What’s the best way to explore a new city? The best way to explore a new city is on foot. At least, that’s what the travel experts tell you. They never mention the swollen feet,… More
Has to be my wife
Which relationship has taught you the most about yourself?
I think the relationship that has taught me the most about myself is probably the one I have with my wife. Not because it has always been easy, but because after so many years together, you can’t really hide from yourself.
She has seen me when I’m confident and when I’m not, when I’m full of ideas and when I’ve had enough of everything. She has watched me change, make mistakes, change again and occasionally stubbornly insist that I was right when I clearly wasn’t.
Growing older together has taught me that a relationship isn’t about finding someone who thinks exactly like you. It’s about finding someone who knows you well enough to challenge you, laugh at you, support you and still be there afterwards.
And perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned that I am still capable of changing. I used to think that by my age you were pretty much set in your ways. I don’t believe that anymore.
Sometimes the person who knows you best is also the person who shows you that you don’t know yourself quite as well as you thought.
Even after 44 years.
Record Collector
If you could start a new business right now, what would it be?
If I could start a new business right now, I think I’d open a second-hand vinyl record shop.
At my age, and with far fewer commitments than I had when I was younger, I could afford to be a little less sensible. I wouldn’t be looking to build the next Amazon or create a business empire. I’d just like somewhere I could spend my days surrounded by something I actually enjoy.
I’ve always envied people who managed to turn their hobbies into a living. It seems to me they’ve somehow discovered one of life’s little loopholes — find something you love doing, then persuade other people to pay you for it.
I’d have shelves full of old vinyl, probably far too many Beatles albums, and a record player permanently spinning in the corner. I’d spend my mornings searching for bargains, afternoons chatting to customers and most of my spare time convincing myself that buying another record was actually research.
There would probably be a little café in the corner too. Somewhere to sit, drink coffee and discuss whether the original pressing is genuinely better or whether we’re all just pretending because it costs £40 more.
And if business was slow?
I’d simply put another record on.
At this stage of my life, that sounds less like work and more like a rather good way of spending my time.
Although knowing me, I’d probably end up spending more money in the shop than I made.
The Riveter
Yer granda was a riveter
when the river ran with steel,
when shipyards lined the water
and the hammering never stilled.
He’d leave before the daylight,
coat pulled tight against the cold,
with coal smoke above the rooftops
and the Tyne running dark and old.
He was a hard man.
A proud man.
A man of few words,
but he’d tell you what he thought,
and you’d best be listening.
Down towards the yard he’d wander,
past the houses, past the rain,
to where the cranes stood like great giants
over Tyneside again.
And there he’d take his place among them,
beneath the towering frame,
with sparks falling like summer stars
and the rivet gun’s refrain.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
All morning long —
a sound that shook the yard below,
while plate by plate and rivet by rivet
another great ship began to grow.
Ships that would sail to distant places,
to harbours he’d never know,
past foreign ports and open waters,
wherever they had to go.
They’d carry men around the world,
through storms and foreign rain,
while granda never travelled far
from the banks of the Tyne again.
And maybe that’s the part I love —
the thought of it today:
a man who built the world for others
but never went away.
He knew the river.
Knew the yard.
Knew every street and stone.
His whole world was a few miles wide,
but he never felt alone.
He’d come home tired in the evening,
with the day’s work on his hands,
sit down, have his tea,
and never speak of distant lands.
For what did he need with foreign shores,
or cities he had never known?
The Tyne was in his blood and bones —
Tyneside was his home.
And now the yards have quietened,
and the great ships are gone,
the cranes no longer fill the sky
like they did when he was young.
But sometimes, when the light falls low
and turns the river gold,
I think I hear that rivet gun
come ringing through the cold.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
And for a moment he is there,
coat buttoned to his chin,
walking home towards the lights
with another day behind him.
Yer granda was a riveter.
Hard man.
Proud man.
He built ships that crossed the whole wide world
from the banks he called his own.
And though the yards have fallen still,
and the years have carried him on,
there’s something of him in that river
that says he isn’t wholly gone.
In every ship he helped to build,
in every story handed down,
a little of the world he made
still lives here in this town.
Steve Halstead.
The Fourth Knock
The pavements cracked like broken bone,
white teeth beneath the tar.
We walked as though we’d always known
that’s how things are.
The butcher smiled with crimson lips,
his apron stiff with thread.
He wrapped the meat in wedding slips —
no beast had ever bled.
A mother hummed her child to sleep,
then locked him from the dawn.
The ones who sleep too deep
come back when someone’s gone.”
The queue outside the station grew;
no train had stopped for years.
Each face was calm, each ticket new,
each platform slick with tears.
The towers blinked with borrowed eyes,
their windows learned to stare.
They swallowed prayers instead of skies
and breathed them into air.
At dusk we heard the knocking start —
three knocks from every wall.
We answered with a steady heart;
the fourth would end us all.
Beneath the streets, a giant chest
rose softly in the clay.
It drew one breath — we held the rest —
and prayed it stayed that way.
Steve Halstead.
Take me back to Giggleswick
Take me back to Giggleswick
when evening settles on the stone,
when the hills turn dark behind the trees
and every road seems to lead home.
There are lights behind the windows,
shadows moving on the walls,
someone laughing in a kitchen,
someone waiting for a call.
And Settle carries on below me,
quiet beneath the evening sky.
Shops are closing, cars are leaving,
but I don’t really want to say goodbye.
For somewhere beyond the railway,
beyond the hills and fields of green,
there must be another road to follow,
another place I’ve never seen.
Yet I have walked these lanes for years
and still they sometimes seem brand new;
the same old hills, the same old houses,
but somehow I am passing through.
I wonder what the strangers think,
walking home beneath the rain.
What they lost, what they remember,
what they hope to find again.
And perhaps that’s all we’re doing —
passing through this little town,
carrying our private stories
while the evening settles down.
So if you’re lonely, walk beside me.
We don’t have to say a word.
Some things sound much better
when they’re simply left unheard.
And if tomorrow takes us somewhere,
let it take us where it will.
I’ll remember these old valleys
and the road that climbs the hill.
Because England isn’t always grand,
or painted bright beneath the sun.
Sometimes it’s just a quiet evening,
and knowing where you have come from.
And when the last light leaves the hills
and darkness gathers at the door,
I’ll still be here in Giggleswick —
perhaps a little lost,
but looking for a little more.
Steve Halstead.
Karma
Do you believe in karma?
Yes, I do believe in karma.
I’ve had people take advantage of my generosity and kindness over the years. I’ve helped people who probably took me for granted, and at the time I’ve wondered why I bother.
But I’ve never really believed that it makes people happier. You can take advantage of someone, get what you want and walk away with something — but I don’t think that necessarily adds much to your life.
I’ve always had a feeling that things have a way of coming back around. Perhaps it isn’t always karma in some great mysterious sense. Maybe it’s simply that the way we treat people eventually catches up with us.
My motto is still:
What goes around, comes around.
I don’t sit around waiting for karma to catch up with anyone. I’d rather just get on with my own life, try to treat people well and keep being generous where I can.
Although these days, perhaps I’m just a little more careful about who I’m generous to.
And if karma does exist, I’m quite happy to let it get on with its job.
Hope for the best
How do you write what people actually want to read?
If I ever discover the answer to this, I’ll let you know.
At the moment, my writing strategy is remarkably simple: I write about whatever happens to interest me and then hope somebody else finds it interesting too.
There is, of course, a flaw in this plan.
Hardly anybody reads the stuff.
I can spend an hour carefully crafting a poem, agonising over every word, moving commas around as though they are going to change the course of literature — and then publish it to the sound of complete silence.
Meanwhile, somewhere on the internet, someone has written “Five Things I Learned From Owning a Slightly Annoying Cat” and attracted 47,000 readers.
So perhaps the secret isn’t writing what people want to read.
Perhaps it’s writing what you want to write, finding the occasional person who enjoys it, and being grateful they stopped scrolling long enough to read it.
That’s certainly my business model.
No followers. No influencer ambitions. No carefully researched algorithms.
Just me, a keyboard and the faint hope that someone, somewhere, is actually reading this.
If you are, thank you.
You’ve just made my statistics look considerably better.
Why not?
What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done?
Probably the day we changed our car on a complete whim.
We were out shopping when I got a text saying that my car finance was in equity and asking if I’d like to trade it in for a newer one.
I’d never really been happy with the car, so rather than doing the sensible thing and thinking about it for a few days, we more or less dropped everything and went straight to the dealership.
And it wasn’t even a case of trading it for the same make. We decided to change manufacturers completely.
One minute we were out shopping, the next we were choosing a different car.
Not exactly the most dramatic spontaneous decision in the world, perhaps, but for someone who normally likes to think things through, it was about as impulsive as I get.
Self help me?
How do you make time for self-care?
I’m not sure I’ve ever deliberately made time for self-help. For most of my life, if I had an hour spare, I’d probably find something that needed doing instead.
Work came first, family came first, jobs around the house came first — and somehow I always seemed to come somewhere near the bottom of the list.
These days I’m getting a little better at it.
For me, self-help isn’t necessarily sitting down with a book telling me how to become a better version of myself. It can be going for a walk, playing the piano, reading something I enjoy, writing, or simply sitting with a cup of tea and doing absolutely nothing productive for a change.
And, rather surprisingly, giving up alcohol has become a big part of it. I’ve discovered that when you remove the drink, you don’t just remove the drink. You get some of your time, energy and headspace back as well.
I think I’m finally learning that looking after yourself isn’t selfish. You can’t spend your whole life maintaining everything and everyone else and then wonder why you’re running on empty.
So my approach to self-help these days is fairly simple:
Do a little more of what makes me feel alive, a little less of what makes me miserable, and occasionally sit down with a cup of tea and pretend I’m not supposed to be doing something else.
Greek meze
What’s the best local dish you’ve ever eaten while traveling?
It’s got to be the Greek meze — a meal that seems to have no beginning and certainly no end. Dish after dish arrives at the table: grilled meats, fresh fish, olives, salads, halloumi, dips and warm bread, each one inviting you to try just a little more. It is never rushed. You sit, talk, laugh and eat while the plates keep appearing. Somehow, a Greek meze becomes much more than a meal; it is an evening, a conversation and a little taste of everything that makes Cyprus so easy to fall in love with.
