As far back as I can remember, I’ve enjoyed making up stories. I have a memory from when I was still in nappies of laying in my cot, unable to sleep, and engrossed in a daydream about encountering a witch.
In that particular episode, I first saw the witch through broken glass, which when I come to think of it is an odd thing for a toddler. Perhaps I’d seen a broken window when I was out and about with my mother? It must have made quite an impression on my young mind because I remember it well even now.
When I started school and learned to read I loved drifting off into my own little worlds – often during lessons – where I had adventures with characters from books, comics, TV or films, or with characters and situations I made up. The teachers didn’t seem to notice, probably because I developed a habit of losing myself in my imagination while keeping my eyes on them as they taught the class.
I also loved drawing but would often be disappointed because my teachers never wanted me to draw dragons, wizards, unicorns, knights in armour and all those other wonderful things I read about or saw in illustrations or films.
“Draw a picture of your house,” they would say.
But when I added a gnarled old apple tree, complete with a witch picking the fruit, they would say, “Don’t be silly. You don’t have a witch in your garden. Draw a cat instead.”
I was mystified. I didn’t have a cat either.
Adults, eh?
Now that I’m all grown up (or pretending to be) I can indulge my imagination and write and draw what I like! Even witches picking apples.
What I’m working on
I’m excited to announce I’ve published the print version of Daphne Mayne and the Goblin Quest.
If you enjoyed Goblin Quest and are keen to know what happens next, you’ll be pleased to learn I’m on track with the next book, The Hounds of Magic, which I plan to publish in June.
I like to think of my computer, my phone or other gadgets as neighbours rather than tools. It’s not that I don’t have neighbours in the more conventional sense, but that I can’t help anthropomorphising them. (I’ve just stopped to think: how far away from where you live do people stop being neighbours? Does it depend on how densely populated the area is in which you live? I could Google it, but it’s more fun to discuss things, so chip in!)
Getting back to my opening sentence, what I mean is: neighbours are people you (hopefully) get on with most of the time, but occasionally get annoyed with when they do something like park in your driveway or leave a pile of rubbish outside their house for the council to pick up, but which ends up strewn across your front lawn because it’s a windy day.
In those circumstances, you either get passive-aggressive and make pointed comments to the cat when your errant neighbour is within earshot, or you confront them directly. (Incidentally, you’ll notice I didn’t say “my cat”. One of my favourite quotes is “Dogs have owners. Cats have staff.”).
The way I approach my computer or phone when it misbehaves is much the same. I either yell at the offending device, or say things like “This thing’s getting old. It’s about time I upgraded.” in the hope that that will encourage it to bend to my will.
So far I have to admit my tactics haven’t been terribly successful, but it usually makes me feel better.
I should make it clear I’m not a Luddite. When technology works well, I’m perfectly happy.
When I worked in London, I lived miles outside the UK’s capital city and spent many long hours commuting.
I spent four hours on trains each working day. Two hours each way. What was I to do with that time? Read a book or a newspaper? Watch a movie on my phone or laptop? Stare out the window?
I’d always wanted to write, so that’s what I did.
An overcrowded train carriage may not seem the best place for words to flow from the fingertips, but I got on with it and the result was that I’ve learned to write anywhere. I can pop open the lid of my trusty laptop and continue where I left off within seconds.
Writers often say they need to be in a certain environment or in the right mood; some develop rituals or habits which they have to stick to in order to put words down, and I respect that. (I’m the same when it comes to DIY – I counter unkind remarks that I’m dithering by stoutly maintaining that I’m “getting in the zone”).
Here are some of my favourite examples of the wonderful and weird habits of famous authors:
Friedrich Schiller found inspiration in the odour of rotting apples. He kept apples in his desk drawer and let them spoil on purpose.
Lewis Carroll also wrote standing, but only in purple ink.
Dan Brown cures writer’s block by hanging upside down.
George Orwell, Mark Twain, Edith Wharton, Marcel Proust and Woody Allen all wrote while lying down, either in bed or on a sofa. Truman Capote went as far as saying he was a “completely horizontal author”.
To limit distraction, Francine Prose writes facing a wall.
I should add that I don’t have to be on a train in order to write. Nowadays I sit at a desk, writing to the sound of waves rolling into the beautiful coastline of the Cape’s Atlantic Seaboard a hundred yards from the front door. Okay, so I have to mentally shut out the traffic noise from the main road, but hey, you can’t have everything!
What about you? Do you have a favourite place or ritual to get your creative juices flowing?
The article was converted to text by the Internet Archive using OCR. I have corrected some mistakes resulting from the process of converting the original scanned image to text but I haven’t changed the spelling (e.g. John Bowring’s spelling of the famous poet and playwright’s name as Shakspeare, rather than today’s accepted spelling, Shakespeare).
Pixie traditions are passing away. You may find now and then on the Moors, and the skirts of the Moors in Devonshire, peasants who will be willing to talk about those amusing sprites whose history is a sort of local heritage; and if you can get a rural chronicler launched into the full tide of friendly communication, starting with “’Ees ! ’eee ! I’ve a yeard tell o’en,” you may be sure you will be greatly edified, and find that the poetical and the imaginative element, having much raw material to work with, is well worth studying even among the untaught shepherds, who watch the wandering flocks scattered over the heather, and who from their rude granite-walled and straw-thatched huts by night have little to look at but the sky, the clouds, the moon and the stars, and by day the granite boulders, the golden gorse, the purple heath, and a few sparsely-spread wild flowers, waving grasses, and the scant herbage which adorn the downs.
But I can remember the time when some- thing better than tradition interested me in listening to the tales of the Dartmoor rustics; for they spoke not only of what they had “a’ yeard on,” but of what they had “zeed.” Those were the old men of that generation, and as “’twas sixty years ago,” we were taken back considerably more than a century, to a time when ghosts and witches were as “common as blackberries,” and any one doubting their existence would be overwhelmed with a weight of evidence quite sufficient to crush incredulity. Not to believe in ghosts and witches was to be as bad as “a wicked infidel.” John Wesley himself denounced those who denied their existence as “deniers of their Bible.”
Ghosts and witches were almost always associated with fears, and frights, and visitations of evil; but the pixies were joyous, happy, loving, dancing, singing, sportive little creatures. They were social, not solitary. They played many tricks, all for fun or for discipline, never for malignity. If they did mischief, it was to punish, to reprove, to correct. Everybody thought it better to laugh at than to quarrel with them — better to be regarded as their allies than their enemies. So little did they impress my childish thoughts with terror that I absolutely longed, when taken to see the green turf on which they held their moonlight revels —
By fountain dear, or spangled star-light sheen,
the granite basins in whose crystal waters they bathed, the tangled recesses into which they retreated from mortal observation, — I longed and languished for an opportunity of looking on them, of knowing from my own experience that they really existed. But alas ! though the territory over which they ruled was most familiar to me, I never, sooth to say, have been privileged to see an individual of the race.
They were strangely blended in my mind with Queen Mab , and Oberon, and Titania , and Puck, and the other Shakspearian creations, and I often fancied that Devonian story had reached the ears of that bewitching wonder-worker, who turned pebbles into jewels, and found in everything a soul of beauty and of truth, — found it himself and revealed it to the world. Assuredly the rough rustics of the moors never heard of Shakspeare, but they tell the very tales which he has “married to immortal verse,” and the deeds of Puck and his comrades are but the records of the daily doings of the pixie people, who —
Frights the maidens of the villagery; Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, And bootless make the breathless housewife churn; And sometime make the drink to bear no barm[1]; Mislead night wanderers, laughing at their harm?
[1] An old Devonian word for yeast
“Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act ii. Sc. 1.
The peat-bogs of the moors of the Dart and the Exe are the very places into which the pixies beguiled their victims, often youthful lovers who went out courting after sunset, and were left “stogged in the mux” and “begegged” in the “neart,” till on “the dimmet,” the first break of the twilight, their tormentors disappeared and relieved them from the derisive laughter which was not the least of the annoyances inflicted by the imps.
Shakspeare’s Puck revels in the variety of devices by which he entices the objects of his attention into brakes (furze-covered ground) and quagmires. He transforms himself into various animals, the better to carry on his trade. The Devonian traditions do not incarnate the pixies as the instruments of delusion, but represent these instruments as being under the command of the directing influence. Puck says —
I’ll follow you, I’ll lead you about a round,— Through bog, through bush, through brake, through briar; Sometimes a horse I’ll be, sometimes a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometimes a fire, And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and hum, Like horse, dog, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.
The pixie is not any of these, but he commands and controls them all.
A contemporary of Shakspeare, Drayton, in his “Nymphidia,” gives some further details of Puck’s proceedings, which are abundantly warranted by Devonshire authorities.
This Puck but seems a dreaming dolt, Still walking like a ragged colt, And oft out of a bush doth bolt, Of purpose to deceive us. And leading us makes us to stray Long winter nights, out of the way, And when we stick in mire and clay, He doth with laughter leave us.
But the pixies in Devon are decidedly cleverer than Puck himself, for they do not wet their feet on the mud, and not being “dreaming dolts,” they mount the “ragged colts” of the farmers, and use them for seducing their owners, amusing themselves by tangling their manes and tails into “pixie-rings,” as may be “zeed” to the present hour by any one who will take the trouble to verify the fact, and ask any Dartmoor shepherd-boy to point out the pixies’ hosses.
In Devon I never heard the name of the pixies’ king. I dare say Shakspeare was right, as he generally is, in telling us it was Oberon; but in these days, when the derivation of almost any one word may be traced up to almost any other word, between Puck, pucksee , and pixie, any one may undoubtedly establish a satisfactory analogy. I remember in Smyrna, when some odd oriental usage was remarked on, which had been introduced into a family half English half Levantine, the excuse of the housewife was — “You know that when one is in Turkey, one must do as the Turkeys does.” The reasoning was allowed to be conclusive, and the pixies and Puck are surely as nearly allied to one another as Turkeys and the Turks.
It is quite dear that the Shakspearian Puck learnt his tricks among the Devonian pixies. Hear what he says : —
I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal; And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab; And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob, And on her wither’d dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, And tailor[2] cries, and falls into a cough, And then the whole quire hold their hips and Ioffe; And waxen in their mirth, and neeze[3] and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there.
[2] Squatting down as a tailor. [3] “laughter bolding both his sides.” Milton.
How much more delicately does Titania deal with her subjects, and in what a graceful spirit call upon them to minister to her behests.
I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee, And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep And sing, while thou, on pressed flower, dost sleep; And I will purge thy mental grossness so, That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.
Titania undoubtedly was thinking of Devon when she expressed her longings : —
I do but beg a little changeling boy To be my henchman;
for Devonshire, is above all other lands, the land of changeling boys and girls, and the pixies had a great deal to do with these transformations. I recollect hearing the history of one who had the gravity of an ancient woman from her very childhood, who talked as if she were fifty years old, when she was only five. They called her “The Bee” and she “gathered honey every day.” It must have been a portion of the ambrosia, and helped to famish the metheglin of the pixie court. Certainly it must have been for one of these precocious little creatures, full of wit and wisdom, brains in their toes and in their fingers’ ends, that the Fairy Queen expressed so strong an affection. Out of a “changeling” Shakspeare might have created an Ariel to meet the pixies : —
On hill, in dale, in forest, or in mead, By pav’d fountain, or by rushy brooks, Or on the beached margent of the sea, To dance their ringlets to the whistling wind.
The pixies were great explorers, familiar with the caves of the ocean, the hidden sources of the streams and the recesses of the land; but they had their favourite haunts for their routs and revellings; they had a hierarchy of rank; and the subordinates had their tasks appointed to them by the superior authorities. Titania tells us how, after “a roundel and a fairy song,” she sends them
For the third part of a minute, hence, Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds.
A very benevolent purpose. In Devonshire the eglantine is called the canker-rose; and her soldiery she orders out
To war with rear-mice[4] for their leathern wings, To make my small elves coats; and some, keep back The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits.
[4] A Devonshire word for a bat.
And here I cannot refrain from referring to that exceedingly beautiful passage, which belongs to the same act in the same play from which I have been quoting, in which the pansy, bearing in the west its poetical name to the present day, — is called the “western flower” in the well-known compliment to the Virgin Queen : —
The fair vestal, crowned by the west. The imperial votress who passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy free; Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell; It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound; And maidens call it “love in idleness.”
All these fancies Shakspearian and traditions Devonian, being blended, somewhat confusedly in my mind—
I had a dream — The pixie queen and court Came down from Heltor’s heights— a choir of bees Choruss’d their advent, and the vernal gales Perfumed their path with odours heather-born: Her name Titania — ’twas the evening hour; She sat upon a pearly nautilus, And it was fringed with glow-worms— while it roll’d On wheels the dews had silver’d. Butterflies Her steeds; and round her floated fairy-girls, Who from the Demoisels had borrow’d wings; And, as their sovereign lighted on the earth, They sang soft songs, and follow’d in a train To a rude bason on a granite rock, With crystal water filled, in which they bathed; Rising refresh’d, they shook their golden locks, And tripp’d away to an adjacent sod, Green, flowery, soft, and there, in mazy rills, Danced till the rising of the matin star, Then hasten’d with swift footsteps to the grots In Heltor’s rifts, with moss and lichens lined; The cock crows hailed for earth another dawn, The carolling skylarks took the news to heaven; The moon was lost in daylight, and the sun Assumed his undivided sovereignty.
It was said, very much in accordance with the Shakspearian representation, that various missions were assigned to the pixies by their rulers, of the success or failure of which they were expected to give an account for the entertainment of their companions and of the pixie court. Sometimes the rustics discovered and thwarted their purposes, but the plans were generally too well laid to be detected or prevented. It was their special duty to punish the incredulous for their incredulity, and to play their tricks upon hunks and scolds; to awaken jealousies among lovers, and above all other sports, to “employ Jack and the Lantern” to beguile the peasants into wet marshes and vuzzy -brakes (gorse-heather).
To bewitch the cows’ udders, so that they would give no milk, to pull away the stool from under the milk-maid, and to burst into laughter when they saw her lying on her back, to spoil the rennet, to prevent the milk from curdling, to turn the cider sour in the cellar during thunder-storms, or to pull out the spill, so that the beverage should be wasted on the floor, to knock the cider-flask out of the hand that was lifting it to the mouth, and to pour its contents into the bosom of the would- be drinker; to drive the pigs with stinging- nettles into woods or ditches, and then, by deceitful grunts and noises to misdirect the lads who had been sent forth in search of the wanderers, these are among the tricks of common life; but at times bolder adventures were attempted, such as stealing the sermon from the curate’s pocket when he was mounting the pulpit stairs, on the rare occasions when the rector was to be among the auditory; to cause the doctor’s horse to trip and to fling the rider when he was on the way to the squire, who had required his immediate presence, having broken his arm in a fox-hunt; to put back the ‘tumey’s (solicitor) watch a full hour, so that his case was disposed of before he could get to the ‘sizes. Of such stories rich gatherings might have been made a century ago, but they have passed into oblivion with their narrators.
A pixie meal has been described as taking place in a recess where the carpet is of green moss, a large fungus the central table, and the guests are seated around upon mushrooms, which are generally called pixie stools by the Devonshire peasants. Barberries and whortle-berries are introduced on leaves, and attendant bees bring in honey to sweeten them, bluebottles carry dew in buttercups and harebells, and thrushes sing songs during the repast. It is said that their domestic quarrels, which are not unfrequent, and generally are attributable to some jealous annoyance, are settled at these festivities. These little misunderstandings, and the mischievous character of some of the pixie tricks, are considered evidence that they do not belong to an angelic race, and are not wholly free from the infirmities which characterise sinful and mortal men. They constantly display their benignant qualities towards their favourites. If, during the night, they torment some with pinches and nightmares, they visit others with pleasing dreams. If it is the business of some to perplex and molest the objects of their dislike, others are engaged in fanning the winter fires, helping the leavening of the loaf, sharpening the knives, sweetening or strengthening the cider, encouraging the ewes to bear twin lambs, filling the cows’ udders with milk, and rendering all sorts of kindly services to those they look on with a friendly eye. And among the rustics to have the good-will of the pixies was a strong recommendation in the family and the social circle.
It is not easy in old age to give distinctness to the recollections of impressions which had in them something undefined and shadowy even when they were made on the susceptibilities of youth. I had a great desire to know something more about the pixies than I could learn from those who, while they most religiously believed in their existence, had an apprehension that if they exhibited too much curiosity and pushed their inquiries too far into the mysteries of the pixie world, they would be punished for their irreverent daring. Though they did not say so, yet they felt like the blue-eyed maiden of the poet-laureate, that “doubt is devil-born,” and that their souls’ perdition or salvation was in some way or other involved in the rejection or reception of the evidences of the supernatural world which they believed to exist around them. What seems very silly to the enlightened may be very sacred to the ill-instructed, and if authority could rule the matter, ghosts and witches would form a part of authentic history at an epoch not much anterior to our own. It was one of my early fancies that a pixie had communicated to me, while I was asleep, some particulars of their nature and mode of life.
We know not whence we came nor where we go, But only that we are. We live, we love; Life has its cares and pains, but not like yours; Love its perplexities, its hopes, its fears, Its jealousies, not such as trouble men. Created, and not self-existent, we Must be imperfect, for perfection dwells With God alone. Yet we have powers above Any to men conceded, we can hear Sounds which to you are silence, and to us Your music is but discord; many a sight Veil’d from your eyes to us is visible, We touch what you can reach not,— all the change Of seasons, night and day, and foul and fair, Affect us not; above you and beneath We visit, where no mortal foot has trod; We know no disobedience to the powers That rule us. Order is our law supreme, Much is unknown to us, but this we know, That we were made for happiness. We talk Of past, of present, of what is, has been, And may be, but the toil be is not ours, Nor can we draw aside the veil that hides The mysteries only known where all is known.
It has been remarked with much truth that if some of the monastic orders sought the seclusion of desert and desolate places for the purposes of penitence, others with a view to enjoyment appropriated the most beautiful spots for their domicile. Though the Devonshire pixies were fond of locomotion, and had their places of retreat in the less accessible parts of the mountains and the moors, yet nature’s charms had to them special attractions, and many of the tales told are connected with the Devonian woods and waterfalls. Bocky Fall, Fingal Bridge, Combes, (valleys) on the banks of the Dart and the Teign, have been pointed out as among their favourite haunts. I have heard the tale of a shepherd boy who fell asleep in the midst of his flock, with whom a quartet of pixies determined to amuse themselves. One fastened him to the ground and kept his eyes dosed, another tickled his nostrils with barley beard, a third cried “Wolf! Wolf!” in his ears, and the fourth bewitched the sheep, which fled scampering away in all directions. After holding their victim for some time in agonised helplessness, they released him with screams of laughter, while the poor lad run affrighted into a furze-bush, where he was found by his master, covered with scratches and bruises. But the pixies having enjoyed the fun, collected the sheep together, and all was well as it ended well.
The pixies were never represented as having any religious rites or services. They were not reputed ever to have taken part in ecclesiastical matters. In Catholic countries popular superstitions are not unfrequently made subservient to priestly influence. The rural clergy in the ruder districts of Devon were formerly little superior in intelligence to the rustics among whom they lived, their habits were moulded to the civilisation which surrounded. In listening to their stories —
I, a credulous, confiding youth, Doubted no more than they; why should I doubt? Their ignorance was faith, but mine was bliss, And now that age and philosophic thought Have swept the bloom of young romance away, The pixies all have fled — like other dreams.
It’s taken longer than it should have but, finally, it’s here: The third book in the Hollow series, A Taste of Steel, is finished and ready to purchase.
In this book Drome gets caught up in a mutiny against the queen of Kyro – the country neighbouring Glaskwall – and is soon up to his neck in hot water (literally!), threats, plots, executions, revenge, murder and a host of other nasty business.
It’s not that he wants to be involved, but he just can’t help rubbing people up the wrong way.
What a shame he boasts to the leader of the mutineers about how much steel there is in his village. It’s not as though he didn’t know that metal is scarce in Hollow… but sometimes his mouth says things before his brain catches up.
He’d better hope that Neve can help out, because if she can’t save his skin, then no one can.
As for his village, Amblesby, with three armies on its doorstep, all there because of a slip of his tongue and all wanting the precious steel lying around, what chance of survival do the villagers have?
We’re having a pint together in the pub, sitting at an old wooden table at the back of the room next to a fly-specked poster advertising a gig featuring a pop group from the eighties. There’s only one other patron in the place. He leans sideways against the wall, his grey hair pressed against a dark patch in the maroon flock wallpaper. He hasn’t moved since we arrived.
‘I had an odd dream last night,’ I say.
Your eyes lift and your gaze darts over my shoulder at the exit.
‘Not another one about leather underwear, I hope?’ you say.
I wince. ‘You promised not to mention that again.’
‘Sorry.’
You drain your pint in two deep gulps.
I’m taken aback. Your tankard had been almost full.
‘I need a leak,’ you say. ‘Just going to pop to the loo.’
You can’t stop your eyes looking past me as you contemplate the pub’s door again.
I put my hand on your arm. ‘Wait. I want to tell you about my dream.’
You sigh and sink back in your place.
‘Alright,’ you say, casting a meaningful look at your empty tankard.
It’s your round, you cheapskate, but I relent and head for the bar, all the time watching you for any sudden moves. But the promise of a free beer keeps your buttocks applied to your chair.
The landlord sees me coming and wipes a greasy cloth over a couple of tankards he takes from under the counter. The pub’s dim yellow lighting oozes off the glasses as he puts them on the counter.
‘Same again?’ he asks.
I nod.
He wipes his hands on his trousers, which, unbelievably, are cleaner than the wiping cloth. The dim light makes the patina of dust and sweat on his skin look like scales. That and the blackness of his eyes give him a reptilian appearance.
He pulls two pints with ill grace, like he’s doing me a favour.
Back at our table, I put a full tankard in front of you.
You murmur something which might have been thanks.
‘My pleasure,’ I say. I take a deep breath and your shoulders slump in defeat.
‘I can’t remember what happened earlier in the dream,’ I begin. ‘Only that there’s this man – about my size and build – who’s opposed to everything I do. I’m not sure why. I have no idea what I’ve done to turn him against me. The thing is, I can’t argue with him any longer. The only course of action is to fight. I mean physically with fists and stuff.
‘Fighting isn’t my strong point, but when he ran at me I knocked him to the ground. He was lying on his back and I shouted, “You’re so anacronymistic!”
‘He didn’t get up, just lay there looking puzzled. “That’s not even a word,” he said.
‘I realised what I’d done.
‘“I meant you’re anachronistic and you use too many acronyms,” I said.
‘He laughed, and I started laughing too.’
My mouth’s dry. I take a mouthful of beer and watch your face for a response.
The seconds tick by.
‘Is that it?’ you say, your expression deadpan.
‘Yes. That’s it.’
Your shoulders lift and you sip your beer, relaxed.
‘A load of bollocks, of course,’ you say. You lean back in your seat. ‘At least it wasn’t another one of your dreams about bu-‘
‘Don’t!’ I interrupt.
I’m flabbergasted. Why are you being so dull? Aren’t you at least a little bit amazed at the creativity of my subconscious? I mean, how many people invent words?
As a writer, I’m aware that using made-up words can alienate readers. Nevertheless, that’s a rule flouted with extravagance by Shakespeare. The Bard is famous for coining many words. Some put that number around 1,700 though cautious experts say it’s more likely to be in the hundreds.
On the other hand, Shakespeare is considered a genius. With the best will in the world, I’m not quite there yet.
‘You might not be impressed,’ I say, ‘but I’m going to use anacronymistic in my writing, see if I don’t.’
‘Just don’t expect it to appear in the OED any time soon,’ you say. ‘It’s not like it even makes sense. How can you have anachronistic acronyms? Acronyms are a twentieth century invention.’
You shake your head. ‘Nobody will use a difficult to pronounce word you’ve made up about a naked guy in your dreams.’
‘Eh? I didn’t say he was naked.’
You give me that look, the one that says you know me better than I know myself. ‘You didn’t have to.’
I see what you’re doing. You’re bored with the conversation, so you derail it.
‘It’s a damned good word,’ I say, steering the discussion back on course. ‘Anacronymistic. Remember,’ – I tap the side of my cranium – ‘this is where it began.’
You don’t reply. You pull your phone from your pocket and hold it so I can’t see the screen. You tap away for a few seconds, then turn it to face me.
In the spirit of giving away ideas that might make a difference, I’ve written this wind turbines post to bang on about an idea I had years ago.
I’ve searched the internet over the last few days and I haven’t found anyone else who’s had the same idea. Either that means it’s a terrible concept that won’t work or – and I hope this is the case – it is genuinely new and workable. On the other hand, it may well end up as another entry on the Questionable Concepts page of Wind-Works.org but if I keep the idea to myself, I’ll never know.
Wind Turbines and Turbulence
The problem with wind turbines, as far as I understand, is that they are less efficient in turbulent conditions. For example, in an urban area a wind turbine for home will be less effective than an offshore wind turbine. The same goes for wind turbines on the roofs of city buildings.
I propose that surrounding a horizontal axis wind turbine (HAWT) with vertical vanes that reduce the turbulence will help increase the turbine’s power output. The vanes would have to swivel about their vertical axes to keep their leading edges facing into the wind, i.e. each vane would swivel about its vertical axis at the same time as the turbine swivels to face into the wind.
In the next diagram the wind has moved around to the northwest. The vanes all swivel automatically to align with the new wind direction.
If just straightening out the wind is all that’s required then the vertical vanes could be be mounted on a simple bearing that merely allows the vanes to keep themselves aligned with the wind (maybe with a damper to prevent them oscillating). For a self-aligning vane it would probably help if the bearing was mounted towards the front of the vane, not halfway as in my diagrams.
However, I wonder if it’s possible to make the vanes do more than smooth out turbulence?
Increase the Flow
What I mean is: could the angles of the vertical vanes be angled to “funnel” air to the turbine? This would exploit Bernoulli’s principle and cause the narrowed stream of air to flow faster, increasing its kinetic energy, and thus cause the turbine to spin at a higher rate.
This means that each vane would have to be hooked up to a servomotor that is controlled by a central system. The system would have to adjust the angle of each vane in order to produce the desired flow. This alone might make the entire system too expensive to be practical. But, hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Before I carry on, I’d like to point out that I’m not an engineer. My knowledge of aerodynamics is rather on the empirical side and comes from building and flying model planes. If my big idea turns out to be as useful as nuclear-bomb-proof paint then please let me know in the comments.
When I first dreamt this up, I thought I’d build a scale model to test the idea. Years went by and I never got around to it so, hopefully, someone else will pick up the idea and run with it.
Bearing in mind I haven’t done any testing, I reckon that two or three rings of vanes would do the trick.
Below are a couple of diagrams showing plan views of what I mean. They aren’t to scale and the angles of the vanes have been eyeballed, not calculated, but I hope they give an indication.
The first diagram shows the wind blowing from the north. Each circle of vanes is adjusted by controlling software to funnel the air towards the turbine blades.
A second row of turbines at the rear of the outside circle of vanes could exploit the fastest region of moving air, though this might make the whole setup too complicated.
In the next diagram, the wind direction has shifted to the north-east. The vanes are automatically adjusted by a central system to accommodate the new wind direction.
Here’s a side view showing a cross-section through the centre of the arrangement. I reckon the vertical vanes need to be slightly taller than the height of the turbine to avoid the tip vortices from the vanes interfering with the turbine blades.
In strong winds, the vanes could all be straightened (i.e. all are set at the same angle as the wind direction) if required to reduce stress on the turbine blades.
Let me know in the comments if you think this would work. If it is workable and assuming someone else hasn’t already patented the idea, anyone is welcome to use the above, develop it further and even take it to market. I’m not asking for payment, all I ask for is acknowledgement – including a link to my website.
Centuries ago, maps labelled the unknown with “Here be Dragons”. We fantasy readers love dragons. After all, who can resist the majesty, power and cunning of an oversized, fire-belching, winged lizard? In modern tales dragons tend to be intelligent, magical, powerful, rather fond of gold and big. I mean really big – big enough for one to carry you on its back while it flies over your enemies and razes them to ashes.
Albrecht Dürer – Saint George Killing the Dragon
It wasn’t always that way.
Early dragons, like the one in the illustration of St. George killing a dragon, aren’t that impressive to our eyes today. St. George’s dragon isn’t particularly intelligent or magical, it just enjoyed eating maidens.
It certainly isn’t like the modern day big as buses, fire breathing beasts we’ve grown used to.
For comparison, below is a much scarier, scalier and altogether nasty fellow from the Game of Thrones TV series.
Here be dragons in Game of Thrones
I think it’s safe to say nowadays we’re more likely to be awed by Daenerys Targaryen’s majestic, powerful dragons than one being speared by a bored-looking chap on horseback. Saint George’s reptilian adversary doesn’t look large enough to eat a fish and chips supper, never mind a strapping princess. And don’t get me started on its tiny wings which, let’s face it, wouldn’t lift a small tub of margarine.
For our purposes, we’re going to concentrate on dragons in literature from the last hundred years or so. What follows is a list of book titles and the dragons contained in their pages.
1. The Hobbit
Tolkien’s painting of Smaug talking to the invisible Bilbo
Although Tolkien wasn’t the first twentieth-century writer to feature a dragon in his stories, Smaug from The Hobbit has to be the earliest dragon to set pulses racing. He’s cruel, vicious, magical and has a hoard of treasure which the other characters in the story are keen to get their hands on. It’s interesting how the 2012 – 2014 Hobbit movies (directed and written by Peter Jackson) make Smaug much bigger than he was in the original illustration painted by Tolkien himself.
2. The Earthsea Cycle
Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea books portray more than one dragon. They go from cruel, greedy hoarders of treasure, similar to Smaug, to more noble beings who speak the ‘Language of Creation’. They even share their ancestry with humans and, it turns out, certain humans (women only) can turn themselves into dragons. The eldest dragon is called Kelessin, but there are many others in the books. They are ancient, wise, selfish, capricious, terrifying, beautiful, and powerful. Not only that, but the series also deals with patriarchy, rites of passage and how not to be a bad person. Go on, dive into the series to learn more.
3. Dragonriders of Pern
Strictly speaking, Anne McCaffrey’sDragonriders of Pern books are more in the realms of science fiction than fantasy because the dragons are genetically modified fire-lizards. Let’s not split hairs. They’re dragons and they do all the dragony things we expect. The humans in the novels are descendants of interstellar colonists from Earth, with all the foibles we suffer in our societies today. Without giving too much of the plot away, the dragons are the only means by which humans can survive the attacks inflicted on them by the worlds in which they live.
The Dragonriders series isn’t where it all ends. McCaffrey went on to write many more books about Pern and Dragons. You can find a list of them here.
4. Discworld
Terry Pratchett’s Guards! Guards! is the first book in the Discworld series to describe swamp dragons
There are several types of dragon in Terry Pratchett’sDiscworld series – such as the fire-breathing, nasty and untrustworthy Noble Dragon (Draco nobilis) – but the ones that make the greatest impression are swamp dragons (Draco vulgaris). Unlike other dragons on this post, swamp dragons are small and fly badly. They also have a tendency to explode if they suffer indigestion – a not uncommon ailment in these creatures due to their complex digestive systems. The upper classes of Ankh-Morpork breed swamp dragons and enter them in competitions. For sheer silliness, swamp dragons deserve a place in our hearts.
Note: The large dragon featured on the Guards! Guards! book cover is a Noble Dragon. The little ones streaking past are Swamp Dragons.
5. Realm of the Elderlings
When it comes to constructing the entire life cycle of dragons, none does it better than Robin Hobb. In her Elderlings series, the dragons have an extraordinarily complicated existence. They hatch and spend their larval stage in the sea. At the beginning of the series humans call the dragon larvae sea serpents and don’t know that, given the right conditions, a sea serpent will mature into a dragon complete with ancient knowledge. No dragons have matured for centuries because a natural disaster has changed the landscape. The larvae can no longer find the river they need to swim up to where they build their cocoons in order to metamorphose into adults. Hobb’s dragons are as scary, intelligent and unpredictable as we expect. And they are not all fond of humans even though, in the distant past, dragons and humans coexisted and even mixed their essences which resulted in scaled humans known as Elderlings.
The five above are my personal favourites. Let me know what your favourites are in the comments.
Don’t forget to celebrate Dragon Day on January 16 every year. And I mean DON’T FORGET. If you annoy a temperamental fire-breathing creature, it can really ruin your day.
Dragons haven’t got around to appearing in my books. Yet. Hold on to your hat.
A couple of weekends ago I went to the BMFA Power Nationals. The “Nats”, as we cognoscenti call it, is the premier event in the UK for powered model planes (oh, and helicopters *raspberry*). It takes place over the August bank holiday weekend, it’s held on an RAF airfield near Grantham and attracts people from all over the place, even Canterbury which is my neck of the woods.
Upward of three thousand people attend which makes it a great venue for getting rid of the stuff you’ve been dragging around for years. I mean, who better to sell your surplus aeromodelling gear to than a bunch of blokes who, an all likelihood, have sheds filled to the brim with surplus aeromodelling tat?
The event programme said the “Giant Swapmeet” was scheduled to start at 8 AM on the Sunday. I rolled up at the venue at 7:30 AM thinking I’d get there early to make sure I secured a decent pitch, only to find the swapmeet in full swing. I made my way through the cordon into a sectioned-off part of the airfield’s taxiway and was lucky enough to find an empty pitch.
Amongst the things I’d decided to get rid of was a knee-high pile of model magazines from the last four decades. Not many people really wants old model mags—most modellers have piles of them themselves—but it seemed a shame to throw them into the recycling bin. I decided I’d give them away and ask for donations to charity. I wrote a sign saying
Take a mag and donate to charity—suggested donation 50p per mag. Donations will go to Demelza House Children’s Hospice.
I put an empty plastic lunchbox next to the pile and stuck the sign on it.
To my surprise the magazines attracted lots of attention. Most people stopped and leafed through a few then moved on but a fair number became more engrossed.
There were the ones who meticulously sifted through the pile, often referring to grubby notebooks they pulled from their pockets. In every case they gave a grunt of disappointment and moved on without taking a single magazine. ‘Ah, collectors,’ thinks I.
Others would build a small pile in front of themselves and then ask how much they were.
I’d point at the sign and say, “Donations. I’m suggesting fifty pence per mag.”
At that a few dropped coins in the box and took their magazines, others snorted and abandoned their pile.
The weirdest though was the guy who read the sign then collected a pile of about ten magazines which he waved at me and said, “I’ll give you fifty pence for all these.”
I said, “It’s for charity. Make whatever donation you feel is right.”
He grimaced, scratched around in his wallet, and tossed some coins in the box.
“I’ve put in a bit extra,” he said. When I counted the coins later, amongst the pound coins and fifty pence pieces, I found an extra twenty pence.
Well, I’m pleased – no, delighted! – to announce the release of a new book in the Hollow series. It’s a prequel that tells the story of how Vester, a human and one of the main antagonists in book one and two, came to be in Hollow and how he rose to the position of Head of the Imperial Department of Intelligence.
When we first met him in Flight of the Gazebo he was 350 years old. Nobody lives that long – right? – and enough readers were intrigued enough to ask me about him which prompted me to write and publish The Persistence of Poison.
The story starts in London in 1715 and a young Vester is just starting out on an unsavoury career as a witch-finder. At this stage of his life he’s not yet developed the raw cunning and ruthlessness we know him for, but he’s well on his way. He’s commissioned to arrest a self-styled sorcerer called Masbic who turns out to be a little more tricky than any of his previous targets. Through a treachery and an untested portal they end up in Hollow together where they are forced, somewhat reluctantly, to join forces in order to survive.
Do they trust one another? Do they heck!
It’s available to buy in all good online book stores right now but, if you’d like to read it for free, then go ahead and sign up to my email list (see the form at the top of this page). You’ll get a link to a free download of The Persistence of Poison and, as an exclusive member of my email list, news about upcoming releases of more books in the Hollow series plus the occasional Hollow related special offer. Don’t worry, I won’t fill your inbox with spam and you can unsubscribe at any time.
