Sam Redlark

  Whenever I am in Cornwall, I make a point of paying a solitary visit to the church of St Peter Under Aylward. As is the case with all worthwhile pilgrimages, this excursion is not without a degree of personal risk. On paper, the chapel remains in service, despite the considerable handicap of occupying Atlantic real estate currently submerged at a depth of between 15 - 27 feet, depending upon the disposition of the tide along the northern coast. St Peter's fell victim to a landslip in 1902, that also claimed a trailing thread of its parent village. The thick-walled buildings were constructed from the same rough-hewn masonry that was used to assemble a multitude of stone circles in this part of the country, many of which stand to this day. The seven underwater structures have endured their 12-decade exile from dry land (which has placed them at the mercy of the battering Irish Swell) largely unscathed, though all have lost their roofs. The church, in its present location, has becom...

When was the last time that you shrugged in real life, or were present when somebody else did? And was it before or after the most recent appearance of Halley's Comet? Shrugging as a gesture has fallen into disuse, rightly so in my opinion. It is a glib embodiment of half-baked defeat that is, in and of itself, defeatist to the core; a method of using your entire upper body to communicate to other people in your vicinity that, not only are you an idiot, but that you are also shaking off any responsibility to mitigate your ignorance. I have resorted to shrugging in the past and, in doing so, have caused irreparable damage to my immortal soul. Whether this wilful self-injury is sufficient to deny me access to the Kingdom of Heaven, after my death, only time will tell. At present, if I was given an option between expressing my helplessness either by shrugging or by punching a wall, I would bear the skinned knuckles and keep my dignity. I would also pay for any damage that I caused to ...

My comment on this week's 'Notes & Queries' has been struck down by The Guardian censors. I include it here for anyone who wishes to read it. Gather your smelling salts and ensure that you arrange any pearls that you own within clutching distance. How do you conquer your fear of missing out? “Do you like my ring?” enquired Esme Soley. She raised her left index finger. The changing pattern of light on the stone wall made me wince inwardly. The ring was the first thing that I noticed after I was shown into her tiny living room. And no, I did not like it. There was something off about the cut of the gem, as if whoever had been perched behind the diamond tool had been drunk and had lost their equilibrium. It reflected the light in a manner that was unsettling. “If you do not like it, then say,” she chided. “Okay, I think it's appalling.” An image of a younger Esme flashed into my head, dripping from head-to-toe in gold jewellery, inhabiting a slender peach-toned ellipse...

  Ronald Cattle's Summer Pen It was September 27th, 2005. In Clerkenwell, David Widera was tearing his hair out over Ronald Cattle's “fucking quill pen,” which had finally dried-up. Ronald was refusing to finish his novel claiming that, when the ink reserves were exhausted, the book was finished. When pressed, he pointed out the supporting paragraphs in a photocopy of the contract that had been hastily drawn up on a bar napkin, and duly signed, when the three of us were all the worse for wear. The original had been misfiled, or perhaps even mistaken for litter and thrown out, by the firm of solicitors that the Walmsley publishing house had engaged, ever since their inception in 1967. Clearly the book wasn't finished. In fact it had ended mid-word. Ironically that word was 'continuous'. Ronald had got as far as writing 'cont'. The remainder of the text was a barren inscription, void of pigmentation. “I'll tell you who else is a cont,” remarked David. It w...

A Picture Postcard of the April Nymph The current highlight of a gloomier than normal January has been an invitation to an al fresco lunch at Pears Tennis Club, in Highgate, so called because it occupies a strip of land that, up until 1920, was a commercial orchard. My host was Janice Chesher, who is a legacy member of the club; one of her distant ancestors having played a role in its foundation. Tennis aficionados will perhaps remember Janice as the woman who received a lifetime ban from Wimbledon for throwing a strawberry at Nick Kyrgios. There exists unflattering footage of her drunkenly protesting, “If he isn't going to take the game seriously, then I'm not going to take him seriously,” as she is escorted from the stands by a trio of police officers. A more sympathetic explanation for her outburst than the one provided by the papers (where she was described as “demented”), is that she was, in her own way, attempting to come to terms with the unexpected death of her husband,...

  Pursued by a Bear by Sam Redlark The shepherd found the bear on the foreshore, raised on its hind legs, roaring over the noise of the crashing waves. The beach was strewn with the washed-up wreckage of a ship and the drowned bodies of the crew. The shepherd saw blood on the rocks. Close by, a child was swaddled in a blanket. Next to the babe there was a bundle, within which he glimpsed the glitter of golden objects. “A man was seen from the clifftop, carrying this child in his arms,” announced the shepherd. The bear ceased its roaring duet with the ocean. It turned and gazed down upon the pitiful human figure. “The man you speak of is Antigonus, a noble from Sicily,” it said. “I have made my mark upon him, tearing him open at the shoulder. He has already exited this place on foot. I will see the whole job done and have him exit this world by my paw.” The bear dropped down on all fours and became a true bear, incapable of human thought or speech. It...

  The Firksin, or Arctic Sheep Hare, possesses a coat that consists of seven layers of fibres. Under temperate conditions these strata of hair lie flat against the body of the animal giving it a sleek, supernaturally white appearance. As the temperature drops, the layers will rise up, one at a time, until the animal will appear to be wearing a woollen fleece. The Arctic explorer, Cyril Roberts, would seek out populations of grazing hares. He observed that the layers of fur would rise in anticipation of colder conditions and stronger winds, making them a good barometer of inclement weather. “When the third of forth layer of hairs begin to lift and they start resembling sheep, it's time to anchor the tents as best you can and dig in,” he reported. Roberts controversially introduced populations of Firksin to the Antarctic where they have thrived. This has brought the animal into conflict with the unloved, but ecologically important, Tonkin's Vole, though the interloper is undoubte...