BRITISH GUILD OF TRAVEL WRITERS 2014 NEW TRAVEL WRITER OF THE YEAR AWARD

WINNERS OF THE 2014 NEW TRAVEL WRITEROF THE YEAR COMPETITION ARE ANNOUNCED The British Guild of Travel Writers today announced that Mandy Huggins of Cleckheaton near Leeds and Helen Moat of Matlock, Derbyshire, are the winner and runner-up in its fifth annual New Travel Writer of the Year competition. The nation-wide competition is aimed at encouraging fledgling British travel writers who previously have not had paid-for travel features published. Contestants this year were asked to describe in no more than 850 words how a travel experience or destination was brought to life through a person or persons met along the way. Miss Huggins' winning feature, Pavel Rudavin, described her memorable encounter with a Russian bric-a-brac salesman at the Bratislava, Slovakia grave of one Pavel Rudavin, who, he claimed, was his grandfather. Beautifully written, it had an amusing, if somewhat cynical, twist at the end. The winning feature will be published in the April issue of the Guild'sGlobetrotter publication as well as in the spring/summer issue of Traveller magazine, published by Wexas, the Traveller's Club.  The competition was judged by a panel led by BGTW travel writers Nick Dalton and Deborah Stone, both frequent contributors to national newspapers. It also included Mike Unwin, the Guild's 2013 Travel Writer of the Year, the previously mentioned Jonathan Lorie and Amy Sohanpaul, editor of Traveller.

Wanderlust & Lipstick Travel Writing Competition 2014

MY SHORTLISTED PIECE IN THIS YEAR'S WANDERLUST & LIPSTICK TRAVEL WRITING COMPETITION

A City Through the Eyes of Love

Outside the Blue Mosque a sudden breeze picks up, and sparrows flutter across the grass like early autumn leaves. Opposite the bench where we have stopped, men sit under the shaded colonnade performing their ablutions before entering the mosque, and a carpet salesman from the nearby market tries to tempt us across to his shop.

“Not for buying of carpet,” he assures us. “Just for cup of tea. We are brothers, whether from East or West.”

Here in Istanbul, where the bridge between Asia and Europe is both symbolic and real, his words carry extra resonance. The frescoed arcades of the Grand Bazaar rub shoulders with towering skyscrapers and soaring minarets, glittering Ottoman palaces and the sparkle of Harvey Nichols.

When my partner’s grandma heard that we were coming here, she told us to visit Sirkeci Station, once the end of the line for the Orient Express. As a wide-eyed teenager in the 1930s, Anne had accompanied her Aunt Florence on the train across Europe as a lady’s maid. Now in her nineties, she can still clearly recall the sights and sounds of the city, and the cream cloche hat that her mother bought her for the journey. But a certain glint in Anne’s eye, and her obvious passion for Istanbul above any other city on their Grand Tour, made me think that she treasured something else here more important than architecture or culture.

Today the station platforms are deserted save for a scrawny cat and her ginger kitten, and the stained-glass windows scatter jewels of sunlight onto the marble floor. But it is still easy to imagine the panama hats, parasols and portmanteau, and Earl Grey served amidst potted palms in the restaurant. Dutifully, we take photographs of each other under the station clock to show grandma.

On the street, the traffic is chaotic and the air heavy with fumes and heat. We follow the road along the waterside to the Galata Bridge. At Eminonu port, tiny boats bob on the choppy waves alongside the tour boats and ferries, and seagulls swoop and dive, the underside of their wings caught in the sunlight. Amongst the noise and rush, fishermen line the bridge with their rods, men sip gritty Turkish coffee in the cafes underneath, and shoeshine boys ply their trade. Something tells me that this scene was much the same when Anne arrived in 1936, and for a moment I can picture her holding onto her cloche hat in the strong breeze at the water’s edge.

We head back up into town behind the Egyptian Bazaar. It is the eve of Eid, and shops are closing early in anticipation of the holiday. In the narrow streets, the sweet shops are busy with men buying be-ribboned boxes of Turkish delight and baklava.

Back in Sultanahmet, we stop at a tiny cafe near the Hagia Sophia for sweet apple tea served in tulip glasses. On the pavement outside, old chairs have been pushed together and covered in faded kelims to form couches, shaded by faded parasols and twisted vines.

As I sip my tea, I think of Anne. The rest of her story involved a corner cafe like this, in the same area of the city, It was there that she had her first brush with passion. Every afternoon when Aunt Florence and the other ladies took to their rooms in the heat, Anne was left to her own devices, and sneaked out of the hotel to explore the streets.

Mehmet was a medical student who started chatting to her one day outside a museum. “He asked me the time,’ she said, laughing. “It wasn’t much of a chat-up line!” But her eyes danced with delight when she described him to me, and her thin, cool fingers gripped mine.

“He had eyes full of life and mischief – and something forbidden! But it wasn’t like nowadays, you couldn’t just go out with a stranger, unchaperoned. I was taking a big chance on my reputation.”

Anne and Mehmet snatched an hour or two together every afternoon in a dimly lit cafe near the museum. They held hands under the table, and stole secret kisses behind the wooden partition. And they told each other that they were in love. But after six days, Mehmet had to leave the city to work in a hospital in a nearby town.

“He said he would write to me, but I never heard from him again,” she told me. But although she said this with sadness, her eyes still shone with remembered passion. Anne knew that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

It is our last evening in Istanbul, and we eat dinner on the roof terrace of our hotel. In the street below, families queue outside kebab shops, waiting for them to open, the women in colorful headscarves, their daughters in twinkling headbands.

The city spreads out around us; a magic carpet woven from thousands of years of history. As darkness falls, the Bosphorus Bridge twinkles with blue and red lights as it links and separates East and West, and as the last call to prayer begins, it slowly takes over the night sky. High up on the roof we hear the chant of every muezzin across the city, entwining and colliding in an eerie fusion of harmony and discord.

The same calls to prayer will have filled the dusky streets as Anne said goodbye to Mehmet for the last time all those years ago. I can clearly see her pausing at the hotel door to watch him disappear down the street, before walking into the restaurant for dinner with Aunt Florence. I can picture her aunt chattering about things of no consequence whilst Anne’s heart ached for the man she would never forget.

She may have lived a full and exciting life since her trip to Istanbul, but she can still vividly recall the passion awoken by the young man in Sultanahmet. I feel as though I have seen the city differently through Anne’s eyes, and I reach for my camera to record the chants of the muezzin for her: the sound paints a picture far more evocative and timeless than a photo of the station clock.

*****

Photo credits:

Sunset over Istanbul: Joseph Kranak

Sirkeci Station: Karol K

Sultanahmet Square Fountain Lovers: one2c900d

Hotel Rooftop Terrace: EllenSeptember

Sultanahmet Street at Night: Ivan Mlinaric

- See more at: http://wanderlustandlipstick.com/wander-tales/middle-east/a-city-through-the-eyes-of-love/#sthash.Lzc1kkMY.dpuf

READWAVE

 Readwave 

Junk

You can read my story on their website

The Yellow Room 500 Word Flash Competition Winners

From The Yellow Room Blog - 500 Word Flash Competition Winners

by Jo Derrick

Flash Fiction Helps You Write Better says the caption on the image I've selected for this post. I certainly believe that's true. I think the essence of a great piece of fiction is what you don't say. Allow your reader to work it out for themselves and that way your reader will gain much more satisfaction from the story. Nowhere demonstrates this more completely than the Flash Fiction piece. There are so few words, there isn't room for background detail, lots of dialogue, character development or plot. The writer is aiming for a snapshot of a moment in time. The reader is left wondering, What's really going on here? It's what isn't said that's the most important thing.

Nothing demonstrates this more perfectly than the first three prizewinning stories, Brain Freeze by Freya Morris, Missing by Carol Warham and About Life by Amanda Huggins.

It took me a long time to judge this competition. You'd have thought it would have taken me less time, as the stories were less than 500 words each. However, I had to allow them to stew a while. Brain Freeze didn't grab me as much as some of the other entries on the first reading. Then I couldn't get the images out of my head and I wondered why. On re-reading, I noticed so much more was going on than I first realised. I then began to dwell more on the central character and what his life was like. At first glance it is a story about a man sitting on a bench eating an ice cream. Then we learn that he should be at work. He is a schoolmaster and should have been taking assembly that morning. So what has happened to make this usually responsible and upstanding man neglect his duties in this way? I'll let you read the story so that you can make up your own mind. Each time I read this story I gained more insight. A superb piece of writing. So simple, yet so effective.

Missing was another slow-burner. The first time I read this story, I wasn't sure what was going on. I almost completely missed the point. It was that last line: 'In the middle of the playground lies a small shiny, red buckle shoe, forgotten, lost.' that grabbed my attention. I couldn't get the image out of my head. On re-reading this story, I noticed more and more detail. In fact, it was the attention to detail that had me hooked. This is a highly atmospheric piece and there are several powerful images. The way the writer personifies the elements such as the breeze made this particular reader sit up and take note. Stylistically, this is a difficult one to pull off, but Carol did so, effortlessly. This story has great resonance and tugs strongly on the reader's emotions.

About Life drew me in the first time I read it. That first line: 'The fields are crouched low in the winter sunlight' is wonderful. I knew from the outset that this writer has a wonderful feel for language; something I always look for in a winning story. Her characters leap off the page and we immediately empathise with both of them. Again, this writer pays great attention to detail. Every gesture; every word; every action has significance. Amanda Huggins doesn't have to tell us how these characters feel about the tragedy in their lives or how they'll cope in the future, she shows us with unflinching honesty. The ending could have been clichéd, but Amanda shies away from the easy option and creates a more believable character as a result.

Tantric Twister by Tracy Fells deserves a special mention, because it has an excellent twist.  Again, both the characters and the situation are real and true. The story also raises a smile and brings hope. Recklessness, fun and sex aren't just for the young, but also for the young at heart. I also love the title!

Judging this competition has taught me so much about Flash Fiction and has made me eager to write more Flash pieces myself. Thank you to all who took part.

INK TEARS ANNUAL FLASH FICTION COMPETITION

My story, Perfect Word, was recently Highly Commended in the annual Ink Tears Flash Fiction Competition. You can now read the winning stories over on their website.

Read my story, Perfect Word

The Thar Desert - My Winning Article in the 'Adventures Start at Stanfords' Competition

I am reclining on bejewelled silk bolster cushions rather too close to the rear end of a flatulent camel.  As our brightly decked cart rolls slowly through villages at the edge of the Thar desert, groups of children wave and shout as they give chase.    

It is winter in Rajasthan, the early morning sunlight is still struggling to warm us through, and the villagers we pass are wrapped in grey wool blankets. The landscape suddenly opens out, and we stop at the edge of shallow dunes stretching towards the horizon, dotted with hardy khejri trees.  Our guide, Mr Singh, passes us binoculars as he points out a group of slender chinkara gazelle in the distance.  Both the chinkara and the trees are revered by the local Bishnoi tribe, who are even known to bury dead gazelles and mark their graves.  Bishnoi translates as twenty-niners, which refers to the number of principles they live by, two of which are to protect trees and ‘all living beings’.  Their fierce affinity with nature, and their aggression in its protection since 1485, has led them to be thought of as the first environmentalists. 

We follow a track into a series of irrigated fields, sparsely green, and haunted by the eerie call of peacocks.  The cart comes to a standstill and Mr Singh offers his hand as I clamber down, a little mystified as to why we have stopped here.  The camel driver uncouples our camel, Komala, and leads her over to the thorn bushes for lunch. A jeep appears in a cloud of dust and deposits four turbanned waiters in navy Nehru jackets.  Before I can even register this surreal ‘A Passage to India’ moment, they have unloaded two rope charpoy beds and a mountain of hot tiffin tins.  It turns out that we too are being led to lunch. 

The charpoys are set down in the shade of a lone inguda tree and piled high with cushions.  We recline in the shade with bottles of cold beer, suspending disbelief and feeling a little like fraudulent royalty.  Delicately spiced mogri mangori (desert beans), cauliflower and potato dishes, millet chapatis and daal, are spread out before us. Everyone discreetly disappears and we are suddenly alone. The only sign of life is a group of women working in the distance, their covered heads bobbing like tiny jewels in the expanse of brown earth.  This is perfection, a delicious Rajasthani feast in the now warm mid-day sun, and a moment of scarce peace and tranquility. 

However, in India you are never alone for long.  A cloud of dust hurtles towards us across the fields, and a small brown dog arrives, tongue lolling and tail cheerily curled.  We throw him leftover chapatis, just as three giggling children appear, and Mr Singh mysteriously arrives from the opposite direction, panting with exertion and flapping his hands in wild shooing motions.  We burst into spontaneous laughter as India returns to its chaotic default setting. 

See more at: Stanfords Website

BRADT TRAVEL GUIDES/INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY TRAVEL WRITING COMPETITION 2013

I was very proud to reach the final in this year's Bradt Travel Guides/Independent on Sunday Travel Writing Competition, with my piece, The Moonlit Maze.

I went down to London yesterday evening to the awards ceremony, which took place at the fabulous Stanfords travel book shop in Covent Garden.

The first prize went to Cal Flyn, and it was presented to her by Simon Calder.

I met some great people and had a lovely evening!

The judges said this about my piece:

"Stories of getting lost in the souk are not unusual, but in this one the writer gives a startling portrayal of both the physical and emotional contrast between daytime colour and the dark hours of evening. The tale is told at a good pace, with moments of technicolour description and observation interwoven smoothly with the narrative of the unfolding drama. It is with a great sense of relief that we rejoin Anish and his tuk tuk."

Click here to read my piece

Sentinel Literary Quarterly April-June 2013

My short story, Just Enough Light, appears in the current edition of Sentinel Literary Quarterly. You can buy it here.

Ask Fidel

My shortlisted entry in this year's Wanderlust & Lipstick Travel Writing Competition

In the midday heat, we slow down alongside a rugged cowboy with a handsome moustache. His dusty felt hat is tipped low, and he sits astride a dappled mare, leading a long-legged gelding. The gelding shies, and he tightens the rope. For a second our eyes meet, his expression inscrutable.

We are heading out on an adventure across Cuba with our newfound friend, Sandro, acting as an unofficial guide. Our starting point is the main motorway out of Havana, which is filled with a straggling mix of horse carts, cowboys, bicycles and cars. Speed appears to be dictated by the heat of the sun, and no one is in a hurry. The Russian-built carriageways are straddled by crumbling bridges that lead to nowhere. “The money ran out,” says Sandro, shrugging.

The bridges now serve an alternative purpose — providing shade from the sun for locals waiting for a lift. With fuel in short supply, they rely on a government car-share system.

I suggest to Sandro that it would be truer to the spirit of the revolution if all the half-filled tourist buses stopped for passengers too. “We will ask Fidel to arrange it!” he says, nodding enthusiastically. This reply is fast becoming his stock response to any difficult question: diplomatic, yet offering nothing tangible.

read more...

Dictionary of Made Up Words

My story, Swabbler, was shortlisted in the recent 

English Pen Made-Up Words 100 word story competition. 

And now the e-book of the 30 shortlisted entries is free to download for your Kindle or other e-reader!

Download it here!

She's The One

She's The One

She's The One, an anthology in support of International Women's Day, is to be officially launched on March 8th.

Anyone can be a heroine, and She's The One is a collection that celebrates the lives and achievements of just a few of them. From mothers and teachers to actors and activists, bringing together writers from across the country to pay tribute to the women who have shaped their worlds. Some are international icons. Others are personal heroines. Many you will never have heard of; but each one has made a difference, touched a life, and inspired others to do the same. Compiled in recognition of International Women's Day, She's The One showcases the winning entries from the She's The One National Writing Competition.

It includes my piece about Pulitzer-prize winning US war correspondent, Marguerite Higgins, and will be available on Amazon, for Kindle and iPad, and in bookshops including Waterstone's.

Buy it on Amazon here!    Or from the publishers, My World!