Contributors have the opportunity of submitting a photograph and writing about it. Submissions of no more than 400 words will then be published on this page and in time will feature in their own book.
Mokka
by Garry Davidson
February 2026
I sit staring into the far distance, my body and soul engulfed by the numbing pain of grief. Mokka, our ‘baby’ was taken from us a few days ago and since then life has been unbearable.
Some people tell me to pull myself together, they say that after all it was only a dog. How dare they!
She was our little angel and meant the world to us.
She reached the ripe old age of fifteen in November 2025, but the writing was on the wall. She had suffered a few ‘turns’ which remarkably she bounced back from very quickly, but last week there was one too many and we knew in our hearts it was time for us to let her go. The vet concurred and the deed was done, all over in half an hour. Mokka was at peace and we are convinced she left us with a smile on her face. It was the most difficult decision we had ever made in our lives.
The void she has left behind is massive. Her presence is everywhere and as I write I glance over to the space next to the desk where she always camped when I worked in the study. She was a great companion, loyal and trusting.
She was never happy when we went out without her and she would wait at the gate at the bottom of the hill for us to return. Sometimes this would be all day, but she was never phased by this. When we did return, she immediately jumped into action and with tail wagging proceeded to run up the hill in front of the car to guide us home. Ears and tongue flapping in the wind and so focussed, it was incredible. This she insisted on doing up until just a week ago, ignoring our invitations to get into the car to be chauffeured home in comfort and style. She was a stubborn, feisty little girl!
Now reunited with her brother Bruno they can get up to all kinds of mischief again together. They know we will be watching over them, and we know they will watch over us.
The nagging pain of grief will diminish over time, but the memories will stay with us forever.
by Garry Davidson
February 2026
I sit staring into the far distance, my body and soul engulfed by the numbing pain of grief. Mokka, our ‘baby’ was taken from us a few days ago and since then life has been unbearable.
Some people tell me to pull myself together, they say that after all it was only a dog. How dare they!
She was our little angel and meant the world to us.
She reached the ripe old age of fifteen in November 2025, but the writing was on the wall. She had suffered a few ‘turns’ which remarkably she bounced back from very quickly, but last week there was one too many and we knew in our hearts it was time for us to let her go. The vet concurred and the deed was done, all over in half an hour. Mokka was at peace and we are convinced she left us with a smile on her face. It was the most difficult decision we had ever made in our lives.
The void she has left behind is massive. Her presence is everywhere and as I write I glance over to the space next to the desk where she always camped when I worked in the study. She was a great companion, loyal and trusting.
She was never happy when we went out without her and she would wait at the gate at the bottom of the hill for us to return. Sometimes this would be all day, but she was never phased by this. When we did return, she immediately jumped into action and with tail wagging proceeded to run up the hill in front of the car to guide us home. Ears and tongue flapping in the wind and so focussed, it was incredible. This she insisted on doing up until just a week ago, ignoring our invitations to get into the car to be chauffeured home in comfort and style. She was a stubborn, feisty little girl!
Now reunited with her brother Bruno they can get up to all kinds of mischief again together. They know we will be watching over them, and we know they will watch over us.
The nagging pain of grief will diminish over time, but the memories will stay with us forever.
Bruno and Mokka
by Garry Davidson
We arrived in Chile on November 1, 2010 looking forward to a long and happy retirement. Little did we know on the very same day, two adorable puppies were born who, in the ensuing years, would figure prominently in our lives. Say hello to Bruno and Mokka.
From the first time we set eyes on them we knew it was meant to be. We had planned to get a dog, but two? However, the brother and sister combination seemed inseparable, even at such an early age. So two it was. I remember vividly holding them together in one hand.
Whilst we were waiting for our house to be finished, our babies stayed with my wife’s parents. I would visit them for a couple of hours each day and we would play ball and roll around on the grass. They loved it and a very strong bond formed.
Eventually we were able to take the puppies home with us and they were let loose in the garden. They were in their element and tired themselves out chasing each other back and forth. They were mischievous though as they would dig up newly planted flowers and shrubs, but my annoyance was only ever short lived.
Bruno, a gentle giant, used to be blamed for most of the misdemeanours, but we later established that it was in fact Mokka who was probably guilty of them. She was, and still is, a very shrewd and devious little girl, and she knows it.
We enjoyed daily walks along the beach, although Bruno was scared of the water and would keep his distance. Mokka would usually run off, with tongue and ears flapping in the wind. She would return when she was ready too, whereas Bruno would usually stay close by.
Sadly in 2021 Bruno passed away. We never did establish the exact cause of his death but we were devastated. He literally died in my arms. Mokka looked for him constantly and couldn’t understand what had happened. He is still sorely missed and I can sense a tear coming now as I write this.
Time moves on though and we now live in the countryside. Pleased to say that Mokka is still with us, although she is showing signs of her age, but aren’t we all? We have been blessed to have these two wonderful doggies in our lives.
by Garry Davidson
We arrived in Chile on November 1, 2010 looking forward to a long and happy retirement. Little did we know on the very same day, two adorable puppies were born who, in the ensuing years, would figure prominently in our lives. Say hello to Bruno and Mokka.
From the first time we set eyes on them we knew it was meant to be. We had planned to get a dog, but two? However, the brother and sister combination seemed inseparable, even at such an early age. So two it was. I remember vividly holding them together in one hand.
Whilst we were waiting for our house to be finished, our babies stayed with my wife’s parents. I would visit them for a couple of hours each day and we would play ball and roll around on the grass. They loved it and a very strong bond formed.
Eventually we were able to take the puppies home with us and they were let loose in the garden. They were in their element and tired themselves out chasing each other back and forth. They were mischievous though as they would dig up newly planted flowers and shrubs, but my annoyance was only ever short lived.
Bruno, a gentle giant, used to be blamed for most of the misdemeanours, but we later established that it was in fact Mokka who was probably guilty of them. She was, and still is, a very shrewd and devious little girl, and she knows it.
We enjoyed daily walks along the beach, although Bruno was scared of the water and would keep his distance. Mokka would usually run off, with tongue and ears flapping in the wind. She would return when she was ready too, whereas Bruno would usually stay close by.
Sadly in 2021 Bruno passed away. We never did establish the exact cause of his death but we were devastated. He literally died in my arms. Mokka looked for him constantly and couldn’t understand what had happened. He is still sorely missed and I can sense a tear coming now as I write this.
Time moves on though and we now live in the countryside. Pleased to say that Mokka is still with us, although she is showing signs of her age, but aren’t we all? We have been blessed to have these two wonderful doggies in our lives.
Hardship in the '70s
by Laura Sanders
Mum and Dad purchased Mum's old Singer sewing machine in 1963. How thrifty she and others were back then. She made such a lot of clothes on it for us kids - five hungry mouths to feed. She was not a "career" woman as such, but her mother had taught her the practical skills of cookery and sewing.
I remember Mum made us girls our summer dresses for primary school. They were made out of blue and red gingham. We felt so pleased and proud, to wear these dresses. Back then it wasn't a throwaway society. People usually accepted hand me downs. Sometimes I ended up with my older sister's London clothes, and felt so sophisticated. She was 10 years older. My mum would lend me a blouse, jacket and scarf usually to wear to the school play or a dance at the end of school term.
Mum was a housewife and reliant on Dad's meagre salary as a school teacher at our local comprehensive. Money was in short supply. Teachers did not earn huge salaries and Mum had the unenviable task of looking after us and bringing us up, to the best of her ability. The hours she must have spent trying hard with her Singer sewing machine.
I incidentally did not follow in her footsteps, instead preferring to study academic subjects: history, geography, English. I tried to learn the art of needlework and sewing at school. I hated it! However, I managed to make a seersucker nightdress and an orange PVC cagoule, destined for my younger sister's birthday. Unfortunately, it was stolen from the cupboard when I returned after half-term.
Nowadays the modern woman has everything at her fingertips. No more tedious, laborious housework. Dishwashers, tumble dryers, microwaves - there are electricals to make life easier. No more making of clothes with sore fingers worked to the bone. Many different charity shops today provide for those who cannot afford new clothes, although many of the populace prefer to buy fast fashion new from the sweatshops of India and China. These sometimes fall to bits in a few machine washes.
Poor Mum's sewing machine now lies redundant, never to be used again. Someone somewhere may want to revive life into its sewing foot and the familiar "trrrrrrr" will be heard once more.
One day it will be an antique of the past in our digital, AI generated world of business and time and tide etc....
by Laura Sanders
Mum and Dad purchased Mum's old Singer sewing machine in 1963. How thrifty she and others were back then. She made such a lot of clothes on it for us kids - five hungry mouths to feed. She was not a "career" woman as such, but her mother had taught her the practical skills of cookery and sewing.
I remember Mum made us girls our summer dresses for primary school. They were made out of blue and red gingham. We felt so pleased and proud, to wear these dresses. Back then it wasn't a throwaway society. People usually accepted hand me downs. Sometimes I ended up with my older sister's London clothes, and felt so sophisticated. She was 10 years older. My mum would lend me a blouse, jacket and scarf usually to wear to the school play or a dance at the end of school term.
Mum was a housewife and reliant on Dad's meagre salary as a school teacher at our local comprehensive. Money was in short supply. Teachers did not earn huge salaries and Mum had the unenviable task of looking after us and bringing us up, to the best of her ability. The hours she must have spent trying hard with her Singer sewing machine.
I incidentally did not follow in her footsteps, instead preferring to study academic subjects: history, geography, English. I tried to learn the art of needlework and sewing at school. I hated it! However, I managed to make a seersucker nightdress and an orange PVC cagoule, destined for my younger sister's birthday. Unfortunately, it was stolen from the cupboard when I returned after half-term.
Nowadays the modern woman has everything at her fingertips. No more tedious, laborious housework. Dishwashers, tumble dryers, microwaves - there are electricals to make life easier. No more making of clothes with sore fingers worked to the bone. Many different charity shops today provide for those who cannot afford new clothes, although many of the populace prefer to buy fast fashion new from the sweatshops of India and China. These sometimes fall to bits in a few machine washes.
Poor Mum's sewing machine now lies redundant, never to be used again. Someone somewhere may want to revive life into its sewing foot and the familiar "trrrrrrr" will be heard once more.
One day it will be an antique of the past in our digital, AI generated world of business and time and tide etc....
My spiritual haven. A place called Yondah by Roger Knight
Some of us are fortunate enough to have a corner of this world where we feel spiritually connected, uplifted and enchanted. A state of being where we really come to know ourselves, become bathed by the subliminal and experience perfect harmony within ourselves and with our surrounding environment that evokes these feelings and emotions in us.
Sometimes, we are unable to say why a particular place has such an effect on us. Perhaps it is the recognition of our imagined concept of paradise that dwells deeply in us.
For me there is an isolated beach house located on the tip of South Australia’s Yorke Peninsular, situated on 300 ocean front acres, with secluded sandy coves, dramatic cliff top walks and panoramic sea views to Kangaroo Island and the Gulf of St. Vincent.
Through the wheat fields that mobs of kangaroos bound across, a long track runs down towards the sea. In the grey-blue distance, the curved roof of the beach house can be glimpsed, and beyond it, the sea.
It’s the sort of scene that Andrew Wyeth would have loved to paint. The stark unspoilt beauty with its far horizons and soothing silence.
Already, I am enveloped in rapture, as my quiet desperation soon dissipates as I start to engage with my new realm.
But I don’t rule it, it rules me, and I am its grateful subject!
Some of us are fortunate enough to have a corner of this world where we feel spiritually connected, uplifted and enchanted. A state of being where we really come to know ourselves, become bathed by the subliminal and experience perfect harmony within ourselves and with our surrounding environment that evokes these feelings and emotions in us.
Sometimes, we are unable to say why a particular place has such an effect on us. Perhaps it is the recognition of our imagined concept of paradise that dwells deeply in us.
For me there is an isolated beach house located on the tip of South Australia’s Yorke Peninsular, situated on 300 ocean front acres, with secluded sandy coves, dramatic cliff top walks and panoramic sea views to Kangaroo Island and the Gulf of St. Vincent.
Through the wheat fields that mobs of kangaroos bound across, a long track runs down towards the sea. In the grey-blue distance, the curved roof of the beach house can be glimpsed, and beyond it, the sea.
It’s the sort of scene that Andrew Wyeth would have loved to paint. The stark unspoilt beauty with its far horizons and soothing silence.
Already, I am enveloped in rapture, as my quiet desperation soon dissipates as I start to engage with my new realm.
But I don’t rule it, it rules me, and I am its grateful subject!
By Tim Saunders
Three score years in ten.
That's the amount of time we can each hope to spend on this earth, according to the Bible. But it's so often not the case and so many lives are tragically cut short.
As a youngster 70 years seems a generous length of time when some days really can drag, especially when you're doing something you’d rather not be or you’re impatiently awaiting the arrival of Christmas or a birthday. But as we progress through the years and time shortens, if life is good to us, we want it extended.
“It’s a grand life, if you don’t weaken,” my late grandfather used to say. Many are guilty of taking their health for granted, though. When someone we know is taken away from us, especially at an unfairly young age, we might begin to appreciate our lives much more. Or at least we should do.
Award winning journalist and editor of Bournemouth Echo, Neal Butterworth was diagnosed with cancer and died aged 55. He had received an honorary Doctor of Letters from Bournemouth University in recognition of his contribution to journalism and raising almost £6m for good causes, too.
When Alison Fleuret (41) died she left behind her three year old daughter and husband. She was a friend to everyone. At her funeral there were so many well wishers that the crematorium was full to bursting. Others do not even make it this far. My sister Rebecca's best friend, Amelia, born on the same day and year as she was also died on that day, aged just 13 while family friend Max was only 18 when cancer cut his life short. Yet despite their brief time here these people have had a strong impact, touching many lives, including mine.
Others have the luxury of reaching and exceeding the allotted time. Centenarian Captain Sir Tom Moore raised more than £32m for the NHS before he passed away. Roald Dahl, the esteemed writer, died aged 74. Over 250m copies of his books, including Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and The Witches, have sold worldwide.
The older I am I count my blessings and am grateful for every minute of each day. Time is indeed precious and we must all make the best use of it because you never know when that clock will stop.
Three score years in ten.
That's the amount of time we can each hope to spend on this earth, according to the Bible. But it's so often not the case and so many lives are tragically cut short.
As a youngster 70 years seems a generous length of time when some days really can drag, especially when you're doing something you’d rather not be or you’re impatiently awaiting the arrival of Christmas or a birthday. But as we progress through the years and time shortens, if life is good to us, we want it extended.
“It’s a grand life, if you don’t weaken,” my late grandfather used to say. Many are guilty of taking their health for granted, though. When someone we know is taken away from us, especially at an unfairly young age, we might begin to appreciate our lives much more. Or at least we should do.
Award winning journalist and editor of Bournemouth Echo, Neal Butterworth was diagnosed with cancer and died aged 55. He had received an honorary Doctor of Letters from Bournemouth University in recognition of his contribution to journalism and raising almost £6m for good causes, too.
When Alison Fleuret (41) died she left behind her three year old daughter and husband. She was a friend to everyone. At her funeral there were so many well wishers that the crematorium was full to bursting. Others do not even make it this far. My sister Rebecca's best friend, Amelia, born on the same day and year as she was also died on that day, aged just 13 while family friend Max was only 18 when cancer cut his life short. Yet despite their brief time here these people have had a strong impact, touching many lives, including mine.
Others have the luxury of reaching and exceeding the allotted time. Centenarian Captain Sir Tom Moore raised more than £32m for the NHS before he passed away. Roald Dahl, the esteemed writer, died aged 74. Over 250m copies of his books, including Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and The Witches, have sold worldwide.
The older I am I count my blessings and am grateful for every minute of each day. Time is indeed precious and we must all make the best use of it because you never know when that clock will stop.
