Archives for posts with tag: poetry

Now that the wonderful, honest, open-hearted, open-minded and talented Polish writer, Olga Tokarczuk, has won the Nobel prize, we can rest easy. I needn’t worry that I haven’t and will not now win this prize since it is in such good hands.

Is that the end of my ambition? Maybe not quite.  If I were to be appointed Minister for Language Affairs – unlikely you may think, but you have to be prepared just in case –  I already have a few ideas. Of course poetry (and poetry translation obviously) would occupy a very different place in the world, in education and in the cultural pecking order. Poets would be issued with free coffee vouchers, fêted wherever they went; poetry would receive priority funding on a scale hitherto unknown before – no more back of a pub and pay for your sandwich jobs, red carpet only for us poets. Shallow you say? In my programme world leaders would exchange poems at summits! That’s not all.  I would encourage the use of some words (for instance: dark, silver, blueberry, bear…) but forcibly prohibit others. A fuller list of the (many) desirable words I leave to your imagination. Favourite words you say secretly to yourself, over-use in your speech and writing. But some phrases would be banned. End of story.  I can be ruthlessly uncompromising.

Let me give you an example:

I’m in a supermarket and I get chatting to another shopper and we both start complaining about the (ENORMOUS) amount of plastic packaging wrapped around almost everything in the shop despite people campaigning for this to change.  The supermarket has made promises but not delivered on them yet. Oh well, says my new friend and sighs, that’s just how it is.  Can you hear the ministerial announcement booming through the supermarket loudspeakers? NOOOOOOO!! DON’T SAY THAT!  don’t give up in resignation bellows the voice, pleads the voice, caresses and sings the voice. A choral piece with flashing (low emission) lights, unicorns, scents wafting, music to suit every taste, balloons, poetry (naturally) and dancers who lift the shopper on their shoulders and carry them off to a place so heavenly (for a while, all due health & safety adhered to etc) that this person never ever utters those words that’s just how it is again…

IMG_9635As it was, I did my best to cheer them up and encourage them not to feel resigned, ground down, powerless, discouraged, defeated.  Because that’s what’s getting to us. That sense that whatever we do is irrelevant and won’t make any difference. How much more effectively could I have intervened with full ministerial powers at my disposal!

4e397985-97e9-47f6-8dc8-6e92e7fb87cdIf appointed Oh well… is one of the key phrases I’m going to ban in the English language, currently used in the UK when people just want to give up in the face of the political circus played out on both the very small and the very large scale around them as this country courts disaster.  This disillusionment, this sense of helplessness would be tackled by my ministry.  So I’m just putting it out there. I have been very busy lately – hopefully more about that in other posts or on the link below – but if anyone is thinking of appointing a Minister for Language Affairs, I humbly offer myself as candidate.



img_9181_2According to Polish tradition the tree and decorations should be down by today –  goodbye to the old year, what will the new year bring? Also according to that tradition carp is eaten for Wigilia on Christmas Eve yet practically all the Poles I know don’t like it and so cook other more delicious (this year sea bream here) things. And that’s even before the PolishMoslem/Jewish/atheist/agnostic/feminist/vegan… take on it.

fullsizeoutput_2ea144e557ba-8621-49be-900b-9fb8ff3bf905Against a backdrop of increasing political buffoonery and thuggery 2018 was a creative year for me. A new collection of poems The True Story of Cowboy Hat and Ingénue (Liquorice Fish/Cinnamon Press 2018) came out towards the end of the year. I was proud to be part of the Wretched Strangers anthology (Boiler House Press 2018) marking the vital contribution of non-UK-born writers to British poetry culture, published ‘to commemorate the anniversary of the June 2016 EU Referendum and in solidarity through struggles to come’ with proceeds going to charities fighting for the rights of refugees. And for the last 6 months from Summer to Winter Solstice I have been intensely involved in an exciting Polish led collaborative project, Snow Q, reimagining  Hans Christian Andersen’s Snow Queen along contemporary themes with music, art, film and poetry. I have been posting about it along with the other artists involved (hence my absence) on:

As you grow older what other people call history is just parts of your life. When people – still – talk about ‘bra-burning women’s libbers’ I think of my younger self and friends. Of course none of us ever burned a bra in our lives. If we don’t tell our own unique stories they vanish without trace (or get misrepresented). Which is why I was thrilled to hear Queer in Brighton, a project dear to my heart, has received funding to continue its work collecting our precious LGBTQ history. And which brings me back to carp. Its other meaning is to complain in a way that someone else finds ‘unnecessary or annoying’. But one person’s carping is another’s understandable, entirely justified protest…

There is certainly enough to carp about as we start this New Year, 2019. There is also so much to celebrate, not least the connections between us in all our differences and diversities. As Kit Fan says in Wretched Strangers: “So many of us, I want to know every single life, what brought them here today, who they are, and how long they will live.”

Down with bullying and – in this Northern hemisphere – up with snowdrops! As Toni Morrison said a while back: these are precisely the times – again – when artists go to work.






























Photos: Swimming photograph courtesy of Helen Joubert Chagall stained glass, Rita Suszek performs my version of Kai for Snow Q – photograph courtesy of Wendy Pye, Cowboy book launch photograph courtesy of Ceilia Jastrzembska, Amsterdam window, Snow Q poster design by Dagmara Rudkin & Wendy Pye, Cover of my new book design by Adam Craig

The film Frozen which you, or your children, surely know, was loosely based on it. Interpretations, deliberate feminist ‘misinterpretations’*, artistic, musical, film, scholarly and literary takes on it abound – a story written almost 175 years ago. I got together with 2 other Polish-connected artists, Dagmara Rudkin, a visual artist, and composer Peter Copley along with other artists including photographer Wendy Pye and director Mark Hewitt to create a re-imagining of the Snow Queen story by Hans Christian Anderson. Our project SNOW Q will culminate in a pilot installation at Winter Solstice in Brighton. The original story is many-layered, (actually seven stories in one), rich in symbolism and full of astonishing characters not least the evil Snow Queen at the centre of it. Yet how ambivalent everyone is about her power!

Is she a strong woman taking her strength for granted or is she a disturbed mother-figure? A victim herself? Beautiful? (whose terms?) Seductive? A fashion icon? Grasping ruling class tyrant? Force of nature? Death? Depression?

And how is my work changing as I work with other artists and different groups? Thinking about it while the sun is shining here in the UK is strange in itself. I find I’m here but also elsewhere much of the time…perhaps not unusual after all. 

Thanks to an Arts Council Research and Development grant we have started working on this collaborative project and are documenting the process on a blog specially for it:

If you haven’t already seen it please have a look and if you know which buttons to press follow us. As there’s several of us involved it’s going to be a more regular and intense blog than these random musings. I’ll be focusing there for a while but will come back to this blog in the end. (So don’t hang up!)

*Pauline Greenhill, Women’s and Gender Studies Department, University of Winnipeg, Canada













Some years ago I was involved in a poetry event called Even Cowgirls Listen to Poetry which included a line-dancing display.  To me it seemed perfectly logical to put the two together. Everyone in Brighton was learning how to do the Tush Push then. OK, nearly everyone. Line dancing had started as a gay craze (often the way) and spread everywhere. Country and Western music (with its working class American songs) was suddenly all the rage here. I knew some likely gals adept at dancing and so they did a little show alongside the poetry (Jill Gardiner and myself) with singer songwriter Carol Prior. Some of the audience loved the combo, some remained bemused…but I need to back-track.

Romantic ideas about the Wild West predate the line-dancing craze of course. Musical hall artistes were dressing as cowboys and girls in the early 20th century as postcards below from an Into the Lime Light collection show.

Reproduced by kind permission of




Reproduced by kind permission of

















Growing up (though I adored the Lucy Show) there weren’t many (any?) female role models I could identify with. Instead there was the Lone Ranger.  The Lone Ranger was a justice-seeking, chivalrous Robin Hood sort of cowboy protecting poor, defenceless people from ruthless and extreme macho bandits. He had a ‘trustworthy’ Native American companion (sidekick really) called Tonto, who despite being a skilled tracker was portrayed in ridiculously stereotypical fashion. As recently as 2013 the film was remade with Johnny Depp playing Tonto… so the fascination, along with a good portion of racism, remains. If you don’t remember the original you have to imagine that the Lone Ranger was trying to avenge the death of his brother – murdered by white men. He didn’t get drunk or kill people. Crucially for me as a child, he wore a white Stetson and black mask and gloves and he rode a horse named Silver…

All too often the Western films we watched back then, (‘Cowboys and Indians’ films) portrayed white men as heroes and either glossed over the repeated genocide of Native Americans or justified it by portraying them as menacing savages. It’s now estimated about a quarter of cattle herding cowboys were in fact Black, much of the language cowboys used derives from Mexican Spanish. Luckily too, imaginative interpretations of the Western trope abound, from Ed Dorn’s trippy Gunslinger to Brokeback Mountain, Ondaatje’s Billy the Kid to Patrick Gale’s Canadian pioneers.  The work of Native American authors  – Jo Harjo, Paula Gunn Allen, Natalie Diaz, among many others – enriches and rebalances both this narrative and the North American canon. For better or worse there were also women sharpshooters like Annie Oakley, women who fought for prohibition as well as activists like Helen Hunt Jackson who exposed the federal mistreatment of Native Americans.

At their best the legends about cowboys appealed in Europe owing to the ruggedness and vastness of the American landscape, with its prairies and mountains, and spirit of quest and exploration, a freedom from the confines of European society perhaps, America being the new world for Europeans. A good part of my childhood was spent riding my imaginary horse, looking tough, rescuing folk and seeing off the bad guys instead of doing whatever it was I was supposed to be doing. No wonder attempts to transform me into a young lady failed. What chance did they possibly have?

Reproduced with kind permission from




Polish political poster for Solidarity from late 1980’s using cowboy imagery


Reproduced by kind permission of

A few years ago I started writing a new book almost by accident. I’d written a few lines about the lazy heat (not set in the U.K obviously) of high noon – a Western cliché as it happens, only instead of a horse and rider a mysterious truck appeared on the dusty road. I was going to discard these lines as they seemed to be going nowhere but suddenly found I needed to set other projects aside instead and focus on the story – or stories – unfolding before me.

It takes place in what a friend described as a spaghetti Western setting, more Hispanic than my usual Anglo-Polish landscapes though for my money you can take the girl/author out of Poland but…the usual themes are still there war and love, love and war. Are there cowboys or girls in it? Or are they characters who may have fallen under a cowboygirl spell sometime? There are certainly two women and they fall in love and go on a quest and one of them wears a cowboy hat. And it is all true. It says so on the cover.

The True Story of Cowboy Hat and Ingénue by Maria Jastrzębska

will be published by Liquorice Fish/Cinammon Press in October 2018.

For more information see:











img_2481Thanks to the Artist’s International Development Fund I am able to make 2 short trips to Poland this winter to pursue lines of poetic enquiry and promote my selected work The Cedars of Walpole Park translated int Polish by Wioletta Grzegorzewska, Anna Błasiak & Paweł Gawroński and published by Stowarzyszenie Żywych Poetów.





Here I am in Wrocław, European City of Culture 2016: I didn’t expect it to be gloriously sunny in November. I’m not sure where to go so I sit with my take-away coffee outside Wrocław Główny, the main railway station, once Breslau Hauptbahnhof, built by a royal Prussian architect in the mid-nineteenth century.





Morose Man, aged 71 (he quickly tells me) comes to sit beside me. Within moments he informs me about his various health issues, including discolouration of the urine as well as heart problems possibly caused by side effects from strong medication he is taking for another problem. His body’s like a car, once one thing goes, everything begins to fall apart, only with a car you can get new parts, he says. He lives alone since his wife died, I learn and also how he and the grandchildren visit her grave together – well he can’t turn his back on his family can he – and how the oldest one won’t go to bed until he sings down the phone to him when his daughter calls of an evening. [Some comfort hopefully, I say.]

Politicians, it was ever thus, even harking back to the days of the Tsar, are all the same, they just want to make money, he tells me. He’s not interested. There’s nothing we can do anyway that makes a difference. But he did vote for the present government [ultra right, something like UKIP in the UK, threatening constitutional rights, women’s reproductive rights and currently planning to reinforce a territorial army to deal, inter alia, with civil unrest.] His daughter didn’t vote for them [hurray!] but he doesn’t try to impose his views on her. She has her own mind, he says. He never joined anything in Communist times, never rose up the ranks, doesn’t try to push himself up to the top. Doesn’t aim for the gutter either. He treads a middle path, well you have to. A Christian path. But there’s nothing any of us can do. Everyone has their cross to bear, some heavier than others. Jesus never wanted to die on the cross but he had to. He had no choice did he? 

Poland, oh Poland.




My parents lost everything during the war. Their city was razed to the ground so that they lost their homes along with the very streets they’d stood in. So it’s not surprising that once they got to England they kept everything – from tiny salvaged black and white (even sepia) photographs to rubber bands or plastic carrier bags. Once they bought a house in London they never moved again. Over the years they filled it with more and more things, including mementos from my grandparents’ nearby house when my grandparents died. Then after my parents died in turn bags full of things ended up in my house. Recently my partner and I decided to downsize and move from a house to a flat which meant I have had three layers of belongings to sort. I had kept so many old letters and photographs, my own, my parents’ and their parents’. Sorting through the piles hasn’t been easy. I wish I could tell you I have finished the job but some of the old papers have followed me to our new flat although a little more sorted this time, in nice, see-through plastic boxes, though there are a still a lot of them. Along the way I discovered gems, notes written by mother during the Warsaw occupation.  Little books reliably called ‘My Book’ created by me when I was barely literate, confirming how I always planned to be a writer, along with a certificate for second place in the sack race at my primary school…Inevitably there was also a lot of dreck, although one person’s weed to be pulled up is another’s wild flower. Friends divided into the writers who all cried Keep Everything It Will Be Handy for the Memoir or Your Poems…and everyone else who said for heaven’s sake free yourself from all that emotional baggage and make space in your life.


In a way it’s similar to editing poems. Some poems thrive on richness, on texture, colour crowding in; they bristle with rawness and sensory detail, depend on their ability to take the reader by storm. You need to throw yourself into them – writing on your nerve – and not hold back, not censor. Other times it’s all about what you leave out, what is unspoken. Some poems are so pared down you could say they’re written with silence as much as words. So that’s how it’s been these last few months – what to keep, what to take with me.img_2247

The magazines tell us moving house is one of the most stressful times in your life.  A few days without internet or the TV not working, disruption to daily routines, newness, unfamiliarity and we are tearing out our hair. Glasses, (glasses case!), pens (including that great thick black marker pen which keeps disappearing) – I daren’t put anything down or it will get lost among constantly shifting cardboard boxes, piles. I am tired, irritable. It’s only when you leave that you notice everything you’ve been taking for granted, the familiar route from your front door to the fishmongers, the cat who liked sitting on the roof of the neighbour’s car. And yet this is something my partner and I have freely chosen. We have the comfort of family and friends’ support, the luxury of choosing shades of white for the walls or the shape of new taps.  All the time I have been thinking of how it must have been for my parents who could only pack a few cases when we left Poland to flee communism. What – if anything – was I told about us leaving our homeland, not to return for years and years. But my parents were making a planned decision. I’ve been trying to imagine refugees being forced to leave suddenly, in immediate fear for their own or their families lives. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Yet the refugee ‘crisis’ is worse than ever.

Friends of mine have dropped everything and gone to Lesvos to help refugees there, others have been to Calais. Most of us shudder and look away. So in the midst of the recent surge in anti-foreigner feeling in this country it feels good to do even a small thing to help. In Brighton we are having a Poem-a-thon at Komedia on December 11th 2016 where 60 of us will be reading poetry non-stop to raise money for the School Bus Project at the Refugee Council. I hope you can donate something to it – any amount – and tell your friends about it. It doesn’t take long, honestly (take it from a non-techie poet). Just click on the link:

Dziekuję! Thank you!

13512027_10153907518773401_286957910405027_nI’m a poet. I ‘m trying to write a poem about the sea for the lovely Beautiful Dragons Not A Drop project. I wanted this blog to be about writing. I’m also a Pole, by birth and heritage. I have always felt a European. After 2 world wars, the war in Ireland and then the war in what was Yugoslavia it’s so obvious to me what Europe needs is to build even more closeness within itself while at the same time reaching out to other continents, cultures around the world, working together to help refugees who have lost so much, working together for civil liberties, for equality, for a sustainable, healthy environment .

This morning the results of the U.K referendum came in with a shocking (albeit narrow) majority wanting to leave Europe. I say Europe because I don’t for a second believe the vote was about the merits or defects of EU institutions. Will those on the Left or feminists who naively thought they were voting against a capitalist or patriarchal club now realise who they have jumped into bed with? As for those who voted to leave in order to curb immigration I have never known what to say to them. They never wanted the likes of me to enter Britain in the first place. They have conveniently been offered an Other to blame and jumped at that offer. Without Johnny Foreigner everything will be all right.

Today I can’t sit still, can’t concentrate on anything. Walking to the shops from work I wanted to stop everyone I passed & say have you heard? How can you just carry on as normal? Two men behind me were saying to each other: we could move to Scotland… The exercise of the referendum has back-fired on the Tory Prime Minister who has resigned today. David Cameron should have read his history books. In the 1930’s the German Right believed they could use and manage Hitler.  Before long he had outmanoevered, over-powered or simply got rid of them.We already know Cameron’s successor will be even worse than he was. This referendum campaign to leave Europe was conducted by stirring up xenophobia and racism – perhaps these forces were never that far below the surface. That’s what’s so frightening and upsetting. Now they have been given a green light.

In this climate the Labour M.P Jo Cox was murdered last week by a man reportedly shouting ‘Britain First!’ who has alleged links to white supremacist groups and in court called himself : ‘death to traitors, freedom for Britain’ . Her husband urged people to fight ‘the hate that killed her’. I can’t imagine what he and her family are going through.

13497858_10154493451523646_7489450108758851598_oMy phone hasn’t stopped today with everyone I know feeling some version of absolutely gutted. What should we do, as the clocks get turned back further and further, not only in the U.K but elsewhere? I don’t know. Grieve, feel shocked, feel our hearts break, go numb, feel tired? Remember how we were once bullied as children (in my case for being different/Polish) and find ways to heal and feel less helpless as adults now, have parties, paint, build, have sex, sing, dance, swim, grow veg, play ball, play music, paint our toe nails, go for walks, hide under the duvet, sleep, swear, spit, watch TV, turn off the TV, organise, protest, eat ice-cream? Raise money, love each other, hug our kids, hug each other, stick together, let off steam, be angry, get furious, livid, raging, think together, cry our eyes out together, believe in love, in friendship, translate, talk to each other, reach out, read books from other countries, write more poems? In what order? I don’t know. Maybe the order doesn’t matter. But let’s not shrug and say ‘Oh well..’ Let’s not be British about this.



Russia 1924








My mother was ambivalent about International Women’s Day. On the one hand she saw it as a Socialist festival (for someone who had lived through a decade of post-war Stalinism this could only mean BAD.) On the other hand she loved flowers and liked the Polish custom of men giving women flowers on IWD. I have some ambivalence too, which runs more like this: how can 1 day a year be remotely enough to celebrate what we as women do or who we are? On the other hand I like any excuse to party. And celebrating ourselves as women is vital.

Tomorrow at 11am on March 8th 2016 I will be taking part in an International Women’s day online digital discussion with 3 other artists:

Rifa Thorpe-Tracey who is an advocate for women in tech. Amongst many things she is founder of the Brighton branch of global creative networking group for women in digital, SheSays.

Jamila Prowse who is founder and editor of the independent small-print magazine Typical Girls, which showcases the work of female creatives through print, discussions, talks, workshops and music events.

and Jinan Petra who is a campaigner for women’s rights and social justice. She is involved in a number of activist groups, projects and movements that fight to safeguard the rights of women and girls across the UK and beyond.

I am Maria Jastrzębska a Polish-born, Brighton based poet, editor and translator with a particular interest in borders and boundaries: between countries, cultures, languages, between social and sexual identities, health and illness.

This event is hosted by Melissa Ray who works in Communications at Fabrica the innovative art gallery in Brighton.

You can be our live audience from 11am tomorrow by clicking on:

Zapraszam serdecznie/you are warmly welcome!




IMG_9900_2Sometimes I think I am still in the middle of the ocean. Last year my partner and I sailed to New York and back from Southampton. We had so many adventures and the trip affected us both so profoundly I was sure when we returned I’d start blogging like crazy. Instead radio silence. Well not quite.  Our travels have been sneaking their way – at a slant – into poems. And into dreams. I have been working on a new manuscript and it is hard to write anything else.

There is something too about sailing away to another continent. It’s not fast track. But it is wholly magnificent, especially if you are fortunate enough to sail on the Queen Mary 2. Afterwards people asked us: what do you do all day? And: what is there to see? Everything and nothing are the answers although that’s where it gets muddled up.


You can imagine how people went mad at sea. Nothing but water and sky, sky and water. Water and sky. Though the colours change all the time, every day. Blue isn’t an inadequate word. No birds. No animals. (One day porpoise were sighted but I missed them.) A meditation on nothingness. One day it is paler blue, a few little clouds on the horizon. Blue, blue, blue. Next day grey capped with small white breakers. Foam. A fine drizzle in the air. Dispersing. The sky swollen, puffy with white cloud. Dull but at same time a glare assaulting the eyes because of the sheer expanse of sky and light. The next day a mist which makes even the nothing vanish.

IMG_9901_2Really this is the headline event, the main stage. I find I can’t take my eyes off it. Everything else is a diversion, make believe. And there is so much on board to distract you. Shops that sell pricey wrist watches, perfumes, necklaces. Shows with comedians, live bands. Black tie dinners and dances. Dressing up! Talks in the planetarium. Even some poetry, jazz. A library. Quizzes. Bars. You can learn to dance or play bridge. There are treadmills and whirlpools, white linen, fresh towels. Friends of Dorothy and of Bill W. Someone could rub your feet or your back. The food is delicious, sumptuous. Meeting new people. You chat over cocktails: where are you going? Will you stay long? Are you on your way home or just setting out? Is this your first time? Oh no, say the old hands, we’ve been many times…Endless swaying from deck A to B.

We sail fairly near the spot where the Titanic was lost. We are sailing in comfort for the sheer pleasure of it. Elsewhere others in tiny, leaking boats are crossing seas to escape from persecution. We hear of crew members and passengers who have jumped over board. When we have to put on life jackets and be counted for a safety drill we laugh like children. We complain because none of our devices will work properly. We are living in a floating complex, a bubble the size of a village, miles away from anywhere, surrounded by nothing.

The staff are courteous, almost kind, as if they know all it takes is one look out at the horizon and everything disappears. Then you return to nothing but water and sky, sky and water. It’s there every morning. And last thing at night the ocean rocks you to sleep, rocks you all night long. At 20.1 knots in our case. Always the same ocean. Never the same ocean twice.



Last year my artist friend Helen got so fed up with everyone posting exotic holiday pictures via social media she started putting up photos of her dirty washing. I thought this was hilarious. Others took it more seriously. Friends wrote in to explain the back story to their photos – it turned out some of the happy pictures weren’t happy after all. A moment after a picture was taken there’d been awful incident or argument …Then her friends seemed to upload fewer pictures altogether. In the end Helen felt terrible – had she killed summer?

IMG_6487Over the many months that I’ve had health problems, I’ve prided myself on not posting about them – why add more misery to a world where most news bring doom and gloom? One blog on it last year (Taboo – In Sickness and in Health) was surely enough. My health issues clearly thought otherwise. But then I wonder is this more cowardice (vanity?)than noblesse on my part? We care – obsess – about image. Even when we profess not to. People always have, long before social media. If you were rich enough you had your portrait painted and made sure the artist showed you in the best light. Now we update our own portraits/profiles, backgrounds. Wstrętny ekshybicjonizm (digusting exhibitionism), my mother would say if she were still alive. An intensely private person who nevertheless cared profoundly about her appearance and like many women of her generation suffered what she perceived as the humiliation of old age – and ill health – the fading of (so called) good looks. IMG_6468Some people manage to tread that fine line where they talk with integrity, openly and publicly about very personal things. Here’s a great blog by fellow poet Clare Best: Touching the core. It’s hugely important to break taboos and silences. Important and difficult when, on the one hand there are still so many silences and, on the other hand, we are so steeped in the cult of the celebrity that sensationalised personal details – what a famous person was wearing or ate for breakfast (let alone who they slept with) – are deemed newsworthy. Meanwhile my potted blueberry is back from the bareness of Winter, first with blossom and now fruit buds. It is almost Summer here and you can hang the washing out… I am off to Bradford Literature Festival to read at an event with Katy Carr & Anita Jean Prażmowska and Bożena Masters, the Commemoration Event for 75th Anniversary of Siberia Deportations 6:30 pm – 8:00 pm on SUNDAY 24 MAY at Delius Arts & Cultural Centre. A topic which deserves a story of its own. After that I set sail across the ocean.IMG_6463   IMG_6460