, 27th Oct Nov “Dragonships”.

Random #3. 4th Dec. “The Stone”.

NeXt 0n (Most Fridays - with a break in December).

T.C.A. #9, 22nd Nov. “The value of using Quotes and Humour” + “Tipsheet” + “Further Scholarship Update”.

T.C.A. #10, 29th November. “Hallo Goldie, An Introduction to Douglas McClenaghan” + “Now Here’s a Thought”

Once Again, Dear Readers, my heartfelt thanks for your time, for your interest. Best Wishes for a Pollution Free Future, Maurice.

The seeds of England’s Industrial Revolution lay in the textile trades, particularly following the Norman Conquest. (As described here in Part 1. Aug 13th.) For a better understanding of the Violent Quest for Power of the times, driven by Religion - this Part two begins prior to the introduction of my ancestor Jannes Vriesbein, and then continues with his later involvements with two of England's most powerful families. The story is interspersed with a broader timeline (as my experiment in contextual  writing), with dates given in both A.D. & BBBC.  

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A.D.1113 / BBBC867. Order of the Knights Hospitallers of St John, Jerusalem, founded.

1128 / 851. Order of the Knights Templar recognized by Pope Honorius 2nd, declaring it to be an Army of the God of Love.

1150 / 829. The Templars have established a pan-European Bank… Arabs in Spain manufacture Paper…. Meaux Cistercian Abbey founded at Wyke by the Earl of York, rapidly becoming a major producer of wool for Scandinavian export.

1158 / 821. Munich becomes the center of the Salt Trade.

1166 / 813. England build jails in every county and borough…. Sala Ha Eduana builds Cairo Citadel.

1177 / 803. Templars battle Sala Ha Eduan at Montgisard.

1178 / 801. Birth of Snorri Sturlesen, Icelandic author of the Great Norse Sagas.

1180 / 803. Glass windows appear in private houses in England…. First vertical sail Windmills are built in Europe.

1185 / 795. Knights Templar become established in London…. Pope Urban elected.

1190 / 790. Order of the German Hospitallers (Teutonic Knights) founded…. Reconquista (siege of Tomar, Portugal) the Templars defending the city against the Almohadi Muslim Caliphate.

1191 / 789. The Templars are driven from their HQ at Acre, purchase the Island of Cyprus, after being conquered by King Richard.

1194 / 786. At the age of just 16, Snori Sturlesen writes “The Elder Edda of Soemund Sigfusson”

1200 / 780. Betrothal (promises to marry) Rings become a fashion statement.

1202 / 798. “Liber Abaci” - the introduction into Europe of Arabic Numerals, replace the mathematically confusing system of Roman Symbols.

1209 / 791. King John invades Scotland, and becomes excommunicated…. Otto 4th crowned in Rome, as Holy Roman Emperor.

1213 / 787. King John submits to the Pope, thereby making England and Ireland Papal Fiefdoms…. Inauguration of the Council St Alban - the precursor of Parliament.

1215 / 785. King John Seals the Magna Carta at Runneymede.

1217 / 783. French Armies defeated at Lincoln and Sandwich, retreat to France.

1218 / 782. Newgate Prison, built in London.

1220 / 780. King Henry crowned at Westminster.

1224-7 / 796-3. Anglo French War.

1225 / 795. Magna Carta re-issued for the 3rd time as the definitive version…. Cotton manufactured in Spain.

1243-8 / 777-82. Five year Anglo French Truce.

1263 / 757. King Hakon of Norway defeated at Largs, cedes Hebrides to Scotland.

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1268 / 752. Birth of Jannes Vriesbein, onboard “Den Branden Vogel” of which his father Jacob Cornelius Vriesbein is the Kapitan. His mother was set ashore, to recover, at the port of Wyke. Nothing more is known of her…. The ship had been commissioned by the Monks of Meaux to carry wool to the Baltic Hanseatic ports

1269 / 751. First toll roads in England.

1274 / 746. King Edward 1st crowned at Westminster.

1277 / 749. Wyke Traders, led by the De La Pole family offer Den Branden Vogel, a higher price than the Monks, for the transportation of Lancastrashore wool to the Hanseatic League. Kapitan Vriesbein is duty bound by the ships owners to accept the offer. Which also assists his own coffer and standing.

1278 / 742. 278 Jews hanged in London for coin-clipping, whilst Christians found guilty of the same crime were merely fined.

1280 / 740. Conflict between Meaux and the De La Pole group puts pressure on Vriesbein to seek other trading routes. De La Pole has family and business connections in Ipswich and London. Introductions are made via an intermediary, one Tobias Gastrick, to the Dennington-Chaucer family in both cities. A rebellion of Vlaanderen Textiel workers offers dangerous but profitable opportunities to carry wool from Ipswich to Antwerpen, and then French Wine to London.

1284 / 736. The birth of King Edward 2nd, on the 25th April.

1288 / 732. The Vriesbeins are in Ipswich to celebrate the birth of Robert Dennington-Chaucer.

1293 / 727. Influenced and aided by the De La Poles, King Edward 1st buys Wyke from the Monks.

1294 / 726. De Branden Vogel, refitted and renamed “The Firebird” carries a cargo of tobacco destined for London and Lubeck, calling at Wyke to renew their aquaintanceship with Gastrick. On leaving the Humber they are attacked, for their valuable cargo. In a fierce on deck battle, young Jannes, wielding both cutlass and sabre, despatches many of the privateers. As the villans flee to re-rally, they set light to the sails, as a means to hinder the Firebird’s escape. However a Dutch tile carrier, commanded by Theo Witton gives them a tow back to Wyke. Witton also offers a Christian burial for Jacob Cornelius, the Firebird’s only fatal casualty. Witton is a Pantile maker settled on the south Humber Bank. Young Jannes eventually becomes close with the Whitton family, apparently has an affair with Whitton’s married daughter, secretly gifting her a ring.

1295 / 725. The Firebird’s owners sell the wreck for salvage, not realizing that much of the cargo had been “rescued” by friends of Gastrick. Jannes returns to Visby on Gotland where he is given command of a new vessel for the Wyke - Hanseatic Wool route, now under Royal protection.

1297 / 723. The Scots defeat the English at Stirling Bridge.

1299 / 721. The Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller fight at the battles of Antioch and Tortosa against the Mumluk Mongols, resulting in the loss of their last bastion of Cyprus…. Wyke is renamed Kings Town Upon Hull.

1300 / 720. King Edward 1st invades Scotland.

1302 / 718. Anglo Scot Truce.

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1305 / 715. Wine importer / wholesaler John Chaucer dies in a brawl. His 17 year old assistant, Robert Dennington-Chaucer inherits the business, and sees fit to drop the first part of his name.

1307 / 713. King Phillip 4th of France has amassed a vast debt to the Knight Templars. In their weakened state he decides to resolve the issue by accusing the Knights of Heresy and secret Satanic rituals. He is aided in their arrest, torture and murder by the public condemnation from Pope Clement the fifth. Some escape to England, some feel safer in Scotland, where they have stronger allies. Templar families in England fear, not so much for their lives as for their property…. King Edward 2nd crowned.

1308 / 712. Gastrick recruits Vriesbein to successfully smuggle two Templars with a hoard of gold coin to the north coast of Germany, destined for the Knights Hospitaller, (as told here in part one, August 13th)…. Pope Clement secretly absolves the Templars, restoring them to the sacrements and church…. Edward 2nd marries Isabella, daughter of King Phillip 4th of France. Edward is not so sever against the Templars. The final dispossesion of Templar lands were those of Hugh Dispencer the Younger, who was an influential adviser to the King.

1312 / 708. Birth of Edward 3rd…. Clement dissolves the Templars.

1313 / 707. Jaque de Molay, the sole surviving Templar Leader is Burned at the stake…. Dispencer has a frightening secret on which he must now act…. Gastrick, probably acting as an agent for De La Pole, persuades Jannes Vriesbein to travel with him to a clandestine meeting in Nottingham. There they meet Robbie Wiseheart, journeying after a long sojourn in Ely to Glasgow, accompanied by Jannes boyhood friend Robert Chaucer. Jannes is surprised that these two know of his earlier support for the Templars. It is made clear that Dispencer wishes to export extremely valuable Templar documents, to the Hospitallers. They offer a considerable sum to hire the Mercator and another ship, who’s master could be trusted. They conspire the entire night as to the detail….

1316 / 704. There have been many delays in getting the documents to a hiding place with the Whittons, but the elderly pantiler refuses to loan his only ship as being too old, incapable of speed. He dies, together with his son-in-law when the vessel capsizes in a storm. Vriesbein promptly marries the widowed daughter, and buys another ship with her inheritance. This craft he renames “The Jewel” and hands over the Captaincies to his wife’s sons. Both ships are loaded with bales of wool. Each ship carries one particular bale that only the captain can identify. Each of these bales contain half the documents. Vriesbein employs a subterfuge, telling his captains that one bale carries a false set of papers, the other set are genuine. The two ships sailed on separate tides, taking different routes….

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TO BE CONTINUED.

AFTERWORD.

The majority of the above mentioned people and events are well documented, although not all of the interesting personal connections. I believe that the struggles described continue down the centuries, often via family inheritances. For example Hugh Dispencer was an ancestor of Diana Spencer-Churchill. I think too that Robbie Wiseheart may well have been a disgruntled high ranking clergyman of Glasgow, with an unfortunate connection to Ely. The De La Poles were nobles of Suffolk, favourites of Royalty…..

NeXt on Maurice’s Substack, some Wednesdays.

Free T.C.A. Crosspost #1, 20th Oct. “Visions, Goals, Focus, Niche”.

Ancient Legend #14, 27th Oct. “Dragonships”

NeXt on Most Fridays except December.

T.C.A. #8, 15th Nov. “An Interview with Diana van Eyk” + “Now Here’s a Thought”

T.C.A. #9, 22nd Nov. “The Value of using Quotes and Humor”. + “T.C.A. Scholarships, ‘Nother Update.”

As Always, my thanks and appreciation for joining me today…. Wanna send me a heart ? Bye for now, Maurice….

Desert : Latin - Desertus / Desertare = English - Left waste.

Monsoon : Arabic - Mawsim = English - Season of the Big Winds of the Arabian Sea that bring extreme rainfall.

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The Monsoon blows hard along the west coast of India each year, an Eight million year uhrancient, Viciously wet wind that has learned how best to drown farmers and mariners alike. In 1965 the British Garrison of Aden Colony was to bear the brunt of an aberration of that year’s Monsoon. Our camp radio station forewarned of the impending Deluge. We had only two squadron members who actually understood what was about to hit; George Jaques Belmont and Nick Savvie, from the Anglo French Condominium, The Seychelle Islands, tiny specks of rock out in the Arabian Sea…. “Ho ! you never bin so wet !!” “When de win trow you to de groun, jes raise yo head, dooan try to stan up !!”

Strong advice, too hard to believe. The radio continued for hours, but the forces of nature back home in Blighty had been sadly incompetent in preparing us for tropical rain. Nick, Snooks and I sat at the window, waiting for a sunup that was already well over an hour late “Merde ! Oh boy, gonta be rough !!” “How rough, Nick ?” “Ah say mebbe ah got tien minute to wak to de motor compoun, if I to stay dry, or maybe gotta paddle deep” “Nah Nuts ! S’a friggin desert man, yer know - the place it never rains” “Huh, dis year differenn man” Nick, our SDS driver slammed the door behind him, then the wind arrived, slamming it open again. We hastily grabbed a bed to jam the damn back shut.

The windows turned from grey opaque to black and the roof creaked like Methusalah. Soon conversation became inaudible below the banshee rattle, raindrops like cobblestones …. Oh Sheeeit ! and for two hour it continued. Just as the corner of our Banda roof started to lift, the blast abated, another hour passed before noticing a faint glimmer beyond the haze, beyond the glass. And that’s how it stayed until twilight. A day in the desert without the sun is a mighty weird experience…….

We dragged the bed, opened the door and in stumbled Jack Talbot, our corporal, his clothes shedding gallons of brown water “Biz !Yer needed at the Commscen on Sitrep Deaths - Snookie ! double over to the mess tent, it’s collapsed, they need an undred pair ov ands pronto, pesi pesi gogogo as ye’are.

I went as I was, shorts and flipflops, the latter being no match for the diahorretic mud that had shapeshifted from being hard as rock baked sand. Half way to the Commscen I skidded, violently, one flipflop disappeared permanently, the other doubling under my foot taking my toes with it, breaking two. Duty however, called, with the aid of another squaddie I hobbled on.

Toward the end of my shift they found me a medic who washed and bound my injury. I completed the situation reports, no one shot or bombed that day…. With the aid of that soldiers ubiquitous aid, a pickaxe helve, I ventured our over the now forming, steaming crust. The humidity was as severe as the preceding rain. Back in the Banda, I slugged aspirin, lolled on my bed writing the Big News letters home…….

AMAZINGLY….. The following morning the mud had all but gone and the desert was turning green. Millions of windblown long dormant seeds had been woken from slumber by the warm torrent, all aclamour for space. push Push Pushing upwards.

My injury gave me four days off duty, spent recovering on the verandah, literally experiencing the plants’ minute by minute growth… In a single day up to knee height. Day two budding, leafing, reaching my thighs. Day three I rose early to watch a stunning cascade of opening blooms, airborne and crawling insects, glittering in the sun…… Alas, by nightfall that vibrant scene was fast wilting, all that tremendous energy gone, spent, exhausted. Snooks, Nick and I sat wordless with Johhny Walker, paying a Red Label tribute to Mother Nature. Chink. Cheers. Amen.

Back to duties, limping over the dry disintegrating husks, a new sandrock surface emerging from the dust.

Looking Back, I realize that whilst climate change is as old as the climate itself, the causes have shapeshifted from nature born to human stupidity. I fervently hope that we can turn the tide, we have skills and knowledge that King Knut did not possess. Will the pullers of strings act in time is not the question, rather we must all accept responsibility. Mea Culpa.

Authors Note. In 1964-6, as a teenage British Soldier in the Colony of Aden, I served the interests of the Oil Industry that supported the British Government. Whereas I was enchanted by Aden’s people and landscapes, I am not proud of my role in Colonialism. I was a gulliboy who survived, many did not. Soon after my “Services” ended, Egypt closed the Suez Canal, for eight years, which resulted in Britain’s withdrawal from Aden, now a part of the Yemen where the Oil Wars continue to this day.

That above true story of my experience of a desert flood was drafted years ago, the final editing over the last few days - during which the world has become aware of the shocking floods in Valencia. Whether or not the greed and corruption of the murderous oil industry’s activities caused that desert flood of 1965 is impossible to say. However that said industry were already compiling studies of climate change. Studies they may be able to manipulate to defend their continued rush to the disasters we are now seeing No Longer as Freak Events, but as Terrifyingly NORMAL - WITH WORSE TO COME.

Will you too say Mea Culpa, and consider what you might do to Heal Our World ?

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The sister site to Maurices Substack, is offering financial support for new Substack writers of a Planet Conscious Disposition. Details can be found there on Friday 8th November. Perhaps you would be kind enough to help by sharing / restacking this post.

Many thanks, Maurice…..

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NeXt on Maurice’s Substack, some Wednesdays….

Tales of Two Families #8, 13th Nov. “The Woolsack Jewel (2/3)”

Free T.C.A. Crosspost #1. 20th Nov. “Vision, Goals, Focus, Niche”

NeXt on This Creative Adventure, most Fridays……

T.C.A. #8, 8th 15th Nov. “An Interview with Diana van Eyk” + “Now Here’s a Thought”

T.C.A. #9, 22nd Nov. “The value of using Quotes and Humor”

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Naragar’s body had been laid on a bier at the top of the Hollow Hill, until nought but the skeletal remains were left. His bones were now beneath a cairn in the cavern below. To one side stood a flat top rock, perhaps half a cubit high, and on that rock stood Ham’Shaffa, motionless, eyes closed, arms raised and wide, as if in embracement of those filing in. Waiting until silence, he gaged the moment to open his eyes and gaze at his fellows. Holding suspense, his arms slowly lowered, reached forwards, palms uppermost, then gestured toward the cairn before speaking.

“My Brothers, my Sisters, this day of Khlenten, in this Special place, we gather to honour Naragar, our father, our oracle, giver of true wisdoms. Here he lays, remaining with us for ever. He was my teacher, he taught me to share his teaching to all that would listen” There were some present who felt a certain discomfort at the unusual reverse order of Ham’Shaffa’s first four words, yet none challenged this breach of normal respect. “Naragar and his Sisters brought great gifts of Kenna Warreid from Old Orolandus unto the Krinjii. This you know ! Then just before the Vloede his Sisters left us, but not he, he who chose to stay with those who Halba would soon save from the Waters. Halba has not been seen since that terrible day, yet her son Cheed watches us from the mountains. He wouldst counsel with us, Now that we are no longer the Krinjii who heeded not, Now we are the Geh’Hengled” Once again there was discomfort in the air, yet still no challenge.

Ham’Shaffa laughed, promised to give his evenings over to any who wished to listen to the Naragar’s Lessons of the Lantern, then leaping from his rock, led the tribe upward into the Feast of Sunshine, just as Naragar had done one cycle earlier. The first lesson had been had been “Repeat what you perceive to be the Truth”, the second was “Establish Traditions, for they relieve the tensions of Uncertainties” Naragar had passed on that which he had understood from Askara’s education at the Golden Lantern. Understood, yet not wholly Grokked….

“It is foolish to ignore what we have done or experienced in our earlier existences. Only by Grokking the lessons can we cope with todays mysterious doors to all possible futures” - - - “Oro means the root of Truth; That which is a greater treasure than life itself; It is not just knowledge, but pure enlightenment. It is the Kenna Warreid of Orolandus; to Grok and freely share” Thus Spake Naragar the third and fourth Lessons. “That the Krinjii did not heed was not their foolishness, nay, it was my own in thinking that I would convince them, therefore I have failed so far, thus must stay to whatever end”

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CIRCA 12920BBBC.

Ham’Shaffa had fathered three Sons with different mothers, such as his status as an educator was attractive. Away some days on a hunting trip they came upon a small party of strangers; four young women of far countenance, bound together being dragged along by several men. These fellows immediately rushed to attack, but were poorly matched with the muscular and better armed Geh’Hengled. In just minutes the attackers lay dead or had run. The women, freed, accompanied Ham’Shaffa’s party back to safety at the Hollow Hill. There they stayed put with their rescuers. Presently the family’s numbers swelled. This was the only Geh’Hengled family of several mixed bloods, somewhat held in awe by most of the tribe.

SUNRISE KHLENDERN 12899 BBBC, Onwards….

The Stone Mount by the cairn had been replaced by a taller one with steps, it’s Foreside carved with the faces of Halba and Cheeid. Ham’Shaffa had taught his descendants what little he knew of the old expeditions, led by Pathfinders and Illuminati. Another survivor of the Vloede was the daughter of N*Atuahm and Ankrad, Illuminati of the Khumodin-Alachi expedition to the Krinjii. Her parents had tutored the girl in their skills. She became exceptionally proficient in symbols and images on stone, as was her own daughter, Aldaria, the artist responsible for the carvings by the cairn. Ham’Shaffa’s grandson Kielt, had with Aldaria produced several children, all well versed in artistry and oratory. They were well able to put on a grand show at the beginning of each new cycle. The Truths of the Golden Lantern were still exalted, yet a little more embroidered, added to, as was the garb of the performers.

Meanwhile Cheeid slumbered on, frequently disturbed by mentions of his mother or of his own name, as sensed on the breeze.

SUNRISE KLENDREN 12558BBBC.

Down below in the cavern, a huge timber platform, over half a cubit high, 15 cubits deep and twice as wide, mocked and excited the spectators. The Carved Stone now raised and decorated stood center Fore, as the Family Pranced and Exhorted the survival story, and the mysterious Lessons of Askara, Nonnan, Naragar. The cairn had been moved to a rear alcove, where the ancient messenger’s teeth ground as his bones turned, whilst Sunrise came and dissipated alone. Only at twilight did the Procession come to the surface, where they espied on the distant river a fleet of ships, such as never known before. Intoxications bled and fled in the face of Fear. Barricades clumsily erected at all the Hill’s Mouths. Some of the leaders organized armed cohorts to patrol, but not investigate. Others knelt in a circle, holding hands and rythmically intoning Cheeids name. The dark of night fell before he finally woke…..

At first light the Geh’Hengled made out an interminable line of men from the ships, heading straight for the Hollow Hill, and what could ONLY be CHEEID WALKING WITH THEM !!

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TO BE CONTINUED…..

NeXt Article on This Creative Adventure, Fridays -

T.C.A. #5, 11th Oct. “Hallo Goldie, Introducing Diana van Eyk” + “Why One Guru Ain’t Enough”

T.C.A. #6, 18th Oct. “The Boulevard” + “Now Here’s a Thought”

T.C.A. #7, 25th Oct. Another “Hallo Goldie, Introducing Julie Gabrielli” + “Tipsheet”

NeXt on Maurice’s Substack, Wednesday

t’Otherwith Soldier #9, 6th Nov. “Desert vs Monsoon”

Good to have you here, friends ! If you have enjoyed this story, please say so - by clicking the heart. Many thanks, Maurice.