Michael Keyton's Blog

Rain

Yes, a new book, the latest occult adventures of John Grey and Elizabeth McBride.  But where does the story begin? 1680, when John Wickins creates two alchemical mirrors? 

One contains a crack, a glimpse into Hell, an opening for demons.

The other allows access into another dimension, one where a nightmare awaits. 

 

In 1937 one of the mirrors comes to life.

In 2035 children disappear—and then one child returns….

For those who don’t know, most of my novels and stories centre around Newport Wales, a dark, seedy and magical city, the unimaginable just around the next corner . . . or the one after that, my own little Arkham. 

 

The cover beautifully evokes a dark and  sinister alternative Newport and one of those that haunt it.

 

And below is a short extract I hope you like.

Jane's daughter has just put on her red coat and gone out for milk. Jane is possessed by a profound sense of unease.

'Later she would call it presentiment, a sense of darkness, unseen but felt in her stomach. She found it suddenly difficult to breathe and leant into the window, focused on the street, on Janelle, a shining red star on a clear but cold winter’s night. 

All good. Normal. 

But it wasn’t all good. Something was ‘off.’ Jane shivered and closed her eyes. She would chase after Janelle now before it was too late. When she opened them again, Janelle had gone. In her place stood a man in a trenchcoat and old-fashioned hat. He carried an umbrella and was looking upwards, staring at her.

#

Dampness clung like snail juice, turning within minutes into a steady drizzle, soaking her through. Janelle spun around, the road at the edge of a darkening vision. She glimpsed houses passed every day but now fading or seeming to change shape.

 Drizzle turned into rain, and the air smelled sour, of mud and decay. This was ridiculous. Janelle tried to retreat—go home—laugh about it all with her mum over milk-less cocoa and a blazing fire. She found it impossible. Rain and a gathering wind forced her down the hill, in the distance, Newport a dingy smear of light that faded and then vanished.

The gloom around her deepened, the air somehow crooked; houses melted in shadow, blended into the rain and were lost. The road narrowed, no longer the road she had been running on. Janelle gasped, tried not to panic or scream for fear of alerting what she sensed but couldn’t yet see. She should have reached the shops by now, but she knew they weren’t there.  She ran along uncharted roads, the familiar swallowed by terror.

The rain gushed and twisted as though seeking to dissolve and consume, possessed of malevolent life. She raced through a tunnel of houses, the road now almost a river. Rain splattered her face like fat in a pan, and she ran, gasping for breath, eyes screwed against the hiss; the greyness a sheath that held her and prevented escape. She ran past trees that hadn’t been there before, leafless branches stretched in an endless, soundless scream.

The rain eased, its mysterious purpose achieved, and Janelle found herself in a world of mist and twisty streets and long ragged pools where once there had been cars.

It was a world of greyness, one that had depth and felt tangible, a cold, greasy smoke that settled and slowly embalmed her. Shapes that might have been houses closed in. The street narrowed into a lane. . . and alleyway . . . a flicker of black. 

 Janelle swivelled but there was no going back. The road had gone, replaced by an impenetrable wall of red brick. She turned to where the road wanted her to go and dug her hand into a side pocket. Her phone felt sticky and damp but mercifully worked. 

Janelle’s thumb scrolled for utilities, and she switched on the torch. A thin, hazy beam cut through the mist and picked out a man in a trenchcoat, dark felt hat and a black umbrella. He was still, appeared to be waiting, waiting for her.'

 

Walking around the harbour, I noticed the history of Killybegs described in a series of some very nice polished steel  plates. I have one here for illustration and to vent my spleen -- one of those weird bodily functions I’ve never quite got the hang off. The thought and money that went into this and yet they have the wrong date. Elizabeth on the throne in 1556? No wonder poor old ‘Bloody Mary was paranoid about her sister. No wonder my spleen was vented.

A moment or two later, I was about to vent my newly repaired spleen again!

I'd heard of Celtic Cells. There was an island to the west studded with them, many with holes in the roof so that God and the rain could commune with them directly. Surely they should have been referrng to ‘Celtic Christians." What about St Patrick for goodness sake? 

And then, shortly after I was humbled on learning more. A humbled spleen, however, is easy to deal with, you just move on, live, and add to your knowledge.

But beardies from Egypt? What were they doing in fifth century Ireland?

The Well of St Catherine was to reveal all.

Coptic monks on a trading mission suffered a devastating storm off the coast of Donegal.  They prayed earnestly to St Catherine of Alexandria, and on being safely delivered into Killibeg’s harbour built a shrine to her which remains to this day. In other words, St Patrick was not the only game in town. 

Coptic monks were active in France throughout this period and there is evidence they had cells in Ireland, too. 

 It is likely the original settlement was built around it. In fact the name Killybegs refers to 'little cells.' And possibly built before St Patrcik began his mission.  Above the shrine is the much later St Catherine’s Church and graveyard dating from the 1400s and the remains of Kit’s castle of which but a few stones now remain.

And yes, out of curiosity and respect and perhaps the possibility that Saint Catherine might have a mild interest in cancer, I knelt down, cupped my hands and drank some ice-cold water – much to the audible disgust of some Americans—much to my body’s disgust when afterwards I tried to rise to my feet. It could have been a full body immersion—which then again may have had results. 

Initially, I was not impressed by St Mary of Visitation. It seemed relatively modern and the inside confirmed it. Again, I was in for an awakening. It was nearing the end of morning mass, and we waited outside until it ended. When we at last entered, I knelt as I always do for a brief prayer, but no words came. None were needed. There descended upon me a blanket of peace—the only way I can describe it—that lasted for some time.

On leaving the church we passed a crocodile of children being herded by two young, attractive teachers. I caught their eye, and they responded ith a cheery ‘Good Morning!’ and ‘How are Youse?”

My day was made further when the church bells rang the Angelus in the town square, the old Ave Maria tune. It was akin to being transported to the deep past, as though the years had passed Killibegs by – or at least treated it kindly.

And then of course there was the magnificent Guinness at the Harbour View hotel, that and a large pot of Irish tea for a very reasonable 7 Euros.

And then we made our way back to the ship

It was farewell to the Guiness

Farewell to Killybegs

We passed through the same harbour and cliffs those C5th Coptic monks experienced all those years ago; those same cliffs a remnant of the storm-tossed Spanish Armada struggled by in 1588. 

Killybegs was the last port the Spanish La Girona called in for repairs and assistance from the staunchly catholic town. That was the good news. 

Repaired and supplied, La Girone took on board the survivors of four other Spanish ships and set sail with renewed hope – not in a successful invasion but just on getting back home. It was wrecked off the coast of Antrim. Only nine of the 1,300 crew survived. 

I don't suppose coptic monks or Spanish invaders were taking much interest in the spectacular geology of the cliffs.

But they may have been distracted by my appalling attempt at a panoramic view which unfortunately turned out like a view from the mouth of 'Jaws'. But without the music. 

* Killibegs or Killybegs. It's apparently a matter of choice.

Torshaven from on high. The noble Fred Olsen ship is centre-right. 



Sipping coffee, we saw a never ending stream of containor ships entering the harbour, importing what the Faroes cannot produce for themselves, and paid for by its fishing industry 




The traditional sod roof

Far from being an embarrassment the sod roof is to the Faroese what thatch is to us. It’s not just picturesque nor necessarily a sign of poverty. The sod roof is more than functional. It covers the slates underneath, its weight protecting them from north Atlantic gales. It acts as insulation. It absorbs much of the rain. And repairs are so simple, I like to think even I could do it – replacing a damaged square of sod with a fresh one. Thatching on the other is a longer more technical job and has a long waiting list. I’ve been told there is only one qualified thatcher for the whole of Buckinghamshire. There. So now you know.

Torshaven, or Thor’s harbour is the capital and the largest settlement in the Faroes with 25% of the population. We are standing on the Tinganes peninsula dividing the harbour in two; more to the point it is where the Norse established their parliament (Tinge)  in AD 850, Tinganes meaning ‘Parliament jetty.’ It is one of the oldest parliaments in the world, along with the Isle of Man’s Tynwald; it remains a key centre of Faroese government, though some offices have recently been decentralised. It was a strange feeling walking these C16th streets and comparing it with Downing St or Whitehall, the White House or the Pentagon. A door opened and a young lady bumped into me. It could have been the Foreign Secretary for all I knew. She looked very nice, so she probably wasn’t.

Torshaven is the smallest capital in Europe. Klaksvik is even more minute. What you see is what you get. We walked through it on a bleak and rainy day. People clustered into the Tourist information and shopping centre to avoid the drench and because it had free Wi Fi. A few hardy souls ventured out.

What I think is the library, a brave attempt at modernism, a futile gesture against the landscape.

Wherever you look is the harbour and a thin straggle of housing lining its sides

The ubiquitous sod roof

                       Many of the houses come with incorporated boat-houses instead of a garage.

Hardly surprising. Those mountains were designed to break the spirit or prompt escape to the sea and beyond

As we sailed away, I tried to imagine living in Klaksvík in winter, often snowbound and with only four hours of daylight. I tried to imagine the long hours of darkness, the hours of unremitting gloom and wondered about those houses, no doubt cosy inside but drab and utilitarian from outside. I was struck by the muted colours – blacks and browns and grey – despondent colours. I would need a roaring log-fire, a well-stocked library and endless whisky to get me through those winter months. But then again, what scenery. And there’s always the fish.

My attempt of a panoramic farewell

The Faroes were reputedly discovered by the Sixth Century Irish Monk St Brendan who also, according to legend, discovered America in a large leather curragh. Not for him a comfortable cruise and afternoon tea.  He named one island the Paradise of Birds and another the Isle of Sheep, which also indicates others had discovered the islands before him, unless these were the legendary aquatic sheep of Atlantis. 

The Norse settled the islands in the C9th – C10th and introduced Christianity in 1000 AD. They have been successively ruled by Norway and Denmark, and occupied by Britain in World War II after Germany invaded Denmark. From that point on the Faroese developed a taste for chocolate and the semi-independence that British occupation had allowed. In 1948 this was recognised with the Home Rule Act of the Faroe Islands,  which gave them a large degree of self-rule within the kingdom of Denmark. 

One Faroese boasted to me that they were as large as France but with just 1% of its land, the rest consisting of ocean. Ninety percent of its exports consist of fish, and they keep Europe well out of their fishing grounds. In itself, this illustrates the degree of autonomy the Faroes enjoy; Denmark is part of the EU but not the Faroe Islands. They know full well they would lose all their fish if they were.

Our first port of call was Kirkjubør, a tiny settlement but with some significant remains.

Saint Olav’s Church in Kirkjubør on the island of Stremoy is C12th and the oldest church in the Faroes. 

Next to  it are the C14th ruins of St Magnus Cathedral abandoned and left to decay after the Reformation. 

Kirkjubøargarøur or Yard of the Church and also known as King’s Farm dates back to the C11th and is possibly the oldest occupied wooden house in the world. It began as the Bishop’s residence and seminary, but since 1550 has been inhabited by the same family for seventeen generations.  

The wood itself is a source of fascination since the Faroes are virtually treeless. One legend has it that it was built from driftwood, which to my mind is a bit of a stretch.

Above is the head of King Sverre Sigurdsson who was trained for the priesthood when the building acted as a seminary. Asked by the local bishop whether he really wanted to be a priest or instead king of Norway, he opted for the latter, and led a rebellion of poor tax resisters nicknamed 'Birch-legs,' so called because their poverty led them to wear birch bark trousers. 




   Sverre  ruled Norway 1184 to 1202.
                                              



This table is special. A ship from Dundee was shipwrecked. All drowned but for one sailor who clung to this particular piece of timber for a night and day, eventually being washed up at Kirkjubør. Suffering from acute hypothermia, he was saved by the body heat of a local farmer who lay on top of him. (The case for the defence rests, M’Lud). The wood was salvaged along with the man and turned into this table. According to tradition, that same sailor returned many years later and the first thing he did was to hug the table in gratitude. Had to be prised away. 

You can spot a bit of salmon farming far left 

The road to Torshaven but always the sea  (Did I mention  the size of France with just 1% of its land :) )

We have various schools of history, two in particular: a traditional Whig school and the Marxist school which is class driven. I’ve recently come round to the ‘Scoundrel school’ which posits that whatever school you choose, the scoundrel ultimately comes out on top. Driven to despair by capitalist scoundrels a communist alternative swiftly unleashes scoundrels of its own. The devil and pond scum will out. 

I was thinking of this when reading about ‘Black Patie’ which sounds like something you might find in a delicatessen.

Earl Patrick was an illegitimate cousin of James VI of Scotland (1st of England). In their youth, they had been good friends but there were fault lines. Patrick was over ambitious, reckless and arrogant. He was not known as ‘Black Patie’ for nothing, being both violent and cruel and with a taste for the finer things in life—which he could not afford. His palace, completed in 1606 was taken from him in 1607 by royal decree and given to the bishop of Orkney. 

By this time, Black Patie  was drowning in debt and becoming more desperate as the king turned against him for his ‘monyfauld wrongis.’ These included theft of lands and funds, the oppression of local people, kidnapping, torture and murder. He was just simply bad. In 1596 he married Margaret Livingstone, a wealthy widow. After squandering her fortune, Patrick left her to die in poverty. They had no children, though 

Patrick was profligate with his seed, spawning several bastards. 

In 1609 he was imprisoned in Edinburgh and later Dumbarton, indicted for treason in 1610 and beheaded in 1615. 

These things happen, but  he did leave behind a rather nice (the finest in Scotland) Renaissance palace in distant Orkney. 

Or as it may have looked then (before the Earl of Caithness's cannon gave it a bit of a bashing in 1614.) Even so, it was a close run thing, as the Earl of Caithness ruefully observed:

The castle was so strong that some of his cannonballs had broken like golf balls and split in two halves —or in his words (cannone billets both brokkin lyk goulfe balls upoune the castelle and clovin in twa halffis). 

For more on Black Patie

.

St Magnus was not your normal Viking. When the king of Norway led an attack on Anglesey, Magnus refused to get off the ship and fight. Instead, he stayed onboard to sing psalms. This clearly pleased God, because Magnus went on to rule Orkney with his cousin Hâkon, until they fell out and he was axed in the head by his cousin’s cook. 

He was buried in a barren rocky place, which miraculously turned into a grassy field. When further miracles occurred the local bishop, William the Old, told everyone not to be so silly, until he was struck blind. Following the restoration of his sight by praying at the grave of Magnus, William became Magnus’s greatest champion and was instrumental in building the cathedral  in nearby Kirkwall. 

Building began in 1135 under the auspices of Rögnvald Kolsson who himself became a saint after being murdered by an argumentative Scotsman. 

The cathedral is built from red and yellow sandstone and follows the Romanesque style, a smaller version of Durham Cathedral. In fact the stone masons from Durham were said to have travelled to the Orkneys and started much of the building. It would have involved an impressive journey across rough seas in relatively primitive ships, and illustrates early medieval mobility.

St Magnus

St Olaf   



 Templar Stone
An interesting medieval curiosity is this stone memorialising an unknown Knight Templar, piquant but not actually telling us very much. 





Later monuments and stones are much more definite in telling the stories of those they represent. This insouciant fellow clearly comfortable in death is 
JOHN RAEARCTIC EXPLORERIINTREPID DISCOVERER OF THE FATE OF  SIR JOHN FRANKLIN'S LAST EXPEDITIONBORN 1815 DIED 1893 

Even from a distance, some tombs stand out. And what makes this so refreshing is the idealism, certainty, and the unabashed confidence in the Victorian mission. Worth reading and contemplating ‘white guilt.’

The Cathedral also has one of the finest collections of C17th gravestones. Some years ago, it was decided to ‘tidy up’ the graveyard. Bodies were disinterred and reburied en-masse. Their gravestones now line the walls of the Cathedral, their message unremittingly grim. Aware of my own sell-by-date they made for sombre reading. Every stone was etched with skulls, crossbones and sometimes hour glasses. All ended with the same cheerful message:  'Remember Death'

For those unable to squint and decipher, each stone offers a glimpse into the past with a readable translation, one of unremitting gloom.











Grinning and cavorting high above the Prebysterian morbidity, medieval carvings of the Green Man, Sheela-na-gigs and other grotesqueries..

 






And confession time, what I didn't see but read about later, this is the only cathedral in the British Isles with its own dungeon, very handy for witches. One of the first witches tried and executed was Allison Balfour in 1594. Balfour was accused of being hired by Patrick Stewart, 2nd Earl of Orkney, to poison his brother. Patrick Stewart was acquitted, Balfour was executed. 


Addendum

THE LEGEND OF MARWICK’S HOLE

One of the more unique designs of the church involves the use of a dungeon. The dungeon is called Marwick’s Hole. The cathedral did not always have a dungeon. It is thought that the dungeon was added as a prisoner holding cell at some point – possibly around 1540 and was in use into the 18th century. The chamber is found between the south wall of the choir and the south transept chapel and is the only cathedral in the British Isles with a dungeon. Originally the chamber was accessed from an upper chamber where prisoners would be deposited via a chute, although a more humane ladder was added later.

The Dungeon’s most famous inmate tells of a terrible time in history. Janet Forsyth lived in nearby Westray in the 17th century. The story is told of Janet who had a dream that her sweetheart Benjamin would perish at sea. The following day, Benjamin and several other men were set to head out fishing. The day was fine and he scoffed at her claims he would meet his end if he sailed. Ignoring her pleas, the men headed out. Before long a thick fog descended and Benjamin and the men never returned. The people of Westray blamed Janet for the loss of the fishermen and Janet was branded a witch. Janet retreated to live in solitude as her tarnished reputation grew. 

A few years later, a ship was spotted in trouble off Westray’s coastline. As the storm raged, islanders waited for the ship to capsize and break up, hoping to find a windfall of treasures wash ashore.  Janet tried to rally them to go and offer assistance but no one stepped forward. So Janet launched her own small boat into the storm to help the stricken ship. Despite the storm, she managed to get to the ship and guided it safely to the shelter of Pierowall Bay. This act of bravery sealed her fate. No woman could go up against a storm like that and survive? Surely she was a witch! A trial was held in 1629 in Kirkwall. She was found guilty of witchcraft and sentenced to death. As the sentence was read out, she looked out across the gathered crowd. There she saw Benjamin standing in a naval uniform. He had not perished at sea – but had been press-ganged into the navy. On seeing him, she allegedly screamed out “Save me, Ben!” before being dragged from the trial and tossed into the dungeon at Marwick’s Hole. However, when they went to retrieve her from the dungeon the next day for her execution, the dungeon was empty. Local tradition says she was rescued by her love, Benjamin.

Courtesy of  USA River Cruises.

I had been looking forward to seeing Skara Brae, one of the key reasons for our journey to the far north. It wasn’t to be. We arrived to find the site closed because of gale force winds. I found that hard to believe. Wind for goodness sake. Still, despite my grumblings we settled for a Neolithic alternative, the Ring of Brogdar and its surrounds. There we discovered what a gale force wind meant.

 Brogdar was inland, Skara Brae on the coast, the wind there even fiercer. Brogdar was bad enough. We were playthings in its grasp. Walking uphill with the wind behind us, cagoules billowed, and we flew up like kites. Taking photographs was even more difficult: feet firmly planted in a vain attempt to gain anchorage we waited for when the wind took breath. In those brief moments, when we weren’t being buffeted like punching bags, ten or more camera phones clicked. 

The Ring of Brodgar is older than the Pyramids and Stonehenge, the neighbouring stones of Stenness even older. A neighbouring  site, the Ness of Brodgar, was once a vast ceremonial centre that attracted people far and wide. Partially excavated it has since been ‘reburied’ in order to preserve it for future archaeologists.

All three sites illustrate how central Orkney was in Neolithic commerce.  At a crossroads of sea routes, the island was a vital point for trade and travel across the North Atlantic. The thousands of artefacts unearthed, artefacts from across northern Europe and further south  add to the evidence of a thriving neolithic civilisation.

 

The Stones of Stenness originally twelve are now down to seven, largely because of a deranged farmer tired of tourists tramping his land. He demolished five of them and was about to blow up another until angry locals prevented him. The so-called Odin stone has now also unfortunately vanished but remains potent in folk lore and myth. For those interested in the Odin Stone and the  doomed love of  a hapless Orkney pirate click here and scroll down

I had been looking forward to seeing Skara Brae, one of the key reasons for our journey to the far north. It wasn’t to be. We arrived to find the site closed because of gale force winds. I found that hard to believe. Wind for goodness sake. Still, despite my grumblings we settled for a Neolithic alternative, the Ring of Brogdar and its surrounds. There we discovered what a gale force wind meant.

 Brogda was inland, Skara Brae on the coast, the wind there even fiercer. Brogda was bad enough. We were playthings in its grasp. Walking uphill with the wind behind us, kagoules billowed, and we flew up like kites. Taking photographs was even more difficult: feet firmly planted in a vain attempt to gain anchorage we waited for when the wind took breath. In those brief moments, when we weren’t being buffeted like punching bags, ten or more phones and cameras clicked. 

The ring of Brodgar is older than the pyramids and Stonehenge, the neighbouring stones of Stenness even older. A neighbouring  site, the Ness of Brodgar, was once a vast ceremonial centre that attracted people far and wide. Partially excavated it has since been ‘reburied’ in order to preserve it for future archaeologists.

All three sites illustrate how central Orkney was in Neolithic commerce.  At a crossroads of sea routes, the island was a vital point for trade and travel across the North Atlantic. The thousands of artefacts unearthed, artefacts from across northern Europe and further south  adds to the evidence of a thriving neolithic civilisation.

 

The Stones of Stenness originally twelve are now down to seven, largely because of a deranged farmer tired of tourists tramping his land. He demolished five of them and was about to blow up another until angry locals prevented him. The so-called Odin stone has now also unfortunately vanished but remains potent in folk lore and myth. For those interested in the Odin Stone and the  doomed love of  a hapless Orkney pirate click here and scroll down

Enroute to Stornoway, we sailed past Fingal's Cave,  the Isle of Skye and other, smaller islands. It felt like we were taking the sea route to Mordor. 

Fingal’s Cave

Stornoway is famous for its black pudding and for being an integral part of the late night shipping forecast. It also has a long history of conflict, largely over land. It was occupied by the Vikings who called it Stjórnavágr, its main settlement being built around a natural harbour. 

Stornoway and harbour

In later years it was controlled by Clan  MacNicol, who were later dispossessed by Clan MacLeod who in turn struggled against the greed of other more legal minded Scots egged on by James VI who in 1598 ‘gave’ the island to a trading company, ‘The Fife Adventurers.’ Great name.

His great desire was the ‘de-Gaelicisation’ of the islands, demanding the ‘slauchter, mutilation, fyre-raising or utheris inconveniencies’ if necessary. As far as I can see, the Scots had little to learn from the English when it came to  colonialism. 

Stornoway successfully resisted, and in 1610, James, now King of England and Scotland ‘gave’ the island to the Mackenzie's of Kintail in the hope they’d prove more ruthless. Neil MacLeod was captured and taken to Edinburgh where, without irony, he was accused of fire raising, murder, piracy and theft, and beheaded. A noble would have been beheaded alive. A small mercy or perhaps final humiliation—Neil MacLeod was instead beheaded postmortem, his head put on a spike. The Mackenzies were quite ruthless in dispossessing tenants and ‘clearing’ the land, and the tradition continued when in 1844 Stornoway was bought for £500,000 by another Scotsman, James Matheson. 

The English are sometimes blamed for the Highland Clearances – especially amongst Scottish Nationalists who now like to distance themselves from the great Imperial Adventure—as if they had no part in it but were in fact the victims. James Matheson hadn't been given the message. He made his fortune from the ‘Opium Trade’ and the naked bullying of a then weak China. Having bought Stornoway he proceeded to build Lewes Castle, clearing 500 families off the land by encouraging them to emigrate to Canada. The policy was encouraged further by the Highland potato famine which saw over a third of population of the western Highlands and Isles  ‘move on.’ 

Lewes Castle. Victorian grandeur 
!

In 1918, Lord Leverhulme bought the Isles of Lewis and Harris. He had ambitious plans that would have revolutionised the lives of those living there. Fisheries, efficient farming, roads, the works. The problem was local crofters wanted no part of it. And they were prepared to fight.  Eventually Lord Leverhulme saw sense and abandoned the great project, though not without one final and generous flourish, returning the land and the castle itself to the people of Stornoway.

I remember getting my first pair of football boots. I was ten or eleven and had just come out of hospital and thus my football career began; badly, though I didn’t know it then. Instead, I was consumed with excitement like a medieval knight preparing for battle. Admittedly no armour or horse, not even a sword, but a brand new pair of leather football boots and a round tin of Dubbin. 

Heraldry would be added at school in the form of white shorts and a heavy but brightly coloured football shirt. But first the squirearchal duties — dubbin the boots and leaving them to soak overnight. In the morning, supervised by my dad, I would buff them until they shone. That was the theory. 

The following day, battle commenced on a damp and freezing field. The team captain knew my worth, or lack of it, putting me in defence for want of a better alternative. I hopped on the spot, tense with excitement. A whistle blew, and we were off. What happened next is a half-forgotten blur: balls were passed to me, and I kicked spiritedly at air as the ball sailed past. Sometimes I made contact but ending up passing it to the opposing side. I ran all over the place, up and down the pitch, sideways and back, nowhere in sight of a ball, but with the smartest pair of boots on the field. Eventually they put me in goal. An equally poor decision. And so ended my footballing career.

I was reminded of all this when, many years later, our son played his first football match for the school. He looked splendid in his gold-coloured shirt and white shorts, his shiny new boots I wanted to put dubbin on (withdrawal symptoms) but couldn’t. The boots were modern plastic or something. The pitch was freezing, noses running in cold, shouts of support and encouragement lost in a blistering wind.

Being more intelligent than me, our eleven-year-old son had an uncanny knack of knowing where the ball would be at any one moment (I think it’s called ‘reading the ball’) and so would be there waiting for it when it came. Cheers erupted—pleas—orders barked all of which our son ignored as he watched, with mild interest, the ball rolling by his feet. He’d ‘read the ball.’ What more did they want? I felt very proud of him. What could he not have done had there been dubbin on his boots?