the dreaming treasure ( presentation )

7/30/2019 THE DREAMING TREASURE ( Presentation )

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Dave McFather

THE DREAMING

TREASURE

xxxxxxx


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Dave McFather

THE

DREAMING TREASURE

SINOPSYS

A young couple travels by car around a lake in Marshland, within the Portobelo coast.

The tour they perform brings them several memoirs about an ancient treasure,

supposedly brought there by the Normans when founding a colony in Murtoyland, a small

town on the edge of lake Avia.

The treasure hunt begins guided by some old maps the protagonists carry with them.

However, will they ever reach such a treasure?


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NOTICE

Port Obal is the name of an ancient Phoenician port that is thought to have

been situated on the northern banks of lake Avia,

also known as Ria or the Haff.

In this narrative many names of places like villages,

towns and cities, are used but only a few of them are

coincident with the current or original name.

Merging Past with Present, the narrator makes the readers watching to ancient historic scenes

such as the invasion of Murtoyland by the Normans, who left forgotten treasures in those

territories, and presents the readers with a brief visit to the ruins of the ancient

Fort of Car Regal and to the lost giant Towers of the Ria.

The Marshland islands are a grateful stopover to the narrator and his girlfriend Michaela,

once it allows them to describe the animal and plant biodiversity on those Islands that currently

proliferate throughout the Haff due to increasing council

drainage interventions that are the source and the knot of discord generated by different political

ideologies in Port Obal and Aviarium cities.

Nevertheless the treasure left by the Normans isstillthere,

where the Normans left it, we are to assure you.

Question is: Who will be the lucky one to find this Norman Treasure?

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THE

DREAMING TREASURE

Chapter 1 - FIRST TRAVELS 6

Chapter 2 GOLDEN BEACH 12

Chapter 3 MICHAELA DAYS 16

Chapter 4 - MARSHLAND 24

Chapter 5 VIKINGS & NORMANS' WANDERINGS 38

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Chapter 1 - FIRST TRAVELS

HELLO!, my name is Titus Economicus.

I like to dream about treasures.

I indeed want to tell you about this Norman treasure, but first let me talk about my

school days, when I studied in Aviarium city. ( See map). To follow my narrative you should

time to time search on the maps annexed.

I remember, during my last year-term in Aviarium's High School, I used to go

hitchhiking with some friends who also decided to get involved in such a project. We agreed

to dress stylish academic garments from Coinbridge University. This kind of apparel was a

means and an end. A lift would show up on the first hitchhiking attempt of a harm stretched

over the road. Students dressed in academic style presented to their fellow citizens, as unreal

Round Table Knights. They were acknowledgeable small gods of easy speech, ironic and

mocking attitude, to whom no one should deny anything, to whom all doors should remain

open. They would be the future Lawyers and Doctors to whom everyone would sooner or

later recur. Weighing on their back, centuries of academic tradition should be respected.

Back in History, students would have had a pact with the Devil, were individuals of

all kinds of wired things, especially those who had been keen enough to sell their soul to

Satan, like Faust and Dorian Grey did, if you ever heard about them.

It is taken for granted that students unravel the mysteries of the world, because they

study it, or because they are the most free individuals with long enough holidays too ramble

around the planet.

Travels are every time a great source of information and experience. Those who are

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often absent from their home town and their families, or their tighten circle of friends, have

more opportunity to open the limits of their sights and minds. This is because what is new

reacts against what is old, forcing this last accepting its innovations.

All this was happening long before, me and Michaela ( my girlfriend ), knew about

the treasure, or even acquainted one each other.

So, I used to leave the beaded-iron-dark-green-grid the fence around my school

when Spring started creating some desire of freedom. Why on earth did I have to learn one

Language, one Religion, one History and, most of all, onePolitics!, in addition to all other

Sciences, which besides was, among everything else, a task against what, the spirit of any

good student contested, although not doing so by totally refusing it. We could accept to

learn as many languages and even as many axioms we were supposed to learn, even if

axioms start by teaching not to argue, in the first place. However, to be successful in our

future lives it became necessary to take languages and axioms by heart.

During my life as a student, I lived in a shared house a cottage with doors and

windows all the time very well maintained and painted, in a street by the High School. The

Landlady outstanding for her waxed floor, and, alas!, if her guests or even her children, put

at shoe or a toe, out of carpets inside ways!

To reach our rooms, we had to endeavour through a narrow corridor with access to a

staircase, covered by a red plastic carpet. Our rooms were a sort of tiny little closets which

walls leaned to some divans, tables and chairs. At the top of the stairs, in between rooms, the

common wardrobe.

By noon, we stood at the school's gate, shaking our heads, nodding, looking at the

sad marks obtained in the tests assessed and delivered by our teachers or cogitating about

having been invited during lesson to approach the blackboard. Beautiful object was, no

doubt, that black-heavy-slate attached to the wall, looking moreover like a sad night rather

than an object made of stone. It was a sort of consolation prize after the small framed slate

that we carried along with manuals in Primary School: instead of transporting it, we were,

thereby it, carried on during lessons.

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After school, by noon, I went home for lunch where I could immediately feel the

habitual chickpea-soup-ill-fated smell.

Sitting at the table, eating the bloody chickpea-soup and listening to the news, as

Radio Renaissance was all the time tuned up throughout the building. Portobelo's news

service was usually concerned, about events that just happened to occur abroad. This was

followed by a comedy of the preference of our hostess, a woman of dried breasts and

feelings who boasted her guests to be anaphylaxis, well treated, very clean and tidy. We

were a sort of pets, entrusted by our stupid mums to others of the same resemblance, who, in

turn, entrusted us to our teachers.

Our readings and hobbies contained affinities to some techniques used in treasure

discovery and excavations, so, as to operate on firm land and underwater, such as the use of

diving technique using bottled oxygen and mask.

In my Grammar School year 8, by remarkable coincidence, the ninesubjects that

comprised the curriculum for that year, were ministered by nine different young female

teachers. In the awakening of sexuality, spending the whole day listening to beautiful, well

dressed masters, chattering about numeracy and literacy was, indeed, very exciting. Staring

all day turning our eyes to the knees of some less prudish young governesses, or to be lucky

enough to glimpse the panties' colour of some less careful, was taken by all students of

class, much more attractive than to follow their chatter. So, it happened often that sit number

one in class portfolio, usually occupied by Adam, was the same way, often, disputed at the

Golden Buttons' Game, if not through playground fist fights.

But, at the end of the day, our mums were, as a rule, always happy enough with the

rough C marks we could grab from the greedy hands of our teachers.

When I started hitchhiking, wearing academic cap and gown, I was already somehow

showing a quite beardy face. I was an enough old big prick and decided to temporarily swap

the company of my usual co-Science companions for the most loquacious and intellectual

colleagues of Arts and Literature. When in the last two years of my high-school days, I

choose to move to a different guest house; the time I spent in the path I had to walk, after

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leaving the new residence to get to school, was longer and passing through the city centre.

This allowed me to keep tracking my companions even further in the way, when returning

from school, leaving them at their homes' door and continuing the journey in the company

of some other ones, until, finally, I reached home myself. The stores had not yet closed,

cafs were filled with customers, and I frequently preferred to delay in such environment

rather than going boring under the dim light atmosphere coming from the skylight of my

bedroom.

Not that often this wasn't the sole solution to redeem my laziness, when I entertained

myself drawing maps of far exotic lands, giving special attention to the scraping shape of

the sea coast or lacustrine lines, using Indian ink to pop out in relief the more characteristic

details.

It was by this time of my life that I resolved to begin, consciously, start travelling

round the country. By the finalists' tour date, me and my colleague Jonathan Euphrazius, we

rather fancied to travel on our own, to the unknown and sleepy city of Ullipseya, ( the city

of Ullysses ). After duly cherish at the city's centre, and try out its memorable city's centre

Lift and Subway, we made acquaintance with two Spanish girls outside a hotel. The chicks

showed up well on time. Immediately seduced by our magic cloaks, right under our dolmens

they accommodated and settled under our embrace. Ullipseya is a quite beautiful city but, as

well offering us two niceguapas, it was a hit! During those days we visited the best places

in the city, either walking down the main routes, or, climbing and descending alleys on its

mysterious neighbourhoods, listening to the city's best folk singers, listening to the Fado,

eating and drinking in the best typical city restaurants and taverns.

It also happened that one of my frequent stops was the city of Lehrida. I have some

friends in this town whom I use to meet, just for acquiring some quiet motionless ideas,

each time I return from my travels, or just when I feel like in the need of a bit of philosophic

discussion. Although, these friends are not any kind of intellectual blokes, instead, they

prefer to have some drinks and sing the Blues, or other countryside urban traditional songs.

It happens often we ended up evenings waiting the dawn while striking our viols and

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guitars. Most of the time was spent at T-Rex King Pena's home, light hearted and cheerful

artist from the 60's who spent the days drinking frequent shots of whisky and playing

electric guitar, with what he prepared himself for the band's rehearsals. These could extend

until late at night, especially when it required the intervention of the iconoclast,

say, sonoplasta or sound man, Mr Pine Hero, generally integrating circuits in other already

previously integrated ones. The contracts for the band were provided by show house

manager Mr. Tom Neck, an enthusiast on Progressive Bands.

This playhouse had three different floors, with a Coffeeshop on ground floor,

ballroom and tea house on first floor, and Casino on top floor. The tea area was especially

adequate to organize meetings or simply was a good place for isolation and study. It

contained a small library with volumes of literary discoveries relating to lands and other

holdings in Africa and on the far East Asian lands, aside the complete works of Verne and

Dumas. This was where I merged Science and Fantasy and studied old maps, redrawing and

memorizing them, however just taking a first glimpse of what could be the utility of such a

hobby. I was just a little fellow overwhelmed by Art and Literature.

*

.........................................................................

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Chapter 2

GOLDEN BEACH

GOLDEN BEACH was the place where I studied and defined the necessary paths to

achieve successfully extraordinaries expeditions in search of this graceful dreaming treasure

left by Normans and Vikings on Haffland.

But these were not just strategic or tactical situations related to such expeditions that

I was worried about. There were other philosophic contexts that also afflicted me while

visiting Golden Beach.

I could even found in those moments that to write or talk beyond what self-

experience can tell, is an act that shows as useful as talking about what we don't know or

trying to draw conclusions about matters that were never witnessed or understood.

The experience gained on every day tasks is multiple and diverse, making individuals

unique beings each one different from all others, due to imperceptible differences. But the

common background that is received by the various human groups, continues unabated in

certain periods of History, causing the spread of ideals, mass movements, revolutions and

wars.

To describe the processes extending from experience to its reflection, and from this

last to the summaries prepared by our own mind, and the actions of independent individuals,

or individuals acting in a group ... may, or may not be, the goal of this context.

To myself, walking through streets and places filled with happy and unhappy people

such things are commonplace, they can be part of this story.

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I walk over the pathways, I see people crossing by, greeting each other more or less

formally and I follow unpretentious, looking the gestures so often repeated and forever

fixed in the shop windows' glasses open to plazas and streets, such as ancient oil paintings

on large canvas, like spleens of another world.

Obviously, these strange cogitations that occurred to my mind in Golden Beach,

distracted me often from the issues related with the pursuit of the Norman treasure, that I

promised myself to enterprise the most soon I could. These ruminations of mine were

stronger than my own will and, in almost all countries, one can experiment this sensation.

Hallucinations, you may call it. That may have been, however, these ramblings stood so

relevant in my mind, I never deviated a grain from the main goal of my preliminary studies:

the certification and location of the Norman treasure.

Urban streets are obviously as well the houses and sideways. Houses are good for

almost everything these days: to live, love, work and die. Business houses are placed at the

economic fulcrum of all urban centres, from the most devious towns to those situated on a

great city centre, all of them having its doors open and shop windows displays quite filled

all the time.

Inside, clerks can be spotted with an upright attentive look, behind heavy wooden

desks or counters. They move in a small rectangular area in front of inside displays, are

slow and meticulous in their gestures, gentle in their manners, polite when greeting, kind.

They are as so, thereby, attending their customers ...

May I help you sir?- they use to ask.

All this I watched or remembered casually as I sat down at my usual table at a Caf

that you may as well know, from which windows one can overlook the seashore. At my

usual table, while remembering past situations, I entertained myself sketching maps and

planting on them the proper names of places to be sightseeing ahead. A thick volume of

Ancient History also accompanied me, where I analysed the routes used by those brave

Vikings and Normans in their assaults to the Peninsula, either by territorial incursions but

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also over sea routes that brought them to the Haff or led them to Lisbon, the El Garve and

the Mediterranean.

I simultaneously remembered a time when I used to buy almost every kind of things

that exist among the different goods every time on display; in whatever rare or less seen

item, I employed my money. With the passage of time, tired I became of buying such a large

host of gadgets on which modern bourgeois society exhausts its resources, I stopped,

exhausted the same way, as I sat on a stone mark by the street. Through it was passing a

group of young people who, at first glance, looked very strange to me, either because they

were not of my acquaintance and their gestures were out of the ordinary, the way they

dressed different from usual.

They were talking one each others in a loudly but frank mood.

Eventually I found that not all of them were entirely unknown to me.

Among them was Beau, a friend of mine. He was talking with someone who I

distinguished and had heard about, however vaguely.

By precaution, I reserved myself from formulating any idea about such a person

before experience and subsequent reflection of our acquaint could produce enough elements

to do so. It was all a matter of opportunity and, behold, the good opportunity was arising.

They all surrounded me, and Michaela was finally introduced to me. Extending

gently her hand versus person, she drew a smile that instantly cheered me up. But so tired I

was, that didn't even politely rose up from where I sat down and in this same attitude I

saluted her, taking her hand, feeling its warmth cooling down to my heart ...

..........................................................................................................................

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Chapter 3

THE DAYS OF MICHAELA

........................................................................

One evening, Michaela left me with two brief kisses. Her mouth just slightly touched

mine, her lips just hissed a word upon mine, the terrible word of delayed love nevertheless,

present. At the moment of farewell until a few days later the evening got, under the halo of

street lights, the tone of her pink soft wool hand knit sweater. And, like in a dream on a way

beneath the clouds, I returned home muttering the word that she whispered close to me. I

was loving her with a dire need for love but, as I just could meet her not before some days

later, I'd to be suffering the torment of her absence, with no lament.

''I know I will rejoice when I'll meet you again. I'll be happy again when I'll look at

your green deep eyes. I know I'll share lots of kind words with you, that I will remember

when the night will slide flooding my soul with solitude. I know I'll have the caresses of

your hands, the warmth of your mouth, the softness of your rosy cheeks. For some hours

along I'll behold your beautiful smile.

But, I also know that for each one of the things you'll be giving me, you'll be taking

with you some part of myself. That in between each time we glance each other, to a point

that, for a while, I'll fail to hear whatever is happening around, the sound of TV, the balls

shocking in the pool or even my own heart beat and my breath you will laugh of me, you

will mock of me.

To the guy there, some how younger than I, you will stroke his hair; to another one,

your long time friend, you will give your advice, yet to another, you will give the pleasure

of dancing with him; yet yet to another one, even if not of your acquaint, you will take

overflowing pints of beer.

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Then, I call you and ask you softly, in a whispering way: Why do you make me

suffer?.

Answering to my question, you will say: You are the only one to know ....

But, when the night will drift us away, when sleep will drag us down, I will return to

feel the warmth of your kisses.

Michaela went astray on that Saturday afternoon. She left away, taking the sun with

her. During her absence I boldly devoted myself making some scenarios, that I was

requested for the play. I spent the afternoon bending over the panels drawn on a large table,

surrounded by people who, at the Theatre building, was walking back and forth, circling

around me, pressing in the bustle of ending the scenarios. I also planned a mural to decorate

the room so it, could be later used, as audience and ballroom background.

The stage slowly built upon me while I recalled Michaela. I imagined her catching

the train, making a few minutes travel, getting off at the station in the next city. Who was

she expecting? A boyfriend? A friendgirl? I had asked her nothing about that subject and this

was the best I could do. Love tastes better when lovers know little about themselves.

Matters you are not aware of, can't make you jealous!, isn't that so? ...

Evening brought back Michaela to my arms. All the time the same rosy look on her

face highlighted under the moon in the dark blue sky. In her mouth was drawn a broad and

nice smile. Her black hair, her green eyes. A greenish transparent water eyes beaten by the

afternoon sun declining in the sky. I saw her appearing at the door leaving hovering above

her look those who were there waiting for her. I saw them all suspended from her look like

statues petrified by her gesture.

*

Michaela is lying now on a couch; I confine myself about her. I feel her soft lips

around mine, the velvet skin of her face against mine. I noticed that her eyes were

momentarily pondering about something. We kissed together at some length, during the

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brief time that the night still could offer us. Somebody were beating chips against a game-

board, others were simply making up or just telling stories to entertain each others.

Everything went a bit strange and apart around us and far beyond.

Finally, at Dylan's place, we tasted sweets and drank liquors, listened to the music

and burned incense. As if, suddenly, she had noticed me, as if just at that moment she

noticed I was on her side, Michaela, finally, gave me her hand.

At the end of the rose garden I can see Michaela's home, pink as the colour of the

roses in the garden. The weather is wet and just a blink of sun slides shows briefly off the

clouds. The green colour of the windows' frames in the houses around is the same green

colour of the trimmed bushes in the garden. It's a perfect time for gardening, a time for a

change in the urban flora. Men revolve the muddy and soaked malls, bending over their

tools and over the ground as they prepare for paving or landscaping.

Digging, they raise up their hoes and shovels what makes the ground vibrating

sensibly. Looking at her home, I compare the blows that the men fire on the floor to the one

that is hitting full in my heart. Without bothering herself a single moment about my

suffering that day, she greeted me wrong, she simply, moved into someone other's arms!

Shamelessly, in the presence of those who had testified our first exchange of kisses, our first

hand-in-hand, intertwining, barely expired two days on our first date, and there she was

nibbling the lips of another fellow, hiding both behind the sceneries that I had myself so

worried to paint!

She stared at me like the enemy during battle. She made me die of jealousy. That day

I slept badly. Morning awoke me sleepless. I shivered all night. I dreamed horrors awaken.

I tried a dialogue of reasons with my rival. I suggested we let her evolve between us

both, however neither me or him giving any access to her desires. In vain! My rival was as

passionate as I was and, if these episodes were occurring in the Rocambole's days, certainly

we would have beaten together in the open field. I saw her as a woman hurt in her dignity

that, in an access of pride, for having been so easily entangled by me, suddenly angry with

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herself, had plot that mis en scene in order to doge her persistent lovers.

Perhaps, as well, to test my love or may be simply just to enjoy the taste of other

mouths and tongs, like those of my more direct rivals. Who knows?

I have trouble in my sleep. I barely eat at meals. I'm sick! I suffer from nightmares. I

dreamed of a room in which centre was a tennis table. They both were seated, closing each

other, whispering ...

I entered the room looking for a book that I left astray in the rehearsing confusion. I

asked them if they'd not seen some book when they came sitting there. On that same minute,

from their mouths began to sort out dozens, hundreds, of small white balls jumping across

the room's floor which grew on me, creating white waves around me, with elastic crests

effects.

I'd to hurriedly leave the room. In return I was being chased by some of the small

balls that were implied themselves through the door's cracks that I kept quickly shutting

behind me, on my tail.

Once, I listened to a pianist pouring a bag of table tennis balls inside his grand piano

as he was beginning his concert. Under the action of the piano's hammers, the balls jumped

every time he performed musical passages, some of them sniping out of the piano down the

stairs of the stage, running towards the audience as they went being smashed by the

audience's shoes. Curiously, the sounds that dropped off, muffled under the shoes' soles,

were providedby the pianist, were an effective partof the musical piece.

*

I was two steps away from Michaela's home. Never having been there, I imagined the

building's inside. A small room at the entrance. Passing the room, bedrooms, bathroom,

kitchen.

I imagine her coming out of the shower, drying herself with a towel.

Now, she walks across the hall, wrapped in a bathing towel.

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Her hair's still wet moulding her neck, giving her a seductive tone. Gets in her room

where she starts to dry her hair, next putting on her some garments, making up herself.

*

I don't usually wake up early but, today, I got thrown out of bed not even yet

strucking 8 am. This is because some builders were working out hard on the neighbour

building's wall. It was a work that went dragging on for too long once the builder halted

construction works on several occasions. First, he built a garage over which, a posteriori,

built a first floor, putting the building for sale. As it was not sold as soon as expected, the

builder decided to subdivide the ground floor, intending it to be inhabitable too. The works

continue, therefore, its third phase. But today, even before noon, I must ask the builder not

to start so early hammering and chiselling because I have rehearsals and musical

performances during soires, and I need to sleep during a good part of morning. How to ask

him without hurting his susceptibility or expose myself to ridicule?

Ill enter the building. The door will be open, the floor covered with construction

materials some of them spoiled, others brand new. A mason opens a groove on the wall.

- Good morning!, I say.

- Good morning, Mr Economicus.

- Is the manager in the building?

- No, not today the worker replies

- I want to know if until the end of this week, could you be working not making use

of hammers and chisels?

- ...

As I relate to the tools in his hands, he stops a moment staring at them.

- ... I am busy with rehearsals and performances and have until the end of the week,

as my room is on the other side of the wall, there's a pounding, waking me up too early

everyday.

- I'll talk to the manager he said.

Well, then, thank you!

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Abandoning the construction site I return home.

If it happens I meet the manager through the cloud of dust and lime:

- Good afternoon, I say.

Good afternoon, Mr Economicus.

- Sir, I would like to ask if it's possible to stop hammer and chisel works on the

common building's wall during next weekend? ...

- ...

- ... once I cope with some rehearsals and performances coming.

-

- ... if possible ... please ...

- ...- If you can do me the favour ...

- ...

-.... ...

- ... Absolutely!, Mr Economicus. Dont worry, I'm going to worn my man.

- So, thank you very much, sir, and good afternoon, sir.

Good afternoon, Mr Economicus.

..................................................................

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Chapter 4

MARSHLAND

ACTUALLY, ME AND MICHAELA, ( also a great adventurer companion ), as we were

descending the valley by the river Volgila on the Sierra Da Lappa, we were leaving behind

us the old lands of Laffoons where we delighted ourselves with some small dishes of the

infamous stewed veal and the not less infamous pastries of Volgila, making a stop in

Serrazes, where we contemplated the famed Written Stone a rock with geometric drawings

of mysterious meaning wonder of the Portobelian Rock Art.

Following the road, we arrived by the Lake Avia where the Volgila river expands and

flows through two canals, to the lands of Moyra in the South and Port Obal in the North.

Two rivers flow into the Avia lake: the river Volgila and the river Certeem in a

common estuary.

However, in the northern wing of Lake Avia ( The Haff ) lands a small river that,

after crossing Port Obal and receiving the Great Grace Creek's running waters (see map ),

downstreams by the Time-Out-Rock-Caf, ( also called 'the Rocaf' ), a night club that

succumbed to the flames of a fire after the Carnival of 2008, without ever been clear the

contours of this mysterious event.

In contrast with the Community's Library, across the car park, now surrounded by

Rocaf's fences of barbed wire preventing its access, except at the main entrance, where the

gang that shifts on the park uses smoking cigarettes due to new laws passed to ban smoking

in working places ...

Following through the right wing of the Library's building and turning up towards the

Square of the Penitents where, turning left, one reaches the top of the Calvary to the back

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of the Market, known as the Calvary Hill, ( see map ), one quickly arrives to the new bridge

over the river Casper .

All the time flanking the right wing of Abel Andy's building, somewhere up to a

stone staircase, one reaches the traffic lights at Railway Station Garden.

This garden has a central-circular halo drawn in various colours, in accordance with

the passage of seasons showing different species of flowers which are, in seasonal

succession and human patience, there planted.

From this flowery circle depart four main alleys lined with leafy trees that provides

the necessary shade to the wooden benches that arise along the lanes, planted in alternation

with the trees. ( see map ).

This is where pedestrians circulate usually addressing to the old railway station.

This station is older than it should be. Trains are from the electronic age while the

station's structure remains in the steam age. The trains run through it, faster than the

capability information of notice and visualization, and the Doppler effect of a train that

moves through it, distract the passengers who are toddling on the platform, enough to cause

serious coma in relation to the sound of the next train, leaving users with their ears stunned,

all resulting in total collective disorientation.

People are traumatized and shivering, looking at each other, moving around like ants

to opposite sides from the the amalgamation sound epicentre.

Folks have already addressed the president of the Community to decide on the matter,

who said that there is little to say about Port Obal's old railway station that could end as a

multi-purpose space linked to culture or musicology instead of responding that the

solution should be in the construction of a tunnel from Womb Bridge to New Bridge,

(which, alias, is what folks would like to hear him saying). ( see map )

An alternative option, in order trains could run without stopping, would be an extra

via, therefore no tunnel was needed, and extra visa are there already, beyond the second

platform.

But this conclusion is an erratic one that has to do with the exaggerated inflection

that the cross would have to suffer because of the existence of the Felt Factory, and a tunnel

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would again be the solution, but again openings of tunnels are always likely to cause

collapse of nearby old buildings that's why somebody got the idea of constructing a

bypass to replace the old level crossing (now effectively closed), which afterall could not be

performed, it seems, cos of the ancient very valuable buildings like the mega historic United

Brasa Brothers ballroom building and the Armedand Rose boarding-house and equally, as

often cited, the famous Felts Factory, which has the special characteristic of being the only

plant of this kind in Portobelo.

All this goes against the Main Project at the Council, so beyond its budget that only

by the part of the Community would cost 6000 million sesterces. Now the Community nor

even one million has available, even to build a simple subway crossing below the level the

one in actual use, downstream of the railway line in relation to the station. The first platform

would descend in proper sloping ramp and steps, to the crossing point, and then ascending

to the second platform in the same way. The distance between the crossing point and the

station's entry is compatible to proced the necessary trigonometry. In this solution the station

itself would not have to be sent to such a condition of museology, predicted by the so said

Mayor of Port Obal.

Whether so or not, this gives us as much, because it's now summertime season, and

instead we preferred to go to the brewery house named 'La Miota' that serves quite popular

snacks.

There we found the owner, Mr Albert, very very busy making sandwiches according

to the standards required by the EU. We asked for a Recipe with sugar still we had to face

the cyclo-cross route across the Pontoon. ( see map )

After several cheers to the health of all clients and friends we disbanded outdoors and

cut through the infamous Station's Lane.

Another picturesque alley in this script, the Station's Lane, runs along the lateral wall

of the old and arquivetust building of College Juglio Egal Dennis. Honour made to the great

novelist who only accounts for his memory with a small bust erected downtown in the

Garden of the Fields, which is no longer the only statue built in Port Obal in memorial to

their emeritus, counting now for the same effect, with the monument erected in the Ancient

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Place of the Pond, which was ultimately not a place but just a pond, formerly called Poza,

built in memory to the international boxer Santa Cameroon; and the abominable statues

commemorating the local Carnival season in the BP's Petrol Pumps' Garden, and also the

bust of Clare of Aviarium in St Michael's Garden in Port Obal, so, Portobelo is the country

and Port Obal the town. Got it?

Even with respect to these centennial commemorative rock erections we will also

consider the megaliths of the Great Roundabout ( Rotunda ) on the the Variant Road and the

great pebbles scattered on the grass inside the hall of the Library that simple minded people

do not understand how was it possible to have end up there. But this is so, pebbles are

pebbles, and there is nothing to do about that!

It should as well be noted that the Garden of the Fields was, as well formerly, a pond,

known as ''The Fields' Lagoon'', and that in a epoch not too much recessed from the present

day, although not remounting back to Viriatho, but to all appearances, going back to the

birth of nationality, i.e., the times of Dom Alphonse Enriched.

This hypothesis, though contrary to the geological age of sedimentary strata, fits

however, in the timeline according to the Bible and even has in its favour, the recent

existence in the old property of the Necklaces Family Pond on the banks of the Haff,

opposite to the old pier the Stone Quay that, not even two or three decades ago, also

dried up for good. There would exist in this pond, if not Global Warming making its effect

since that time, some monsters, such was the profusion of fish and bighead toads that

abounded there, which would become in just a few decades, all in accordance with the same

timeline, into giant frogs to the delight of Normans and Britons who are the experts in

fishing and hunting such slippy anphybian.

Referring us back to the lately mentioned Railway Station's Lane, it runs parallel to

the old Juglio Dennis College, as said, bordered to the same extent by the famous Station

Wall, it seems older than the Berlin Wall, with the advantage of having not yet fallen

down. There are walls that resist! It doesn't even shows any vestigial of collapsing or the

like. There it is, like a faithful guardian of the old station. It extends to where there is an

ingenious metal wheel to get wagons around that were hasty in embarking flour at the mills

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and other factory counterparts, which brilliant and proud silos were, not so long ago, well

spotted from the bypass road, known as the Variant.

The lane narrows after this step with its wall always running to its right and a

degraded minihamlet skirting to the left.

The Lane begins showing faulty pavement patches and who is riding a bicycle has

here the chance to experience a sudden and profitable acceleration of the vehicle. But

beware !, might the course to reveal itself instantly treacherous and the most careful might

end trap onto a second wall, this last frontal, what will determine the 'twist in the tale' of the

race or a broken head of the rider ... right? You may have to hold very firmly the bike's

handlebars and tilt your arse to the right to enter the 'narrowing space', now, between two

very close walls, not much more distant from each other than the measure of a handlebar

iself.

The feeling is like you have entered a black hole.

Time shrinks, Space is reduced and Speed is infinite!

With a little luck you can reach the end of the Time disturbance created in those 50

yards or so. At the exit we feel as if emerging elsewhere in the Universe and that is as so if

we don't reduce conveniently the speed of our bike.

....................................................................................................................

Leaving our Nissan Sunny parked on the roadside, we took the small inflatable vinyl

boat, in which we placed two bladed-paddles, the metal detector and two pairs of tennis

rackets, because, as it's used to say, 'as you go to the sea, you better prevent yourself on

land'.

At the point where we were, we float the boat on the water very carefully, not to turn

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upside down its load that included a small meal consisting of pastries and other Vouzila's

delicacies spared from the previous day, and we paddled cautiously up to the Marshland.

Marshland is, more appropriately, the mantle of humus and vegetation that covers

every island, the same having appeared in greater abundance, during the drainage of the

main waterway in ancient times called 'the Carrier'.

Dredges threw the sediment muddy beds from the channel, randomly, onto the banks.

The vessel drew the sediments from the haff's botom and shot the sucked material, far

onto next to the lak's banks. The currents and tides were in charge of getting the rest of the

configuration, changing the bathymetry of water in the shallows, decreasing its quota ...

When we reached the edge of a marshland we anchored the small boat as best as we

could and we took out the equipment.

We crossed the small bush of reeds, bulrush and some branches of angustiofiliae

involving the small island.

This vegetation is populated by a myriad of beings that characterize these

islands. Walking through the reeds with our waterproof boots, we could observe, under the

water, seagrass meadows, where were some mullet small swimming, but also were rambling

and breathing some crick, crabs and clams.

Looking closer, and walking as quietly as possible, we saw many wading birds, gulls,

sandpipers, plovers, kingfishers and, of course, the usual and inevitable taylor-insects

waving upon the water.

Grebes, ducks, moorhens, and some flamingos fluttering in the distance.

As we move into the Marshland we note the decrease in water's salinity through the

change of vegetation that now predominantly consists of matrush (Juncus maritimus).

Dominated by freshwater occur more frequently plants of the family Cyperaceae

known as bulrush (Scirpus lacustris lacustris).

In the region of freshwater (high marsh), the terrain is more consolidated and, as so,

we could extend a towel on which we distributed our lunch, as we sat down to contemplate

the marsh's view as, happily, we shared our victuals.

*

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Not all the gold and silver captured by Normans & Vikingus were transported to their

native land, part of it would eventually be transported on several boats in the hidden cove

which consisted the Haff, out of sight of the sea lanes of the time between the northern seas

and the Mediterranean. These boats were led by Leif Ericson who entered Haff on about 865

with the idea of finding a good hiding place for his treasure. This treasure was to be called

'The Dreaming Treasure'.

On the lands surrounding the Haff, there wasn't, as today, any caves or mountains, so

that our browsers Vikings could only hide their treasure by burying it in shallow or deep

graves scattered in the grounds neighbouring the Haff, which was justified by the fact that

they intended some time later, retransport the treasure to better place. However, the Haffiana

cove the Ria seemed to them the most ideal place to keep the lot outside the reach of

French, Spanish and Arabic warriors.

This treasure was transported in amphorae, safes, and other similar receptacles of the

same kind, as pots, pans, jars or any other sealed cups made of clay or terracotta, amphorae

of ovoid form with two symmetrical wings, of round shaped bottom tip or narrow foot

whose typical use would originally be to store food and other consumption stuffs, such as

brine, like the Greek did, using them to keep liquids, particularly wine, but also oil, nuts,

honey, cereals, or simply water.

Everywhere in Portobelo, on the coast or near rivers, are daily found fragments of

these containers, although they may have been manufactured as far afield as the eastern

Mediterranean and Greece. The amphorae only began to be manufactured by the Lusitanian

the Portobelian ancesters later in History.

The cited envasements were filled with gold and silver in the form of coins of all

ages, including Roman coins and gold and silver objects of everyday use.

Where did the first coins came from?

There is no consensus on exactly where the first coins appeared. The most accepted

theory is that the coins arose independently in India, China and Lydia (region of modern

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Turkey) around the year 650 BC. As Indian and Chinese coins had no currency format (the

Indian silver bars were stamped by a competent and Chinese were shaped like tools such as

shovels, hoes, knives, keys) it's conventionally said that the first coins were archetypes of

alloys of gold and silver from Lydia. These coins had a lion on the obverse and an incuse

square on the reverse to show that the metal was pure, not just plated.

How were made the first coins were made in antiquity?

The old mint masters proceeded as follows: first, two specimens were prepared with

the coin designs in low relief constituting the 'intaglio'. After, one metal disc previously

melted, was heated and placed against a fixed hallmark on an anvil. With the aid of a

hammer, the other mark was slammed on the disc and the drawings were transferred from

the stampmarks for the coins. As this is a handcrafted process, there are differences in the

currencies caused by different dies used.

Is it possible to find old coins today?

Yes, you can. In ancient Greece, from the year 600 BC, and in the Roman Empire

from the Republic to the fall, all transactions were made through coins.

The volume of coins minted by these great empires reached biles of units. Weekly,

ancient coins are found in excavations in various European countries such as Italy, Greece,

France, England, Spain, Bulgaria, Turkey, Syria, Israel, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, India,

China, Tunisia, Egypt, and of course in Spain and Portobelo. These findings have been

occurring since the 60s, when it was invented the metal detector.

How did these coins survived to this day?

The economies of ancient peoples were simply placed inside clay jars or leather bags

that they buried in the backyard or in another secret place. When men went to war and died

in combat, the exact location of their property died with them. The coins made of pure gold

and silver have remained unchanged until they found, since these metals in the presence of

moisture gain an electronic protective cover, never oxidizing beyond that layer. Gold is

eternal and is therefore used as a monetary standard. Each country legally can only have in

circulation, a number of coins and notes in an amount equal to the amount of gold, silver

and jewels that are contained in its coffers or vaults. The countries that exceed this value,

enter into economic depression, due to inflation.

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As a friend of mine said, '' so, if there is lack of money, why not making more

money?''. However, the solution to get out of currency crises is not to make more money. It

will perhaps be to do better agriculture and producing better products.

Bronze coins suffered more over time, depending on the quality of soil where they

were buried. Coins found in a dry climate country tend to be better preserved than others

found in a generally humid country.

How much can cost an ancient coin ?

The price of an ancient coin can vary between 5 and 50,000 pounds, as a rule.

But it may also be worth millions of pounds.

Which currencies is worth to collect?

Greek and Roman coins are very beautiful. Jewish coins are a History lesson.

Chinese, Persian, Indian, are almost always symbolic.

Coins comprising the Jewish, Greek, Persian and Roman, are called biblic coins.

*

While Michaela was preparing the meal, I began to try the metal detector, around the

site where the dinning towel was already stretched, until the detector started beeping. Beep,

beep, beep ... faster and faster, over an earth's given area. It was a soil area of consolidated

mantle that I exposed by extracting some of the vegetation on it, in order I could dig it with

my bare hands. After rummaging the soil a bit more, I felt, between my fingers, a hard round

object.

Bringing to light the finding I could almost immediately see that it was an ancient

brass coin.

Eureka!, I screamed with joy.

What is it, Titus? asked Micaela very surprised, as she smoothed the towel while I

stretched myself on the floor feeling very happy.

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I think I found an ancient coin, maybe a silver or golden coin!''

I turned to the side where Micaela was standing, and opened my hand letting her eyes

looking at the gleaming currency in the sunlight.

Wow, that's luck!'' Michaela exclaimed. ''If you can find some more coins like that

one we can have our ''dredges theory'' confirmed, if besides so, it happens that the coins are

contemporary of the Normans or older that them, don't you think sweet Titus?'', she asked.

I continued applying the detector here and there, randomly, within the surrounding

area, and could 'catch' some more coins, all together six, of different sizes but with similar

gliming aspect. I drew from my pocket a small transparent plastic bag where I inserted the

coins, thinking that we might come back later with better equipment to resume the search.

But the best part of this expedition was yet to unfold

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Michaela spoted the sun, stretching her gaze on the shore and the road, which was

scarcely busy with some cars circulating and our Nissan Sunny parked.

The sun darted its generous rays over our heads and the Nortada ( North wind ) was

not manifesting itself very hard by what we could smoke a cigarette while we were

returning to our pleasant conversation.

Little frogs and toads were singing everywhere, all around.

A litter of water-rats the size of rabbits went across, racing, on our visual field.

The summer sky was smiling at us, young ones, stretched on our towels, with the

Marshland around, showing its favourite fauna and flora.

Two white storks flew away towards the other side of the marsh.

We had the idea of throwing some stones to a small pool on the other end of the

marshland island.

An unexpected splash of wild birds started and a flock of mallards rose in flight with

their near-near friendly guttural croaking.

Other exotic birds hovered in the air and it was then, suddenly, that the sun was

completely obliterated and it became dark.

Simultaneously, a giant toad, appeared in front of us (perhaps attracted by the

remains of our snacks), starting ominously, hopping towards the place where we settled.

Not quite a toad, but rather more a respectable animal, above the size of a wild rabbit,

with a toad's torso and a tail of a giant tadpole, wings and head like an albatross, from which

teethy and beaked jaws, released a powerful and tremendous Howl, an awful Howling ! ,

only comparable to the infamous Ron da Moyta ( the Bush's warewolf ), making the air

vibrating the reeds in the area where the rods began to whistle a shrilling and horrible

melody.

I recoiled in horror in front of this vision of the Supernatural.

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The giant toad-bird threw itself a leap into the air, driven by its long hind legs of a

giant toad, and, in the middle of the jump, ( in the point where things hang or hover ), it

flapped its wings, being able to maintain a horizontal flight for a few tens of meters, while

stridulus snoring, bulging its pisciform turbot eyes, echoing the sound of its howls over the

pine forests of St Hyacinth's Natural Reserve.

After losing altitude, it went crashing suddenly, on one of the ponds within the marsh

isle.

This Marshland's Chimera, has rarely been seen. Only a few reports have clashing

out of its existence and it's believed, according to the most advised scholars, that it

constitutes an unexpected genetic jump in the evolution of Marshland's fauna.

Was it some phenomena in animal evolution occurring here so early?

Was this a subproduct of the rapid evolution of animal kingdom that was processing

after the last dredging and sudden multiplication of the marshes?! ...

I imagined the dredgers working continuously pulling out the lakes' bottom and

shooting it, to anchor wrapped in bold seaweed, as volcano bombs falling on the innocent

marshes increasing its level above water, making their flights over veritable volcanic

mountains flown by these new stone pterosaurs, including lots of Norman coins, flying

together through the air towards the banks ... when I was violently shaken, and punched on

my back and my belly.

Wake up, Titus, mate! Look how the tide is going down!, Michaela screamed.

I woke up dazed, rubbed my eyes and stared around.

''Lucky thing to me, I dared not alone in this journey'', I reflected, while returning

from the pseudovulcanic Ria's hideous darkness.

I recovered in a hurry the scattered stuff on the hard dirt marshland's area where we

were lying and both of us ran to the edge of the mash but our response to the new

developments was a bit late.

Either the tide was empting or filling, what was ascertain, my friends, is that the

small boat presented itself irretrievably stuck in the mud!

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The water had receded a good dozen yards from the bank's line.

There was only one solution which patheticly was ... the tennis rackets we predicted

having to use if we experienced any delay in the return (as indeed we were to check) and

that we could use for moving through the mud, by comparison with what Eskimos do when

they walk on the snow using the same artefacts. Capito?

Please none of you laugh, ho, you, other late afternoon adventurers. If someday you

row to Marshland, remember that you might as well get confused with the Tide! ...

As having the coins recoiled in my pocket, we tied, as best we could, the tennis

racquets to our waterproof boots and we slipped to the boat over the naked mud the best we

could until the remaining water that the tide had kept had not yet eclipsed.

Just in taime ..., I murmured, with an Irish accent, such was my excitement.

Both now on board the vinyl canoe, we were paddling with great effort against the

downing tide. As we arrived to the margin, panting, we stretched on a sandstrip that was

showing there, like ancient Argonauts reaching the Hellespont's shores.

We escaped for good! Imagine what it would be if we had to spend the whole night in

Marshland?!

We would, of course, be eaten alive by vermin, or the rare 'birds' of this new

evolutionary line surely would swallow us ( together with the coins collected in my

pocket ), in the aftermath of the most recent dredging coming out from incompetent local

authorities and mayors who, being not able to solve the problem of Port Obal's Railway

Station, much less, at this distance, it seemed to us, were sure not able to solve the Avia

Lake's problem, all together.

The scholars that had been considering the Haff as one of the seven wonders of the

world to date, should, at this point, be writhing in horror when they see their ideas rolled

over on the floodplain.

But quitting is dying and we must be again on your way.

I packed our small treasure, subtracted from the marsh's soil, in a safe corner of the

car's boot, and we continued our travel.

.......................................................................................................................

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Chapter 5

VIKINGS AND NORMANS' WANDERINGS

....................................................................................

In their various stints on the Portobelo's coast as they headed for the Mediterranean,

sure the Vikings did caught in their sight the large estuary of Ria in which they entered

about 865 led by Eric Redneck.

Erik (or Erick) the Red (also known as Erik the Red, Red Neck or Eric Redneck),

was one of the famous Vikings in history, perhaps the most famous. He was born around

940 in Norway, however from there he was banished for having killed another Norwegian.

Erik was banished to Iceland, where he rebuilt his life with his family until the year 890

when, for unknown reasons, he killed another man and was banned again. Without being

able to live in Norway or Iceland, Erik and some of his followers went sailing for two years

to discover new lands, and as so he landed in Greenland. With the idea of creating his

kingdom, regardless of Norway, Erik returned to Iceland to get more people and founded the

city of Gardar and the village of Brattahlid. Gradually people were coming and Greenland

was inhabited more and more. His son, Leif Eriksson, who always helped his father,

introduced Christianity in Greenland, despite the strong opposition of this last. Around the

year 1000, he arrives in North America that he named Vinland (Violndia) because of the

wild vyniards he saw here. Erik died in 1000, leaving his son Leif Eriksson as his successor

in Brattahlid.

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Led by Eric Red Neck, the Normans navigated inside the Haff heading to Murtoyland

where they anchored. The ships' hulls had low draft and the Haff was deeper making the

navigation easy. Locals used the moliceiros (miniature-boats similar in style to the

Phoenician), with which they navigated searching for seaweed from the Haff's bottom, but

the Normans were not interested in seaweed.

A small fleet of boats from Eric Red Neck was carrying a chest containing the

product of some of Normans' loots and ransoms during their previous campaigns.

Eric's mission was to find a hiding place outside of Spaniards' and Saracens' routes so

that he could proceed with the concealment of the treasure they carried.

They arrived surffing the Haff northward's left bank, but the light that shimmered in

the air, reverberating on sand banks in Torrance, blinded the invaders who decide to switch

to the opposite shore-side, Murtoyland.

In the IX century, these lands were virtually deserted, not even Dom Alfonse

Henriched was yet riding on them. Just deserts of grass lawns and some few herbivorous

could be spoted on the Gelfa, a strip of sand dunes in between the haff and the sea.

Arriving in Murtoyland, Eric founded a Norman colony of which remains today just

the ruins of a cemetery.

The oldest document that refers to the village was found a century after the

establishment of Port Obal. It was referring to piracy practiced on a large scale in this part

of the coast by the dreaded Normans, who for two hundred years long crossed this coast and

became the foundation of a Norman colony in Murtoyland.

Here the Normans lived very happy on their Norman village, called Haffland, name

given by the Vikings to the area of the Haff northwards of the Ria. The area was explored by

Leif Erickson initiative from a settlement established around the year 800 on the north coast

of the Iberian Peninsula.

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The exploration of Haffland was performed by the Vikings, establishing colonies in

the northern Iberian Peninsula and motivated by the scarcity of resources that existed in this

region. The colonies were in some measure suitable for human occupation, but had

disadvantages such as wet weather, scarcity of wood (if you think, Dom Denis, an earlier

king of Portobelo, was not born yet ... ) as combustion material, construction of houses and

boats and as well the lack of available sources of iron. To remedy these shortcomings, Leif

Erickson, son of Eric the Red, founder of the colony, took the initiative to explore the

surrounding areas.

The first trips revealed promising discoveries in a continental climate relatively mild

and full of resources essential to survival, especially in the south arm of the Ria. Besides

Haffland (land of haffs and swamps), Leif Erickson also described Marmeland, and Hello-

Ville, reported in the sagas as ideal locations for livestock. Since it is impossible to travel

(except in summertime) due to the bad weather, Leif Erickson soon found advantage in

establishing a base for winter season in the region: Murtoyland was the name given to this

settlement.

The only historical source that mentions the colony in Murtoyland-Haffland are the

Norsen sagas. According to these texts, Haffland was founded by Leif Erickson, his brother

Mhalvado, and his sister and his wife, by the year 1000. The site was described as a small

village intended to serve as headquarters for expeditions that continued throughout summer.

Due to the absence of independent sources and Viking traces on Murtoyland, historians

remained sceptical of these narratives, classified by some scholars as fantasies.

The doubt vanished in the 60s, around the time of the opening of Vanilla Bridge

when a team of archaeologists discovered the ruins of a Norman cemetery of Norman

architecture in the area of the current Murtoyland ( Murtosa ) to the north branch of the

Ria. The site consisted of eight towers, of which three of them with room to accommodate

about 800 people, a carpentry workshop and a forge for iron extraction, a technology

identical to that of the Viking's ancestors. The carbon14 dating technique has indicated ages

around the year 1000. The location and characteristics of these ruins were in accordance

with those described by contemporaries of Leif Erickson and confirmed the veracity of the

Norman-Viking presence in the Northern Haff !

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One of the most striking features of the village discovered by archaeologists was the

lack of artefacts that usually accompany the Vikings. The excavations revealed only the

presence of 99 damaged nails, 10 nails in good condition, a preacher of bronze, a rattle, a

glass bead and a knitting needle. This slim archaeological finding is interpreted as deliberate

abandonment of the colony, which is supported by the narratives that tell the time when the

colony was abandoned after a few years of existence.

According to the sagas, Haffland had all the characteristics of a promised land, but

the ideas of exploration and colonization were abandoned, it seems, suddenly.

After the marshes being dried, the land became fertile, allowing in Murtoyland the

cultivation of various agricultural products including corn, beans and potatoes. The fertility

of the land is mainly taken from the seaweed within the haff's depths, using special boats

called 'moliceiros', activity that is currently endangered. In the difficult times over which is

passing the Portobelian agriculture, farmers have seen cattle on the fields of Murtoyland

affected by pleuropneumonia, a disease that has caused losses in their income.

The Dreaming Treasure has been for some time buried in Murtoyland, perhaps in a

place called the Mount, and was later transferred to Bueiro or perhaps in one of the

marshes to the north near Havanca, possibly in the Texugueiras or Bulhas strips.

It was transported by land or canoe and buried with the possible intention of being

retrieved when a new passage of the Normans with their boats heading towards Lisbon.

Finally, as the Haff is muddy and viscous since those times, might have happened

that the amphorae and chests in which it was shipped, have slipped by tectonic movements

and slipping of mud and water into the Haff's deeps and now find itselves after the

transformations caused by dredging in some of the marshes. It can come to the surface of

the water by new dredging or other holdings or hanging in some local fisherman's rake

whiling moving his 'moliceiro' (the typical boat already described) on the water surface of

the Haff.

..........................................................................................................................

Total pages ~ 150

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David Manuel Pais ( Dave McFather )

was born in Portugal in 1950. He frequented the University of Coimbra where he obtained a degree

in Science in 1975. Later, in 1980, he started working in his country as a Secondary Teacher until

2000, however emigrating to UK in 2002. In England he took several jobs including those of a

factory worker.

He went to Scotland where he accomplished a 'Returning to Teaching Course' in 2004. Back in

England he worked as a ''General Cover Supply Teacher '' for SELECT Agency, in several

Secondary Schools scattered around Cambridge area ( Suffolk and Norfolk ), such us,

PARK HIGH SCHOOL, THURSTON COMMUNITY COLLEGE, NEWMARKET COLLEGE,

CAMBRIDGE ARTS AND SCIENCE SCHOOL, ORTON LONGVILLE COMPREHENSIVE

SCHOOL, COMBERTON VILLAGE COLLEGE, DOWNHAM MARKET HIGH SCHOOL,BURY ST EDMUNDS UPPER SCHOOL, KENSTIMPSON HIGH SCHOOL.

He actually lives in England.

His works consist of Young & Adult Fiction,

based on Travels, History, Science and Fantasy.

Other works,

THE SUBMERSION OF THE HOUSE OF PAISHER ( A Global Warming Tale )

the dreaming treasure ( presentation )

Documents