by Maggie B Dickinson Based on a true story. I had a similar version published in Northern Life When it comes to secrets, the tiny village of Sunderland Point leads the field. Growing out of a peat bog, lashed by westerly gales, cut off by the tide twice a day – and with its only…
Category: Travel
Corfu 1988
Corfu 1988 We drive cautiously round the tight bend to a cluster of sleepy cottages growing out of a profusion of oranges and lemons. Rusty olive oil tins monopolise every square inch of space, vomiting monstrous geraniums and pelargoniums. Doors, window frames and shutters are painted in bright peeling blues and greens, with roses the…
A paddle up the Pennines 1977
A paddle up the Pennines 1977 Published June 2012 in Down Your Way as “Jubilee bunting spurs us on for big walk” To celebrate my fortieth birthday in 1977 I walked the Pennine Way with my late husband David and 12-year old daughter Vanessa. Sodden sheep lurking without intent behind dry stone walls, life-threatening peat…
Guide Dog on Samos
Guide Dog on Samos April-May 1989 I’m not a huge fan of animals, being nervous of most dogs and squeamish about wildlife. But just now and again I could cheerfully take a cute little pup or a fluffy kitten home with me: like the winsome little mongrel we met on Samos. My late husband, known…
The Wrinkled English Woman on Patmos
I was so mad I could have Riverdanced on the spot in sheer temper. To make matters worse I was minding my own business at the time. Before she delivered the blow I could honestly say that not only was I happy I was at peace with the world – but let me rewind to…
France – Normandy – Saved For A Rainy Day
Saved For A Rainy Day Despite William the Conqueror invading England in 1066 we do not generally speak French, apart from using thousands of French words we inherited like “impossible” and “serviette” that invaded our mother tongue. They are pronounced as we think fit since it is not the wont of Brits to learn other…
The Morris Eight
Maggie B Dickinson – Published in Best of British June 2014 In 1951 five of us squeezed into a tiny 1934 Morris Eight. Its registration was AKA 738 and the suspension was wicked. None of our neighbours owned a car and, considering few travelled more than the thirty-odd miles to Blackpool for their Wakes Week, they…
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