Cap’n Bev facilitating:
As the clocks go back and the gales strip the last leaves off the trees we found ourselves a stunning day of autumn sunshine for this session. I am always mindful of the fact that the loss of leaves allows in more light just when we need it with our short winter days. My loquacious writing facilitation on this theme proved superfluous in a group of writers that were simply delighted to be on Water Story again, pens at the ready and looking forward to getting out on the water. And so we did… for a good long cruise all the way to Bishopbriggs and back. Pat reported to Sheila who sadly was not able to join us:
Pat Sutherland:
“Today on Peccadillo was splendid: the sun shone, the autumn colours blazed along the banks, and everyone was in frivolous form. Our sail lasted longer than usual and we had lots of writing time. There was orange drizzle almond cake, rice crispie chocolate thingies, Baklava, and of course Cathy's gingerbread which tasted marvellous as ever, even after an accidental baptism of coffee. There was a lot of very fine writing and John was praised for his profundity; later, buoyed up by this acclaim, he announced that his final piece of work was subtle. Bev had lit the stove, which made inside very cosy, while outside on the prow it was decidedly chilly. Halfway, the fire went out, so Peter and John set about finding a remedy - Peter wrote a very funny account of this caveman competition. I did a bit of origami with some newspapers, as taught by my father-in-law, and the flames leapt up. A woman got the fire going.
Afterwards I really did feel brighter and keen to work on what I'd started. Writing surely is therapeutic, but then, so is being with a group of lovely, funny people, and so is chugging through still waters while the swans look on and the coots scuttle aside, and seeing the seasons change, and eating cake with impunity. Thank you, Bev."
(On the day Pat shared with us a fun poem about what we had passed on our sail. However when she got home and crafted it she decided it was, in fact, a sad story.)
Canal Bank
Buckfast bottles, lager cans,
bits of bike and frying pans
polythene and Irn Bru,
plastic sheeting, one old shoe.
Sledges, bedsteads, chicken bones,
sodden cartons, traffic cones,
pizza slices, sausage rolls,
a baseball cap reduced to holes;
well obscured through Summer's green,
they lurk and rot, unseen
till Autumn blows away the pall
bringing to light a putrid windfall.
And on the water, mallard and coot
paddle round bottle tops and root
for picnic scraps, the human tribute
to goddess Gaia.
My city, dear green place, Glas cu,
what have your children done to you?
by Pat Sutherland
As the clocks go back and the gales strip the last leaves off the trees we found ourselves a stunning day of autumn sunshine for this session. I am always mindful of the fact that the loss of leaves allows in more light just when we need it with our short winter days. My loquacious writing facilitation on this theme proved superfluous in a group of writers that were simply delighted to be on Water Story again, pens at the ready and looking forward to getting out on the water. And so we did… for a good long cruise all the way to Bishopbriggs and back. Pat reported to Sheila who sadly was not able to join us:
Pat Sutherland:
“Today on Peccadillo was splendid: the sun shone, the autumn colours blazed along the banks, and everyone was in frivolous form. Our sail lasted longer than usual and we had lots of writing time. There was orange drizzle almond cake, rice crispie chocolate thingies, Baklava, and of course Cathy's gingerbread which tasted marvellous as ever, even after an accidental baptism of coffee. There was a lot of very fine writing and John was praised for his profundity; later, buoyed up by this acclaim, he announced that his final piece of work was subtle. Bev had lit the stove, which made inside very cosy, while outside on the prow it was decidedly chilly. Halfway, the fire went out, so Peter and John set about finding a remedy - Peter wrote a very funny account of this caveman competition. I did a bit of origami with some newspapers, as taught by my father-in-law, and the flames leapt up. A woman got the fire going.
Afterwards I really did feel brighter and keen to work on what I'd started. Writing surely is therapeutic, but then, so is being with a group of lovely, funny people, and so is chugging through still waters while the swans look on and the coots scuttle aside, and seeing the seasons change, and eating cake with impunity. Thank you, Bev."
(On the day Pat shared with us a fun poem about what we had passed on our sail. However when she got home and crafted it she decided it was, in fact, a sad story.)
Canal Bank
Buckfast bottles, lager cans,
bits of bike and frying pans
polythene and Irn Bru,
plastic sheeting, one old shoe.
Sledges, bedsteads, chicken bones,
sodden cartons, traffic cones,
pizza slices, sausage rolls,
a baseball cap reduced to holes;
well obscured through Summer's green,
they lurk and rot, unseen
till Autumn blows away the pall
bringing to light a putrid windfall.
And on the water, mallard and coot
paddle round bottle tops and root
for picnic scraps, the human tribute
to goddess Gaia.
My city, dear green place, Glas cu,
what have your children done to you?
by Pat Sutherland
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