Monday, 4 April 2011


There were four of them and I don’t recall their names, I struggle to see their faces even.

One might have been called Claire - the only woman; one was dark haired and bearded, quieter than the others; the other two just vague shapes, one small the other tall.

But I remember the house where they stayed, a little north of Aberdeen, along a deeply rutted farm track, past the farm from whom they rented and just behind the dunes that lead the way down to the wind swept east coast.

A fire place around which we sat, them making plans, me making dreams, I was 21, young, naïve, in awe of their creativity and energy.

So many things will be lost to forgetfulness if left unsaid.

They had met in Liverpool and had come out of the Blackie project, moved north and east as four; I wanted to be number 5.

They told me to go away and come back later when I could give not take.

It was hard but i went, learnt and when I was ready I had no need to return north, my path went west then south.

And unless they wrote it down, which I doubt, they would have forgot anyhow.

One night around the fire I shared their soup and listened to Reg, visiting from Edinburgh. His energy made theirs seem pale. I remember him urging them to run everyday, because with their track they should.

I do today, when I can, Reg no longer lives to try.

I am beginning to hate death.


Mary said...

Thanks Chris for letting us all know about Reg Bolton. I had not heard of him before. What a lovely tribute his daughter, Jo, has created for her talented and beloved Dad.


Mary said...

PS -- all this talk about swimming in Brighton -- it snowed here last night in T.O.


popps said...

Still probably warmer than the sea in Brighton Mary!

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