Writer of science fiction and fantasy and other stuff
Goodness, I’ve neglected to keep up to date here. Partly because there have been a lot of trips out of London recently, and by the time I was back home I seemed to need ages to recover. Encroaching age!
My first ever Eastercon was a fascinating experience. Follycon took place in the very grand Majestic Hotel in Harrogate, on the kind of grey and rainy weekend that England has specialised in this winter (and spring).
All this self-promotion for Fifty-One, alongside grafting away at the current work in progress (more on that another time). Well, it gets tiring, and I need to recharge my batteries.
So, I’ll be offline for a few days, walking the latest instalment of England’s South West Coast Path: 630 miles of largely glorious (but often challenging) coastal trail.
I used to dream of doing the whole trail in one go, turning myself into some kind of salty, hermit for six weeks in the wilds. A couple of years ago I accepted that this was never going to happen, and I’ve since been tackling the walk in sections.
I started in Minehead, north Somerset, and headed west, with the sea on my right. Last October I reached St Ives in Cornwall (one of my favourite places in the world). Now, with winter over, I’m heading down to St Ives again to pick up the path and walk round Land’s End.
You can follow my progress on my alter ego’s blog here
When I get back, it’s off to FollyCon. Busy, busy, busy.
It only happens a day or two in every few years, but when it does it’s always glorious. The temperature drops and out of the dreary overcast of the normal British winter sky comes the snow.
In that magical way of fresh snow, for a day or two even the ugliest of districts is transformed into a marshmallow wonderland. The bare trees are lined with cotton wool and a white carpet lays a gentle hush over the inner city streets.
A benign hysteria grips the neighbourhood. Within hours, everyone has scoured their homes for the sledge that has been shoved into the cellar and neglected for a year. Failing a sledge, tin trays, the tops of wheelie bins, bits of plywood; anything that can slide down an icy hill is pressed quickly into service.
Aaaand….all at once, south east London is transformed into a Dickensian tableau.
Or maybe it’s Breugel. Anyway, I’m not writing. Gone sledging.