My Tin Anniversary

It’s not easy being told you only have a year to live. I gasped and the room seemed to shrink around me. I was in the Mater Hospital. I recall the details vividly, despite it being ten years ago.

The surgeon said he’d do his best for me, but this was my second metatastic recurrence. The cancer had come back aggressively and invaded my liver and bowel. He would remove a third of my liver and this should regenerate. But, he said, six months later it would be full of metastases. My lungs too. He didn’t need to tell me what came next. I knew. My younger brother had died of advanced cancer just a couple of years previously.

He had a slot in theatre in three days time. Did I want to take it? I jumped at the chance.

The surgeon wasn’t being alarmist. He was being straight with me. This was 2016. At Stage 4, when the cancer had spread to other parts of the body, most patients died. The death rate was different for different types of cancer. For mine it was 90%.

So why have I survived when so many didn’t?

A big question. Without a straightforward answer.

The surgeon was skilled and removed all of the metatastic tumour. Unlike the surgeons at the City Hospital who had failed to do so at the end of 2015, but did permanently damage my abdomen.

The liver and bowel are not the worst places to have a cancer recurrence. The liver is the only organ that can regenerate: mine was healthy and did. The small bowel is 20 feet long, so you can afford to lose a foot of it.

I’ve since had frequent CT scans to check for any signs of recurrence. I am still having them annually at the Cancer Centre. The renal team there have been brilliant. I’m very glad that they took over my care from the renal department at the City, who were neglectful and often incompetent. My first metatastic tumour was found by chance, after I complained about a pain in my side when breathing deeply. My renal consultant had failed to send me for regular surveillance scans.

I’m healthy and fit. I gave up smoking forty years ago and gave up alcohol in 2011 after finding I had renal cancer. I eat well. I’d like to think my immune system is in good shape.

I’m in a loving relationship. T has been by my side throughout the ordeal. Steadfast and utterly dependable. I do wonder how I would have fared without her. But thankfully I haven’t had to find out.

Yet I also know many people who had good surgeons and effective treatment, who were heathy and fit, and who were in loving relationships – but despite this, they still died of cancer. My younger brother, for example. So there has to be another crucial factor.

Luck.

I’m very grateful for the unexpected ten years of life I’ve had. I try my best to be healthy and live well. I try my best to do no harm. I hope to have many more years to come. But you never can tell. The type of cancer I had has been known to recur 20 years after the initial tumour. So I won’t start counting my chickens before 2031.

The Anniversary Outing

I met T on the first day of the John Hewitt Summer School thirteen years ago. Since then we’ve had to go through plenty of trials (cancer, parental dementia, etc) but these have strengthened our devotion to each other. To celebrate our first meeting, we return to the Marketplace Theatre in Armagh every year. We always run into old friends, like Paul Maddern and John McAllister, and take part in literary events. This year there were two that stood out.

Andrew Miller was interviewed by author Michael Hughes about his latest novel ‘The Land in Winter’. This brilliant book explores England in 1962-63 through the intertwined lives of two young couples. It is an atmospheric story of love, loss and survival in a winter landscape that becomes increasingly harsh. Michael’s questions were thoughtful and probing, bringing out a series of insights from Andrew – that his father had inspired one of the main characters, and that Andrew’s work in a secure mental hospital had led him to write another of the main characters. The book won several major awards and was shortlisted for the Booker Prize 2025. It was the favourite to win, but didn’t. Unjustifiably overlooked, in my view.

Sinead Morrissey was interviewed by poet Maureen Boyle about her new memoir, ‘Among Communists’. A marvellous account of her growing up in a family that were devoted members of the Communist Party. We were treated to an engaging and very entertaining series of extracts which revealed a world where the Soviet Union was the promised land and where Sinead’s attraction to Brownies set her on the slippery slope to appeasing the monarchy. Maureen’s questions were gentle and full of anecdotes. I would’ve liked more insight into how this rather fractured childhood, where everyday events were interrogated as features of capitalism, led to Sinead developing her masterful poet’s eye.

All too soon we had to leave. The next morning I needed to drive T to Belfast for some medical appointments. We switched from the sublime to the anxious. But such is life.

Shiver me Timbers

To celebrate the return of good weather, I cycled to Warrenpoint harbour to see Galeon Andalucia, a full-size replica of a 400 year old Spanish galleon. The ship immediately transported me to the world of ‘Treasure Island’. I was back with cabin-boy Jim Hawkins on the Hispaniola in search of pirate gold. It was my favourite book as a child. I still have the copy I was given for my fifth birthday. 

What many don’t know is that this pioneering novel owes a great debt to Unst, the most northerly of the Shetland Islands. In 1869 Thomas Stevenson took his teenage son on a voyage to Orkney and Shetland to encourage him to join the family business – which was lighthouse building. To his father’s great dismay, Robert Louis became a writer. But that voyage did make a lasting impression on the young man. ‘Treasure Island’ was his first novel and the map of the island in the book has a strong resemblance to Unst. The high point on Unst is called Saxa Vord. In the book it’s called Foremast Hill, and from it you can see Thomas Stevenson’s lighthouse perched on a jagged finger of rock.

My new book of poetry, ‘True’, contains several poems inspired by Unst and ‘Treasure Island’. Here is one of them.

CONCERNING THE FIRST VOYAGE OF R L STEVENSON WITH HIS FATHER

Huge sea tossing the fore-deck,

ropes and mainsails thrumming,

nor-easterly cutting yer bones,

the island emerging to larboard.

We hailed the precious sight.

One shipmate never returned,

left under stones in a cove,

wreck-wood across the grave,

reefs groaning, gulls screaming,

black crags cleaving the surf.

None can tell why he picked it,

the Cap'n always a careful man,

atop the cliff with his spyglass,

no fields, not a tree,

nary a lubber on the land,

and us hauling the sea-chests after

cursing the wind and sleet.

Buried 'em?

- I reckon us did.

The map?

- I won't peach.

Another?

- Thank'ee kindly.

Rum… it's been meat and drink

man and wife to me.

The Return of The Native

I returned to the Marketplace Theatre in Armagh to see a dramatisation of this Thomas Hardy novel by Hotbuckle, a touring theatre company from England. The Return of The Native was seen as controversial when published in 1878, given it’s central theme of the desire to go beyond the constraints of place, community, class and morality. For some characters these desires are achieved (by, for example, illicit sexual relationships) while for others they are thwarted. Over the course of the book, these desires lead to tragedy and two characters die. The four performers were skilled, changing costumes quickly on stage to become different characters and using a small number of props very effectively. They also played a series of instruments. I do love live theatre and have seen a wide range of productions over many years. This time, I came away feeling that the performance could have been better. To me there were two main flaws.

Hotbuckle’s adaptation of the novel seemed to contain too many scenes, and this led to the central theme being dramatised only patchily. This problem was exacerbated by the four actors making frequent changes of character as the scenes changed. I felt it would have been better to focus on the six main characters and omit many of the minor characters they portrayed.

At the centre of the drama are two young women and their relationships (neighbours, friends, lovers) with three men. While the character and motivations of the three men were rendered very well by the two actors portraying them, this was not successfully achieved by the actor portraying the two young women. There was little difference between her vocal and physical characterisations of the two women. I had to work hard to try and remember which character she was now seeking to be. For me, this undermined the drama significantly.

When you go to any live event, you don’t know what you are going to get. You hope it will be fantastic and memorable. But it might be awful, and you begin to wish you had stayed at home. Hotbuckle’s production of The Return of The Native was very good at times, and not at others. Still, I’m glad I went.

Authors Fight Back

I’ve joined the frontline against huge technology companies, and it’s personal.

In the US District Court for California, three US authors alleged that Anthropic pirated 7 million books to train its Claude AI model. Anthropic contested the allegation of piracy but did admit to downloading half a million copyrighted books without permission. One of these was a book I co-authored while an academic, ‘Creativity and Innovation in the Cultural Economy’, published by Routledge in 2009. I was then contacted by the lawyers for the three US authors and invited to join them; I was happy to sign up. More than 100,000 authors have now joined the class action, making it one of the most significant in the history of copyright.

The case against Anthropic exposes the grubby underside of AI. Not only do the big technology companies need to build enormous data-centres which use as much water and power every day as a city of 100,000 people. They also need to train their large-language-models on huge amounts of information. To do this legally would be very expensive, hence they work with sites that offer pirated versions of copyrighted publications (such as LibGen).

Okay, you turn on your computer and up pops an AI assistant. Why should you care about protecting poor authors from the illegal exploitation of their work?

Because most authors are in fact poor, as writing is not well paid. I authored seven books and dozens of journal articles while an academic and have authored three books of poetry since. My total earnings from all these publications would probably not keep me alive for more than a couple of months. That’s why the majority of authors earn their crust from work other than writing, such as teaching or the day job. Richard Osman and JK Rowling are the exceptions, not the norm. Most authors are driven by imagination, not money: by the desire to create something new and different. That’s where the books, plays, films and TV programmes that people want to read and see come from. And that’s why creative work needs to be nurtured and protected.

Poetry at Elk Books

The sunlight was sparkling on the water, the funfair was in town and there were long queues for ice cream. But still a hardy group of poetry-lovers came to Elk Books in Warrenpoint yesterday to hear me reading from my new poetry collection, ‘True’. Helene’s independent bookshop is a lovely, intimate space. My reading flowed really well and the Q & A afterwards was filled with pithy questions about writing and authenticity – for most of the group were writers themselves. 

I’ve performed my poetry in great theatres and at the biggest arts festival in the world, and I felt the reading at Elk Books was one of the most satisfying I’ve ever done. So thank you Helene and Seamus for being the perfect hosts. And thank you to all the poetry lovers who listened so intently and asked such good writerly questions. I’ll certainly be back. But for now I have to carry on to the next event in my Knapsack Tour of independent bookshops – The Secret Bookshelf in Carrickfergus on 30 April. Hope to see you there.

The Knapsack Tour

Daffodils, catkins and longer evenings mean that Spring has arrived. To celebrate, I’ve set out on a reading tour with my new collection, ‘True’, in my knapsack. The book, published by Black Spring Press, brings together poems which were inspired by true stories from real lives.

The tour began in late January with a well-attended reading in Banbridge Library, which featured bagpipes and haggis.

On World Poetry Day, this Saturday, I will be at Elk Books in Warrenpoint. Helene, the owner, is a writer and a relative of Seamus Heaney. This independent bookshop is in a lovely location, just a few yards from the Irish Sea, so I’ll be including some poems with a seafaring theme. You could even bring your cossie and head in for a dip.

In April I will wend my way to The Secret Bookshelf in Carrickfergus. The bookshop is run by Jo, a science-fiction author, and Chris. It has just been voted the Best Independent Bookshop on the island of Ireland. So now the secret is out. Congratulations Jo and Chris on this well-deserved accolade.

I hope to add further dates to my knapsack tour. In the meantime, here are the details:

March 21^st   Elk Books, Warrenpoint. 4-5pm.  Advance booking required via Eventbrite.

April 30^th   The Secret Bookshelf, Carrickfergus. 4-5pm.

Both of these events are free. Each will feature a reading, followed by a Q & A. And I’d be delighted to sign my new book for you.

So please join me in Warrenpoint or Carrickfergus for some live poetry. I’d love to see you there.

In Praise of Wool

For decades I slept under a duck feather and down duvet. It was warm and somewhat prickly, but much better than than the man-made fibre alternatives. Though I would regularly wake up bathed in sweat. Just a bad dream, I thought. So I shook the feathers down and tried to get back to sleep. During my years of cancer treatment these night sweats increased in frequency. Digestion, I thought. I must be eating too much too late. I tried changing what and when I ate, but this made little difference. Finally, I thought it was due to anxiety. But I couldn’t alter that: I had stage four cancer and wasn’t expected to live too long. But somehow I found myself among the lucky 10% that did survive. Yet still my night sweats continued. Then I was given a wool duvet for my birthday by my dearest T.

For the past two weeks I’ve not overheated at night. The duvet is cosy, light and very breathable. The wooI is about an inch thick and encased in undyed cotton. It feels both warm and airy. I’m now sleeping more soundly and waking up in the night much less often. It’s made a huge difference, I rise feeling refreshed. Unfortunately the new duvet can do nothing for my benign enlarged prostate, which still wakes me every couple of hours to pee.

Birthday Boy

Many thanks to my friends and family for their good wishes on my becoming an even older git than I was previously. My dearest T spoilt me with presents and took me on a mystery tour. We ended up in Armagh at the planetarium. It was brilliant. And because of the wet and windy day, there were very few there, so it felt like the show was just for us. I hadn’t been to a planetarium since I was a child, when my parents took me to the one near Madame Tussauds in London. After the sky show we visited the Armagh Observatory, founded by Archbishop Robinson in 1790, and saw the old telescopes. This was the same man who founded the magnificent library where my new book of poems, ‘True’, was recently launched. We wandered through the grounds then went for a slap-up meal. It was a great day out. And during it, I did reflect on ageing and how far I’d come.

Despite the inevitable drawbacks, it is good to become old. Many people do not. My first wife, Gill, and my younger brother, Robert, were both taken well before their time. I also thought of family members and friends who are currently struggling with serious medical conditions. I’ve come through advanced cancer and I’m still well enough to enjoy an active life. That is a great blessing. This old git will continue to do his best to make the most of every day.

Burns Night

My next event will be a cross-community Burns Night in Banbridge Library on 20 January. I’ll be reading a selection of my Scottish poems and a couple of Rabbie’s. So please come along and hear about hermits, Viking graffiti, Orkney’s Italian Chapel, Robert Louis Stevenson in Shetland, linen lappers, a fruit cake in Antarctica and why my last gold band got thrown into the North Channel. You’ll get some haggis, neeps and tatties too. Along with tunes from piper David Hanna. And it’s free. What more could anyone want?

Meeting the Book Trade and getting an unwelcome Bonus

I’m afraid this post has been delayed, for reasons that will soon become apparent.

I went to Dublin for two days of meetings with experts in the book trade at the Irish Writers’ Centre. The joy of winning the debut novel competition was now tempered by the fear that no-one might actually want to take my novel on. I met twelve agents and publishers in total. They had my bio, the genre of my novel and the title. I had just fifteen minutes to pitch my novel to each of them. I’d worked very hard on my pitch for the previous week. I started with an overview of the novel, introduced my two protagonists and went through their character arcs. I proposed that my novel would make a good book-group publication and outlined comparator titles. Then came their questions and the verdict.

Seven were interested in seeing more of my novel, and three of these wanted to read the full manuscript. Even the ones that weren’t interested told me I’d done a good pitch. I was overjoyed. I’d taken another big step closer to publication. Coming back on the crowded train I felt completely drained. I got off at Newry and drove home. It was a dark and rainy night, I was so tired I had difficulty seeing the road. I almost collapsed when I got in. A day later I went down with the flu. So the past two weeks have been spent coughing up gunge from my lungs and trying to update my manuscript ready to be sent out. I hope I perk up for Christmas.

International Debut Novel Competition

A big thank you to my friends for their many congratulations on winning this novel-writing competition. It’s fantastic and amazing to be selected as one of the twelve winners. I was told over a week ago and had to remain silent until the news was officially announced, yesterday afternoon. That was a challenge! The Irish Writers’ Centre received almost 600 submissions from unpublished novelists in 33 countries. The process by which the winners were determined seems to have been like that of the Booker Prize. Each of the six judges had to select their top five out of nearly 100 submissions that they read blind. The 30 shortlisted novels were then circulated, the judges then had to choose their top two. This was followed by a long meeting at which the judges debated the merits of each of the shortlisted novels and came up with the twelve winners.

I’d like to thank the Irish Writers’ Centre, the judges and the other winners. I am over the moon at being chosen. Now comes the hard work of actually getting a publishing deal. At the end of this week I go to Dublin to meet agents and publishers and pitch my novel to them. So there is a lot of work to do.

The greatest boost I’ve received so far came in the judge’s report which assessed the merits of my novel, 'The Cut'. All the rejections I’d previously received began to fade into the background. Finally someone had recognised and appreciated what I was trying to achieve in my writing. I’ll leave you with an extract from the report.

“The Cut is a taut, skilful excerpt that establishes it’s world with immediacy and detail. The writing is alive to thematic concerns of class, race and power without needing to announce those themes in a clunky or forced way. From the opening lines the voice is distinct and fully inhabited: wary, weary, but edgy – dark humour and resilience. The setting feels immediately three-dimensional – the damp streets, the factory grime, the hierarchies of post-war Britain.

The author’s control of tone, sentence structure, and pacing is notable, reflecting the protagonist’s discipline and inner tension. We wonder what will come, and come it will, but are willing to wait for the narrative to reveal that in good time. No sentimentality here; emotion is earned through necessary/exacting detail and restraint. The novel’s synopsis indicates an ambitious reach – a novel about murky moral clarity and empathy. The Cut is an assured excerpt, relying on the slow build, the careful layering of of observation and suspicion, the incremental threat. The dialogue is sharp, regional and unforced, sounding like real (if finely crafted) back and forth conversation. This writer understands that narrative control, not flash or overwrought writing, sustains tension and empathy. An immediately intriguing excerpt.”

https://irishwriterscentre.ie/announcing-the-winners-of-the-2025-international-debut-novel-competition/

Holiday in Son Baulo

We set off for the north coast of Mallorca looking forward to sunshine and blue skies; we encountered torrential rain and dire warnings from the Spanish Government about being outdoors. But that didn’t matter to us, as T had gone down with a bad dose the day before we left and I caught it from her. We huddled in our apartment with thunder, lightning and tropical downpours for company. T was coughing so badly that I called the doctor. He diagnosed bronchitis and prescribed an inhaler and antibiotics. I began to improve fairly quickly and could tend to T, who was slower to recover.

Thankfully, after a very stormy week, the good weather returned. T took it easy, painting and reading by the pool. I cycled inland to explore the old hilltop towns that populate the interior of Mallorca – each with narrow winding streets, a tree-lined central square with a church on one corner and a bar on the other and a traditional market one day a week.

By the end of our stay, T had done plenty of local walks and I had managed to complete two of the classic Mallorcan cycling routes. The first to the Santuari de Lluc, situated high in the mountains, via a switchback climb through a pine forest with wild goats to the Coll de sa Batalla at 1870 feet. The second, along the very hilly promontory to the lighthouse at the Cap de Formentor, with steep climbs and magnificent costal views. So the holiday that started so badly, had turned out fine, just like the weather. We’re already looking forward to going back next year.

'True' on National Poetry Day

My first collection of poetry was launched in a snowstorm. The second was during the Covid lockdown. And the tail-end of a hurricane blew in last night for the launch of my new collection, ‘True’.

But the poetry lovers of Northern Ireland are a hardy bunch and we had a full house for the National Poetry Day reading. There were representatives from the City Chapter and the John Hewitt Society; also in attendance was the Dean of Armagh, the Keeper of the Robinson Library, who lives upstairs. So a heartfelt 'thank you' to everyone who braved the wind and rain to support live poetry.

The library, founded in 1771, is a truly magnificent space. The walls are lined with ancient books and mahogany display cases hold particular treasures, such as Jonathan Swift’s own copy of ‘Gulliver’s Travels’. The room is adorned with the busts of benefactors and has marvellous acoustics – it’s a lovely place for a reading and feels very intimate. Wendy Sinnamon read her intriguing poems and I followed with a selection of mine from ‘True’. The audience were most appreciative and congratulated us on our performances. There was plenty of chat afterwards and book sales were brisk.  

I still have some launch copies of ‘True’ available at the special price of £10 – that’s 20% off the normal RRP.

 If anyone would like a copy, please email me – poetrypaul@gmail.com

 I’d be delighted to sign the book for you. 

National Poetry Day

I’m really looking forward to the launch of ‘True’, my new book of poetry, on National Poetry Day – October 2nd – in Armagh.

National Poetry Day was founded in 1994 to show that poetry has a place in everyone’s life. Poetry brings people together, and that’s so important as our lives have become more fragmented.

The reading takes place in the magnificent Robinson Library and is hosted by the City Chapter, in association with the John Hewitt Society. The library was founded in 1771 and has many treasures, including Jonathan Swift’s own copy of ‘Gulliver’s Travels’.

I’m very much hoping that you will be able to join me and Wendy on Thursday at 7.30pm.

Book Launch

My third collection of poetry, ‘True’, has just been published by Black Spring Press, and I’m delighted to invite you to the launch on October 2nd – National Poetry Day.

‘True’ will be launched at Armagh’s magnificent Robinson Library, founded in 1771. The reading is hosted by the City Chapter and will also feature emerging poet Wendy Sinnamon. The start time is 7.30pm and entry is free.

The poems in ‘True’ were inspired by true stories from real lives. The sources were news reports, exhibitions, diaries, brochures, sagas, public notices, journals, broadcasts, obituaries and word of mouth. They are not ‘found poems’ – instead, each real-life story provided the launch pad for new work. Ciaran Carson called them ‘discovered poems’. ‘True’ brings together my discovered poems, twelve of which have won awards. The book is dedicated to the late Ciaran Carson, founding Director of the Seamus Heaney Centre in Belfast.

I look forward to seeing you in Armagh on National Poetry Day, where ‘True’ will be on sale at a special launch price. I will be delighted to sign the book for you.

You can also buy a copy of ‘True’ directly from the publisher. https://blackspringpressgroup.com/products/true

Paul Jeffcutt’s poetry has always been tempted by the coincidental and the accidental, finding strange wonders in juxtaposition and enigma. With ‘True’, this risk-taking reaches a new stage of fluency, insight and daring. A joy to read.  ―Damian Smyth.

Paul Jeffcutt’s latest collection of poetry proves that his mentor, Ciaran Carson, was bang on – poems are out there waiting to be discovered and recovered from the true stories of real lives. ―Rachael Hegarty.

An Encounter with Ian Rankin

Having arrived rather early for an event featuring Ian Rankin, I was checking out the bookstall when a tall man in a dark suit came and stood beside me. Is that him, I wondered? Surreptitiously, I opened his latest Rebus novel – the author photo confirmed my suspicions. “Hello, Ian,” I said. He smiled and we began to chat. I said that many years ago I’d sent him, via his publisher, a poem I’d written following his appearance on Desert Island Discs in 2006. He had replied, some months later, thanking me and saying it was the first time he’d had a poem dedicated to him.

“That was Sue Lawley’s last Desert Island Discs,” Ian said, rolling his eyes. I nodded, “She was rather tetchy.” Sue, the haughty presenter, had challenged Ian about his gritty depictions of crime, almost implying that he had a disturbed imagination. Ian had responded with his, now famous, riposte – “Most crime writers are actually well-balanced individuals. We get all the dark stuff out on the page. It’s the romance writers you’ve got to watch out for.”

I told Ian that these very words had stimulated my poem ‘Dear Reader, I Murdered Him’ (see below). It was one of the first poems I’d written which was directly inspired by a real-life story. I’d carried on writing poems of this type and they had just been brought together in a book called ‘True’. Taking out an advance copy of my new collection, I showed him the poem. He was nodding as he read it. I then wrote a dedication thanking Ian and signed the book for him. He smiled and shook my hand. Gathering up a copy of his new book, ‘Midnight and Blue’, Ian signed it for me. The dedication reads, ‘From one writer to another’.

Dear Reader, I Murdered Him.

                                    for Ian Rankin

Heaving bosoms…

a child abused,

the tall, dark stranger…

a fugitive from justice,

every breathless encounter... 

a padded cell

in the maximum security wing.

 

Romantic novelists,

stranglers

and machete artistes,

compose birthday-card ditties

to get phone time and snout.

No remission

for repeat offenders.

The New Greenway

I’ve been out on my bike a lot during the past couple of weeks of good weather, happily this coincided with the opening of the full greenway between Newry and Carlingford. My first challenge was to find the start of the greenway, for there are no signposts to it anywhere in Newry. You have to cross a major road and follow a narrow strip of land between the ship canal and the lough – it’s a bit industrial at first, but you soon get some fine views across open water. The surface is marble-sized gravel, doable in good road tyres if you are a confident rider. At Victoria Lock you reach the newest part of the greenway, a raised walkway that takes you down to the border where the Narrow Water Bridge is being constructed. From here the greenway twists and turns to Omeath, with good surfaces but plenty of blind corners. This is also the busiest part of the greenway, where you will likely find families on hire bikes. Then it’s mostly tarmac alongside the lough with open views of the Mournes until you reach Carlingford marina. The greenway is 12 miles long, but when combined with the existing canal towpath it gives a dedicated cyclepath of 32 miles. I’ve been exploring the many new rides that this fantastic resource enables.

The most obvious ride on offer is the tour of the lough, which means you continue for four miles to Greenore and take the Carlingford Ferry across to Greencastle (20 minutes, 7 Euro), then return on the other side to Newry. This has the disadvantage of very busy roads. A better option is to continue on little roads beside the sea to the very end of the Cooley peninsula and return via the Windy Gap (732 feet), descending with fine views to Omeath and the greenway. There are two mountain roads up to the gap, one with a steady gradient (4%), the other with steeper ramps (6%) and a long plateau in the middle. A tougher option is to take the ferry across the lough and return through the Mournes. Here the climbs are both steeper and higher. Yesterday, I went down the greenway and rode back over the highest pass in the Mournes (1362 feet, with a ramp of 11%) above Spelga dam. Today, of course, my legs are sore. But I’m hoping that the fine weather will continue and I’ll get out for some more good rides before the autumn sets in. I feel I've put my heart scare well behind me.

My Heart MOT

After getting some erratic readings on the heart rate monitor I wore when cycling, I went for a series of cardiac tests. The first of these was a cardiac treadmill test. Sensors were attached to my chest, linked to an ECG machine, then the treadmill started to roll. It was easy at first, but the speed and the incline steadily increased until I was running up a steep hill. The tester told me to keep going until I could do no more; I managed a little over ten minutes in total. Next I had a cardiac CT scan, where dye was injected into my arm to highlight the coronary arteries. This was followed by a Holter ECG monitor, which I wore for 24 hours, to record my heart rhythms whilst awake and sleeping. Finally, I had an Echocardiogram, an ultrasound scan which checked my heart muscle and valves to assess how well my heart was functioning. After all of these, I returned to the hospital to meet the cardiologist and hear the verdict. I was very anxious, I felt sure the erratic readings I’d got whilst cycling indicated some serious underlying heart problem. So I'd been taking it easy.

The cardiologist began with the CT scan results. My coronary arteries were in very good shape for a man of my age. I had minimal narrowing and the plaque was calcified, so I was at low risk of a coronary heart attack. My echocardiogram was normal and my treadmill test score put me in the top 2% of my age group. My heart was working well for someone of my age. I beamed. Despite my wild youth, the subsequent years of healthy living and plenty of exercise had stood me in good stead.

‘But you do have an ectopic heartbeat’, he said.

‘Oh’, I said, my poor heart sinking. ‘What’s that?’

‘Your heart puts in an extra beat’, he said, ‘between the normal beats. The ECG monitor recorded it happening for 10% of the time.’

‘Oh dear... Is it serious?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not when your heart is healthy. Ectopic beats are common and nothing to worry about.’

‘Why does it happen?’

‘Different parts of your heart muscle can create a beat’, he said. ‘The extra beat can be caused by stress, or stimulants like coffee, or even by exercise itself. The extra beats often confuse a heart rate monitor.’

So that’s where the erratic readings came from. My pulse racing, I asked him the big question. “Can I restart cycling?’

He nodded. ‘That would be good for your heart.’

‘Up and down hills as well?’

‘There is a risk in everything’, he said. ‘But I can see no reason why you should not engage in moderately strenuous exercise.’

I grinned and thanked him. I might have plenty of miles on the clock, but I’d passed my cardiac MOT.

My First Fiction Publication

The opening of a novel is difficult to get right. The first page must set the tone, voice and location of the story, but it must also encourage the reader to turn the page and read on. This challenge informed an international competition which invited writers to submit the first 250 words of a crime novel. I submitted two pieces: the actual opening page of my crime novel, and the alternative opening page of the novel, which I ended up not using. I’m delighted to say that both my entries were selected for publication by none other than Val McDermid, and will appear in the anthology ‘Crimebits2’ this August, along with her introduction.

I’ve been writing and publishing poetry for over twenty years, but these first publications in an entirely new arena are very special to me. I began to write a novel to see if I could do it, and soon discovered that writing poetry and writing fiction are very different endeavours. Most obviously, a poem is often a series of lines on a single page, while a novel is around 100,000 words. But it’s not only about scale. It is how you unfold those 100,000 words in terms of narration, dialogue and plot. How you create a fictional world which is populated by characters that are authentic, engaging and who develop over the course of the story. How you encourage expectations in the reader and how you take those expectations forward into twists and turns that surprise them. And so on… I’ve been writing and rewriting my novel for three years now. I’ve learned a lot and I’m still learning.

https://blackspringpressgroup.com/pages/crimebits-2