I find it difficult to put my thoughts into words partly because the exact words to describe my feelings are hard to find. Death might be one of the two most natural things in the world; but nothing will ever set it straight in my mind or make it fully understandable. I might worry about death, I might laugh about it; I might ignore it or forget all about it, but it’s always there, sometimes visible in our televised news, sometimes not. I see it but I understand that I cannot do anything about it. I’ve developed a protective sort of shield through which I am offered an opaque view of death. Death is out there, just beyond reach, just outside the shield, a menacing shadow, a shape without a face. I’ve come to an arrangement with it, a sort of agreement or perhaps a stand-off. Through a sense of fatalism or familiarity I’ve become use to it. I hate it but I accept it. Death is far more than mysterious or worrisome. It’s panicky, frightening, sometimes terrifying. Facing it is unimaginable and there are times when I am upset at the death portrayed across our screens on a nightly basis but nothing surprises me any more and I accept life for what it is. We live to die, hopefully in old age. Perhaps, that’s the ultimate reality, when you’re forced to come to terms with the most brutal kind of realism.

For me life and death flow together as being one and the same. I've come to understand that death stalks us constantly and eventually will claim us all. The one thing we can be sure of is that we are bound to die. For most people life is based on the assumption that they will live to an old age and they avoid the thought of death. They believe they have time to spare and their lives lack urgency and intensity. They accept life around them without really looking at life itself and what it holds. I accept that one day I will die and that day could be today. Having come close to death I look upon life as being beautiful because for me tomorrow may not exist. I accept it, but my acceptance does not stop me living from day to day and appreciating all that life holds in my own world. I feel no grip of emotion, only an acceptance, a resignation, a sense of helplessness for whatever happens, I know that one day I will die. I suspect I've come to terms with my own death and therefore I live fully every instant of life.

The only thing constant in the universe is change, and boundaries do not exist because atoms are always being exchanged around us. It’s amazing to realise at this very moment, that some of the atoms as I type on this keyboard are trading off with some of the atoms in my fingers. The atoms that make up my flesh and bone leave to become everybody else’s flesh and bone and are in turn replaced from other sources. I begin to wonder if we mirror the universe – birth, death and renewal – the cycle of time - the cycle of the universe itself. At its edge an unfolding universe without the factoring of life. There’s no light, just total darkness. Blackness beyond absence where life will begin anew in the primeval stew as it collapses in upon itself – to become a never ending spiral – of beginning and ending and beginning again. An interesting theory, eh!

I believe there are no limits for man in the world. He can see forever and he will achieve more than can ever be believe and yet while he will create, the darkness that hides in every man will destroy and matters of the spirit will be pushed aside in his rush to achieve. His learning will continue to be hard and deadly. There is something ignoble about mankind. Such an ugly notion, but I fear man's savagery and greed and his capacity to abuse. When you read Euripides, Menander and Theophrastus, Sophocles and Oedipus one realises how little mankind has changed in the intervening years. Human problems are complex but all the trouble in the world is human trouble. All the cruel and malicious indifference confronted has a human face and soul. We are at best indifferent and at worst wantonly cruel. We are all still savages at heart. Reading D.H. Lawrence last week I came across these words which have relevance in today's world:

"What have the leaders of men been doing to their fellowmen?
They have reduced them to less than humanness; and now there
can be no more fellowship any more!"

It's hard to come to terms with human reality, its impact and complexity. Life has coherence, strange but undeniable. We all have to live with humour and honesty, courage and care and acceptance not only of ourselves but others. It is my belief that each and every one of us is the key not only to the universe but also to God.

I have two dogs, Kipling, the younger dog has become my protector and if I have a tumble with the boys or Terry, he flies into the fray and attacks them! He's my constant shadow, forever under my feet. Occasionally I'll slip away from his sight and hide and he tears madly around, in and out of rooms, checking all my usual hiding places, following my trail, but always losing it. He becomes quite agitated if he is unable to find me as I slip from room to room. He's my ally, my confidant, my constancy. He's always there. He never answers back, abuses or expects anything from me. He just gives his devotion willingly and affectionately. He sleeps by the side of my bed on the floor each night and if I rise for any reason, he pads along beside me. I'm woken each morning, by a wet nose in my face and a tongue that attacks any bare skin as soon as the radio alarm goes off. When I write, as now, he's either at my feet under the desk or atop the desk, a furry ball of fluff. He loves company. What would I do without him I don't know but it's a pity that some men aren't more like dogs ... (though some would disagree!)

In the late 50’s and early 60’s there were few cars on the roads. Most people walked on foot. Milk was delivered by horse and cart and there was little money to spare, but we had so much love and laughter in our lives. Our lives were full and free. As children we were allowed to wander, to explore and to discover our heritage. The beauty of nature surrounded us and our days of freedom were spent exploring the coast or South Downs Come now and explore with me and experience part of an English Childhood of the late fifties and early 60’s …

In the summer I would climb a rough track upwards, towards the Downs and riding stable under the secure and deep dappled tree shadows. At the end of my riding lesson, I would head down lanes and hollow ways towards the coast. The journey took something like two hours. I loved the walk under the elms and oak trees and between the hedgerows of hazel, hornbeam, and spindle where I would occasionally pick a bluebell or primrose, a wood anemone or yellow archangel to press between the pages of a book. Wrens, hedge-sparrows and whitethroats could be seen flittering amongst the depths. Song thrushes and blackbirds hopped at the hedge bottoms eating earthworms, slugs and snails and during the autumn months berry crops would be food for yellowhammers, bullfinches and chaffinches. In winter, fieldfares and redwings could be spotted. The hedgerows were alive with song and the movement of flittering butterflies, moths and birds as I dawdled my way homewards.

Occasionally, my two brothers would accompany me during the Summer vacation with packed lunches in hand. They would spend the morning playing on the Downs whilst I rode. When the three of us met up after my ride, rather than walk back along the beach we’d make out way home through the woods and across the Downs, High Down, Salvington and Cissbury Ring . We walked the dark cool depths of the ancient deciduous woods, dominated by oaks where midges danced in the beams of sunlight. Sometimes we’d spot a lone rabbit or fox and above our heads grey squirrels would jump from branch to branch. As we moved further down well-trodden trails, we would occasionally espy an adder sunning itself in a sun drenched spot and as we drew near it would slide silently to disappear into the undergrowth. Tits foraged in the trees, constantly calling to each other and we would often stop and listen for the drumming of great spotted woodpeckers. The woods were a magical place, with trees to climb, glades of inordinate beauty to be investigated and streams to explore. As we walked through the deepest depths we would tell one another dark frightening stories. We were never afraid for we were the ‘Three Musketeers’.

But soon the trails would lead us through and into the sunlight where we’d frolic in the fields, collect stones and flints, find Roman arrowheads, and pick wildflowers. We’d dawdle along the bridleways in the warm late afternoon air, chasing butterflies, chasing one another, playing out our dreams, the three of us discussing our future. We’d climb ancient stiles and make our way through cornfields, across paddocks and follow the ancient tracks made centuries before by the other footsteps of our ancestors. We would stop and rest and survey the view, which was far ranging across meandering rivers, the rolling Weald and the coast. We’d watch the deep sun blushing rose disappear beneath the sea from the top escarpment of Cissbury Ring, an ancient hillfort, before making our way in the opalescent light towards home. Foot sore, and weary, but happy, we would arrive home just as the night drew in. In bed, after a quick supper of bread and cheese, we would listen to the slow rhythmic smash of the waves upon the seashore, which would lull our tired legs and bodies into sleep.

On stormy days, we would run down to the beach and play a game we had created which we had named ‘beating the wave’. As the wave hit the groyne (breakwater) it would rear up high into the air with a roar before dropping to smash onto the pebbled beach below. Our game was ‘chicken’. When the turbulent water receded we would run down the pebbles, stand as close to the groyne as we could and wait for another wave to sweep in. When it swept in hitting the groyne and reared up over us we would make a dash back up the beach, slipping and sliding on the wet pebbles with the wave arching over our heads, trying to beat it before it crashed down onto us. We were frequently drenched and I can remember our Mother none too pleased when we arrived home sodden. One time, our Father took a black and white photograph of the three of us caught under a wave as it reared up, the sea receding from around our feet. He did not capture the look of fear and anticipation on our faces as we were about to make a dash up the beach. Paul in the middle, Carl and I on either side, clinging to his arms. Our faces were pure anticipation of the run to come but who would chicken out first!

On another day, I recall Worthing having a terrific storm. Our Father bundled the three of us up into raincoats and wellington boots and to our Mother’s disgust we dashed down to the Beach. With the wind and rain stinging our faces, we fought to walk against the gale. I can remember the channel was a dark, foaming grey and the seafront was covered in a thick sea spray. The sea had come up over the beach and had begun to flood the roadway. The noise was unbelievable, the roar of the water in our ears, the thunder and lightening above, the fear in our chests as we watched the lightening hit the water with a massive crack and dance across its blackness before disappearing. Sea and sky became one, a heaving wild fury. We had to hold onto one another to keep standing and we could not hear ourselves speak above the tremendous cacophony. For an hour or more we remained watching, listening, becoming a part of the frenzy of nature. Drenched and cold, I can recall Dad’s sparking eyes and laughter as he held the three of us close together in his arms. Arriving home sodden, a burning coal fire in the grate, I can still hear Mum complaining that he was utterly crazy. The three of us were plonked into a hot bath, which was followed by toasted buttered crumpets and dainty fairy cakes. We ate silently, sitting in our pyjamas, in front of the fire, the sound and sights of what we had just witnessed still fresh in our minds.

But now the three musketeers have parted, to find our dreams in other lands but one still remains to tread those ancient magical pathways of our childhood.

I have always been able to visualise and have been able to evoke images into my mind. It is why I enjoy reading so much. Words can present themselves to me as vividly seen events or objects. To me, words have a life of their own. They are not letters running across a page. Under and through them I perceive a content of knowledge and experience and have an awareness of the innumerable shades that lie hidden beneath and behind them. By very simple effort of will I can evoke vivid images into my mind of the distant places they portray. Place and distance cease to be of importance. Real or imaginary I have always played games with mental images. Perhaps the above explains why I was a late reader. Not only did I have to contend with learning the words but also with the images they provoked!

I have a habit of jotting things down, anything that concerns or interests me into notebooks which I constantly carry around with me. They contain expressions from my children, thoughts, bits of conversation that might be useful, comments and reflections on current affairs, on books I read, descriptions of people I meet. Much of it is totally irrelevant and would be incomprehensible to others but I suspect it has helped with putting my thoughts into words.

I came late to reading. It wasn’t until I was eight and a half that I picked up my first book - Enid Blyton’s ‘The Circus of Adventure’ which a classroom teacher in primary school was reading. She was only halfway through the book when classes finished for the Easter break. I asked her if I could borrow the book as it had somehow caught not only my attention but also my imagination and for the first time, I couldn’t wait to hear how the story ended.

I can recall the look of amazement on Ms Pembleton’s face even today. She handed it over to me without hesitation but with strict instructions not to bend the corners of the pages and to read it with clean hands and to take care of it. I carried it home very carefully, a treasured possession.

My parents too were amazed - I didn’t read, I didn’t write, no one could understand a word I spoke. (Apparently, I gabbled; words came out backwards, I turned sentences inside out, started in the middle and ended up at the beginning and I missed words altogether - something I still do today if overly excited!) Only my Mother and Father truly understood my chatter and here I was returning home with a book in my hand. Nothing was said as I carried it proudly to my room. And there I lay struggling with its words during the first day of my vacation; within an hour I had read a page, within 2 hours a chapter, within a day, I had finished the book. My father was overjoyed and that Saturday he took me to my first bookshop - a second hand bookshop - and told me I could choose any book I wanted. How I browsed those shelves but Enid Blyton had won me over and I selected another of her novels “The Sea of Adventure’. My father, as I recall, excitedly explained to the owner my sudden remarkable ability. He too took an interest and told me that once I had finished the book I had selected, I could exchange it at no cost for another and thus my feet were set upon a path.

I suspect I had always been able to read and write before reading Enid Blyton but had never been interested until that point in time. I continued to dream most of my school days away, most of the teaching went over my head. Was it boredom or was I just not interested? Looking back I’m not sure. Yes, I was terribly bored, so I made a little world for myself and disappeared into it during school days. Popping out occasionally when life became interesting. I lapped up English Literature though I wasn’t very good at English and I stood shivering before mathematics. I would certainly have never made it at being a scholar! Yet, in some ways I enjoyed school but now how I wish I had paid more attention. I suppose I did work conscientiously, but not with enthusiasm. Most of the time my head was buried in books, always reading. I read hugely, indiscriminately, just for the fun of it; I still do. Swinging from Shakespeare to the modern novel, from biographies to poetry.