A Dysfunctional Character Makes a Dysfunctional Writer.


The plan was always to be the reclusive writer. Not quite like J D Salinger where he started waving his gun around when ever visitors turned up on his door step. But rather like Agatha Christie I was hoping I could write in relative solitude, publish and then just disappear to start on the next book. Well that allusion has quickly been shot to flames.


My Agent wants statistics. Statistics of social media of hits and connections and likes and comments. Me the woman who has tried hiding out on a remote hill eschewing all social contact. I now must learn the art of social networking.


This for many is probably easy, they embrace the modern world of Facebook, twitter, LinkedIn, Instagram, snapchat, pine interest and You tube to name just a few. But for me the whole thing is an anathema. The word social for a start does not resonate very well with me. That’s means conversation and interaction with other people.


But to be a writer one must be out there. And what has become apparent social network consumes an awful lot of a writer’s time.


But network I must. I have started a small experiment to see how this can work for me. So, my first step was to resurrect my word press blog. My last post had been back in April 2019, my march for democracy on to Parliament.


 Last week wrote a piece about how excited I was to get a Literary Agent.  So, this week, we are going to see how my first week of social networking has gone.


I decided to boost my post on Face Book. I had mastered sharing from Word press to face book. So, I picked an amount to boost the post clicked and watched the statistics. And with one day to go the stats are 2066 Reached, 47 Click 41 Engagements. Whether this is good or bad I have no idea, but the figures seem higher than previously.


I then remembered I had a linked in account and I could share my blog on to that which I proceeded to do the next day and the statistics are 68 views after three days. Two ways where actually I didn’t spend too much time on.


The word press site over the four days so far is 60 hits. And 15 followers. I can see by other blog postings that I have along way to go with this. A really long way to go.


But I had to start somewhere. I have along way to go. On building up statistics. I am now going to have to post a blog regularly. Consistency is the key.


I still plane to be as reclusive as I possibly can though. I don’t understand why I need to give any input socially. Write the book, publish the book. Let people read the book. Why do they need to know about me? Why do they need to see me?


I referred to Agatha Christie at the beginning of the post.  The writer disappeared for 11 days on Friday 3rd December 1926. One of the largest man hunts was mounted with nearly 1000 policemen searching for her.


Her car was found abandoned in a chalk pit very near to where I now live. Eleven days later she was found safely in an hotel in Harrogate.  The explanation was that she had had a form of breakdown. She eventually picked up pen and paper and continued to write.


J D Salinger was a different “kettle of fish” but he famously said, “Writing was a terrible invasion of my privacy.”  This is what is worrying me too. If my genius is finally recognised how will I cope with the curiosity of this media obsessed world. He eventually became as famous for his desire for privacy as for his book The Catcher in the Rye.


But are we as writers already socially inept? We sit and write in solitude. We self-obsess about what we are writing. If we are wring about dysfunctional people, we must get in the minds of dysfunctional people.


If like me, you are writing about a serial killer you become a serial killer. Living each day thinking OK what my character would to do next. How would they behave in certain situations?


What would make a serial killer? That was part of my research.


I spoke to my friend who has known me almost 55 years. We discussed certain issues about my book. We bounced a few scenarios which would result in a person turning into a serial killer.


Finally, her reply was, “I feel like you are slipping rather too well into the mind of a serial killer.”


She is right of course. One step further into dysfunctional for the writer, let alone the character in a book.


I then phoned another friend whilst he was at work to ask him “Have you ever stabbed a person?”


I can’t say for sure whether I was relieved when he said after a pause. “No, I haven’t” or disappointed.


Undaunted I continued with my line of query, “So what would the amount of blood spray be if I stabbed someone through the heart?”


Again, a pause before. “Well they would bleed a lot once the knife is pulled out. But its difficult to stab someone through the heart. You must get through the rib cage to the heart. And what kind of knife are you using?”


And that of course is the crux of it, not only was I already getting into the head of a serial killer. I was dragging my friends into the same dark disturbed world.


It would only take a few more steps to become socially reclusive. To become inept at social conversations. To want to just ignore invitations to any event. It’s hardly surprising that writers reflect their characters or vice versa.


We put so much of ourselves in our writing. Do we have time for socialising? And do we have time for social networking.?


Already on a couple of writer’s forums the response to my initial query has been social networking is a full-time job in itself. Do we have time for it? Well by the sounds of things we must make time for it.


But in my heart, I still hope that I can eventually revert to my life of solitude. Living the life of the wild woman of the woods. That by some turn of luck my books will suffice, and no one will want to know anything about me.


I am meanwhile looking for houses that are difficult to get to and miles away from other humans.


Slay your demons with a pen.

We all have dreams. For a writer the dream is a publishing deal. Even in today’s world of self-publishing. There is a sense of well, you know really that is a form vanity publishing. You are not a real writer or a good writer unless you have a publishing deal.
One of the routes to publishing houses is by being a sheer genius and being spotted sitting under a tree with your manuscript. A publisher is drawn like a magnet to you and hey voila you’re up there with J K Rowling, Stephen King, Lee Childs. Anon
Well no because of course in our heads as a writer we are all genius’s. And even the most astute of editors will find it tricky to see your halo among all the other halos on display out there.
And then there is the route of Literary Agent. But again, this is not a case of someone just recognising your talent. How do we the little aspiring writers even get ourselves on the next step to publishing?
When I was young. I like many young girls wanted to be Jo March from Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. The tomboyish, hot tempered, honest, book worm who eventually gets published. But writing was not my only dream back then. I wanted to be a vet.
But I read so many books that eventually it became a natural aspiration to write in some shape or form. Journalist/Travel Writer/Author.
I achieved a small amount of success over the years. But the published author tag alluded me like it did many writers.
I was never going to write the best-selling novel that would make me rich and famous. But to be fair that was never my aim. When I wrote my first book Jewish Days Arab Nights it was not for fame or glory. I wanted to write about a situation in a country I visited that affected me strongly enough that the plight of the Palestinians has stayed with me through my life since that first trip in 1987.
But it’s not a subject that sells books not works of fiction. And that is what I wrote, a work of fiction. The blurb on the back cover says it all – Israel 1987 “…… Fresh off a plane from England a young girl, Fiona, arrives to work on a Kibbutz, romantically imagining Israel as a biblical land full of orange groves and donkeys. The harsh reality is that she has arrived in a country on the brink of a brutal civil war.”
But it was a book I wanted to write. After a few publishers and one agent showing an interest. I was ultimately rejected. Not on the scale of Stephen King with his first novel Carrie – rejected 30 times. James Patterson 31 times. Marlon James 78 times for his first novel went on to win the Man Booker prize for A Brief History of seven Killings. But I was rejected.
But I wanted my book out there for people who wanted to read a view point on a very emotional unstable situation in a country where the Christian religion was born. And where a controversial political ideology took shape called Zionism.
So, I went down the self-publishing route through create space. And this was for me a huge learning curve. Yes, if you take the word “vanity” then this was vanity publishing. I wanted to be published, but I did not have a publishing deal, I did not have a literary agent to represent me. I just did what many writers do I downloaded my precious manuscript to a space on the internet gave it a title put my name to it. Put a cover designed by a talented young woman with a degree in design on it and waited.
I had absolutely no idea about marketing. Advertising. And even worse selling my self on social media sights. I really had not thought how I was going to, as an absolute nobody get my book out there.
The book considering my ignorance elicited a small amount of interest from work colleagues and friends. The feedback was positive, but reviews were minimal. Of those who loved it they wanted a sequel. And so, I wrote a sequel.
And spent several more years and trips to Israel watching and experiencing the changes in the country. I can safely say I do my research when I write.
As many will know writing is a very solitary habit. I am a solitary person but recognised the importance of interaction with fellow writers. My second writers group lead by the indomitable Elizabeth Kay (author of The Divide) had disbanded and I was at sea trying to communicate with other writers.
I tried a local group in Dorking that met at the Lincoln Arms – The Phoenix Writers Circle but after a few months, work commitments took over and I put all dreams of writing on the back burner again. But the need to write was burning strong and I kept returning to my book Not Quite Gaza.
I wrote. I rewrote. I travelled to Israel and all the countries surrounding it. I was still convinced there was a story for me to write.
I kept going back to the Dorking group. They were all writers of merit and had various styles and genres of writing. But then once again life events caused me to stop going.
In 2018 I had what I can only describe in the Queens word’s my “Annus horribilis”. It happens to us all at some stage in life. That year visited a side of myself that was not good. Did things that I would not want to crow about. Descended almost to the point that I was in the gutter, but at that point I picked myself up. Dusted myself down and moved on. I had my feet in the dirt yes. But I didn’t quite swim in it.
I killed my demons with a pen. All the darkness of my emotions I poured into a book. Into a dark character in to a fictional story with fictional people. Life imitating art. Or art imitating life. Who knows.
What is that famous quote. It is easy to write to just sit at a typewriter and bleed?
From that year of angst an idea was born for a psychological thriller. The Dark Side of the Hill. I played around with the idea not really doing much with it. I went back to the writers group. A change in leadership encouraged me to go back.
One of the joint chairwomen at the Phoenix (Justine John) posted on face book that she had got an agent. I was pleased for her she is a talented writer and I read her first book Gilding the Lily. She has great style.
But if I was honest I was envious too. Here was the chance that we all aspire to a Literary Agent to represent us. But I didn’t feel I was good enough. Could I approach this agent with my work?
The lady I approached was Wendy Yorke and by a very strange quirk of fate she was looking for thriller writers. I had the kernel of a book. I sent it across and she has taken me on her books.
It all sounds so easy doesn’t it? Is it? But of course, that is not true. Again, I would like to say well she has recognised my great talent. But that would be ridiculous and very vain. I am hoping that working with Wendy I am going to step up to be a published writer in the traditional sense.
I am excited about the opportunity. About the prospects I can see and about the new journey I am about to embark upon. I am a traveller this is another journey to another place. I am going to embrace this chance that I have been given. I am going to give it my best.
It has been less then three weeks since I was taken on by Wendy Yorke. Already I have experienced all the emotions of an aspiring writer. I have woken up screaming – I am going to kill you I am going to kill you! I have felt exhilaration, fear doubt, enthusiasm, determination, delusions of grandeur, humility and hope. All the emotions that I have used in the writing of my new thriller. But probably not in the way people think!
Watch this space fellow writers and readers.

A very British Affair – Parliament Square April 13th 2019

Democracy – from the Greek, meaning literally “Rule by People”.

In 1972, I was nine. Too young to care about the EU, the existence of it or our entry into it.

I remember nothing of this event whatsoever. What I do remember was the initial out cry after about the fact we could no longer sell curly cucumbers in shops, they had to be straight. One of the first idiotic decisions made by Brussels on behalf of the British Nation.

Now fast-forward 47 years and here we are stuck the black hole desperately trying to leave it without being made bankrupt.

For me today it is no longer about whether I voted to remain or leave. The debacle that has become Brexit is now about democracy or the disintegration of its existence in what I had grown up believing was a democratic country.

In the year 1972, I remember vividly days where I would sit in the back of my father’s black cab driving through London and he would point out various landmarks of this fine capital city. One of course would be the Houses of Parliament – as we crossed the river Thames over Waterloo Bridge the iconic shape of the clock tower known affectionately as Big Ben stood sentinel by the embankment.

The gothic Palace of Westminster home to the House of Commons and the House of Lords was the bastion of British Democracy. It was never under question that we lived in a Democratic country and that the decision made in those buildings were for the good of the British Nation. They were voted in by us. They represented us.

April 13th 2019 Big Ben was shrouded in scaffolding. The face of the clock hidden.  Was this symbolic?  How the duplicity going on inside the House was passing unnoticed?

Now today in 2019 with the debacle of Britain’s attempt at leaving the EU  I like many citizens question what we once accepted as an undeniable truth – is Britain a Democracy?

I have always encouraged people to take their vote at every opportunity. Especially women. The suffragettes fought for our right to vote as women. We owed it to them and ourselves to vote.

Now I am beginning to think why bother? What the Brexit has revealed is our votes mean nothing and our Government has been happily sending us down the Thames.

The first thing that came out of or vote to leave or remain in the EU was the way suddenly those who voted to stay not liking the result wanted another vote. That is not how a democracy works. It is not a case of I don’t like the result can we do it again.

If Tiger Roll hadn’t won the Grand National, there wouldn’t have been a re-run. As adults, you have to accept the result and live with it. You have to suck it up.

Even worse, subsequently we have found out our votes mean nothing. The MP’s are having the final decision trying now to change the course of our history for their own ends. Representatives in the house with criminal records are voting, making decisions for us when they should have stepped down from their positions when they were first caught out as blatant liars.

They have no business making decisions for the British Public. None of them now should be representing this Nation. So for once in my life, I decided I would march. Not against immigration, not against terrorism. Not against world poverty or Global Warming and any of the other issues, not against the extinction of rare species of wildlife we have on this planet. No just against the erosion of Democracy in the country I was born into and love so much.

Arriving at Parliament Square on Saturday it was a beautiful spring day. I have been on marches in the past. But not strangely enough for my own country. I have raised the Palestinian flag and marched for Gaza. Unfurled their flag in Portland Square in 2014. Marched for the cessation of the Israeli Bombing of Gaza.

When I wrapped the English flag across my shoulders it suddenly felt strange. Why? So many times, we have been told it has been racist for us to raise the flag for England. Was that why it felt strange?

Did I get a sense of centuries of British Colonialism being placed on my shoulders? A collective memory of guilt at how we turned the world pink on the Atlas?

I don’t think so but I do know it felt slightly strange. Waiting for the march to start we stood in the spring sunshine. The blossom on the trees, the sky unusually blue.

There was a round of applause when the orange men marched into the square. And shouts began, “What do want? Brexit. When do we want it? Now!”

“Goodbye EU goodbye”.

We joined the walk towards Downing Street. If there was meant to be an atmosphere of anarchy there definitely wasn’t. It was if we are all just going on an afternoon stroll. There were more police officers then protesters it seemed to me. And they were chatting away to us all as if it was an Easter Parade. Or a Royal Wedding was about to be held in Westminster Abbey.

So after a slow walk.  I am afraid we did the very English thing of hitting the Red Lion pub, buying a cider and sitting outside in the warm sun watching the rest of the events from a chair with a pint in my hand.

Coats off, faces looking up to the sun. Was this the start of our glorious summer?

Whilst sitting there I felt vaguely reassured that it was all so civilised. This is what Britain is all about. No dramas, no violent outburst of civil unrest. No just a day out in London.

It was all summed up so eloquently, when I visited the ladies toilets.

“OH gawd, there is no toilet roll.” I heard from the cubicle next to me.

Her friend standing at the sink replied. “Drip and dry love. You voted to leave. You can endure worse than not having toilet roll.”

So all in all a terribly English affair. Although I do think, we could have got some of our French friends across the channel to come over and liven things up at bit. Those French certainly know how to protest!

Long live the Queen. Still not sure how much longer Democracy will last though!


Every great story begins with a snake.

It seemed that the pet shop called “Scruffs” in Hayward’s Heath High Street had been there forever. Sometimes, Garry thought some of the pets had been in there slowly ageing dying and finally decomposing over the years.

The proprietor too had aged from when Garry went in the shop to buy his first snake when he was 12 years old. Then so had Garry aged, from boy to man.

Over the years, he had acquired various pets, ranging from rats, snakes, ferrets, chameleons and lizards. But his interest in snakes had never wavered. They were his favourite pet and he purchased all of them from this shop.

His latest purchase had been an Emerald tree boa. It had cost him an absolute fortune, and if were not for the fact that he had lost a large amount of money on the horses the previous day he would have brought two.

His emerald green boa was a beauty. It was dark emerald green with white zigzag markings like lightning bolts down its back.  Garry was convinced that already Jade, as he had called her, already liked having her yellow belly caressed.

The good thing about Jade was she didn’t eat as much as Harry the reticulated python and Freddie the Indian python. She sure was a good investment.

Immediately when his latest girlfriend saw it, she wanted one. “Wow she is beautiful. I want one.”

Garry was at the stage in his new relationship that when he said, “Anything for you.” He meant it. That would change as the months went on, it always did. But he knew right now, the gift of a snake would set him up with brownies points.

He was sure this girl was the one. No woman had come this close to him. And they many things in common, including their mutual love of snakes.

Shame he had lost on the horses. He didn’t have the spare cash, but he was sure he would come up with something.

A few days later strolling down the high street, he passed Scruffs pet shop. The young assistant Bradley was sweeping up shards of glass from the pavement. A police tape stuck round the broken front window.

Garry glanced at the scene. Bradly raised his head up and said “Hi, Garry. How’s it going?”

“Better for me then you guys. What happened?”

“We had a break in last night. Bastards totally messed the place up.”

Garry frowned. “Anything stolen?”

“Yes.” Bradly nodded. “Some of the snakes. Including our Emerald Green Boa.”

“Oh dear. I was planning on buying that one for my new girlfriend.” Garry replied.

“Oh well out of luck now buddy. It will be some time before we get some more in. Amir just found out he hadn’t updated the insurance correctly. £3,000 worth of stock not covered. They took the snakes.  Oh and some mice to feed them with, I guess,”

“Oh well, least they won’t go hungry then. Disappointing though, she would have loved one of them to add to her collection.”

Garry carried on walking heading into the bookies further down road.

A few days later as he walked past the pet shop, he saw that the glaziers were installing a new window. Amir the proprietor came out of the doorway and said. “Aah Garry I’m glad I saw you. You heard about my break in didn’t you?”

“Yes I did. Sorry to hear that the snakes were stolen. I was hoping to buy the other Green tree boa for my latest girlfriend.”

“That would have been great. But listen Crime Watch are doing a clip on their show. They wanted to know what the snakes were. And when I them about the emerald tree boa and how rare they were. They are trying to find one to use on the show, I immediately thought of you. I was going to ring you today. Would you consider taking your snake on the programme?  So that if anyone is trying to sell one, people may stop and think that it may be stolen and ring the police.

That way we may be able to get my snakes back. I won’t have lost so much. They wrecked the place when they broke in.”

Garry hesitated before replying. Eventually saying, “Well, I guess that would be OK.  I’m not driving at the moment. How will I get her to the studio? And I would have to take a day off work.”

Amir put his hand up to stop all the doubts Garry was spouting, “Garry, no problem they will arrange all that and I am sure they will reimburse you for any expenses incurred having to take time off work. We are talking about the bloody BBC.”

Garry’s mind began to work overtime. There was a chance of making some money from this, of that he was sure. Suddenly he smiled at Amir. “Yes of course Amir, Anything to help you out. Just let me know when and what I need to do.”

Garry ambled off with a grin on his face. Jade was going to be a TV star. All he had to do was make sure his face wasn’t seen on TV. Especially Crime Watch. That would make Dawn laugh. She was convinced he was an ex con. She couldn’t be further from the truth. Actually, he was still in the thieving business.

The BBC contacted him a couple of days later. Spoke to him about the arrangements to pick him up. He discussed how they were going to transport Jade and told him the pickup time.

Promptly the BBC transport pulled up outside his house and drove him and Jade to the BBC.

When he arrived at the studio, he was taken into to the waiting lounge where there was a selection of drinks and snack on display.

“Help yourself Mr Smart. We won’t be long. And make yourself comfortable.”

Garry enjoyed his day at the BBC, made full use of all the facilities provided. He was relieved to know his face would not be on Crime Watch, just his snake.

When he was dropped off home later that day, he carefully put the snake back in her tank and smiled. Easy money he mused.

He walked over to the second tank and opened up the top and peered in. “Hello Jade. Your sister was a star today. You would have been very proud of her.”

Two snakes for the price of one. What a touch!

Dawn will love hers. She will definitely be over the over the moon he mused. His new babe’s face will light up with a huge smile. That gave him a warm feeling inside, happy girlfriend, happy Garry.

He just needed to wait a few months before he took it over to her as a gift. By then people would have forgotten about the theft of the emerald tree boa from Hayward’s Heath pet shop. Of that, he was sure. There were far worse crimes going on in this country.

How funny was that? What did Jeremy Vine say precisely? Oh, yes that was it. “Not the snake that was stolen but one very much like it.” Said that on national TV he did. It must be true. Not the stolen snake but one very much like it.

The police officer was ever so polite to him. “Thank you for bringing your snake in for us Mr Smart.” Then he shook his hand. “I am sure it well help jog people’s memories. Your snake really is very striking. Memorable for its markings. Each one is different isn’t it?”

That really was a turn up for the books. Normally the cops were handcuffing his hands behind his back. That was the only shaking of hands going on. Who would have believed it, the police thanking Garry Smart for his efforts to catch a thief?

Garry smiled to himself as he dangled a mouse over Jades tank later that night. A thief to catch a thief?  Well no let’s hope not in this case. Jades head reared up and gently took the mouse from Garry’s hand.

Garry’s smile seemed to take on the image of the snake. It seemed for a moment to be eternal.


Was nothing sacred to you?

You pick me up and drop

me down.

Shatter my soul.

In to water I fall

and slowly drown.

Bubbles rise from my

last gasp of death,

you raise my hopes

up on that high,

that oh so high pedestal

and smirk as you wait,

to see me once again fall.

Love should not feel so dark.

Should not drag a heart

into such agony.

The light from hard steel

slices to make a map of thorns

on my heart.

Who will want to follow that path?

After you leave.

The slow drops of a bleeding scar

like footprints that

crushed my hopes as

you danced on my peace.

And your hands dragged me

from my solitude

into a cage of anger.

Your smile that lured me

away from sanity.

Lips that cruelly lied

and took my words

of resistance away

Eyes like molten lava

that melted  my

resolve to resist.

The fight I had lost

from the very start.


Was nothing sacred to you from the start?

Was my heart such an easy mark?

Was I never loved by you?

Was nothing sacred in your malicious game?

The Chameleon (Easter Bethlehem 1987)

Hussein peered across at the chameleon. He hadn’t noticed him there at first. It had been basking in the heat of the Israeli noon day sun. Unlike Hussein who had sought the shade from under the branches of an ancient gnarled olive tree, which was conspicuous as being the only sign of life in the desert. He had been trying to red from his school books, but his mind had begun to wander.
It was only when the creature had blinked, that Hussein had realised it was there. He suddenly remembered the old widow, who lived three doors down from his home. She had said a chameleon like Judas had denounced Jesus.
Hussein couldn’t imagine how such a laconic disinterested little creature could have accomplished such a catastrophic deed. Did it change colour suddenly for no apparent reason as Jesus had walked past? Or had he quickly darted into a crevice and peeped out at the Roman soldiers who had gone stampeding along, looking for Jesus? May be it had just blinked as this chameleon had at Hussein. Just how had it denounced him?
Then he pondered, once it had given Jesus away, by whatever means open to a chameleon, did it feel guilty after the deed? Did the chameleon have the ability to feel pain and guilt and all the range of emotions that a human feels?
Hussein grabbed a stick from under the olive tree and with childish inquisitiveness poked the chameleon. Its eyes bulged momentarily and then it froze as if in fear. But then Hussein decided it wasn’t in terror at all, it was just that the creature was too lazy to move. The sun had made him so soporific it just couldn’t be bothered. Which considering his reputed dislike of Jesus, the indifference to the stick seemed rather odd.
The second time he poked him with the stick, the chameleon gulped and his eyes bulged again for a moment longer. Its skin slowly transposed itself from sandy yellow through to khaki, to sage green and to a bright acid green and then back to yellow.
Eventually the chameleon moved away almost as if he was extricating himself from a treacle spillage, slowly disappearing into the harsh landscape with total ease.
Hussein sat for a little while longer. He was bored. School had been closed for a week because of the riots. At first it had been fun, playing in the streets of Bethlehem with his friends. But it hadn’t taken his quick mind long to become wearied by the monotony of having very little to do.
Now as he sat under the tree, he wished the riots would stop and the authorities would open the schools again.
He decided to go into Bethlehem. In the distance on another hill, Hussein could see a dark speck moving through the terrain. As he stared out at the shimmering heat haze, he thought maybe it was a solitary goat, separated from its herd. He stood and watched the specs progress.
At one stage it looked like a big black raven. But after a few more minutes Hussein could see, it was just a man dressed in black, probably one of the many priests on his way to church. It was Easter weekend and Bethlehem would be very busy.
The silence of the landscape was punctuated by the harsh bray of a donkey. Painfully and slowly the cacophony filled the air. The noise became louder and more laboured as the black figure approached.
Hussein looked around him, trying to see where the donkey was. But there was nothing, except him and the black figure.
He waited for the priest to catch up with him. The donkey stopped his uproar and the desert was still and silent again.
The man looked down at the boy with intense dark eyes. Finally asking “Have you got some water?”
Hussein shook his head, “But if we go down into the town. I am sure one of the priests in the church will give you water – come with me.”
Hussein searched his memory for who this man was. A fleeting image of a newspaper cutting on the bedroom wall, before Israeli soldiers had peppered the room with gunfire came and then went again.
They reached the town of Bethlehem. They walked passed a cafe. Excitable exchanges of words hung in the air like the scent of jasmine.
“They’ll never catch him this time…”
“If they do he won’t go back to that prison again……”
“Crucify him, that’s what they will do, just like his namesake…….”
“But how will they know what he looks like, he must have changed his appearance by now…..”
“Yes like a chameleon……”
Hussein and the stranger continued down through Manager square up towards the Nativity Church. At the Church when Hussein looked round the stranger had gone, he shrugged his shoulders and
ran off back up the hill towards his home.
An Israeli jeep came down the same road. The driver slammed his brakes on and screeched to a halt in cloud of dust. Hussein noticed the head of the chameleon peer out from the crevice in the wall. The same bulging eyes as the one earlier, but this one was slightly bigger in size.
As the jeep pulled away, Hussein heard over their radio,“Abraham, we have found Jesus. Repeat Abraham we have found Jesus. The chameleon is caught.”                            Hussein’s eyes widened in amazement, suddenly the newspaper clipping became clear in his mind. He carried on walking a bit faster towards his home. Jesus, the hero of the Intifada! The great hope of the Palestinian people. Surely they hadn’t caught him? No, it was a mistake.
Outside his home, he leant against the wall to catch his breath. In the distance, he heard a shot and then three more.
He stared at the wall, and there was the chameleon. This time it closed just one eye, Hussein saw it wink. Then came the realisation of what had happened. It was true a chameleon had denounced Jesus with just the blink of an eye.

The Road to Morocco

In the film of the same title, Bing Crosby and Bob Hope after being stowaways on a boat become shipwrecked. Stranded on a beach they manage to hitch a ride on a passing camel into a city only to be sold into slavery to a beautiful princess, Dorothy Lamour. They sing their way round with such lyrics as

We’re off on the road to Morocco
This camel is tough on the spine (hit me with a band-aid, Dad)
Where they’re going, why we’re going, how can we be sure
I’ll lay you eight to five that we’ll meet Dorothy Lamour
(Yeah, get in line)

For those who have never watched the film you can tell it’s a lighthearted romp, that doesn’t hold many real insights about the country of Morocco.

So my road trip to Morocco should be plain sailing I am guessing. I have no plans to ride a camel so my spine should be sound by the end. Except that, I am not flying there and I have no real plans other than an 8-hour bus journey from London to Paris on Sunday for the start of my journey.

Buddha said, “It is better to travel well then to arrive.” This is something I have been thinking of recently. Now in the days of cheap flights no one really gets that sense of adventure that a trip would have created a mere 60 years ago.

Do we travel well in life? Or on our holidays? I guess some would say yes we do. But flying in plane for me is not travelling well. It’s travelling fast. That is not the same.

One of the most romantic ways to travel used to be by train. Could I get myself through France, down across Spain and then across to Morocco? I had been very confident that yes I could do that, no problem. Sitting staring out of the window watching the world go by. Writing my new novel up and just chilling, sounded ideal.

Robert Louis Stevenson said, “There are no foreign lands it is only the traveller who is foreign.” Today with social media transporting all of us to the same room as a friend in a hotel anywhere in the world, has our perception of travelling become reduced to just a click of a mouse?

Have we all become the same? Are the people of one place now the same as another? What once differentiated people of one place to another, their culture, has it all just become one huge blob of humanity wrapped in plastic, metal, and called progress?

Does anyone really explore a different land? Can a writer like myself find inspiration on the road to Morocco? Or to be more precise on the trains to Morocco?

And sadly could I heal my fragile soul? For when I leave on Sunday, I am leaving in the dark, emotionally damaged, feeling like I am swirling around in a maelstrom of madness like a planet exploding into the blackness of an outer galaxy . The drugs don’t work, the counselling has left me angrier then soothed. I don’t like the person I have become. Can the real Lena Walton please stand up?

Many years ago, I started travelling to see new places, a world different from my little home town of Epsom.  It was for excitement, a new adventure every time. Could I now at 55 have that same thrill of just diving into the unknown?

Paris is my first leg of the journey, and my final leg will be Tangiers. The city made home by one of my favourite writers Paul Bowles. He lived for 52 years in Tangiers. It is where he penned the classic Sheltering Sky, beautifully transported to the screen by Bertolucci.

One line of the novel that seems pertinent to me as embark on my trip. “How fragile we are under the sheltering sky. Behind the sheltering sky is a vast dark universe, and we’re just so small.”

I have lost my way and perhaps a journey into the unknown will bring me back to where I want to be.

But I am already running ahead of myself. My first stop will be Paris. I will not delve into the millions of clichés that have been written about this city. I will merely agree with Audrey Hepburn – “Paris is always a good idea!”

See you in Paris!

How Box Hill got its name – and how I got the bug!

The glory of Lebanon will come to you. The juniper,the box-tree and the cypress together. To beautify the place of my sanctuary and I will make the place of my feet glorious.” Isaiah 60: 13

In spring time, when walking out on Box Hill there is a strange pungent smell emanating across the landscape. Many, myself included liken it to the smell of cat’s urine. The smell is actually from the Box trees, which give the hill its name.

Personally, I like the smell from these trees. Especially when I have been away travelling to foreign climes. It reminds me that I am home. For many however it is not the most pleasant of smells to experience whilst hiking out on the hill.

The Box is considered a sombre tree and is plant often associated with funeral wreaths. For many years, it was handed to mourners to throw onto the coffin at funerals.

However, for the vast majority of people in the UK its better known in a more cultivated form for its use as garden hedges and in topiary and decorative shrubs. The Romans introduced the plant because of both its hardiness in winter and the ease in which it could be shaped to suit the needs of gardeners.

Today, 40% of Britain’s wild box trees grow here. However, it was not always the case. Back in 1797, the owner of the hill and the surrounding lands was a Baronet. A man with more names than the average family tree, Sir Henry Paulet St John Mildmay. He had the bright idea of making money by selling off all the Box trees on the hill.

This was not such a daft idea because at that time the demand for Box trees was quite high.  Box trees have the heaviest wood of native trees in the UK. It will not float in water. (Except when green as sapling). Over the years it has been used in the production of boxes, musical instruments (the recorder), woodblock printing, chess pieces, carvings and one of the most interesting of all, the propellers of the famous WWII fighter plane the spitfire were made from Box wood.

When Sir Henry sold the trees off, by 1815 they had they had virtually disappeared from the hill. During the First World War, boxwood was cut for use in munitions. They still cling to the steep west-facing chalk slopes overlooking the River Mole today in the 21st century.

Their leaves range from medium green in colour to a very dark green in spring. Both male and female flowers grow on the same tree. The blossoms are small creamy white to yellow-green and it is then that the sweet fragrance of cat’s urine becomes prevalent and the surrounding hills are heavy with the smell of feral creatures. It comes as no surprise to know that parts of the tree are poisonous.

During the winter months, the evergreen trees waxy dark green leaves are one of the main contributors to the continual splash of green colour across the slopes.

Often when walking down the chalk slopes I would encounter a rather unusual bug that ranged in colour from lime green through to black and red resembling a squashed beetle. Over the years I came to realise, it was usually found on the slopes where the box-tree grew and sometimes I would find them in my home.

This I have now found out is the Box Hill Bug – a strange-looking bug almost triangular in shape that was at one stage only recorded here on the hill. However, it has also been found in France. Its name of course because it feeds on the leaves of the Box trees. I noticed quite often they are black and scarlet in colour and appear to fly but I think this is more a case of them catapulting themselves from leaf to leaf or blade of grass to blade of grass.

I have lived up on this hill for 15 years I and I am amazed to find out just how many unique species of fauna and flora we have here on the hill. For a tree that has long been associated with death the Box tree seem to be a haven for life and to see such a rare species of bug thriving on its branches is good indeed.

Although I am not so sure about the little creatures wandering around my living room! Unusual as they are.

Next week I go in search of the Ash Black Slug – England’s largest slug and the Purse Web Spider the UK’s only native tarantula both residents of the hill.

Last bus to Aley

“The bus continued to climb up through the hills of Lebanon. So high that the shore line of Beirut City disappeared in a shimmering haze of heat and petrol fumes. It then became apparent to me that as the city vanished from my sight, that I was nearer to the border of Syria then to the Port of Beirut.

Lena D Walton Beirut Bus June 2018

For a tourist interested in Crusader History in the Middle East, Sidon (Saida) seemed an ideal destination for me to visit. Situated on the Mediterranean coast south of Beirut, I was reassured by my hotel that for someone travelling on their own it was relatively easy to get to by local bus. One bus to what is called Cola Intersection and then another bus from there to Sidon. I was further encouraged by the knowledge that Sidon had not one but two crusader castles – Sidon Sea Castle and Castle of St Louis.

I became quickly distracted before we had left Beirut by the appearance on the left side of the bus by the Palestinian Refugee camp known as Chatila. I had not been prepared for it being so much part of the city of Beirut. I had not been prepared for the glaring but invisible line that differentiated this community from the rest of the neighbourhood. I had not been prepared for seeing a place that had hit the headlines so many times in the west for the repeated destruction and massacre of the group of people that lived in what were meant to be temporary homes. A nation displaced since the creation of the Zionist state of Israel.

Driving past, the bus slowly fought through the traffic and we headed along the coast. I took a last glance at the camp and then the bust veered away towards the south.

Sidon was once a Phoenician city famed for its glass and purple dye.  Named after the grandson of Noah you can guess just how old this city’s heritage is. Mentioned in the Bible – Matthew – “Then Jesus departed thence, into the coasts of Tyre and Si-don”, also praised by Homer, and one modern claim to fame being the birthplace of former President Rafiq Hariri.

When the Crusaders arrived in Lebanon they built the Sea Castle at Sidon on the ruins of the Phoenician Temple.

Probably a lesser known snippet of information is that Tibauld Gaudin, the Treasurer of the legendry Knights Templar order was residing at Sidon when he learned that the remaining knights from the defeat by the Mamelukes in April 1291 in Acre, ( Now in modern day Israel)  had elected him the new Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Templar.

The order in total disarray retreated to their Sea Castle, where it took only a further three months for the Mamelukes lead by emir Shujai to enter and destroy the Crusader castle. Within a year Tibauld was dead and the last and probably the most famous Grand Master of the Knights Templar was elected, Jacques de Molay.

Whilst clambering over the remains of the castle I am once again catapulted to more recent events. In 1982 the Lebanese Militia occupied the Sea Castle. And in 1985 the Lebanese Army occupied St Louis.

But Sidon for many people both In Lebanon and for those who followed the tragedy of the invasion by Israel of Lebanon in the West will be remembered as the city where the Israeli army ferociously attacked and killed  unarmed civilians.  Even supporters of their Zionist country could not but have reservations about just how a community could be massacred and still those who ordered the massacre be in such denial. The interesting thing is at this point the Israeli government tried to censor any Western journalist’s reports of this crime, and one of the places they would regularly escort journalist to was the Sea Castle and the nearby souks, which had survived the bombardment.  As if by showing the relics of the Crusader past they could hide behind the ancient stones the horrific actions of the present.

As I walked through the Souks of Sidon I veered off the path and found myself staring at what looked at first like a laundry. Lines of washing hung across old decaying buildings. As I ventured further I found myself outside the entrance to what was obviously a Jewish building. The Star of David was etched just visible above the entrance. I had found the once Jewish Quarter of Sidon.

All traces of the Jewish occupants had vanished. The synagogue and its environs now housed Palestinian refugees. There were children as usual playing in the streets. There were all the ubiquitous signs of poverty but the washing strung up on the lines in the blistering sun suggested running water was available.

I stood hesitating for a moment, once again, like Chatila I had not expected this. How close to they were living their lives to the Lebanese people. Palestinians are not accorded the same rights as the citizens of Lebanon and I assumed there would be barriers between their homes and the citizen’s homes but of course there were none.

Suddenly I had a flash of memory of my first contact with the local gypsy community in Epsom as a child. Caravans with lurcher dogs tied up outside barking at us kids walking past. And washing laid across hedges and hanging on makeshift washing lines. And it dawned on me the only barriers that we make are ones made in our heads and within the invisible rules of society.

Walking back towards the Souk I saw a building slightly less in disarray then the previous ones and saw on the side of one wall a swastika. Was this still the reason why the world looked away from the plight of the Palestinians? Our collective guilt at the Holocaust still entrenched in our psyche?  Was that why we looked away at the massacre at Chatila and the refugee camp at Ein Halweh just north of Sidon?

We had looked away in 1940 -1945 not believing. We looked away in 1982 not wanting to believe.  Today in 2018 we see across the border from this little country to Syria and again we didn’t see it all coming did we? Or perhaps we did and looked away again. For, “Though every prospect pleases. And only man is vile.” Bishop Reginald Heber.

I strolled back through the Souks a refreshing change to those in Turkey and Egypt, no one hassled me. Was it that so few tourists visited still or was it really a true Souk where people shopped and drank coffee and men played backgammon? And then I remembered Damascus and the silence as we walked through that Souk with the same lack of harassment and wondered was this again the calm before the storm?

My last stop before the bus back to Beirut was the Rotary Club. Once called the Government Rest House it is situated right by the Sea Castle and from there drinking a cold bear I got my last few photos of the castle.

The bus took the same route back to Chola Intersection. We passed once again Chatila and this time I noticed on the one street corner near to the invisible line a police sentry box. No not like the one in Dr Who – this was a waist high concrete block with a small canopy to protect the armed police man from the sun. I can only assume that these were dotted around the boundaries of the camp.

I had been told by the hotel, that it was a number 15 that would take me to and from Chola, along the corniche and past Pidgeon Rocks where I had aimed to jump off the bus to see the sunset on the Mediterranean.

I jumped on the number 15 and sat behind the driver, he and his friend paid me little attention as they were in a chat on the mobile with a girlfriend. The bus filled up and we drove away, back past the camp and then up one of hills of Beirut.

I thought this was odd but did not think too much of it at first. Perhaps it was like my local number 21 bus at home stopping everywhere and taking far longer than the crow would flying. We climbed higher and higher, at some places the bus was struggling with the bends in the road. Still I thought nothing of it. The names of the villages meant nothing to me, why would they? But then one caught my attention- Aley.

I found it on my map and saw that we were miles away from Beirut. The last sight of that city had been 10 minutes before. Just as we had climbed another bend. More people got off and less people got on.

Up to this point I had been happy to go along for the ride. But my limited history of the area made me think I should not now be here on the bus. Aley was a Druze town and was also another place that saw conflict during the war with Israel.  The Druze were and still are a bit of an anomaly within the Middle East, neither Christian nor Muslim but still Arabic people. They have their own unique cultural identity.

The Palestinian Fatwah men who lived in the surrounding villages had put up a certain amount of resistance to the Israeli march towards Beirut. Finally they were defeated it seemed but that was perhaps not the right word for armed Palestinians later opened fire on an Israeli army convoy and killed 6 Israeli soldiers and wounded another 22.

I felt it was time to call a halt to my tour through the bandit villages, home to the new PLO and freedom fighters and get myself back down to the Corniche and the prospect of my last cold beer of the day.

My first attempt at communicating since boarding the bus seemed futile. Neither the driver nor his friend spoke much English. ”Where are we and where are we going?” elicited the sight of the two of them staring at each other as if they had forgotten I was on the bus.

I pointed at the map. “I think I am on the wrong bus. I want to be in Beirut.”

The driver’s face creased in to a worried frown. He spoke to his friend, his friend jumped off the bus to return with two friends on mopeds. I thought initially the idea was I would convey where I needed to be and they would explain how I could get there.

But Immediately I spoke and said, “I’m on the wrong bus.”, the two boys burst in to laughter, presumably repeating to the driver my famous last words to them, before they sped off.

“I was told number 15 bus.” I said. Pointing at the window were the number 15 was clearly displayed. We all stared at the number as if suddenly by magic it would solve my situation and they could get rid of this crazy woman quickly.

They both shrugged their shoulders, and then pointed down the side of the number were Arabic writing presumably displayed the actual places this bus was driving to. Later I was to establish that all the bus had number 15 on them. It was not the number but the name of the village that was important.

The three of us sat in silence for a few minutes and then the driver had a light bulb moment. He drove further up to the outskirts of Aley to a crossroads, where a police man was inspecting the boot of a car that had a family of about 15 sitting in. Alongside the car was a bus, words were exchanged, and I was told in very short words. “1$ to Beirut.” Quite frankly if he has said 50$ I would have said yes.

I climbed out of the number 15 I was on and climbed into another number 15. We drove down what was now familiar territory to me back through the village of Aley where the new PLO had held up such a fight against Lieutenant Sharon in 1982 and I found myself back into the chaos of Chola Intersection where I got into a red service taxi back to the corniche and a cold beer.

So in one day I had covered the Crusaders, the Palestinians, the Jews, the Druze and the wonders of the number 15 bus that can just about get you anywhere you want to go in Lebanon, or not where you want to go in my case.

The Flame Trees of Beirut

“It was like being bitten by a beautiful dragon fly whose wings were of such splendour that the victim did not even feel the nip in the flesh.” Robert Fisk – Pity the Nation Lebanon At War.


My first impression of Beirut was how much like Haifa in Israel it looked. The city tumbling down from the surrounding hills, buildings almost falling into the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

Beirut was so much like Haifa that in the days preceding Israel’s aerial bombing of the city in 1982 the pilots used Haifa to practice its raids using that city as its dummy for the real thing.

The bombing of Lebanon by Israel and the subsequent slaughter of innocent Palestinian refugees in the camps by the Lebanese Phalanges shocked the outside world. Reporters and photographers sent harrowing scenes back verbally and visually that the west could not fully comprehend. And perhaps we could never understand.

The country continued over the years to be a hot spot for conflict and its capital  bombed to oblivion meant the hedonist city of Beirut was a place no longer on the tourist trail. My constant trips to Israel meant that even when peace was restored I could not visit.

And those that did visit said the city was destroyed, buildings left abandoned, bombed, burnt and razed to the ground. And of course the kidnappings and hostages all added to the reputation of Lebanon not being a place for your average traveller.

In the 21st Century, a country that had in Biblical times provided the cedar trees for Solomon’s Temple to be built in Jerusalem now had the monumental task of rebuilding its capital from the rubble.

And of course that is the first thing I noticed on my walk around the city, just how many abandoned buildings there were. And it was difficult to establish with any confidence which conflict had caused their destruction.

The hotel where I stayed near the famous Corniche abutted onto a cluster of such buildings. One hidden behind the veil of a huge overgrown flame tree was possibly from the Ottoman times, the wrought iron bars on the windows had rusted beyond repair.

The flame tree hiding the building was blooming later then many in Beirut. Probably because it was in virtual shade from the surrounding buildings. Over the week the leaves turned from pastel yellow, to orange and vibrant red.

Behind this ghostly beauty was an old apartment block. Three storeys high, it too had all the signs of being abandoned in a rush. Wooden slats on all the glassless windows had been virtually bleached white by years of sun and wind. One home at the top had geraniums growing from the window box. Spots of red like blood splayed across the peeling paint of the wall.

At dusk bats would flitter through the open doors and windows, flapping up into the balmy evening air. Sometimes they would fly close to where I stood on my balcony. Harmless little creatures, surviving in a place that once saw an aerial attack of a far worse and deadly kind.

I wondered did all of the occupants of the building make it out alive, running away before the attacks, or did they stay and endure hoping to survive? And what happened to them? Where did they go? Where are they now? What kind of life do they and their families have now?

Another building which appeared empty was an office block. The age of the building suggested that perhaps this was abandoned in a more recent conflict. It still had all the glass in the windows intact. Curtains hung yellow and dusty in some rooms. But at night there was always one room illuminated. Had someone set up home there? Electricity was obviously still connected, and perhaps running water. Was he security, or was he just someone who lived where he knew he would be left in peace?

Buildings like these are dotted all around Beirut. Some like the Holiday Inn have gaping holes in them from where the firing burst open the walls. The concrete edifice that the local calls The Blob, peppered with shell fire and bullet holes. Buildings left to ruin alongside the new rebuilds.

For many the re- building of Beirut is a great thing but I couldn’t but help think as they rebuilt the city, they were trying to re write their history, just like Haifa in Israel, slowly creating a sanitised city devoid of all the trapping of humanity. By my hotel there were old Arabic shops alongside a new air conditioned super market that sold new trendy products.

Many places I walked I felt I could have been in Brighton in England. The Arabic past not obliterated but absorbed by a Western conception of how the city should be. The souks of Beirut are now pristine tents set up in St Georges Bay selling designer items, pretty shiny things with no trace of the country’s heritage in their makeup.

There were on days when I have to confess I took a bus just to go to the outskirts of the refugee camp at Sabra. Just to look across that invisible line to see where a nation of persecuted and oppressed people lived. Just to remind myself I was in a country situated in the Middle East, between Syria and Israel.  That God forbid I wasn’t in Brighton.

This was the city where Israel in an attempt to obliterate a nation of people helped the Lebanese Phalanges in the slaughter of innocent children, women and old men. Have they chosen to forget?

By the end of my week in Beirut workers were putting the finishing touches on a new shiny tower block that overlooked the Corniche. Potted Palm Trees were being placed strategically along the entrance to the building. Yes I know what you are all thinking Potted Palm Trees in the Middle East!

I was vaguely reassured by the site of an old bombed out wreck of building next to it, plants that had gone wild and were slowly escaping down the balcony to freedom.


Next week Miss Walton gets accidently kidnapped by two bus drivers and taken up into the hills of Lebanon!