Albert Einstein is reputed to have said:

“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT'S relativity.”

Whichever way you slice it, time is a funny a thing and our perception of its passing an equal mystery.
William Blake in ‘Auguries of Innocence’ captures the idea with his signature poetic grace:

‘To see a World in a Grain of Sand 
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, 
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 
And Eternity in an hour.’

Through the wonders of social media, I was recently able to enjoy pictures from the 40th birthday celebrations of a dear old friend.  We met while college students in the United States, and went on to form part of a multi-national missions team in Jamaica during the summer of 1996.  Eventually we returned to our respective homelands, her to Zimbabwe and me to England.  For a few years we stayed in touch, and I was delighted when she married a splendid fellow.  He even e-mailed me during the delivery of their first child.  Time went on and we gradually lost touch as is the way of things, until the invention of Facebook and her finding me once again.

Now she has four children, all growing up.  Her daughter looks increasingly like the young woman I met in the USA all those years ago, and it causes a beautiful yet aching pang in my heart to behold.  Whether this is because my own life took a very different turn and I won’t ever have a family of my own, a sense of years and youth lost that I can never have again, or just a reminder of the transient nature of our brief mortality I really couldn’t say.  Somehow I suspect it is a combination of all three.
It was lovely to see my friend in a birthday picture with her husband and family, and she has looked after herself as I had no doubt she would.  Where do the years go, and what must we do in the day to day moments to look back and reflect that our life has been well lived?

Over the last two weeks I have read a couple of books on the much neglected English poet, John Clare, that I bought some years ago.  One book was an anthology of his poems, and the other a collection of letters, journal entries, and other writings from the man himself.

John Clare (1793 – 1864) was probably the greatest rustic poet in our history.  A man who captured the golden age of the English countryside in verse, and who was devastated by the Enclosures Act and the arrival of the railways that changed the rural landscape forever.  He was born in Helpston, Northamptonshire and lived the majority of his life on the fens, with the exception of visits to London while promoting his work and his four year incarceration at an asylum in High Beach. Escaping in 1841, he walked back to his wife and children in Northamptonshire, an adventure which became known as his ‘Journey out of Essex.’  By this time, he was starting to evidence multiple personas based on other well-known poets.  The revelation that despite much effort, his own writing career did not seem to go anywhere added to his frustrations.  In many of his works, Clare writes dedications to his first love, Mary Joyce.  Her parents had terminated their courtship, but Clare had never been free of it in his heart.  Mary had died a spinster while he was in the Essex hospital, and the poet believed by this time that it was Mary, as well as his actual wife Martha (‘Patty’) Turner that he was married and returning to.  Refusing to believe reports of Mary’s death, the strain on the family resulted in his admission to Northampton General Lunatic Asylum after Christmas 1841.  He remained there until his death in 1864, and his letters to his wife and children are quite heart-breaking.  Most noticeably of all is the sense of lost time, as institutionalisation begins to take hold.  In a letter to Martha, seven years after his admission, he states:

‘I think it is about two years since I was first sent up in this hell and not allowed to go out of the gates.  There never was a more disgraceful deception than this place.’

While I thankfully have never suffered the trauma of life in an asylum, I have met those who have.  I also know from bitter personal experience the total devastation and loss of self that occurs during a nervous breakdown, and the long and difficult journey out of that darkest of valleys.

The last years of John Clare’s life are marked by loss.  The loss of his true identity, the loss of time, and the loss of connection from present reality.  The sensitivity that enabled him to immortalise a vision of the English country landscape long-since extinct, was traumatised most severely by his realisation of what was coming.  It was only in the late twentieth century that he was finally accorded the honour he deserved, a plaque being added in Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey.  I am so very grateful that he was able to capture those moments in time.

Today is the 17th March: St. Patrick’s Day.  Another realisation of time passing occurs as the penny drops that ten years ago to the day I was on my last visit to Ireland.  Renting a little cottage on the edge of Killarney National Park, I managed to record some footage of the parade in Killarney itself on an old Handycam.  I will include it at the end here for your enjoyment.

When I think about the brevity of life, the weirdness of time, and the importance of making my own count; I am reminded of the 5th century Sanskrit dramatist, Kālidāsa.  His poem, ‘Look To This Day’ perfectly encapsulates all of those aspects:

Look to this day:
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course
Lie all the verities and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth,
The glory of action,
The splendour of achievement
Are but experiences of time.

For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision;
And today well-lived, makes
Yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day;
Such is the salutation to the ever-new dawn!

I hope that all my readers, young and old, will know the joy of mindfulness in their own lives.  May your own yesterday be a dream of happiness, and your own tomorrow a vision of hope.  Look well therefore to THIS day.

I have long been a fan of the writings of Lucy Maud Montgomery, and for the month of February I decided to delight in the joy of reading the eight books in the ‘Anne of Green Gables’ series.

For many years I was a literal card-carrying member of the former ‘Anne of Green Gables Society,’ which was based in the Canadian province of Prince Edward Island where ‘Maud’ (as the author was known to her friends) grew up and based all but one of her novels.  Back then, being a member included the receipt of a regular paper publication called ‘Kindred Spirits Magazine,’ which had articles from the island, reflections of visitors, poetry and stories from members, and extracts from Maud’s twenty novels, five hundred poems, short stories and copious diary entries.  It was a superb publication, and although printing costs led to a discontinuation of the previous format, you can still find the remaining commercial evolution of it today at http://www.annestore.ca

To my mind, L M Montgomery is one of the two greatest female authors of all time, along with Louisa May Alcott who wrote the four books in the ‘Little Women’ series.
Both writers had a phenomenal ability to deeply touch the souls of their readership, and evidenced a sensitivity, love of nature, beauty and social justice which speaks directly to the inner condition of their audience.
At a more personal level, I also find their works inspirational due to the author’s well-documented sensitivity and fearless portrayal of sensitive characters.  And all this decades before the scientific studies and research on Sensory Processing Sensitivity took place.

Louisa May Alcott features two classic HSP characters in the ‘Little Women’ books, namely Jo and Beth March.  Jo is a classic HSS (High Sensation Seeking) extravert HSP, and the tragic Beth, my personal favourite, a LSS (Low Sensation Seeking) introvert one.

When it comes to L M Montgomery and especially the Anne books, HSP’s abound.  Perhaps most beautifully, male HSP’s also feature in a way that demonstrates the non-sensitive male cultural stereotype and bias and its effect on the male HSP’s of the story.  Nowhere is this more beautifully demonstrated than in the last book, ‘Rilla of Ingleside’ which is seen largely through the eyes of Anne Shirley’s youngest daughter.  One of Anne’s three sons, Walter, is already introduced as a sensitive child in the previous book, ‘Rainbow Valley.’  In this story the children are growing up.  Then in the next comes the outbreak of the First World War and Canada’s involvement in that horrendous conflict.  For a long time, Walter struggles with the idea of signing-up to fight, after his elder brother Jem joins the army.  This is not because he is afraid, as is suspected, but because of his hatred of violence and ugliness born out of his sensitive nature.  In a beautiful discussion with his adored youngest sister, Rilla, she nails his HSP nature in the most breath taking way:

‘Walter, one time I heard father say that the trouble with you was a sensitive nature and a vivid imagination.  You feel things before they really come – feel them all alone when there isn’t anything to help you bear them – to take away from them.  It isn’t anything to be ashamed of.’

Tragically he joins the fight after the sinking of the Lusitania, and is killed during the battle of Courcelette.

Those of a reflective and imaginative nature are referred to in the last four books as ‘the race of Joseph,’ which is a great label for folk who can relate to such experiences.

Maud was herself quite clearly an HSP, and often described as sensitive, highly-strung and with a rich and imaginative inner life.  In the last of the Anne books, the ‘golden years’ of Prince Edward Island slowly yield to the introduction of the motor car and moving pictures.  A profound sense of loss is felt, as with the inaugural ride in their first motor car, Anne, Gilbert and her family already get a sense of the world speeding up.

In a 1924 letter to G B Macmillan, Maud writes of one of her real-life return visits to Prince Edward Island:

‘We spent many afternoons on the sandshore.  There’s nothing in all the world like that shore.  But one poetry had vanished from the gulf forever.  It is never now dotted with hundreds of white sails.  The fishermen now have motor boats which chug-chug out in the morning and chug-chug back at night and are not on speaking terms with romance.’

It is a tragic fact that the phenomenal contribution of L M Montgomery to literature was not widely recognised until the latter half of the twentieth century, even though a 1947 poll, five years after her death at age 67, showed her to be regarded on a par with Charles Dickens as a treasured writer.

Maud had her fair share of tragedy in life, including the loss of her mother by the age of two, one stillborn child out of three sons, horrible legal battles with her publisher and nursing her church minister husband through severe bouts of depression while trying to preserve his good name in a world that really didn't understand what was often termed ‘Religious Melancholia.’
Despite a lifelong love of her native Prince Edward Island, Montgomery only managed to get back there for sporadic vacations after her marriage, instead living at various locations around Ontario where her husband ministered.  As a minister’s wife, she had the unenviable job of breaking the news of bereavement to families in their parish during the First World War.  By the time the Second World War commenced, the combined strain of all the afore-mentioned situations saw her suffer from a series of nervous breakdowns.

In October 1941, several months before her death, she wrote the following to her nephew James Campbell on PEI, fearing that he might be pressured to fight, and that she might lose her son Stuart to the conflict:

‘Dear Jim,

…I am very ill and will never see Park Corner again.

Don’t let them stampede you into going to war.  You are needed at home.  Park Corner would go forever if you went…  You must not go to war.  Tell them you are the only son at home and your  mother would not live to see you come back.  I can hardly write – my nerves are so terrible.  Stuart is intern in hospital but I suppose they will take him too.  I think my mind is going.

Aunt Maud.

Rest from worry is what I need and I cannot get that anywhere.  I am done.’

Broken of spirit, she died on April 24th, 1942 and was buried back on Prince Edward Island at a spot she had picked out at Cavendish Church, from where could be seen many of her favourite sites that inspired the fictitious and internationally loved village of Avonlea.

Thankfully a significant portion of the island, including Lover’s Lane, The Lake of Shining Waters, Silver Bush and Green Gables have been preserved as a national park, and attract millions of visitors every year.

Lucy Maud Montgomery created many beloved heroines in her works such as Pat, Emily and perhaps most famous of all the fiery, independent, red-haired Anne Shirley.
Her legacy is an inspiration.  A window into her soul and a way to explore the depths of our own in a way no other literature can.  It is writing that transcends writing.

For myself, as a sensitive man, children’s author and undoubtedly one of ‘The Race of Joseph,’ her work is a treasure and pearl beyond the greatest price that I will hold to my breast until the day I die.

I’m so glad I got to spend this month with Anne…

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, as the lyrics to the old song go.

For me, there are a number of particular traditions I like to observe at this time of year; but one specifically relates to a favourite literary figure, poet and author John Masefield.

Born in Ledbury, the son of a solicitor (there is still a Masefield Solicitors in Ledbury to this day), he spent many years at sea.  Indeed, nautical themes are found in a number of his works, including ‘Cargoes,’ and ‘Sea Fever.’  Eventually despairing of life as a sailor and yearning to write, he deserted ship in New York in 1895.  Holding down a series of jobs and devouring literature with a voracious appetite, he began to write poetry.  By the time he was twenty four his poems were being published, eventually leading to his appointment as Poet Laureate in 1930.

A few years ago I had correspondence with an author, now sadly passed away, who wrote some local history about a village where I rented a cottage for a number of years.  He remembered John Masefield when he spent time at a farm near his home.  It was a delight for me to discover that walks I used to take and enjoy in the area, were also regular haunts of the great man himself.  I didn’t know it at the time.

Masefield had a keen imagination, wrote books and poetry in many genres, and was known as a public speaker who could touch people’s hearts.  All of these are qualities that I admire and which endear him to me, almost as much as my favourite of his children’s books: ‘The Box of Delights.’

In 1935 this sequel to his earlier work, ‘The Midnight Folk,’ received publication.  It is a wondrous story about young schoolboy, Kay Harker, returning home for the Christmas holidays and getting swept up in an exciting series of events surrounding a magical box.

The book first came to my attention in 1984, when the BBC made an award-winning six part television adaptation of the tale, which used cutting-edge special effects of the day.  It immediately became a story that I treasured, and naturally a reading of the books followed.

Now, every year on Christmas Eve, I sit down and watch all three hours of the production in one go.  Those hours always seem to fly by, and the story is utterly timeless in its appeal and charm.

This year marks the thirtieth Christmas since it first arrived on our television screens.  Thus I have made a short video reflecting on the events of those last three decades, and the constant companion that has always been there in the shape of ‘The Box of Delights.’

If you’ve never seen the production or read the book before, hopefully this little tribute will encourage you to do both.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a happy and peaceful New Year.

Tomorrow is Remembrance Sunday here in the UK.  As usual I will walk with my parents to the war memorial in my home town, for the parade and service.  Afterwards we will plant wooden crosses in the memorial garden, emblazoned with the names of our fallen loved ones.

This year of course marks the hundredth anniversary since the outbreak of ‘the war to end all wars.’  If only that title were literally true.  It was however the war that introduced modern mechanized conflict, with the horrendous attrition rates that brings.

Both my grandfathers took part in the First World War.  My maternal grandfather lied about his age and (despite having serious chest complaints) went to fight in the trenches with the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry.  He would go on to experience many of the notorious battles first hand and be decorated for his part in those actions.  He survived the war and eventually died many years later, from a mixture of the afore-mentioned chest problems and malaria he contracted while serving in India.

My paternal grandfather was a boy seaman in the First World War, at the battle of Jutland aboard HMS Colossus.  He too survived and became a Royal Navy reserve, called up again at the outbreak of World War Two.  There he saw action at the battle of the river Plate aboard the cruiser, HMS Ajax.  Later he was transferred to HMS Calcutta, and was killed when the ship sank during the evacuation of Crete.  You can see some pictures of him I once put together in a video, by clicking here.

The summer poppies near my house are usually a joy to behold.  Some years ago I filmed a little footage of them.  Today I decided to do something with those clips, and have assembled a short film featuring a remembrance poem I wrote back in 2010 called ‘If in Foreign Fields.’  You will find the video on YouTube and at the top of this post.

I include the text of the poem below, and hope if you have lost loved ones in conflicts past or present that the words will offer some encouragement to you.

If in Foreign Fields

By John L C Barnes
(Registered with the UK Copyright Service Registration No. 315811)

If in foreign fields,
I lay me down to rest.
And on some distant shore,
I give of life my best.
Then weep not long my dear,
Our parting loss to bear.
For in England’s verdant pastures,
My heart is with thee there.

If in foreign fields,
I breathe my final breath.
And for freedom’s fleeting treasure,
I go unto my death.
Only think of me in passing,
And then go on thy way.
I gave this life that living,
You may find a brighter day.

If in foreign fields,
I meet an early grave.
Remember love my sacrifice,
And that I died to save:
A hundred sons and husbands,
From weeping wives and mothers.
Please tell this wretched world my dear,
That all us men are brothers…

The other day a friend communicated to me her dislike of Halloween, largely on the basis that she found it to be pointless, ‘too American’ and over-commercialised in much the same way Christmas is becoming.
These are all interesting points, and got me thinking about the traditional origins of the festival and its significance for us today.

All Hallows’ Eve is believed to be of ancient Celtic origin, and much like the evolution of Saturnalia into Christmas, became incorporated into the Christian liturgical calendar.  With the arrival of the ‘new religion,’ came the concept of taking traditional festivals that were key components in the lives of the population and re-assigning their focus and back story to align with Christian dogma.  Typically this would involve keeping the feast in or around the same day, and attributing significant events from the biblical canon to the day in question.
You still find the church practising this in some quarters, with replacement theology/supersessionsim that attempts to supplant Israel with the Church in God’s plan for the nations.

The word ‘Halloween’ simply means ‘sacred evening,’ and in many cultures is a time to remember the dead.  It is also commonly seen as the night when the veil between the spiritual and physical planes is at its thinnest, and where beings from the unseen realm can cross over into the latter unhindered.

It is interesting that many people consider it ‘too American,’ and I think what they generally mean is that the focus has shifted to bilking people for money in the highest traditions of rampant capitalism.  The commercialisation of Halloween is exploited most effectively by the big business American money-making machine, hence the turn of phrase.
In large swathes of the United States however, the celebration of Halloween is actually resisted.  This dates back to many of the earliest settlers fleeing religious persecution in Europe to practise puritanism and other divergent forms of walking out the ‘Christian’ life.  Such believers led a very ascetic lifestyle and were opposed to the celebrations.  This was even seen in England between 1640 and the restoration of 1660, during which time the celebration of Christmas itself was banned.
Evangelicalism today is particularly opposed to the concept of Halloween on both sides of the Atlantic, due to perceptions of diabolical associations and theological disagreement over the practise of praying for the dead.

Another Halloween practise we often see branded as something negative that has crept over from the United States, is that of ‘trick or treat.’  In fact, the origins date back to the medieval mummers and guisers performing their plays from house to house.  Once again the negative association seems rooted in our disdain for present commercial exploitation, rather than the traditional idea itself.
I’m not particularly fond of 'trick or treat,' and don’t participate in it.  I do however consider it a shame that people feel the need to write-off Halloween and allow it to be stolen from them.
Were there not a market for it, naturally big business would leave it alone.
In the same way there are people who want to eat junk food and ready meals, there are willing consumers for the soulless, effortless pre-packaged Halloween products that adorn supermarket shelves.  Yet ever more popular movements such as farmers markets, permaculture, freecycling and grow-your-own have responded with alternatives to consumerism.  Big business exists to serve itself, but the important word in the term ‘free market economy’ is ‘free.’  We have a choice.

There are books aplenty on consumerism, and how advertisers take common human desires and seek to associate them with their clients’ products.  Subconsciously we are subtly informed that if we buy this car we are successful and worthwhile, if we use that skin cream we will look like an airbrushed supermodel, and that the latest techno gizmo or smartphone is pure happiness in a box that we can’t live without.
So if you buy as much plastic, gaudily packaged ghost tat as possible, you will have the spookiest, scariest, best Halloween ever, right?
Anyone who has ever fallen foul of the laughable idea of ‘Retail Therapy,’ will know that the only emotions associated with assimilating such messages are excitement and anticipation at the prospect and then disappointment and regret at the reality.

For myself then, Halloween is a time of reflection.  Yesterday I took a walk to my local store and purchased a pumpkin.  The title image for this post shows the results: salted roasted pumpkin seeds, pumpkin pie, and a jack-o-lantern that I carved.
Jack-o-lanterns amuse me because they are similar to the gargoyles and chimeras found adorning many an ancient church building.  The idea is twofold.  Firstly they were designed to dramatically remind the largely illiterate population of what awaited the backslider from the faith.  Secondly (and in keeping with the jack-o-lantern tradition) they were thought to scare away evil spirits.
If creating an image of something you wish to keep at bay and displaying it somewhere prominent is an effective practice, I may consider making a life-size effigy of a door-to-door salesman and putting it up outside the house all year round…

As I made my seasonal goodies, I reflected on my own mortality and the thread that connects me to and will one day draw me into that unseen dimension.  Halloween represents for me a gateway that marks the end of harvest season and a commencement of the ‘death’ associated with winter.  I love to be out walking amongst the autumn colours, rustling through leaves, lighting lanterns and hearing a good ghost story or two.

Let me leave you with a fun little video I knocked up the other week, about the spooks and spectres in my own hometown of Faversham.  Pluckley in Kent is well known as England’s most haunted village, but less people realise that Faversham is its most haunted town.  It in fact has more recorded ghosts than any other, which is perhaps unsurprising given its age and prominent place in our turbulent history.  I have had a number of encounters with this realm throughout my life, and the tales I mention in the video are part of the surroundings I grew up in.

However you celebrate Halloween (if you choose to), I hope you will have a safe and enjoyable time.  Whether bobbing for apples, going to fancy-dress parties, or just taking a moment to sit in awe at the possibilities that await us all in the great beyond, may it be a season of wonder and excitement.

A quick note of greeting to all my readers, taking the time to have a look round the new site.
While it is sparsely populated at present, no doubt additional content and blog posts will be added in due course.
On its first day, johnlcbarnes.com received 250 hits and I would like to thank you all for your kind messages of encouragement, which are greatly appreciated.

At the time of writing, Clara's second adventure is at the proofing and editing stage.
Interestingly, I wrote the first draft in the six months after 'Clara's Clever Custard' was published in 2010, but various life events rather got in the way of its onward journey.

In response to your many queries about when that smart, passionate little English girl will be reprising her starring role in a new story; I can confirm that you will not have too much longer to wait.

Let me leave you with a little video, which shows the genesis of the first cover and how the various drawing layers were used to produce the final image.

Enjoy!

Here is the content of an article I wrote for the now defunct 'Education Space 360,' which was included in a newsletter by the good folks at San Diego State University:

“You be the cat.  I’ll be the dog.  Let’s go on an adventure!” : The sweet sound of a preschool child who has passed the ‘terrible twos,’ where they learned that they were a separate individual, and moved into the pleasurable discovery of fantasy.  It can bring a smile to the mundane and world-weary face of any adult, and perhaps just a hint of longing to once again see life through carefree and magical eyes.  To the grown-up, such games may seem like nonsense.  In the modern, full-on workaday world, anything that is not seen as directly productive can be labeled with unhelpful misnomers like ‘downtime.’

But what is the importance of play and learning through play in early stage development for children, and how can it help them grow into the successful adults of tomorrow?  Indeed, what are post-compulsory educators and trainers now learning from childhood play and assimilating into adult education?

Plato observed, ‘Do not keep children to their studies by compulsion but by play.’

From birth through the first few years of life, a child is constantly learning about their environment through all senses, but especially through touch and movement in physical space.  Concepts of distance (I can touch the chair but not a cloud), laws of the natural world such as gravity, hot and cold, light and dark, and the feel of textures and surfaces are understood.  Hand-eye and other motor co-ordination skills are developed, along with a rudimentary grasp of verbal and non-verbal communication.  According to Neuroscientist  Eric Chudler Ph.d, executive director of the ‘Center for Sensorimotor Neural Engineering in Seattle Washington,’ the brain grows at an amazing rate during development with up to 250,000 neurons added every minute at certain stages.  It continues to grow for a few years after birth and is about 80% of adult size by age 2.

Educational luminary, Maria Montessori, referred to young children as ‘Cera Molle’ or ‘Soft Wax,’ but noted that it was the job of children to shape themselves and not that of the teacher.  ‘Play is the work of the child.’ – Maria Montessori.

Austrian philosopher and founder of Waldorf Education, Rudolf Steiner, held similar views.  He saw the development from early childhood to the end of adolescence as three bands of seven years.  Steiner believed that human beings were in possession of twelve senses, including thought, language, warmth, balance, movement, life, and the individuality of the other, along with the basic five.  In early childhood education he encouraged play with toys of a more nondescript nature, to allow the child to develop their imagination.  Dolls without predefined facial expressions, wooden blocks, and natural items such as pine cones give (in the Waldorf view) greater scope for play and mental development.

How many parents have pulled their hair out after purchasing an expensive present for a young child, only to watch them play with the packaging and turn it into a million wonderful imaginary things while the pre-defined toy sits there?

The process of formal learning in a Steiner school does not commence until age six.  In 2009 the UK’s Guardian Newspaper published an article, after the Cambridge Review of primary education drew similar conclusions to what has always been a fundamental tenet of Waldorf educational philosophy.  In the article it states, ‘We are convinced that a later start to formal learning allows children to experience the joy of learning without unhealthy stress or the risk of early burn-out.’

Burn-out may not be a word many associate with young children, but journalist and slow-movement spokesperson, Carl Honoré, has found otherwise.  In his general work ‘In Praise Of Slow’ (2004) and its specific follow-up about rescuing children from the culture of hyper-parenting ‘Under Pressure’ (2008) he paints a graphic picture of how over-scheduling and pushing for early academic achievement can have a devastating effect on the health of young learners.  Fortunately he offers many wonderful alternatives.

Founder of analytical psychology, Carl Jung, once observed: ‘The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect but by the play instinct.’

But is there a place for play in adult education too? Nicola Whitton, director of the ‘Centre for Research in Technology, Innovation and Play for Learning’ believes so, and she’s certainly not alone.  On her site ‘Play Think Learn’ she notes, ‘Games are good for learning because they a) support active learning; b) increase engagement; c) provide playful spaces to learn from failure.’

In a May 2012 ‘Training’ magazine article, Julie Brink of viaLearning writing more specifically on the potential corporate benefits of computer gaming versus traditional e-Learning said, ‘Gaming can improve problem-solving, creativity, risk assessment, and risk taking.’

Human beings learn to experience the world, find out about their identities and develop a natural curiosity that can lead to a life-long love of learning through early childhood play.  Perhaps when in future thinking that a young child is ‘only playing,’ there is room for reflection on the considerable amount of productive work that is being achieved in their life.

If the game of life really is considered to be a game, then surely it follows that one must PLAY to win?

Thursday 6th March 2014

Distance Walked: 5.75 Miles

The forecast for the week saw me flip my usual schedule around, and it turned out to be a good decision as glorious sunshine awaited me atop Wye Downs.  Starting at the Wye exploration hub featured in ‘People Look East,’ I gradually made my way in a south-easterly direction to Folly Town and from there to Hastingleigh.  There was a haze in the air but a wonderful fresh breeze, and the hills rolled away from me bathed in the warm glow of some much needed sunlight.

Hastingleigh (pronounced ‘azin-loye’ if you have a very broad local accent) shares a number of things in common with many other villages up and down the land.  Firstly, it is no longer situated on its original spot.  The tell-tale sign of this is the distance to the village church, which occupies the site around which the village was once located.  During the plague, fears about infection from bodies of the deceased caused the occupants to burn down their houses and move the village atop the nearby hill.  The Domesday Book records the village as ‘Hastingelai,’ which is thought to derive from the name of an ancient warlord, ‘Haesta,’ combined with ‘ingas’ (the people of) and ‘leah’ (a forest glade).  Thus the name roughly translates as ‘The woodland glade of the people of Haesta.’

Another thing the village shares in common with others is a pond, that at some point was the scene of a witch investigation.  Local legend tells of how a young woman on the road was accosted by a group of men, accused of witchcraft, and thrown into what is now locally known as ‘Witches Pond.’  While it is pure speculation on my part, the poor young woman probably did nothing more than spurn an advance from one of the men.  I wonder how many other young women suffered such ordeals on the back of hurt pride?  This tale has an unusually brighter ending however, as the local priest rescued the woman from the pond and her persecutors.  He allowed her to go safely on her way, but reputedly only after insisting on hearing her full confession.  Whether this just refers to the standard sacrament of confession or relates to the accusation of witchcraft is unclear, but I would imagine the former.

The last commonality with other villages is a more recent one, and that is the loss of the local village shop and post office.  I remember the place well and sadly it closed in 2004, yet another victim of the price club supermarket oligarchs.  A tragic loss.

As I set off past ‘Witches Pond,‘ I noticed that the nearby grass was festooned with snowdrops, which seem to have reached their peak since I photographed a small clump a few weeks back.

Following an offshoot of The Street past the vicarage, I made for the edge of the hill that would present me with a view of the church in the valley below.

I have often mentioned my beloved Steiner School in these posts, and when I planned the walk past Hastingleigh church I was prompted to look up some old acquaintances.  Mainly this was due to a former teacher of mine who lived nearby.  Larry Klatzko was my Eurythmy teacher and class guardian, and his wife Rosie had a passion for dressage that inspired so many children and adults.  She always helped people to have a deeper understanding of horses, and sought to enrich the lives of those who could not afford one of their own.  To my great sadness, I discovered that Rosie Klatzko had passed away on 13th September 2012, aged only fifty nine years.  A charity foundation was set up to honour her memory and this also has a Facebook page.  If you love children and horses and would like to help them, or if you would simply like to learn a little more about this extraordinary woman, please have a look at the links I have included.

The Normans built the church in the 11th century, although a Saxon structure is believed to have stood there before it.  In the southeast corner of the churchyard I found a wooden bench set in concrete, with a plaque dedicated to Rosie’s memory by the children, teachers and parents of my old school.  It was upon this bench that I sat and paid my respects, glancing at her grave beyond with the small wooden cross and beautiful message from her husband.  Care for the privacy and dignity of the family prevent me adding further details here, but Spring flowers were pushing their way through the grass and blossoms were beginning to bud on the trees.  In the midst of such loss, new life was breaking out all around as the cycle refreshed itself once more.

As I did my research a day or two before that led to this discovery, I encountered recent pictures of old friends and also found many photos from the old days.  The title image for this post was taken of my class aged sixteen, just over a year before we left.  Larry Klatzko stands on the left, and (in case you were wondering) yours truly is the tall guy in the very middle at the back.  Despite my fair share of challenges and health problems, I always knew even at the time that my school days really were the best days of my life.  Heck, I even wrote a poem about it that was published in the school newsletter.  (One of several during my time there, as it happens).
Were I just gazing back through rose-tinted glasses, as is the way of human nature, this might not be anything special.  Yet I felt that way while I was actually there, and when it came time to leave I think it left a hole which I have never really known how to fill.  Those magical days seeing the universe as a place of endless possibilities, the way we were taught, the outstanding teachers we had, and the friends we shared it with are truly something I will treasure and carry with me until it is time that I too am laid beneath the greensward and my disappearing body gives birth to new life.

In 2011 I happened to be passing my school on the day of the Advent Bazaar.  Deciding to stop in, I was delighted to encounter my old friend and classmate Sara Hunt (bottom right in the class photo), who I had not seen since we left in 1989.  After a period of travelling and study, she had become a teacher at the school.  A fond embrace exchanged, we began to reminisce and Sara enunciated so clearly a feeling I have consistently experienced.  She said, “This place calls us back, doesn’t it?”  Yes Sara, it does.  Always.

Leaving the serenity of the churchyard behind, I made the deceptive climb to Kingsmill Down.  Picking up the southerly lane to Brabourne Downs, I turned northwest onto the North Downs Way. Gradually I hiked the ridge crest back to the Broad Downs above Wye, via Cold Blow and Newgate Scrubs.  The sun was still shining, but I think the pang in my heart suggested a rain cloud within.

Famous author, Stephen King, once wrote a story called ‘The Body’ which eventually became a sleeper hit in the film adaptation ‘Stand By Me.’  Based around an author looking back to his childhood when a group of friends went searching for a missing boy, it contains a pertinent quote that has become something of a classic line:

"I never had any friends later like the ones I had when I was 12. Jesus, does anyone?" 

Reaching the car, an old Mike Batt song he wrote for Alvin Stardust in 1984 came to mind.  ‘I feel like Buddy Holly,’ was a turning point in re-invigorating the musician and singer’s career.  At 72 Alvin is still going strong, touring and recording a new album!  He was 42 (the age I am now) when he recorded the song, and it has always had a special place in my heart.  I’ll leave you with the main chorus and a link to a video of him singing it, as it perfectly sums up my reflections on today’s journey. 

Well I feel like Buddy Holly 'cause it's Raining In My Heart.

All the sad songs take me back to you now that we are apart.

Now I know how Paul McCartney felt when he got up to say:

I wish it was Yesterday.