Blog – Page 3 – Rachel Rivers Porter

Several tonnes of prime steak powered towards us!

Rachel Rivers Porter 15 April, 2017 Comments Off

It was one of those lovely spring walks in the country. We were following a footpath into a field when our dog froze. Facing her – and us – were about twenty large bullocks. And they were moving rather too quickly in our direction. Our brave (or crazy) hound darted towards them and barked. Bad move. Two of the larger beasts tried to cannon into her. She sidestepped, dodging them, but her rugby player tactics only enraged them. Several tonnes of prime steak powered towards us.

An image flashed into my head from a nature programme: facing lions in the jungle. I held up my hand in a stop position and tried that ‘stare into their eyes!’ tactic. And just in case they could understand English, I shouted, “Stop! Go back!”

They didn’t.

Feeling a little nervous, I took a pace forward and eyeballed the nearest beast. There was a stand-off, with me saying, “Go away!” several times. He pawed the ground, then retreated.

Unfortunately, there were nineteen other bullocks and they weren’t going anywhere. Except towards our dog. She looked at me, not knowing what to do, so I quickly put her on the lead. Not the wisest move. The herd barged into each other trying to find the best position to attack. I unclipped the lead: it was every man for himself now — or every woman and her dog!

Fifty metres to the edge of the field. We crept forwards, or should I say, sideways, keeping a wary eye on the herd. All the time I was repeating my mantra: “Stop! Go away!” But they were closing ranks, getting ready to charge.

In desperation, my husband whipped off his waxed jacket and started flapping it. Oh no, I thought, they’ll think he’s a matador and get the wrong idea. But thankfully British bulls don’t seem to know Spanish customs — their gaze remained fixed on our frantic dog. She looked so small and vulnerable in comparison to their bulk. Suddenly, she made a dash for freedom. Bullocks crowded in from two directions, trying to block her.

“Get behind me!” whispered my husband manfully. Then he strode towards them flapping his waxed jacket. “Shoo, get away!”

The jacket distracted the beasts just long enough for me to slip under their gaze and run towards the stile. Our dog sped past, squeezing through a gap in the fence. When I looked back, this bat-like creature was flying towards us. I’m not sure if Batman vaulted the fence or flew over, but it didn’t matter: We were safe!

On our way back home, we met a friend who told us that a lady had been rammed into by the frisky bullocks. This is one path which I won’t be using again!

Famine

Rachel Rivers Porter 27 March, 2017 Comments Off

Despite our best intentions, the huge scale of poverty in the world can easily overwhelm us, whereas one suffering child can reach into our hearts. And we want to help.

A moving interview on BBC Children In Need by Ed Sheeran during his trip to Liberia brought this home. If our lives were different, these could be our children trapped by poverty.

I wrote this poem having looked into the eyes of a malnourished child in a previous time of famine. The newspaper picture has long gone, but sadly, there are millions of children still suffering.

hunger stares at me,
pitiful eyes glazed
with trapped terror
devouring innocence
stripped of rights
naked needs exposed
to the world
children like mine
are dying to live
yet living to die

foetal heaps
of lost humanity
crawling on life’s edge
gazing into eternity
migrating herds
of human corpses
pawns of paradise
burn endlessly on
in the killing sun
while we plan
dream holidays
no vacations there
scratching in the dust
for forgotten aid
while fat flies suck
mortal juices
feast on crusted blood
lick the wounds of death

frozen in time,
heartaches and headlines
wrap fish and chips
money clinks
the world shrinks
famine for a feast
paper faces ooze tears
as oily fingers smear
dirt on victims
crushing fragile lives-
will anyone rescue
yesterday’s news
or leave poverty’s children
free to die in the dust?

Source: Cate Turton / Department for International Development’ – Creative Commons Licence

Grandparents, Gurkhas and the love of writing

Rachel Rivers Porter 12 February, 2017 Comments Off

My granny was a wonderful story-teller. She would make hot buttered toast in the oven, steaming and oozing onto my fingers, then I would sit and listen to her fairy tales. She didn’t just tell the stories, she lived them. The characters and setting came alive: maharajas and genies and frog princes. I would be there in the stories, sitting on the magic carpet. I wish she had written them down or recorded the stories, as I would love to hear Granny’s captivating voice again; I only have snatches of the characters which occasionally flit through my mind.

The next best thing to listening to Granny’s stories, was creating my own. My first performance was when I was six: my poem only two short verses, but I received an amazing Easter egg from the vicar. This was it, I thought, I was destined for a life on the stage. I joined the Brownies, eager to take my Jester’s badge. Pushing through the heavy velvet curtains, I stood on the empty stage, but my throat seized up as I saw all those eyes staring at me. I rushed back through the curtains without saying a single word. Not surprisingly, I failed — which was not only embarrassing for me, but for my mum, as in her free time, she was a talented local actress and she also happened to be the examiner!

My mother used to recite funny poems and she was also a prolific letter writer. When I was at St Andrews University, I would receive a wonderful letter from her every single week. I love reading treasures from the past: people’s thoughts and emotions immortalised on paper. My grandfather also wrote hundreds of letters, and through them, I am drawn into his world, seeing him not as a distinguished old man with a beard, but a young man with hopes and dreams.

In the First World War, Ralph served as an officer in the 3rd Gurkha Rifles. He wrote many poems during his years in India, including his famous saying about the Gurkhas, for whom he had immense respect. The end of his poem is inscribed on The Memorial to the Brigade of Gurkhas in Horse Guards Avenue, Whitehall, London. The statue was unveiled by Queen Elizabeth 11 on 3 December 1997.

Gurkha Memorial, Horse Guards Avenue © Copyright David Hawgood Geograph, Creative Commons Licence

“Bravest of the brave,

most generous of the generous,

never had country

more faithful friends than you.”

Professor Sir Ralph Turner MC

Texts are much quicker and easier nowadays, but what a shame if people stopped writing letters. Recently, my cousin found over 2000 letters in an old suitcase, which Ralph and his two brothers and their parents wrote before, during and after the First World War. These include love letters to my granny to whom he became engaged after only two weeks, asking her to share his life in India! This was my storytelling granny, Dorothy, and I’m so glad that they met.

Now I am pursuing my dream of being an author, I owe a debt of gratitude to my grandparents and my mother, for passing onto me their love of the spoken and written word.

Mackerel skies and plastic bags

Rachel Rivers Porter 13 January, 2017 2 Comments

In the days before weather forecasts, the internet and plastic bags, it was said that a storm follows a mackerel sky. Seeing clouds like mare’s tails or flocks of sheep, sailors would lower their sails knowing that in a few hours, they would encounter a storm.

“Mare’s tails and mackerel scales, make lofty ships take in their sails.”

After the gale force winds this week, followed by snow today, I searched the internet and discovered that mackerel skies are small, fluffy cirrocumulus clouds of ice crystals which form at high altitudes ahead of weather fronts bringing strong winds, usually within 6-8 hours. If I was a weather forecaster and I had known this fact on Tuesday, when what resembled white fish scales rippled across the sky, I would have been forewarned. And I would have moved my recycling bin to safety.

In the early hours of Wednesday morning, winds of 60 mph battered the country, rattling our windows and our front door. Waking up the dog. Twice. Who woke me up. Twice — waiting until I’d just dropped off to sleep first, of course. A solitary bark is an order to go downstairs. I ignored it. Ten seconds later, another loud bark. And another. My husband was oblivious: either asleep or pretending to be. But I guess he does have to go out to work, and as he sometimes likes to point out, I sit around all day. “I write!” I tell him, “I’m working on my second book — novels don’t just happen overnight!”

But this storm had. Blindly slipping my feet into slippers and throwing a dressing gown around me, I trudged downstairs. The wind was banging on the glass and our dog was straining, desperate to see who was out there. As soon as I opened the door, she went crazy, dashing all over the lawn, side-stepping like a world-class rugby player. Trying to find the intruder. The recycling bin was lying on the ground and bits of plastic were swirling around. The wind just laughed and another gust shook the trees.

“Mackerel sky, mackerel sky, not long wet and not long dry!”

Eventually, I snatched a couple of hours’ sleep until my alarm clock woke me, for a moment cutting out the noise of the storm. The curtains were being blown inwards by the draft and when I opened them, I could see a white plastic bag caught in a prickly bush just outside the garden. It was dancing like a flag, trying to get free — right in the line of vision of the window where I sit and write. I knew how vicious these bushes are; it’s the reason I didn’t cut them last year. I knew that the bag would get more and more entrenched and stay trapped for months. It had to go.

Operation Plastic Bag here we come!

Protection: thick garden gloves, boots, waterproof trousers (once bought for standing in the cold on the touch-lines watching eight-year-old boys flock after each other trying to kick a football); and my husband’s large waxed jacket (come on ladies, you wouldn’t want your jacket to be scratched either, would you?) Equipment: kitchen stool. Weapon: secateurs.

I was ready. For the next twenty minutes, I hacked through the berberis and pyracantha — labelled “To scratch a thief,” it was doing a good job of scratching me! At last, the white plastic bag was flapping like a fish on a hook. Reeling in the long branch, I snipped the end, holding my prize aloft. Job done!

Next time I see the sky with tiny white fluffy clouds, I’ll wheel our bin into the garage, heeding my proverb:

“Mackerel sky, mackerel sky, beware that plastic bags will fly!”

‘Kiss of the Tsunami’ is now available!

Rachel Rivers Porter 20 December, 2016 Comments Off

‘Kiss of the Tsunami’ by Rachel Rivers Porter is receiving great reviews on Amazon!

Set in the devastating 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, the plot involves themes of step-families, prejudice, family expectations, clashes of culture and sea gypsies. The story is told through a dual narrative; there is hope and healing in the midst of tragedy.

‘Kiss of the Tsunami’ appeals to both adults and teenagers.

Paperback and e-book both available on Amazon.

Never Stand Under the Rafters

Rachel Rivers Porter 9 December, 2016 Comments Off

It’s the season of gifts and good will… but I didn’t expect to receive a gift from above as I stood on Derby station last night…

As I felt it land on my head, instantly, I knew it wasn’t a raindrop. When I looked up, the bird seemed peaceful, having just deposited waste out of its back end without caring what it hit. Or who.

The pigeon had found a home for the night in the relative warmth of the rafters on the station platform. I, on the other hand, was already freezing and now I had bird poop daubed on the back of my head, oozing down my hair.

No tissue left in bag. Quick, use the freebie magazine I’d taken to sit on, to make those cold steel slatted seats bearable. It was too late in the evening for newspapers, so I’d found a brochure with a glossy cover. Except now it was a substitute tissue for scraping off excrement. I couldn’t risk finding a toilet with a mirror — not that I’d see anything as the muck was coating the back of my head — because the train was due in six minutes. It would be just my luck if I was stuck in the toilet while the train shot away… and I’d have to pay hundreds of pounds for a new ticket because it wasn’t the right train. Ridiculous that. You should pay the same price whether you book in advance, or have emergency bird poop on your head and have to dash to the bathroom to clean up.

I had a 2 ½ hour journey in front of me. I tried not to look at people as I pushed my bag down the narrow aisle, and hoped they weren’t looking at me. As bird droppings are traditionally white and my hair is not, if some was clinging to my head, everyone would see. And be secretly laughing at me. Or feeling sorry for me.

A window seat! No-one next to me. Result! I didn’t feel up to talking. Not that most people do talk to random strangers nowadays. We’re told not to. Except I do. Usually. Just not now that I’ve got bird poop stuck to my hair.

As my head came into contact with the back of the seat, I remembered the David Attenborough programme I’d seen a couple of weeks ago. About a bear rubbing his back against a tree. Planet Earth. I can’t remember the exact title, as there are so many. He’s great — probably still be on TV when he’s 100, reporting on extinct species!

Anyway, back to the bear. He was standing up, leaning against the tree, trying to rid himself of itchy summer fur. Like I needed to rid myself of the unwanted gift. He did a kind of dance, wiggling his body from side to side. I couldn’t resist copying. Pretending to look at the view, I turned my head to gaze out of the opposite window, and back again — that kind of movement. Which was a bit silly, as it was pitch black outside; but as most of the passengers were stuck on their tablets or phones, I think I got away with my strange behaviour.

I did feel a twinge of guilt, thinking of the next person who’d be sitting on this seat. But as it was the last train of the night, any little mark would have time to dry — and if there was a stray bit of white powder, they would just think it was dandruff. Which I have to admit, I dislike seeing. Perhaps we should all bring a pack of tissues and wipe seat covers before we sit down? Or have a shower afterwards like I did? But I figured that the train might be cleaned before morning; and in any case, people would be too busy/ focused/ stressed or bleary-eyed in rush hour. Planning their day… drinking a caffeine boost… thinking of the person they had just said goodbye to… or not thinking of the person they had just said goodbye to. Preoccupied anyway. Not alert enough to notice a white sprinkling on the red cushioned seat.

I hope I was right.

P.S. I’m not telling you the seat number just in case…

Clouds

Rachel Rivers Porter 25 October, 2016 Comments Off

Some people may be able to write almost anywhere, and others may have a special place where they are free from disruptions.

I write where I can see the sky. As a young child, I often used to day-dream, watching clouds merge into new shapes. I’d imagine seeing a dragon with his spiked tail swishing through the sky, or I’d visualise what it would be like to climb the fluffy white mountain peaks. I’m sure I’m not the only person who sometimes thinks that a cloud resembles an animal, or perhaps it even mimics a heart shape!

Clouds have always fascinated me, although I’m more interested in what they look like, than why they occur. However, I am learning that to be a writer, technique is as important as imagination, and creativity would be nothing without structure. Like clouds, when an idea is born, the characters begin to evolve. The plot will be constantly changing until you are happy with the originality and the domino effect that you have set up.

The sky lights up in unbelievable colours and has many moods. A shaft of light can change your entire perspective. There are so many wonderful writers, past and present, who can paint a picture with words — sometimes with only a phrase — and you can instantly picture the scene.

Clouds tinged with the setting sun’s rays or the sun bursting through the clouds after a storm, are for me, like the story’s cliffhangers, or crisis points.

After the novel has been written, then comes the brutal part: editing. Cloud formations often merge or they are pulled apart, then dissolve, deleted by the heat of the sun. So it is with editing: I’ve discovered that cutting redundant phrases and checking every single detail, often takes as long, if not longer, than writing the novel in the first place! One character may almost have taken on a mind of his own and may need to be reined in. Your favourite description may not be essential to the plot, so it has to be deleted — or saved for another story one day.