Gary Strachan – "Write" Said Fred
Whimsical observations from deep within an erratic mind
After last night’s pleasant evening with my beau Sarah’s family at a Batley restaurant, this afternoon I’ll be Scarborough bound, once again taking up domicile at the site where my campervan currently resides. Footnote – Before proceeding, please take time to absorb the prose in paragraph one… After all, it will be one of the... Continue Reading →
1st August 2023 - Whether they are bah t'at or wi' t'at, I'd like to wish my fellow Tykes a Happy Yorkshire Day. For the uninitiated, confused over this tattery of which I speak, I'm referencing lyrics within the unofficial Yorkshire folk anthem On Ilkley Moor Bah T'at. The refrain telling of a Tyke's trials... Continue Reading →
As a stickler for adhering to old wife's advocacies, GJ Strachan faced an (admittedly small) conundrum yesterday afternoon. This infinitesimal poser manifesting during discussions with a friend about 1970's UK punk band The Sex Pistols. The episode playing out when he asked if I can recall the title of Pistols’ only studio recorded album. Despite... Continue Reading →
If asked, I would back myself to be able to pen a vignette on a variety of topics. Ordinarily, all yours truly needs is a sight, sound, redolence, or some other stirring of senses to spark creative juices into life. With this in mind, it won’t surprise you to learn, currently journaling accompanied by picturesque... Continue Reading →
Sitting in the bosom of an east Yorkshire campsite, the chirp of birds (of an unknown species) accompanies this prose litteraire. When I say the birds are of an unknown species, I’m referring to the fact GJ Strachan isn’t party to the specific avian breed. Not that I have stumbled across a ne’er before identified... Continue Reading →
Spending time living in the great outdoors, your back hair being blown evocatively by a summer zephyr, can be wonderful fun… Unless, of course, you don’t have back hair. In which case my heart goes out to you for missing out on such brio. With the above in mind, my owning of a campervan, along... Continue Reading →
In my last blog I wrote of a campervan breakfast of singed crumpets and coffee at a scenic campsite on Scarborough’s periphery. The bakery fare smeared with my ‘go to’ toast topping of Marmite; a vegemite wonder which, along with a strong coffee, often jumpstart GJ Strachan’s dormant morning tastebuds. While eating the petit dejeuner... Continue Reading →
Mid-summer 1971 - Recently enveloped by imposing thunder clouds, the West Yorkshire skies darkened as a babe in arms, later to be known as ‘The Rebellious One’, makes her inaugural appearance on this dysfunctional planet. The arrival not a virgin birth, or consequently marked by a reverential visit by three wise men. Not too big... Continue Reading →
As I commence penning these observations, I am sitting outside my campervan on the periphery of the North Yorkshire seaside haven of Scarborough. Situated within a pleasant camping park, the surrounding areas provide an aesthetically pleasing accompaniment to my literary toil. I am unsure of the specific names of the rolling tree lined hills bestowing... Continue Reading →