French camping holidays

Ah..la douce France; sweet lovely France, what more do you want in a country? From the beaches on the Mediterrean, the mountains in the Alps, the Massif Central it is truly a country that has it all. Normandy, the Loire, Gascony and Brittany are wonderful areas that have so much to offer to the holiday maker.

And there are so many French Campsites to choose from that you are certain to find one that suits your every need. Personally, I love camping above any other way to go on holiday. I love to be outdoors and live the simple joyful life as it takes place on any campsite. Quite often they are located in stunning settings and it is easy to breathe in the clean air and get out and about.

Cycling, walking or just relaxing in front of your tent or caravan on a campsite is just the way to enjoy a great holiday. If you can combine that experience with being in some lovely part of France then you really have a great mix.

French Freedom Holidays Campsites in France have a choice of twenty top quality campsites in France. They have something suitable for everyone, and also provide fantastic value for money mobile home holidays in France at a choice of wonderful campsites.

This is a sponsored post. PPP

Poetic query

Today I received an email from someone who had read my poems on the Helium website. He admired my poetry and as a budding poet he wanted to ask for a few tips on how to get started. I have to admit that my ego didn't mind one bit being asked for advice by a new poet. I usually have a few good suggestions to impart and always take care not to sound self-important in any way. After all, we all make it up as we go along. I hope he got something out of my answer to his query.

Restless soul

Another literary hero of mine; the great Graham Greene. Novelist extraordinaire, raconteur, rebel, restless spirit, Catholic convert, traveller. I loved his novels such as Brighton Rock, The End of the Affair, The Power and the Glory. But I also loved his travelogues in which he always knew just how to evoke the feel of a place. Getting to Know the General was a good one. His travel books on West Africa were fascinating as well. And who could forget Travels with my Aunt, also a film with Maggie Smith. He was a master of anguish and he explored tricky Catholic themes such as sin and redemption, divided loyalties, morality and responsability. We won't see the likes of one such as he again.

Byron's portrait

Good old Lord Byron himself. Not a bad painting and one his most enduring portaits. It is strange to think that poets back then could be famous in the same way as rock 'n roll stars used to be in the recent past. Not sure what he current equivalent is. The winner of American Idol or Big Brother? (Scratches head..sighs..)

But in those days fans of the great man used to have a cut-out of a paper with his mug on it on their wall. Pin-up poets, no less. It's a funny old world.

Sky Disc

Eye, hung on a pin,
high above a smouldering, ancient world,
sees all, knows all,
saw us before we came into being.

This solemn vizor may yet smile
upon little feeble ways,
displays of petty anger,
wars, hurt and more.

Placate it,
lest there be wrath forecoming,
greet its rising complexion,
each and every day.

Byron

I heard some poet described the other day as 'a female Byron'. I thought to myself: bloody hell, is she mad, bad and dangerous to know as well? I hope she didn't look like the creature portrayed by Gabriel Byrne in that mad film about the poets Byron and Shelley and their birds at Lake Geneva. I remember Timothy Spall playing a particularly disgusting Dr Polidori in that flick, the name of which sadly eludes me right now.

The description of this poetess didn't entice me to find out more about her work. One male Byron is as much as the world can take, a female version we can do without, methinks.

Light in the sky

Picture taken from North Head, Sydney. There was a strange light in the sky that day, almost like a presence was guiding us along our way. The fact was that it was a most noteworthy day for personal reasons I cannot go into here and some benevolent force looking out for me was just what I needed. I was very pleased that I was able to capture something of this bright essence in this image.

e.e. cummings

Listening to the radio at the weekend I heard someone recite a few lines from an e.e. cummings poem. I wasn't that familiar with this lower capital poet, other than that I know the line 'no one has such small hands, not even the rain'. And I can't recall what the title of the poem recited was but I really liked the tone of it. The poem 'felt' profound but light as well, which I thought was a lovely combination to strive for in a verse. I must look into this poet's work. Off down the library I go!

Dreams are weird, man!

The other day I dreamt I was dreaming about myself dreaming a terribly realistic dream. I don't dream that often anymore these days but when I do sometimes a feeling that was sprung from a dream lingers on through the day. And sometimes a sudden memory creeps up on me and the next moment I realize that I am not remembering an ocurrence in real life but I am remembering a scene from a dream I had years ago. This is one of those aha-erlebnisse that are a bit like the feeling of deja-vu. The sensation is one of noticing something that is strange or 'other' and familiar at the same time. Weird creatures, those humans!

Time and things..

Sometimes I wonder whether I should dedicate much more time to writing poems and to other literary projects. It's not that I don't have any time to myself or anything. Not so. But my attentions are fragmented across a wide range of pursuits, all of which are quite absorbing in themselves. So, a typical Gemini you might say, I spread myself perhaps a bit too thinly. I wouldn't mind a rich patron or a fat government grant to enable me to take a year off and just settle down to writing and nothing else. Chance should be a fine thing, indeed!

The Mark

Slither a-sliver of sleepy self,
dreams wake up to life renewed,
all overturning inside lovelessness,
like leaves of autumnal hue disperse.
Trees line the fringe of last refuge,
bones and skin keep in the storm,
cattish shrieks light up the night,
as alley life steps to the mark.

Rosary

Your tears like ruby crystal
on a string in my hand.
I watch your alabaster smile,
looks down on me, sinner.

Your hazel eyes like music,
blue-rimmed face; kind, wise.

You are not angelic, yet more so.
I walk along with you,
the garden welcomes us both.

Freshly scented,
spring survivesmy heartfelt lonely despair.
You take my hand,
alive and giving,
my world is a kind word,
my heart is a child's reminiscence.

Poem

To startle the skies
into disbelieving angelic selves,
hurtled from aeons of grief and joy,
blissful incarnations of the very essence
of what makes you you,
and me me.

A poet's way

I think that being a poet involves more than merely being engaged in the act of writing poems. I believe it is also a way of looking at the world, a state of mind if you will allow me a cliche. A poet should be able to perceive the wondrous nature of life and the living essence of nature and be willing, nay needing to sing its praises.

To celebrate being alive and to cry out with joy and anguish at the feelings that gurgle and gargle within the cauldron of the heart; that's what it should be all about. I can have the mundane and dreary side of life anyday but when it comes down to writing or reading fine poems I long to be uplifted out of my own petty shell and reach for the skies in that eternal firmament that covers us all.

Call me old-fashioned..

Fame in a library

The other day I was at work, happily and busily counting down the hours, engrossed in a few jobs at the Issue Desk when someone came up to the desk, needing to borrow a book. I turned around and almost recognized someone who a second later turned out to be Amanda Parr; a reporter on the local BBC Bristol television news.

I felt a presence that I remember from being around famous or well-known people. A certain aura; a particular air that someone exudes that subconsciously tells you that this is not an average person. Perhaps it's just the animalistic smell of success that one picks up on, who knows?

Throughout I maintained a professional attitude and didn't let on that I knew her from watching the local news on the telly. She borrowed a book on Victorian seaside piers so I'm expecting an item on the news about the pier at nearby Clevedon soon.

It was a funny idea to realize that not only is she a BBC television reporter but also a Bristol University student who just happened to come into the library to borrow a book. And why not?

Fame is a funny thing. Somehow I often thought that one day I would be famous, or rich, or notorious. When a youngster I achieved a measure of infamy at one point but that's another story. I wouldn't claim that my exploits as a poet and magazine editor bestowed fame on me. But I did get to know quite a few outstanding poets and poetry lovers and they in turn got to know me. Perhaps that's even better than being truly famous?

Beardie-Weardie Silly Oaf on Thin Ice

The Anglican Primate on very thin ice calling for sharia law to be introduced into the British legal system. Not exactly good news for women or apostates. But hey, it's part of their culture, right?

I am Dutch, living and working in the U.K. I wonder if I could demand that the Dutch legal tolerance of smoking wacky-backy could be observed while I'm in Britain. It's only fair..

What a drongo.

Multicultural Fruitcake

The mind boggles at what the Archbishop of Canterbury comes out with. What is left to say? Perhaps the West is doomed, after all. Although I think that stoning of adulteresses is something that we may want to consider adopting. What a beardy-weardie Dhimmi-in-chief.