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non fiction
Corsica-The Beautiful Island If it’s good enough for Clarkson…… If you have no idea who Jeremy Clarkson is, I’ll try to sum him up briefly. Basically, unless you possess 4 wheels, 650 plus brake horsepower and come with a price tag that would make a lottery winner pale, he doesn’t want to know. So if he praises something, it’s worth taking note of. In his book ‘The World According to Clarkson’ he mentions that the Lonely Planet guide claims that Britain is the best island to live in, Clarkson however states that the best island to holiday on is Corsica. And do you know what? He isn’t wrong. Corsica is located in the Med, South East of France and West of Italy. Whilst officially a region of France, the island is in fact geographically closer to Bella Italia. In fact, I believe I’m correct in stating that at the dawn of time, Corsica was once part of the Italian island of Sardinia. This means of course that the tourist gets a delicious fusion of cultures: French cuisine with Italian style. You also get heaps of History. Napoleon was of course born on the island and there is a school of thought that believes Columbus was also born there. But what makes the island a ‘bucket list’ destination is the sheer beauty of the island itself. Bordered by golden sand beaches at the fringe of impossibly clear blue seas, it boasts a mountainous and majestically rugged interior. Driving the mountain roads is not for the faint-hearted, nearing the summits your visibility can be instantly reduced by a low lying cloud, not ideal when there is a frightening precipice only feet away from you, and the locals do not approve of you driving at 10 km per hour! But if you have the courage {and the driving skills}, do forge your way through the mountains, discovering villages and vistas of unexpected and unparalleled beauty. On one such adventure, my family and I saw a large group of people in a field, apparently just standing around. Curiosity got the better of me and I stopped to discover that at the end of the field was a wide shallow river which the locals used as a swimming hole. We had a great day splashing around in the crystal clear waters as the suntanned natives amused themselves watching the pale-skinned Brits tiptoeing timorously into the water. When rugged nature becomes too much, you can kick back at one of the many splendid seafront restaurants or cafes, downing chilled bottles of Amstel, before dining on a perfectly cooked Langoustine. When I was there my family and I stayed at a farm cottage near to the chic port of Saint Florence, or San Flo as the ex-pats called it, in the North West of the island. Millionaires moor their multimillion pound yachts alongside the quay at San Flo. Tourists could sit al fresco at nearby diners and watch as the yacht owners have dinner served by their personal butlers. For retail therapy, head for the larger towns. Take lots of money: French and Italian style does not come cheaply. If you’re within driving distance of Ajaccio I would urge you to visit. The old part of town is situated on a promontory with the most spectacular views over the port, and its mazey little streets are filled with a plethora of interesting shops and eateries. It’s an island that can provide a rugged outdoors experience, or a chilled on the beach sojourn. If Clarkson likes it, you can’t go wrong.
Fiction
A Love to Die For A Holiday Romance Kristen Dayes leaned back in her chair, raised her sunglasses and gave a blissful sigh as she gazed out over the scenic hotshot shaped bay of Pythagorean. Luxury yachts bobbed lazily between ramshackle fishing boats and the sun sparkled on an impossibly blue Adriatic. Kristen was a nurse from Lancashire, she worked for a private health care company at a large hospital at the edge of Preston. Kris loved her job, but it was a very demanding and stressful role, so much so that she’d recently been diagnosed as suffering from hypertension. The result of this was that she now found herself enjoying a relaxing two week vacation on the quintessentially Greek island of Samos, just a few miles off of the Turkish coast. It was early September, but the days were still comfortably warm, the evenings pleasantly cool. Her holiday apartment was one of several units in a small complex located just a mile or two from the 2nd largest and most beautiful town on the island, Pythagoria, so called as it was reputed to be the birthplace of that man hated by generations of school children, the father of modern maths, Pythagoras. Kris had spent her first three days exploring the island. She had no partner and was travelling solo, a fact which did not concern her. In her early 60’s she could easily pass for late 40’s but after 2 failed marriages she did not really miss male company, feeling that life was far less complicated flying solo. A Lancashire lass through and through, she lived in the lovely town of Lytham in a small but tastefully furnished apartment within walking distance of the sea. Her career paid well and she was considering retirement although she disliked the thought of giving up nursing, the career to which she had dedicated her life. . In many ways it was surprising that she remained single, for at her core she was a dyed in the wool romantic. She wanted hearts and flowers, happy ever after, eternal love. She wanted a love to die for. But as is the way of this world, she had had her heart broken once too often and had cultivated an unhealthy cynicism towards men, her defence system against further hurt. So she was more than a little content sitting at an outside table at a lovely waterfront Taverna by herself. Of course there had been lovers, one almost forgotten ex after tasting her meat and potato pie had even proposed marriage, which she had refused. She had strong moral values and was a very conscientious person, and one previous suitor had described her as the most compassionate person on the face of the planet, which was probably not much of an exaggeration. Perhaps it was this compassion which had caused her pain, she felt too deeply, too strongly, she never held back, until she realised that her openness left her vulnerable to pain. But at the moment that pain was a distant memory, it was difficult to feel stressed by anything in these idyllic surroundings. . Her meal had consisted of a traditional stuffed tomato seated upon a field of Greek salad, the local feta cheese tasting exquisite. A smiling and efficient waiter had already cleared the plates and cutlery away returning with a half bottle of white wine, deliciously chilled. Kris sipped at her drink now as she took in the picture postcard view. Tavernas and bars lined the port, multi coloured lights gaily dressing a variety of awnings. The tavernas were well patronised by tourists and locals alike and it had become a ritual for Kris to come here after a days exploration. The island had exceeded her expectations, it was carpeted by a forest of sweet smelling pine trees, potholed roads snaked lazily through scenic mountains villages where old men sat in front of whitewashed bars, playing backgammon and drinking cold Amstel’s. A bend in the road might reveal an ancient monastery or a sparkling waterfall, streams rushing downhill to join the mazarine Adriatic, which in itself was lined with golden sandy beaches. She had chosen wisely. She noted a group of young British women seated at a nearby bar, fluorescent drinks in tall glasses littering the table around which they were seated. The girls laughed and chatted noisily, many of them wearing just bikini tops and brightly patterned sarongs. They drew admiring glances from local youths passing by on their motorbikes, tanned flesh and lots of cleavage having the desired effect on the male population. Kris smiled inwardly, in her youth she probably would have received and welcomed the same sort of attention, but now she was content to let the local Lotharios pursue the fresh meat of the young. All signs of her hypertension had disappeared, aided by the lovely meal and the sweet white wine. She decided that she might browse some of the nearby gift shops, which invariably opened late, before she returned to her apartment. She was just about to continue her holiday reading, the latest book from the amusing Janet Evanovitch when her routine was interrupted by a pleasant but heavily accented voice asking her; ‘Excuse me? You are English?’ Kris felt a stab of annoyance at her tranquillity being disturbed before she looked up and into the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen on anyone. The eyes belonged to a man of average height, clearly Greek, probably in his mid to late fifties, with a healthy tanned faced, topped by jet black hair only lightly tinged with grey. Dark designer stubble gave the man a slightly roguish appearance at odds with the innocence of those wonderfully blue eyes. Her brain absorbed all of this in milli-seconds as she replied ‘Yes, I am English, it that obvious?’ she felt that her reply sounded a bit shrewish but if it was the stranger seemed not to notice. ‘You look like an English rose’ was his answer. Kris thought this smacked a bit of a cheesy chat up line, but gave him the benefit of the doubt. ‘More of a Red Rose of Lancashire’ she quipped as she felt her recent exposure to the sun had left her lobster red. The man looked confused for a moment and then smiled revealing strong white teeth ‘I have not heard of this Lancashire Rose, may I join you for a drink?’ Kris wasn’t used to being accosted by strange men, well not since her days as a student nurse, but there was something about this man, a certain vulnerability which appealed to that compassionate nature of hers and if she was being totally honest with herself he was quite a looker. Dressed in a white cotton suit over a hooped dark T shirt, he cut quite an impressive figure, although not tall he had a powerful build, giving off a pleasing air of dependability and his smile was delicious. She indicated the vacant chair across from her and he sat down. Immediately the efficient waiter arrived and took an order of retsina for the stranger and another half bottle of wine for Kris. The newcomer extended his hand to Kris and announced; ‘I am Lucas Zabat, welcome to my island.’ Kris took the offered hand and replied with her name. Lucas proceeded to charm her, almost effortlessly revealing that he was a fisherman from the other side of the island who liked to spend time in Pythagoria as the fishing was better in this area, although not what it once was. His mother had been English, an early tourist to the Greek islands who had fallen in love with not only Greece but with Lucas’ father who had been a sponge fisherman, before sponges were harvested to near extinction. He informed her that he lived on his boat, which was named the Emma Louise after his mother. That his one regret was that he had never married and that he would like to see her again. Kris suddenly realised that darkness had fallen, the fairy lights over the awnings twinkled brightly and the restaurants were filled with holiday makers. She had been oblivious to all of this, captivated by Luke’s melodious voice, natural good looks and guiless smile. She was embarrassed by her reaction, she was no silly young thing to be over awed by a mere male no matter how handsome, but Luke’s easy-going charm had left her slightly breathless and she found herself to her surprise arranging another meeting for the following evening. She paid the bill for the evening despite Luke offering to split everything 50/50. She had a feeling that she probably earned more in a month as a nurse than Luke made in a year as a fisherman. She let him walk her back to her car, desperately trying to find an excuse to put him off should he try to invite himself back to her place, she wasn’t ready yet to let her heart outrank her brain, But to her surprise {to her dismay?} Luke didn’t bring the matter up, other than to take her in his arms at the car and kiss her long and slow before releasing her and opening her car door for her. She drove home in something of a daze. As she lay in bed trying to find sleep she could taste the sea salt of his kiss upon her lips. Something she thought long dead was reawakened in her that night, it wasn’t purely lust, although being honest with herself she recognised that there was an element of that, but also the need for pure romantic love. And what could be more romantic than a handsome exotic stranger treating you like his ‘English Rose’? With that thought vexing her she fell into a strangely troubled sleep. Luke and Kris met every night after that always at the same table at the same Tavern at the same time. And every night he would walk her back to her car kiss her with a passion and longing which she had never felt before then bidding her goodnight. And each night Kris told herself not to be a fool, what did she have to offer him? Why his interest in her? Was she being played? Her fear was that she would fall in love with him if it hadn’t already happened, only to discover that he was the local gigolo, routinely seducing lonely naïve women. She couldn’t face that, already she was counting the seconds till she met him again. What would happen when she had to return to England? She considered treating their relationship as a traditional holiday romance, a euphemism for casual sex, and whilst she would welcome exploring his strong tanned body she still had her defences in place and rejected the idea completely. Things came to a head two days before she was due to fly home. As usual Luke and she had returned to her car, they had another of those delicious kisses he did so well, but this time instead of letting her go and get into her car, he held her close and stared at her with those beautiful eyes, before saying; ‘I know you have to return home soon, but would you do me the great honour of visiting my boat with me tomorrow after dinner? I want to be with my English Rose’ Kris, still weak at the knees from his kiss and the smell of the sea which clung to him like an ocean breeze, nodded numbly. ‘Yes I’d like that very much, Luke.’ Kris hardly slept at all that night. The next evening she sat in front of the apartment’s dressing table carefully applying make up for the first time since arriving on the island. Soon she would be meeting Luke, possibly for the last time. She looked at herself carefully in the mirror and thought she saw a foolish woman heading towards old age and possibly the most stupid decision of her life. She had no doubts that Luke expected them to consummate their holiday romance aboard his boat. It was probably standard operating procedure, chat up a lonely visitor, and string her along till the last minute, the passionate kisses, practiced repeatedly before bedding her on the eve of her departure. Did she really want to be just another of Luke’s’ conquests, was she really that naïve to believe that he might actually love her? She stopped applying a bright red lipstick, throwing the applicator aside in disgust with herself, she had so nearly fallen for his spiel, Well held find out that she was no pushover, she simply wouldn’t turn up. That night she stayed at the complex, forgoing dinner with Luke for some fruit bought in town that morning. Her last day arrived, she was due to catch a local flight to Athens around 6pm. Kris felt terrible for having stood Luke up, what if she’d been too cynical, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d questioned a man’s’ motives. She decided to seek him out, offer some stupid apology for her non-appearance and try to make good any pain she may have caused him. She only had a vague idea of where his boat was moored, at the far right end of the bay. She walked down the promenade slowly, preparing her excuses. Checking each boat as she passed. She reached the end of the port without spotting the Emma Louise. On the second last mooring an old battered blue and white boat bobbed up and down on a gentle swell and she noticed a grizzled old seaman watching her. She called out to him asking if he spoke /English, when he replied in the affirmative she told him that she was looking for Lucas Zabat, owner of the Emma Louise. The old sailor beckoned her on board and she carefully made her way onto the deck of the ramshackle ship. Kris told him that she was a friend of his and had been supposed to meet him the previous evening but had been delayed and that she wanted to apologise before she returned to England. His response surprised her. ‘Just get on your plane and fly away and be grateful you were delayed, you wouldn’t have enjoyed your visit to the Emma Louise’ Kris felt a sudden inexplicable chill at hearing this from the old man and asked him to explain himself. ‘The Emma Louise has been at the bottom of the sea for over twenty years now, and Lucas Zabat with it, may his soul rest in peace, though I doubt that it will.’ Confused, Kris asked him to explain, and the fisherman seemed to relish recounting the legend of Lucas to her. According to him, Lucas had fallen in love with an English tourist 23 years ago. The woman was rich and married, when she informed Lucas that she would be returning to her husband he was devastated. He was an honest, religious and hard working man, who couldn’t understand the concept of a holiday romance. He had killed his English lover, his English Rose, and took her body with him on the Emma Louise, sailing it out of the bay before setting fire to it, taking them both to the ocean floor. The old man concluded his tale by stating; ‘It’s said that from time to time, Lucas and the Emma Louise return, hoping to find an English Rose to stay with him for all eternity. At least two British women have gone missing from Pythagoria, a fact you won’t read in any of the guide books. Kris returned to England that day and tried her best to forget about her love to die for, but every year she would wake up in the night feeling strong arms enfold her and the taste of sea salt on her lips. And Lucas Zabat still sails the seas in a boat which smells of blistered paint and burning diesel, with a cargo hold containing three dead bodies.
Short Play
'THE SEVERED HEAD' INTERIOR PUB. CAMERA TRACKS A PERSON CLEARING GLASSES FROM TABLES Voiceover It’s not what you’d call a glamorous job really. But I’ve been a Bar-man, here at the Sever3ed Head since God was a boy. As a Barman you’re expected to listen to your customers, be a shoulder to cry on, to be everyone’s mate. I’ve heard some weird things, and I’ve seen stuff that would make the hair on your head stand on end. For most of us our understanding of ‘reality’ is incomplete. The idea that we know everything makes us ignorant, and in our ignorance we are arrogant. Shakespeare got closest to the truth when he said ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth…than are dreamt of in your philosophy’. His problem was that he couldn’t leave his gin alone, but that’s another story. Barman [now behind the bar, addresses the camera directly] I’m here tonight to tell you about one recent incident that your philosophy can’t explain. I can’t explain it either, after all, I’m just a simple Barman. Aren’t I? Cut to customer approaching the bar BARMAN Evening Bob, pint of the usual? BOB WILSON That'll do nicely mate. Has Frank been in? BARMAN If you mean Frank McCoy, haven't you heard? His daughter bought him a ticket for one of those 'track days'. Frank was in banging on about how he'd be racing around in an Aston Martin, seems to think that makes him James Bond. BOB WILSON You're kidding, right? Frank couldn't steer a shopping trolley round Sainsbury's, God knows how he'll handle an Aston. BARMAN Tell me about, let's hope he was sober for it. As the barman pours Bob’s drink, Bob withdraws an unopened letter from his inside pocket.It’s clearly marked NHS. He stares at it, a worried look on his face, before returning it to his pocket just as the barman returns with his drink. Bob takes an appreciative sip and says [sarcastically]; BOB WILSON Catch you later mate I can see you're rushed off your feet Bob makes his way to a corner table with his pint and sips at it as he gazes absently around the pub. His gaze keeps returning to the print showing a noble-mans decapitated head resting on a bronze platter. Bob accidentally knocks a beer mat from the table, reaches down and when he sits back up his friend Frank is sitting opposite him. BOB WILSON Bloody Hell mate where did you spring from? FRANK gives his friend a twisted smile and says You getting them in then Bob? I think I'll try a pint of that new cider 'Headstrong' Bob. Gives a grunted assent, makes his way to the bar returning with a glass of sparkling cider which he places on the table in front of Frank BOB WILSON There you go, one pint of cider, shaken not stirred Frank smiles and raises his glass in appreciation FRANK (chuckling) So you heard then, 'bout the Aston? BOB WILSON Yep. Didn't think it was your cup of tea to be honest. FRANK It was a fantastic day out Bob, got treated like a king by the organisers and a right fit bird helped me get into all the safety gear, you should have seen the airbags on her! And the car, Sheer luxury, genuine walnut dashboard, real leather, not like all the plastic muck you get these days. And you wouldn't believe the power of the thing, just a touch of the accelerator and you're halfway down the road. Brilliant BOB WILSON That's what I mean mate. Powerful, a bit of a handful surely? FRANK At first it was a bit hairy, but I soon got the hang of it. The secret is to keep your head. FRANK [CONTD] Hey Bob, did you know this place is haunted? BOB WILSON Yeah right. FRANK Seriously,. You never wondered why it's called 'The Severed Head'? BOB WILSON Not really mate, it's just a pub, like the 'Black Swan' or 'The Smuggler' Arms' FRANK Exactly, they get their names from real life too. Apparently back in the old days, the very old days when this was a coaching Inn, some Lord caught his wife in here with her lover boy. The Lord was so pissed off he took his sword to the guy’s neck, slicing his head right off. They say it fell into a tray, like the one on the sign. Ever since then, on the full moon you can still see the fella looking for his head. Ask the Barman if you don't believe me. BOB WILSON Nah I'm good. It's all bollocks Frank, when you're dead you're dead and that's an end to it. FRANK You really think so? I'm not so sure mate, stranger things have happened at sea. BOB WILSON Frank, this is Blackpool, a lot of strange things happen here. Just last week I saw a bloke wearing nothing but a pair of plastic boobs and a grass skirt, waiting to be served in McDonald's. But a headless ghost? Maybe in the ghost train and that's it. FRANK Sorry you're not a believer Bob. But do me a favour please? BOB WILSON What? FRANK That letter mate, don’t worry about it, it’s all good. BOB WILSON [very confused] What the Hell, I mean how did you know? I only got it today? FRANK [touching his nose] Never you mind, just don’t worry. I’m gonna miss our chats. Someone’s coming, I need to go Bye mate. With that Frank stands up and walks away BOB [looking confused] Ermmm, yeah, bye A second or two later someone approaches him looking very distraught. NEWCOMER Oh Bob I'm so sorry. I know you and Frank were good friends BOB Hi Kelvin, what you on about? KELVIN Oh my God, you mean you haven't heard? BOB WILSON Calm down, heard what? KELVIN Frank was at a race day, driving an Aston Martin. Silly old fool took it up to a 100 before losing control. The crash killed him, took his head right off...died instantly CLOSE UP OF BOB'S FACE BEFORE CUTTING TO CLOSE UP OF THE PUB SIGN SHOWING THE SEVERED HEAD. BACK TO BOB AND A GROWING LOOK OF HORROR ON HIS FACE .
