I knew t had to happen one day. I had had a sense of foreboding for a while.

Wildsworth is a beautiful if isolated place, on the eastern bank of the River Trent. Its beauty lies in its very wildness. I am drawn to wild places, and for the past couple of weeks have gone back and back and back to this place. I wanted to know it. REALLY know it. To know its past. To know about the lives of the people there over the ages. I wanted to know what joys, sorrows and tragedies it contained.

This river has always fascinated me, yet at the same time filled me with a sense of dread. It is a very powerful river, with fast flowing currents, and if you fall into it you haven’t much chance of coming out alive. As you drive along the river bank from one small village to another, you often see lifebuoys attached to the walls of pubs, houses, etc.

I had a friend who died in that river. Her name was Molly. A most beautiful person. But when she was in her forties something went badly wrong in her head. She tried on numerous occasions to wade into the river, to drown herself. She never succeeded. Until on one occasion she took herself to Keadby Bridge, some miles up the river from where she lived, and jumped from the bridge into the river. She hadn’t a chance. The middle of the river is very deep and dangerous. But of course she knew that. That was why in the end she went there.

Molly was one of my best friends. A very humble, self sacrificial lady. She gave up her bed for me once, on a Retreat that we went on in Yorkshire. I had been assigned to a dormitory with a lot of other women, but I had not long been out of hospital where I had been for three months, being treated for tuberculosis. I had been on complete bed rest, and barrier nursed. I was not allowed out of my bed at all for that whole three months, and was not used to being with people any more. So by the time I left hospital, I was not good at dealing with lots of people chattering around me. I had signed up for the Retreat not realising that I would not be able to deal with lots of people in a dormitory. Molly stepped in to help. She offered me her bed in a private room. She and a mutual friend called Marjorie had booked this room to share together. Feeling rather reluctant, as I don’t like to put people out, I accepted gratefully. Molly gave up her bed in a really nice room, for me. I will never forget her for that.

Just recently, my brother, who knew nothing of this (he is 11 years younger than me) purchased the bungalow where Molly had lived, looking after her aged father. Her two sisters had moved into the bungalow after Molly’s death, but have recently had to go into sheltered accommodation. My brother knew nothing of Molly’s suicide, as he wants nothing to do with me as he cannot cope with my blindness, and the fact that I am in a wheelchair. So we are estranged. Sadly, he has said that I am not his sister. But it was only after moving into the bungalow that he and his wife discovered about the suicide. It feels very strange and eerie to me that they are now living in my friend’s bungalow. It is in a very beautiful place, situated high on the cliff above the place where three rivers meet, one of which is the Trent that flows through Wildsworth. It is right next to a Roman maze, cut in the turf at the side of the bungalow, called Julian’s Bower. The whole place is full of history.

Wildsworth is level with the river. There are grassy floodbanks to prevent the village from being flooded. They have not always been there however. Not too long ago, whilst I had cancer in fact, the river did flood. Many villages were affected, and people had to be evacuated. Their properties were badly damaged in some cases. It is a tidal river, and at high tide, in the event if there being a storm as well, flooding can occur.

Our recent visits to Wildsworth therefore, have had a very eerie feel to them. Beautiful though the place is (to ME anyway) there is a sense almost of foreboding. The grassy floodbanks at Wildsworth are about ten feet high, but you are ever aware that just below them is a very dangerous fast flowing river. I have found myself on many occasions, whilst visiting that place, wondering how many people have lost their lives in that river. And wondering if any of them were from Wildsworth.

There used to be a ferry at Wildsworth, to take people to the village of Owston Ferry, on the other side. This is a much larger village. The ferry, in the 1400s, gave a Mr. Dallison an income of £300 a year. A large amount for those days. Mr. Dallison lived in Laughton, along with my ancestors, and was a big landholder. He was very rich and the ferry made him much richer. I wondered what tales there could be of the ferry, but have been able to find nothing. Since the building of Keadby Bridge there has been no need for the ferry. In times past each village seems to have run a ferry from one side to the other.

Last night, as we were sitting by the graveyard, I had a very strange sense of something. It felt dark and foreboding. In the field next to the graveyard the two newborn lambs were playing happily, leaping high into the air, and landing on their mothers’ backs. All was well in the sheep world.

As we sat by the graveyard, suddenly the sun came out from behind a dark cloud, and illuminated one of the graves. With the aid of binoculars, my husband was able to read the Inscription on the grave. Although only partially. The grave was that of a child who had died at the age of three, in 1897. My heart felt sad. But infant mortality was high in those days. Yet, both of us had a strange feeling about this particular grave.

When we got home, I looked, online, at the parish registers to try and find the child. And there it was. The first name that I came to. And the words below his name were:

“Accidentally drowned in the River Trent.”

I immediately burst into deep tears. How awful!

I thought of the impact upon the family. A farming family. And I grieved with them.

Another lost child. A little lamb whom God gathered into His arms and laid gently on His bosom.

For us, yesterday, it was Ascension Day. A time when we are reminded of where we are supposedly going when we die. I had just listened to a priest telling of how he went to Jerusalem, and there, there is a rock with a footprint on it, said to be the footprint of Jesus. He said laughingly that he did not know whether that was true or not, but that he liked to think of the rock as a grave. From where we are all going to the bosom of the Father.

It could not have been a more apt day on which to see the grave of this poor little boy.


Last night you fell
And I fell with you
For you are my light
Though often you don’t know it
And as I wake
I hear you breathing
And know that all is well
And wish for better days for you
That all could be peace again
Just like it used to be
But for us there is no peace
Just the daily struggle
Existing is no joke
Never did we think life could be so hard
And as they say
“There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip”
This we know well
But where is the cup?
And where is the lip?
I see neither
And you fall between them
I heard the thud
Will we ever reach the lip?
You and I together
Drinking on the shores of eternity?
For whither thou goest
I will go
Wherever thou lodgest
I will lodge
Last night you fell
And I fell with you


Ancient days, old like the paths we tread
Full of all that is
That was and can be
Stretching into the unknown
And back into time
When do the two meet
And is there really no tomorrow
Or yesteryear
Seamless like the sky
From which comes sun and rain
Making rainbows
Arching over life unknown
For who can know
The sum of everything
Or hold time in a crucible
All is One my friend
As you and I are one
In the great Cosmos
To the Ancient of Days


This poem has been my experience in the past. It is something that many disabled people experience, making the feeling of aloneness even greater. I am not looking for sympathy here, but just expressing what so many of us feel

Please don’t
Run away, stay
With me for just one hour,
You are able to leave, walk on,
One hour
So short
A time to behold, taste my pain,
But you want me to move
On, be bright, sing,
Don’t run



You know
The path by now
So why are you surprised
When you feel the darkness, chew it,
It down
Until it becomes you, hungry
You search in vain for light
For this will fill
Your life

The lies
You were told fall
To the ground where you lie
Hungering for the truth to feed
Your soul
You writhe
Knowing that only the darkness
Glows while the light consumes
Until you die

In the darkness
Can you find your true self
Like a seed sprouting in the soil
Don’t fear
The dark
Or believe the lies you are told
Only the darkness shows
Up the bright stars
Rest now


Yesterday we returned to Wildsworth again. The journey is not yet over. Once we had ascertained that sheep and lambs were all okay (there are still only two lambs so we don’t yet know if all the other ewes are about to give birth or not) we went and sat in our usual spot by the graveyard. Only a week ago, it was possible to see the Celtic Cross made of white granite, through the small weeping branches of the willow tree. We knew, however, that we had only just seen it in time, for there were buds on the branches, and it was obvious that soon the Cross would be obscured by the leaves. It was strange how the sun had lit up the Celtic Cross for us one evening, and in a strange way it seemed to be smiling at us. It was as if we were meant to see it.

Last night, my husband could only just see the Celtic Cross. The sun was shining although clouds kept obscuring it from time to time. It had been raining and there was a beautiful freshness about everything. The blackbird in the willow tree was singing its heart out, and I felt that it was guarding the graveyard, singing a song of hope and joy, amidst the pain of death, for it is always there. Anyone coming to visit one of the graves could not fail to hear its song.

The Celtic Cross seemed all the more beautiful for being partially obscured. The fine branches were waving in the breeze, and shadows were dancing on the Cross. There was an interplay of dark shadow and light. I thought of the words from the Psalm,

“The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths
for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk
through the darkest valley,[a]
I will fear no evil,”

Only two days previous, I had watched the tiny lamb whose mother had rejected it being scooped up into the arms of the farmer (the Shepherd) and he had comforted it. And now, it was lying happily in the green pastures next to the graveyard.

I remember clearly when as a young child, I discovered that there was a thing called death. I was sitting in a chair by the fire in the huge farmhouse kitchen at my grandparents’ farm. There was never not a fire burning in the grate, for it was needed for boiling water and for cooking. The huge range had a boiler at one side of the fire, into which water was put to be heated by the fire. All the washing up was done in this water. It was also used for washing hands. At the other side of the fire was the oven. When my grandmother wanted to cook, she would stoke up the fire, and in this way the oven got really hot. She would roast beef joints in there, and do roast potatoes, bake fruit pies, jam tarts, cakes, EVERYTHING was done in there. I well remember how when I went there I would not eat meat because my mother never gave me meat. My mother was not bothered about food at all. My grandmother was very worried about this, and one day, she dipped a piece of bread into the meat juices and gave it to me to eat. It was delicious. I had never tasted anything so good in my life. And so, I ate my meat that day, and ever after.

But I digress. Whilst sitting by the fire, I discovered death. Something was mentioned by my grandmother. Something had died. I wanted to know what dying meant. I did not know. I had never heard of it before. Upon asking my grandmother she. Explained what death was. You stopped breathing, and you existed no more. You just ended. I was dumbfounded. I had always thought that you just go on for ever. What is, is. I had no idea at all that you came to an end and then were not here any more. This silenced me for a while whilst I took it in. One day there was going to be no mummy, no daddy, and no grandma. I struggled to take it in, and felt fear. Everything was going to die – the chickens out in the yard, the cats, the dog, the cows, the birds, and PEOPLE. Including ME. I could hardly contemplate it, so decided to put it to one side. But I now KNEW about death!

Death seems so final. And indeed it is. It is not just nothing. It is HUGE. And since I had cancer, I have contemplated it a lot. My beautiful grandmother died over twenty years ago. My grandfather had already died quite a few years previous. My father died in 2001. And my two Uncles (my mother’s half brothers) who were always at the farm, died from cancer themselves, whilst I had cancer. I myself was at death’s door. I received the Last Rites. It was a most beautiful experience. The twenty third Psalm was read to me with great joy, both myself and the priest smiling in wonder, as I anticipated where I was going. My head was anointed with oil, and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever experienced. Because I was so close to death, I kind of “saw” into it. I had no fear whatsoever. Only joy. I was going Home at last. Home to my Father in heaven. Well, that is what I thought anyway. But I didn’t die. I lived. I am still here. And I can tell the story of it.

We none of us know when death is coming. And when it does, it can be sudden and shocking. Or it can be a lengthy , drawn out process. Whatever, it leaves a lot of grief in its wake. And last night I became painfully aware of this. We had already encountered the grave of the little child, but now, as we moved our car a little bit, away from the white granite Celtic Cross, to another spot where there was a slightly bigger Celtic Cross, in a dull grey granite, weathered much by time and the elements, we became aware that it was a very small War Memorial to World War 1, and there were four names on it. Four men of the village who had been killed in World War 1. Grief overwhelmed me again, as I thought of them leaving their families and the beautiful peaceful isolated agricultural area, to the battlefields in Europe, never to return. I thought of the poems of my favourite poet, Wilfred Owen, and his horrific descriptions of the trenches and the battlefields. I connected in my mind and heart with the mother who lost two sons to the War. I ached for her. And that had happened in this tiny village. How must that have affected the village. And who would do all the work now? Farming is hard work. And the other two men as well. In just this tiny place, four men lost to the War. My husband saw that someone had placed a tiny roughly hewn wooden cross at the base of the Memorial.

When I got home I looked at the censuses for Wildsworth, and found them and their families before the War, in 1911, I then also found them in 1901 when they were only children. Who would have thought, at that time, as they were playing happily in the fields, that they would end up in those bloody battlefields?

I had done what I wanted to do. I had connected in some way with some of the people of the village in times past. I had wanted to share in some small way in their joys, sorrows and tragedies. And there is more to come. I am not finished yet.

I know that on Remembrance Sunday this year, I will go quietly and place something on that War Memorial, and remember those four young men.

Death is not nothing. But in the midst of life we are in death, as the saying goes. I do not know where those words originally came from. But I would like to think also that in the middle of death we are in life eternal.

I will continue with my story.


I see things in my memory’s eye
Like the birds that I hear singing,
For now I can only see shapes,
Colours merge into each other,
I see so clearly in my memory,
The birds that brought me life.

This dark world now is my life.
But the dark is only in my eye,
Light shines, in my memory,
My heart within is singing,
I can say no other,
Pure light, my life shapes.

In my time I have seen so many shapes,
Some good, some bad, that determined my life,
Sometimes one, sometimes the other,
On the good I tried to focus my eye,
So that my heart could keep singing,
All these things live on in my memory.

I live now in my memory,
Things take on so many shapes,
Never can I stop singing,
Whatever happens in my life,
I see now with more than my eye,
Not with anything other.

There are so many things but nothing other
Than the light of God lives on in my memory,
It shines not only in my eye,
But into my depths, my life it shapes,
Such light brings to me eternal life,
Everything in me is singing.

Sometimes I hear the angels singing,
Louder than any other,
Bringing to birth in me new life,
That doesn’t live just in my memory,
This for me eternity shapes,
In my spirit, my only eye.

I am not reliant on my eye, but on something other
To keep me singing, but not in my memory,
Something greater my future shapes, giving me eternal life.




Still is the world
At the saying of Goodbye
We hold our breath
At the awesomeness
Of that which awaits us
That place where you have gone
A place of light
Too bright for our sullied eyes
And as we say Goodbye
We know our own poverty
Our smallness
In the face of infinity
And we pray
That we too
May approach that place of light
Unworthy though we are
Inspired by love and faith and light
We dare to say
“I too will follow”
And in that moment we are held
We take the Bread
Broken for us
To feed us in our brokenness
Held in the everlasting arms
That never will let us go


As I wait the light dies
I say goodbye to precious things
There is no time for “Whys”

Now it’s summer, my dream lies
On the hard pavement, sings
As I wait the light dies

I cannot see now with my eyes
But my dream has spread its wings
There is no time for “Whys”

The dream on the pavement flies,
Rises up to heaven, shines,
As I wait the light dies

Someone Somewhere heard my cries
Knew there could be better things
There is no time for “Whys”

This dream is of enormous size
Fit for queens and kings
As I wait the light dies
There is no time for “Whys”

2nd PART OF THE STORY OF WILDSWORTH : “He shall gather the lambs up into His arms and place them on His bosom.”

I have never understood why there are so many connections in my life, with all sorts of places and things. I have never understood why I hear or sense different places speaking to me. I do not always know what they are saying at first. I have to meditate, and “listen” with my inner ear. Sometimes, when I happen upon a place, I just KNOW that there is something there for me to discover. Something to connect with. It can feel quite uncanny. This is exactly what happened to me at Wildsworth.

In the first part of my story, I got to the part where we found that there had been a church in the graveyard, and my husband spied some small remains of it in the long grass.

I do not feel that all has been revealed yet, but that in time it will be.

We went again to the graveyard after that first time, and sat by it. I wanted to go into it, but could not. Suddenly my husband said some words that arrested me. He said,

“This is where your roots are. All this countryside around here is where your ancestors would have travelled, and maybe even worked.”

I had not thought of that. I had always considered the village of Blyton to be my roots, since that was where I lived for a short time as a baby, and where my grandparents’ farm was. SinceI had cancer and nearly died, and since going blind and landing up in a wheelchair, I have had a deep desire to go back to my roots and connect with them. I may not have much time left, so I feel the need to connect with where my life began, and to re-live the past. I feel the need to make sense of some things. I feel the need to grieve. I feel the need to understand, as much as is possible, what has happened to me in my life. For it has been a very traumatic one. In fact, I feel I am preparing for my death. This may sound morbid, but it is not. When it comes, I want to be at peace, as much as is possible. I want to have understood and come to terms with things. And so, since 2017 I have been returning to my home village of Blyton, just sitting and meditating, and trying to weave together the good and the bad memories in my life. I wanted to make sense of it all as much as possible. All the strange and contradictory things. All the trauma and the disorientation. All the grief and the sadness, as well as all the good an beautiful things. For there were many of those too.

In my quest I had never even considered Wildsworth. It was just a place that we regularly passed through. I believe now, that it is going to constitute another part of my journey, but as yet I do not know why.

For me, birth has always constituted a problem. There are many deep emotions surrounding birth, for me. Just as my mother was not welcomed or wanted, as I described in the first part of this story, neither was I wanted, and an abortion attempt was made, but failed. I couldn’t wait to get into the world, and I was born within two hours! My life was marked by not being wanted, and in a sense, I was punished for being alive. My life was marked in many ways. I always felt that I should not be alive.

Subsequently, this “punishment” passed onto my own ability to bear and give birth to children. Just as my mother could not bear to be pregnant, and have a child, neither could she bear me to be pregnant, and have a child. And so, she made every attempt to make sure that this never happened. Here began the deepest pain and the biggest conflict of my life. Though it is hard to talk about, I am writing just a small bit of it, for it keys into this amazing story. Suffice it to say that I lost two children from the womb as a result of my mother’s violent intervention. My return to Blyton that began in 2017 to try and integrate things, was a return also to the place where I was baptised (christened) as a baby. I needed to go and sit in the place where I was first given to God, albeit by the priest, and most likely not by my mother. Yet, despite my mother’s resistance, I believe that God’s seal was put upon my life at that time, and that is why I have survived everything.

So, Blyton was my roots. Not Wildsworth. Or so I thought.

My husband made the startling (to me) statement that Wildsworth was my roots as my family was originally all around that tiny place. Indeed, Laughton, where my mother was born, is only 3 miles away across the fields, and farm workers travel. They are not static. Many of my ancestors, who hailed from Laughton, were farm workers, though quite a lot of them also had their own farms. It is more than likely that they worked in Wildsworth, so would have travelled on foot to that place. In ALL weathers. And the weather can be very wild there, as I have already said. With my husband’s statement, everything started coming together. I was discovering more of my roots, that go back a very very long way – even into the 1600s. And indeed, by going through censuses and parish records, we discovered so many of my ancestors in that place. In fact there is reference to families of my grandfather’s name even as far back as the 1500s. We also discovered that some of them lived by the river, in the next village on from Wildsworth,

As I connected more and more with Wildsworth, I connected so strongly with the cycle of birth, life and death. Both in humans and in nature. One evening, as we sat near the graveyard, my husband spied a Celtic Cross on one of the graves. It stood tall, and was made of white granite, which is very strong and durable. The evening sunlight illuminated it, and it was very beautiful. We realised that the centre of the Celtic Cross is meant to depict the sun, and its life giving energies. It also represents the cycle of life and death. There is always life. Always resurrection. Death does not have the last word.

My husband also saw, importantly for me, a young child’s grave. The child died at the age of 6 and he was buried with his grandfather. They had lived at Laughton, where my ancestors came from, and yet they were buried in Wildsworth. This told us that Wildsworth and Laughton were inextricably linked. So, through my family, I was linked with Wildsworth, though I had never known it. How odd that I had found it through the sun – through being arrested by a startling sunset, and an evening sun bright with light coming through the red.

The death of this little boy so young made me sad. I literally grieved. And on the tombstone it read,

“He shall gather the lambs in His arms and place them on His bosom.”

I cried.

And yet there was a happiness too. That whatever happens to us as children, even if we die, He gathers us into His arms. The one thing that my own mother never did, and that I was never allowed to do with my own children, for they went from my womb. I never held them. And I knew also that despite all that my mother did to me as a child, He will me into His arms at the last.

Strangely, that was the time that my husband saw the little lamb being born in the field right next to the graveyard. Such joy. It was amazing. But then, that very night, the ewe butted her lamb and rejected it. She would not allow the lamb near her. The lamb was all on its own in the middle of the field, unable even to find its mother, because she had left and gone back to be with the main flock. The lamb stood in the muddle of that field, totally alone, crying pitifully. It was afraid. Its cries became frantic. In that crying, I heard my own crying for my mother, as a child. My own abandonment. My own rejection, as she did not want me near her, and pushed me away. I sobbed and sobbed, and my husband could not understand it.

Not only did I cry myself for my mother, but also I heard my own children crying for me. And I was crying for them, for they are no more. Through the actions of my own mother.

“A voice is heard in Ramah weeping, with great mourning. . It is Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.” These are some words that are in the Bible. They are in Matthew’s Gospel in Chapter 2.

The next day, however, we returned to Wildsworth, and the mum had accepted her lamb, and another one had just been born to another ewe.

The cycle of birth, life and death, as signified by the sun.

“All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.”
(Mother Julian of Norwich)

THE STORY OF WILDSWORTH after the episode with the startling sunset eight days ago


This post is rather long, but please do read it as it is an amazing story that unfolds. I am dividing the story into two as it is so long. But please bear with me as I prepare the second half of this amazing story – just coming from seeing one amazing sunset at Wildsworth.

Have you ever had that feeling of being “called” by some place that you have never had connection with before?

Some things that happen are so strange that we cannot make sense of them. It was so with my feelings of being drawn back and back to the little village of Wildsworth, on the bank of the River Trent in Lincolnshire.

Some of you may remember me writing about a sunset that suddenly came “out of the blue” one night. Here is the link to that post

This experience was so arresting that I just had to keep going back to that place. It was almost as if it was “calling” me, but I did not know why. As it happened, there turned out to be some strange connections that I had not known of. How did my spirit “know” this? I just do not know. But events over the past eight days or so have been quite amazing.

I must admit that for years I have been passing through that village. Its very name attracted me – Wildsworth – for I LOVE wild places. It certainly IS wild there. There are not many houses in the village, and it can indeed feel very wild there weather – wise. The river, which is tidal, makes it feel even more wild. It is a very dangerous river, and if you fall into it you have very little chance of survival as the currents are so strong. The village is not near to any other place, and is surrounded by fields stretching for miles. Just the sort of place that I love.

At the very end of the village there is a small graveyard, right at the roadside. There are some modern graves, and some older ones, but in all there only looks to be about 70 graves. Through the years as I have been passing through that village I have felt very drawn to this graveyard, but I always put it down to the fact that it was so wild and so tiny. Yet never did I ever stop and go into it or look at it properly. However, something has changed that in the past eight days. Something that I don’t understand but know has happened.

As we drove home on “the night of the sun” as I will call it, some words came to me. I had no idea at all why they had come to me, but as they say, “truth is stranger than fiction.” The words were about eyes of fire, and hair being white as wool. I recalled that there was something like that in the Bible – probably the last Book of the Bible – Revelations. However, I could not recall it properly.

Upon arriving home, I decided to try and find where the words were, and exactly what they were. Just out of interest, since they had come to me. Please bear with this, because it all led to something very strange regarding my family and my roots, for which I have been searching for a long time.

As I looked,, in the Book of Revelations, for any reference to hair being like white wool, I found these words, in Chapter 1:-

“Among the lampstands was someone like a son of man dressed in a robe reaching down to his feet and with a golden sash around his chest. The hair on his head was white like wool, as white as snow.”

This amazed me. As a teenager, along with a lot of other teenagers, I had been fascinated by this Apocalyptic Book. We sought to understand it, but never could. Those words had obviously stuck. But the next few words amazed me even more, given the experience I had just had with the sun. These are the words:-

(Please bear with this, for this is not a polemic for religion, but just my experience that ultimately led me to my roots for which I had been searching).

“His eyes were like blazing fire…………his face was like the sun shining in all its brilliance.”

Well, I was startled. The sky had been on fire that night, as I stated in my posting about the event. I realised that in some way this place called Wildsworth was very significant to me in some way, but I did not know how. I was to find out!

I determined to try and find out the history of this village. It just seemed like an almost inconsequential village, with its few houses and inhabitants. However, in looking up its history, I discovered that there used to be a church in the graveyard. It was built in the early 1800s, and in more recent years was demolished, as it started to deteriorate. It had not been a place of worship for some time, but originally seated 100 people. The next bit of information floored me.

The church was dedicated to St. John the Divine. It hit me like a brick, because St. John the Divine was the one who was said to have written the Book of Revelations. Then, I made another discovery – as if that was not enough, I discovered that St. John the Divine was born on December 27th. My mother’s birthday! His Feast Day is December 27th. What on EARTH was going on?

It took me a while to get over that. I knew we had to dig further.

The circumstances of my mother’s birth were quite sad in some ways, as was the life of my grandmother (her mother) in many ways. I will write of that later, but for now, I will continue with the story.

We returned to the village, and stopped at the roadside outside the graveyard, and just looked, imagining the church that used to be there. It was so sad that it had been allowed to fall into disrepair, and ultimately to have to be demolished. We could not understand how it could have fallen into such a state of disrepair.

As my husband looked, he spied what looked like stone steps in the distance. It was difficult to see properly, as they were almost obscured by the long grass. He thought that they must have been the steps up into the church. As he told me this, I immediately wanted to go and stand on them, and connect with all the people who in the past had climbed them. I wanted to imagine what their stories might be. But, being wheelchair bound, I could not do that, which made me sad. I wanted to actually TOUCH those steps that many feet had touched in the past.

Then, as my husband kept looking, he saw, low on the ground, portions of two walls, on either side of what would have been the church. Inside, they were painted white. My husband then realised that the steps were actually the steps up into the Sanctuary, where the altar would have been. Oh how I LONGED to go and ascend those steps! In fact, so desperate am I that I plan to one day try on my crutches, to get there, across the rough ground, and climb those Sanctuary steps.

We both felt very moved, and very sad. How could such a unique and amazing place have been demolished?

Of course, had I been able to climb those steps I could have stood on the stone platform that my husband could just see, where the altar, dedicated to St. John the Divine would have been. St. John the Divine with whom my mother shared her birthday, (a day which was not wanted or welcomed) and who had written those words about the hair white as wool and the blazing sun and the face of a son of man.

Somehow or other, I had linked with something very important concerning my family. I need, now, to tell about my mother, and the sad circumstances of her birth, for it links into my own past as a child, and my own deep sadness.

My grandmother was born in 1904, and she was brought up on a farm in another village alongside River Trent, but quite a few miles away. The farm was on the cliffside above the river. She came from a very religious, but exceedingly loving and kind family. Her parents were Primitive Methodists. However, for some reason, as a young woman, she rebelled, and went astray. She became pregnant to one of the farm labourers who lived and worked at the farm. In actual fact, a very GOOD man who was to die young. It was a love match, not a sordid affair.

My grandmother and the man married, but my grandmother did not want the coming baby. It was a disaster for her, in those days. I believe she was horror struck at what had happened to her.

My grandmother and grandfather went to live and work in a village called Laughton, which is 3 miles across the fields from Wildsworth! My grandfather worked on a farm. My mother was born there. On December 27th. 1925. But tragedy was to strike. My grandfather died of a brain tumour when my mother was only one year old. My grandmother was left with a baby all on her own. How was she to survive? She and my grandfather had had big plans. They were to buy a farm of their own, and live happily ever after! Things were not the same in those days as they are now, if you were a woman left on your own with a baby.

My grandmother survived by going to housekeep for the grandfather her deceased husband, at an isolated farm in the middle of Laughton Forest. This farm is still in existence as a working farm today, and we took my mother to see it recently. She is 93 now. My mother, as a small child, was very unhappy on this farm. There were no other children anywhere near, and she pined. She became sick, and the doctor told her that she MUST get that child away from that place.

My grandmother went to another nearby village called Blyton, to live with the mother and father of her deceased husband at Rose Cottage. A beautiful place, still inhabited today. It was For Sale recently, an oh, HOW we wanted to buy it, but we could not afford it. I would have been happy to the end of my days there. The parents of my grandmother’s husband, at Rose cottage, were my Godparents. They adored me, as they did my mother too.

Well, in a very short space of time, my grandmother met and married another man. He was a very very good man, but it was a business arrangement, not a lovematch. There was a small shop that my Godparents had created on the end of Rose Cottage, and a farmer from up the hill, out of the village, used to regularly gobto the shop. He was a very wealthy man, but unmarried. He wanted somebody to housekeep for him, and he asked my grandmother to be his housekeeper, saying that she could take my mother, as a small child, with her, and live there. This was the solution to all my grandmother’s problems. A home for her and her daughter. Security.

In a short space of time the man asked my grandmother to marry him, and he would provide her with a home and a home for my mother, for ever, in exchange for my grandmother providing him with a male heir. It was totally a business arrangement. No love involved at all. But he was a kind and a good man.

My grandmother agreed, and in time, provided him with two sons and a daughter. But she could often be heard crying by my mother – for her first husband. My mother, as a child, hated my step grandfather, her step father, because she thought that he was hurting and harming my grandmother.

My step grandfather was an extremely good man, and wanted to give my mother is name, but my grandmother refused, wanting to keep the name of her first husband alive.

How does all this link with Wildsworth? Well, you can find out in a second post that I will make, for this post is far too long as it is!


“among the lampstands was someone like a son of man,[d] dressed in a robe reaching down to his feet and with a golden sash around his chest. 14 The hair on his head was white like wool, as white as snow, and his eyes were like blazing fire. 15 His feet were like bronze glowing in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of rushing waters. 16 In his right hand he held seven stars, and coming out of his mouth was a sharp, double-edged sword. His face was like the sun shining in all its brilliance.”


I walked the world today
Carrying a paper bag
Full of my past, putting into it my present,
Intertwining the two
Going towards my destination,
And hers,
Looking neither to right nor left,
Focused on the One True Light,
The darkness and the light mingling,
Filling the bag,
Snapshots of my life and hers,
Soon she will be gone,
Soon, too, will I,
We walk together towards the light


With wind
Wild as night
Over the hills
Through the green valleys
Throwing off skins of fear
Roaring, laughing with delight
Raw, naked, vulnerable
Tasting at last purest freedom
Dancing wildly over the mountains
Nothing can ever stop you now, you’re free


One night
I heard eternity calling
You came to me
In robes of green and gold
“I’m going home”
I said
And our smiles joined as one
What joy was in that moment
As you read to me about green pastures,
Still waters serenaded me with their silence,
As I moved towards the Great Banquet
A Feast spread before me
Oh what joy did fill my heart that night
This was the moment I had always waited for
You anointed my head with oil
Deep called to Deep
Gently I felt myself slipping
Into waters so pure
Around me I heard voices,
The saints who had gone before me
Who had run the great race
Their gentle strength surrounding me
Lifting me to heaven
That night I saw into eternity
And lived


Last night there was some drama with the newborn lamb and its mummy, that I posted about yesterday.

We returned to Wildsworth, as it is our usual haunt in an evening, and of course we were keen to see how the newborn lamb was getting on. Sadly, the ewe was not happy. At first they were both under a small tree together, and all seemed well. However, the ewe moved away from the cover of the tree, and began scrabbling in the ground, not looking happy at all. The lamb attempted to go to her, but she resisted its attempts to be close to her. The ewe was bleating a great deal, and very loudly.

Eventually the farmer came to look, and the ewe was seemingly unhappy. He attempted to catch the ewe, but she ran and joined the rest of the flock, abandoning her lamb. By now there were two men in the field trying to decide what to do. The lamb started crying horrifyingly, like a baby, so loudly. It was so distressing to hear, it was all alone in a big open space in the field, looking for its mummy, but unable to get to her. It was in fear.

The farmer eventually managed to catch the ewe and put her into the shelter. Another man picked up the poor little lamb and placed it into the shelter with its mummy. As he picked the lamb up, it calmed down and stopped bleating. Once they were in the shelter together, all bleating and crying stopped. The farmer placed two bug bales of hay against the opening to the shelter.

All seemed well, but we continued on our drive, and on our way home again, we saw that the two men were standing looking into the shelter. Obviously something was not right and they were concerned. Whilst out in the field, when the lamb tried to put its nose to its mummy’s nose, she pushed it away roughly.

We shall see what happens today. Hopefully all will be well.



Forsooth, I ne’er must eat blue cheese again,
However coquettishly it doth wink,
E’en if it says to me its name is Bren,
It ne’er again will bring me to the brink,
Ne’er have I forgot its wondrous smooth curves,
Blue veins forming a perfect labyrinth,
No man on earth such fire doth he deserve,
Yet hark, I hear it calling from its plinth,
Forsooth, it surely speaks my name – “Derek”,
“Come hither Derek, place me in your mouth,
Hear now, I swear I’ll drive you almost manic,
There is no better cheese made in the South.”
Ho, there is nothing now that I can do,
She always said I was a silly moo.


Some things are impossible to put into words. I intended making a totally different post tonight. However, things changed.

In the late afternoon, we went for a drive. We took our usual route along the river bank road, and at WILDSWORTH, that I wrote about ten days ago, something amazing happened once again. You may remember, if you have been following my posts, that ten days ago, I was startled by the sun setting in the sky, but that it was very different to usual. It was so much brighter than usual, and I had a very deep experience.

After that night, we continued to go to Wildsworth, because I felt that something was calling me there. Tomorrow, maybe, I will tell you more about that. So much has happened, and so many discoveries have been made.

However, for now,I want to tell you about today.

We arrived at Wildsworth, but decided not to stop, but just to drive on through, along the river road. As we came to the corner of the road, where it swings left out of the village, my husband saw what looked to him like two men tending a sick sheep, in the very small field on the corner. It is nota farm, but just a kind of smallholding, but not even really that. There are chickens of all varieties in the field, and about ten sheep of different varieties. There is a children’s trampoline, and a tree house in the huge tree at the corner of the field.

My husband thought no more about what he had seen……….until we were on our way back home again, about fifteen minutes later. Then, suddenly, he realised what he had been looking at before. It was two men pulling a tiny little lamb out of its mother. She was giving birth! The little lamb must have only been born a couple of minutes before we arrived. It was on the ground and its mother was licking it.

We stayed for a long time, watching what was happening (well, my husband telling me). The mother then nosed the little lamb to get it up onto its wobbly little white legs. The lamb got up and wobbled around, but then the mother walked quickly away from the lamb. This was to make it follow her, to get it walking. Amazingly, it did. It was up on its feet and walking.

All the other sheep in the field suddenly were there, all lined up, watching what was happening. The mummy sheep was s iffing at her newborn baby, getting to know its scent.

This is the most amazing experience that I have ever had in my lufe. It was a GIFT. And for it to happen at Wikdsworth, where I saw the sun that night, was incredible.

Tomorrow, I will tell you more of what has happened for me at that place over the last ten days!


Come, stripped as you are,
Bare, vulnerable,
Weak from your burden,
All energy gone,
Let it go,
Come just with your very essence,
The heart of you,
Rest in my Sacred Heart,
Let them beat together as one,
Energised by the pure Spirit of the Universe
That makes no demands
Just an invitation to come,
Come to me
All you who are weary and heavy laden,
And I will give you rest.


Like a homing pigeon,
To this place,
It was meant for this time,
All through the years it had waited for me,
And I for it,
Though far distant, connected
By some silken strand,
And now, in my time of sorrow and weeping,
In my darkest of all nights,
The evening of my life,
I return to meditate, to think, and to pray,
While the wood pigeons call,
And the rowan fruits, splashing its blood red berries in darkening sky,
Standing timeless,
Guarding the souls that have gone before,
Passed this way,
As I did too,
In the darkened night,
I remember,
And laugh,
And weep,
For what has gone
And never can be again.

Always this place was home,
I returned here again and again,
In darkest nights of childhood,
When my world rocked
In time with the boat shaped swings at the fairground
In the cold of the night
As together we swung dizzily
From high to low, low to high,
Face turned up to the sky,
Seeing stars,
Squealing with joy,
Tinged with fear.

And now,
My world again is marked by joy,
Tinged with fear,
My dark night has come again,
My world is rocked,
I know not which way it will go,
Up or down, or maybe both all at once,
For now I am blind,
Now my steps are halting,
Balance gone,
And in the chaos of cancer,
I find peace here,
In the place I call home,
Under the sturdy rowan tree



I went in search of my roots one day
And found a rowan tree
Its berries red spoke of red red blood
In the growing red of the sky
And I knew that red described most of my life
All taken into the blood of my Lord

It was just in time that I found my Lord
Salvation came to me that day
Hell on earth had been my life
I cried when I saw the rowan tree
Darker grew the evening sky
I thought of the Lamb’s shed blood

As a child I had been immsersed in blood
But not the blood of my Lord
Though I knew above me there was blue sky
Darker and darker grew each day
I did not jnow that there was a tree
That was the Tree of Life

Pain had followed me all of my life
I didn’t want to see the blood
But now I saw in the rowan tree
The bleeding wounds of my Lord
Now it was a diferent day
I knew there was blue in the sky

Though blind now, I still can see the sky
As I contemplate my life
Darker now is every day
Redder is my blood
But not as red as the blood of my Lord
Or the berries on the rowan tree

I will sit beneath the rowan tree
Whatever the colour of the sky
Drinking in the love of my Lord
The Saviour of my life
Knowing His redeeming blood
At the ending of my day

One day I sat in the darkening sky
Where the rowan tree told me of my life
Its berries then the colour of blood that spoke of the blood of my Lord



Silently I’d approached the altar
Heavy with pain upon this day
Only His Cross was in my heart
And the sufferings of the Son of Man
Yet all I bore was the divinest love
Enough to nail me to the Cross

I saw Him crying on the Cross
Standing there upon the altar
Shining through the tears such love
I remembered then that blackened day
How could this be the Son of Man?
I felt the nails then piercing my heart

Always I had known within my heart
That I too must take up my Cross
Taking strength from the Son of Man
On bended knee before the altar
Now here I was upon this day
One with Him in grief and love

My body trembled with such love
Beholding now His Sacred Heart
I never knew that such a day
Would fuse me with Him on the Cross
That I would lie upon the altar
Beloved of the Son of Man

The Sacrifice of the Son of Man
Became mine too in deepest love
Oh how holy was that altar
Oh how Sacred was His Heart
Oh how glowing was that Cross
Shining out in the blackened day.

I never thought I would see a day drenched in love
Or the Son of Man’s Most Sacred Heart
On the Sacred Cross shining from the altar


An angel came that day
Though it may not have seemed like one
Disturbed the waters of your life
I heard your cries of pain
And heard as I listened
The groaning of the Universe
As if the Universe itself
Was held in the pangs of childbirth
For were we not told
That even stones can cry out
For All is One
And One is All
And the Spirit that rules the Universe
That created all things
Animate and inanimate
Is in All
And as the stone is cast
From the hands of what seems like the devil
Into your life
Disturbing you
Afrighting you
Do not fear
For it may be an angel in disguise
Bringing you to healing
Bringing to birth
Your true essence
Your true self