Last hint of summer...

I'm no stranger to mountain life (having spent two winter seasons in Chamonix), but I am unacquainted with the mountainous regions of Southern France, without that familiar dusting of snow.

Last Saturday, my boyfriend and I set off for Nice on a Sleazy Jet flight - destination: an apartment in La Brigue, a charmingly rustic village, close to the Italian boarder, north of the city.

As I've experienced many times in the past: reaching the mountains is no mean feat - that's why they're never densely populated. Life is hard beyond 1,000 ft.

Nothing gets the heart pumping more fervently when you're just clicking into holiday-mode and a seemingly minor faux pas quite significantly threatens your plans. In retrospect taking the laissez faire attitude on day one was a mistake: especially when you've only got one train service option that day, and the ticket office has a queue that would rival one at any UK Post Office during the week leading up to Xmas!

Jolted out of holiday-haziness by this distressing sight, I jumped on a much smaller queue for a ticket machine close by and nervously navigated the menus knowing that one wrong move could make the difference between shelling out for a hotel room in the city or claiming our pre-paid apartment in the mountains.

With a minute to spare we raced to the furthest away platform and claimed some seats literally as the departure whistle screeched out.

With two hours to regain our composure, we sank into comfortable train upholstery and bathed in the glorious scenery beyond the glass: interlocking mountain ranges, ravines and topsy-turvy dwellings clinging to rocks like sandy-coloured barnacles.

La Brigue proved to be a well-positioned base that presented us with the opportunity for many adventures, and a trainline that offered access to the varying terrains of an Italian ski resort (Lemone), the cote d'azure coast line and a menagerie of ancient French towns/cities. I say well-connected - but actually when the train is your only route out of the village (north and south) - you have to be astute to it's sensitive disposition and live by the timetable like a geeky university fresher.

Our apartment had two balconies - one of which opened onto the village square: the hub of the place, where dogs and drinkers and market stalls popped up at peak times during the week. There were four restaurant options (only one of which we were successful in sampling as the others either gave us 'no room at the inn' gestures or appeared to be open only on very special occasions), which was initially frustrating (for city dwellers far too used to having everything on tap within a half-mile radius), but encouraged us to become dependable on the local produce and cook our own takes on authentic cuisine. (Dauphinoise Potatoes, garlic chicken and lashings of cheese smeared veg).

A wood burner provided us with evening entertainment... to fall asleep watching the flames licking at the glass was a delightful alternative to a flatscreen TV. La Brigue was as quiet as quiet can be - though the day the fountain outside our apartment wasn't flowing really indicated a new level of noise-redundancy. It was a welcome retreat, but again, took a bit of time to adjust to after spells of manic work life in Bristol and London over the last six months.

We quickly got to grips with our surroundings - trekking around the hinterland, collecting wild-growing herbs, chestnuts and kindling on our rambles. On one of our walks up the valley, a group of old farmers were gathering apples from an orchard and one garçon kindly gave us a couple of handfuls - saying they were strictly only for cooking with. I baked them later that night, their waxy texture complimenting a locally-sourced honey, oozy, melty creme fraiche and a dusting of nutmeg. A simple delight tasting all the more sweet for the good-natured gesture behind their appearance on our table.

On another ramble back from Tende (ten minutes on the train, two hours or so by foot!), during the descent to La Brigue lingering tentatively around 1,500 ft, we very surprisingly met two people on ponies - the sound of their hooves scraping the rocky terrain reached us long before their physical form appeared. A salt-of-the-earth man (sans helmet), led confidently - (though the ponies' laboured breathing and foaming flanks signaled a turbulent mood), followed by a slightly nervous-looking young lady - also sans protection.

We joked somewhat tentatively about them being very brave for attempting this climb when we were tentatively planning our every step and we only had two feet to coordinate. Several minutes later we heard the clatter of hooves again, which I thought signaled more ponies coming up. I was quite wrong. What we saw was a rider-less pony wildly jolting and jerking down the mountain - nostrils flared and drenched in sweat. On approaching us, it whinnied loudly and tried to pass.

Flummoxed and worried, I tried to grab the mangled reins, but the pony kept prancing around. There was a ruin of a shack close to us, with the walls still intact, so I thought that maybe we should coax the pony in there until we could reunite it with the owner. Several tentative moments passed during which my boyfriend successfully grabbed the reins, and got flung around as the pony began to settle and we tried to calm it.

I waited around the corner to see if I could see the owner or hear any sign of distress. Shortly after, the man who'd been leading earlier came charging down on his pony, shouting in indistinguishable French. I admit that my basic knowledge of the French language has waned, and faltered even more in this stressful situation. He leveled with us, shouted more, gestured for us to give him the reins, jumped off the pony, grabbed both ponies and continued to run down the mountain with the ponies tumbling clumsily close to him.

We were rather shocked and felt perplexed as to how we could help the situation. I presumed that the man was going down to raise an alarm for the poor girl who presumably had fallen off the pony, and to tether the loose ponies somewhere in the village. We carried on our descent, and were surprised to see the man talking to someone on the road - the loose horse still roaming the grassy area close to the footpath. He was gesticulating - I guess to raise the alarm, then disappeared up the mountainside again on his pony.

It was a strange situation - we don't know what happened to the girl or the loose pony. I suppose the ponies are used to the mountain terrain, but they're also wild creatures, and why wouldn't you wear protection when embarking on such a precarious activity?

After a few days of challenging hiking and mountain biking - we treated ourselves to some city/beach leisure time - closer to civilization and simple luxuries such as supermarkets and bars that give you complimentary bread sticks and chips with your order. Villefranche-sur-Mer was my firm favourite beach town, reminding me of a scaled-down Barcelona with a much more idyllic and clean beachfront. The mid-october sunshine was warm enough to tempt us into the sea several times - definitely warranting an ice cream of the nutty variety as a reward.

Another sparky idea was hiring the marvelous 'Velo-bleu' bikes dotted around Nice, a scheme very similar to Boris's Bikes in London. The purchasing of a membership card was comically over-complicated, but once the account was set up in the transport centre, we couldn't help but maximize the service to whizz around the city - including the beach promenade (dodging bladers, runners and doddery tourists) all the way along to the airport and the seaport busting with bling yachts at the opposite end. We probably got a bit too carried away, as the bikes' rather ruddy three-gears certainly couldn't cope with the hills beyond the port, but we covered a lot of ground regardless and were pleased with the accessible and plentiful drop-off points for our weary steeds.

My other stand-out destination was a sleepy village called Saorge, perched, nay clutching onto the side of a south-facing mountainside that glistened gold when viewed in the early morning light the first time we were alerted to the existence of the village by an excited local on one of our numerous train journeys down the valley. I only wished we'd discovered Saorge a day earlier. Wednesdays seem to be a ghost-town day. Reading the tourist board on entry to the village we got excited by the prospect of a honey producer, butcher, plentiful dining options, a few bars and a cafe. Bingo!

However, after a diligent search through the narrow streets - the only establishments actually open were a small cafe and its adjoining gift shop. Having not eaten anything since breakfast (it was now 3.30pm, and we'd also failed at finding food in the village across the other side of the railway line), the cafe looked like mecca and there was a menu board outside that suggested that they sold sandwiches. Actual sandwiches, with about four fillings to choose from!

We confidently ordered a pan bagnet and a fromage et gambon in French, along with coffee and tea. The ethereally elegant lady who took our order said it simply was not possible to order sandwiches - why hadn't we phoned to make an order? There was nothing on the menu to signal the transaction she so fervently insisted was 'de rigueur'. We were flummoxed. Maybe the tea would come with a complimentary biscuit that would keep our appetites under control till dinner?

We waited with baited breath. The lady popped her head round the door frame and said something like, 'I've managed to order your sandwiches... they will arrive soon... though you should have phoned first.' Where were the sandwiches being made? Would they arrive before we needed to get the last train back up the valley?

In the meantime out beverages arrived. What a delicious sight: gorgeous china wear from a bygone era, tea in a massive pot complete with one of those contraptions that stops the leaves escaping into the water. Our cups were large, and perched on the side of my coffee cup was a petite homemade biscuit, and next to my boyfriend's teacup nestled a rather generous slice of honey cake (probably sourced from the honey shop just opposite - where we purchased a jar of chestnut-infused nectar and some hazelnut praline about half an hour previously).

The spread on our table looked so magnificent I had to take some photos. Saorge felt magical: verging on the edge of humanity - and this otherness was also reflected in the sublime-tasting produce. Our sandwiches were soon delivered by a local man, who then stopped in for some tea. Definitely the best sandwich I'd tasted all holiday: a fishy, crusty ensemble oozing with oil, herbs and juicy tomatoes. Such a shame we had to make a dash for the train and that the bar next door was closed - we both agreed that had it been open, we'd stay for some drinks and sample the enticing array of tarts listed on their specials board.    

On our last day we woke late to a rather cloudy skyline - the first during our holiday. Determined to make the most of it, we got on the train to Limone - a ski resort just two stops (through a very long tunnel) from La Brigue. A picturesque town only tainted by the fact that it was also a ghost town (inter season), and that the ski lifts were closed, but as the cloud wasn't lifting - we weren't too miffed.

We soon found a trendy cafe bar in the centre and I sank a few espressos laced with Amaretto to give me the energy to hike. The rather forlorn man in the tourist info centre (I suppose he had every right to be forlorn - being posted there to give info to people during the quietest time of the year) gave us a map and suggested a fairly short walk we could do that gives a good view of the resort at higher altitude. We set off and snaked through a wooded pathway that sadly illustrated a disturbing imbalance between abandoned chalet construction and natural beauty.

We reached the top following a rather quaint sequence of wooden signs with lemons depicting our chosen route, and settled with a bottle of cider - making sandwiches from our various scraps of cheeses, hams and pate. We hadn't passed a single soul. After our picnic we took the same route down and tried to find the ski lift station, to see if it might be worth making a return trip once the winter snow had made an appearance.

There were some good accommodation and ski pass combo offers in a brochure we picked up, but it's so hard to tell if the resort would be worth coming to if the place doesn't have that seasonal buzz about it when you're actually there.

Slaves to the train timetable, we waited for our final locomotive to arrive at La Brigue, 6:30am the following day. Uh oh, it's late. Not late enough to warrant panic, but enough to know we had to be on-guard during our change at Ventimiglia. That was fine, and we had enough time to grab a quick takeaway Italian style coffee, to go with our honey-covered croissants.

On arrival at Nice train station, I was desperate to find a toilet, so as my boyfriend went to join the queue for the airport transfer, I ran onto the platform to find the facilities. As I ran along, I saw some familiar faces. Not familiar faces from real life - but faces from the movies. And they were making a movie right at that exact moment. It was Jude Law and Richard E Grant, and the scene was one of the first for a movie coming out next year called Dom Hemingway. I didn't know that at the time - I only really realised it was a movie set as I clocked the director and started noticing people beyond with ear-pieces as well as a white Rolls Royce parked round the side, which I'm presuming was for the characters' getaway.

It was such a surreal encounter - I really hope I didn't interrupt the scene with my scruffy, end-of-holiday attire and manically contorting 'busting-for-the-loo' face. There was nothing holding the general public back, so I guess they didn't want to call attention to the production by cordoning off the platform.

I was so tempted to stick around, talk to one of the loitering techies/runners and find out more about the production - but we had a plane to catch. Emerging from the toilets I tried to walk past again - as nonchalantly as possible this time. I came out of the station grinning like a lunatic, bursting to tell my boyfriend about my first proper 'movie set' experience.

I know there's loads of waiting around and epic ego-clashing intrinsically linked with drama production, but that fateful day I walked into two A list actors' bubble for a fleeting moment, and I liked it very much.

    

   

Doc/Futures

I'm overwhelmed.

After years of skirting around the media industry - not-quite finding my niche, but enjoying the tumultuous ride and various soul-shacking knock-backs: I've finally found my true calling.

Documentary. I love people. I'm curious. I'm a perfectionist when it comes to organising. What does all this tell me? I was born to be a documentary writer/producer/director.

So, thus far, I've dabbled (fairly successfully) in journalism (published in The Stage, The Ecologist, Stranger Magazine), copywriting (commercial clients include: RIBA, KIER Construction, TravelZest), PR (Clients include Barefoot Bride, Rainbow Fitness), short drama (writing/producing/directing/set design/marketing/distribution), commercial video/internet viral production, blogging and Tweeting.

That, coupled with a smidgen of life experience in rather exciting countries (two winter ski seasons in France, one summer in California), and more years than I'd care to admit part-timing in hospitality - well I think it's all stuff that's finally merging to give me a glorious advantageous view point of the world, its exceptionally diverse people and sources to draw on now I'm mature enough to process and reflect on everything I've learnt along the way.

From my hospitality experience I can boast a matrix of odd situations / people / locations that are ripe to be fictionalised or actualized in documentary form, I suppose depending on access to these people and their level of interest or receptivity to either proposition.

From my writing experience - I know I can churn out words at a smart pace, with as much artistic flair or user-friendliness as required. I can pitch, review, analyze, critique and create a tone for whatever audience I'm writing for. Long form or short - I'm undaunted by the variety of briefs I have to tackle, it's all experience and I think my journalist's 'thick-skin' helps me deal with rejection and realise that nothing is ever wasted, there's always another outlet that will more perfectly fit that particular idea. I will find a home for it. (But also know when something's dead in the water - to let it go and move on to pastures new)

It was a strong determination to re-connect with my grandpa two years ago that spurred me on to independent documentary production. 'Prickly Relationship' was born partly through curiosity and partly to re-establish a relationship with a man I'd know well as a child but not as an adult. I approached grandpa Stephen to ask if I could film him talking about his gargantuan Cacti plant collection. What ensued was a deeply moving exploration of a man with a life-long passion for horticulture that is as strong as his religious faith. I'm incredibly proud of the film, and incredibly privileged to have documented/archived one extraordinary man's story before his story is jumbled by old age and infirmity.

Most fittingly, Prickly was screened in Bournemouth (Stephen's home town) a few weeks ago. A proud moment for all the family, even though none of us were able to attend. I'm still touting the film around to festivals and such - but the excessive entry fees make it mean feat.

I felt completely at home interviewing (again, I suppose my journalist background plays a part in being able to strike up a good rapport with contributors), love listening to people's stories and piecing a story together in the edit. My editing skills are not very developed, but I like to think that I know how to construct a documentary narrative, helped by my screenwriting tuition and years of watching/reading drama.

Delightful how it all feeds in together. Love the fluidity and complexity - and that documentary is so outrageously unpredictable, yet you have to predict certain 'plot-points' and be able to adapt to situations that might either take you closer to the drama or inadvertently lead to a dead-end. I suppose, again, as I'm so used to the unpredictability of people in all areas of my work and social life - I know I can cope in any situation, keep a clear head and act diplomatically, or gauge the bigger picture and adapt to support and resolve.

Since making 'Prickly Relationship', I've mentored and developed a few other projects including Brave Face (working closely with award-winning writer/director Peter Snelling)- made teasers for and pitched 'A Stately Facade' at Cornwall Film Festival, Encounters Short Film Fest, DFG Mini-Meet Market, Doc/Futures workshop and even got invited to a meeting with Love Productions who are keen to develop the story further.

I'm beginning to develop a style and savvy that complements my personal outlook on life, and my grasp on the industry is increasing through an avid interest in research and a desire to be at the top of my game when it comes to marketing my work and keeping up with social media to hook an audience.

All this persistence is paying off. I was recently invited to attend a fabulous documentary workshop in Newcastle a few weeks ago (as part of Sheffield Doc/Fest Doc/Futures talent development scheme), where for the first time ever - I engaged with a room full of docu makers with an equal amount of passion for storytelling as me. An absolute pleasure and privilege to be surrounded by a bunch of caring and creative people all eager to share their ideas and give invaluable feedback. I felt at home in that realm, embraced and supported, ready to be nurtured and comfortable to talking about my projects and being open to future collaboration.

In the past (I've only ever attended short film festivals or events geared towards fictional film production), I've found networking events and festivals a bit excluding and cliquey - feeling like an outsider with no inclination to bother the commissioners/celebs/speakers or strike up artificial relationships with people who may or may not be able to further my career.

I've learnt to be an observer at these social events and act accordingly depending on the mood and my personal confidence to be brave enough to use my subversive schmoozing tactics. Sometimes I'm fairly successful, and the more natural and personable I am, the more receptive people are.

After the workshop in Newcastle, the twenty attendees were eligible to apply for an access-all-areas delegate pass, free accommodation, travel and mentoring for all five days of the Sheffield Doc/Fest this month. So fired up from my new learnings and new documentary contacts - I set about holing myself up in my bedroom/office (PJs being uniform of choice) for the entirety of the May bank holiday weekend in order to write two iFeatures2 submissions (5,000 words approx in total) along with my pitch for the festival pass. Not since my Masters dissertation have I written so much in such a short space of time.

I was in my element - thriving on the pressure/necessity to produce words... using the coffee hits and nervous energy/sleep deprivation to feed my creativity and test my capability to the limit.

I was ever-so-slightly-unhinged by the Tuesday deadline - having to write one of my partner's biography in the last half hour and find links to his work online certainly tested my shattered nerves - but by gosh, the sense of achievement as I hit 'submit' for the final time was well worth teetering on the edge for the love of story - or the distant yet vaguely realistic promise of documentary notoriety.

I leant a lot about myself that weekend - after I'd given myself a little time to reflect and come down from the adrenaline high. I learnt that I can perform under pressure, I'm willing to take risks - truly push the boundaries, and that I have a brilliant team of friends and collaborators to draw on when I can find funding for my next project.

Even if my two submissions don't get selected for further development, I've got two treatments to edit and improve on (giving them the time to breath and send out for feedback), a list of people I'd love to work with in the future and my name has been attached to two documents that may be being read by some influential honchos at Creative England which could somehow influence my career and get me noticed by the right people in the industry.

As if I wasn't already riding a high from all the writing, I then found out last week that I'd been one of the lucky 10 (selected from 40 applicants) to attend Sheffield Doc/Fest as a delegate. Over-bowled doesn't even begin to describe how privileged I feel. It couldn't be happening at a more poignant time, when I'm just brimming with ideas and passion for documentary. So eager to prove my dedication and determination to become a feature documentary producer/director.

I know I still have much to learn and that I really need to develop my director's 'vision', but this opportunity will undoubtedly give me that all-important push in the right direction.

A Face to a Crime

I received a press clipping in the post from my mum the other day. She likes to keep me in the loop with various happenings in the area where I grew up.

This bit of news had a particular resonance for me as the startlingly pretty girl in the photo accompanying the piece was one of the documentary contributors I worked with on a First Light short film commission just before Xmas.

Rhiannon was the only girl at the young offenders residential centre who wanted to participate in the documentary, and she certainly made an impact - even before we knew her story. She was carrying around an aura of damaged hopelessness. She wouldn't hold eye contact with any of us, and her body language was very closed. I noticed scars on her arms from self-harming, and although she had a stunning figure, she seemed to be completely lacking in confidence - choosing to sit away from the rest of us in our first meeting... drawing her name in sprawling graphics on a piece of paper at the table - eyes down when she spoke and circling over the letters, tracing them like that's all she could do to keep her temper at bay.

The only twinkle of positively that we witnessed from this fragile-looking girl came when she exclaimed that we might be able to help her become an actress in Hollywood. My heart sank - I know most teenage girls dream of being enveloped in the glitz and glamour of stardom but did she really think that talking about one of more than 30 crimes she was waiting to be charged for (at that time) could possibly help project her as a screen siren?

Rhiannon's boyfriend had to fill in the permission form I gave her as she wasn't sure how to spell their address. The other four contributors (all boys under the age of 21) opened up quickly and told the stories leading to their crimes straight to Pete with the sound recorder - but Rhiannon asked to be alone for her interview. When they were finished - the anguish on Pete's face alone told us that her story had been tragic.

During a short break, Pete revealed that Rhiannon's story involved drinking, and a stealing spree - culminating in an unprovoked attack on a much younger girl in a park. Even though I knew she was incredibly damaged, I couldn't get my head around the fact that the quiet yet volatile girl in the next room had bitten another girls' breast, then pulled her along the ground by the hair, until friends stepped in to make Rhiannon let go.

The week-long shoot was incredibly haunting and emotionally draining, as the stories unravelled and our friendship with the contributors deepened. I didn't feel unsafe, or threatened - the only thing I was worried about was keeping an eye on the petty cash and camera kit, as we knew several of the resident were serial thieves. Ironically enough, although they didn't steal anything from us, the week after, Pete got a call from the kids' youth support leader to say that two of the boys we'd interviewed had been kicked out for attempting to steal the TV in the communal area - an area they blatantly knew was monitored by CCTV cameras.

I'd wondered why this First Light film had taken so much longer to be released - the other we made around the same time, Brave Face (about a community of young people affected by the summer riots in Edmonton) went live a few weeks ago. I suppose now, seeing Rhiannon's face in the local press means that she's finally been sentenced for the crime she talked about in the documentary. I haven't yet seen a final cut of the documentary, but I do know that Pete didn't want to show the faces of any of the contributors in case it threw up any legal disputes.

Rhiannon has been sentenced to ten months at a Young Offenders Institute, and pleaded guilty to the crime. At the time of filming, she showed little remorse for the attack - as did all bar one of the other contributors. Will this sentence put Rhiannon on course to a happier life? I'd like to hope so - it would be such a waste of life to see her get sucked down again, repeating a routine of escapism sort through drink and drugs which will inevitably lead to violence.

I feel such great sadness looking at her face in the black and white picture in front of me - I mean I have no doubt the courts reached the right decision, but I spent a week with this girl and I definitely witnesses moments - no, sparks of intelligence and wit hidden - buried below a steely exterior scarred by years of neglect and abuse. It's going to take a lot to make Rhinannon whole again, but I think the first and most poignant thing that's missing from Rhiannon's life is love. But who's going to give that to her when most of the people she knows are also lacking the capacity to love and be loved?

Needless worry or needful adrenaline-kick?

Well. I needn't have worried about the race - my finish time, or what to eat the night before - anything really. I made it. My second Half Marathon outing, was actually (a bit of) a breeze in retrospect.

I was sick with nerves the night before. Woke up at around 5.00am on race day with enough nausea blighting my stomach to render sleep obsolete. I wasn't actually sick, but I then spent those tentative pre-race hours rushing around worrying I would forget something important like my timer chip or race number, or safety pins.

I got my bag of stuff together and walked up to the bus stop, thinking that today of all days, my legs could do without that 40 minute walk to Temple Meads station. However, there wasn't another bus (being a Sunday after all) until 9.30 and I needed to be on a train to Bath by then. In a panic, I ran back down to the flat (only about 30 strides away) and rather apologetically got my housemate Victoria out of bed to give me a lift. The station was heaving with runners and a barrage of spectator-baggage, but somehow I managed to get a seat in 1st class - there wasn't an inch un-trampled anywhere on the length or breadth of the train.

I agitatedly listened and watched as close-neighbouring runners discussed their morning routine, pinning their numbers on - eating bananas: checking playlists. I felt alone, scared - like waiting for the first day of an elite club I had tasted but didn't quite feel qualified to be embraced by. But, I knew that I'd see a few familiar faces at the Penny Brohn Cancer Care tent, and that mum and Phil would be there at some point, once they'd swum through the furor.

After a few (perhaps unnecessary) portaloo stops on entering the Runners Village, I found the BPCC tent and Andrew (fundraising manager) wished me luck and offered me a banana. No thanks.... too nervous... hope I've had enough water to keep me hydrated but not too much to make me need another pee - (I have this OCD-esque tick with running where I'm not allowed to stop for ANYTHING, not to walk, not to drink, not to check my laces - once I'm going, I'm going).

As we chatter, I hear the anouncer calling us up, and I join the ever-expanding crowd of idiots in spandex, headbands, make-shift utility belts loaded with energy-fueling potions and bare skin - mostly silent, interspersed with nervous ramblings from (I'm being presumptuous) first timers.

It took around 15 minutes to reach my place near the front - I had a little 'c' next to my race number, which meant I was in the category of 1-2 hour finish time runners - felt good to be amongst the serious people. I looked to my left and saw not-to-convincingly-disguised actress/TV presenter, Nadia Sawalha on my left pimped out in all the latest gadgetry, calmly chatting to her partner in equally body-enhancing armour. At this point, even though I was tempted to listen to their conversation - I plugged into my iPod and began to zone out - as I always do when psyching up for a run. Music is an absolute necessity, and I'm glad Andrew told me to hide my iPod (they are banned, though I don't remember reading about it in the programme!), as I'd have been rather perturbed had it been confiscated at this pivotal point.

Vampire Weekend's 'A-Punk' got me off to a gleefully bouncy start - mood-lifting music for such a glorious morning. So glad I strategically crafted a playlist to accommodate the different transition points in the race: light-hearted and bouncy for the first 40mins, harder/faster for the mid section then euphoric favourites for the home-straight. Seemed to work pretty well, and I was very glad to have sewn a pocket into my shorts to hold my iPod and energy gel pouch so I was hands-free for maximum arm propelling.

I ran at a constant pace, just outside my comfort-zone for the duration and although I didn't feel quite the same adrenaline buzz that I had achieved at my first half marathon last year - I was still ecstatic to have shaved 8 minutes off my previous finish time. Did the handful of jelly babies grabbed and snaffled from a bowl on the sidelines of the second lap give me the extra energy boost I needed to push harder through the 'runner's wall'? Was it possible the weird pouch of sickly, banana-flavoured gloop (aka super intense-carb gel) provided a placebo or a real sixth-gear lever to help me sail towards the final straight? I'm pretty sure through sheer will-power I would have made it unaided - though I mustn't dismiss these man-made stimulants if they offer even a vague hint of physical/mental empowerment.

I'm annoyed with myself for not studying the course map more thoroughly before the race as I think I could have run faster through the last mile or two. But, as I didn't see the last couple of mile markers, and I wasn't really familiar with the end part of the route through the city - I didn't properly push for a sprint until the finish line was in sight.

I passed the line neither grinning like a lunitic nor waving my hands in the air. I didn't clock my time on a fancy-pants wrist watch, or collapse in a heap. I was relieved (as it was such a hot morning) though not too tired. I continued walking all the way back to the runners village - picking up my medal, and goody bag along the way. Mum and Phil were waiting for me at the PBCC tent, and both exuberantly hugged my sweaty torso.

I was one of the first PBCC runners back (out of 30 running for the charity) and also the first girl. See my official race placing here. I chatted to a guy who'd been level with me a lot of the course... we'd played a bit of a game of over-take, undertake - though I think he finished a minute or two before me in the end. I ate some gorgeously healthy PBCC-homemade flapjack and did some stretches in the sun. Mum handed me a hand mirror and a wet wipe so I could remove a crust of mineral-sweat from my eyebrows (who said running wasn't glamourous?!).

Mum, Phil and I then walked through the centre of Bath, stopping for a coffee and to watch the street busking. We were booked into Bath Spa at 2pm, and my god was I ready for some water-immersion to rest my bones. The roof-top pool was heaven - an oasis in the midst of a desert of sandy Bath stone and tiles. I lolled in the shallows until it was time for my treatment - a German sauna involving hay and camomile scented heat filtration. Strange yet oddly enticing. Couldn't quite imagine myself lying in a meadow but the naturalistic scent did make me feel deeply relaxed. I'm glad I opted for the medium-heat booth though as my body's capacity to fight light-headedness was on the verge of collapse.

20 minutes later I emmerged from the treatment room feeling calm, serene, hungry and a little dizzy, so we headed to the cafe for a smootie and chicken sandwich. Energy levels perked back up, we decided on one last 'scented pod' steamer, then I trawled through the rabbit warren of inter-compartmental changing rooms in an attempt to find my locker again.

I said goodbye to Mum and Phil as they caught their onward train at Temple Meads, jumped on a bus back to Redland and cooked myself a healthy yet decedent stir-fry with coconut milk and peanutbutter satay sauce. Followed swiftly by bed, though it took some time to drift off as I could feel every fibre of my being reconfiguring/rebuilding and contracting/expanding in order to repair from the race. It was such a strange sensation and then I suddenly got very cold, so I had to get up, boil a hot water bottle and take an iboprofen. Next day I was only achy round my lower back - headed off for work on my bike, walked off the back pain and was back in the gym the following morning, with achy knees being my only gripe.

I've officially been training for almost a year now (combo of running/cycling/gym) and it's just kind of become normality. I'm sticking to a healthy yet challenging routine - where variety of terrain and duration are keeping me on the path to long-term motivation. I've not felt this fit in years, and although the weight is not exactly falling off, I do feel strong and toned and ready for the next race.

I find it strange that although I am not a competative person, I do enjoy the buzz of race day - there's a need for the crowd to be there to help me face-up to those last few miles. I think I need it to make me forget my body and focus on mind over matter. The fundraising for Penny Brohn Cancer Care is another push - I don't think I could do all this as a personal challenge alone. I've raised almost £1,000 in two races, and although I know it'll be harder to beat higher money targets now most of my friends and family have contributed - I guess I'll just have to be more innovative with my fundraising methods/tactics. I'm thinking a spring fete themed cake bake-off may be my next endeavour to raise my combined target of £300 for the Bristol 10k and Half Marathon later this year.

Gulp. Better get my trainers on - it's Sunday and the sun is shining - absolutely no excuses not to activate those endorphins.

If you'd like to donate to PBCC, my JustGiving page is still open for online contributions: http://www.justgiving.com/Holly-Wicks0

Struggling to reach second-time euphoria

So, I'm just 13 days away from my second 1/2 marathon outing in six months. I'm not afraid to admit that I'm more scared than the first time around: firstly because I haven't managed to raise anywhere near as much money for Penny Brohn Cancer Care (total is at £150 at the moment, which doesn't even cover my required donation) thus far, and I want to get a faster race time - which means I need to push harder to make my body stronger.

I've been keeping up a regular running/gym pattern (around 6/7 hours of fitness a week) since I was basking in the self-congratulatory sense of achievement when brandishing my first 1/2 marathon medal in September 2011. I've been increasing the intensity/duration of my runs over the last few weeks, and adding more resistance training in the gym to strengthen my upper body. I know I'm fit, if not fitter than in the lead up to the Bristol 1/2, but for some reason, I can't quite strike the same note of utter dedication - can't quite loose my body's gripes in the total mind-over-matter mentality. Perhaps, like with everything in life: your first time is always the most special or memorable. It's impossible to recreate that moment of euphoria.

I know I can try harder with fundraising, but I needed an extra push to remind me why I'm putting myself through this again. For a start, to see my mum positively brimming and buzzing with enthusiasm after her three day residential course at the Penny Brohn Centre in Pill helped me to understand the ethos of the charity and gave me a greater insight into their work with cancer sufferers. Penny Brohn's ethos is to help cancer suffers live with cancer - 'live' being the operative word. The NHS or 'sausage factory', as my mum and her best friend (who has had both breasts removed due to cancer) call it, remove the life-eating cells, but Penny Brohn Cancer Care enable cancer sufferers and their families deal with life once they've been spat out of that machine - lost, confused and emotionally weak.

The number of caner sufferers is predicted to steeply increase and although more efficient treatments and procedures are also increasing- there needs to be more of a support network to make sure cancer sufferers can readjust to life after invasive surgery. The Penny Brohn method has been practiced here for thirty years, and though the charity was founded in Bristol - the team are currently setting up outreach centres, which will meet the needs of patients around the country more directly.

I'm so glad I took up the offer to go along to a special 'Runners Day' at the Penny Brohn Centre (6 miles out of Bristol) on Saturday - an opportunity to meet other runners raising money for Penny Brohn, tour the facilities at the centre, be given expert tips from a physio, a nutritionist, and training expert and also use the day as the perfect opportunity to try out a new running route that encompassed 12.34 miles along the estuary between Pill and Leigh Woods.

I set off in the sunshine, with iPod tuned to a new training playlist, with just a roughly written set of directions in the pocket of my Fred Perry tennis shorts, hoping that the weather would be kind to me. It was a beautifully warm day, and I was fired up - excited about the new route and having a meaningful interval to look forward to. I made it to the centre in 48 minutes, covering just over 6 miles.

As per usual, I strode in looking like a punched beatroot, and was greeted by Andrew, the fundraising manager - who had been at the finish line at the Bristol 1/2 marathon, and was probably not surprised to see me in such a state, as I'd been in the same condition then too. The centre is part Georgian mansion, complete with cedar trees lining the drive and sandy stone walls glowing warmly in the early spring sunshine. There are additional wings surrounding the old chassie, tastefully and complementarily fitting in, with ornate but unpretentious landscaped gardens dotted around the expansive grounds.

We were offered all sorts of holier-than-holy ethical teas with no less than three milk-but-not-milk alternatives to cows stuff. Impressed - they take nutrition very seriously, as was represented in the gluten free/wheat free mango and pecan squares smuggly waiting to be consumed. Yumm, probably tastier (and much less calorific) as a ten kilos of butter-type recipe from Nigella. I opted for two glasses of water to cool myself down a bit, followed by a Chai with Organic Manuka honey and rice milk.

Even though I was the only one who looked the part of the dedicated runner - I was the novice of the group. The trainer who talked us through race-day kit and trainers had done about 6 full marathons, 12 1/2 marathons and countless ridiculous rough-challenges for those runners who have to have pain as their companion at all times. The other runners where all either seasoned 1/2 marathon runners or in training for the London Marathon this year. I was slightly in awe... never been much of a running geek, but being in a room full of pros for the first time made me excited about running again - I wanted to learn about their experiences and how they get through the runners 'wall'. (Which I think is the technical term for my lack-luster.)

After a demo by a physio on how injuries are picked up from dodgy running technique, and how to prevent this, we then talked carbs, sports drinks (which I detest and will not be adding to my routine) and pre/post race day eating plans. I learned a few surprising facts about energy expenditure and the importance of eating protein to rebuild muscle after training. Aside from that, we discussed trainers, kit and looked at a whole bunch of scarily expensive 'tights' which apartently help circulation and support the flabby bits to decrease wobble and make you more aerodynamic... I will not be convinced to part with £62 for a pair of glorified leggings. No thanks, I'll stick to my hotch-potch approach to attire and avoid cotton, which I totally agree is the runners worst enemy when it comes to sweat-entrapment.

I gulped down an extra half of too-good-to-be-real cake and a tour of the centre commenced with Andrew taking us top to bottom incorporating treatment rooms for reiki, massage and contemplation, an art room, nutritional demo kitchen and group-therapy rooms. The art room is apparently the least used room in the centre which I found surprising and a great shame to see all the new resources sitting dormant in a light-filled space facing the formal gardens.

I thought the centre felt like a luxury spa crossed with a hippy commune - minus the hippyish pretensions/procrastinations and not a whiff of incense to be made drowsy by. Oatmeal carpets, warm oaty-coloured walls, calming lighting, floods of light through generous windows, and quiet aside from the faint sound of the water features outside: the Penny Brohn Centre would make anyone feel instantly at home.

The centre used to be £900 per resident for a three day retreat, but the team recently decided to loose the exclusivity tag, making it is free to anyone suffering or in recovery from cancer. Before I set off, Andrew and the runners discussed why more people don't know about Penny Brohn - there are hundreds of cancer charities, but none of them take the same approach to non-invasive therapy: bolstering the body by teaching sufferers the importance of using a strong immune system to fight again the alien cancer cells attacking their bodies.

I hope that the emergence of more Penny Brohn Centres around the country will create awareness and drum up more support from independent donators, corporate sponsors and government agencies. In the meantime, I'll keep trying to spread their good work - I've seen such a positive change in my mum's attitude to life after cancer, she's still brimming from her time at the centre over a month ago, and is looking forward to returning again soon for a week's retreat - where I know she'll try and get that art room full of people creating pieces of work that address their worries and release some negativity and apprehensions.

Back out in the sun, a little after 2pm, I hit the tow-path, following the meandering estuary back under the suspension bridge and back up to Clifton - clocking 6.34 miles in 50 minutes - head up, powering through, hitting my stride. Nothing like a dose of inspiration to fuel one's personal motivation.

Please donate to Penny Brohn Cancer Care and support my marathon effort here: http://www.justgiving.com/Holly-Wicks0

Nights at The Cube

My education in indie cinema has reached a new level of heightened obscurity.

I was getting delightfully accustomed to the eclectic and offbeat offerings at The Watershed, then I strayed deeper into the indie abyss and stumbled across The Cube Cinema, just off Kings Square, Stokes Croft. The Cube is so off-kilter that it makes The Watershed feel like the director's luxury suite at Cinema De Lux. The location alone should have signaled the alternative nature of this venue (it's wedged between a couple of intimidating tower blocks, just behind a rather attractive Georgian facade.) But with the tempting invitation to screen a film for free on an ample cinema screen in a city of diversity - I eagerly crossed the threshold with my short documentary, A Prickly Relationship in hand ready to join the list in the Bluescreen pot-luck filmathon.

I have screened films from my repertoire on every successive Bluescreen night since - amounting to four very different experiences. Like karaoke: open film nights must be taken with open expectations: some numbers make you want to pull your eyes out, whereas others can trigger fits of sniggers or squeals of joy. Due to the mixture of amateur and professional filmmakers in attendance - you're always sat amongst seriously bonkers enthusiasts or seriously pretentious auteurs (of the jaded or aloof variety) and a few semi-grounded filmmakers like me. There is of course also a hinterland of the average/clever/arty/jokey/weird/exploitative persuasion.

You are encouraged to introduce your film, which is a great chance to scope out the competition and gain an insight into their mental stability. There are always a few 'technical hitches' along the way, and the chap who hosts the night always always misreads names and film titles (a mixed misfortune of low-lighting and bad handwriting from entrants) - which adds to the comic absurdity of the event.

If your film is swallowed by the DVD machine or (in one case so far) you're subjected to two uber-boring 10 minute photo-montages because the DVD menu is on a loop and the technician can't be bothered to stop it/doesn't realise, I have learnt that you must sit still, breath long and hard and let it wash over you.

Last week's screening was extra entertaining as my ex-housemate Jamie's boyfriend, Fred came along. He's quite opinionated, and doesn't especially like the Cube as it is (bit low-brow for him), but he'd agreed to come as Jamie's music video was on the bill. But Jamie had made a grave mistake - arriving late. That means your film will be last on the bill, which basically means that not many people will see it, as the population decreases in the auditorium depending on how good/bad it starts and how long the films go on for (1am being the current record finish for Bluescreen's 10th year anniversary screening!).

I giggled in hysteric glee as Fred squirmed and huffed his way through the first two films on the bill: one - the double bill skateboarding photo montage mentioned earlier, two - a hideously cringy drama which included an angry psycho keeping a young man hostage then wrestling him on the floor for what felt like an eternity. Uh?!

Fred needs to learn to take the rough with the smooth if he's to become a Bluescreen vet.

By far the most amusing offering thus far comes in the shape of a mockumentary series titled 'Brenda'. I've been lucky enough to catch every episode (4), and have to say that although initially it confused me and left me cold - the story has evolved and I confess that I've become hooked to this bizarre micro-soap-op about a straight man who pretends to be a tranny in an attempt to capture the affection of his best friend who happens to be a lesbian.

I have to admit that I didn't realise 'Benda' was a mockumentary during the first episode - I thought it was just a bunch of odd-bods from Stokes Croft playing with a camera. But, as the story has developed, I think it's actually quite clever and a little bit funny. Mainly because the guy playing Brenda is gargantuan - about 7ft and the least attractive tranny I've even seen. So, you can imagine the shrieks and stomach-clutching that occurred when 'Brenda's' two veg made a three-second appearance in one scene. Just about every inch of Brenda has been laid-bare for all to see now, so what can possibly happen next?

A woman who's film was rejected/spat out of the machine about mid-way through the line-up got in such a huff with the recording device she was playing with in her lap (to record the sound of her own film being played? Or researching the competition? Odd any way) that she shouted quite audibly, "Stop turning yourself on!", (directed at her machine I presume), which promoted a ripple of giggles across the audience... and wether out of embarrassment or resentment, she and her companion abruptly left.

The interval is always a welcome chance to air concerns about the sanity of the congregation and recall the films made by the inconspicuous-geniuses hidden amongst us. Also the time for everyone who forgot they had a drink beside their feet to knock over said drink and spend an additional £2 on a replacement.

The best films always seem to proceed the break, though maybe that's just because you know there's light at the end of the cube-shaped-tunnel. Audience figures have ranged between 30 and 60, though as I said, past the 11pm home-time call for week-day workers, numbers dwindle considerably. The die-hards stay till the very end - (yes I can lay claim to being one of those ridiculous creatures).

Cube nights - are film nights subtlety vailing vaguely organised chaos, but enjoyable if you don't go with any preconceived expectations. Where else can you show a film for free, watch a hotch-potch, occasionally exceptional array of moving images crafted by regional talent? Get thy self down to The Cube and experience Bluescreen for yourself - just don't take your caravan-fetish montage and expect a genuine round of applause. In fact, I might suggest a ban for montages of any description.

Big Fat Nightmare Gypsy Christmas

I caught up with a friend a few weeks ago for a coffee and as we hadn't seen each other in a while - we backtracked to how we'd both spent Christmas.

Mine was fun, relaxed and boozy - everything the festive season should be. Sam's was utter chaos and if I'd have had to face the same situation... well - I don't think I'd have made it through to see the New Year.

Sam is a duty manager at a hotel on the outskirts of Bristol. She'd been landed with a hefty Christmas day shift: the only member of staff on duty all day, she had around 40 residents to look after until the night staff took over at 11pm.

40 residents might have been daunting enough if something went wrong and you had no backup. But my jaw dropped when Sam unravelled her story of the day from hell - when she realised half the residents were Irish gypsies, who had managed to smuggle in a rabble of friends to stay and party in their rooms.

They were drunk by 10 am in the morning. Stealing things and causing trouble in the corridors by midday. Sam had to try and control them, as well as assuring the other residents that she'd evict them before dark. The gypsies would not adhere to her pleas for them to leave the building, so she called the police. She didn't want to - worrying that it would upset the local bobbies special day. She couldn't call her boss as she was equally anxious about spoiling his special day with the family. She was well and truly alone in her fight to restore peace at the hotel.

Sam knew she had every right to evict them - the incriminating footage was safely stored on CCTV, but the sheer power in their numbers and audacious behaviour rendered her rather useless. The gypsies were teasing her, picking her up, ignoring every remonstration.

Sam called the police. She hoped the theft element of their behaviour would be enough alone for them to help her. Two officers arrived. They were not very helpful. Sam stated her case, detailing all the offenses. They remained fairly nonchalant, uncommitted.

It wasn't until one of the gypsies made a racist comment to the black officer, that they stirred into gear and began evicting the gypsies and all their messy entourage.

As if that wasn't enough, Sam then had to stay on an extra hour or so to explain the situation to the night staff and get everything settled and tidied to resume service.

The only thing that saved Sam from breakdown was the words of commendation from the non-gypsy residents who witnessed some of the ordeal and saluted her brave fight to regain power.

Bravo Sam!

The Brave Face of Youth

I've just watched the final version of a fantastic short documentary I worked on a few months ago, Brave Face, centring on a diverse group of young people affected by the summer riots in Edmonton and Tottenham. Watch the film here: http://www.mypockets.co.uk/braveface.htm

The film was funded by First Light, produced by Somerset Film (who I've freelanced for many times over the last few years) and directed by award-winning writer/director, Pete Snelling (who mentored a training scheme I attended at Somerset Film a couple of years ago).

I'd heard that Somerset Film had been awarded funding to make a film about young offenders, thought it sounded like a fantastic project and wondered how I might get involved. A month or so later, I happened to bump into Pete Snelling at Somerset Film - where I was doing a bit of freelance admin, and I inquired about the First Light film project. A week later, Pete called me to ask if I was free to production assist on the project, which was now going to be two films - one about young offenders in Bridgwater and another about the affects of the summer riots in Edmonton, North London.

I wholeheartedly agreed to both, not knowing quite what to expect, but cherishing the chance to work with such a prolific director and on such topical subject matter. The first week's shoot was in Bridgwater, predominantly working with a small group of young offenders living in a residential centre. The teenagers here had very damaged lives, and many were in the persistent cycle of reoffending and dodging meeting with their case workers in favour of escaping from themselves in drink, stealing and taking drugs.

The aim of First Light films is to interact with kids, making them the subject and production crew of the films, so that they learn new media techniques and tell their stories to a wider audience. It's a very interesting concept, as you really get to know the participants and it's quite a reflective/thearaputic process for them - to be talking about these major incidents that have shapes their young lives. I honestly warmed to them, they dropped their guards easily and got into the production process with great enthusiam. An opportunity for them to be creative and kept busy - temporarily kept away from the daemons that so often encroached.

The groups stories were exceedingly harrowing - damage done at a young age carrying through and often building into their adolescent lives. We recorded their voices only, as a lot of the stories involved evidence of current offences which might get them into trouble with court hearings and such. So, Pete came up with the novel idea to film the group from everywhich angle except for head-on visually. We used a 'Toddy-cam' (wooden 'a' frame structure on which the camera is mounted at one end and then the participant holds the other end, so that you get a fluid movement and a feeling of being a part of them without any juddering) to film them getting on with everyday things like rolling a cigarette and walking to the shops.

Although the kids were completely receptive to us, letting us in to their lives and engaging so well with the project; there was a sense of doom - that not many of them were ready to attempt to give up their vices - though a lot of it was circumstantial. There was only one boy who genuinely seemed repentant for what he'd done, and had quit the drink, drugs, and thieving. He was in the midst of reconnecting with the family he'd lost for many years, and getting back into horse racing - a passion he grew up with. The others either didn't seem to care, or were simply too damaged or failed by their caseworkers/families to want to change.

I truly believe that no one is born bad, and I wanted to believe that this group of kids would all come through in the end - but with such a mixture of pressures baring down on them, it's easy to see how these cycles of offending reoccur. This week was a challenging time for us, harrowing and heartwrenching but hopefully the film will show not just the negative things that they've done, but focus on why they have got to this dark place and how they can get out with the right kind of support.

I don't think that staying in a residential centre like that (living with a mixture of offenders and non-offenders) is totally productive, but when they have been ousted by their families (or its simply too dangerous for them to live at home), where else is it safe for them to live? One of the centre's managers came across as a beacon of hope, a very positive influence on the residents, though he despaired of their behaviour sometimes, he's one of our society's unsung heroes - just being so accommodating to us - realising that these kids need a voice, from the ground, to make the people with their heads in the clouds hear these voices and make changes for all sorts of social issues. With all the cuts to public services... if people like him are stretched even further beyond their means... they'll loose even more of the valuable time that they put in with these kids, and then who will guide them?

It was quite a different story at the youth centre in Edmonton, near Tottenham, where we shot the second film. With the same intentions, and same set up, we engaged with a massive group of kids (ranging this time from the ages of 7 to 17) who were all keen to tell their stories and although the subject matter (the summer riots) could have been much more contentious - their outlook was positive and inspirational. This group were part of a youth club run predominantly by young volunteers determined to keep their community off the streets and away from the threatening reaches of the local gangs. Such passion and proudness was evident here that it was initially hard to believe that their lives were marred by death and violence at a very immediate level. It's places like this youth centre that are the advocates of the social system - will they ever get the recognition they deserve, or will the government cuts stunt their progress?

Many of the kids that attend this centre three nights a week are damaged by a plethora of conflicting social and personal daemons, but at least they are safe when they join together and use their time productively - they will literally do anything to stay away from the gang-related crimes that are so prevalent in that area.

It was such an eye-opening experience to hear a bunch of under-ten's talk about a friend getting stabbed and killed just a street away from where most of them live, and to witness first-hand the turmoil they face if they're seen in the wrong place at the wrong time. I literally couldn't believe that kids that age are afraid to cross over the street in case they're caught up in a gang-related fray. I had such an idyllic childhood - it put a lot in perspective for me to hear these stories - the youngest ones are old beyond their years as they've had to grow up so quickly in order to avoid the troubles that surround them. Who knows if they'll survive to pursue their dreams (most of the boys want to be footballers). It would be interesting to go back in a year or so and see what has changed.

There was a feeling of hope in Edmonton which contradicted the general reputation of the area. Such a close-knit community revolving around the youth centre - it felt like an extended family - an extension of a living room, complete with table tennis, a Wii, massive TV and walls plastered with photos of activities and fun days out. There's even a music studio, which was in constant use the entire time we were shooting there, and where the soundtrack to the film was produced. Such a hotbed of talent waiting to be acknowledged.

None of the youngsters we worked with were directly involved with the riots but their lives have been inadvertently shaped by the reporting and invasion of the press eager to put faces to crimes committed during the summer. We could have found people more directly affected, or involved but we realised it was more important to focus on the positive aspects.

These kids are escaping difficult home/street lives and the youth centre provides them with a safe haven, a place where they can be children and enjoy the company of others from a multitude of ethnicities and ages. The staff (mostly unpaid) are loyal to their people - most also grew up in the area and strongly believe they are making a difference but also show their concern for the centre's future.

Both film projects tackle issues at the forefront of our society's consciousness, I sincerely hope the films get carried far and wide, and spark debates on a higher level. The young people we worked with have had a profound effect on me, I hope they can grow to be what they want to be in safety and happiness.

Everyone deserves a chance, but circumstance is a heavy burden.

Please watch here now: http://www.mypockets.co.uk/braveface.htm