writing – Charlierobinsonbooks

Feet

I know you probably think that’s a strange title, or I’m going to rattle on about some kind of fetish (I’m not) But to digress and as the word has popped up. Foot fetish? I’ve never understood that. It certainly couldn’t have existed in Middle Earth or in Roald Dahl’s Witches.

Ok, digression over. I don’t like feet, obviously they come in handy, especially for running. But, I particularly don’t like anyone touching my feet. I guess it could be a phobia. Does that put me in a box? Apparently lots of people today like boxes. I know some people who constantly search online to see if they fit into a box, and there are so many to choose from. I was told once I have OCD because I like things tidy. Blow me! until then, I thought I just liked things tidy. Sorry, I digress again.

When I was a little boy and it was time to cut my toenails. My mum, once she had caught me, would get one sister to hold my arms down and my other sister to pin my legs, and then she would produce the nail clippers. I screamed, but to no avail. When they had finished I was released back into the wild. This is the reason I never joined MI6. If i had been captured and my captors had produced a pair of pliers the security of the free world would at risk, I would tell them anything!

As a runner this has caused some problems because I usually finish a marathon or Ultra with at least one black nail. After the Boston marathon my big toe was very black. But two weeks later I raced a 10k and it turned white. Eurika! I thought it was fixed.

But! I awoke on Monday morning to see a big toenail pointing skywards. I’m not a Dr or a podiatrist but I figured that wasn’t right. Luckily I had an appointment with a podiatrist at 16:20. It was a gruelling day, and I had to walk there in crocks. I always visit him before a long race so he can cut my nails short. Yes I have, to some degree, come to terms with my issue. He’s very good and chats to me about the forthcoming race while I stare at the ceiling with fists clenched.

He took a look at the aforementioned toe and said. “No problem.” I had spent the day expecting him to… not sure what, but there were some pretty horrific images floating through my mind. Five minutes later and all was well. The only problem I have now is the Windermere Marathon on Sunday 14th with no toenail on my big toe. Hmmm?

Happy Trails, Folks x

A Talented Editor

New Book Out!

Are You Amazing?

Ever since I was a child I’ve had to be modest. It was difficult. As a toddler I would venture out onto the farm, sometime later I would return to my mother and relate a deed I had done. Occasionally I would need to show her as my vocabulary was a little different to the rest of the human race. She would remark. “How on earth did you manage that?” and shake her head. Sometimes I overheard her chatting to a friend and she’d say. “You’ll never guess what he’s done now? You wouldn’t believe it to look at him.” I remember beaming with pride, but the shake of her head and her scowl was a little confusing.

As time moved on and girlfriends came along, they also seemed impressed. Their comments would vary from. “I can’t believe you just said that.” or “How, in God’s name, did you manage to do that?” Although instead of a headshake or scowl it was usually accompanied by an open mouth and wide eyes.

I left school at fifteen (actually fourteen and a half, I’d kinda learned enough by then, and no one seemed to bother in the 70’s) My initial employers were also astounded by my achievements. A few times I was told. “Charlie Boy, only you could have managed that.” or “I’ve seen some stuff in my day, but that is… I, I don’t have words for it!”

Wives followed girlfriends and the trend continued, I began to believe that I was truly amazing. Paticularly when I was commenting on certain subjects. I noticed how some people were stunned into total silence. I DJ’d for 25 years on and off, I had a bit of patter, and after a gig some hotel managers would shake their heads and say. “How do you get away with it?”

Then of course there were the fancy dress parties. Where I didn’t just dress up I’d create a character 😂The usual reaction was. “OMG!!”

Only the other day my wife retorted to one of my comments with. “You’re amazing, absolutely unbelieveable!!!” I said, as I always have. “Thank you.” She said it’s not a compliment, trust me it really isn’t! After some reflection, I wonder after all these years… have I got it wrong, have I misunderstood? 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 12

And Where it Nearly Ended

March 1977 and we had been in Mogan, Gran Canaria for four months. The police informed us someone had broken into a car and stolen some German tourist’s luggage. We couldn’t help, we’d not seen or heard anything, and so they left. I was considering a dive, when a white car screeched into the carpark. Two smartly dressed guys got out, walked over, told Peter they were Cuerpo General de Policía (CID) ordered him to sit on a log and I was taken to the drivers door by one, while the other searched the van.

He banged my head against the van door and asked, “Why you come Espania making trouble?” Now I hadn’t been an angel but my time in Mogan had been trouble free, so I had no answer.

He marched me to his car, put me in the back seat, told Peter to collect me at 6pm and off we drove. I was only 18, but figured this wasn’t an Island Tour. We stopped beside another camper van and Inspector Clouseau got out. Now this was going to be interesting! A few weeks earlier I had been on a night run and as I passed this particular van the guy ran up to me and asked me where his cushions were? I had no idea what he was talking about. He said his cushions had gone the previous night and he saw me running away! Now Clouseau was chatting to him and he nodded and pointed to me.

We continued our journey until we reached the police station. Once inside my detective friend asked me why I stole the cushions. I explained I ran every night but had no need of cushions, so he hit me. To save you any grimacing 😂 Let’s just say this went on for an hour or so. It was broken up by his amigo putting his arm around me and explaining that if I told them where the cushions were he could stop his friend beating me. I’d seen Kojak so I knew good cop, bad cop routine. I’d boxed at school and been in a few street fights so I knew how to take a punch, but not quite so many over a prolonged period, when I finally hit the floor he brought in a German Shepherd (the dog, not a sheep farmer) which barked and snarled at me. Sadly for my detective friends it must have taken pity and started licking my face 😂

There was outrage, some expletives shouted and Rin Tin Tin was removed. I was left to sit in a chair for a few hours with a towel, to wipe the blood off my face and stop the nose bleed, I guess. (I couldn’t see a shower)

Eventually I was helped into reception and given a seat. Clouseau smiled and presented me with some papers. “Sign these and you may go.” At that point Peter arrived spotted me, and shouted sign nothing! He was still shouting it as they ushered him outside and locked the door.

A debate followed that went roughly like this:

“Sign the papers.”

“No.”

This chat went back and forth for about 15 mins. Eventually Clouseau sighed stood up and walked me to the door. He looked at Peter and told him we must leave the island within a week. Told me I was free to go and held out his hand to shake 😂 (It didn’t happen!)

Peter didn’t speak. We drove until we reached the sea. He leaned into the back of the van, grabbed a towel and told me to go soak, the sea water would be good for my mashed face and sore ribs etc. He said we were due to leave at the end of March anyway so no harm done.

So that was it, our tour complete and time to head back to Jersey. Peter must have remembered my statement back in Spain when Mudguts and I had become feral. As I climbed out of the van he said. “ What did the British Consul say, by the way?” 😂😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 11

Christmas

Christmas, Gran Canaria in 1976 was a little different to a Bradford council estate. In fact, nothing seemed to be planned. Our two Aussie friends had departed for Italy, which I believe Peter was pleased about, as I now had no partner in crime. We were a little short on cash, the fishing was not so good locally, and so we’d taken the inflatable three miles up the coast where it was remarkably better.

You know how life can throw little problems at you? Well, it was one of those days. We’d caught quite a few fish, but when we returned to the inflatable it was no longer inflated 😂 We fired up the outboard but it was dragging the boat under, so we paddled. A long hour passed by before a fishing boat came into view. We scrounged a lift with the aforesaid pancake hanging over the back. It was late when we got back so we dumped the darn thing on the beach, and using what they now call “Black Ops” in the world of espionage, we sold the fish to a restaurant that wasn’t owned by the local Chief of Police’s brother. Yup, we’d crossed a line of a family dynasty.

The following day the inflatable and the outboard had gone. The Police Chief saw us on the beach, came over and told us we should be more careful in all things we do, shrugged and walked away. When you are in a foreign place sometimes you have to accept what is. Anyaways… Peter had to go into Las Palmas, so I decided I could swim the three miles, get some fish and swim back. It was a pleasant swim, and took less than two hours. I knew from the previous day where to fish. You may have been in the sea for two hours? If you have you’ll know your skin becomes very soft. I rested the handle of my speargun tight into my belly and pulled the thick bands back, locking them into the trigger mechanism, at least I thought I had. As I let go the spear flew out and the wishbone of the bands ripped the skin from the inside of my hands. Have you ever been submerged in salt water with no skin on the inside of your hands?😂

Yesterday had been one of those days, it appeared today was feeling lonely and wanted to join in. I tried to load the gun again, but it wasn’t going to happen. My mind likes to toy with me in those kind of situations and so it recalled the film, Jaws where Robert Shaw said blood in the water attracts Sharks. I decided it was probably a good idea to swim back. The swim home took a little longer than the swim there and Peter was waiting on the shore when I finally returned. His comment? “At least the wounds don’t need cleaning😂” Oh well, at least it was Christmas.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 10

San Nicolás

On the west of Gran Canaria is San Nicolás and it’s remote. We’d been a few times, but it was always too rough to dive. We drove down out of the mountains and I could see the ocean raging against the land, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. Peter was not a patient man. There was a jetty where you could enter the water, but with a 40ft swell and waves crashing over our entry point I was a tad nervous.

We donned our wetsuits and walked down to our departure point. An old man shouted “Loco.” Once in the water I swam hard to get away from the wall. Peter had instructed me to stay with him, I lost sight of him within 5 mins.😂 After an hour or so I had a few fish, and decided on one last dive and then I was done. We liked to dive holes, rocks on top of each other formed little caves where fish would lay. I found one and slid into it. On my way out I felt something snag above me, and realised my weight (backpack) was stuck. Peter had told me the only thing that can kill you underwater is panic. So, although I was really keen to re-surface and breathe, I wriggled back inside, dropped down and tried again. I was jolly well relieved when I got out of there, I can tell you😂 Now I had to swim back!

It appeared I had drifted a fair way out. I was beyond the headland and could barely make out the jetty. But, I got my head down, kept finning, and eventually I’d made progress. I saw Peter as I neared the shore and he told me it’d be tricky getting out, and he would take my gear and fish in for me. He told me not to come in until he waved me in. The idea being that a big wave would drop me onto the jetty rather than smash me on the rocks, as he put it. 😂 It worked!

As we walked back to the van a crowd gathered, one of them was the local landlord and he offered to buy our fish. He said he’d take them to the bar and if we called there after we’d changed he’d pay us. Which we did.

He paid us immediately and offered us a beer. There were a few fishermen in the bar who were obviously impressed, not only because we had ventured into that broiling mass, but that we actually survived 😂 A few moments later the landlords wife came from the kitchen with our fish on a large platter. Her husband told us to choose one each and she disappeared again, returning a little later with two cooked fish and those wonderful garlic potatoes the Spanish do so well.

We stayed a while, drank beer, laughed with the locals and revelled in the kudos. Eventually Peter asked for the bill and the landlord waved us away, Apparently we were to pay nothing. Outside the bar the old man who had shouted “Loco” approached me and placed his hand on my shoulder. He said something in Spanish, I looked at Peter with my usual teenage blank expression, he had some knowledge of the language. A rough translation was “Today you have learned not to fear the sea. You must never fear the sea. But you must always respect her, and never underestimate her. You are young and today you maybe underestimated her. Maybe you showed her disrespect, that it is not for me to say. Whatever you did today, she forgave you. Be careful young one. She does not forgive often and never, will she forgive twice.” He squeezed my shoulder, gave me a grin and walked away.

It appeared I had learned yet another lesson. A few years ago I turned this experience into a short story and was shortlisted for the Olga Sinclair prize and published in an anthology Tales From The Tide.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Bempton Cliffs

A visit to Bempton Cliffs nature reserve

We don’t go out on Bank Holidays. There was a particularly nasty experience some 20 years ago which involved a five hour traffic jam and a few harsh words from both sides of the vehicle. This recent Bank Holiday was different though. A. We no longer live near Stonehenge and B. We are older, more tolerant. Plus the weather forecast clearly stated it was going to be overcast and chilly. Not ideal for lounging in the garden. As I am member of the RSPB we thought it would be good to go to Bempton Cliffs reserve. It’s free if you’re a member and as a Yorkshireman I like, free.

I’m not what you could call a twitcher, unless someone is being uncouth, which tends to affect the left eye. And, someone did mention over the breakfast table that they didn’t need to drive 26 miles to see a Gannet. 😂 The place is full of Gannets and Guillemots, but we all want to see a Puffin, don’t we? Sadly they were nesting which means they were tucked away. Although a nice young RSPB lady had a telescope pointing at one, who was bobbing around on the sea. You’re not going to get any birdy pics I’m afraid. The iPhone isn’t really any good on zoom as you can see below. But it was a lovely walk and the weather forecast was completely wrong.

Now here’s my favourite bit. Afterwards we decided to go on to Bridlington, and you know what that means? Yup, Fish and Chips with curry sauce (they couldn’t fit the mushy peas on 😂) I have to say, I do love a seaside town and if the English temperature rose by 4 degrees and the sun shone from June to September I’d stay at home for holidays.

The sculpture is by Emma Stothard, The Bridlington Lobster. Apparently Bridlington is the shellfish capital of Europe and lands more shellfish than any other port on the continent. Who would have known?

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 7

Javea

1976, Spain was a totally different Spain to what it is now. Franco had died one year earlier and much of his legacy remained. After the grapepicking we arrived in Javea, and the first thing we were told by the Guardia Civil was, “No es posible acampar aquí.” It was a phrase we heard often. Basically, no camping. Peter’s reply was always the same. “Pesca submarina.” For some reason spearfishermen had special rights, and we were left alone, although we were informed they would check on us throughout the night, which apparently was thirsty work. So, each evening we left a half bottle of wine and two glasses on the rear bumper step.

For a couple of weeks Javea was fun, there was a lot of diving, drinking and a few girls. Mudguts and I reverted to our feral nature, and I have to admit, looking back we were probably out of control. One particular night we had a disagreement with some American backpackers from the campsite. As I remember it, we were (entertaining?) two girls in the rear yard of a bar who, it turned out, were partners of two Alpha Male backpackers. It didn’t end well, we were outnumbered and felt some justice should prevail. Their campsite was at the bottom of a small cliff, so in the early hours, after gathering some ammunition, (stones and rocks). As Maximus the Gladiator said 😂

We only aimed for the tents, but to see so many people running around in the dark, half naked was a joy, until they discovered where the mystery stones were being hailed from, and so they began to climb. We escaped into the night and laughed all the way home. It was short lived! The Gaurdia arrived the following morning and after a long conversation with my mentor, Peter, and Mudgut’s older brother John they left. This, apparently, was the last straw (to be honest, as I said we had been a little naughty before) They took our money from us, explaining we were now to be given a small allowance, enough for maybe a beer. But we knew where we could buy bottles of wine for about 40 pesatas (30p) And the barmen were willing to swop beers for lightbulbs. Yeah, I know it was kinda inventive, but we became quite adapt at appropriating light bulbs from many sources.😂

Eventually we had to consider moving on, the fishing was still not good. But then our fortunes changed once more. We met Laurie and Ronnie, ex merchant seamen who owned a bar in the town, The Cave Bar. After a few beers they asked if we would convert their stockroom into a small eating area. Peter was an electrician and John the Aussie was a builder, whereas Mudguts and I were… well, we were just 18 years old 😂 In return they offered us a flat to stay in, they would feed us, and give us some spending money. So, we set to work.

There was a lot of chicken wire and paper mache used, that’s not the original photo, but its close enough. At least it kept us out of trouble, for now. When the work was done we set off once more. Next Stop, Almeria.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Blog Tour

Esther Chilton – Myths and Magic

Today I am delighted to feature Esther Moonstomp (Chilton) on her blog tour. Myths and Magic is Esther’s second book in her children’s series Saffy’s Secret Quest. So, without further ado, I’ll hand you over to Esther.

Charlie has very kindly allowed me to take over his blog for a short while as part of the blog tour for my second children’s book, Myths and Magic. A huge thank you to Charlie for his support. I really appreciate it.

So here I am on stop two of my tour, with book two. The Secret Dragon was the first in the Saffy’s Secret Quest Series and was released last year. The second book is due out on the 28^th May but the paperback is available now to pre-order. The series is for 5-7 year olds, so it’s ideal for parents to read to children or for those that have just started to read on their own. It’ll make a great gift for any young children you know!

The Blurb:

Saffy has solved the first clue in her quest to save the magical world of Mandoreum from danger. Now it’s time to find the second. 

She isn’t alone. Her new friend, Lily, a dragon from Mandoreum, wants to help. Together they take a trip and uncover special stories and unexpected surprises.

But Saffy soon learns that first appearances are not always what they seem. And plotting in the background is a witch who will do everything she can to stop them…

Extract:

Saffy looked around. She had been to the museum so many times she had forgotten how exciting it was. Colourful posters hung on the walls and interactive screens flickered as they changed image. A brightly lit café was over at the far corner and there was a gift shop bursting with toys, pens, notepads and all sorts the other side.

“I wish I was playing football with my friends,” Harry said huffily. “Museums are boring.”

“It’s far too wet to play football. And you know how much you enjoyed it here last time. If you’re a good boy, perhaps you can have an ice-cream a bit later,” Mum said.

“It’s raining. I don’t want an ice-cream when it’s raining,” Harry grumbled.

“I’ll save my money, then.” Mum took a protesting Harry by the hand and walked over to the first display.

“Harry is being even more annoying than usual,” Saffy whispered to Lily. “We’ll let them go on ahead and follow.”

A few moments later, Saffy stopped by a collection of spears and ancient tools. “Look at these, Lily.” She smiled as her friend peeped out over the top of her pocket. “They’re hundreds and hundreds of years old.”

“What’s that over there?” Lily pointed to a little mud hut.

Before Saffy knew it, the dragon had clambered out of her pocket and slid down to the floor.

“Where are you going? Stop!” Saffy called after her.

She noticed a group of children walking towards them. Uh oh!

Author bio:

Esther has been a freelance writer for over twenty-five years, regularly writing articles and short stories for magazines and newspapers such as Writers’ Forum, Writing Magazine, The Guardian, Best of British, The Cat, This England, Yours and The People’s Friend.

Winner of several competitions, including those run by Writing Magazine and The Global Short Story Contest, she has also had the privilege of judging writing competitions and relished being given the role of head judge of the Writers’ Forum monthly short story competition.

Esther loves writing but equally enjoys helping others, which she achieves in her role as a tutor for The Writers Bureau. Always on the lookout for a new challenge, she is taking the distance learning college over at the end of July.

She has had two how-to books on writing published, with a third due out later this year, as well as two collections of short stories. Her second children’s book is coming out in May, where she writes under the name of Esther Moonstomp.

Blogs: https://estherchilton.co.uk

https://esthermoonstomp.co.uk

Buying links:

UK: Paperback: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Myths-Magic-Saffys-Secret-Quest/dp/1806342103

Ebook: details to be released soon.

US: details to be released soon.

I’ll Do It

Those three words have probably been the reason it took me twenty years to finish my first novel, there’s always someone, somewhere, wanting something, have you noticed that? If I’d ever had the misfortune to be caught up in a war, I’d more than likely be a hero or dead on the first day. It’s that moment when someone says “who’s willing to…?” You look round the room and all eyes are gazing downwards, bums shuffling uncomfortably on seats, or feet shuffling back and forth nervously. I’m not sure if I feel sorry for the person asking, or I’m just dumb. But uncontrollably, my hand shoots up. “I’ll give it a shot.”

It got me into trouble at school. You know when you’re in the playground with your peers and someone suggests setting the fire alarm off? After riotous laughter, followed by the aforementioned ground gazing, and uncomfortable shuffling, comes the question. “Who’s going to do it?” Yup, that was the second time I got caned. The first time was for calling the PE teacher a f****** bully, after he’d beaten one of us for not climbing the rope in the gym. C’mon! the kid must have weighed 12 stone, he was rotund, and I’m being kind, there was no way he could have climed that rope. The headmaster didn’t see it that way.

A reason I didn’t excel in sports at that particular school was because the PE teacher wouldn’t allow me to participate again until I apologised 😂That was never going to happen. So when I called from the bench, “I’ll do it, sir.” I got a contempuous sneer. Although he did relent the following winter for cross country running. I guess he thought I’d hate it. Once he had set us off running the 3 miles around Clock House fields, he’d retire to the boiler room for a cigarette, reappearing just as we finished. I can still see his expression when he saw me coming in first. “Take a shortcut, Robinson?” he’d shout in his sarcastic manner. So, I did what any normal person would do. I stopped, turned my back on him, ran back to where my rotund friend was, and trotted in with him. Apparently I was a, “Waste of space.” 😂.

All these years later I’m retired, all I really have to do these days is write and run. Life of Riley, eh? So, I asked myself this morning, how have I ended up in two running clubs. The cross country rep for one club and race director of a race. About to take a run leadership course, followed by a coaching course with another club, I’m in six WhatsApp Groups and on two committees? Yup, “I’ll do it!” I guess I’m lucky I’m not in an organised crime gang.

Happy Trails, Folks x