Alan had a presentiment of a Nelson Rockefeller Moment in Dorothy’s shower, so he chose the healthy granola option for breakfast, rather than a bacon roll. It was a rare, cold, bright, windless, January day. After he’d loaded the dishwasher, he decided to take a walk down to the shore.
He stood on the scrunchy pebble beach, looking out over the Firth to the Isle of Arran, with snow-white Goat Fell gleaming in the low sun. The Firth was so calm that he took a notion to try the child’s game of skimming a pebble across the water. There were plenty of small flat pebbles, but he found he’d lost the trick of it – the best he could manage was a stone that merely skipped twice across the sea before sinking.
Last night, watching the dolorous television news, he’d said to Dorothy, ‘Grandad had to go and fight in World War I. And then Dad had to go and fight in World War II. I was bloody lucky that mass warfare then skipped a generation in the UK.’ That thought came back to him now. He dropped his latest flat pebble back onto the beach. Yesterday’s throw-away comment on the news was quite true: looking back at his life, he had been a fortunate man…
Mid-afternoon, Friday May 12th, 1967. Radio London, a pirate radio station based in an ex-US Navy Minesweeper, moored 12 miles offshore from the Essex coast, had secured and begun broadcasting a pre-release copy of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Listening to it on a tinny transistor radio in a thunder storm, Alan knew that, in some way, the wide world had changed just a wee bit. And he was a witness.
Summer 1965, with The Byrds ‘ Mr Tambourine Man playing somewhere in the middle distance, holding his girl close in the velvet darkness, her skin like warm silk. April 1967, paying to watch Ingmar Bergman’s Seventh Seal, two nights in a row in a decrepit cinema in Cambridge. Summer 1967, hitch-hiking to Venice, enduring shimmering queen of the seas. Christmas Time 1968, breaking into the deserted football stadium one starry night and scoring an imagined wonder goal at The Normanton End.
Bugger the Moon Landing – Alan’s litany swept on regardless. In a past year now uncertain, standing on the pilgrim-worn front steps of the great Cathedral of Chartres. The glory of The Middle Ages, and to this day, no-one knows the name of a single one of those (prince or peasant) who laboured so long to build it – a seraphic hymn in stone. Another summer, also difficult now to place, when a Swiss Border Guard at the Italian-Swiss frontier had turned him back from Switzerland (as an itinerant with insufficient funds), but once the border post was out-of-sight, he’d climbed and scrambled into Switzerland, crested a ridge, and strolled down through Alpine pastures full of flowers, with cowbells in the dim distance. Another summer, again undated: barrelling along Highway 101, with The Allman Brothers’ Ramblin’ Man on the am/fm radio (that last one might possibly be better termed a retro-adolescent event).
The wisdom of lovers, friends and family – some of them now long past. He recalled his Grandad: his gentle patience with Alan’s childish attempts at fashioning wooden furniture in the shed; his skillfull green fingers with vegetables, fruits and herbs; his sturdy independence – cursing Winston Churchill every time he appeared on Grandad’s black-and-white TV. Alan felt that he was almost a custodian of the memory of his Grandad: he was surely now the last person alive who had known intimately that vigourous, quirky, cheery old man.
The tide was on the ebb and Alan turned away – tasks awaited him. He turned away, also, from those memories, his Lost Domain. He knew it was perilous to dwell too much on the past. A great French writer had written a fine book about his obsessive struggle to return to the new-minted world of adolescence and had then gone off to die in very first weeks of World War I, charging a German machine gun with a revolver*.
To recall the past was like the comfort of a warm blanket on a cold morning. To seek out what was past was folly. Alan knew his own Lost Domain should be a cherished remembrance, but there must be no attempted return.
*Alain-Fourier (1966) Le Grand Meaulnes. Harmondsworth: Penguin Modern Classics.
Image by Denny Franzkowiak from Pixabay and hour glass with dark sand running through on a rock with trees in the background.
literally stories 
Michael
Beautifully executed. Alan knows there wouldn’t (won’t) be anyone around to look at WWIII memorials. No humans, anyway.
The part about him being the last living person who knew his grandfather well is especially poignant.
Leila
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Thanks Leila. glad you liked it, it was a piece I particularly enjoyed writing. mick
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this is a lovely gentle start to the week and so much of it rang a bell with me, though I have to admit Alan’s past was rather more adventurous than my own. I loved the illegal stroll through the Swiss meadow and the way that music punctuated much of this, as indeed it does for youngsters. Beautifully done. Thank you – dd
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Thanks Diane. You’re quite right: music does indeed punctuate young life experiences – I hadn’t thought of that before. And a great header – not any old hour-glass, but a fine image. mick
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Hi Mick,
It amazes me every time how easily you can mix history with fiction and come out with something refreshing and interesting.
I’ve never really considered how those of us felt that were either never called up or never went to any conflict. I’ve never thought about it. I did realise years back that I would never join up and if I was forced, I would be happy to end up in jail. This conversation normally ends with me being asked if I’m a Conscientious Objector to which I’m not. I have no problems shooting folks but I have a huge problem with them shooting at me!!!
To be honest, my whole argument is that I’d never fight for a politicians opinion. I suppose WWII was something else, there was a chance of us being invaded but it still sticks in my craw that most times we fight our or other battles in different countries.
I think Hartlepool was the only place that engaged in battle with the Germans. (Not talking about our Air Defence.)
Excellent as always my fine friend.
Hugh
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Thanks, Hugh. Glad you liked it. In turn, I enjoyed your quirky comment about Hartlepools. It puzzled me for a second or two. Then I remembered that Hartlepools was shelled by the German fleet in WWI – a strange business, eventually followed by the mass scuttling of the German fleet in Orkney. mick
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Just beautiful! Captures A Moment, one that I find myself caught in more often than not these days and does so perfectly. Another great start to the week!
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Thanks Steven. Glad it resonated with you – that’s a real reward. mick
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Mick
If the first paragraph of this piece doesn’t make the reader want to read on, they should check and see if they’re breathing! (he her “they” them or it).
And the rest of the piece does not disappoint. The condensation of all these moments reads like a shower of beautiful rain drops being offered to the parched reader.
You make history come alive, as opposed to a boring recitation of facts or an endless “scholarly” tome drowning the reader in one insignificant detail after another. And sometimes THOSE kinds of writers will do a thousand pages of THAT kind of B.S.! One wonders why they don’t hang themselves for boredom in the plodding nature of their own writing styles.
Literary criticism itself is at least half history, or more, if it’s ever any good.
The dramatic wisdom embodied in the last two paragraphs of this piece is also second to none. Great job as always!
You boil it all down and LEAVE OUT what isn’t important, and that’s a vast skill we can all learn from!
Dale
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Thanks Dale, glad you enjoyed it. In turn, I enjoyed your comment that ‘literary criticism itself is at least half history.’ Never occurred to me before. mick
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Historical fiction with a strong sense of place. Poetic and reflective. MB is a master of such writing very nice.
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Thanks David. Much appreciated.mick
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A “seraphic hymn in stone”. All so beautifully contained, tender without being wistful; & Alan’s litany so evocative it kind of stills the reader, leaves an aftertaste all its own. Wonderful.
Geraint
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Thanks Geraint. ‘Seraphic’ is my new favourite adjective, replacing ‘dolorous.’ Pleased the piece struck a chord with you. mick
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I’m a fellow traveler with a less interesting past. I did think of a couple of uncharacteristic things in my past that might be comparable.
After driving from Oregon to Kansas in 1968 and finding no lodging I broke into a room to sleep the first night. Despite what I’d been told, there are worse things than Kansas.
A couple of times I was close to going over a waterfall.
Georgia – How do we make new memories when we are no longer new?
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I’ve known you were a fellow traveller for a while, Doug. Ever since I saw a posted comment of yours on your fondness for The Stones ‘Tell Me.’ bw mick
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Mick
Amazing how music influences what we remember and how. I fell in love to “Strawberry Fields” and don’t remember why the girl mattered. How I knew that people who loved “Mr. Tambourine Man” were, for sure, kind & artistic without further evidence. And scores more.
How unknowable the past is, yet we are so much the color of it. Both of my grandfathers died the year I was born. One was called “The Duke of Hester Street” (a slum on Manhattan’s lower east side) and the other died of an “enlarged heart.” I grew up with notions of royalty and fearlessness or perhaps enormous love with regards to their persons. In truth, both died of the immigrant’s disease — overworked to death.
“Allan’s Lost Domain” was both beautiful and telling. It’s just the way it is. Thanks. — Gerry
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Thanks Gerry, yes Diane made a similar point, which I hadn’t properly appreciated: in most cases (but not the release of Sergeant Pepper) the music isn’t the heart of the memory, yet it’s much more than just a backdrop or a marker. Interesting thought. mick
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When a person has more past than possible future, he does tend to look back in a wistful way. How lucky he was to avoid war! No military draft! This was an extremely rare time in U. K. history. Alan describes his past in a lyrical romantic way. So he should living in such a time of cultural renaissance when youth ruled the world… sneaking into Switzerland, etc. I like the description of the grandfather, my own grandmother also did not like Churchill, “he was all for war war war even after we beat the Germans” she said.
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Ha! I liked your grandmother’s comment. I remember why Alan’s grandad hated Churchill (he’d ‘ve liked Mel Brooks ‘The Producers’): it goes back about a hundred years to when Churchill outraged trade unionists by sending in troops to break-up a miners’ strike. mick
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“Alan’s Lost Domain,” is a great title. A lot of really good passages that pull from the past. Makes me think about my own past times in this place of the “Lost Domain.” The radio station in a decommissioned “US Navy Minesweeper” was a really cool touch, and sounds like a real radio station run by a new generation. The Swiss border and flowers…Nice. The French writer charging the German machine guns. Brave and tragic. Excellent story with a lot of feeling!
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Thanks! I confess I pinched the title: one of the English translations of Alain Fournier’s ‘Le Grand Meaulnes’ is entitled ‘The Lost Domain’, a wonderful read.
Glad you liked it, mick
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Hey Mick
I’ll check that story out. Thanks!
Christopher
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I love your writing, Mick – the superb, but completely un-mawkish, use of nostalgia, sense of destiny and ancestry, all wrapped in so much knowledge and history is beautiful. Right from the opening paragraph and the motive for choosing granola over bacon I was hooked and happy to be reading another one of yours.
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Thanks Paul! Much appreciated and glad to see you back and looking forward to reading more of your pieces. mick
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Loved this piece, Mick. So authentic having the recollections while standing on a beach playing with stones. ‘Dolorous’ news, not a word I’ve seen often but forgive me if I quote you on it. I read Le Grand Meaulnes years ago, have a copy in French on my bookshelf. Some interesting discussions about how it should be titled in English, and indeed the ‘lost domain’ is very apt. A memorable, beautiful, and ultimately depressing book. Your story, with its music references, made me think of The Byrds’ beautiful, sad ‘Goin’ Back’. Cheers, A.
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Thanks, Alex. I’m going to check out The Byrds’ ‘Goin’ Back’. As well as the Penguin ‘Le Grand Meaulnes’ I’ve also at some point picked up a 1971 American translation; it has a very clunky title ‘The Wanderer or the End of Youth,’ but it also has a good Afterword by John Fowles. Of course, he mentions how Alain-Fournier’s novel influenced his own ‘The Magus,’ but it’s also very informative on Alain-Fournier’s short life and his daft early death.
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Thanks, Alex. I’m pretty fond of ‘dolorous, ‘ but as I told Geraint (above), ‘seraphic’ is my current favourite adjective. Goin’ to check out The Byrds’ Goin’ Back. As well as the penguin edition, I somehow acquired a 1971 American edition with an Afterword by John Fowles with a potted bio of Alain-Fournier, including his sad, daft death. bw mick
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Thanks, Alex. I told Geraint (above) that ‘dolorous’ is no longer my favourite adjective, it’s been supplanted by ‘seraphic’. Goin’ to check out The Byrds’ Goin’ Home. In addition to the penguin Le Grand Meaulnes, I’ve also somehow acquired a 1971 American translation. It’s got a rather clunky title (The Wanderer or the End of Youth), but it has an Afterword by John Fowles with a nice potted bio of Alain-Fournier, including his sad, daft death. bw mick
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Thanks, Alex. I have the penguin edition of ‘Le Grand Meaulnes,’ but I’ve also somehow acquired a 1971 American translation – clunky title (‘The Wanderer or the End of Youth’) but it has an Afterword by John Fowles, which has a potted bio of Alain-Fournier including his sad, daft death. Goin’ to check-out The Byrds’ Goin’ Back. bw mick
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Thanks, Alex. I have the penguin ‘Le Grand Meaulnes,’ but at some point I also acquired a 1971 American translation: clunky title (‘The Wanderer or the End of Youth’), but it also has an Afterword by John Fowles with a potted bio of Alain-Fournier, including his sad, stupid death. Goin’ to check-out The Byrds’ Goin Back. bw mick
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THanks Alex
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I really appreciate your kind words.
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Cheers
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trying to say thank you but having pc issues
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Trying to say Thanks 4th time lucky
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Tried and failed to reply, Alex – I T problems. bw mick
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Thanks, Alex. Might’ve known that you too were an Alain-Fournier fan. As well as the Penguin edition, at some point I picked up an American edition (clunky title: The Wanderer or the End of Youth), with an Afterword by John Fowles, which is where I picked up the story of his death. Going to check up The Byrd’s ‘Goin’ Back.’ It’s not the same song that Dusty Springfield covered is it? bw Mick
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Thanks, Alex. Might’ve known that you’d be an Alain-Fournier fan. As well as the penguin edition, I’ve at some point acquired a 1971 American edition (clunky title: ‘The Wanderer or the End of Youth’) with an afterword by John Fowles, which is where I picked up the info on his death. bw mick
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Thanks, Alex. Goin’ to check on The Byrds’ Goin’ Back. As well as the penguin edition, at some point I acquired a 1971 American edition. It has a rather clunky title (The Wanderer or the End of Youth), but it also has an Afterword by John Fowles (he of The Magus -great book, awful film) with a potted life of Alain-Fournier and his daft death. bw Mick
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