Herring House: Stories and Other Writing

  Standing on the edge of the falls, my mind was more active not because of the view but the movement.  I felt it all through my body, it made me feel unsafe but excited at the same time, surrounded by granite rock beaten by the torrent of rushing water which was wild then the water fell to earth. There was no big splash it just seemed like light mist falling on a still pond and disappearing into a small tame river. It didn’t make sense how could so much water came over the horseshoe shaped falls forever but leaves something so calm and beautiful.   Simon

  I was waking by the side of the Thames when I saw a man collecting mud in buckets. I asked what he was doing. And he said he was doing art with it – and asked me if I would help him back to his workshop as the buckets were heavy.   I said yes, and as we were walking back, I asked him when he started making art out of mud. ‘About 20 years ago,’ he said he’d done hundreds of pieces using mud. After about twenty minutes we reached his studio which was a rundown building in the back streets of London. I walked through the broken door into a room with white boards covering the brick walls and sheets covered the floor with dried mud. When we put the buckets down, he asked me if I wanted to try it. He passed me some overalls, gloves and a mask and I started out on a small board, drawing with the mud.   It was really relaxing which surprised me because I am not the best at drawing, but when I’d finished, he came over and asked me to take a step back and look at what I h...

  The table  that the blank white pieces of paper rest on that I can feel as my hand slides over the cold surface. The flowing lines of the tree that lived and reproduced on the surface is cold and reflects the light streaming  through the window. People walking past in silence the traffic drownuing them out. Do they notice me?  No I think not. But life isn't all about me. It is all about life on this little planet we live on  in the universe. Heather

  Gripping the bricks with all my strength, my joints within my body ache with a burning desire. A few more struggling moments until I reach the top of the watchtower knowing I am within reach of this small but achievable moment of today.  The struggle of pushing my body to its limit, the overwhelming desire flowing within my veins is achieved. I stand up panting, slowly lift my head , blinking and regathering my thoughts before looking out across the ocean. The cold breeze gently caressing my skin and I take one look at the sun rising above it and close my eyes and say - 'It was worth it.' Leia ***   Looking out of the window, being above the people, traffic, houses and trees, I could see for miles. Breathing in deeply the smell of the room, the dust, the mildew in the corner, the age of the tower.  The watchtower had been in the town for generations, in my family. My Grandpa would tell stories of how he would watch for planes in the war. But today, I just get ...

  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.

  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...

  The giant boy felt he had no place as he walked the fields on a still summer day. He noticed the windmills not turning, he went to the top of a hill and looked down at the motionless windmills. He took a deep breath and blew over the fields and all the windmills turned. The farmers were happy and all came out to cheer the boy and he felt, at last, he belonged.  Russell

Last year as part of  Marsh, Arts and Us we visited Carlton Marshes. The banner was inspired by our trip accompanied by artist Ian Brownlie and writer Belona Greenwood. Together, we developed the artwork in a series of workshops held at PrimeYarc.  The project is part of the Norfolk and Suffolk Broads Authority’s Marsh, Arts and Us community arts engagement project and part of the wider Water, Mills and Marshes Broads Landscape Partnership scheme funded by the Heritage Lottery Fund.   Below is some of the writing that came out of the walking. It is beautiful and profound, humble and life-enhancing. Take a walk with our words.   ***  Carlton Marshes Sleeping water dragons Lazy path   Following the lazy path along the stream, the birds were singing in the background. I had decided to take a less travelled path today. The grass only slightly trampled from the marsh creatures frolicking in the night. I stumbled over something that was partia...

  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...

  The woods are a confusing space with many hidden things. As I enter, there is an abyss of trees. I find every tree has a relationship with my mind. Patches of flourishing and blossoming areas with pretty colours full of hope and growth. But also there are many dark and overshadowed areas, uninviting, overcast with darkness at a level of the soul.  i find myself lost in the landscape trying to avoid the dark areas, but I find they are like cancer. Overcasting my bright areas, pulling me closer with whispers of grandeur. I must fight the pull of these false promises, as I know the darkness will overpower me if I were to give into it. I must keep to the hopeful areas full of brightness. They don't call me. They just silently offer hope, laughter and soulful peace.  Martyn The mist rolls across the field pushed from behind by the rising sun.  Gradually fading as the ground warms, revealing a city of green. The trunks of the trees stand guard at the edge of the forest p...