Trewern Writers' Retreats & Hay Festival.

Blindness  

Tunnel is like a serpent’s castle winding
Through the earth in secret coils
Tunnels are dug through surrounding soils
It is almost associated with unseen portals, between the heaven and earth. 

In a single file with hands with hands on each other shoulders
We went deeper and deeper 
Heartbeat thumping and thumping,
Headgears slipping and slipping
I slowly watched the world light dimming as if a shadow drawing curtain over them 

One sense lost, the other heightened, jaw tightened,
Ears up and sticking up, 
Nose picking up every scent the passed by me
Mind conjuring up every ghost like image in my head. 

Eyes tightly shut like a safe to the biggest secret of ending the world.
People’s faces became phantoms only remembered by the warm touch on my shoulders.
Eyes tightly shut, fear and wonder intertwining.
Navigating a portal, feeling like an intruder in a realm you’re unfamiliar with.  

Hands that once moved alongside with my eyes
Now moved over a brail
My mind mailing tears to my eyes
Eyes that cannot see,
Eyes that can no longer see. 

Tunnel is like a serpent’s castle winding
Through the earth in secret coils
Tunnels are dug through surrounding soils
It is almost associated with an unseen portal, between the heaven and earth. 

Demeter 

Birdsong and verse flow together
Nature breaths life into every winding street
And town of books and literature
Where the sky and earth in harmony meet 

There’s an ache in my brain
But through waterfalls and tricks I’ve fallen for
I’ve learnt it is easier than I thought
I’m not afraid of fire anymore 

Wander through the cemetery,
You can turn to look at a slot
And the daises sprout from a split open coffin
Life finds a way, whether you like or not 

Identical crosses scatter across a moss infested area
Overgrown flowers persist, seeping in through the graves
Your eyes acting as a reflection
Of the many trees threatening to collapse 

And from my rotting body
Buried deep within the soil
Flowers shall sprout and cover me
A sonnet after the ending of turmoil 

I hope the mess overtakes my body laid to rest
I hope the plants overgrow
The birds will sing a sweet melody
And when I’m buried, I hope I’m buried low 

My Body Is (Was) a Temple 

You broke in like a banned bomb that can’t get enough of my promiscuity. The shivers electrocuted my body like a violent assassin but yet, someone must have known. Lightning foreboded my death. Truly it’s all I can imagine. Someone must have of known right? But how could someone like me fulfil such an undermining task. I death. I asked myself time and time again someone must have known, right?  

The exuberant exhilarating yet look overfulfilling with such incompetent emotions filled my body, which truly waited for demise. The shock that went through my lungs and poisoned me. The unfamiliarity surrounded and coaxed my bones. 

Ahn Li ai, that’s who she is but who truly knew who she was. Why? Because her body is a temple. She didn’t allow anyone to enter. Why because her trauma could kill a nation. 

I was pretty – apparently they call all Chinese pretty. But I had an alluring aura, yet my looks couldn’t get me out of this hell hole that unravelled slowly and will deeply impact me. Why? Because my body was a template.  

Music in, world out. That’s how people nowadays envision this world. An abyss should be full of music but no matter how you see it, screams will still happen. You choose to block it out. You are not better than the transgressor. My body took control, it heard every sound, every important model of a car engine. Why? My body is a temple. 

Xiao Ahn and Liu Ahn, bodies female and male died October 7, 2007, Specimen bled through mouth and both pale at 19:13 – over. My body is a temple. The shivers electrocuted me like a silent assassin. Ahn Li Ai – Quang Dong Court, China, 22 October 2007. Death: Drug overdose. Pale skin and foaming.   

Recollecting my memories was harming my own body. It slowly kills you like a drug. Screams should have been heard. Trauma songs, poems revolve around it, but it doesn’t feel like I ever captured the true effect. It only fills your mouth and slowly kills you. 

The air congested my lungs yet only I knew, why? Because that was the day my body died. Forever, my life was never truly great to begin with. Life for me was depicted like a black hole and the shiny silver lining blocks it. You could even say hides it, but yet for me red bleeds through, covering the beautiful silver lining. A blood page is what for my whole life, I imagined the trauma slowly isolates your body. It manipulates your mind like a game of chess, but the opponent was my murderer.  

It’s believed that someone murdered Xiao Ahn and Liu Ahn and fed them drugs whilst slowly choking them. Only one person was at the scene but unidentified. My screams should have been heard… 

My Distaste for English? 

Upon arriving at Trewern, the hosts decided that we should hold an icebreaker, which I must say barely scratched the ice surface. We went around in a circle saying our name and one thing about ourselves.  

Everyone had something very boring and general to say about themselves like their common hobbies or interests. other than the hairless cats, which I thought was pretty cool. But since I don’t necessarily excel at anything or have a specific hobby in particular, I decided to save what was on my mind the entire time we were travelling to Trewern. The fact that I hate English. 

To be completely honest there was an uncountable amount of people in our school who deserves this ‘writers retreat’ much more than I do due to how much I hate English. By no means do I hate the English language but there is no amount of money that could convince me to enjoy reading or writing. Sitting in a freshly painted soundproof white room, in a straight jacket tied to the chair with my ticket to freedom being, to watch the paint dry. Sounds so much more exciting than to pick up a book or a pen in my free time… is what I used to think before Trewern. 

Trewern has given me an insight as to how enjoyable writing can be when you can’t really be forced to do so. There are many aspects of this wonderful experience that I would have forgotten if I hadn’t put pen to paper, like the old lady reading a book on step her doorstep and a cat staring in the window. That memory is now immortalised thanks to how I wrote it down. And I must say most other things were really enjoyable to write about. 

But what exactly was it that caused me to hate writing so much? I had to ask myself upon finding out how fun it can be. The conclusion I came to was how badly we were forced to read and write and how it was my fault that I hated it. Whenever anything is forced upon anyone especially if they were already intending to do it, you feel less inclined to do so, growing your hatred for that specific task. For example. say you were walking towards the kitchen then your mum yells for you to do the dishes from down the hallway not only do you not want to do the dishes but now you are annoyed, brewing your hatred for washing up. This is what built up my distaste for reading and writing, although I still hate reading. 

Before I have to burden anyone with having to hyper analyse and infer my language? One, the overall message I want to bring across is, try things you hate every once in a while, you may end up liking it. Two, any language techniques I may have used accidentally have no deeper meaning. I am a surface level person, so anything I write or say should generally be taken at face value. 

My Trewern Experience 

I really enjoyed my time here. The views were gorgeous. There are so many shops and views which really were inspiring. I liked Hay Festival too and I’ve had the opportunity to meet and speak to many different authors (Jenny Valentine, Jeff Kinney, Nicola Garrard, Anthony Horowitz). As for our waterfall, there was a kaleidoscope of colours and range of eye-catching scenes which ranged from passing dogs to jaw-dropping waterfalls. 

It is safe to stay that I would definitely stay here again, and everyone including our supervisors: Lisa, Lena, Miss Ratkoceri, Mr. Collins, Miss Twigg and Justin, were amazing and so kind. I met many friends too, like Izie, the next-door Bear Grills. Ola, the scary but kindest person. Kleja, who is majorly obsessed with cats. Arianna, who has an eye for everything and is the best observer. Patricia, who has the most contagious laugh ever. Karina, who is really good at writing. Bedu, the one with the neatest handwriting ever. Aasmara, the funniest person without trying. Mojisola, the best artist and also really funny without trying. Hanif, who cannot spell and Chris, who loves mattresses. 

Coming back to the teachers, there’s Mr. Collins aka Michael Bublé. Miss Twig, the kindest and most thoughtful. Miss Ratkoceri, who is terrified of heights and the funniest teacher, Lena, ‘you might be my favourite’. Lisa, in my opinion you won the best dad jokes competition and Justin, who does every single activity without complaining, which in my opinion is not normal.  

Overall, I have learned a lot about myself on this trip and I have had the best time. 

Piano Man 

Piano man play me one final tune,
You’ve tried to play god and you’ve paid with your wife.
Melodies as beautiful as ancient runes
A god cannot live this sorrow life. 

You run your fingers up and down the scale
Methodically pressing black and white notes alike
Drowning yourself in drugs and ale
Don’t you know a man of gods aims to be Christlike  

Not idiotic
Not neglectful
Not an Icarus  

A geometric kaleidoscope of colours shine down from above
But you can’t tell, not even if you wanted to
While valentine works, burdened with the labour of love
Waiting for black to replace her blue 

Another smooth pebble with top her cairn
Mother nature will win this battle soon
King of melismata, symphonies unheard
Piano man play one final tune. 

Pilgrim to Heaven 

Journal 1902: mountain climber, Elizabeth Ioanna. A treat from me to you – something to look forward to.  

The path is laid out for you. Forever waiting. It was always there. Before you, before me. 

It draws you in, clasping around your waist, absorbing you into an ocean of green. A firm gentle stroke, all the possible security you will ever need… 

The thing in disguise who steals your breath, stripping you of stress yet filling you with adrenaline. Finding yourself captivated by her charm. You have now fallen into her trap. This abyss you will never be willing to leave.  

But it all fades away… 

Everything has an end only for an even greater existence to reveal itself. You may not see it, but it sees you. A heavenly found, omniscient being.  

Lift your head permitting the water to run feely, invading your skin selfishly to escape from cruel humanity. Only to find you. Just another mortal, standing firmly against Mother Nature. Duelling. Who should win this battle? 

Look forward. 

The subtle tree branches patting your head leaning down to reach you. Stabbing you behind the back. Disturbing the peace. Long shallow roots into my grave. My piece is gone leaving you empty, hello, and bare.  

Enjoy the mountainous bed, its heavy mossy blankets weighing down. Ravished and left undone as you rushed to leave 

Footsteps fill the silence. You have returned to make your bed. Chopping down the trees and stripping down the moss.  

And suddenly darkness falls. Perhaps nature is not what we see or think. But rather what we feel.  

A stream on your face and pond in your shoes. Nature flows through you.  

You may run as far as you want – there is no escape. Forming this deep connection to the point you cannot feel your feet. Cold is warm, warm is cold. Wondering if your body is adjusting or if it’s possibly hypothermia. Accept it.  

The realm of living. 

Step by step with a powerful swing against the stream, we made our way to the other side. Looking back and looking forward. Finally beginning to realise how far you have gone. 

The trees signalling no way back. Almost making you feel isolated as you are imprisoned in this cage, hostage to mother nature.  

But it all fades away… 

Until you cannot see anymore. The livid green fading. The falling river evaporating. 

The Garden Amidst the Ruins 

The date was 21st of August 1915, one year into the horrific Great War, causing so much damage to nature and people. The town that was once lively and crowded, is now deeply hurt by the amount of destruction. I slowly appeared from my bed glancing at the time which read 8:20 AM. My life felt like a loop, if I could not escape, the war was making me feel weaker day after day, anxiety running through my body, leaving me in a state of confusion? 

Actually no, not confusion it would say that I felt lost in myself, not knowing what to do. Life was so extremely difficult. I could not work as it was not good to work as a woman. My husband was away at war, still no contact from him. I am worried sick, my two beloved children Rose and Philip were always overjoyed when they were with me and loved to play at home dressing up and playing. I reminisce these moments very frequently, yearning to have my children back. I blinked suddenly and realised that I had been daydreaming for about 10 minutes. 

I shuffled over to my closet and selected my violet blouse and began to efficiently get ready. I would have to leave the house soon and begin my tiresome journey to the corner shop located near the valley park about 30 minutes away.   I hurriedly sprinted down the stairs grabbed my cross-body bag and unlocked the back door. I felt extreme tiredness wash over me when I stumbled out of the house. I was not able to eat very well recently as there was a lot of famine. Crops were not able to be produced and there was a shortage of some of my favourite vegetables, leeks, swede, carrots etc. 

Turning the vintage key in the lock, I began the route. There were many air raid sirens in the distance, but they could still be heard very clearly. As I looked around at my surroundings, I realised how destructive nature was. It had ruined everything that I had once loved. Nature no longer felt enchanting and picturesque, it was just unrecognisable, withered flowers filled the grassy patches, well whatever was left. I swiftly carried on walking down the cobblestone pavement and came across a secret garden on the other side of the road. 

It shocked me at first as the town was already so damaged, so I was extremely grateful to have discovered such a beautiful garden hidden from society, even though the country was altering so greatly. I opened a moss-covered gate quietly and entered the most ethereal, wonderous garden, a safe haven in the dark. 

At that moment I forgot about everything in the world and took in the scenic view. Water gushed through the waterfalls instantly making me feel at peace. It made me feel extremely emotional because the war was such a devastation and this garden gave me an indescribable feeling. 

I had a final moment to reflect in this peaceful environment before I had to enter the traumatic society, as a woman in the 1910s. Someday life will be filled with harmony and unity. Perhaps in 10 years, 100 years… never? I will never fully know. All I can hope for is change…

Truth 

As the sun descended its mighty throne, our evil enemy, the moon, slowly but steadily replaces it, leaving a trail of luscious stars and floating rocks that disobey the law of gravity.  

Around this peculiar time many evil things emerged from their sickening habitats who then look around innocent civilians who never did no wrong. The people walk in a sinful city. The poor stealing from the poor, the rich stealing from the rich, the poor stealing from the rich. But most of all, the government stealing from its people, while the moon still shines. 

The people lay on a disease filled streets, hoping for a miracle to descend upon them and change their lives overnight, while the moon still shines.  

Women cry after their cheating husbands who have abandoned a large loving family just because lust took over their rotten minds. He, who left, also abandoned his twins who contain a malignant disease that could end their life in a blink of an eye, while the moon still shines. 

Backbiting, murder, arson, trafficking, offenders, violations. All of this happens while the moon still shines.  

Businesses lying to their loyal customers, selling deadly products that could kill half of France. Politicians preying on vulnerable people, being dishonest, immoral, filthy and most of all, corrupt. Their wickedness hides behind their blood money, while their secretaries’ ears are turned off and mouths taped together so none of their secrets can get out. 

After all, life is a test and only God himself shall judge each human, but this world is cruel and filled with mischief, so you all have to look after yourself and watch your backs and pray for evil to stay away.  

While the moon still shines, evil still occurs. 

Waterfall 

In Hay-on-Wye where books abound
A waterfall’s sweet song is found,
It’s waters weave through stories old,
A shimmering tale in silver fold. 

Between the pages, whispers glide,
Of ancient lore and flowing tide
In verdant folds where rivers play
Their journey meets the light’s embrace. 

Amongst the hills where poets dream,
The waterfall begins to gleam,
With ferns and mosses, wild and green,
It graces Hay with nature is Sheen. 

The air is filled with misty spray,
A cool caress from far away
And as the waters rush and leap,
They stir the soul, awaken and deep. 

In Hay-on-Wye, where words and streams
Entwine like whispers in our dreams,
The waterfalls eternal dance,
Invites us into natures trance. 

So pause. Amid the quiet books,
And seek the steam in hidden nooks,
For there in Hay, the waterfall,
Sings ancient tales that bind us all.

We Cry Together: A Tribute to Trewern

Prologue

If there was any word to describe me, any one word, it would be lucky. Like super-duper ultra lucky. I’m honestly blessed by the kindness of so many different people that see the good in me. Which is kinda odd because a ton of people see me as devil spawn or other insulting and hurtful statements.
However, moving past my personal problems, I’d just like to say thank you to all those who allowed me to thrive and hold a candle to everyone around me. Like a big, hefty and hungry thank you because, without you, I wouldn’t be anything close to the person I am today. This story is dedicated to all the teachers, adults, friends, and family who never gave up on me. Who knew I could succeed. Yeah, even you.

To Lisa and Lena, I don’t know much about writing retreats, but for right now, in this moment, I think Pen-to-Print just might be my favourite.

Chapter 1: The Day of Fate

Finally. The day’s finally come. The exalted day prophesised by the ones who had chosen me as one of their ‘Knights of The Round.’ If I could describe my current state in one word, it would be exhausted. Tired. Sleepy. My bed held a firm, almost suffocating grasp on my body, insulting my impressions of it when I call upon it for my slumber. The mattress practically fires slurs at me for even fathoming the idea of leaving it. Our everyday tussle. If I get up, our battle ends. Yet, how can I even attempt it when my own sheets are in cahoots with it? Each one saps my will to leave them, like a toxic relationship. I’m the ‘Beauty’ and that thing, I call my bed, is the ‘Beast.’

I can almost feel myself slipping away. Light fades, being overwhelmed by my ten-ton eyelids. The gates are nearly shut, flickering and fluttering.

But I refused. Getting out of bed in the morning shouldn’t be this much of a chore but here I am. Every single day. I would normally succumb the mattress’s siren song and nap for another ten or twenty minutes but today is not the day for that. I was blessed, remember?

I bolt out of my sheets, powered by one thought and one thought alone. No school for a week. I know, I know. I’m missing ‘important education’ but come on, guys. When am I gonna use Avogadro’s constant or a solenoid ever? Most people reading this book can’t even remember either, so why should I know then? Before I start gushing over my week-long trip, I should probably drop exposition, shouldn’t I?

There I was, sitting in a random Science lesson with my buddy Hanif and an elusive Post-It-Note was delivered to our class, calling upon us for a mysterious purpose.

Was it a punishment or a reward?

I can’t remember doing anything bad that week so it’s probably a good thing right? Or maybe we’re being mentally punished by forcing us into a group that’s supposed to have a ‘positive impact’ on our borough. Thankfully, it was none of those. (Actually, it was the positive thing.)

A trip! Yahoo!! What did I do to deserve it this time? I ask that, as if I do anything extraordinary enough to get me picked for trips and other stuff regularly.

Apparently, I’m an excellent English student but I don’t believe that one bit. I see it as my friend and I being marginally better than others at English, which I see as utter BS. I mean… come on! There’s the smart girls at the back of the class and the quiet, but smart guys at the back too but you choose the two clowns that have minimal interest in the subject?

The idiots who talk throughout your entire lesson?

The guy who averages three words per lesson? (not me, I write two lines per lesson).

At first, I thought it was a diversity pick but it really was just ‘pick your favourite students’ day. I wouldn’t put it past my English teacher to use a random name generator, seeing as she did that to decide who got the end of term certificates.

The real reason surprises even after writing it. I, Chrispin, the charismatic cynic, was a consensus pick throughout the whole department because of some random aspect of me that I don’t know about. Maybe it’s my overwhelming aura and class presence. Or maybe it’s the fact that the rest of the guys in set one English, in my side of the school, are absolute dimwits. Apparently, my friend only got picked because he would ‘sweeten the deal for me.’ As if a 15-year-old guy wouldn’t spend a week living in another country with people from other schools doesn’t sound enticing enough. Luckily, every single person from my school who went was already a good friend of mine.

Mr Collins, an English teacher, welcomed me and my buddy to his classroom and explained the trip to us. I practically ignored everything he said because all I heard Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ in my head. If I knew how to flip, I would’ve done so.

Ok the exposition’s getting too long.

TL, DR, I got picked to go on a Wales residential with my friends and then my buddy and I proceeded to rub it in people’s faces in the days leading up to the trip. (Very fun).

Okie dokie, breakfast time. Cheeky bit of toast, salami, cheese and a cuppa to get my energy for the day. My last ‘English breakfast.’ Probably sounds like a prison meal to some of you and I wouldn’t blame you for thinking that. I didn’t even finish it. The munch was just that dry. Oh well.

Time to go. Wait, damn.

I don’t know what to wear. The all-black Uniqlo tracksuit sings a sweet melody to me, beckoning me to equip it to my arsenal. And I did. Six more stealth points for me.

As I grab my suitcase and yank open my door, I pause to do my personal mini checklist.

Clothes, check.

Suitcase, check.

Perfume?

I waltz over to my perfumes and spritz myself with them, accidentally inhaling the alcohol like a dunce.

I’ve been in this damn building too long. I gotta go.

My suitcase clatters down the stairs, quaking and shaking the ground, a kaiju in disguise. I reach to the door, hold the handle and pull. Once again, I come face to face with another one of my recurring villains, in the show I call my life, recoil.

In every sense of the word, recoil and recoiling are one of my greatest rivals, because if you’re caught, nobody and I mean NOBODY – will ever forget. I leave, embarrassed and thankful that no one saw me crashing into my door.

I can’t keep explaining my home situation or giving more exposition because I gotta GO. Skipping past my struggles leaving home, I finally reach my destination. There was only one relevant thing anyways. Me leaving my damn earphones. (This had a lasting effect on my mental state during the first two days.)

I met Hanif and the group we were meant to spend our week with, and we went on our merry way towards Trewern.

Chapter 1.5: The Damn Train

Okay, I’m gonna be 100% honest here, that train journey actually stank. Like no joke.

What was I meant to do with no earphones? Hanif said he wasn’t gonna lend me his under any circumstances so what was I gonna do? I’m keeping full transparency between us here, I slept. I snoozed and I dozed off. When granted the opportunity and chance to finally communicate with the others in our group, I came right out of character with a big and hearty

“No!” that felt like a blow to the jaw.

A big fat F-bomb to the world. Then I promptly went back to sleep because talking to people who I didn’t know was not on my bucket list that day.

It’s more excusable when you realise that the three males who were on this trip – yeah, this trip was female-dominated, 12 girls and 3 guys – were already ostracised into sitting on another carriage, so what was the point in getting up and disrupting the structure of their journey. Besides, it makes me look like I’m trying way too hard to make friends or more than friends.

I love people and meeting new ones is fun but not that fun.

I got time to do all that jazz when I’m actually there. When we got to Paddington, our midpoint, a person from another school called Kleja asked a cheeky question about that day’s Wordle.

With social interaction charging my batteries, I immediately jump to the task and tried to solve the puzzle. All I really know about Wordle strategy is you want the vowels heavily, so I say

“Try adieu.”

Bonkers starter, I know but it got us an in.

Then I forgot everything else that led up to the final line. We had two options. Bingo or Dingo. It went to a vote and guess who won. Seriously, guess.

If you’re in a group or class, I wanna feel the energy of hands going up for bingo or dingo.

Are your hands up?

Good.

If you thought bingo was the right answer, you’d be correct in that you got the wrong answer.

You daft wallet, why in hell would it be bingo?

I also voted for bingo, but my point still stands.

I just realised that this is no longer chronological and nothing eventful or anything happened on our journey so I’m just gonna mosey on past this station nonsense and finally reach our final destination.

Chapter 2: The Real Day One

The Trewern Centre’s never looked so familiar. Almost nostalgic too. I was here in Year 9, after all, because I’m just that epic. Big building and big house, here I come!

What the fuck do you mean, “Yurt?”

Do I look like Bear Grylls to you?

A Yurt’s basically a glamping tent, by the way.

I peeked through the glamper doors only to see what I thought was a prison bunk bed. I visibly retched for a second and started praying that my view was wrong.

I was once again introduced to Justin, our guide at Trewern, and damn! He loved talking.

No hate to him, but throughout the entire trip, I wished that he stopped talking. If you’re reading this, Hi Justin!

Maybe tone down the infodumps a smidge, yeah?

Anyways, we met our supervisors, Lena and Lisa, and I loved them with my whole heart. Their energy was there, and they were just wow. They gave us the rundown on everything that’ll happen at the centre and what we’d do at the Hay Festival and so on.

Just realised that I haven’t spoken about the Hay Festival which is a major part of this whole journey.

The Hay Festival is an annual event that celebrates prose writing and authors around the world, typically children’s authors, to inspire children around the world to follow their passion of writing. Okay, less exposition for a couple lines because even I’m getting bored.

They tell us the stuff we’re gonna do. They say unpack your stuff.

They say take a shower. Bosh.

Then, we meet Jenny Valentine.

“Who’s that?” you ask, your heart pulsating with the imminent suspense vibrating your inner core.

It’s an author. Didn’t think I’d have to explain that to you but sure. She was a cool woman. Very quirky and relatable. She essentially gave us her method on how she creates her novels being that she makes a fat and random number of notes and just goes with what she likes.

Then proofreads and edits her writing heavily. Then whisks her piece away to her other editor and then is given constructive criticism.

How fun!

Since this trip is a writing retreat – another cheeky detail I forgot to mention – we wrote about our tiny wordlings into our notebooks, they gave us, and then we were on our way to beddy-bye.

Talking with one of your friends until you nod off is a surreal experience. I’m not a sleepover guy or a Facetime guy so hearing someone’s voice until you fall asleep is a bit weird, especially when your teacher can hear all your conversations because they’re literally next door to you.

But alas, I won’t lie and say that it wasn’t fun. Phones were taken away though, so no funny business allowed. I don’t think anyone planned on getting their freak on but who cares?

I did because I really wanted to scroll through my For You page or Twitter feed. Oh well…

Chapter 3: Panic Once Past

Gorge-walking.

The literal bane of my existence last time I was at Trewern.

You could not mentally prepare less than I did on Wednesday. Because I did no mental preparation. If I can leave one bit of my legacy behind in this piece of prose it would be that stress only exists if you manifest it. If you don’t manifest it, said worries turn into power. Failure is inevitable but staying down is the one thing we should see as unacceptable.

Since I’m leaving all these juicy quotes in my wake, I should be free of my hate of gorge-walking by now, right? The fact is that it’s not the gorge-walking I hated. It was the peer pressure. But I’m getting ahead of myself, let me start with the proper beginning of the Wednesday.

Me and Hanif wake up, munch our brekkie and then prepare for the day. Both being of African descent and – unsurprisingly – fitting the stereotype of Black people not being able to swim, we were understandably shaken by the events ahead of us.

After devouring our bowls of Frosties, we’re given the lowdown on what exactly we’d be doing that day, having it drilled in that we’re supposed to admire and take in the scenery. Deep-dark tunnel walking and the elusive gorge-walk. Was not excited for either, not gonna lie.

We reached the tunnel portion of our journey and crossed the fat puddle that was in our way. I was the first to cross over because I’m competitive like that. Then we trotted along, finding unusual army dead body doubles and little hideaway cubbies on the way.

It was kind of eventful, but I just yearned for something more. Something more eventful.

Then Justin swapped from white light to red light. The fear within the group was palpable but, to be honest with you, I really did not care for these theatrics. (really ironic coming from an aspiring actor) We walked a bit more then Justin turned off the red light.

Now, it’s getting real creepy.

We had to do this thing where you’d have to hold onto another person’s shoulder, hood, armpit or whatever thing they had on their person and try to find their way back.

Really, it was just walking in a straight line on a slight axis to account for the tunnel’s mild curve.

I don’t think the situation in itself is that scary, but the entire sensory deprivation experience is just the icing on the scaredy-cake.

The whole ordeal would be a lot less stressful if everything I heard wasn’t a

“Walk faster!,”

“Slow down!,”

or an “I can’t see!”

We finally get out of that tunnel, much to my enjoyment, and make our way to the gorge.

The gorge was lot less strenuous than before, with no shocker and no real low rocks. My bravado was my downfall however because I was chosen to lead the whole group to our destination, being told to walk through the running river and pausing at different pitstops.

Wow, this is fun. Like genuinely fun as hell. Barely anyone to follow. I’m in front and I can take in the view, smell the petrichor as I waded through the water, and taste said water – packed with cleansing mineral ions and such.

This is the life.

Then there were the mini activities to do. Like standing under waterwalls, sliding down the streams and the waterfalls fuelled the current and a floating circle photo op.

Maybe, I don’t fit the stereotype. Never mind.

If any water got near any part of my face, I was pushed onto the verge of insanity. I’ll never get over my hate of big bodies of water.

Neither will Hanif. He didn’t attempt to do anything outside his comfort zone but zero shade to him. I respect it. It was just super fun.

Don’t forget this is a writing retreat. We exploded our thoughts of the experience, feeling stressed, panicked, excited, and free. I’ll leave a small extract of my piece to end off this day.

An orchestra of orders and exclamations are generated in front and behind me, though a cacophony of gaggling geese may be a more suitable term.

Chapter 4: Socio or Psych?

You know how I mentioned the Hay Festival? We’re at the Hay Festival!

Who’s the esteemed author we’re gonna meet today? Franklin Saint? Thomas Barkley? Oprah?

We are meeting one famous author and they’re not one of the options I gave above. One’s a footballer and the other’s from a Netflix series or something. Oprah’s probably written a book or two. But she’s Oprah.

The super special writer we’re meeting today is none other than the extraordinary creator of Rowley Jefferson and The Cheese Touch – Jeff Kinney! He also made Greg Heffley and Diary of A Wimpy Kid too but they’re not as important to his fame.

I was way too hyped to meet him for one reason and one reason alone, the Greg Heffley sociopath theories that have been circulating around the internet for years now.

Greg’s always been an irredeemable character, itemising and exploiting his best friend for his own personal gain, seeing no faults in any of his misdeeds and completely downplaying his supposed best friend’s achievements. Hanif and I have got to ask him that when we get our books signed. When he gets his signed because I didn’t bring enough money with me to buy his new book. Either way, I’m asking that guy my damn question.

Whilst waiting to be graced by Jeff’s glory, I have a meltdown. (Like the book!)

It’s a stress overload.

I don’t know what happened. It might’ve been the crowd or the fact that I did not want to be there anymore, but I was slumped. I needed a charge to my social battery but at this point, I’m not mega close to anyone and, remember how I left my earphones? If I had them, my meltdown wouldn’t have happened because of the stimulation. Luckily, it didn’t last incredibly long, and I was back into the groove of things when I got seated to wait for Mr Kinney.

I thought Jeff was gonna do a Q&A sorta thing for his Hay Festival feature, but I guess being a famous kids’ author means you get a whole lot more budget to do what you like.

I don’t know what was in Jeff’s head, but I was absolutely rocking with it because he just made a gameshow.

He called it the “No Brainer Show,” obvious product placement but I can respect the hustle. It was a cool one which parodied other big American gameshows like ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?’ and ‘Survivor.’

What shocked me though was the Wimpy Kid knowledge that the primary schoolers at the front had. They knew the name of the 15^th book in the series and could name what happened on page 61. I know these types of things are obviously scripted with Jeff and the festival wanted kids to take something away from it but come on! Totally unfair. The trivia that wasn’t Wimpy Kid-based was absolutely light work though. Showed kids a Generation I Pokémon and I belted the answer so loud I actually felt Jeff’s spiritual pressure shake the room.

After Jeff’s ‘rigged’ show was over, we went to go get out books and notebooks signed by the Wimpy Kid himself.

There was a kid with a Greg Heffley mask and I just wanted to add that to the mix because it had a lasting effect on me. My buddy, Moji, was first to get her books signed and Jeff signed her Manny Heffley drawing that he told people to draw during the ‘No Brainer Show.’

My Manny drawing was so bad that he got exiled from my notebook within seconds. Moji’s a natural artist, with a pen, pencil, paintbrush, or musical instrument. She’s talented like that and she’s super coolio.

Aasmara was next, Moji’s friend with most of the same traits except Aasmara’s more vocally skilled, being able to talk in a way that could get her a gig in a ton of English dubbed animes.

Next was Hanif, my buddy, a nonchalant sinister mastermind that could definitely get away with murder, if given enough preparation time. He also came up with the idea to ask Jeff about Greg Heffley’s mentality and who he was based on.

He asks this after Jeff signs his books, and Jeff says Greg’s based on him mostly.

This allows me to segue into asking him if he knew about the Greg Heffley sociopath theories and guess what? HE KNOWS ABOUT THEM.

I had to keep pushing. I asked what he thought about it and he blew me off. He said something like,

“Nah, I don’t delve into that stuff too much. I don’t think he is.”

To me, that’s evidence showing that he is one.

Perfect. My goal is complete.

We get back to the Trewern Centre and celebrate with a bout of Just Dance, Veggie Dance and more dancing. I also introduce everyone else who cared to my secret swing spot that I showed Hanif on day two.

We loved it. A hidden swing spot that I found last year. It became our chill spot. This group’s feeling like a found family.

Chapter 5: Boundary Break

Hey, Hay Festival! We’re back for round two. On today’s agenda, we’ll be meeting with Alex Wheatle, Nicola Garrard, Anthony Horowitz and getting a behind-the-scenes look at how the Hay Festival is run. How exciting!

To those who know who Alex Wheatle was beforehand, why didn’t you tell me he made the Crongton series? That bum denied me work in his TV series and now I have beef with him.

He’s a super chill guy and I loved the energy he gave during his talk with Jenny Valentine. (She spoke to us on day one) Guys kept asking odd questions though like,

“What’s your opinion on cheese?”

I don’t know if they thought their joke was good or not because I only heard three giggles. Not to mention, that people kept kicking my seat and being real loud and annoying.

Nicola Garrard was chill. She didn’t give as much oomph as Alex Wheatle because her story was more serious and covered more real-world issues like systematic racism, corrupt police, and the difficulties that refugees, immigrants and migrants face. Her themes were very mature, and I couldn’t help but admire her for her dedication to portray the struggles that Black teens and other ethnic minorities face in their day-to-day lives.

Her main character is a representative of the Black community being half St. Lucian and half White British. Not being a denizen of either region, Nicola Garrard, instead of creating a caricature of what she’d think a Black teen would be like, she consulted the youth and got closer to them to develop her character, picking up on slang and different mannerisms found by the group and for that, I salute her

Anthony Horowitz was a whole different beast though.

His sense of humour and wittiness on the spot is nearly unmatched. His energy on stage wasn’t even affected when the lady interviewing him tried to speak over him. Anthony Horowitz felt like the link between adults and my generation. His sick and twisted sense of humour didn’t fail to make anyone chuckle, besides the lady sat in front of him.

He told us to break the law for fun and he killed all his teachers in his Alex Rider novels.

I have nothing but respect for that man. He essentially told us to enjoy our youth doing stupid stuff, so we have a story to tell, so that we leave a legacy. That was beautiful of him leaving such a profound message that was wearing the facade of a joke. He truly is a master with his words. Appealing to the innocent and the mature sounds easy but it requires genius levels of applying subtext to your sentences and speech patterns.

Thank you, Anthony Horowitz.

I’m gonna summarise the behind-the-scenes tour because if I found it boring, how could it entertain you? The Hay Festival has your typical lighting desk and sound system, which is held backstage – important because stupid, idiot kids can’t ruin them with food or drinks. Then there’s the cameras, those night guard looking cameras. I know over six hundred people are sat there but you don’t need that many cameras for one stage.

The tour guide showed us around the whole festival and talked a LOT but at least it showed us that he was passionate about his job.

Lisa threw me under the bus and practically forced me to talk to him because I was a performer at the National Theatre for Connections 2023. But after that, our tour was over and my school’s final takeaway from his tour was, ‘I’m starving.’

Me, Moji, Aasmara and Hanif were all looking for food at the festival even though we were constantly told “Don’t buy food there.” We were on the very edge of snapping even though the prices were extortionate, daylight robbery. Being the enemy he is, Hanif tried baiting Aasmara into caving into buying festival food but Mojisola and I continued to convince her not to.

Hanif was ‘Death playing the Fiddle,’ the devil on her shoulder. Moji and I played as the angels. Then we caught a glimpse of another school with a succulent pizza. This was literally a godsend because Moji and I were genuinely on the verge of stealing food from the ‘humble’ food vendors.

Alas, these she-beasts weren’t willing to share a slice with us, instead, offering to buy us a whole pizza. Why didn’t we take the offer? I have no idea but the luncheon awaiting us at Trewern was nothing short of a miracle. Or a struggle meal, depending on how you look at it.

We slaughtered those Frosties.

Future breakfast held no power over us. We needed munch and we weren’t gonna wait.

Moji and I were the first in the lodge kitchen and grabbed bowls, milk, those fantastical Frosties and juice. Apple juice and orange juice. How did two people take an entire box of cereal from three quarters full to one fifth full? Hunger motivates all. If you have a penchant for something, a thirst for something, seize it.

I’m giving a motivational speech over devouring cereal.

Speaking of cereal, Hanif caught us vacuuming up the Frosties and ate the last of it, barely leaving any dregs. After cleaning off the Frosties, we set our sights on the next cereal, to make a long story short, we did not finish it.

And my bowels were moving.

This was my fourth day without using the toilet, and man was it rough! I don’t know if my toilet usage is a good topic for people to read, especially if you’re eating, but all I’ll say is that it was a tough battle and my phone died.

After I won that scuffle, I skedaddled over to the swing where my found family was Relaxed. Chill. Calm.

Minor chaos, but that’s just what we like. The day ends and of course there’s another writing task because this is the ‘Pen-to-Print Writers’ Retreat’ after all.

Chapter 6: Yurt Life

Those yurts are the coldest things I’ve ever been in. I’d swim the English Channel in November, backwards, before sleeping in those yurts.

How the fuck were these two radiators making less heat than my ‘turkey giblets’.

I put my whole hand on those radiators just to feel less cold. The cold was so serious that I slept with a mattress on me. Then I doubled it with two mattresses. How can it be that cold when we left the heaters on for over 24 hours? They couldn’t shell-out a couple more pounds for functional radiators?

Hanif and I genuinely contemplated sleeping with the radiators on top of us because how could it be that cold? Everything besides the dreadful radiators was spectacular though. The yurts came equipped with two seats for each guy to sit in and two bunk beds, each coming with bedding, duvets and pillows. Justin, my King, delivered us spare bedding, ‘if we needed it’, because it’s just a nice thing to do.

And because we needed it.

A lot!

Overall, the yurts were amazing. I can’t blame the radiators for the insane Welsh weather, but – damn it – I’ll try my best to do so.

Chapter 7: Farewell

Well, lookie what we have here! It’s the last day and what’s a better way to spend it than booting a football into Lisa’s head! Even if I apologised, I still have to live with the fact that whenever I touch a football, there’s a chance that I hit someone in the head or lower head. I don’t know why but I’m historically known for that in my school.

I’ve skipped past a big section of this final day and, instead of skipping past it, I’ll walk you through it.

We’re called to assemble our breakfasts and lunches and there’s a distinct lack of Frosties in the kitchen. I wonder why…

We’re given our fanfare, and we deliver ours to the staff, every single one deserved their flowers and more. With their talent shows, games of Traitors, and sense of unity, they didn’t feel like teachers or staff. I know I keep referring to family and I know it’s getting corny and oversaturated but we went from a group of strangers who couldn’t give two weedwhackers about the others, to a found family. Kinda like the Dumping Ground in a way but we all have parents… hopefully.

We’re given the option to do either archery or rock climbing, and I didn’t know if we had wannabe ‘Robin Hoods’ amidst our bunch but the overwhelming number of votes for archery had befuddled me. I hate democracy with a passion but, oh well.

Time to release my inner ‘Hawkeye’.

Spoiler alert, I missed the target with all three arrows in round one.

I see why Cupid shoots people instead of targets because, if he misses, he can just blame it on the people moving.

Targets just sit there, taunting you, pissing you off.

For my sake, let’s just say I transformed into Robin Hood at his prime and hit all bullseyes after round one’s display.

Everyone else had a much stronger showing than me in round one. Kleja, Macie, Izie, Ola, Hanif, Aasmara, Mojisola. I’m happy that my first time shooting an arrow was with them and I won’t even lie, it’s fun as hell. Way more fun than falling while rock climbing.

Anywho… It’s finally time to go but not without three more boogies. Candy. The Cha Cha Slide. And another Candy for vibes.

We pile our luggage into the Trewern minibus that brought us around Wales (more like the outskirts of England) and sit in a modified version of our gorge-walking seats. Separated by school, yet united by experience, care, and the ‘L’-word.

Can’t say it, shipping was banned. But you get it.

We reach the station and misfortune struck. A lucky streak can’t continue forever. We’re separated from another school.

Hugs and handshakes were shared. Tears were held back, hopefully mutually, and our arms wave a sombre wave. Through sheer misfortune, their train arrives a whole hour before the rest of ours. I’d just like to say this one thing.

Goodbye, Sydney Russell. It’s been real.

Then there were two.

My school’s journey was saddened by the loss of our favoured school (sorry to the other guys) and our train ride to Paddington was a struggle. A physical and an emotional one. As the train rattled my brain around and about my skull, my thoughts and feelings rattled around my heart and soul. Our goodbyes were not over yet, as the other school had left us too.

Farewell, Robert Clack. It was a pleasure.

Then our numbers were cut even shorter, as Hanif decides the Elizabeth Line is a faster way of getting home. Then there were four.

My teacher, Moji, Aasmara, and me. Chrispin.

We reach the station and make our ways home.

Eastbury’s disbanded.

Bye guys. See you some time soon.

Chapter 8: An Encore

Welp. That’s it.

I don’t know what you’d expect really.

My beds in the spot it was when I left.

My TV’s still a TV.

I’m back to something familiar. But something’s not right. I don’t feel it should end this way. Then the notifications come flooding in.

Macie did say she was gonna spam the group with all the pictures and videos we took together. I don’t know much about them. I don’t much about a lot of things. But I knew that the floodgates have been under a ton of pressure for a while and a small leak appeared. Take that expression how you will.

This has been a magical experience and, with my whole heart, I urge anyone who has the chance or opportunity to seize it and come to Trewern and go on this Writers’ Retreat.

Don’t hold onto the works of yesterday or hang on the edge of tomorrow. Write into a world of unbound mysteries and pursue your passions.

Get dangerous, get looney, go do something fun, all for the sake of a story.

Only you can pave the path that you want.

Do your own thing.

What is love? 

Sitting on her doorstep in Hay
An old woman reads during the day
With a cup of tea in hand
She surveys her quiet land. 

Wisps of steam in morning light,
Curl and dance, a gentle sight,
Wrinkled hands embrace the cup, ~
Sip by sip, the world wakes up. 

What is love, she ponders slow,
As the past begins to glow.
Memories of the days gone by,
In heart, they will never die. 

Love was patience, love was pain,
Endless cycles, like the sun and rain
In the small, unnoticed things,
In the joy a memory brings. 

Love is now this quiet place
As the world begins to cease.
In the rustle of the leaves,
In the song the morning weeps. 

With each sip she understands,
Love is fire that gently stands,
In the stillness in the flow,
Love is all she’s come to know. 

On her doorstep,
Day anew,
She sees love in every hue,
What is love, she realised, she knew. 

Wild Whispers 

Beneath the blue skies that shine so bright,
A horse, blessed with grace begins to stride.
It’s mane like silk in breeze does flow,
With strength and beauty watch it grow. 

Hooves that beat a rhythmic song, 
Upon the earth where dreams belong.
Eyes that glimmer, dark and deep,
Hold secrets vast, in shadows sleep. 

In fields of green, it runs so free,
A symbol of what we long to be.
Unbridled spirit, wild and grand,
A noble creature of the land. 

The morning mist, it’s breath does catch,
In twilight glow, it’s form does match.
A dace of power, pure and fierce, 
Through time and space, it’s path does pierce. 

Companion true in battles fray,
In history’s tale, it leads the way
A silent whisper of the past,
In every stride, a spell is cast. 

Oh horse of legend, horse of might
With heart as pure as starry night,
Your legacy will always reign,
In every heart, you’ll stake your claim.