Herring House: Stories and Other Writing

  The summer had come at last with long light days. This meant more time out of the houses we lived in or just stayed at.  This was because we were all related and lived in a close community as a family of travellers from Ireland.  We all stayed together. This was also the time to do whatever we wanted. There was a varied age gap between us all. There must have been about twenty of us and the age bracket was 8-12.  Me - I was ten going on twenty; just like the others, older than you would have thought.  So we could stay together and not get into trouble. We would go camping, never too far only two miles to the meadows and a wicked river with many things to do, including lighting a fire in camp which felt naughty because we were so young.  We could always go back and get food.  I was one of the youngest and I loved to get about so i would always go back and return with some goodies.  I remember one time I went back to see my Nan but she wasn't in s...

  We experimented by putting words and phrases randomly together making odd and sometimes lyrical connections - this was a favoured mode of expression for David Bowie who used it to construct his songs and many others. It was a favoured way of writing for the Surrealists and Dadaists.  This is one of my favourites by Mat. Limping postman slow pensioners I went to ask what mattered. Daylight, the clouds, the river silent and their tears in the middle of me.

  Actors Joanna Swan and Martin Kray performing the group-created audio drama - The Train. Sue - Lived Experience Coordinator introducing us all and the Lived Experience Collective. Rachel and Mel making the presentation. The audience who turned out on a fine Friday afternoon were rivetted. It was a very special event...thank you to St. Peter Mancroft Church...our actors and everyone who came. 

  This Friday, 8th August at 2 pm - there will be a presentation from the Lived Experience Collective and readings/performance of the Writing Group's Audio Drama at St. Peter Mancroft Church in Norwich.  Martin Kray and Joanna Swan will be reading from the book and performing the audio drama, testing their ability to come up with different accents. It will be GREAT! The event is taking place as part of the Homelessness Exhibition which is on show in the church as part of the HIDDEN installation by sculptor Peter Walker. It is a moving and powerful experience. 

  Herring House Trust is bringing its Homelessness Exhibition to St. Peter Mancroft Church in the centre of Norwich as part of the HIDDEN project in the church during the month of August. There will be the exhibition, a presentation by the Lived Experience Collective and readings from Untitled, Writing from Recovery, our wonderful anthology of prose, poetry and other texts written by the writing group at the hostel. The exhibition is in the church from Tuesday 5 th August until Monday 11 th August 10 am to 4 pm. The presentation and readings take place on Friday 8 th August at 2 pm where members of the group will be present and we will be selling copies of the book to raise money for more creative activities at Herring House Trust. Inside the church, ‘Hidden’ is an artwork by renowned sculptor Peter Walker exploring the concept of what is unseen or concealed in the world around us. It delves into the idea that things may not always be what they seem, encouraging vie...

As I walked out of Herring House Trust little did I know that two minutes later I would be back inside the house. I have agoraphobia and couldn't cope with being outside.  The staff let me back in. I did a breathalyser and spoke to the staff about how I was feeling. I was struggling, feeling wobbly and sweating, feeling a bit nauseous.  The fear I feel when I am in an open space is like my feet are floating, or I am standing on a wobbling board. It leads me to think that I'm on air and I'm going to fall over or fall through the floor. It scares me and my mind goes to extreme levels that are very hard to describe but it's an uncomfortable feeling. It's like being hung off a cliff and you are going to be dropped; it's like the fear of hanging off a cliff and the fear of falling, that's the best way I can describe it.  I was diagnosed with this condition in 2018 and it has ruled my life ever since. Blake Image: Edward Hooper 1921

  It's been a while but this blog is proud to announce the launch  of an anthology  of prose and poetry from Herring House Trust's writing group. There is in this collection lived experience, stories, poetry, a group-authored verse drama, a novel excerpt and many reflective texts. It is an extraordinary and very human book. It will be on sale to raise money to invest in more creative activity.  The launch is on September 24th - at 5.30 pm in Great Yarmouth Public Library.  The book is published by Red Herring Press and funded by Cultural Connections - it is a very local affair and thanks are due to all those who have helped to make this a reality. 

I carried my wounds in the hole in my heart like a steel ball with a chain connected to my soul. It was with great regret I put it down and cut the chain; severing the umbilical cord of comfort it gave me. I dropped the ball that had filled that hole with great reserve...placed in a desert of regret.  I prayed for rain. The rain came with all its wrath, backed by the world, feeling the seed of discontent buried beneath the sands of my mind.  But I persevered with the strength drawn from others, those that had weathered the storm before me. The faeces this world threw at me becoming nutrients my garden needed.  I spend my days weeding the rich soil in the once barren desert as it becomes a garden.   From the fertiliser, humanity has given, all the while aware not to pull the plants that bear fruit, for they are what fills the whole. The chain becomes sentient as it lies in the Eden I have created, inching relentlessly towards my soul; its only purpose to recommen...

    3742501   ©   Kathleen Van Hoffen   |   Dreamstime.com Out of the car, stretching after the three hours sat in the backseat with my head on a pillow, wedged between the seat-belt and the window. The realization that we are here rushes into focus through bleary eyes. The wind cools the side of my face where I’ve dribbled down my chin. Then I’m on! Throwing the book in my left hand and the slime from the Ghost-busters figurine in my right, into the car door and slamming it shut, just shoving the pillow in at the last second before it closes on it. I run to the door wailing with pure excitement and total love. I lift up the letterbox and peer in poking my fingers through and shout “Wally, Wally” he runs to the door with so much energy and he bounces up and down licking my fingers as he reaches up. That familiar click of the lock and sticky foam round the edges of the door peeling apart, and the door opens. My Granddad standing there with his big smile,...

  6142879 © Christophe.rolland1 | Dreamstime.com I am in a cornfield surrounded by beautiful red poppies, then walking towards a thick group of trees which are all shades of green. I find a bubbling brook, the water shimmering as the water bounces over tiny stones. Stepping through the water it changes its path as it hits my boot. Something glints and catches my eye in the fine earth created by a busy mole last night. It’s a ring with a red and green stone. I pick it up and hold the gold band in my hand, looking at the delicate writing inside the ring. Looking up I see a cottage, white in colour with a picket fence. The garden is full of wild flowers of purple and yellow. Around the door are wild roses, shades of pink, bees buzzing and ants scurrying.  Slowly I approach the gate, it squeaks as I open it. A window to the left shows a figure inside. A large man who glances up as the squeaking reaches his ears. I duck down hoping he has not seen me enter. I look around searchin...

  Photo credit: 8821963 © Jwfields | Dreamstime.com I sit in my car looking across the parking lot at a crowd of people gathered round the looming double glass doors, chatting amiably. Some happy, some expressionless. A few nervously kicking the ground as the ash on their cigarettes grows longer. “Okay,” I tell myself “You can do this.” I nervously open my car door and start walking to the crowd. Before I could make three steps everybody began to file in through the door, one by one, until it was eerily silent and empty outside. The absence of people made the door appear to grow in size as it was the most important door I would ever walk through in my life. In reality it is. The door handle feels cold in my hand which is surprising as it is a typical Texas summer day, sweltering hot. I push the door, it resists a little as if it is saying “Are you sure?” I am. As I go through the door into the foyer, an older man approaches me and says “Welcome is this your first time?” It mu...

  3713026 © Lihui | Dreamstime.com Hanging by one finger, frantically scratching the smooth face of the mountain with the other hand for anywhere to grip on. Both feet slipping up and down like they are cycling the polished face of the mountain, granite shining like glass. Finally, after some tense moments, a small nook left by an old tree root, a small piece of what was once an ancient woodland remains in the odd piece of tree root and empty space they once occupied. Venturing further in Vernon discovers a cave going deep into the rock. The faint sound of water trickling increases the further he ventures in. Eventually coming to a hidden waterfall created from the melting ice high on the top of the mountain, he notices that the cave continues past the water and he proceeds onwards. Something glinting up ahead catches his eye as he approaches, and he can’t believe what he is seeing. The biggest diamond you could ever imagine, bigger than a watermelon, set into the skull of a sabr...

  I was walking the hills of the Yorkshire Dales on a bright sunny morning. I shuffled my way through the crowed trees and came across a small stream. I crossed the battered old bridge, the sun reflecting on the stream, almost glinting in fact. I continued my walk and came across an old farm, I peered through the window to see a man and his dog playing with a ball. I decided against giving the door a knock and walk through the door. I continued, instead, to walk around the farmhouse and on the other side were pigs in pens and other animals grazing. Jo

  One cold wintery night, Jacob was living in Germany on an old, terraced street. It looked like a line of Second World War multi housing complexes, as far as you could see. Very grey, very uniform and very dark. Street lights missing, one every now and then, casting dark shadows. In Jacob's head the turmoil of his life was very dark and there were no answers. He would walk the streets at night after work to get to the main town to buy food. As he passed the light on the street, he knew a dark area would be coming. In his head and on the street it was always haunting shadows he could see, like the haunting shadows in his head. Then after many times of doing this, night after night, he would also look over the bridge which he had to cross. Every time he would stop in the middle which was clear from all the trees, just standing there, watching the moon quiver in the ripples as the water passed by. Sometimes there would be rain drops shimmering on the surface then disappearing never...

The evening is closing in, as I walk around the long reeds. A gentle breeze sways the reeds in waves, a still low mist rises from the riverbank. It’s a warm evening, even though the sun is setting on the horizon. As I follow the path, I am in ore of the beauty of the views. In the distance I can see a glow from a place near the path, as I come closer, I can see an old oil lantern hanging off a post. As I draw even closer, I can see a shadowy figure, dressed in dark, old clothes, not moving, just standing under the lantern. Now as I approach the figure, I feel a cold breeze suddenly blow across the reeds and my cheeks. I can now see a large dingy, the lantern attached to the bow. The figure is standing at the front of the old wooden boat, the menacing figure is waving me to him. As I draw closer, I can see both the boat and the figure are opaque and seem as if it is a trick of the rising mist. I had heard stories of “The Ferryman” but had never experienced them myself. I am now terrif...

  As I stroll down the street, rain drizzling, runs down my collar and inside my shirt.  A chill runs down my spine but it wasn't from the cold. The sun timidly peeks its head from behind the gray clouds above casting a single ray of sunshine on the street ahead.  I see a piece of paper spinning around inches above the pavement caught in a mini whirlwind then the wind blows it towards me and it presses against my chest.  It was surprisingly dry considering it had rained on me for what seemed like an eternity, grey clouds following my every move.  My life seemed to be as grey as the clouds lately. Living life under the regime of King Alcohol had gone from sunny skies to a torrent of storms and misery. I knew I couldn't live this way, but I still tried to make it work.  Taking the piece of paper in my hand after it had flown to my chest I looked down and read the script. In bold letters were the words 'Nothing is so bad that a drink can't make it worse.' The ...