That’s what Dublin means. Originating from the Gaelic: dubh meaning black: linn meaning pool. Dubh linn = Dublin.
Ria has always had a love for stories, possibly because of the culture she comes from. A seanchaí (shan-a-key), meaning a storyteller, has been part of the Irish way of life since pre-history, handing down stories by word of mouth before they were ever documented in text. She learned of this in her early years at school through the stories of mythology. Growing up, she found a passion for stories through movies, TV and books and this has always stayed with her.
Now in her latter years, she is creating her own stories which she loves sharing. These always include some humor, whether it is a novel or short story, her passion for writing is forever expanding. Ria has always had a love of all that is art and craft, which has bled into her hobbies, such as, painting, photography, bonsai, and creating three-string cigar box guitars. Obviously writing is there also. She even studied art and technical drawing as additional subjects outside of her school curriculum.
As a teenager, she was involved in school productions as an art director and stage and prop manager. In third level education, she chose to study Architectural Technology. On qualifying in 1984 she moved to London as Ireland was heading into recession and architectural work was getting slim. The UK however, was shooting out of recession under Maggie Thatcher.
She has lived and worked in the southeast of England up to the present day with no thoughts of moving back to the ‘Auld Sod’. Working with some of the top fifty architectural practices in her career, she has been involved in projects like Guy’s Hospital, Disney’s Offices, London and Smith Klein Glaxo office complex in West London among many others. She currently works in Canterbury, still as an architectural technician, producing the drawings a builder builds from and overseeing works on site.
Retirement beckons in the next few years, however, she will never be bored.
Jane Cottle is retired but not retiring and has had an interesting life which is probably why she has a vivid imagination and enjoys writing.
Her mother ran a music hall troupe so from an early age she was singing and dancing on stage. Her father was a politician so she got introduced to quite a few famous people and appeared several times on television.
At 17 she was offered a recording opportunity by Apple Core, the Beatles recording company but turned it down! She wanted to study and became a teacher instead.
Her first degree was in English from Sussex university and all her working life has been in education, initially in a primary school in London and later at a school for the blind in Kent. Whilst working she continued to study at Birmingham and Canterbury universities specialising in visual impairment, physical impairment and multisensory impairment. She has tutored both Birmingham and Cambridge universities, training teachers to become specialists in visual impairment. Her last post was as an education manager for Kent working specifically with children and adults who were blind or deafblind. In 2011 she won Kent teacher of the year for her work with blind students. Her work with blind people has often inspired her writing because she had to paint pictures with words for them, particularly when describing abstract visual phenomena such as clouds and rainbows.
She has always loved writing and performing and has written several musical plays for schools and also academic texts including one on writing in Braille. Outside of work she has performed in many amateur shows and pantomimes and as a result met more famous people and occasionally appeared on television.
Jane has been married twice and is now a widow. She has one son.
When she retired she completed an open university course in creative writing and joined Write by the Sea and also Shepway writers. She writes for herself as a hobby because she has a head full of words and just has to write them down! She has entered a few writing competitions and has won a couple and been shortlisted for a few. She had two stories in Ghosts by the sea and there will be a couple in the new anthology.
She doesn’t particularly yearn to be a published writer but wants to leave a legacy behind of the thoughts in her head and the person that she is.
After her mother died Jane discovered a treasure trove of poems and plays that her mother had written which brought great pleasure to the whole family. Jane hopes that at some time in the future someone will read her own scribblings and understand her thoughts and feelings about life in the same way.
Happy new year, so excited for our meetings and events this year, we are also coming into our 5th year of Write By The Sea. How quick time goes, I feel we are getting better each year. Our first meeting is Thursday 12th January, see you there. Here are the dates and events so far that we have booked, the rest should be confirmed before the end of the month.
What a brilliant year for this writing group, with so many events and meetings that have all been successful. It was great to have Mićhel Faber visit us and give an excellent talk about his writing. If you have bought his books and want them signed he will pop in and do a signing next year. The workshops have been popular so we will be doing more of those in the new year. We are in the process of getting our events sorted for the year so we can step up our advertising in printed form. The third anthology has been delayed as it is so big, we have over 30 stories this time so editing has taken longer. We are aiming to have it ready for sale in the Spring as I think Travel By The Sea will be a good time to launch. We are arranging a book launch for this anthology so will let you know the date and venue as soon as possible.
We are finished now for this year so have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year and see you on the 12th of January at Anna’s at 6pm.
Hope you are all having fun in the sun, that would make a good story, ‘Fun in Folkestone’.
Our events are back at The Hideaway with our group meetings, new dates above as our next guest has covid so I have swapped a couple round. No erotica until November, Jane will be pleased as she will miss it due to her holiday.
We have the lovely Carol coming over from Broadstairs to present a workshop on editing, sounds exciting and I am hopeless at that so looking forward to picking up some tips.
Hope to see you all there as we have a break until the 8th of September. Have a super summer and see you in September. Don’t forget our stories for the next anthology have to be in by the 31st August 2022
When you think about the Grand Hotel and its visitors, who springs to mind? Edward VII and Alice Keppel? Agatha Christie? Think again. What an amazing evening we had with Emre Araci! One thing is for sure – no shortage of inspiration for our next anthology, which is going to be about journeys to from and involving Folkestone.
This talk was made even better by the fact it was held in the drawing-room of The Grand, we are so very lucky to be able to hold our events here. Emre also bought along his gramophone, which was a very old wind up version to play a record. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jI1kNOxh71I
I found the evening so enjoyable listening about the history of our iconic hotel, The Grand. Let’s hope it is restored to its former glory soon.
Standing in the doorway, my neck craned forward into the empty room, head first, as if the rest of my body did not want to follow, a tangible fear prickling a shower of goosebumps onto my skin. The room was large and chilly. An electric fire was making little effect on the temperature, releasing a musty smell of electrically heated dust. It was dark outside and the heavy curtains were closed. The curtain moved? But there was no open window behind them. A low hum hung in the air, was it electricity?
A garish 1970s red patterned carpeted floor, clashed horribly with floral wallpaper, scattered with Pink Flamingos. A magnificent high vaulted ceiling, heavy brown wooden doors and panelling, a palatial mantlepiece, a forest of chairs, sofas and tables all displayed its Edwardian origins. It was built as a gentlemen’s residential chambers and club rooms in 1899. I imagined the gentlemen twirling their moustaches and doffing Derbys and top hats in a thick swirling smog of pipe and cigar smoke. Posing in frock coats in the Palm Court conservatory, dancing with society in the ballroom with its modern, sprung dance floor.
100 years of human energy hung in the air, invading the shadows, creeping into the dimly lit corners of the room. I don’t believe in ghouls and ghosts, have never seen a spirit or a spectre, I don’t believe in hauntings and demons. A scuttling sound. Rats? In this moment, in the year 2022, there was War once more in Europe.
More than a hundred years ago, previous occupants in The Grand, the Belgian Royal Family, along with many Belgian refugees fleeing carnage in Europe and living in the town. Agatha Christie created Hercule Poirot whilst staying in The Grand. I needed his little grey cells. A whistling sound? No, it is my tinnitus. I stood frozen in the doorway, legs like lead pipes, lurking on the cusp of danger.
The sky outside resembled a child’s painting – a pale, pink wash. The Night Porter’s shift had finished. His old war wound, a bayonet gash from the Ypres Salient, was troubling him. The previous evening’s top-secret dinner had been a rum do, with all those dignitaries. A right nuisance they had been too. Home and a stroll to the allotments beckoned now.
The hotel was coming to life. Baths were being drawn upstairs. In the basement, the kitchen staff were rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Having checked her reflection in the mirror in the servants’ corridor, Elsie Tomkins hurried towards the drawing-room, taking care not to slip on the polished black and white tiles, holding the coal-scuttle carefully for fear of smuts on her apron. Mr Ashby, the hotel manager, liked a fire to be laid in there early, so guests could retire in there after breakfast.
Last night’s staff had been careless. The poker was lying on the rug. Dried flower petals were scattered across the hearth. One of the leather chairs by the fireplace seemed to be occupied already. Elsie prepared to execute a neat curtsey. Then, she dropped the scuttle and screamed and screamed.
Scene
Jane Cottle March 2022
The room was grand both in proportion and appearance. It carried itself like a dowager duchess who looked patronisingly at us as we sidled through the door in our jeans and Puffa jackets. This was a room that really demanded dinner jackets and bow ties, jewelled gowns and tiaras.
Large sofas and polished wood tables were carefully arrayed inviting you to sit and be served by uniformed flunkeys that no longer existed. Despite the grandeur of its panelled walls and fluted columns that framed alcoves something was missing. It was cold, bone-chillingly cold, like a house that hasn’t seen human occupation for a long time. There was the tell-tale musty smell of unused furniture and a general air of faded gentility.
This was a room that had once seen gaiety and life. A room that had framed parties and felt champagne spilt on its carpets and echoed to the sounds of tinkling laughter. Where well-dressed couples had shared secrets and gazed into each other’s eyes. Were men in designer suits had discussed investments over a single malt. This was a room that had once smelled of money.
Now it was a room aching to be brought back to life.
The sky outside resembled a child’s painting – a pale, pink wash. The Night Porter’s shift had finished. His old war wound, a bayonet gash from the Ypres Salient, was troubling him. The previous evening’s top-secret dinner had been a rum do, with all those dignitaries. A right nuisance they had been too. Home and a stroll to the allotments beckoned now.
Debby Jones
The hotel was coming to life. Baths were being drawn upstairs. In the basement, the kitchen staff were rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Having checked her reflection in the mirror in the servants’ corridor, Elsie Tomkins hurried towards the drawing room, taking care not to slip on the polished black and white tiles, holding the coal-scuttle carefully for fear of smuts on her apron. Mr Ashby, the hotel manager, liked a fire to be laid in there early, so guests could retire in there after breakfast.
Last night’s staff had been careless. The poker was lying on the rug. Dried flower petals were scattered across the hearth. One of the leather chairs by the fireplace seemed to be occupied already. Elsie prepared to execute a neat curtsey. Then, she dropped the scuttle and screamed and screamed.
Paul Robinson
Charlie’s hazel eyes narrowed as she pushed at the heavy revolving door and entered the abandoned hotel. She was determined to take in everything, miss nothing.
She entered a large room on her right, through wide double doors. Once it would have been luxurious, now, though, it gave off an air of grandeur that was very faded, the high white ceiling greyed with age and neglect, with a shabby, once garish, orange carpet.
The L-shaped room was ten metres long, ‘ten big strides’ Charlie measured. ‘And ten wide.’ At the end was a picture window. The room was furnished with cast-off settees and chairs, scattered all higgeldy-piggeldy. The walls were papered with a faded birds-of-paradise pattern in faux William Morris style.
‘Very beige!’ Thought Charlie. Two large mirrors, one in a circular sunburst design, and one rectangular one, reflected back the light of the impressive electric chandeliers.
‘They haven’t shut off the electricity then’ realised Charlie. Then she spotted the one splash of colour in the room. ‘The boys were right’ she thought. A large woman was artistically posed in an armchair. Her white dress was splashed with red, and her sightless eyes stared up at the dingy grey ceiling.
Everything you ever wanted to know about The Grand, such an elegant old building that could tell many a story. I liked the fact that Agatha Christie stayed there to write but Emre told me that it is not true. So come along and listen to the stories about this grand old hotel, all are welcome, there will be tea and coffee available for a donation or you can bring your own drink. Doors open at 6.30 for a 7pm start.
CADBURY CREAM EGG 300 WORDS THEN REDUCED TO 100 WORDS – MEMBERS WORK
Give Write By The Sea writers a topic and you can guarantee that they will all come up with something different. Had a great night Thursday at The Grand with our Cadbury’s Creme Egg Challenge. Three hundred words, which we then had to condense into one hundred. A good exercise; it makes you think about what can be left out and what can be said more succinctly.
Paul’s winning story had a definite touch of Lord Byron. Jane’s story was on a similar theme and was powerfully written in the second person. Avril, in the same vein, made us think about actually eating one of these things. New member Chris raised the tone with her informative piece about the history of Cadbury’s (which used to be Fry’s) creme eggs.
We don’t all like creme eggs but we did love Carol Grimes’s story about a children’s tea party and the resulting sugar rush. Maryanne kept us entertained with an account of two schoolgirls on an escapade (or should we say “eggscapade?)
Matthew conjured up a terrifying vision of Donald Trump about to tee off, wearing an Easter-egg themed outfit. It was never going to end well. Debby introduced us to the dear little character of Egg, who was anxiously awaiting purchase at a small supermarket in North Wales, as Easter Sunday approached. Jana’s gentle reflective story on the theme of forgiveness and generosity made us all reflect on the meaning of Eastertide.
Well done, Karen, for thinking up all these themes!
Cadbury’s Crème Egg by Maryanne
The glitter of slightly crinkled yellow, red and purple is bright. But not as bright as the thing inside is sweet. The recalling of this triggers a desire for saccharin within the brain that won’t be foiled by its outer tinsel-foil, but seeks gratification in the promise from within. Teeth, bite. Smooth milk chocolate, cracks. A creamy sugar flow like lava, not glacier like mint, oozes into the mouth. An instant hit of fondant sweetness.
But has this sumptuous, syrupiness stronger than honey overstepped the mark? What once we coveted for immediate satisfaction seen now as a quick shot of energy that just as quickly fades?
Or is that the point? What do we want with long-term if we can be absorbed by the present? Hey, in the devouring IS the mindfulness, The here and now gloopiness of smearing the mixture around our tongues, along the walls of our cavernous mouths, no hollow-egg hollow-moment but one ripe to orgasmic, creamy, bursting?
Forgetting death by chocolate and remembering springtime. Sap rising, life birthing, and then the easter egg hunt to discover the brightly wrapped blisses peeping out from behind clumps of daffodils. But watch it. Don’t take more than your friend or you’ll turn as green as the grass before throwing up. It is an art to see how many or much you can keep inside, would taunt the older ones not yet turned to alcohol.
Is it true that while these eggs can be vegan, their beef gelatine content was dangerous at the time of Mad Cow Disease (Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy), and that I and a friend had been expelled from school for eating some along with cheesecake in a café in town when we should have been in a lesson. And that, when castigated for taking the law of pleasure too much into our own hands – and laughing behind same hands in recollection of our mock-sensual rendition for our café audience, while still in our school uniforms, of consuming the silk-lined chocolate ovoids – had retorted. Pleasure is essential for our education.
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The glitter of slightly crinkled yellow, red and purple is bright. But not as bright as the thing inside is sweet. The recalling of this triggers a desire for saccharin whose gratification unfoilable by its outer tinsel-foil, is promised within. Teeth, bite. Smooth milk chocolate, cracks. A creamy sugar flow like lava, not glacier-like mint, oozes into the mouth. An instant hit of fondant sweetness.
But if its sickliness oversteps the mark it still works for me as a symbol of when I consumed a forbidden ovoid at school and learnt that pleasure was an aspect of education.
Egg by Debby
To the casual observer, Egg No 88 (hereinafter referred to as “Egg”) was identical to other Cadbury’s Creme Eggs. Some eggs were worth thousands of pounds to their purchasers. Others had white shells or tartan wrappers. Egg’s gold, red and purple foil was not a distinguishing feature. Sentience marked him out, something with which he was endowed as soon as two chocolate shells were clapped together. Where would life take him? Anywhere except America, where they preferred more sugar and less milk content.
Egg’s journey from the Quaker-built town of Bournville was quite short. He reached his new home in late December, with time only for a fleeting glance at the slate heaps that loomed over the town before the driver dropped the pallet at the Spar, stamping the snow from his boots.
Weeks passed. Times were hard. People had little money for frivolities. Valentine’s Day and Mothering Sunday came and went. On Holy Saturday, the local priest arrived, to buy Easter eggs for his young parishioners. Egg inched too late towards the front of the shelf. Pockets laden and with a cheery Diolch the priest left the shop. Without Egg.
For left-over chocolate, the outlook was grim. “Rejects” were tossed into a basket with a red label. Many ended up dented, the cavernous skip outside their final, smelly destination. As the shop opened for Easter Sunday, Egg glanced at his shelf companions; a large dark chocolate egg, three more crème eggs and a packet of mini eggs. Rather unprepossessing.
A family walked in. “Dad, how could you have forgotten? the children wailed.
A hand-scooped Egg and his companions up. “You’re a lifesaver, “ the Dad beamed at the shop assistant, as Egg and his companions slid into the carrier bag. His short life had not been in vain.
Egg in 100 words – Debby Jones
In his bright foil wrapping, it was impossible to discern what set Egg apart from the other Cadbury’s Crème Eggs.
In freezing December, Egg caught a glimpse of the slate heaps that loomed over the town, before disappearing into his new home.
Money was tight here. At the back of the shelf, Egg was easily overlooked. Left-over chocolate had a grim future; handled carelessly, dented, destined for the cavernous skip outside.
The Spar on Easter Sunday morning proved a lifesaver to holidaymakers who had left their eggs behind. Sliding into their carrier bag, Egg reflected that his life had not been in vain.
The Cadbury’s Crème Egg by Paul
Oh, you tempting, teasing ellipse, clad in glistening hues of midnight blue, and glittering gold: and harlot scarlet. Your gorgeous, slightly crumpled gown clings to the perfect symmetry of your body beneath. The script running round your raiment is wrinkled as if by some unseemly haste in dressing; looking like a quizzical captcha. No robots here, though, just lustful human appetite!
Your salivating ravisher, pausing only to stare in wonder at your perfection, with trembling fingers undresses you, you gaudy little flirt. An involuntary moan issues from their parted lips, as your apparel is torn asunder and cast aside to reveal your silken-smooth, gleaming brown skin.
‘I want you; I want you now!’ Complains an impatient id, but super-rational super-ego admonishes: “wait, wait, take it slowly!” So, the first bite is self-denying, self-restrained; it does not even break the skin; but oh, the first heavenly pulse of liquid chocolate, oozing over the tongue and down the throat… a pause, hungry eyes feast on your naked body. Your plump, curvaceous shape is etched with sinuous lines, like virgin tattoos on shy young skin. The pattern makes twin cartouches, one on each side, in which starbursts blaze. Your oval perfection now is marred by love bites, where your licentious exploiter seized their first glorious taste of your delights. Their heart beats quicker now, the panting lust swells and will be contained no longer. One libidinous snap removes your top, exposing luscious ivory and golden flesh beneath. The taste is divine, ambrosial – truly the food of the gods! Heedless of stains on fingers the greedy tongue plunders your delicious interior, the ravisher does not stop, not even when your chocolate skin is devoured, but greedily sucks each finger and thumb, until consummation is utterly complete.
But…surely…murmurs Id, just one more won’t hurt.
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The Cadbury’s crème egg is an ovoid confection, 4.5 centimetres long. It weighs 35 grams. It is wrapped in a thin metal foil in the three primary colours. The writing ‘Crème Egg,’ along with the signature of ‘Cadbury’s’, due to wrapping practicalities, are distorted; the barcode on the thickest part of the egg – the Lilliputian ‘big-end’ if you will – is more legible. Unwrapped, the egg has a thick chocolate shell, inscribed with concentric oval lines, culminating in an asterisk on each side. The egg ‘white’ and ‘yolk’ are formed of vanilla-flavoured white and yellow fondant cream. A delicious small treat.
Miracle of Easter Eggs by Yana
Matthew is standing in front of the damaged door leading from their house to the back garden. Looking at the smashed glass panel, how could he make the situation easier for his parents when they would see what he had done?
To apologise for his hockey training would not be enough. Repeatedly apologising, with pouring tears, would irritate his father, but what about his mum? Matthew, glancing at the green garden decorated with daffodils and hyacinths, reminded him that Easter was fast approaching. A quick step to the drawer, picking up all of his cash, Matthew ran as fast as he could to the nearest convenience store. Here you are! Just on the middle shelf he could see a display of Mum’s favourite chocolate – Cadbury’s Eggs. What a big choice! The boy decided take one in a pinky box, richly decorated with the words “Happy Easter to my dear Parents”, that is it! Without hesitation he grabbed it and ran back home.
Matthew’s heart beat faster, as he could see his father’s car on the driveway, so he casually walked into the house. Carrying his present in front of his chest, he appeared face to face with his parents. Their response was unexpectedly calm, so that made their boy more easy.
“I am very sorry for that, I so enjoy my training…”, bending his head down and passing the present to father.
“OK! Give it to your mum and just behave and be more careful next time! Any injury, you sportsman?”, said father with a frowning face. While mum was taking her luxury egg from Matt, her eyes flooded with tears as did her son’s.
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Matthew is worried how to explain to his parents the problem of a damaged door, where he smashed the glass panel, within his hockey training. He made a quick step to his drawer, picked up his cash and ran quickly to the nearest store. On the middle shelf he could see Cadbury’s Eggs. Grabbed one, with sign “Happy Easter to my Parents.” When he arrived back home, he faced his parents.
“I am very sorry for that, I so enjoy my training…” bending his head, sad face, passing that present to father.
“OK! Give it to your mum and be more careful!” Mum took her luxury egg and her eyes flooded with tears.
Cream egg by Carol
When I was a child, I liked Marmite sandwiches – egg and cress, cheese, even fish paste. A salty, savoury child. The Cadburys creme egg is the polar opposite of Marmite. My son was born In 1967. Sitting with several children around a fifth birthday tea table, plates of sandwiches, biscuits, bourbons and party rings, trifle, angel delight and a cake in the wings with 5 candles for blowing. Happy birthday to you, tra, la, la. Chaos ensued, kids on sugar. Pass the parcel was a riot. I settled them down to watch The Clangers, cross-legged on the floor for a moment, whilst I scooped up wrapping paper, bread crusts and crumbs. There was a short-lived calm whilst Clangers entertained. It was an Easter birthday, and in a little bags, as a party gift, a glow stick and a Cadburys Creme Egg. Each child left with a face smeared with brown chocolate and Physcadelic yellow, glowing gloop.
There was one egg left, and once I had settled my hyper child into his bed, I had to try the chocolate egg. It set my teeth on edge, all of a judder. Inside the milk chocolate case, a gelatinous albumen wrapped around viscous yolk, dyed a violent yellow. My tongue revolted and curled up into the back of my throat as the glutinous contents slid down my throat. Sickly and cloying. I was sick. An ingredient list of sugar, corn syrup, high fructose, corn syrup, artificial colour, artificial flavour, calcium chloride with a dash of egg white. Not the healthiest sweet treat. This was the day I learned the results of a sugar rush. Too much sweet stuff and Children = mayhem. Me? I will stick to Marmite on toast.
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100 words
When I was a child I liked Marmite sandwiches – egg and cress, even fish paste. A Cadburys creme egg is the opposite of Marmite. My first bite of one of these Glutinous eggs set my teeth on edge, all of a judder. My tongue revolted and curled up in disgust into the back of my throat. Inside the milk chocolate case, a gelatinous albumen wrapped around viscous yolk, dyed a violent yellow. Sickly and cloying. An ingredient list of sugar, corn syrup, high fructose corn syrup, artificial colour, artificial flavour, calcium chloride with a dash of egg white. Not the healthiest sweet treat. The first time I ate one of these I was sick. Me? I will stick to Marmite.
Jane Cottle March 2022
I hold you delicately in my fingers, tight enough to feel your firm outline but softly enough that my warmth doesn’t melt you.
Slowly I start to strip off your silver skin exposing the rich brown of your body and the filigree of lines that cover you.
I lift you to my nose and inhale that rich sweet scent as anticipation starts to build and saliva fills my mouth and gradually, I open my lips and hold the tip of you between them.
I feel you as you start to become soft as my lips caress you and the sweet taste blooms in my mouth as the excitement overwhelms me.
I cannot help myself and my teeth close on you like sharpened pincers and bite down hard. I stop to look at what remains as I run that little piece of you around my mouth, delighting in the excitement of your flavour.
I have exposed you. Now I can see your deliciousness. Your soft white silkiness and your forbidden yellow core. In one swift movement, I thrust my outstretched tongue deep inside you and drown in your sweetness, lapping and lapping at you like a starving creature.
Then suddenly it is all over. The sweetness starts to cloy. Your firm, brown body has become a distasteful slick on my hands. Your crème is no longer exciting and is now vaguely nauseating. I push you away into a bin and seek hot water to wash my hands and cold water to wash my mouth.
My love affair has not lasted, and it is shown up to be mere infatuation. The anticipation was too much and the delivery too little. Just as it was last Easter.
A bit like marmite you either love them or hate them, I love them.
Want to try your hand at writing? Join Write By The Sea on 28th April at the Grand, 6.30 for 7. More details will follow soon.
WRITE BY THE SEA IN FOLKESTONE 