I found a box of wooden toys today, hidden away in the attic. They began their lives as a block of ordinary wood, carved out by my father’s clever hands. As I touched the wooded shapes, the memories came flooding back.

    ‘This is perfect for making toys as it doesn’t break easily and doesn’t contain harsh chemicals,’ he once told me. ‘And the great thing is they will still be around long after you have finished playing with them.’ And they have!

      I can still smell the oak and pine my father took hours and even days to chisel and shape. He would sit at his bench and smooth the wood like I would smooth the cat. And all the while, he chewed on his old pipe, probably one he made himself. Sometimes he would let me have a go and sometimes it would end in tears.

      ‘You’re too heavy handed,’ he used to tell me and then he would spend hours talking about when it was once a tree. He would sit there and smooth the wood almost as if he was sorry it had been cut down, which wouldn’t surprise me!

      At the age of ten I knew the names of all the trees in the woods around us and I was taught how to respect them. I remember the story of the Wishing Tree, where people hung ribbons and rags from the branches in the hope that good luck would follow. And the World tree, with its roots in the earth and its branches stretching up to the sky, uniting them together.

       I would sit and listen, my hands tucked in my lap, as my father talked about trees. He talked about folklore and religion and how, in Burma, the Talien will pray to the tree before cutting it down and in Africa, a woodman will place a fresh sprig on the tree before raising his axe.

      These stories were told in the perfect setting of my father’s workshop, tucked away on the edge of a forest. Watching him make me a whistle or a doll from wood was like watching him perform magic!    

I never wanted a pony as a child, there were enough wild ones loitering around the home where we lived and they always terrified me, especially when their ears went right back and they began to snort! But my sister did want a pony! She longed to ride with her friends across the sandy beaches where we lived and return home through the valley. And to my disappointment, her wish came true. Well sort of!

     One late summer’s day, straight from school my father took us with him to a farm on the other side of the moor. Thankfully, the weather was dry and warm and at the very least, it got me out of doing my homework.

     ‘We have to walk,’ my father said, ‘because we might be bringing something back.’ I knew it was going to be a pony and sulked all the way there and all the way back, with a rather reluctant pony in hand.

     ‘That will be twenty four pounds,’ the farmer had said. ‘A pound for every month of his life, not bad eh! Need a bit of breaking in but he be worth it!’

      My father smiled and nodded his head and handed over the cash. My sister was blinded by the whole ‘pony dream’ and couldn’t see the potential disaster about to unfold. Me, I could spot it a mile away. This was no ordinary pony. They didn’t call him ‘Frisky’ for nothing!

      He was a sad looking horse, brown, with hunched shoulders, if you know what I mean. And his eyes, they wern't bright and excited looking like one would have expected from a youngster who was about to go off on an adventure. In many ways, I knew how he felt and although I wasn't fused on having a pony, I did feel sorry for him.

      And so, after a two hour walk, we arrived home and put the pony in a makeshift stable my father had prepared. My grandmother stood on the doorstep waving her finger and shaking her head. For the first time, I shared her disappointment.

       Well, just as I thought, by morning the pony had gone! No, I didn’t let it go! It jumped a six foot fence from a standstill. The pony was wild and untameable!

       ‘No school today,’ my father said, ‘we have to find him!’ And find him we did, roaming around with the wild ponies on the cliffs. And the same thing happened a few times a week thereafter. But my father persisted in breaking the pony in despite it rearing up like a demented soul every time he put a rein on its head.

      ‘It’s a wild pony daddy,’ I kept telling him, ‘and he will not be tamed. You should set him free to live with the others. It’s obvious that is where he must have come from.’ And many days and nights I sat with Frisky, talked and sang to him but he continued to put his ears back and snort at me, just like the ponies in the wild.

      In the end, and despite the cries of my frustrated sister, Frisky was eventually sold and sent to England where, I understand, he settled down to a civilian life on Dartmoor and was very happy. Thankfully, we never did have another pony.

Many years ago when I was a little girl, I used to love watching my father tend to his roses.

     ‘Isn’t it lovely,’ he once said, as he sniped away at the thick green stems, ‘that these beautiful flowers are a symbol of love, sorrow and sympathy?’ I wasn’t quite sure if he was talking to me or to a memory of something or someone special. He often retreated into his own world where flowers blossomed and bloomed under his tender care. I used to wonder if he loved his garden more than he loved me. But I was just a wee child then.

     I remember one particular day when I arrived home from school with my head full of worries, my father looked at my face and asked what was wrong.

     ‘Nothing,’ I said. The truth was, I didn’t know what was wrong, I just worried about everything, homework, friends, school, dying, everything! And so I sat at the table where my grandmother had placed a bowl of beef stew and dumplings. She had obviously ignored my announcement that I was no longer a meat eater, that I didn’t want anything to have to die for me. I looked around for my father but he had already retreated back to his garden.  Was I invisible?

     About an hour later, as I sat at the kitchen table doing my homework, my father came in from the garden. He asked me to stand in front of him and close my eyes. I looked at him suspiciously and knew he was hiding something behind his back. Secretly excited, I did as he asked.  

      ‘There,’ he said with great excitement in his voice and placing something around my neck, ‘this is just for you!’ I opened my eyes and saw the necklace of roses my father had made me. ‘There’s not a prickle in sight,’ he laughed, ‘so it won’t hurt you!’

      My father then told me the reason why he made me a necklace of roses. ‘The Roman’s used to make the same thing,’ he said, ‘and anything said beneath the rose was deemed a secret.’ He touched my head as I touched the rose on my necklace and he said, ‘if there’s anything bothering you, please talk to me and I promise not to tell a soul. Anything you tell me beneath the rose necklace stays beneath it!’

       Although I was very young at the time, I believed, just like the Romans, that beneath the rose everything was sacred. And although I never did share many secrets with my father, below or above the rose necklace, I did however, share many with my friends, until the day it crumbled and fell apart!

I was lucky enough to meet two fantastic authors in the town of books last evening. Barbara Erskine and Phil Rickman are both prolific writers and extremely ‘down to earth’ people.  After talking about his books, Phil picked up his guitar and played for us, accompanied by his howling dog Fergerson!  It was an evening I shall remember for a long time to come.

    Driving over the Brecon Mountains towards The Town of Books, or otherwise known as Hay-on Wye, was an experience in itself. The views were spectacular! Rolls and rolls of mountains, unfolded around us, upon which the wild ponies grazed. Apart from the odd farmhouse, there were no other signs of human life for many miles. I had forgotten how wonderful a journey it was. However, on the way back, we drove in complete darkness, even the moon was blackened out by clouds. A real treat for Halloween, I guess.

      Hay-on Wye is the northernmost point of the Brecon Beacons National Park and sits of the side of the River Wye. The magnificent Black Mountains range is to the east, in the Golden Valley. I can only say to you that this quaint town of books, with its patchwork quilt of cafes, craft shops, and book shops, has to be a must place to visit.

                                  The continuation .....

    We stood together in the darkness as if we had known each other for some time but I didn’t even know her name. Children dressed as ghosts ran passed us ignoring our presence, shouting trick or treat and I was beginning to feel nervous about seeing Jen. ‘Shall we go in?’ I said.  

      ‘Don’t you think we should wait?’ she replied with a hint of wickedness in her voice.

      I frowned. ‘Don’t tell me you weren’t invited either!’ She looked at me with steel blue eyes that seemed to look through me. I shivered! She was not your average woman. Yes, she was stunningly beautiful but strange at the same time. I couldn’t put my finger on it.

      ‘Ah I get it,’ she said, ‘you’ve never done this before, have you?’ I shook my head. She giggled that sort of witchy giggle which made me feel uncomfortable.

      ‘Come with me!’ she moved swiftly to the back of the house. ‘Let’s give them what they want and get out of here!’

      The curtains were open. I could see the table set with cards and a candle. Jen was there and I wanted to knock on the window and call to her but something stopped me. Something didn’t feel quite right.

       ‘Are you OK?’ she spoke softly, the wickedness no longer in her voice. I shrugged my shoulder and continued to stare through the window.

       ‘By the way, my name’s Maggie.’

       ‘I’m....’

       ‘Alan!’ she added. ‘I know who you are!’ she put a finger over her lips warning me to be quiet and nodded toward to the window. Jen and her friends were gathering at the table. So she didn’t wait for me I thought, despite there being an empty chair. Bitch!

       ‘They obviously weren’t expecting you Maggie,’ I said grinning at the single empty chair.

        ‘Oh they’re expecting me alright,’ she grinned with that wicked look again.

       The back door opened and for a moment I thought someone was going to invite us in but it was Kim, Jens best friend. She couldn’t see us in the darkness and neither of us moved or said a word. We just watched as she pulled out a cigarette and began to puff on it.

        ‘Hurry up Kim,’ Jen shouted, as she appeared at the door. ‘We’re going to start.’ I was about to run to her but something stopped me.

         ‘Where’s Alan tonight?’ Kim asked, puffing smoke into Jen’s face.’

          Jen sighed heavily. ‘It’s over between us! It never should have started. He’s such a womaniser!’

          Kim laughed. ‘Let’s go in, it’s spooky out here!’

          I opened my mouth to say something but froze on the spot instead. The bloody cheek of it! Little miss bloody perfect! Well she’s had it!

  Kim stubbed out the burning ash on the step then flicked it onto the garden before turning to enter the house. She left the door open so I crept through it and made my way to the dining room where everyone was now seated, everyone except for me and Maggie.

         ‘Wait!’ Maggie shouted, ‘it’s not time yet.’

         I wasn’t sure what Maggie was up too but I guess she’s been hired by one of Jen’s friends to spice up the evening. I was up for that!

         Everyone joined hands in the silence. All stared at the flickering candle.

         ‘Is anyone there?’ someone asked. I almost wanted to shout and scare the lot of them but I stayed where I was, just out of sight.

         ‘Let us know you are here,’ the voice was affected!

         Maggie moved slowly towards the table. What the heck was she up to?

          The candle flickered and you could feel the tension in the room.

         Everyone around the table put a finger on the card in front of them.

         ‘Who’s there?’ It was that voice again.

         Maggie blew on the cards and no-one said a word to her. This was frigging weird!

         A....L....A....N The card spelt out my name. Everyone gasped. Jen looked very shaky and as I was about to move, the phone rang making everyone jump. Jen composed herself and hurried to answer it.

           ‘Yes?’ Her voice quivered.

           Silence.

           ‘What’s that you said? An accident!’

           ‘Dead.........’

           There was sudden tension in the room as Jen began to cry.

           Kim ran towards her grabbing her before she fell to the floor. ‘What’s the matter Jen? Who’s dead?’

           ‘Alan,’ Jen mumbled. ‘He had an accident in the car a couple of hours ago and was killed straight out!’

...................

Maggie and I left the room together!