Author: Trevor Locke

  • Counting

    Counting, 2024

     

    Propelling ever closer to

    the fateful year when I must die

    aware of things that I must do

    the years relentlessly rolled by.

    Three quarters of a century

    unstoppably sped passed till now

    my future, which I cannot see,

    ploughs furrows on my aged brow.

    Afraid of destiny unknown,

    moral obligations mounting,

    the ticks and crosses having grown,

    someone, up above, is counting.

    Trevor Locke

    This poem was written today (3rd October 2024) in honour of the UK’s National Poetry Day.

    Other poems honouring National Poetry Day

    Zhivago Song, 2020

    Chance, 2021

    Winter, 2022

    Refuge, 2023

     

     

  • Travel

    Wednesday 8th May 2024.

    When it comes to writing non-fiction, one of the more prevalent themes found in the literature is that of travel. That and going on holiday. This is something I have done throughout my life. From my very first holiday, in 1966, when I wrote extensive notes about everywhere I went and everything I did.

    Most of the major holidays I have taken have ended up as journal articles. There were enough of them to give them a name – I called them my ‘travelogue series.’

    I never went on travels – only ever on holidays. Except perhaps once when I set out to roam around Europe, in 1971. Rather unsuccessfully because I only got as far as France, Luxembourg and Belgium. I guess I have not led a very adventurous life.

    I occasionally like to read about other people going on their travels. This week, I am reading Laurie Lee’s As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning (1969) which is his account of walking across Spain. A wonderful piece of writing and an enchanting story.

    That holiday I went on in 1966 eventually became the basis of my first novel The Road To Ancona (2023). That was followed by my Journal article of 1970 which I ostentatiously called A Journey in Search of Thought.

    In 1970, I had only just started to become a serious writer. The idea behind that work was that I would become acquainted with its history and philosophy by travelling around Europe. As an adventure, I did not get very far, either geographically or philosophically but I nevertheless look back on the experience with some nostalgia.

    The lengthiest vacation I have ever had was when I went to North America in 1990. It lasted for six weeks; I could only take a holiday of that length because I was between jobs. I ended one substantial period of employment and went to Canada before starting the next one. For most of my adult life, when I could afford to take holidays, I was too busy with my career to take more than a week off at a time.

    The reason why I am writing about travel, right now, is that I am due to go on holiday for the first time in twenty-five years. My last trip to Europe was an all-expenses paid trip to Paris, in 1999, which last only one weekend. Next week, I am paying my own way for a short break on the Norfolk coast.

    The reason I have been unable to take a holiday, over the past ten years, even though I could have afforded to, was that I kept a pet cat and I had to be there to feed and care for her every day. Sadly the poor little creature passed away last month.

    Freed of my domestic commitments, I decided to have three days away in an English guest house. I felt unable to commit to a week-long stay without first seeing if I would actually like the seaside resort I had chosen. If I enjoyed my short break, I would go back there for a long holiday, later in the year.

    I did not feel more adventurous than that. But then I am now an old man and very unused to being away from the comforts of my own home. Having said that, I do feel I need to get out more. I felt very able to survive three days in the world outside. I also have a ‘bucket list’ of places I would to visit on day trips (all of them being in the Midlands and very easy to get to on the trains.)

  • Jude Richardson in Leicester

    Jude Richardson Plays Beethoven

    Sunday 3rd March 2024. De Montfort Hall, Leicester

    Pianist Jude Richardson
    Jude Richardson, 2023

    Music is something I have been writing about for a long time. These days, I am as likely to write about classical music as I once was about rock and pop. Throughout my career, as a music journalist, I have witnessed some unforgettable performances and historic moments in the musical life of Leicester. Today’s concert was one of those unforgettable moments.

    The main reason I went to this concert, by the Leicester Symphony Orchestra, was to see the concerto played by Jude Richardson. I have written about his work before (see below).

    Now aged twenty-three, Richardson was born in Bermuda and later graduated from the Jacobs School of Music in the USA. Jude now lives in Leicester where he works as a piano teacher. Jude taught himself to play the piano and mastered the difficult work of Chopin’s Fantasie impromptu by the age of thirteen. At the Bermuda School of Music he earned a grade 8 Piano at The Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music.

    Like Sheku Kanneh Mason, who lives in Nottingham, Jude is becoming recognised as one of the stars of the classical music scene across the UK. It is very satisfying that the Midlands continues to produce young musicians of extraordinary talent and ability.

    Today’s performance of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto, No.5. in E Flat Major, Op. 73, was virtuosic. Richardson’s touch on the piano was both sublime and commanding. Subtle, even tender, when he needed it to be and majestic when called for. There are passages that call for delicacy and that is what Richardson gave us. His performance was full of charm and finesse.

    Jude’s command of tone and breathtaking dynamics was exactly what this piece called for and he delivered it all with excellence. Said, by some critics, to be the most perfect piano concerto ever written, the Emperor called for huge resources of musical ability, which Richardson ably delivered. He played without a score, having memorised tens of thousands of notes. One would not expect anything less from a musician of his standard. The finale is a powerful exposition of Beethoven’s genius and Richardson gave us everything that we wanted. His technical proficiency was nothing short of amazing.

    The audience applauded each movement. Clearly, everyone in the nearly full hall was captivated by Richardson’s artistry and presence on the Fazioli instrument.

    Brilliant that was a word on the lips of many today as they left the hall following a delightful and uplifting concert that saw the introduction of a new musical director to the LSO Dexter Brown who follows in the footsteps of the illustrious Sir Malcolm Sargent (1895 to 1967). Sargent founded the Leicester Symphony Orchestra in 1922 and continued to conduct it until 1939. Our city can feel justly proud of its artistic assets.

    Read my previous article about Jude Richardson

  • Poem About Refuge

    Thursday 5th October 2023

    Refuge

    Refuge – a thing I like to seek –

    a state of mind that gets my brain,

    I crave it badly, week by week,

    when walking home in pouring rain.

    Refuge from raining prejudice,

    when living in a state of storm,

    which could become my nemesis

    revealed in some way, shape or form.

    Refuge from constant climate change,

    a world submerging under sea,

    a fate that seems to rearrange

    the fear we might cease to be.

    Refuge from man’s extremity

    of values, ideas, vicious thought,

    opinions that bring enmity

    set traps in which we can get caught.

    Refuge becomes a state of mind,

    that often bends our point of view,

    to destinies that we might find

    when facing up to all things new.

    Notes

    On Thursday 5 October 2023, we, i the UK, celebrate National Poetry Day, which this year focuses on the theme of refuge. National Poetry Day is the annual mass celebration on the first Thursday of October that encourages everyone to make, experience and share poetry with family and friends. Each year we come together because voices, words and stories help to bridge understanding in our community. This year, National Poetry Day is on Thursday 5 October 2023.

    Read my Poem About Winter.

  • Arts

    Art and Individuality

    7th September 2023

    Introduction

    In this post, I write about human individuality as the basis of creative writing and the arts generally. This is a reaction against the idea that art can be produced by machines rather than human beings. I start from the belief that art is essentially a human activity; this accords with most of the definitions of art that I have seen in reputable sources. My argument is, therefore, that art produced by machines is not art, whatever its inventors might claim.

    Individuality

    Most artistic activity is undertaken by single human beings; not all, because it can also involve collaboration in groups of individuals. An opera or musical requires a music composer, a lyricist and possibly also a choreographer. Art is the expression of ideas or emotions and these are things that are essentially the outcome of human experience. When an artist makes something – a painting, a sculpture, a music score, a ballet – he or she is expressing something drawn from their personal experience of life or from the community in which they live. That is fundamental to understanding art as a human activity based on living. That is something that has been going on since the dawn of civilisation. What makes a work of art interesting is what it reveals about its creator and the society in which that artist lived. Even the most abstract painting says something about the person who produced it and the society which existed at the time. A collection of abstract paintings tells a story about the person or persons whose work led to its creation. This understanding of what art is becomes undermined by those who insist that it is possible to produce art without direct human involvement. It is claimed that artificial intelligence can create works of art. This article sets out to repudiate such claims.

    The Threat of Artificial Intelligence

    Is art, that has not been created by human beings, capable of legitimately being called ‘art’? No. Art can be produced only by human beings because that is what the word art means. I concede that the word ‘art’ is associated with a wide variety of activities, some of which are not generally considered to be art but are in fact, artifice. Writing is a type of art; most people would think of a novel or a poem as being a work of art. Our language frequently confuses ‘art’ with ‘artifice.’ We talk about ‘martial arts’ when we mean martial artifice or possibly ‘expertise’ or ‘craft.’ That aside, what do human beings want to enjoy that is artistic? People engage with art because it means something to them about human life (even if it is very abstract in its style.) We value art because it is produced by other humans and by being an audience of art, we are enjoying both the art itself and our appreciation of the human who produced it. A book is a window into the life of the author; a symphony is a window into the life of the composer. It is through those windows that the creators speak to us. An artificial production would create a window to a machine and we would hear nothing.

    Would I want to read a story generated by a piece of software? Of course not. My reading connects me to the man or woman who wrote the book. My listening connects me to the soul of the composer. Great art gives me a mystical experience; it moves my soul. Artificial art has no soul. It is devoid of the human element that makes it worthy of our interest. Novels connect us to their authors. I do not want to be connected to a piece of digital programming. A story generated by a computer is soulless. It is bereft of human qualities, however much it might attempt to mimic them. AI robots analyse novels and formulate rules that govern the composition of fiction and then use those rules to string words together. The result is a body of text that imitates human fiction. I fear that AI might be able to replicate the kind of formulaic stories that constitute pulp fiction; fiction that is written to a kind of programme by humans but which lacks creativity or depth because it sticks rigidly to preconceived ideas. A good novel observes certain rules and standards but often bends those rules or even breaks them to produce something startling and new. What I cannot understand is why experts in AI are bothering to work on writing fiction. If such efforts are to create tools that assist humans to do a better job of fiction writing, then I can see the point of it. After all, I use software to help me with grammar and spelling. If I am writing a novel, I could use software to help me plan a story, write about characters that are consistent in their speech and behaviour (at least as consistent as real human beings are) and produce a novel that is of a high standard, in technical terms. Even if I did that, it would still be a human work of art. I do not need software to assist me in dreaming up the plot and telling the story. There are some, I gather, who would want to go further and dispense with the human author altogether. Why? If the result is an artificially created novel, would anyone want to read it (in preference to one written by a human?) It is to be hoped that the reading public will avoid such artificial works and read work that is known to have been created only by a human being. If there is no demand for artificial art, its producers will stop doing it. The motivation of technocrats is to make money and if there is no market for artificial work they will move on to something else that is more profitable.

    Digital Age – Benefits

    The digital revolution is not all bad; this article is being written on a personal computer, aided by a spell-checking programme that instantaneously shows where I have made typing errors. Such software was used to produce all my novels and my anthology of poems. What I have never used, is the kind of software that prompts me to write in a certain way. What you see is what you get and what you get is me (warts and all). Artificial Intelligence is being used to research art and culture; this is no bad thing. It can increase the power of analysis, and, used intelligently, by groups of human beings, extends our knowledge and understanding. This is the case where researchers are attempting to analyse large sets of data as part of their scholarship. This is very different from the use of digital processes that intervene in and change the very nature of the creative task. Computers are tools used by humans when they are engaging in artistic creativity, in the field of music, for example. But I fundamentally disagree that AI can be (or make) a creative entity in its own right. Creativity is something that defines what it is to be human and has done so since the dawn of civilisation. To endow computers with qualities that are (or imitate) human life is to erode the very definitional fabric of humanity. It is a betrayal of humanity to give computers the ability to write ‘poems.’ A ‘poem’, written by a piece of software, is merely a digital product. AI is becoming more than a mere tool to be used by a creative individual – it is becoming a ‘collaborator’ in the creative process. If some reports are to be believed, it is becoming more than a collaborator. As one research paper put it, ‘ … creativity is not some mystical gift that is beyond scientific study but rather something that can be investigated, simulated, and harnessed for the good of society.’ ¹ When it becomes impossible to distinguish between what is produced by a computer and what by a human being, that is a betrayal of humanity. Making art is mystical and that is why it is valued. It is the author’s gift to culture and civilisation. It is mystical in that it is one individual bearing their soul and sharing experience of life. Sharing life with others, who also live, is part of what it means to be human and part of the mystery of life.

    What it Means to be Human

    In an earlier essay of mine, the question that stood out was – ‘What are we?’ ‘We’ being humans, the species of animals that have become dominant on the planet Earth. When humans have the power to create synthetic versions of themselves, powered by brains that emulate their intelligence, what we are is called into question. That power is now not far off. Not something that will be seen only in the distant future. The software that has been developed to augment the creative process, is now being given human shape or form. But, it is still simply a set of digital processes that are generated by machines in boxes. It is not difficult to imagine the eventual outcome of that process: that digital artistry will be given human form. Will humanoids come to challenge our greatest creative artists? Will we no longer be able to see or hear the difference between the work of a real human being and that of an animated machine? When a pianist plays a concerto or sonata by Beethoven (or any other great composer) what we hear is the soul of the pianist, as much as that of the composer. We hear Beethoven but we also hear the artist’s performance and interpretation of his work. They combine for our pleasure and admiration. Will people in the future admire the excellence of software designers combined with the immense skill of artifice in the creation of humanoid machines? What will it mean for our humanity if we are offered either real human experience and, or, artificial humanoid existence? Is there a sense in which both are equally meaningful and valid? I argue that they are not equally meaningful. One is human existence and the other is a digital product. If being human is to be valued above the outputs of machines, then we must hold fast to the principle of resisting the development of artificiality. We must value individuality based on human experience.

    Individuality

    Think of the great writers of the Western world: Austen, Conrad, Dickens, Dostoyevsky, Eliot, Flaubert, Hemingway, Joyce, Orwell, Proust, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Voltaire, Wilde, Woolf … names that come most readily to my mind. They worked on their novels alone. It might have been, at the publishing stage, that others made contributions to the text but that does not detract from the fact that these are works of artistic individuality in which we feel the presence, as we read them, of another human being. Many of them wrote their manuscripts before the invention of the typewriter. Few of them (if any) wrote after the invention of the personal computer and word processing software.

    There is more to reading one of these authors than simply the enjoyment of the text; we connect with the writer and get a sense of that artist as a person. We read the creations of a single individual. We are not consuming a product. It seems, from what I have read about literary group work, that one person might contribute to an aspect of the story while another works on different elements of it. This has led to the creation of what is called ‘commercial’ fiction. In that respect, it is a product. The idea that a work of fiction must be written by one individual has been called ‘antiquated.’ One source suggested that individual authorship of creative works is a fairly modern invention. I am not convinced how true that allegation is for writing but it was certainly true for paintings. In the past, works of art were often created by studios in which more than one artist was involved in the work. Paintings were often either finished or produced by younger artists who worked under the supervision of a great master. There are a great many paintings that have been attributed to great masters where it is thought they had not been completed solely by him.

    I need to see evidence for the claim that novels were, in times gone by, the work of more than one writer. The novel has a long history in Western culture. Nearly all works, since the ‘invention’ of the novel, as an art form, have been the product of a single writer. Even if that writer was influenced by others, it was nevertheless a work of individual composition. Very early volumes might have been published under a pseudonym or after the death of the writer, but we still sense the presence of an artist and the world in which he or she lived. This changed with the growth of the mass publishing industry. The way books were written, in the near past, does not invalidate today’s method which is based largely on the work of a single person. The emergence of group writing is worrying but there is a far more serious threat facing the arts and that is what is happening with AI. The products of a group of creative artists are one thing; the manufacture of artificial art is another. So-called ‘art’ produced by machines is a dehumanising activity. Artificially-made art threatens the fundamentals of what it is to be human. Being human has involved creativity since the birth of civilisation.

    The Power of Human Creativity

    I might be old-fashioned. I might be behind the times. But I am a firm believer in the power of the creative process to shape lives. Shaping life is a human process. Robotics is blurring and confusing the boundaries between humanity and artificiality. Robotics and AI are challenging the very nature of what it is to be human. Artificiality undermines the reality of human existence by invalidating the one thing that makes us human – our individuality. Art is being reduced to the status of a consumable product. Its manufacturers think it is and want us, its consumers, to believe that it is. Art that is driven by profit regards us as consumers, there to be exploited for someone else’s gain. We should rebel against this trend and insist that art is something quintessentially human. Art is made by living human beings; it cannot be art if it is made by something that is not alive. It is merely a product if it owes its existence to a machine. If society allows artificially created works of art to become commonplace, that is a process which undermines and devalues the meaning of what it is to be human. The sure way to avoid this happening is for art lovers to refuse to consume the products of artificial intelligence. If nobody wants to purchase such things, their manufacture will wither on the vine.

    This piece is not a thesis that states the ultimate repudiation of artificially created art. Far from it. It is more of a manifesto that sets out a position. It might set an agenda for further writing.

    Footnotes

    ¹ From www.bbvaopenmind.com/en/articles/artificial-intelligence-and-the-arts-toward-computational-creativity/.

  • Taste and Choice

    Taste – a matter of Choice

    Choosing what food to eat is a matter of personal taste. Well, yes, of course it is. But, these days, we have to be conscious of what we eat and try to control our weight and health. Today, I am more conscious of the need to control my portion-size, then I used to be. Cooking for one person is often difficult; you often end up cooking too much for one meal. Some say that the answer is to freeze what is left over and have it later. Or, the surplus could be put in the fridge for a snack the next day. That sometimes works. What is difficult is preparing the right amount of food for one meal. This is sometimes dependent either on the recipe being used or on the size of the packets or tins. If a certain quantity of food has to be prepared (depending on the recipe or the size of the raw in ingredients) then it might be better to cook more than is needed for one serving and save the rest for later.

    Choice

    Choosing which foods to eat is a matter of preference; but the overall choice is about diet and ensuring that eating is providing the body with the necessary nutrients, minerals and vitamins required to stay healthy. Some people do not like salad vegetables. They will not eat lettuce, raw tomatoes or cucumber. No amount of health advice and platitudes about ‘five a day’ will draw them out of their distaste for salads. Me, I have about five salads a week, mainly served as side-dishes to bowls of pasta or rice with curry. A large bowl of fresh fruit is always on my table. My thinking is that if I am getting a constant supply of fresh fruit and vegetables, then I can indulge my taste for the less healthy dishes.

    Variety

    One other thing about meals is that I need variety. The same dish will not be repeated twice in the same week. Each day, I cook something different, for dinner, than I had the day before. So, if I have meat on Monday, I might have fish on Tuesday. Rice on Wednesday is followed by pasta on Thursday. Meals with potatoes are not taken two days in a row. Taste is necessary for happy eating but so is variety. Most of this is about our attitude to food and eating. We eat for pleasure but not for self-indulgence. We eat to stay healthy. We eat what we think is good for us, including our weight. We have to feed our bodies and, if that works, we are also feeding our minds. Perhaps I should call this ‘Zen and the art of cooking.’ My whole approach to cooking and eating is similar to a philosophy or even a religious faith; or just intuition. Conviction in believing I have got it about right dominates my attitude to food. It is Zen because it is about self-fulfilment, balance and management of life. The more we cook, the more we understand the process and other skills required to undertake it correctly.

    See other posts in my series about food.

  • Soup

    Soup Is Good For You

    Soups provide nutritious food at very low cost. Many of our ancestors had to survive on it. Recently, I used up vegetables, that were going over, by putting them into soup before they were wasted. My version of soup is that one bowlful is a meal in itself and I could easily live on it, if I had to. No need to have it with a roll or sandwich; a good, hearty soup should provide everything our body needs in one portion and be delicious to eat. Most of my soups contain many vegetables, with or without meat. Having a sandwich with a bowl of soup is a bonus.

    When I make soup, I use a big saucepan, enough for many servings which can be ladled into single portion containers and frozen for future use. Several different types of soup can be prepared: those containing only plant-based products and those that have either fish or meat in them, the basis of which is a flavoursome stock. I use readymade stock cubes; they a cheap and easy to use.

    Broth

    One type, of the many soups I make, is broth, usually made from a prepared mix. This is a packet of dried grains and pulses containing green lentils, red lentils, pearl barley, green peas, yellow split peas and brown lentils. A one-kilogram bag of this mixture cost me only £2.79 and will last me for several months.

    If, like me, you keep a lot of fresh vegetables in your larder, there are always some which are going off and will be thrown away if not used. These can be chopped into small pieces to add to soups. I am thinking here of carrots, broccoli, potatoes, celery, onions, courgettes, mushrooms, cauliflower, cabbage and other greens. I seldom use recipes to make soup, unless I want to make a particular kind of soup. Mostly, I just use whatever is available. In my kitchen there is very little waste. I often purchase packs of vegetables that are going out of date; the reductions on such products make them a useful source of ingredients for my soups.

    Stock

    Some people like to purchase expensive packets of liquid stock; not me. I am happy with boxes of stock cubes or even cubes of OXO. Because these contain high quantities of salt, I do not add any more salt to my soup because the cubes provide more than enough. In my fridge, I have vegetable, beef and chicken stock cubes and sometimes lamb, or even fish, when I can get it. It is not very often that I make stock from say the leftover carcass of a chicken I have roasted. I might do that once in a while but, for everyday soups, I rely on stock cubes. I keep a wide range of dried herbs and spices many of which are suitable for soups and the skill is in deciding which to use and how much to put in. The trick is not to overdo it. You want your soup to be tasty but not have one overpowering flavour. I will sometimes add chopped cloves of fresh garlic and a little paprika to add taste. I keep both ordinary onions and red onions which I cut and dice to fry, in vegetable oil, with any meat I am going to use. That provides the basis into which the other vegetables and stock are added. Some black pepper might also be ground into the mixture as it fries. Bacon can be used to make soup if you have some that needs using up. Bacon works well with lentils.

    Thicker the better

    Soup can be thickened with either plain flour, cornflour or even semolina, which makes a good thickening agent. Dried coriander powder can also used for thickening as well as adding flavour. Potatoes also thicken a soup or stew but might need to be pre-boiled before being added to the mix. My preference is for thick soups rather than the thin, watery variety. I like a bowl of soup to be a meal in itself rather than just an appetiser. I do not use croutons; these are for fancy preparations. There is nothing like a piece of crusty bread or a crusty roll with a bowl of soup. In the rare event of me wanting to serve soup to guests at a dinner party, I might put croutons in; but I don’t need them when eating alone. A nice slice of thick bread is enough if a filler is needed. I nearly always have soup and a sandwich for lunch.

    I would never make one bowl of soup at a time. If I am going to the trouble of making soup, I have to make a large saucepan of it. I have a collection of small plastic containers, each of which holds just enough for one serving. Once cooled, the soup can be portioned into the containers, labelled and put into the deep freeze for later consumption. Small single-portion containers are better than having to defrost a large amount when cooking just for oneself. As you can see, I am a great fan of soup and the larder always has a plentiful supply of it.

    1st September. One of my great culinary pleasures is making soup. Today, I have used up vegetables that were going over. In the saucepan, I put carrots, celery, peppers, fresh coriander leaves, dried Tarragon, two slices of bacon, a little Tumeric, and a generous helping of Pearl Barley. I left the pan to simmer for two hours. The result was a delicious bowl of soup which I had with my sandwiches, at lunchtime. This prevented me from throwing away vegetables; I hate wastage. Plenty was left over to put into the freezer in individual portions.

    See the home page for the food channel.

  • Thoughts

    Thoughts

    Thoughts About The Road to Ancona

    As readers might have gathered, my novel The Road to Ancona, is semi-autobiographical. I say ‘semi’ because the version I published was a fictionalised narrative, although based on real events. The names of the people have been changed but the places and the itinerary were exactly as the packaged holiday I took in 1966. You probably do not need me to tell you that, in the story, I am Michael. As I have said before, all novels are autobiographical, in some way or other. Novels always reveal something about their authors, in both the content and the style in which they are written. This one is truly autobiographical even though the story has been fictionalised.

    Visiting Italy

    When I went on that tour to Italy, I wrote copious notes about all that happened to me and the group I was with. Decades later, I wrote it up as an entry in my journal. I then fictionalised the whole thing as a novel, which I called Holiday. The version of the novel that has been published, on my blog, is not the only one. When I was a member of a writing group, I was persuaded to rewrite the whole novel in a different order of events. Which I did. The published version is presented in chronological order. My writer’s group suggested that this was not the best way to write a book. I rewrote the whole novel and began the revised version when the boys – Michael and Richard – got off the coach, having arrived in Cattolica, and got their first sights and smells of the Italian resort. Even though that version might be better, from a story-telling point of view, I decided to publish the work in its original format, telling the story on a day-by-day basis, just as it happened. Even now, I cannot understand why I reverted to the oroginal version.

    Why Self-publish?

    Why did I not offer the novel for publication? To discuss this fully, I would have to go into a long and vitriolic diatribe about the state of the publishing industry, in the twenty-first century. I will desist from doing that, now. What I chose to do, was to publish the whole work on my blog (website) so that it would see the light of day. Now that it is fully out there, I am pleased with what I have done. Everyone who wants to, can read it, free of charge, at their leisure. I enjoyed publishing the chapters on a daily basis. I got into a routine of getting up early, publishing a chapter and then proof-editing the next one, ready for the following day. Now that process has come to an end, I can return to my other writing projects. Before I leave the novel I feel a need to talk about it. Is it a good read? Of course it is. Naturally, I am not the best person to ask. It is a personal achievement for me and one that I am largely satisfied with.

    Milestones in life

    The novel tells the story of one of the great milestones in my life (albeit in a fictionalised version.) I am sure that some critics would argue that it is not a good idea to turn real personal events into novels. Try saying that about Laurie Lee’s Cider With Rosie or his As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning. Not to mention hundreds of other fiction works based on the author’s own personal experiences. A story is a good read if it worth reading and attracts readers, however it came into existence.

    An analyst could go through the book and attempt to differentiate between what actually happened and what was purely fictional invention. Only I could do that with any degree of certainty. There are passages that are an accurate portrayal of what I really did on the holiday and some that are simply the inventions of a creative mind. As an author, my primary concern is to tell a good story and, in doing that, I am not overly concerned with the difference between fact and fiction. There is, after all, my true account of the holiday, written at the time it took place, and I have that to refer to, if I wish to see how I fictionalised specific elements of the novel. I know which scenes I made up that did not happen in the reality of 1966.

    What is it About?

    Is it a novel about two teenagers who go on a packaged holiday in the nineteen-sixties? No. It is much more than that. What it is really about is the clash of cultures between the English and the Europeans, the modern and the ancient and the young and the old. It is also about how being a writer differentiates you from the rest of humanity. Michael, the central character, is a neonate writer and this makes him different from his less literary peers. The act of writing is a life-changing experience. An individual who is constantly writing about what happens to him, is quintessentially different from those around him. The more he writes, the more he becomes a different person. The story also evokes a period of our history which many regard as being a golden age. Not just about the year that England won the world cup. The mid-sixties saw a sea-change in British life. Not only the introduction of mass packaged holidays, but also a time of changing morality. Young people were still innocent, compared to today’s youth. Even so, it was the dawn of the summer of love, the beginnings of the sexual revolution that would sweep across the world and change it forever, the emergence of popular culture that would displace the legacy of the status-ridden Victorian era. Yes, I felt there was a lot of love, back then, but surprisingly little sex. Even if there had been a ‘summer of love’, it had not reached the inner core of teenage life in the Midlands.

    Characters in the story

    The characters in my novel are fairly typical of those who were alive at the time of the novel. Many people of my age would recognise, in the novel’s teenagers, the kind of young people they themselves were back in the day. Many would also remember taking their first foreign holiday by going on a tour offered by the voluminous brochures that came out each autumn and winter. Novels are multi-layered. There is the plot, which tells what happened and when. Then there are the characters and how they behave and relate to others. There are the implications of what happens. I am sure you do not need me to tell you this. As I worked on my novel – over the space of around three decades – the simple tale turned into layers of awareness and understanding. I discovered what the work had to say about people, tourism and being a writer. For authors, there is always the temptation to over-write. As I worked through the many, many drafts, I was tempted to add more and more detail. Even though this novel is short, by modern standards, it could have grown very much larger. I needed to make it terse, for online publishing, without loosing the sense and nuances of each scene. The final published version came to around 50,560 words. This is short by paper-based standards. For an online version, however, it is, and has been, manageable. The other version I wrote was considerably longer. The journey suggested by the title – The Road to Ancona – is not a real journey (even though it began as one) but is an emotional road to a new understanding and a realisation of the meaning of adult life. The Ancona of the story is not a town on the Adriatic seaboard, it is a state of mind. Some might see my novel as being one about ‘coming of age’. It is a phrase I intensely dislike and I refute the suggestion that this is what my novel is about. Rather, it is a story about a young man who becomes ‘human’ and takes his first steps into the maturity of adult life. It is a reflection of growing, developing and reaching a level of self-awareness.

    Book Ends

    I began the work with a prologue and ended it with an epilogue. I stand by that convention. In fact, when I wrote the current version of the epilogue chapter, I was excited by the fact that the whole story comes with a twist in the very last words of the book. That was a device of which I still quite proud. The story began with two boys going into a travel agents to collect brochures from which they could book their planned holiday. That is what we did in those days; that is what really happened. The rest of the novel tells the story of this packaged tour of Italy, day by day. The story would not have worked had I fictionalised the country to which they travelled or changed the names of the resorts they visited. There was simply no need to do that. It is odd that the version of this novel, I published on this website, was not the ‘finished’ version that I had written a couple of years ago. In the earlier version the story begins with Michael getting off the coach after the group had arrived in the report of Catollica. The back story was then told throough a series of ‘flashbakcs’. Even now, I cannot understand why I published the original version and not the one that had been rewritten after considerable amounts of advice from experienced novelists.

    About the year 1966

    Although the prologue says that the year was 1966, each day of the holiday is undated; each chapter explains day was the second, third, fourth, etc., day of the holiday but not what the actual day was. In fact they left England in late July. The timeline of the trip comes only in a series of mentions as to what took place and when. In chapter 1, it says: ‘It was the middle of July and the sky was overcast, as the boys headed towards the sunshine of the Mediterranean.’ I did not feel it important to be more precise about the timeline than that. What the reader finds, is that blend of fact and fiction, reality and artifice, makes stories intriguing. A made-up story taking place in a real world, albeit with fictional characters, doing fictional things. Except that the holiday wasn’t made-up; it actually happened fifty-six years ago but not exactly as it appears in the book.

    As said above, certain scenes were added for the sake of the story that did not happen in the real-life holiday. Having said that, most of the story was true. The dialogue between the characters was invented; I never wrOte down what people said, even when I was there, and I certainly could not remember any of it today, after all these years. I took the plain monolith of two weeks of my life, in 1966, and guild, decorate and embellish it to make it into an entertaining story. The result was an intricate weaving together of fact and fiction which is what many historical novels are all about.

    Trevor Locke,
    February 2023.

    Chapters of the novel.

  • Ancona 16

    Ancona 16

    Epilogue.

    Part of my novel The Road to Ancona.

    Go to the home page for The Road to Ancona.

    July 2015. Michael clicked off his browser and sat back in his chair. For two hours he had been on the Internet, searching, researching, looking … it was clear that there still was a town near Rimini called Cattolica, but modern photos of it confirmed to him that the little tourist resort of 1966 had disappeared forever. It had been replaced by a bigger, brasher, much more highly developed town from which all the features of the sixties had disappeared. He had searched on Google, Facebook, websites, looked at maps, street views on Google Earth … but found nothing of the world he visited when he was sixteen. He was not surprised. Sad maybe that nothing had appeared on his monitor to remind of that place; but then he had walked through the doors of the Britannia for the last time fifty years ago. Even his home town in the Midlands had changed, beyond all recognition, over that period of time.

    Building via Marconi, Cattolica.
    The building as it appeared on Google Earth.

    He did however find a building (using Google Earth) in the Via Marconi that matched the image on the postcard he still had of the Britannia Hotel – the same four storeys, the same number and shapes of windows, the position of the balconies. He was sure that the building he stayed in was still there, but he could see tale-tale signs suggesting it had been converted for use as an apartment block.

    All he had now were some postcards and a few small black and white photos — and of course his notes. He had not lost his notes; the story of the holiday (from its beginning right through to its very last day) was still there in the little notepads, in his scrawly juvenile handwriting. The world changes so rapidly, he thought, but some things never change even though most of the little day-to-day world, in which we live, changes all the time. He glanced through the pages of his notes and felt pleased he had taken the time to write all this down, fifty years ago. In his mind, he had stored images, scenes, sounds, smells, the faces of friends and the places he had visited and they were still clear. He did not remember everything that had happened on the holiday but enough of it was still there, stored in the deep recesses of his brain; enough to relive moments of it, in his memory and imagination. The notes and the photographs brought those memories back, even after all that time.

    The door to the study opened and Michael’s wife walked in with a cup of hot chocolate. ‘You’ve been up late then,’ she said, ‘still searching for stuff about Italy for your book?’

    ‘Yes and, as I feared, most of it has now disappeared. I did find that the building used as the Britannia was still there. That was the best find of the evening, that was.’

    ‘Well, you had better finish up now and come to bed. You have a long day at the office tomorrow.’

    Michael switched off his computer and sipped his drink. As his wife waited for him he said, ‘I think I will enjoy writing this book. It will bring back all those memories of that holiday the things we did and the people we met. Thanks for thinking about me – as you always have done,’ he said, draining the last of his mug.

    He smiled at his wife and said, ‘Thanks for everything, Carol.’

    The end.

  • Ancona 15

    Chapter 10. Back to England.

    Part of my novel The Road to Ancona.

    When they arrived back in Basel, it was raining again and drops kept coming in through the skylights on the coach roof. During the journey, everyone who had watches turned them back an hour as they passed into another time zone. Dark grey clouds hung over them. On the road to the airport, the coach had become quiet, almost funereal. The passengers sat in silence. Even Richard had stopped talking and Michael had put his notepad back into his knapsack. Basel airport was in uproar. The commotion was due to the returning Swiss football team and crowds of people thronged the terminal building. Large numbers of people had gathered to welcome them. A brass band was trumpeting out military-style music. The weather had worsened and the flight was delayed for three hours. They were lucky; some of the other tours had been there all day waiting for the flights to leave. As the flights were eventually called, people cheered. The group from Galaxy Tours was ushered into a lounge to wait for their departure. The boys had just enough money left to purchase some ‘duty frees’. Michael bought two hundred cigarettes for five shillings (in the English money of that time.) Richard brought a bottle of brandy for fifteen shillings and a bottle of whiskey for eleven shillings – presents for his granddad and mother.

    At last, there was a break in the weather and the group boarded the aircraft for its return journey to Manston. They said goodbye to Chico; even though he had caused them so many problems, the boys were almost sad to see the last of him. He had been with them throughout most of the holiday and it seemed strange that they were leaving him behind.

    The aircraft touched down in Kent just after midnight. It had been a turbulent crossing, particularly over the channel. Hitting a very rough patch, the plane started to descend rapidly and Michael grabbed hold of Richard’s arm; he was unused to flying and this caused him some alarm. When they disembarked from the aircraft, it was pouring with rain and they got soaked on the short walk from the aircraft to the Terminus building. The tour representative escorted the group to the customs shed but then sped away on a motor scooter. The tour operator’s bus took them back to London through the wind and rain. The boys arrived back at the coach station at 3 am – three hours before their train home. The storm had disrupted air travel and had also stopped a lot of the coaches from running. People were lying around all over the lounge; some were sleeping on the floor and others were sitting on benches looking miserable and fed up. The boys settled down on the floor and made themselves as comfortable as they could. They ate the last few scraps of food they had with them; nothing was open in the coach terminus so they could not get a drink.

    ‘Do you think it’s been a good holiday, Richard?’

    ‘Yep. It sure has, Michael. It’s had its ups and downs but I’m glad we went. I liked Cattolica. I think, after all, it was a better choice than Rimini. I think we might have been overwhelmed there. But the best thing about it was meeting the girls. We struck lucky with that trip. I have never met so many really nice girls in such a short space of time.’

    ‘My favourite was Carol. I got on well with her. I think she was the saving grace of my time in Cattolica. I don’t know how I would have managed without her. So, Richard, who was your favourite?’

    ‘Jane, of course. She’s given me her address and I promised I would write to her. We might even meet up. She gave me her telephone number at the place where she works. Will you be writing to Carol?’

    ‘Yes, definitely. We exchanged addresses and telephone numbers and I promised her faithfully that I would keep in touch.’

    The two friends talked about their experiences, shared their thoughts and exchanged opinions about the people they had met. They did not sleep. The sun came up and, at half past five, they left the coach terminus and walked the short distance to the train station.

    As Michael and Richard walked through the streets of London, in the cold and wet weather of an early August morning, their thoughts were of the streets of Cattolica, its warmth, its friendliness and its noisy bustle. Michael was relieved to be treading on proper pavements again and the air smelt fresh. The buildings around him seemed so large, so high, so old and so blackened with grime. They noticed tourists looking at the buildings and taking photos of them, a familiar sight after Rome and Milan. They caught the first train at six o’clock. On the journey home they said little to each other. Even Richard was subdued.

    Michael stood in the living room of his parent’s house feeling dejected. Everything looked different. It seemed smaller and shabbier than when he had left it two weeks before. It looked grubby, the furniture looked old and dilapidated. The floor was covered in carpet that looked worn and sad. He had arrived home with five shillings in his pocket and thought he had managed well on the twenty-five pounds he had taken with him.

    Michael changed into his smart clothes and set off for work. Unwashed, bleary-eyed and unshaven, he entered the office where he worked. The manager was impressed that he had bothered to turn up at all, given that he had only just arrived back.

    ‘You had a good time in Italy then, Michael?’, the manager asked, looking at the exhausted teenager.

    ‘Yes. It was the trip of a lifetime. I have so much to tell everyone. I’ll be talking about it for weeks to come.’

    ‘Oh bless you,’ one of the women said; they had gathered around him to welcome him back. ‘We will all be looking forward to hearing about it and what you got up to.’

    The manager took pity on the poor teenager and sent him home. He doubted he would get much work done until he had rested for a day. Back in his bed, Michael quickly fell asleep and did not wake up until the next morning. His dreams were filled with ancient buildings, crumbling ruins, white-walled houses with slatted shutters and scenes of high mountains and lakes surrounded by pine-covered hills.

    During the months that followed, the boys wrote to the girls they had met at the resort and Michael had several conversations with Carol on the telephone and they wrote many letters to each other. He kept those letters for the rest of his life and would sometimes read them to remember the times he had and the people he met. Their contents added a great deal of additional details to his own records from his notebooks. Michael enrolled on a course at his local college to learn Italian and took out several books, from the local library, on Roman history. As soon as the new brochures from Galaxy Holidays came out, they all went to the travel agents to get copies. Although there was some talk, in the letters, of doing it all again – Michael and Richard never did. Not Michael, he never went back to Italy, although several of of the others went on their annual packaged holiday to various parts of the world.

    Next: Epilogue.

    Go to the home page for The Road to Ancona