I will rip his arm off and beat him to death with the bloodied stump

My mum has been visiting me in Malta and I have loved our long walks and chats. It is such a blessing having her here and at almost 85 she has indomitable energy. I have enjoyed her company immensely, except for her wiping the floor with me in the game, Rumicube. If you haven't played this game, do yourself a favour and your family,  buy one now. She particularly enjoys beating my husband, at this game, as he hates to lose and is always ridiculously upset when she has a victory. His rage brings a smile of sheer contentment to her face.

On one of our long walks, we were late getting back to the flat. It was getting dark and the road home was blocked with a crane and trucks so we took a narrow dark back alley instead. It was only when we were halfway up I became aware of the darkness, lack of lights and total isolation of the lane. Suddenly, out of the darkness, an African man appeared. He approached us in an oddly agitated manner.

I have to explain here that I did many years of karate at university in my youth and this created an illusion for my mother that I was invincible in hand-to-hand combat. When my cousin and I were teenagers we headed off with backpacks across Europe. She told me she never worried about us because of my karate! This was a total misconception. Years later on the Isle of Wight, in England, I joined a self-defence class which was full contact. This is taught me many things. 

That all those years of karate, where you just touch your sparring partner softly, are light years away from the reality of a hard punch or kick. It showed me that even a tiny man is usually much stronger than the largest woman. I bruise easily and so my weekly defence classes resulted in me looking like a particularly bad domestic abuse victim. Colleagues at work would not believe otherwise and one hissed venomously to me in the toilet to “leave the bastard!” Before washing her hands and exiting the room.

Ron, the instructor, was outrageously vicious. Demonstrating how most women, when strangled face-to-face with the perpetrator, would instinctively try and remove the hands clenched around their throats. Ron screamed in irritation. 

“He is cutting off your oxygen and you're scratching his hands uselessly! Begging him to let you go with your last breath.”

 He glared at the class and particularly at the woman members. 

“You still think you can win by appeasement! Well, you can't! By thinking like that you get too badly injured to do anything. Most men's instinct is to fight for their lives, women hope they can talk their way out!”

He then demonstrated that instead of flailing at the hands clenched around your neck, you should instantly jab two fingers as hard as possible into the assailant’s eyes. His two finger strike straight to the face of his opponent (stopping just centimetres from the eyeballs) had all of us women screwing up our faces in distress. At this, Ron launched into an excited rant, 

“You see, you’re all thinking, you couldn't do that to anyone. It's too vicious! But if your life depends on it, get vicious!  Get angry fast, it could save your life!”

“If you're in a dark lane and you hear footsteps from behind keep walking, keep close to the right wall. That way the attacker has to come to you from the left side. Now, you need to get angry fast. Imagine the bastard has murdered the person you love most in the world. Feel the adrenaline surges as your anger grows. Then, when he actually touches, you strike hard as if you want to kill them. Strike and run. Imagine you've only got one shot, so make it hard. They'll be expecting shock and fear from you, not rage and anger.

I practised imagining the assailant had just hurt my mum and when my sparring partner grabbed my left shoulder from behind I turned on him like a banshee (~wild Irish woman) cursing and punched him on the face with a roundhouse swing that felt like it came from all the hatred I could muster. Ron had been impressed, I had been shocked at myself and my sparring partner sported a huge mark on the left side of his face. I was also riddled with guilt. Obviously, my powers of imagination had been a little too excessive.

So here, 20 years later, I was in a dark lane with a potential assailant and my tiny sweet 84-year-old mother was at my side. Ron’s training flashed quickly into my mind. If he touches my mother I thought, I will rip his arm off and beat him to death with the bloodied stump. Adrenaline surged, I clenched my fist, prepared to bite his nose off. I was even prepared to do a bit of Ron’s eyeball poking!

Meanwhile, the African guy kept asking us to take a piece of pizza that he held in a box in front of him. My mother was calm but insisted that she already eaten didn't want anything but smiled her gratitude. I'm thinking my poor innocent mum has no idea of the danger she’s in. She's never been hit, never raised her hand to another human being. What sense can she make of all this? It's up to me to defend her, this is the moment Ron warned me about. To be ready, to be angry, the minute he touches her, he's a dead man!

Then tears started streaming down the guy’s face.  He says he's from the Sudan. His father died five years ago today.  He doesn't want to eat alone he wants to share his meal with us in memory of his father. We are standing in the dark lane and he's blocking our way offering a piece of pizza. I'm still thinking perhaps this is a ploy. Are there others waiting in the darkness to attack us. Friends of his? Blocking our way, he's probably keeping us here until they attack!

My mother moves in and hugs him in a wide embrace. I'm so expecting violence, I am completely thrown. She holds him close and suddenly I can see the genuine sadness and loss on his face. He wipes his tears with the back of his hand and my mother says he must come to our house and eat with us. She instructs me to give him my card so he knows where to go. I give him my card he shakes my hand politely and disappears into a nearby rusty metal doorway.

We walked the short journey home. My mother comments gently,

“What a nice lad that was! It is sad he's lost his father. It's difficult to be alone in this world far from loved ones.”

 I can say nothing I am exhausted by all the rage and adrenaline. Having too much imagination is a draining traumatic affliction.

Tolkien - life, myths, books, legends

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien (1892 to 1973) was a professor and English writer best known for his fantasy works The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings and the Silmarillion. He taught at Oxford university.  

He was actually born in South Africa and when a very small child was bitten by a very large Baboon spider in his garden. (Perhaps giving him the idea of that seen with Frodo and the spider!)

Baboon spider

At the age of three, he was on a visit to the UK with his mother when his father died in South Africa of rheumatic fever. This loss left the family without an income and so they moved to Birmingham in the UK where they would be close to his mother's parents. He had an aunt Jane who owned a farm called Bag End. (Could this be the inspiration for Bilbo's home?)

Bag End

The more one reads of his childhood and life the more it becomes clear how much he used all his experiences, including the spider, in his literary works.

His mother, Maple Tolkien, home tutored her 2 children and found that the young Tolkien showed a propensity for languages, such as Latin, at a very early age.  Unfortunately, Mabel died of diabetes when Tolkien was only 12. It would be another two decades before insulin, a treatment for diabetes, would be discovered. In Edgbaston, Tolkien lived close to Perrot’s Folly and Edgbaston Waterworks.  

Perrot's Folly

Towers must have had a big impression as they two seemed to crop up in his tales in slightly different forms.

Tolkien was also very interested in the romantic medievalist paintings of Edward Burne-Jones. 

In his early teens, Tolkien invented, with his cousin, a complex language called Nevbash. The second constructed language he created was completely his own, Naffarin.  As well as making up new languages he took time to learn Esperanto. After university, he went with a party of 12 friends to Switzerland and hiked from Interlaken to Murren. 

He spoke of this grand adventure with much joy and the scenery would have been startlingly similar to that which would be experienced by Bilbo passing through the Misty mountains.  

Tolkien was in the British Army during World War I and served as a second lieutenant responsible for commanding enlisted men from the industrial heartland of Lancaster. As he later lamented,

"The most improper job of any man is bossing other men. Not one in 1 million is fit for it, and least of all those who seek the opportunity”.

He was at the battle of the Somme in July 1916 and came down with trench fever from the ever-present lice in the trenches. Token’s battalion was almost completely wiped out in the brutal battles while he recovered in a hospital in England.  (Lice caused 15% of all sicknesses in the British army at that time). Many of his closest school friends died on those bloody muddy fields. In fact, he said by 1918 all but one of his closest friends were dead.

Token translated Beowulf in the 1920s and gave an acclaimed lecture entitled ‘Beowulf: The monsters and the critics’.  Tolkien insisted that this poem was not just

‘a mine of historical data into which some fantastical monsters have inconveniently strayed but a work of art in which the monsters are foils for an entire cultural attitude to life, death and courage’.

The ancient story begins and ends with a funeral and is an epic old English poem of 3182 lines. It is probably the oldest surviving poem in old English and one of its most important. A manuscript found of Beowulf has been dated between 975 to 1025 A.D. and is found in the Nowell Codex in the British library.  The oral tradition that this manuscript recorded dated from much earlier, and it is believed to have been composed between 700 and 750 A.D.  The poem mixes fiction with 5th- and 6th-century history.  The tale of monsters and battles has an epic timeless quality and would have been recited in huge halls for centuries.  Beowulf mentions characters like Ohthere (530 Ad) and his son (575 AD) and their graves have subsequently been discovered in Upplands, Sweden.

The mount at Lejre on the left has been excavated showing epic finds but the other mound on the right has not yet been examined. Who knows what more finds lie beneath?

In Denmark excavations at Lejre have revealed that a hall was built there in the mid-six century, exactly the time period of Beowulf (Beowulf mentions kings of the Skjöldung dynasty) and where Scandinavian tradition said it was. It is now thought that much of Beowulf is from real historical characters from six century Scandinavia. John Niles, a former university professor and an expert on the Lejre site, said that researchers in the area have found now evidence of a series of great halls dating between 550 and 1000 A.D.

Beowulf is written in a language that sounds very much like Tolkien’s Elvish tongue.  Tolkien would enter his lecture room, at Pembroke College in Oxford reciting Beowulf loudly in its original tongue with dramatic power and effectiveness. W H Auden once wrote to tell him “what an unforgettable experience it was for me as an undergraduate, hearing you recite Beowulf. The voice was the voice of Gandalf.”

Pembroke Hall, Oxford

Tolkien spoke many languages including Latin, French, German, Middle English, old English, Finish, Gothic, Greek, Italian, Old Norse, Spanish, Welsh and mediaeval Welsh.  No wonder when it came to making up new cultures and languages and traditions he found himself peculiarly equipped for this fictional landscape.  

Years later during the Third Reich, a German publisher wrote demanding to know if Tolkien was of Aryan extraction, in other words, non-Jewish in order to permit publication of his book in Germany.   Tolkien wrote a cold response correcting their misunderstanding of what Aryan actually meant.  Who better to clarify their erroneous perspectives than this gifted and creative professor.

“Thank you for your letter. I regret that I am not clear as to what you intend by arisch. I am not of Aryan extraction: that is Indo-Iranian; as far as I am aware none of my ancestors spoke Hindustani, Persian, Gypsy, or any related dialects. But if I am to understand that you are enquiring whether I am of Jewish origin, I can only reply that I regret that I appear to have no ancestors of that gifted people.” 

For a long period, after writing some of his earlier books, he got tired of writing about Hobbits.  He felt had covered everything in The Silmarillion in enough detail, which had not met with public acclaim.  His publisher pushed for something more like the Hobbit again but Tolkien had lost interest in the topic.  Then decades later his son was sent to the front lines in the second world war and Tolkien began sending instalments to him, set in Middle Earth.  Tales of courage, heroism and danger, fear and suffering with long hard journeys that ended up in his famous book, The Lord of The Rings.  I like that Tolkien became more not less forgiving of others in his old age as this quote of his indicates.

“For myself, I find I become less cynical rather than more--remembering my own sins and follies; and realise that men's hearts are not often as bad as their acts, and very seldom as bad as their words.” 

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien

In creating new races, legends, languages and history he never forgot to embed messages in his stories that are epic, timeless and touch the spirit.

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

"Song of Aragorn" from The Lord of the Rings by Tolkien