Simon's Diary Volume Two Ideologies and Beliefs

By Simon Mark Smith

More laughter, tears, and psychological and philosophical insights from the author of Simon's Diary Volume One - Love Hate and Knowledge. This volume continues Simon's story as he prepares to leave school and home. Simon of the 2010s and 20s also makes an appearance with significant issues. As in Volume One, we also discover the fate of his relatives during World War Two, revealing the roles of both war criminals and, post-war, Mossad.
As for ideologies and beliefs, the themes are many and varied. From KGB agendas in the 80s to scientific truth, corruption, the supernatural, jealousy, fairy tales, humour and political correctness, cruelty, bullying, intersectionality, racism, disability issues, karate, death and legacies.
If you're looking to stimulate your mind with maverick ideas while being emotionally moved by stories and characters who you'll remember for the rest of your life, then brace yourself for another ride. But don't forget, reading Volume One first is highly recommended.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Mark Smith
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781738520237

Simon Mark Smith

Simon Mark Smith is a singer-songwriter, painter, digital artist, photographer, writer, teacher, and karate-ka.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Ideologies Part 1

A Zen student once asked their master, What happens after death? The master replied, I don’t know. The student, taken aback, exclaimed, But you’re a Zen master, you must know. The Zen master smiled, and answered, Yes, but I’m not a dead Zen master.

Introduction

It’s almost 1 am on the 21st of September 2021, I’m listening to Laurie Anderson singing ‘Baby Doll’ on Spotify. It’s a song about her brain having very different ideas from those she would like it to have.

The summer of 1982 saw the end of my first year as a sixth former and it was time for me to think about what I’d want to do after leaving school in about ten months. I was interested in psychology and philosophy, and besides I thought they’d help me sort myself out too. There was a Psychology and Philosophy degree course available at Leicester University and as I read through the prospectus, I imagined myself living there. As far as I was concerned this was going to be my destiny. Given I tended to be sceptical about most things, even at 17, I should have been ready for what fate had planned, but I wasn’t.

Chapter 1 - Part 1

Home Life – May 1982

In TV dramas, after people have arguments, they talk about it, then soon after, the problem gets resolved. Well, either that or they kill each other. The fact that the killer-type ones are more popular says something about human nature. For most of us though, here in real-life land, when it comes to family issues, we rarely get to move on so smoothly but instead, find ourselves caught up in repetitive cycles of dysfunctionality.

John and Mum had been married since 1977, so we were almost five years down the line and still, nothing had been resolved between us. At most meals, there’d be an argument, and everything I did became an opportunity for John to have a go at me or Mum. I am sure there were times when I deserved it, and in a way, I feel sorry for John having me as a stepson, but none of us seemed able to find a way forward. Most people go through a process of ‘forming, storming and norming’ but for us, the storming became the norming.

The more John had a go at me, the more Mum would take my side, and then John would have a go at her. Even chatting to each other became something for John to criticise. As much as Mum and I had our issues, we were easy in each other’s company, and would often have a good laugh together. Unsurprisingly, the more intense the issues became between John and Mum, the more distant they became too.

It’s easy to look in from the outside now and recognise the dynamics that made their relationship worse, but at the time, none of us had the wherewithal to do anything about it. As a consequence, I started reading psychology, philosophy and religious books in the hope of finding an answer but it soon became clear, that there weren’t going to be any, well not any time soon, and if there was a quick fix, it probably wasn’t going to be a legal one.

John’s family were very prim and proper. For them, there was a far greater consciousness of there being a public persona than either Mum or I had. Given Mum’s family had been similarly reserved, it’s hard to work out where our lack of concern came from. I’m sure we had our version of being worried about appearances, it’s just they were different to John’s.

There was a café called The Manor Bakery that I’d sometimes pop into on my way home for a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. Not only did this feel very ‘grown up’, but it meant I could avoid eating at the argument table. One day I sat down in the café and tentatively tucked into an egg custard when John walked past. He saw me, came in and had a go at me in front of the staff and other customers. The whole humiliating experience put me off egg custards for decades. I hadn’t exactly been that keen on them in the first place; I’d only had one then because it was on special offer and I was hungry. It was all very unfortunate, but at least nowadays a lot of cafes sell Portuguese custard tarts, (Pasteis de nata), so things worked out okay in the end.

Anyway, back to the haranguing. When I returned home it continued right on through the evening, eventually climaxing with John blaming me for the breakdown of his and Mum’s marriage and for good measure, he added I was mentally weak. That was a phrase I found a little confusing, which might have proved his point. Did he mean I was academically thick or just weak-willed? I thought it best not to ask him for further clarification, so I took shelter in my room, but every time I heard him moving around downstairs, I’d go into the bathroom just in case he’d come up for another go.

Compared to a lot of people’s relationships with their parents, this was nothing. John didn’t beat me, and I had shelter and was fed, but I wasn’t happy, and couldn’t wait to leave home. I expect for him the feeling was mutual, although when I did come to leave home, they didn’t separate. However, for both of them, there was a bit of a resigned acceptance when it came to their relationship.

1982 - Wilson’s - How to Make Love to a Man

One morning I came into class with a book called How to Make Love to a Man. Within a few seconds, everyone started calling me gay, but instead of getting defensive, I read some of it out loud. Everyone went silent and didn’t want me to stop. Likewise, when I read some of it to a group of friends on the bus home I gained quite a large audience, including a few non-school-age co-travellers, some of whom didn’t get off the bus till I did.

Autobiographies

I acquired several books from Sutton Library’s book sale in 1982. One of them was an autobiography called You Should See Me in Pyjamas written by Robert Giddings, who was a broadcaster, writer and teacher with a disability. This was probably one of the first books I read which touched on disability-issue-based politics. Even the title was a statement about how people’s expectations of disabled people tend to be very low. At the time, I often experienced a similar reaction to my disability, which I called, ‘The Bloody Marvellous’ syndrome. No matter how trivial a thing I did was, people would tell me I was Bloody Marvellous. I didn’t knock them for doing so as it was understandable, especially if they hadn’t had much contact with disabled people. But the downside of it was they’d underestimate me, which also meant they’d think less of me too. As far as I was concerned their opinion had little to do with who I was, but it was still something I found annoying.

When friends first suggested I write about my life, I thought of Giddings’s book. When it comes to autobiographies, if you’re not famous then you better have an interesting story to tell. Being disabled kind of gets you a free pass but I didn’t want to focus on disability too much. As far as I was concerned the message I wanted to put out regarding disability was everyone is different, and in many ways, mainly bad ways, I’m very normal.

There’s also something else to consider about autobiographies, it’s the format they’re supposed to follow. I’ve read a few lately, well most of them were audiobooks but that still counts as reading in my book. Having the writers read their work to me also added an element of intimacy, an intimacy that reminded me of the first HiFi we had at home. It had speakers that were covered in a material reminiscent of the screen between the priest and confessor in the confessional. On one side of the screen I sat listening, while on the other Tom Jones confessed to me that he’d killed Delilah, Elvis kept rushing in, Bruce liked open riverside sex with Mary and got her up the duff, and Phil Collins could feel it coming in the air, and then, rather aggressively seemed to beat the crap out of something, somebody or himself.

Decades later it’s a different speaker cover and they’re not singing but telling their tales, but still, it’s the same dynamic. This time Phil seemed to be searching for forgiveness, while Fenella Fielding purred her way through a life of understated reactions and ‘marvellous darlings’, whereas Bruce, well, Bruce just laid it out like one of his songs, there was darkness, foreboding, fear and love. The lessons they learnt, the funny tales they told, and the emotional connection between themselves and all of us; that was their form of autobiographies.

Then there was Carl Jung. For him, the incidents of his life were barely worth mentioning; what was important were his thoughts, beliefs, and spiritual growth. Even within the first chapter, he spoke of childhood dreams which I recognised I’d had too. (Something small in the distance gradually approaching, getting bigger and bigger and eventually overwhelming us dreamers, he and I, with fear). And later there was his, and my own, attraction to lighting fires.

What they all said to me was, You’re not alone.

So, here I am, someone of little significance in the grand scheme of things, writing an autobiography that seems to have veered a long way away from the traditional path, and in this chapter, I’m writing about ideologies and corruption. But is what I’m up to a corruption of what an autobiography is supposed to be, or was the definition a bit too definite in the first place anyway?

2020 - Living the Dream

I recently wrote a song about the person who commissioned the building of the house I live in. The first owner was a woman, well, it says something to that effect on the deeds. Plus, one morning I woke up suddenly and saw a woman’s face looking at me from behind a door and when she realised I’d seen her, she looked startled. It was probably just a waking dream, however, for some reason, I got the feeling she was the original owner of the house.

Whether she contributed to the design of the house or not, at some point, it was, in a way, a house of somebody’s dreams. I mean, after all, someone had to imagine it before they drew up the plans. The same could be said of Roundshaw, the estate I lived on from the age of seven to twelve. As far back as the 1920s, artists and architects formed ideologies about people’s lives being improved by the buildings they lived in. These architect’s dreams resulted in better lives for some and nightmares for others, but either way, the reality rarely lived up to the expectations of those ideologically inspired designers.

As I became more aware of ideologies, I couldn’t help but have a very cynical reaction, especially when it came to human nature having any involvement. Was this in part caused by my experience of living on Roundshaw, and if so, did this mean someone else’s ideology had impacted my vision of the world? Ideologies create realities that in turn, affect ideologies.

I’ve often come across people debating the merits of one ideology over another as if a logical argument could lead us to a single correct outcome. However, the influences that form our beliefs and values are so varied and subtle, that there’s very little chance of us ever meeting eye-to-eye with those who’ve had very different experiences. So, when people declare we don’t need borders, boundaries, or fences they seem to be ignoring that these barriers are not just symbolic lines, but the external manifestations of internal worlds whose borders were in part created by very different worlds.

Historically, religious denominations tended to be the main cause of conflict within borders. In recent decades, Western societies have experienced internal divisions on an unprecedented scale where physical borders no longer constrain ideologies. The Internet, mass migration and multiculturalism have all seen to that. Ideologies divide people to a far greater extent than borders do, but what borders do allow for, however, is the easy identification of different sections of society constrained within them. Borders don’t have to be defined on a map, they can be found in the words we say, books we won’t read and uniforms we don’t even realise we’re wearing. There will always be borders as long as there are people who don’t meet eye to eye on everything.

2020 - Turning Japanese

I have been studying Japanese for several years. I don’t have my father’s gift for languages so I’m still only a beginner. The reason I mention it is because the mindsets behind the evolution of Japanese and English are so different. Efficiency, brevity, social hierarchy and order dominate not only the Japanese language but also its culture. In turn, its culture affects its language, and so on. No matter how similar people are, or whether there’s more that connects us than doesn’t, we ignore our differences at our peril; likewise, ignoring our similarities can be just as dangerous too.

1982 - This is War

On the 25th of April 1982, I’d gone to Wales for the day to watch a karate fighting competition. An hour into the proceedings we were told a conflict between the British and Argentinians had commenced over who should rule the Falkland Islands. Even though the competition continued, a hushed depression fell upon everyone. We were at war, even though war was never declared officially.

A few weeks earlier we’d been informed that the Argentinians had taken control of the Falkland Islands. Initially, a lot of people got the Falklands mixed up with the Shetland Islands which were North of Scotland. Why would the Argentinians be attacking them, had they not realised how tough the Scots were? But within days the TV put everyone straight, telling us the Falklands were in the South Atlantic Ocean, 8000 miles away from the UK, and 945 miles from Argentina.

Still, it seemed hard to comprehend why a country would attack another, especially in a nuclear-weapon world, but it soon became clear this war was less about historical and geographical sovereignty and more an excuse for the Argentinian Government to shore up division within its ranks while securing political gain. They gambled the British wouldn’t do anything, but what the Argentinians hadn’t banked on though was a weapon just as dangerous as a nuclear warhead, a politician facing low poll ratings. For our Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, this couldn’t have come at a better time. On both sides, the politicians spoke of high ideals but were more than willing to sacrifice their citizens for political gain. Admittedly, Thatcher was more of an opportunist in this instance as she hadn’t instigated matters directly. There’d been warnings the Argentinians were planning an attack that may have been conveniently ignored, but a pre-emptive attack was dismissed as highly unlikely. Still, once things escalated it was no surprise to anyone that both the UK and Argentinian politicians would be so self-serving. After all, it’s pretty well-accepted that politicians all over the world are corrupt, not just in the 1980s but throughout history too. Indeed, a non-corrupt politician tends to be viewed as rather exceptional.

My OCD Part 1

For much of my life, I’ve had a bit of a magical thinking OCD trait. From early childhood, I’d think that if I did one thing, for example, don’t step on the cracks in the pavement, look at a stranger’s face, or hold my breath until a car goes past, then something I want would come my way. Lots of other people have told me they have similar thoughts too. For instance, Monica, the girlfriend in the early chapters of Volume One, told me that when she wasn’t sure about us seeing each other anymore, she said to herself that if the time of a song on her CD player got past a certain number before the track ended, then our relationship was meant to be. Luckily, for me at the time, it went in my favour. It’s probably not unreasonable to see this as a thought process that’s partly behind the formation of superstitions and religions. Something along the lines of, If we do this, then God or the gods will either punish or reward us.

One day in the summer of 1982, I realised I was silly letting myself be controlled by these kinds of thoughts, so I decided not to give in to them anymore. But a couple of things happened that made me feel I was being punished for even daring to try stopping them, but I’ll tell you about them in the next chapter. Yes, I know, the suspense must be killing you.

Therapy Session 1985

Me: Sometimes I think if I do something, like get to a lamp post before a car passes, I’ll get something I want. But also, I get a feeling that if I don’t try to do these things, I’ll be punished.

Therapist: That’s a lot of responsibility and power to have.

Me: I don’t see it as me having the power, some kind of external force has it.

Therapist: If everyone could manipulate reality merely by doing these things then could the world function as it does?

Me: I know it’s irrational, but unfortunately there have been times when I’ve tried to stop doing it, and as soon as I did, bad things happened.

Therapist: Maybe there are times when you can’t bear not having control and at other times you can’t bear the responsibility or effort involved in getting something you want. So, the childlike part of you resorts to magical thoughts to deal with the hardships of reality.

2021 - Supernatural Part 1 – B&B

A matter that is explained ceases to concern us

Nietzsche

I first met Barry and Barbara in a café called Mamma Mi in Eastbourne a few years ago. It was one of those places that had a lot of regulars and wasn’t particularly fancy. A mixture of table and chair styles, and lightshades made from kitchen utensils, such as cheese graters and colanders, but what drew most of the customers, apart from the strong coffee and cheap Italian street food, was its very sociable atmosphere. Nearly everyone who went there ended up chatting with each other and developing friendships with those they connected with and that’s what happened to us.

Both Barry and Barbara were in their 80s when we met, they seemed to appreciate my dodgy jokes which I think often indicates some kind of deeper understanding. Maybe it’s the experience of difficult times that fosters dark humour and it was partly that which connected us. Although they’d frequented the upper echelons of the international trade world, neither had forgotten their humble and difficult beginnings, consequently, their feet were firmly attached to the ground.

1991

When Barbara and Barry [let’s call them B&B from now on for convenience’s sake], when B&B first got together, they both had children from previous marriages, so, once their kids finally flew the nest, they got back into travelling together, which was something they loved doing. It was 1991 when B&B decided to drive up from Wakefield in Yorkshire to Inverness in Scotland for a four-day break. It was too long a journey to do in one go, so, they decided to take a gamble and find a place to stay en route. It was mid-May, and the days were starting to get longer. After a seven-hour drive, they passed through a town called Callander in the late afternoon, and beginning to get weary, decided to look out for a hotel as they travelled northwards up the A84. Some miles later, they finally came across a large hotel situated on a mound to the right of the road, so, Barry pulled up.

Oh, thank goodness for that, Barbara said.

Barry got out of the car, I’ll go see if they’ve got any rooms.

If they haven’t, ask if they’ve got a stable, Barbara said.

Barry smiled, closed the door, and walked 50 metres from the roadside to the main entrance. He looked back at Barbara, who gave him the international hurry-up hand sign, so he did as ordered and went inside. The building was old, maybe 30 metres across and while there was a Hotel sign out near the road, apart from that, it looked like a typical Scottish highland manor house. Barry entered the reception area where an old woman in a shawl was sitting at the desk. She slowly looked up but said nothing. Barry waited for a second, then decided to initiate proceedings. In his poshest Yorkshire accent, he said, Hello, I was just wondering if you have any vacancies? I’m looking for a double room for my wife and me for one night, and we’d preferably like an evening meal if that’s possible, as well as breakfast of course.

The woman nodded slightly and got up while saying, Aye. She pointed at the signing-in the book. Barry quickly filled in their details, then went to the car to fetch Barbara and their cases. As they entered, the old lady was waiting, key in hand and without speaking she started walking along the corridor.

We’ll follow you, shall we? Barry asked.

The woman paused, half turned and nodded slightly.

They walked along a dark oak-panelled corridor till they came to the room. The woman opened the door and held out the key. Barry, whose arms were full, said, Barbara, can you take them please? which she did, then thanked the old lady.

If we come down for our meal at seven, would that be okay? Barry asked.

The woman nodded and quietly said, Aye.

When they got into their room Barry burst out laughing and said, I didn’t think she’d ever stop talking.

Barbara laughed then sat on the bed and bounced up and down on it to check the mattress, This feels very comfortable.

Barry went into the bathroom and started filling the bath but soon came back into the bedroom with a slightly distressed look on his face, Well, there’s good news, he said, and there’s bad news. The good news is there’s hot water. The bad news is it’s as brown as tea.

Barbara walked into the bathroom, Blimey, she said.

Barry laughed, I’ll give it a go. If I dissolve, then be careful driving the car home.

Barbara whispered, I’m not bathing in that. I think I’ll wait till we get back to civilisation.

Why are we whispering? Barry whispered.

Barbara leaned a little closer to Barry, I don’t know, it’s just, I don’t know. Do you think anyone else is staying here?

Barry shrugged, There must be. A place this big, there’s got to be at least a few other guests.

After they’d settled in, they decided to explore a little before dinner. Firstly, they went outside, where a man was standing under a tree smoking. As they passed him, they said hello. He smiled and asked them where they were from. He didn’t have a Scottish accent, so they asked if he was staying in the hotel.

No, I’m stopping in a cottage nearby. I’ve just had a quick drink from the bar here. I’m having a bit of time away to, he paused a second, to get myself together.

There was something about his demeanour, his shaky voice and trembling cigarette hand, that reminded Barry of the soldiers he’d seen return from Dunkirk.

You say there’s a bar here? Barry interjected.

The man pointed to the right, Yes, it’s just beyond the reception.

Barry mimed holding a beer glass and smiled, I think we’ll get a drink, can we get you one?

The man smiled back, shook his head, and said, No, thank you, I’ll have to be going soon. Thank you though.

Where is your cottage? Barbara asked.

She thought she heard him say the name of a place that was tens of miles away, but she didn’t want to question him so just left it.

Well, have a safe journey. Maybe we’ll see you later. She said as they started to walk back to the hotel.

He raised a hand, the one holding a cigarette, and half waved, and half smoke signalled goodbye to them. Taking a big drag, he closed his eyes, savoured the moment and let the last rays of sunlight warm his face.

There was still a little time to kill before dinner, so, B&B made their way to the bar where they were relieved to find a barman. He was drying a glass and turned towards them as they approached. He was in his 30’s, tall, well-built, and had a moustache. Barry ordered two glasses of wine, however, as they started to strike up a conversation with him, they found his Glaswegian accent so strong they could hardly understand a word he said. He seemed to be busy anyway, so, they took a seat and chatted together till seven, at which point Barry took their glasses back to the bar and asked where the dining room was. The barman pointed and mumbled something that sounded like, To the end. They found it quickly enough but were a bit surprised when they entered as it also served as a ballroom. Large chandeliers were hanging from the ceiling and enough tables for a banquet, or a wedding were all laid out with starched white linen, candles in candelabras, glasses filled with carefully folded napkins, as well as highly polished, perfectly laid out cutlery.

As they looked for somewhere to sit, the old woman appeared and with an outstretched hand indicated their table. They took their seats, and she passed them each a menu. As they read through it, they were struck by how traditionally Scottish the choices were. Smoked Haddock, Salmon, and Grouse were among the options on offer.

Wow, whispered Barbara, I can’t believe this menu.

The old woman came back a few minutes later, took their orders, and in time brought their meals through. B&B were not easily impressed when it came to dining, they often frequented top restaurants in London and Paris, but as they tucked in, they were astounded by the quality of the meal.

What a find this is, Barbara said quietly, I can’t believe it. Do you think she cooked it herself?

Barry nodded in agreement, I haven’t seen anyone else but the barman and her, and what’s more there aren’t any other guests.

Yes, I was wondering about that too. You know, even though it seems we’re the only ones here I feel like we’re being watched.

Barry nodded once again, but this time said nothing.

Once back in their room, they got ready for bed and got under the covers.

Whispering still, Barbara snuggled up to Barry, This is the strangest hotel I’ve ever stayed in.

Yes, but the food’s good, Barry added.

Yes, it is.

Slowly, and in a slightly high-pitched voice Barry whispered, Aye.

Barbara turned towards Barry, Don’t you start.

Barry couldn’t resist and repeated, Aye.

Barbara lay down, pulled the covers over her head, and said, I’m not coming out till you stop that.

A couple of hours after nodding off Barbara woke and quietly said, Are you asleep Barry?

Yes

Good, Barbara laughed, Can you hear that noise, it sounds like they’re having a ceilidh [Kayley] down there.

Barry took a quick intake of breath, Yes, I can hear it. Shall we go down and join them?

Well, I would, had we been invited. Can you hear them whooping, they sound like they’re having a whale of a time? She paused to listen a bit more. Maybe that’s why the dining room was all set up. I bet a coach load of people have been bussed in for a dinner and dance thing.

Ah well, maybe it’s just for locals and that’s why she didn’t mention it, Barry added.

Oh well, Barbara sighed, Anyway, are you still asleep?

Barry paused, then made a snoring noise and within a few minutes, they drifted off again.

The next morning, they went down to breakfast, and once more were the only ones in the large dining room. It seemed to be exactly as they’d left it the previous night. If there had been a party, they’d done a very good job clearing up afterwards. Just as before, the old lady served them again. Barbara chose kippers and then finished off with warm oat cakes covered in marmalade.

There was no sign of any other guests, nor was the barman around to help with breakfast. When the old lady served them, there was no small talk, no, Did you both sleep well last night? or We do like our guests to be happy. Just breakfast options, and Ayes and No’s.

After breakfast, they packed their things into the car and Barry went to the reception to settle the bill. When he got it, he was astounded by how cheap it was. The prices were what he’d have expected to pay three decades earlier, but far be it for a Yorkshireman to question a Scot on matters of finance, he thought to himself.

As the old woman passed him the receipt, he asked, Was there a party going on last night?

No, she said, shaking her head.

A little confused Barry then asked if they were the only guests, to which she just said, Aye.

Oh, Barry said, even more bewildered, Well thank you for our lovely stay.

She nodded at him politely then sat down again at the reception desk as he made his way out.

He got into the car, fastened his seat belt, and looked back at the hotel noticing an old-fashioned pram and a child’s tricycle to the side of the front porch.

I wonder who they belong to? he asked.

Barbara raised her eyebrows then got herself comfortable, Maybe she’s got grandchildren. Anyway, that was lovely, strange, but lovely. I mean outside of the Edwardian bathroom and brown water; I’d stay here again. What do you think?

I quite liked the bathroom, Barry added.

No, I mean would you want to stay here again?

As they started to drive off, Barbara noted an overgrown tennis court just across the road from the hotel.

She looked at Barry, Maybe next time we’ll stay a couple of nights, what do you think?

Yes, I would, Barry said. He checked the road was clear, pushed down on the accelerator and set off.

The Return

After their stay in Inverness, they decided to stay at the hotel on their return journey. Barry knew the route, so took the same road. The loch was on his right, but the hotel was nowhere to be seen. The mound to the left was there, but the tennis courts, driveway, and building were all gone. He decided to double back to see if he’d missed a junction, but he hadn’t. After a few miles, he turned around again and continued along his original route. Eventually, he got to the junction he expected to find so was sure he hadn’t accidentally taken a similar but different road. They were both stunned.

Even though Barry was sure he’d followed the same route back, he realised he might have been confused, so, for years afterwards, whenever they were travelling nearby, they’d try to find the hotel again, but they never did.

How We React

I’d have been sure this was an urban folk tale if I didn’t know Barry and Barbara. The way they weave between each other in the telling of the story, the details and consistency with which they convey it, all those things, plus trusting them anyway, meant for me, I believed they were telling the truth. I have made a video of Barbara and Barry recounting this experience so you can judge for yourself. It’s at: https://youtu.be/5ubOvCRxyYE.

For you, the reader, you’re probably wondering if I’m being a bit gullible, or they may have somehow either become self-deluded, or hypnotised by someone else into believing it happened or maybe it’s as simple as them just taking a different route to the one they thought. Then again, it could be something else that I haven’t considered. But, of course, there is also the possibility, no matter how small, that something we can’t explain, did happen.

How you react to this story says a lot about your own beliefs and internal models of reality. Do you believe they experienced a ghost hotel or a time slip, or as far as you’re concerned are such phenomena impossible? Maybe you’re both sceptical and simultaneously open-minded and willing to accept we just don’t know.

Another Tale

As I wrote the last section, I tried to find out more about this area as well as any buildings that matched their description of the hotel. This involved using Google Street View to have a look at all the roads nearby, but after five hours of doing that, I gave up. Then, trying a few lateral internet searches, I came across a page that described a similar incident which happened to another couple on the same road going Northwards out of Callander, and what’s more, it occurred in the mid-1990s too. If it still exists, you can read the original article at:

http://britishdowsing.net/timeslips-a-cat-circle-and-the-ghost-train-of-balquhidder/

Meanwhile, here’s a synopsis of what the piece reported.

On the 15th of August 1995, Mr and Mrs Hardy of Snaith, Humberside, had gone to Callander for a Chinese meal. At 23:45 they set off back to the campsite at Cultybraggan. A short while later they were driving along the A84 beside the edge of Loch Lubnaig. They looked at the moonlight on the water and then suddenly found they were passing a sign that said, Oban 5 Miles. The time was now 00:20. Mr Hardy said that he felt as if he’d entered a kind of Twilight Zone, and even wondered if he’d died or was unconscious as things felt so strange. One minute he was looking at the loch, the next he was close to 30 miles away, yet the time jump of 40 minutes was not long enough to do the journey given the nature of roads, especially without noticing it. After his wife convinced him to turn around, they headed back, but the journey felt as if it was in slow motion, plus everything looked strange. There were no other cars, road markings or streetlights, plus the landscape and houses seemed different. At one point, they drove under a railway bridge that they’d later find out had been demolished 30 years earlier. Once they recovered from the shock of this detour, the couple retraced this journey many times but never found the Oban 5 Miles sign although they did recognise the site of the old railway bridge. As much as they tried to make sense of what had happened, they never could.

I contacted the author of the article, David Cowan, to see if there was any other information about the couple involved but there wasn’t, which is why I decided to make the video of Barbara and Barry. Hearing someone relate an incident directly offers more credibility than just hearsay. However, just because we might be able to find cross-references online about certain things doesn’t make them any more credible even though it’s often thought they do. Still, to me, this article did feel like an interesting coincidence.

Time Slips

A few weeks later the editor of the British Dowsing website sent me another article about time slips. I’ll paraphrase for copyright reasons… For close to one hundred and fifty years, the Suffolk village of Rougham, which lies four miles south-east of Bury St. Edmunds, has been the subject of a curious phenomenon. A large number of people have reported coming across houses in places where no houses exist, and these buildings subsequently disappearing.

Here’s the link to the original article in case it’s still available.

https://www.academia.edu/40189680/THE_ROUGHAM_MYSTERY_An_Investigation_into_the_Time_Slip_Phenomenon

The phenomenon of time slips was something I’d never heard about before doing the research for this, and just like most people, I feel it is unlikely to be possible. However, as with many of the subjects I’ve brought up here, even the scientifically minded amongst us ought to be sceptical and open-minded at the same time.

Unproven

Just as cancel culture aims to prevent those who’ve stepped out of line from being included in certain areas of society, the same goes for ideologies. For instance, a scientist should accept an unproven hypothesis as just that, unproven. However, many who claim to be scientifically minded are far too quick to dismiss unconfirmed matters as complete rubbish. The fear of being ridiculed by their peers may be one of many causes for such self-censoring, but by not keeping an open mind, they too fall back on conjecture. Of course, they’re entitled to their opinion, but scientifically speaking something ought to be proven to be false before it’s completely dismissed and, in the meantime, it should simply be labelled as ‘unproven’.

Half-Truths

When I first started using the Internet I believed it would lead to humans moving forward at an even greater pace than in previous epochs. In the past, only a