I always appreciated fan mail. Some were like post from another dimension. Children who treated the existence of the Butter Mouse as an absolute fact, and sent questions asking about his house, and what he did for fun ‘after school’. Many declared they wanted to visit. I always responded with a signed picture to put on their wall.
Then you had letters from parents or older readers asking for writing advice, or to say thank you for happy memories. They often included craft or pictures created by their child. I always tried to write back. Sending replies was a pleasant way to spend a rainy afternoon.
My agent dealt with the final pile.
The envelopes sometimes had thumbprints on the back. These were mostly handwritten, with a sketch or two in the margin. Lines of scribbled text about mice, and how my books tied into theories on the devil. Or how the rodents they had talked to in real life screamed instead of went on adventures.
Looking at them made the base of my spine tingle, like I needed to go to the toilet. All went in the bin. But the authors must still walk the streets, perhaps thinking of my name, and my works.
I had a similar sensation within the shells of the houses. The walls were shattered egg fragments, but still high enough for someone to hide behind. Even through thick boots and wooly jumpers the air bit my skin. The graffiti was all signs and symbols. Teeth. Hair.
As a middle-aged children’s author I do not claim to be an expert on street art. But anyone who lives in a city knows the archetypal shapes and designs. Tags, swear words, the odd political message. The paint dated in Snaca Holt was tribal. Everything ran along a similar, animalistic theme.
My pace quickened for the rest of the walk. All these broken, vandalised houses had sorrow dripping from the flaky cement. The trees rustled, and from somewhere over the hill was a crunching noise again, like something pushed through the undergrowth. I considered sprinting the last half mile. But by the time I got to the car, I was not sure if everything had overwhelmed me, and I was being a bit foolish.
I am not sure if i can recommend Snaca Holt. At the very least this is not a place for young children with all the broken brickwork around. However if you are looking for something different, you can at least visit somewhere with a story to discover.
::I may have held back a bit on how scared I was here Barbara. This place was not right. Whatever was out there in the woods got so close at points. I am sure I heard breathing.
I’ve put some highlights on the photo to point out the more interesting pieces of graffiti. The colours are bright, but I am sure you will agree that doesn’t look normal. I’ve also circled something on the horizon. An animal maybe?
I cannot wait for you to read this. It will be nice to share this with someone else. A bit bottled up at the moment.::
