Hokkaido Snowstorm

The Story Behind The Cover Photo
Back in March (2014), when my second book of short stories 'The Truth In The Lie' was published, I promised I would at some point tell the tale behind the striking cover photograph, which was taken by my good friend Fumiko Jin. Fortunately Fumiko speaks fluent English – and speaks it with the most endearing Liverpudlian accent too. She is one of the busiest people I know, but she has finally given in to my pressure and 'spilled the beans' in the following Guest Blog-post:

Guest Blog-post by: 

Fumiko Jin – Magazine Editor and Freelance Journalist
Based in Tokyo, Japan.
(Fumiko is on the left in the photo)

The photo was taken near Kushiro City in the eastern part of Hokkaido.

A magazine colleague and I had gone on a business trip to the far-eastern peninsula of Shiretoko, which is registered as a World Natural Heritage Site. There we hoped to make a business deal with the local fishing trade union. 

A day before our planned departure from Tokyo, the weather had turned a bit nasty, with snowstorms and strong winds, and the managing director of the union had warned us to reconsider the visit. Being somewhat determined women, we decided to take a risk so long as the flight did not get cancelled.

As it turned out, the plane took off with only a one hour delay and transported us to Nakashibetsu airport, this being the closest airport to the city of Rausu. Here we found one of the Japan's biggest and most successful fishing ports. The wealth here is evident from the number of currency exchange stands. But on the day we arrived, we disembarked from the plane, to see a blanket of dazzling white snow, with swirling gusts of heavy snow still falling. The savage wind cut into us, making us wish we had brought warmer clothing. 

"There is no way I could let you drive under these conditions," said the young man at the car rental counter. "Even the locals would not dare, really!" His voice was gentle but firm. There would be no persuading him, we realised, so we phoned the managing director of the union. Kindly he offered to come to pick us up in his car.

Back at his offices, we had a successful meeting with him and his team and the business was complete within 2 hours. Content with our day's work we checked into our hotel, only to discover later that we were snowed-in. The snow drifts were so bad we found ourselves unable to even step out of the building. Unable to do anything but stay put, we called our office and warned them we would be delayed. We tried to make the best of things and consoled ourselves with the idea that an extra night would give us the chance of a much needed rest. Due to a complete whiteout, however, our rest period lasted for another three frustrating days. Even had we have been able to get out of our hotel, all the roads were closed so no one in the town was able to move. "Hmm," we said to ourselves, "there are downsides to being determined and independent women."

Eventually, on the third day, the weather improved slightly, although the road to Nakashibetsu Airport remained closed. The managing director of the union was a resourceful man, however. Hearing of our plight, he offered to drive us to Kushiro Airport, which was a four-hour drive from Rausu. We were by now feeling very sorry for all the trouble that had been caused by our ignorance and stupidity, yet despite this it was an offer we could hardly refuse. 

As we got further away from Rausu and closer to Kushiro, the sky began to clear and eventually the snow subsided. Rounding a bend on the icy road we were suddenly confronted with the most amazing orange sunset. It is rare to be able to see such a clear and strong sunset in this area, our host explained. I smiled. Perhaps after all, I told myself, it was our destiny to come here through the worst conditions, in order to experience the absolute best.

What's In Hokkaido?
Hokkaido is the most northerly island of Japan. Its vast open land is blessed with stunning mountains, green fields, clear lakes and an unspoiled coastline. It is a major tourist destination for the Japanese at all times of the year and has more recently become popular with foreign tourists. According to the guidebook in our hotel room (which we had plenty of time to read), in Summer one can enjoy hiking, cycling, sky diving and wildlife observation, both on land and from the sea. Fields of brightly coloured flowers almost look unreal in their vibrancy. I can also confirm that the birdlife really is outstanding and whale watching is great here too. In Winter, skiing and hot springs are what most tourists come for, along with the world famous Ice Festival – which has to be seen to be believed. You may also have seen pictures of monkeys taking a dip and warming themselves in hot springs. Well those monkeys are Hokkaido monkeys! Oh, and I almost forgot to mention the freshest of fresh seafood along with some well established tourist resort areas for those wanting a bit of luxury. Plenty of variety.

Hokkaido is just as beautiful in summer as it is the rest of the year

Photo courtesy of www.luxury.com

The annual ice festival in the capital, Sapporo, takes your breath away.

Photo courtesy of www.thepublicholiday.com

Bathing Monkeys. Photo courtesy of www.davidduchemin.com

As you would expect, it snows a lot - including during the Ice Festival

Photo courtesy of www.telegraph.co.uk

Onsen (hot spring) bathing is popular with humans too.

Photo courtesy of www.guardian.co.uk

For those wanting to travel on two wheels, take it from me, this large and relatively undeveloped island is a bit of a cyclist's and motorcyclist's dream. The roads are well paved and neatly maintained, allowing you to ride throughout the entire 78,000㎢ of the island. Off-road cycling is popular here too. For those seeking something really challenging, there are some serious up-hill climbs among Hokkaido's 590 mountains. If you are thinking of coming here to cycle or motorcycle, I would recommend the summer period between June and September as being the best season. I hope I've whetted your appetite.

Fumiko Jin.

Photo courtesy https://www.flickr.com/photos/worldbiking/ Visit their fantastic site!

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People I've Met On The Road – Dara

Dara
I met Dara on a coach in Paris in the spring of 1979. I was 21. It was one of those Magic Bus-type coaches that used to ferry young people in search of adventure up and down Europe in those days. They had done so since the hippy era of the late 60's and early 70's, when some buses used to go all the way into Asia. I think the original Magic Bus company had gone out of business by the late 70's. The coach was fairly basic and had two swarthy foreign drivers who spoke almost no English, French or German. Our drivers were the usual Greek, Turkish or East European drivers, since most of the routes now ended in Athens, Budapest or Istanbul. Like the rest of us, they already looked dog tired and were utterly unhelpful if asked to stop other than at the limited highway stops decided by them.

We left London in the early hours before making our way down the M20 to Dover. It was a rough crossing and we docked late in Calais. When we arrived in Paris we were allowed to get off for half an hour. The driver held up a paper napkin with 30mins written on it in spidery biro. We all needed to stretch our legs so we had a wander about, filled water bottles and bought french bread, fruit and cheese before returning to the dreaded bus. Climbing into my seat I found a small dark haired girl sitting by the window. She had moved some of my stuff off the seat in order to sit there. I sighed in annoyance. Thus far I had at least been able to stretch out uncomfortably across the two seats.

"Allo. Er, pardon," she said, and pointed to the luggage rack where she had placed my jacket and book.
"No, it's no problem," I replied in a typically English apologetic manner.

What was I apologising for, I wondered? I sat down, realising she must have just joined the bus in Paris. She hadn't been on the bus before – I would have noticed. She had the most enchanting face, with bright, happy eyes and a sort of cheeky, good natured manner about her.
"My name's Mark," I said, "from England."
"Dara," she smiled, putting out her little hand to shake mine. She was about my age and didn't seem to speak much English.
"You are from France?" I asked.
"Er...Paris?" she replied with uncertainty. "Yugoslavia." She gesticulated roughly in the direction of Yugoslavia with a kind of chopping movement of her hand. She seemed rather forthright, I thought to myself.
"You are from Yugoslavia?" I asked (Yugoslavia was a unified country back then and Marshal Tito was still alive).
"Da, Yugoslavia," she said, touching her chest. "Montenegro."
Actually I remember feeling she had touched her heart, which told me far more. She had probably been studying in Paris, I told myself, or perhaps working as an au-pair and was now returning home with longing in her heart. Her eyes flickered irresistibly, wondering what I had understood, perhaps sensing it. She obviously so wished she could tell me more, ask me more, but her language already seemed to have reached its limits.
"Vous parles Français?" I asked, cautiously.
If she had said yes I would not have fared much better. I had already begun regretting not paying attention in French at school. She shook her head.
"Allemagne?" I asked.
She smiled and shook her head once more, blushing. I think this was the kind of encounter I used to dream about at that age. I smiled back and laughed quietly, overly concerned now not to come over as mocking. The bus had started to make its way through the back streets of Paris, heading out towards the Porte d'Italy. We both sat looking out of the window, making ooh and ah sounds and pointing things out, still both wishing we could say more. She giggled a lot and periodically looked up into my eyes, the way a child does when they are checking an adult's reaction to something – or perhaps that was wishful thinking. I suppose at the time I rather hoped she perceived me as older and wiser than her.

Soon we were on the autoroute and there was less to see. We sat for a while saying nothing, both smiling now and then. I'd guess we were probably both amused by the situation and were wondering what the other was thinking. I closed my eyes for a few minutes, hoping it might take any sense of pressure off her. After a while she began to rustle things in her bag. She tapped my arm cautiously and I opened my eyes. I was being offered a croissant with roughly cut pieces of camembert inside. We went through the usual politenesses of me graciously refusing, her insisting and me accepting, then me getting an apple out of my backpack, cleaning it on my shirt and cutting it with my penknife onto my small tin plate.
"Hvala," she said.
"No, thank you," I replied.
We laughed together. I saw the couple opposite smiling to each other, knowingly. We must have seemed childish to them I suppose. Or maybe they were remarking that we were getting on well together.

Time passed. At various points we could see other passengers going up to ask the drivers if we could stop for a toilet break. They were curtly told to go away. After an hour or so the number of sufferers had increased and people had become angry in their desperation. In response, the drivers had become more determined not to stop. Finally a vociferous young American woman crouched down in the stairwell by the door and began adjusting her clothing to take a leak right there. Incensed, the driver veered onto the grass verge at the side of the highway and skidded to a stop to let her out. Despite their trying to block the aisle, there was a mass exodus.

The two drivers waved fists at the American woman and remonstrated aggressively in Turkish as we all climbed back on. She in return let forth a tirade of her own threats regarding what they could go do with themselves. One of the drivers consulted a pocket notebook before standing in the aisle, pounding his chest and repeatedly shouting "I am driver!!"
The rest of us clapped. People began shouting "I am Spartacus!" which I don't think the drivers understood. But it further enraged them. Their authority had been challenged, their pride hurt. It did not bode well for future stops or the general quality of driving – although that could hardly have got much worse.

More language learning ensued after our entertaining interlude. Dara and I learned each other's words for quite a few general things before finally I dropped off to sleep. Now limited to one cramped seat I was far from comfortable, but I didn't mind. It was dark when I next awoke and found Dara curled up like a cat with her head resting in my lap. She was fast asleep. Somehow I found her look of secure contentment overwhelmingly flattering. I had known her but a few hours yet there was an undeniable closeness between us – a level of trust – as if we had been friends since childhood.
The language of love has no words.

Viator in Montenegro

And then it was morning. The sun was shining and Montenegro was unexpectedly beautiful. Everything was beautiful to me that morning. It seemed inexplicable that my heart should ache so much to leave her behind. But she was returning to her family and it did not seem right to intrude. She had offered. Somehow with minimal language she had suggested I come with her and meet her family, but it had seemed wrong to me. I think I worried it might seem too eager perhaps, yet as soon as the bus crossed into Greece I knew I should have gone with her. I couldn't get her angelic face out of my head – those sparkling eyes looking up at me as she waved and blew a kiss while the bus roared off. I heard the couple opposite sigh in disappointment. I still wonder about it now, how that decision might have changed my life.

In the late 60's / early 70's some buses went all the way to Afghanistan 

I often wonder where some of those buses are now (image courtesy of www.uniboxtraveller.com)

I mourn the death of the Magic Bus era. 

If you would like to read the bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons' by Mark Swain, you can find this and his collections of short stories on Amazon, Smashwords etc.

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Walking Through Spain

The Stories Behind Every Hedgerow

I rarely suffer writer's block. I put this down to my hyperactive mind and a low boredom threshold that sees me always eager to move on. Travel provides me with endless inspiration and raw material for short stories. 

Last spring I went walking with my wife in Galicia (NE Spain). The Camino Finisterre. I am about to do a longer Camino, the Primitivo, with my brother and a friend. But this was no ordinary walk. Lorna had persuaded me to undertake the extended Camino Finisterre from Muxia, on the Atlantic coast, to the ancient cathedral city of Santiago de la Compostela. This is a Christian pilgrimage that supposedly began in the footsteps of St James, the apostle who went to spread the word of Christ. His remains are said to be housed in the cathedral. Of course, like many religious sites and pilgrimages, many historians believe that this pilgrimage pre-dates Christianity. Finisterre literally means Land's End. There was a large Roman settlement there and it is thought that wealthy Romans came, believing it to be at the end of the land (Earth) where one crossed over to the after-life. The sea mists and rocky promontories easily lend themselves to this image. Many people who undertake the various Caminos (the most popular is a long route across France and over the Pyrenees, via St Jean, Pamplona and Burgos) are not Christians, but they enjoy the sense of pilgrimage nonetheless. They, like my wife and I, would describe themselves as spiritual, but not religious. In some respects I'm guessing this might have been true of many Romans.

The costal regions of Galicia in particular, represent an old style Spain. My wife and I lived in Spain (Barcelona) with our first child in the early 1980's and Galicia still seemed now to be further back in time than Catalunya was back then. This was a bonus to us. We spent each day walking along the ancient granite paths, through farmland and smallholdings with geese running about and friendly local people tilling the land. Outside each rustic stone cottage one could see a strange elongated stone hut with no mortar between the stones. These huts, called Horreos, are granaries and stand high on stone stilts with mushroom shaped stones at the top of each leg to prevent rodents climbing up. It makes for an ancient-looking, mystical landscape that seemed so different from other areas of Europe. There was little traffic. We saw fields being ploughed using simple wooden ploughs pulled by mules, yet the people were obviously not poor.

With little of the modern world to distract me, I quickly became mentally engrossed in the ancient way of life and the activities we saw going on at each side of the path as we passed by. Where did the women look for a husband? Did they still have local festivals where these rustic people went a bit wild with drink at the end of the harvest and found themselves with the cowherd or the landowner of their dreams? Were there feuds over undesirable marriages, pregnancies outside of marriage? Was divorce common? Did people go off to the city and make their fortune, then return to their hamlet to marry a childhood sweetheart? Was that old man with the crippled leg wounded in the civil war or was he crushed under a horse in a violent storm? 

There was plenty of time to think about all this as we trudged wearily over hills and plateaux. I began to engage ladies at the village springs in conversation as they did their washing or collected water. 

"How long have you lived here, madam?"

"I was born here, as my mother before me and my grandmother before that. Before that I don't know."

"Are you married?"

"No, my husband died twenty years ago, but I have a son who lives in the next town. He takes care of me. I have six grandchildren. One is a lawyer in La Corunia. My husband was killed by Franco's troops, God bless him."(she crosses herself)

"Have you ever travelled far from this place?"

"I went to La Corunia last Christmas. To my grandson's house, but I don't like his wife. She goes out to work - as a lawyer. My great-grandchildren come home to an empty house. She dresses like a tart and wears perfume. It's a sin, that's what it is." 

"Do you have friends here?"

"Oh yes, many. We talk a lot about the old days and sometimes we drink brandy in the evenings together. We talk about how different life is now and how all the young people leave to earn money. Everybody talks about money now. They don't care about finding a good husband or wife so long as they have money. They don't talk to their children or their old parents - it's a sin. My son is a good son though, I tell you. He comes every Sunday afternoon and during harvest time to help out. He fixed the outhouse roof. Not his wife. She wouldn't get her shoes dirty. She was brought up in the town. But at least she stayed at home and looked after the children. She's not so bad and she has a sense of humour. She bears children well so I shouldn't complain. Do you eat almonds, sir?"

During our week of rural walking, I collected many such dialogues that will no doubt at some point find their way into my short stories. I was inspired by many of the things I saw and heard over that week and felt a powerful sense of history as we walked into the city of Santiago de la Compostela at the end. There was an aura of revelation about it, although I could not say it was specifically a religious experience for me. But it did make me feel closer to my fellow human beings and to nature - within which I had been thoroughly immersed. I would defy any writer to take a long walk in the countryside and not come back with inspiration for at least one story. It's probably the oldest solution to writer's block that there is, and I would argue that it is still the most effective.

 The Camino Finisterre path has been walked for centuries.

 Horreos are still used for storing grain, maize etc. The gaps in the stones provide natural ventilation.

 All along the way one finds evidence of Christian dedication.

 Springs along the route provide clear water for washing. I drank it. I'm still fine.

Near Cie. Between Muxia, Finisterre and Cie, the Camino Finisterre follows the beautiful Galician coastline. 

Cathedral of Santiago de la Compostela

If you would like to read short stories by Mark Swain you can find these on Amazon, Smashwords

etc.

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People I've Met On The Road – Peter

Given the amount of time I spend long-distance cycling, it is hardly surprising that I meet so many interesting people on the road. This is the third in a series of blogs about the more remarkable of those individuals. Enter your e-mail in the 'Subscribe' box on the right and you will be notified of each new blog post.

Tokyo 1984

In 1984, at the age of 26, I travelled to Tokyo, eager to discover what I had heard was a beautiful country and a fascinating culture. I knew it was expensive and that I would need to find work in order to stay. Nearly all the money I had, had been spent on the airfare. I got off the plane at Narita airport with around a hundred pounds and discovered that half of that was needed to take the coach into the city. Fortunately I had an address for a cheap working-men's hostel. When I arrived there I had £40 after currency exchange commission. A dormitory bed in the hostel cost around £8 a night. I felt sure, however, that something would turn up. 

Okubo House

The friendliness of the elderly hostel staff was an immediate boost to my natural sense of optimism. The hostel used to cater for Japanese workmen but more recently had started to take advantage of the foreign backpacker market. I understood very little Japanese and they very little English. The manager, who was affectionately known to western residents as Mosquito San, knew one or two phrases in English. The most memorable of these being "Mosquito drive away!" uttered with cruel intent as he roamed the dormitories in the evenings with a pump-up spray bottle. He was weird, but by no means the strangest person living in Okubo House. Within a day I had encountered quite a motley selection of long-termers who furnished me with invaluable information:

A US Vietnam Vet who told far-fetched stories of living underground and in trees in the Vietnam jungle and who ranted in his sleep. Israeli draft dodgers who knew all the best ways to live on minimal income in Tokyo and how to find temporary work such as in model agencies or film studios. A Russian shot-putter who hid men (or women) in her bed when they climbed in through her window evading curfew, and a timid New Zealand Irish alcoholic who ranted and raved around the house when he got drunk and was eventually barred. But there was one man to beat them all. 

Okubo House - Traditional Japanese Hostel (taken in 1998, now demolished)

Okubo House ran on military order. Mosquito San had clearly served time in the service of his country. There were posters around the place about cleanliness. The fact that these posters were in (comical) English (Rule 1. Never sleep the kwilt no pyjama), indicated that they were aimed at foreigners (since the Japanese are obsessively clean themselves). One was required to attend the communal bath every evening. Mosquito San kept a check. However, he was aided in this task (unsolicited) by a very odd young German. Peter would appear by surprise through a doorway and ask in a most accusing Orwellian voice "Are you clean?" This happened numerous times on a daily basis. New residents were petrified by the experience. Mosquito San and the other staff could never understand what the resulting hilarity was all about. 

Peter Sausage

Myself and a few of my newfound friends were fascinated by Peter. He was a little strange. We had each tried to engage him in conversation at various times and were left with the sense that he was mad. One evening we heard him in the foyer (this was a traditional Japanese building made of a wood frame with paper walls) having received a call on the house phone. 

"Jah, jah this is Peter Wurst."

Peter spoke English but it was not good English and he had a very strong German accent.

"Jah, I am English of course. My parents are English und now I am come here to living in Japan. I am liking to work as English teacher in one school like you language school. Jah, jah, I am having university certificate, naturally. When can I begin?" 

There followed numerous other calls involving laboured conversations of a similar nature. Although most people running these language schools were Japanese, most spoke good enough English to spot that all was not correct with Mr Wurst's English.

"My accent," I heard him say once, "jah, my accent is English of course, but maybe because mein father is von Scotland."

Peter told us he was an honest man seeking to earn an honest day's wage. Clearly his idea of the truth was somewhat different to most and it irked us that he might teach Japanese people to speak English like him. I was even suspicious about Peter's surname. Peter Wurst (Sausage) seemed a little too obvious for a man who told us he had been in Tokyo for two years working as what he termed a "Stick-man." 

"If you want earn big money in Tokyo my friend," he told us, "you need to find work as stick-man. Are you a good stick-man my friend?"

Peter's hand gesture left us in no doubt about what the job of stick-man entailed.

"There are much old women here who like the young western man for boom boom, jah? If you are good stick-man you can make much money. I do this for two years but now I am tired. I can give you phone number for agency, jah?"

He went into great detail about the type of clients one could expect and the nature of their usual requirements. In the interest of international relations and common decency I shall not relate the lurid details here, but suffice it to say that his descriptions were hilarious.

Mad times in Tokyo 1984

Helped by advice from the Israelis, I managed to survive on noodles and All You Can Eat Shakey's Pizza for two weeks until I found a teaching job. But Peter didn't forget about my interest in his previous work. On his nightly visits around the hostel enquiring about personal cleanliness, he would always ask me "did you find some stick-man work my friend?"  

If you would like to read short stories by Mark Swain you can find these on Amazon, Smashwords etc.

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People I've Met On The Road - Henri

Given the amount of time I spend long-distance cycling, it is hardly surprising that I meet many interesting people on the road. This is the second of a series of blogs about the more remarkable of those individuals.

Henri
Several years ago I was cycling through South-west France on my way to the coast. The mountains of the Massif Central make for tough cycling and in summer the baking heat combines with the gritty dust to sting your eyes and parch your skin. Added to this personal discomfort, no amount of lubrication at the time would seem to prevent my chain from clogging and before long the grit had made a sound job of eroding the rollers. I had just climbed out of a deep valley somewhere after Millau and was finally struggling over the apex of the long hill when with a sudden release of pressure there came a crunch from below. Cursing I stopped and looked down. The chain hung there, dragging on the road.
"You bloody swine," I muttered, gasping for breath after the exertion of the long hill.
"Elle est cassee, mon ami."

I looked around, unable to see where any voice could have come from.
"Hello, who's that?" I called, rather confused.
"Allors, monsieur, your first job should be to get out of the sun! You will die, standing there."
At that point my eye caught sight of a dog, lying in the shade of a stone wall. Next to it I could see a worn out boot with no laces. It moved as it's owner began raising himself to his feet. The man emerged from the shade and put out a broad arm. I shook his hand, which was grubby and gnarled. The young man doffed his dirty sailor's cap. As he did so it revealed an untidy shock of curly blonde hair.
"Henri," he said, politely.
"Mark, enchente." I replied.
"If I am not mistaken, you need a chain tool my friend!"
Despite Henri's apparently excellent command of English, his French accent was strong and slurred. I took him for perhaps someone from the rougher side of Marseilles, although his blonde hair made this seem unlikely.
Henri crouched down to peer at the wrecked chain. His large Indian Army-style shorts had seen better days, while his loose white vest was also torn and stained. Perhaps he was a vagrant, I wondered? He got to his feet again.

Whistling to the dusty dog, Henri began wandering off. He walked in a purposeful but slovenly manner, his loose, laceless boots dragging on the melting asphalt as he headed down the hill to... I knew not where. I presumed he intended me to follow him, although he had said nothing to confirm this. Kicking up the stand on my bike, I moved quickly to catch him up.
"Any idea where I can find a bike shop?" I asked.
Henri pointed somewhere to the right. I could see no sign of a town or village. I looked at him quizzically but he continued looking straight ahead, chewing the stem of a long blade of grass. Then all of a sudden he turned off the road through a gap in the stone wall.
"Faite atencion!" he grunted, pointing at a strand of rusty barbed wire as we crossed a small ditch.
The dog jumped over the fence in a practiced manner and ran off ahead, looking back to check his master was following. Lifting the bike over first, I struggled to clamber across – surprised at Henri's reluctance to help.

After about a half a mile, walking through copses and along the edge of a ragged field of vines, we arrived at a small hamlet. An old woman seemed to be doing washing at a large stone font with constantly running water. She turned and stared, waving to Henri and saying something about the 'bicyclette'. Henri doffed his cap in a somewhat eccentric manner and boomed,
"Encore salvateur des idiot Anglais, putain!"
The woman laughed, shaking her head and continued with her laundry.
Henri shoved at a heavy old door and allowed the dog to enter a stone village house. Following Henri inside I instantly felt relief from the cool air.
Looking about me I saw a tall, ancient building that seemed to be in the process of reconstruction. At our feet was an earth floor littered with various unloved implements for construction, some mixed concrete in a small tin bath that had gone hard with a shovel stuck fast in it and a few piles of tiles. Quite a few were broken. There was a lot of other junk lying around covered in cobwebs and the remains of an old Citroen 2CV which several mangey cats seemed to have made their home. I looked up. There were no floors. Light was coming from the roof. Hardly surprising since much of it was missing. Fixed to the wall one floor up was the remains of an old kitchen, but no floor to stand on. Instead there was a builder's ladder, up which Henri was now climbing. Reaching the top he stretched one foot across to steady himself against a protruding stone and then filled a kettle from a tap on the wall. I watched, fascinated. Placing the kettle on a small makeshift shelf fixed to the stone wall he plugged it in before placing teabags into two filthy mugs with broken handles.

"Tea pour moi, conard!" (for those unfamiliar with French slang - 'conard' means asshole)
The voice had come from somewhere above. A woman's voice I thought, but gruff. She sounded annoyed. Perhaps we had interrupted her work, I wondered?
Tilting my head back I could see some kind of makeshift wooden platform. It was hanging from the rafters of the roof, attached at the corners by some rough old ropes. As I looked I saw a round face and straggly hair peering down at me.
"Bonjour monsieur," she said, embarrassed, "pardon!"
I greeted her politely and averted my stare as she sat up; more rotund than voluptuous, and naked.
"Vien Cecile!" called Henri, climbing back up the ladder to make the tea.
As I watched Henri deftly walk front-ways down the long ladder, carrying three cups of tea without spilling any, a question occurred to me. How was Cecile going to get down from that platform? Cautiously I looked up. I was just in time to catch a glimpse of a large girl in an Indian-print sarong climbing out onto the rooftop.
"Where's she going?" I said, fearful that this half asleep barefoot girl would slip and fall.
"Peuff, elles arrive toutes suite," he mumbled, slurping his tea in an exaggerated manner.

A few minutes later the front door was pushed open and in came Cecile.
"Il et un eschelle en bar." I was not sure what an eschelle was but seeing my confusion she translated into English. Her English was excellent. Better than Henri's in fact. Yes, the house was in a terrace, she explained, but by swinging a ladder down onto their neighbour's balcony they could then climb down, then down a tree, climb over nextdoor's garden wall and come around via the alley. I was astounded. Their neighbours were less than impressed, apparently.

"So you do that every night and every morning?" I asked.
"Yes, or sometimes in the afternoon too when this conard can be bothered to do the sex with me!"
What more surprises did this young woman have in store, I wondered?
"Er, I don't suppose I could use the toilet?" I asked. "You do have a toilet?"
"Mais oui, of course," said Cecile, "vien avec moi, cheri."
Cecile beckoned me over towards the back of the space, where there seemed to be a stack of old floorboards. As I passed she squeezed my bottom and giggled. On the boards I saw a bucket with a lid.
"Pull that curtain across if you like," she said. "Pour les Anglais. Henri put it up especially for visitors. There's paper on a box there if you need it."
I squirmed, wishing I had gone somewhere along the track on our way here. I didn't pull the curtain across, hoping to impress her with my laisse faire attitude. As it was I found myself unable to pee and returned looking most embarrassed, I'm sure.

Sitting on boxes and a bucket to drink our tea I learned that Henri and Cecile had lived in the house for three years, having bought it for only two thousand pounds. I was surprised to hear that they had been working on it all that time.
"We get distracted easily," sniggered Cecile, pulling her sarong up to cover more of her heavy bosom. Her skin was tanned, oily and covered in mosquito bites – or flea bites perhaps? The place and the pair of them smelled rather unsavoury, but hardly surprising given the lack of facilities.

"So where do you keep stuff – you know food, clothes, that kind of thing?" I asked, barely able to mask the amusement in my voice.

"Poeff, we only buy what we eat for one day," said Cecile. "If we have money. We have no congelateur! Clothes, we have only this what we wear now. We don't l'argent, but we like le... the minimalism, no Henri?"
"Oui, je prefer la vie simple com ca," agreed Henri. "Moins de stress."

The more Cecile and Henri told me of their life here, the more intrigued I became. They seemed to know few people in the area.
"We avoid other English," said Henri, "Conard! This is my island. Cecile is invited to my island, bien sur. You can visit too, mon ami, because you are cyclist, mais les autres, non! I prefer to look at people on the other shore, tu comprende?

I did understand, yes. But it seemed a pitiful existence. Was there no way to earn money here?

"Henri sometimes repairs the old cars to sell," but the locals don't like to give him things. They are not generous here, les conard. Except the gitanes – the gypsies who live in the woods. They make great absinthe. Fort! They like us so we buy from them and sell to bars in Montpellier and Beziers. Henri goes one time par month but the car is broken too much now."
Cecile pointed to the derelict 2CV. Surely this can't have worked for years, I thought? It was becoming clear that the two were pretty crazy. Driven mad by absinthe I guessed.

In amongst the cobweb-covered junk in Henri and Cecile's ruined abode, Henri uncovered a few antiquated bicycles and some rusty old tools. Although one bike had a corroded old chain on it, he did not manage to find a chain tool. The chain was in a far worse state than mine, but Henri insisted he could fix it. Using a file, worn smooth with age, and a large lump-hammer (almost the sum of his toolkit, it seemed) he began hammering and filing on the step outside. An elderly woman poked her head out of some shuttered windows and muttered a few disdainful words. Clearly his hammering was disturbing her afternoon sleep. He looked up, then continued.
"Putain!" he muttered.

Somehow Henri managed to spend two inefficient days butchering the chain before giving up. I could see now why they got nothing done here. During this time I had raked away the cat mess, pitched my tent on the earth floor of his house and treated them to bread, cheese, tomatoes and cheap wine from the nearby village shop. Cecile, when intoxicated, began propositioning me outrageously. I think I managed to decline without offending her.

"Don't tell her you are staying with us," Cecile had said, when I went to the shop. "She'll ask you to pay the bill before she lets you have anything."

"There's an old conard down the road who has asked me to help him lift his 2CV engine out and put in one out of his brother's old motorbike," said Henri on the third morning. "If you help me we might get paid enough to buy you a new chain in town."
"What? There's a bike shop in a town near here!" I coughed.
"Bien sur mon brave!" said Henri, theatrically."
Bending forward he picked a flea off the dog. He put it into his mouth and bit it in two. I was exasperated. All this time there was a bike shop nearby. I could have gone there by bus, or hitch-hiked rather than have got caught up in Henri and Cecile's chaotic life.

I had never lifted an engine out of a car before. In most cases, I realised, it is done with a large winch and block and tackle. Not with Henri it wasn't. First we took off the panels (fortunately on a 2CV they unbolt), then we unbolted the rusty engine mountings. Using an old jumper, Henri pulled it under the block and instructed me to get hold of one sleeve, while he took hold of the other. We heaved at it and bashed it for about fifteen minutes with a big hammer to loosen the rust. Eventually it moved. Quickly as we heaved on the jumper sleeves, the owner shoved in a lump of wood and a tiny car jack. In this manner we raised the lump until we could get hold of a cylinder head each and lift it out. It was not easy. A 600cc engine is tiny for a car but it was still heavy. My back creaked under the strain. There was a lot of swearing but we got it out. After being fed beer and saucisson by the old man's wife, we returned and lifted the adapted motorbike engine into place.

Fortunately the old man was so pleased with his newly functioning 2CV, he offered to drive me into town to buy my new bicycle chain. Desperate now to get away from the bizarre living conditions at Henri and Cecile's place, I agreed to go immediately.
It was a successful trip into town. I found a decent quality chain of the right type and the old guy took me to his favourite cafe for a beer. We met some of his cronies and there was much slapping of backs. It was around 4pm by the time we got back. I went straight around to Henri and Cecile's hoping to fit my chain and get back on the road. Arriving at the house, however, I found a fracas going on in the street. Unsure what this was about, I hung around at the corner, from where I could hear most of what was being said. Surprisingly the argument was entirely in English. A well dressed elderly man in a safari suit and a beige fedora hat seemed to be remonstrating with Henri. I could hear the dog barking inside and Cecile shouting "Taire toi," at him.

"I mean damn it all Henry, you know you were always her favourite. It's not like anybody's asking you to come back and join the family law firm or run for parliament, just to be around. We accept that you want to live your life differently, boy, of course we bloody do. There's the cottage now your aunt's gone – what's wrong with moving in there?"
"You're wasting you time Pa," said Henri, his head hanging, "I'm happy here on my island. I have all I want."
"What, Cecile? Alright for Christ's sake, you can bring Cecile! Fortunately you're mother's got over the business with uncle Timothy. Really, she can come too... I assume she does have some clothes? Come on old boy, I'll help you with your things, there's room in the Bentley."
"Will you listen for once, old man, it's not happening," exploded Henri.
"Oh bloody hell Henry, this really has to stop now, really! Do you have any idea what it's like for me? Do you have the faintest notion how it will be for me if I arrive back in Winchester without you?
Your mother's talked to a chap at that place she goes. He says he can help. Plenty of young fellas like you go through it, he says. They can treat it now. That's what he told your mother."

I wandered over to the font trying to look nonchalant.

"Listen I bloody mean it this time," I heard Henri say. "Don't make me get the gun. I have one you know. Anyway, I have to go, I've got a friend staying," said Henri, nodding towards me.

Turning his head the father looked over his shoulder at me. His disparaging look said enough. Perhaps he thought perhaps I was the cause of the problem? He walked over towards me as I put my hands under the running water and took a drink.

"Now look here old chap, it's not that I've any axe to grind with you, but my boy's sick, you see. He's a danger to himself and to others. He has a violent temper that boils over at any time without warning, do you see? Not just the normal bad temper, mind you – oh no! He was in a hospital for that kind of thing but he got out and now he's here with a gun and this bloody whore of his. The consequences don't bear thinking about. Now I don't begrudge him a good time, not me, but I need to get him back home where he can be helped, before he harms someone else. Now look, I'm a man of some means. If you could see your way to persuading him to come with me, I'd be very appreciative. Of course I would. I'm sure you could do with a leg-up. I think we understand one another, don't we?" He patted me on the shoulder.

"I'm afraid I can't help you," I said. I hardly know him. Really! I mean until just a minute ago I thought he was French."

"French!" said the man, puce in the face, "I should bloody say not!"

At the sound of Henri's door being pulled shut, the man turned and made his way up the street towards a large car, which was partly blocking the street. A rather irritated looking man was out of his van, looking around it. I went to Henri's door.

"Um, Henri, I wonder if I could get my stuff!" I called. "It's me, Mark."

Henri could be heard removing something from behind the door. I stepped aside for a moment, hoping it wasn't the gun.

"He's gone," I said, "his car was blocking the road."

"Oh he'll be back, don't you worry," said Henri, pulling open the door. "Last time dear old Lord Conard, as Cecile calls him, came every day for a week. Afraid to go home without me."

Cycling downhill on my way south a little while later, I passed the Bentley coming the other way. I was just considering whether to wave when I noticed a pair of police cars behind him. There were large men in the backs of the cars, dressed in black with rifles and helmets – they didn't look like they were out to make a social call.

"Poor Henri," I muttered to myself.

New Book Of Travel Stories

The Truth In The Lie
After what seemed like an age spent in the editing stage, The Truth In The Lie was finally launched. It was a frustrating six months but looking at it now, it seems well worth the effort. I am so pleased with the cover. The road trip story behind the cover photo is a fascinating one and will be the subject of a future blog post on its own. The editing of the stories was the work of my very literary eldest daughter, as described in the previous blog. She did a brilliant job; better than I could ever have imagined. In fact I would say she's a natural.

Tales Of A Travelling Storyteller
The stories in this new book are all related in some way to travel. Some are pure 'travellers tales' while one or two are simply set in locations where I have spent time travelling. Many of them though, are stories I have told to people while I have been on the road, or when I returned home. They have developed over the years as a result of the telling.

Talking to girls in a shanty village - Cochin, Kerala, Southern India

The book has been out barely a day and already I am receiving feedback. Some people are fast readers. Thankfully that feedback has been good. As with my last book of short stories, people have commented upon the authenticity of the characters - or should I say queried them:

"Is that guy in Red Card based on the footballer you used to know in Ireland?"
"Be honest Mark, the Dottie in Dottie's Diary is based upon my friend Jo, isn't it?"
"I hope the cafe in All In Good Time is not my cafe, Mark. I could lose a lot of customers!"
"Mark, I read your book. Tell me, the story Traffic... how the hell did you know that about me?"

and most worrying of all –

"There seem to be several characters based upon you, who are all preoccupied with their mortality."

Traffic: Story of a naive English art dealer in Africa

The Commuter: 

A story of what an exhausted man sees from a train window at night

The Title
The title, The Truth In The Lie, was chosen because of the number of times I have been asked whether my stories are based upon truth. It seems obvious to me that every fictional story is based upon truth. Personal truths from past experiences or those one has heard of, and 'great truths'. Great truths may never have actually happened, yet they are universal truths of life understood by all.

Story Outlines

My Only Friend – An elderly widow in Lisbon is estranged from her son who prefers to live in squalor and idleness since the death of the father he idolised.

A Minor Distraction – A rich American man on a train in Africa tries to tempt a poor young girl into his carriage while stopped at a wilderness station. The tragedy that ensues hardly seems to touch him.

Greta – A pair of travellers arrive in a rural Hungarian hotel where all is not what it should be. They are shown to their room by a young woman who seems something of an automaton. 

All In Good Time – A woman who runs a cafe is told she is being watched by the security forces. It seems unlikely until one of her staff disappears under strange circumstances.

Masaji – A father and son attempt to escape from China on foot after their visa runs out. 

In The Line Of Fire – A man in a war zone is attacked and hounded by those he once regarded as friends. They seem unwilling to allow him to leave the area, however.

The Crossing – Exhausted after several days at work, a man begins to experience strange occurrences while driving home through a long road tunnel.

Traffic – An art dealer makes his first trip to Africa and almost immediately becomes the victim of not one but two carefully engineered scams – or so it seems. 

River Witch – A young man camps by a river and is shocked to see a naked young woman float past as he lies in bed enjoying the early morning sun. How could he not go after her?

Red Card – Once a promising professional footballer, Pat Carmichael becomes an alcoholic loser after he suffers a crippling injury. Finally after two years of depression he picks himself up.

The Commuter – Travelling home on his daily commuter train, David is drawn to something strange he sees in the dark while the train is stopped. What he sees transfixes him.

Dottie’s Diary – Two women hill-climbing in Wales take shelter in a stone barn. Soon they are joined by a wealthy local woman who invites them home where they meet her husband. He is familiar to one of them. 

Burned On Him – A rather reserved family meet for a weekend at the parents' house where a revelation by one sister causes an argument and shocking consequences.

The ‘F’ Word – A conversation overheard on a train with three children, their mother and her friend. 

The Bottle Lady of Luang Prabang – Surreal happenings when a group of friends meet at their regular breakfast cafe by a busy main road. 


To find the book and to discover the characters for yourself you should click the link to Amazon or Smashwords below or in the right-hand margin of this blog. The book is currently priced from $1.99 or £1.27

Cover photo by Fumiko Jin - Taken in Hokkaido, Northern Japan. 

N.B. The story behind the photograph is revealed in a later blog - Hokkaido Snowstorm

The Truth In The Lie - Smashwords (all e-book formats)
The Truth In The Lie - Amazon UK 
The Truth In The Lie - Amazon.com 
(N.B. Now available as a paperback via Amazon)