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Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Circle Of Two. From A Unicorns Chronicle. Book Two.

Posted by Heather Rowan at 7:46 PM

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Essays Of My Life. ESSAYS OF MY LIFE. by HEATHER ROWAN. GIFTS. It was the start of a New Year. My thirteenth year, or was it the fourteenth. I could never work it out, all I can say is it means that I have a whole year to hit the next one. This works very well now that I am an old woman, but in 1954 I had withstood all the teenage threshold jokes from my younger brother, and, as ever, he still hadn’t stopped calling me ‘four eyes’, in spite of the risk of boxed ears from Mother who always stood up for me. He was crafty that brother of mine, he always teased me out of her earshot ninety nine percent of the time. “Are you sure you want to go all the way into the city today luv? It’s bitterly cold out there” Mother set my oatmeal in front of me and offered me the cream from the top of the milk as ‘an extra’. “I’ll go Mum. Once I’m on the bus it’ll be warm enough. It’s the hall that will be colder.” “That’s true. I wish Madame Kyte had continued with her ballet classes here in town” “She couldn’t get enough students. Anyway I’m glad she asked me specifically to come to her.” “There is that”. I left the warm house and walked down the gravel path and made my way towards the bus stop. The pavements were white with frost, the hedges surrounding the houses across the street, were buried under its mantle as well. It was cold, the coldest I’ve ever felt in England. One thing, this early morning bus would have few passengers. I decided to sit in the very front seat on the upper level. The view from there as the Double Decker traveled across the moor would be spectacular. I could see the sunrise as I headed towards the city fifteen miles away. One hour to stay warm. The trip was worth it. This morning I didn’t doze as the bus rumbled on, the views across the valley where my hometown lay were spectacular with the heavy frost that lay over the fields and the trees, and after the usual stop over at the mid way point of the journey, the bus pulled away and we were heading onto the last bit of moorland before passing through the small villages and suburbs towards the city. We traveled on, and as I had imagined the expanses of the moor were covered with hoar frost. I have never seen anything so beautiful before or since that compares. The ponies that made their home on this protected land were grazing as usual the best they could, their coats thickened and shaggy, against the winter weather. Further away in the cultivated fields, sheep stayed close to the barns and faired better. And then I saw it. On the grass verge, so close to the road that they could have fallen under the wheels of the bus, if one had caught the other off balance, Stallions fighting.One was as black as a raven, and the other, white as the frost that surrounded them. The rays of the rising sun shimmered over the hindquarters and musculature of the black horse as it reared and plunged trying to gain ground. The white held, reared, and slammed his powerful neck against the black, and as he dropped to the ground to gather strength for another attack his heavy mane swung and fell against his neck the heat from their battle turning the droplets of moisture captured there into crystal. The sight of the struggle was beautiful in its power, its fury, its strength and symmetry. Passengers on the bus gasped, and even the bus driver slowed down as we passed the animals. What a gift for a cold January morning in a wild part of an even wilder landscape. Arriving at the Ballet Studio the picture remained in my mind. All through the barre work, the port-d-bras exercises and the central floor work the stunning wildness of it all stayed with me. And when it came to the final exercises of our training, the memory of the horses made my jettes and Grande jettes soar. I flew on the music, as our four-hour class came to an end. In the changing room I was getting the usual cracks from my classmates about my heavy sweater and bulky leg warmers, and defended my clothing with reminding them that I had a fifteen-mile journey to take before getting to class. My day had started a lot earlier than those city girls. I thought I had won my usual battle when they all quieted down. Looking up from untying the ribbons of my half-pointe ballet shoes I noticed that our teacher had come into the change room. (An unusual occurrence.) This woman had been made a Dame no less. “Valerie may I have a moment?” ‘Oh no’ I thought ‘ she’s going to drop me from the class.’ I walked towards her, hoping that she would lead me out to the studio away from the rest of the girls, for privacy No, right there in front of all of them she said’ “ I think you’re good enough to enroll in The London School of Ballet. I can help you there. What do you think?” It was the start of a New Year. My thirteenth year, or was it the fourteenth. Two choices. The freedom of the horses in all the wild places that surrounded my home, or, the discipline and training of one of the best, no, the best Ballet School in England in a city I never thought I would ever visit. END. Views: 3 Like Share Twitter
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My Desk. What a nightmare trying to get in to my blog t...
Access Archives: Daniel Radcliffe’s First ‘Harry Potter’ Interview! (2001) | Access Hollywood - Celebrity News, Photos & Videos

Access Archives: Daniel Radcliffe’s First ‘Harry Potter’ Interview! (2001) | Access Hollywood - Celebrity News, Photos & Videos
WINDY RIDGE. Posted by Valerie M Honey. on April 20, 2012 at 3:00pm View Blog Windy Ridge. My Aunt and Uncle's cottage has this view. It is built on a hill in Cornwall and stands one thousand feet above seal level and is twenty miles inland. Lift the latch of the converted stable door and you end up in a sunny parlor. A black coal burning range on your left is my Aunties magic box. Out of this comes the gourmet cooking known only to Cornish or Devonshire men. Quarry men. My favorite dish was, and is, blackberry and apple pie. The sight of that rich, red ruby blackberry juice mingling with the soft green pulp of homegrown apples, stirs my Devonshire blood. The delicacy is always topped off with thick; yellow clotted cream, and adding sparkling white sugar made it sweet and succulent. The early mornings were captivating to a city child as I was in those days . Clambering up onto my lookout post, I had the most spectacular view in the world it seemed. Countryside rolled over sparse green fields, and plunged over and down into valleys of pine and deciduous trees. A river twisted in generous curves along the bottom of the valley looking like a grey wispy piece of veiling, and the trees seemed to always hold the sun in their topmost branches as the morning sun rose, reminding me of coffers of gold. The engulfing silence of theses mornings made me barely dare to breath.In the spring the velvet calls of the cuckoo could be heard deep within the forest. In summer vibrant notes of skylarks soared as they did ,into the blue sky. Autumn brought harsh sounds of ebony winged jackdaws. In winter haunting, poignant cries of gray winged gulls come inland from the mouth of the river Tamar and Plym. This is a little of Windy Ridge, a lonely place. A silent place. A magical Cornish place one thousand feet above sea level and twenty miles inland. by Heather Rowan. (aka Valerie M. Honey) Views: 17 Liked it! 1 member likes this Share Twitter < Previous Post
(no title)

Now I have signed up with she Writes, I had better tend to my blog page consistently. I really am pleased with the three groups I have si...
Lovely Poems Quotes and Inspiration.

Photo:- Courtesy Kathy Newman . Quiet friend who has come so far, Feel how your breathin...
(no title)

Untitled Heather Rowan at Quiet Dreamer - 3 minutes ago *My Desk. * * What a nightmare trying to get in to my blog this evenin...
Circle Of Two.

CIRCLE OF TWO. ...
The Essays Of My life. Solitude.

ESSAYS OF MY LIFE. ...
AFTER THE GALA

AFTER THE GALA . Time frame. During the Christmas celebrations. Juliette and Lee are killed in a fatal car crash on their way to joi...

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Essays Of My Life. ESSAYS OF MY LIFE. by HEATHER ROWAN. GIFTS. It was the start of a New Year. My thirteenth year, or was it the fourteenth. I could never work it out, all I can say is it means that I have a whole year to hit the next one. This works very well now that I am an old woman, but in 1954 I had withstood all the teenage threshold jokes from my younger brother, and, as ever, he still hadn’t stopped calling me ‘four eyes’, in spite of the risk of boxed ears from Mother who always stood up for me. He was crafty that brother of mine, he always teased me out of her earshot ninety nine percent of the time. “Are you sure you want to go all the way into the city today luv? It’s bitterly cold out there” Mother set my oatmeal in front of me and offered me the cream from the top of the milk as ‘an extra’. “I’ll go Mum. Once I’m on the bus it’ll be warm enough. It’s the hall that will be colder.” “That’s true. I wish Madame Kyte had continued with her ballet classes here in town” “She couldn’t get enough students. Anyway I’m glad she asked me specifically to come to her.” “There is that”. I left the warm house and walked down the gravel path and made my way towards the bus stop. The pavements were white with frost, the hedges surrounding the houses across the street, were buried under its mantle as well. It was cold, the coldest I’ve ever felt in England. One thing, this early morning bus would have few passengers. I decided to sit in the very front seat on the upper level. The view from there as the Double Decker traveled across the moor would be spectacular. I could see the sunrise as I headed towards the city fifteen miles away. One hour to stay warm. The trip was worth it. This morning I didn’t doze as the bus rumbled on, the views across the valley where my hometown lay were spectacular with the heavy frost that lay over the fields and the trees, and after the usual stop over at the mid way point of the journey, the bus pulled away and we were heading onto the last bit of moorland before passing through the small villages and suburbs towards the city. We traveled on, and as I had imagined the expanses of the moor were covered with hoar frost. I have never seen anything so beautiful before or since that compares. The ponies that made their home on this protected land were grazing as usual the best they could, their coats thickened and shaggy, against the winter weather. Further away in the cultivated fields, sheep stayed close to the barns and faired better. And then I saw it. On the grass verge, so close to the road that they could have fallen under the wheels of the bus, if one had caught the other off balance, Stallions fighting.One was as black as a raven, and the other, white as the frost that surrounded them. The rays of the rising sun shimmered over the hindquarters and musculature of the black horse as it reared and plunged trying to gain ground. The white held, reared, and slammed his powerful neck against the black, and as he dropped to the ground to gather strength for another attack his heavy mane swung and fell against his neck the heat from their battle turning the droplets of moisture captured there into crystal. The sight of the struggle was beautiful in its power, its fury, its strength and symmetry. Passengers on the bus gasped, and even the bus driver slowed down as we passed the animals. What a gift for a cold January morning in a wild part of an even wilder landscape. Arriving at the Ballet Studio the picture remained in my mind. All through the barre work, the port-d-bras exercises and the central floor work the stunning wildness of it all stayed with me. And when it came to the final exercises of our training, the memory of the horses made my jettes and Grande jettes soar. I flew on the music, as our four-hour class came to an end. In the changing room I was getting the usual cracks from my classmates about my heavy sweater and bulky leg warmers, and defended my clothing with reminding them that I had a fifteen-mile journey to take before getting to class. My day had started a lot earlier than those city girls. I thought I had won my usual battle when they all quieted down. Looking up from untying the ribbons of my half-pointe ballet shoes I noticed that our teacher had come into the change room. (An unusual occurrence.) This woman had been made a Dame no less. “Valerie may I have a moment?” ‘Oh no’ I thought ‘ she’s going to drop me from the class.’ I walked towards her, hoping that she would lead me out to the studio away from the rest of the girls, for privacy No, right there in front of all of them she said’ “ I think you’re good enough to enroll in The London School of Ballet. I can help you there. What do you think?” It was the start of a New Year. My thirteenth year, or was it the fourteenth. Two choices. The freedom of the horses in all the wild places that surrounded my home, or, the discipline and training of one of the best, no, the best Ballet School in England in a city I never thought I would ever visit. END. Views: 3 Like Share Twitter
(no title)

My Desk. What a nightmare trying to get in to my blog t...
Access Archives: Daniel Radcliffe’s First ‘Harry Potter’ Interview! (2001) | Access Hollywood - Celebrity News, Photos & Videos

Access Archives: Daniel Radcliffe’s First ‘Harry Potter’ Interview! (2001) | Access Hollywood - Celebrity News, Photos & Videos
WINDY RIDGE. Posted by Valerie M Honey. on April 20, 2012 at 3:00pm View Blog Windy Ridge. My Aunt and Uncle's cottage has this view. It is built on a hill in Cornwall and stands one thousand feet above seal level and is twenty miles inland. Lift the latch of the converted stable door and you end up in a sunny parlor. A black coal burning range on your left is my Aunties magic box. Out of this comes the gourmet cooking known only to Cornish or Devonshire men. Quarry men. My favorite dish was, and is, blackberry and apple pie. The sight of that rich, red ruby blackberry juice mingling with the soft green pulp of homegrown apples, stirs my Devonshire blood. The delicacy is always topped off with thick; yellow clotted cream, and adding sparkling white sugar made it sweet and succulent. The early mornings were captivating to a city child as I was in those days . Clambering up onto my lookout post, I had the most spectacular view in the world it seemed. Countryside rolled over sparse green fields, and plunged over and down into valleys of pine and deciduous trees. A river twisted in generous curves along the bottom of the valley looking like a grey wispy piece of veiling, and the trees seemed to always hold the sun in their topmost branches as the morning sun rose, reminding me of coffers of gold. The engulfing silence of theses mornings made me barely dare to breath.In the spring the velvet calls of the cuckoo could be heard deep within the forest. In summer vibrant notes of skylarks soared as they did ,into the blue sky. Autumn brought harsh sounds of ebony winged jackdaws. In winter haunting, poignant cries of gray winged gulls come inland from the mouth of the river Tamar and Plym. This is a little of Windy Ridge, a lonely place. A silent place. A magical Cornish place one thousand feet above sea level and twenty miles inland. by Heather Rowan. (aka Valerie M. Honey) Views: 17 Liked it! 1 member likes this Share Twitter < Previous Post
(no title)

Now I have signed up with she Writes, I had better tend to my blog page consistently. I really am pleased with the three groups I have si...
Lovely Poems Quotes and Inspiration.

Photo:- Courtesy Kathy Newman . Quiet friend who has come so far, Feel how your breathin...
(no title)

Untitled Heather Rowan at Quiet Dreamer - 3 minutes ago *My Desk. * * What a nightmare trying to get in to my blog this evenin...
Circle Of Two.

CIRCLE OF TWO. ...
The Essays Of My life. Solitude.

ESSAYS OF MY LIFE. ...
AFTER THE GALA

AFTER THE GALA . Time frame. During the Christmas celebrations. Juliette and Lee are killed in a fatal car crash on their way to joi...

Popular Posts

Essays Of My Life. ESSAYS OF MY LIFE. by HEATHER ROWAN. GIFTS. It was the start of a New Year. My thirteenth year, or was it the fourteenth. I could never work it out, all I can say is it means that I have a whole year to hit the next one. This works very well now that I am an old woman, but in 1954 I had withstood all the teenage threshold jokes from my younger brother, and, as ever, he still hadn’t stopped calling me ‘four eyes’, in spite of the risk of boxed ears from Mother who always stood up for me. He was crafty that brother of mine, he always teased me out of her earshot ninety nine percent of the time. “Are you sure you want to go all the way into the city today luv? It’s bitterly cold out there” Mother set my oatmeal in front of me and offered me the cream from the top of the milk as ‘an extra’. “I’ll go Mum. Once I’m on the bus it’ll be warm enough. It’s the hall that will be colder.” “That’s true. I wish Madame Kyte had continued with her ballet classes here in town” “She couldn’t get enough students. Anyway I’m glad she asked me specifically to come to her.” “There is that”. I left the warm house and walked down the gravel path and made my way towards the bus stop. The pavements were white with frost, the hedges surrounding the houses across the street, were buried under its mantle as well. It was cold, the coldest I’ve ever felt in England. One thing, this early morning bus would have few passengers. I decided to sit in the very front seat on the upper level. The view from there as the Double Decker traveled across the moor would be spectacular. I could see the sunrise as I headed towards the city fifteen miles away. One hour to stay warm. The trip was worth it. This morning I didn’t doze as the bus rumbled on, the views across the valley where my hometown lay were spectacular with the heavy frost that lay over the fields and the trees, and after the usual stop over at the mid way point of the journey, the bus pulled away and we were heading onto the last bit of moorland before passing through the small villages and suburbs towards the city. We traveled on, and as I had imagined the expanses of the moor were covered with hoar frost. I have never seen anything so beautiful before or since that compares. The ponies that made their home on this protected land were grazing as usual the best they could, their coats thickened and shaggy, against the winter weather. Further away in the cultivated fields, sheep stayed close to the barns and faired better. And then I saw it. On the grass verge, so close to the road that they could have fallen under the wheels of the bus, if one had caught the other off balance, Stallions fighting.One was as black as a raven, and the other, white as the frost that surrounded them. The rays of the rising sun shimmered over the hindquarters and musculature of the black horse as it reared and plunged trying to gain ground. The white held, reared, and slammed his powerful neck against the black, and as he dropped to the ground to gather strength for another attack his heavy mane swung and fell against his neck the heat from their battle turning the droplets of moisture captured there into crystal. The sight of the struggle was beautiful in its power, its fury, its strength and symmetry. Passengers on the bus gasped, and even the bus driver slowed down as we passed the animals. What a gift for a cold January morning in a wild part of an even wilder landscape. Arriving at the Ballet Studio the picture remained in my mind. All through the barre work, the port-d-bras exercises and the central floor work the stunning wildness of it all stayed with me. And when it came to the final exercises of our training, the memory of the horses made my jettes and Grande jettes soar. I flew on the music, as our four-hour class came to an end. In the changing room I was getting the usual cracks from my classmates about my heavy sweater and bulky leg warmers, and defended my clothing with reminding them that I had a fifteen-mile journey to take before getting to class. My day had started a lot earlier than those city girls. I thought I had won my usual battle when they all quieted down. Looking up from untying the ribbons of my half-pointe ballet shoes I noticed that our teacher had come into the change room. (An unusual occurrence.) This woman had been made a Dame no less. “Valerie may I have a moment?” ‘Oh no’ I thought ‘ she’s going to drop me from the class.’ I walked towards her, hoping that she would lead me out to the studio away from the rest of the girls, for privacy No, right there in front of all of them she said’ “ I think you’re good enough to enroll in The London School of Ballet. I can help you there. What do you think?” It was the start of a New Year. My thirteenth year, or was it the fourteenth. Two choices. The freedom of the horses in all the wild places that surrounded my home, or, the discipline and training of one of the best, no, the best Ballet School in England in a city I never thought I would ever visit. END. Views: 3 Like Share Twitter
(no title)

My Desk. What a nightmare trying to get in to my blog t...
Access Archives: Daniel Radcliffe’s First ‘Harry Potter’ Interview! (2001) | Access Hollywood - Celebrity News, Photos & Videos

Access Archives: Daniel Radcliffe’s First ‘Harry Potter’ Interview! (2001) | Access Hollywood - Celebrity News, Photos & Videos
WINDY RIDGE. Posted by Valerie M Honey. on April 20, 2012 at 3:00pm View Blog Windy Ridge. My Aunt and Uncle's cottage has this view. It is built on a hill in Cornwall and stands one thousand feet above seal level and is twenty miles inland. Lift the latch of the converted stable door and you end up in a sunny parlor. A black coal burning range on your left is my Aunties magic box. Out of this comes the gourmet cooking known only to Cornish or Devonshire men. Quarry men. My favorite dish was, and is, blackberry and apple pie. The sight of that rich, red ruby blackberry juice mingling with the soft green pulp of homegrown apples, stirs my Devonshire blood. The delicacy is always topped off with thick; yellow clotted cream, and adding sparkling white sugar made it sweet and succulent. The early mornings were captivating to a city child as I was in those days . Clambering up onto my lookout post, I had the most spectacular view in the world it seemed. Countryside rolled over sparse green fields, and plunged over and down into valleys of pine and deciduous trees. A river twisted in generous curves along the bottom of the valley looking like a grey wispy piece of veiling, and the trees seemed to always hold the sun in their topmost branches as the morning sun rose, reminding me of coffers of gold. The engulfing silence of theses mornings made me barely dare to breath.In the spring the velvet calls of the cuckoo could be heard deep within the forest. In summer vibrant notes of skylarks soared as they did ,into the blue sky. Autumn brought harsh sounds of ebony winged jackdaws. In winter haunting, poignant cries of gray winged gulls come inland from the mouth of the river Tamar and Plym. This is a little of Windy Ridge, a lonely place. A silent place. A magical Cornish place one thousand feet above sea level and twenty miles inland. by Heather Rowan. (aka Valerie M. Honey) Views: 17 Liked it! 1 member likes this Share Twitter < Previous Post
(no title)

Now I have signed up with she Writes, I had better tend to my blog page consistently. I really am pleased with the three groups I have si...
Lovely Poems Quotes and Inspiration.

Photo:- Courtesy Kathy Newman . Quiet friend who has come so far, Feel how your breathin...
(no title)

Untitled Heather Rowan at Quiet Dreamer - 3 minutes ago *My Desk. * * What a nightmare trying to get in to my blog this evenin...
Circle Of Two.

CIRCLE OF TWO. ...
The Essays Of My life. Solitude.

ESSAYS OF MY LIFE. ...
AFTER THE GALA

AFTER THE GALA . Time frame. During the Christmas celebrations. Juliette and Lee are killed in a fatal car crash on their way to joi...

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