To err is human, to Arr is pirate

My last post was a sad one…but there will (I hope and trust) always be room for happiness too.


It’s International Talk Like A Pirate day…what other reason do I need?! Greetings me hearties!

Maisie, always there.

Maisie was the last dog to be owned by my parents in law, Derek and Rosemary. She became ours following the death of Derek, as ‘Bloss’ was unable to care for her (though Maisie remained a faithful friend and source of pleasure to Bloss ,until the latter’s death)

Maisie was a rescue dog, from Morfa Head. Part collie, maybe some corgi, definitely something speedy in the genes. She strove to be good (except when sneaking on to the forbidden sofa). She loved to bark (though fell silent towards the end) to chase flies, to chase Phoebe! She was almost obsessed with chasing ‘the squeaky’ and hard to get off the chase, until Helen invented “Maisie, 1, 2, 3 ” upon which she would retreat to the bed, or her sofa.

She was brave, faithful and true. There is , for us at least, no shame in mourning the passing of a dog as much as we would a person, for she (they) are truly : Family.

We will miss her.


Maisie – always there




The walks are getting shorter

The nights longer

(Sometimes I feel like baying at the moon)

A sense of impending separation

Ever stronger.


Swallows and house martins bombarding the September skies

Apples, thickening, ripening

Blackberries bursting

Sloe berries sumptuous


Silvered seas

Mountain ash blood berried red

It was, desperately beautiful

This autumn day


She was…


Obsessed with catching flies

A jumper of style

And stiles

White socked

Tanks in the distance trembling

Great Bedwyn bed jumping

(“Get down Maisie”

Bloss’ morning cry)

Ireland swimming

Nearly dying

Whilst we were in Utah

Ever pleasing

And eager to do so



Running free





And now…


The house is hushed


Morfa Head muffled, mourning

The sea silenced,

Jackdaws screaming an unintended lament

A buzzard dips its wings in sun seasoned tribute

The wind whips and stuns the air.



Meet us on the rainbow bridge?

Let’s hope, suppose…



Meantime, ours to cry,

Memories may be the way to cope.

Ours the loss

Count the cost

The severing of the last link perhaps

To Derek, to Bloss

Oh, the heart hammering

The emotions bludgeoned


“Our little soldier”


…off she goes.


Alcohol Concern | Blog | It’s not about the alcohol! Helping communities to drink more healthily

How do you get ‘ordinary’ social drinkers thinking and talking about alcohol? Probably not by talking to them about alcohol… Andrew Misell looks at the legacy of the Communities Together project.
— Read on

This is neither poetry, nor photography, but it’s a piece about the work I was privileged to be involved with for some three years or so, and I want to share the learning as widely as possible.