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The Chisholm Story Page, Redcar (2026)

19/12/2024

A fleeting surge of sudden emotion arose and erupted like a static shock in a moment when our eyes met hers like sparkling emerald jewels.
She smiled, the meeting of minds, across the distant busy bar. I silently mouthed her unheard words, yet conveyed emotionally in this vision defined by the most vibrant art: "You are beautiful."
The canvas blushed a crimson red; she turned and then cast another glance back. We were captivated by thought.

People speaking to me were overlooked. We stood within our eternal gaze, framed by her flaxen hair cascading like gold upon her slender shoulders.
Her smile burst forth again, now touched with a hint of embarrassment. Her girlfriend was energised by her friend's lack of attention; she followed her gaze towards me.

The two erupted into rapid conversation, occasionally glancing in my direction as I maintained my gaze.
Then, panic washed over my churning stomach as they approached me. "Hello," the girl's voice resonated, deep and timbral, as vibrant in its tone as her dancing emerald eyes. "Do we know each other?" she blushed shyly.
"Why no," I replied. "But I think I know your mother, Allison. You are her double, just as she appeared on her wedding day."
"Who are you?" the girl with the emerald-green eyes asked in surprise.
"I was her wedding photographer." Anxiety drained from her face, replaced by a luminous glow rich with emotional excitement.
There we stood as the minutes passed, asking one question after another until her curiosity was satisfied. Then, before parting, she hugged me, kissing my cheek in a lingering embrace. She was gone—an enchanting presence from across the bar.

I turned to my friends, who stood silently, oblivious to my beautiful acquaintance. "How do you do that?" they asked. She was one of the most stunning girls in the room. My wife answered, "Oh, you know, he does it all the time!"

08/12/2024

Title: The Ghost of Maude Wear
It had been a blissful New Year's Day at The Brae in Arkengarthdale. The perfect mixed palette of sunlight during the day and a stormy night evoked the wild, raw beauty of the Yorkshire Dales. Our family had gathered in the quaint cottage, wrapped up in joy, laughter, and the warmth of shared stories by the fireside.
As the night deepened, so did the intensity of the storm outside. Once everyone had retired, Helen and I snuggled under the comforting weight of our electric blanket, deeply asleep, until an eerie chill awakened me. It slithered an invisible serpent under the covers, leaving goosebumps on my skin.
I rose, intending to stoke the fire, my mind half in the world of dreams. Yet, the sight that met my eyes was far from dreamlike—a woman in an old-fashioned dress, a bonnet shadowing her features and a white pinafore glinting in the moonlight that struggled through the storm-shaken windows. Her gaze fixed upon Helen's sleeping form before dissolving into the shadows as if she were made of mist.
Shivering from cold and fear, I went about my original task, my thoughts racing. Had I conjured the apparition from the depths of folklore-filled stories told by the fireside?
Returning to bed, I noticed the lamp was on, and Helen sat upright, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity. "Did you see the old lady?" she whispered, her voice a thin thread of sound.
Our shared shock rippled through the cottage the following day as we recounted our spectral visitor. The family's laughter tried to dispel the thick air of mystery, relegating our encounter to the realm of an overactive imagination spurred by Helen's infamous New Year spirits.
However, the tale takes a tangible turn when Brian bursts in from his morning walk with the dog, his face drained of colour. "You need to see this," he urged, a tremor in his voice.
We followed him, threading through the crisp, untouched snow until we stood before a curious sight—right outside our bedroom window, a grave had collapsed, revealing the shadowed hollow of an old coffin. The headstone, tilted and half-buried in snow, bore faint, weather-worn inscriptions that sent a chill more profound than the winter air around us.
"Here Lays Maude Wear of The Brae, Age 76, lost in a snowstorm 1782."
The reality of our ghostly visitor settled in like the frost on the windows. Unearthing herself from the annals of history, Maude Wear had visited us, perhaps disturbed by the storm or possibly to remind us of her existence, her story etched into the stone and her essence woven into the fabric of The Brae.
As the sun broke through the storm's remnants the next day, turning the snow-laden landscape into a shimmering expanse, we felt an unspoken bond with the cottage and its spectral inhabitant, a story from the past briefly crossing into the present, as fleeting yet as profound as the snow under the Yorkshire sun.

19/09/2024

Title: The Ghost of Maude Wear

It had been a blissful New Year's day at The Brae in Arkengarthdale, the perfect mixed palette of sunlight during the day and a stormy night evoking the wild, raw beauty of the Yorkshire Dales. Our family had gathered in the quaint cottage, wrapped up in joy, laughter, and the warmth of shared stories by the fireside.

As the night deepened, so did the intensity of the storm outside. Once everyone had retired, Helen and I snuggled under the comforting weight of our electric blanket, deeply asleep until an eerie chill awakened me. It slithered, an invisible serpent, under the covers, leaving goosebumps on my skin.

I rose, intending to stoke the fire, my mind half in the world of dreams. Yet, the sight that met my eyes was far from dreamlike—a woman in antiquated dress, a bonnet shadowing her features and a white pinafore glinting in the moonlight that struggled through the storm-shaken windows. Her gaze fixed upon Helen’s sleeping form before dissolving into the shadows as if she were made of mist.

Shivering, both from cold and fear, I went about my original task, my thoughts racing. Had I conjured the apparition from the depths of folklore-filled stories told by the fireside?

Returning to bed, I noticed the lamp was on, and Helen sat upright, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity. "Did you see the old lady?" she whispered, her voice a thin thread of sound.

Our shared shock rippled through the cottage the next morning as we recounted our spectral visitor. The family’s laughter tried to dispel the thick air of mystery, relegating our encounter to the realm of an overactive imagination spurred by Helen's infamous New Year spirits.

However, the tale took a tangible turn when Brian burst in from his morning walk with the dog, his face drained of color. "You need to see this," he urged, a tremor in his voice.

We followed him, threading through the crisp, untouched snow until we stood before a curious sight—right outside our bedroom window, a grave had collapsed, revealing the shadowed hollow of an old coffin. The headstone, tilted and half-buried in snow, bore faint, weather-worn inscriptions that sent a chill deeper than the winter air around us.

"Here Lays Maude Wear of The Brae, Age 76, lost in a snowstorm 1782."

The reality of our ghostly visitor settled in like the frost on the windows. Maude Wear, unearthing herself from the annals of history, had visited us, perhaps disturbed by the storm, or perhaps, to remind us of her existence, her story etched into the stone and her essence woven into the fabric of The Brae.

As the sun broke through the storm’s remnants the next day, turning the snow-laden landscape into a shimmering expanse, we felt an unspoken bond with the cottage and its spectral inhabitant, a story from the past briefly crossing into the present, as fleeting yet as profound as the snow under the Yorkshire sun.

22/03/2023

My X3 Gt Grandfather
Harold awoke on the morning of the 19th June 1815 cold and blooded. He had wrapped himself in the kilt and blanket of his dead skirmisher partner Hugh Cameron and his own; mud, blood and water had replaced the tranquillity of a once summer cornfield. Hugh's headless body lay beside him, having been taken clean off by a French canon ball.

As Harold pulled himself together, the death in the battle lay all around him; a sudden commotion in the camp attracted his attention, a rallying cry to assemble and chase after Napoleon Bonaparte to Paris, defeated he was making a rapid retreat.

Marshal Blucher was hard on the heels of the fleeing French whilst the British contingent of this, the Seventh Coalition, regrouped with seventeen thousand of their troops laying dead, wounded or missing upon the battlefield of Waterloo.

Captain Peter Wilks came over to Harold with a jug of Gin; he filled Harolds' mug. "Well done, Chisholm; few of us are left alive; we can stand down today and sort ourselves out. The 92nd had left half the Regiment dead at Quatre Bra two days before the battle of Waterloo when they had fought Maréchal Michel Ney to a standstill.

After the battle of Waterloo, Harold slept above Mont-Saint-Jean; he had taken Hugh's personal effects, a pocket watch, some coins and his wedding ring, then sat to write a letter to his wife.

Dear Sheena
I am just about to bury your beloved Hugh, who was killed at the battle of Waterloo along with nearly all of our Regiment. Hugh died bravely beside me as we fought the French. The Regiment had been laid down behind the crest of a ridge with a sunken road. When the order came to attack, all troops before us had failed. The 92nd stood fixed bayonets and charged, screaming our war cry in line while the Bagpipes heralded forth our pride with the tune' C**k O' The North'.

As we jumped the hedge with our kilts flying, we fell upon the French with cold steel; they turned to run, and then Scots Greys at the gallop joined us. Many of our boys were carried along with the Dragoons into the thick of the killing field.
Hugh and I took a covered position and began, between reloads, to shoot at the French officers. Shot by shot within thick smoke, they fell under Hugh's marksmanship. Then as I slid back to cover reloading, a canon ball struck Hugh as he raised his rifle. He died instantly.

The Regiment is about to follow old Bonny into France and on to Paris. Hugh died bravely; sadly, he died with many of the 92nd in our victorious battle. We have fought together over the years, and it is hard to understand a day of much sadness after winning a battle. I have prayed for his soul and made sound his effects which I enclose with this letter. God willing, I will call to see you once we are again in Scotland.
With God's Grace, Harald.

27/02/2023

For late March, Easter Saturday 1975 was intensely cold; the daffodils were in full bloom within the late winter snow blown beside the hedgerows of Carr Lane Glaisdale. Glaisedale is nestled along the river Esk valley beneath the North Yorkshire Moors. Sheep roamed freely along the High Street accompanied by their spring lambs; together, the fold was bleating loudly from mother to child, and their energising calls echoed loudly between the cottages of the ancient village sandstone walls.
Brian, Jane Colley, along with their newborn baby Emma rented a holiday cottage with Helen and me for the week.
I returned from photographing a wedding at Grinkle Park late that afternoon to find glowing embers within the living room fire; the cottage was empty. A note was on the mantlepiece. 'Gone to Whitby, back for Tea'. I built up the fire with coal before leaving with my newspaper, 'The Times,' for the Mitre tavern to await the family's return.
Walking into the empty bar, it felt warm in contrast to the bitter easterly wind blowing across the moors straight from the north sea. I ordered a pint of bitter and took myself to a small bay window overlooking our cottage. It had a seat wrapped around the window; sitting down, I put my back against the sandstone wall and stretched my leg across the window, placing my boot upon a very well-worn part of the architrave window frame. The scars in the wood had been painted over many times. There I relaxed; a blazing fire roared in a large hearth with seats set within the sides. A massive oak beam formed the mantlepiece, adorned by horseshoes nailed into the wood, and above hung a blackened brass hunting horn that needed a polish.
Sipping my beer, I read the newspaper. There was an article about Charlie Chaplin being knighted by the Queen earlier that month; it was also the year that Margaret Thatcher had defeated Ted Heath to lead the Tory party. Occasionally I glanced out the window, but still no movement in the cottage.
The Pub door opened, letting in a blast of cold air; an old farmer stood in the frame stopping the door from closing. Joseph, the Barman, shouted over to me. "You are for it now, young man; you're sat in Bill's seat"! He was dressed in a Barbour jacket timeless in its age, though it had been on his back for many a winter. Leather patches covered the elbow. He wore mohair trousers with string tied around his legs just below the knees; the top band of the trousers rose up to his chest and was held up by a vast brown belt wrapped around his waist. He held a long shepherd's crook with a polished bone handle, and his slender old frame was topped by a flat cap of Harris tweed that looked far too big as the sides flopped and overhung his shoulders.
Bill stood frozen, looking directly at me as if he had seen a ghost. "The lads alright, Joe". The old man replied. "That was his grandfather's seat before it was mine, so he is welcome to it"! Confused, I asked the old farmer to shut the door and asked if I could buy him a drink. You would have seen me deep in conversation. Bill related his story about my grandfather and his brother Fred who had been policemen in the valley; upon retirement, they became landlords of the Robin Hood and Little John pub in the Esk valley village of Castleton. As police, the Mitre had been their local hostelry, nights in the mid-1920s when they would play dominos. Bill commented. "it was not only the way you look like your grandfather, rather the way you were sat with your leg across the bay window. His hob-nail boots made those marks in the woodwork over the years, and fifty years on, here you are, a mirror in the replaying of time".

05/08/2020

The air felt chilled as I swung my legs out of bed in the twilight hours, the heavy blackout curtains bellowed in the summer breeze just enough to allow the morning red illumination into the bedroom. As I stood, the floorboard gave their good morning creak, which had greeted me every day for the last 38 years. Then again, upon the landing, each step teased out another harmonic crack as I stepped in earnest for the first leak of the day.

The shower was hot, scorching until I slowly turned the mixer tap round to cold. The freezing water cascaded down my back. I shivered to wrap a warm towel around my shoulder while stepping out of the wet room onto more creaking floorboards. These sounded different, sharp, more defined under the bathroom floor, more like that of a breaking twig underfoot, well the house is old, the floorboards an inch thick, not chipboard that bends over the matchwood joists of most modern homes.

Dressed, I stepped cautiously on the top of the stairs, my dog Bertie who had been waiting in the bedrooms twelve-foot bay window under the billowing curtain breeze. Bert as usual like a dart flew passed me at speed to the garden door. Gently I followed taking each stair tread one at a time, again the wood creaked, cascading harmonics, timeless, each timber delivered its own music. Memories flooded back to that of my daughter returning home as a teenager, cursing me as I quietly called out. "Morning, Kate". The stairs creaking gently to gave away her early dawn arrival home.

After boiling the kettle, I reascended the stairs with coffee for. 'She who must be obeyed'. There the lady laid, having rolled to occupy the centre of the king-sized bed after I had left. She was cocooned within the duvet. I stroked her forehead while holding the cup of steaming coffee under her nose. "Put it on the bedside table". She whispered, without opening her eyes. Strange I thought, this side of the bedroom floorboards doesn't creak, just as well, two hours later I replaced the cold cup of coffee and gave the sleeping beauty a shake. If I hadn't, my floorboard creeping silence would have left a further coffee unloved.

Both my homes have had character, age and a storyline. My first had a three-story staircase, twelve stately rooms with twelve-foot ceilings and six massive fireplaces. Only this townhouse had too many ghosts, the offices on the ground floor even in the summer demanded the fires set, they were cold, freezing and at night while working late a chill gripped your backbone.
Not here in my family house, though back in the High Street townhouse now over 200 years old too many a soul had passed away under its eaves. The timbers out of which this ancient property had been built had a history. The floors and the roof were made out of salvaged shipwreck timbers. Lifting the floorboards revealed the joists once found as shipsmask timbers adged flat to accommodate polished thin underdeck planks each differing in widths. Discovery within the roof elevated the imagination. On deck sailing the high seas with timbers as significant as the mighty oaks of Englands, Trafalgar and of Nelson's era.

03/07/2020

Kirkleatham Parish Church, a magnificent church service, a beautiful bride, an enthusiastic groom, two Mothers and a man in a bright coloured suit. He sang serenely in the service from the back of the church, he throws confetti as the couple leave then joined the guests on the coach to Rushpool Hall where I spent 30 minutes taking pictures. He joins in all the bride side of the photographs and took centre stage in the group of everyone standing just behind the Bride and Groom. In joining the reception I noticed he sat in an empty seat and turned over the name card. Later, after the meal and just before cutting the cake photo, I asked the Brides Mum. "Do you know who that man is in the bright suit, he has been in all your family photos"? No, sorry I don't. Mavis, the Grooms Mum, .sorry nor do I! When we looked up again he was gone last seen running up the Hall drive laughing his head off. This being the story of the uninvited wedding guest. I retook all the family pictures. He was never seen again.

28/10/2019

When you dream to write, to dream of green, of the open heaths, the mountains high and an isolated campsite far from the noise of life. Then the pen flows ever deep the imagination of the mind.

22/05/2019

The Brae Arkengarthdale

We were standing outside The Brae, our Arkengarthdale Cottage taking a break from cooking New Year's dinner for 12. New years eve had seen white-out blizzards sweep through the Yorkshire Dales, today was in total contrast, although it was minus ten degrees the sky was crystal clear, cobalt blue, while the sun blazed low in the early afternoon sky.
Helen and I were enjoying a large Gin & Tonic while waiting for the family to return from their walk, no doubt after calling in at the Red Lion in Arkle Town on the way home.
As far as the eye could see the valleys lay white in the snow, not thick, rather a frozen carpet of pure white, boot deep, which crunched echoing across the dale as you walked.
We heard the dog barking along with the excitement of the children long before we saw the family returning along the narrow lane. We were all soon sat around an extended table tucking into prawn cocktail in Helen family secret sauce recipe , followed by a massive joint of beef, despite the number for dinner this would keep us in sandwiches for days.

After dinner totally stuffed, I found myself sitting in my favourite chair in front of a blazing coal fire while the girls washed up. After that, the children went up into their bedroom to watch a video while the adults passed around an excellent Port along with a large box of Thornton's chocolates.
The afternoon quickly drifted into the night, quietly the radio played while we read books, occasionally rising to recharge the glasses and top up the fire. This singular fire which radiated heat throughout the cottage, a cottage whose walls are built of dependable Yorkshire stone feet thick was centuries old.
Then it was time to take the dog for his evening walk, Brian and I dressed as if we were part of Scott of the Arctic team, and set out into the blizzard for what was to be a very short walk indeed. I personally can't every remember been out in such weather, so very cold, the wind biting, even though your warmest waterproof cloths. It was the dog that turned for home; we followed in rapid pursuit.
Back in the Brea, we built up the fire higher than ever before, pulling the chairs very close to its blazing glow, soon out feet were burning while a draft chilled the back of our necks. The children were abed, I had read them a bedtime story, turning the night storage radiators on full while tucking them deep under thick feather Ida down quilts.
We played the rest of the night out with a game of Monopoly while sipping the finest of Malt whiskey. And so New Year's day 1990 came to a close in such tranquil inner surroundings while without the storm raged in greater ferocity.
Now, the Brae was built beside an old graveyard, no church existed, instead, having been threatened with subsidence down into the valley gorge, it had been taken down in the 1800 stone by stone and rebuilt in Arkle Town.
Our bedroom was on the ground floor overlooking these ancient gravestones, it had looked so beautiful upon this winter new year sunlight day. Now hailstones lashed in torment rattling the window pane. Helen and I snuggled up in bed having had the electric blanket on all afternoon, we soon fell asleep. I slept well, until I awoke to such a chill as I had never known, its emergence filling the air, getting up for the loo I thought to stoke up the fire keeping it burning throughout the night.
After searching for my slippers in the inky black of the room, I was taken aback, for as I stood, there, sitting on the end of the bed was a very old lady dressed in a bonnet, a long black dress wearing a white pinafore.
She was sat looking at Helen as she laid asleep, then she disappeared quickly into the dark folding night, which absorbed her light. Good God, I thought, what was that thinking I must have overeaten. I left for the loo, the unearthly chill remained, spine-tingling cold, especially after what I had just seen.
When I returned, Helen was sat up in bed, the side light was on. "Did you see the old lady" she exclaimed. I described the lady in detail. Helen was in shock, though relieved that I also had seen the apparition.

Next morning we told the rest of the household of our night's experience. It was with some humoresque banter laughed off. Some hours later, Brian returned from walking the dog. "There is something outside you two should see".
We found outside our bedroom window under the weight of snow that a grave had collapsed into the empty cavity of a coffin. Written faint and weathered on the headstone were these words. ''Here Lays Maude Wear of The Brae Age 76, lost in a snowstorm 1782'.

19/12/2018

A short Jack Cameron Story
The mist hung heavy, my mind fearful within it damp dark enclosing form, this mountain was a beast it just kept throwing out its power, its might, its hight, its dynamic way which flung every season and element of Earths weather at me.
Lost through the lack of sight nothing around told where I was, I searched for a footpath or a track with my tired eye such as the enclosing breath of this freezing mountain mist.
I felt rather than saw a large boulder beside my tired legs, sitting down drained and raw my now lifeless form felt the dampness closing around me in a tight clutching fist. If this was hypothermia, I should know what to do yet my mind was gripped, unyielding of positive thought.
Laying against a boulder, I dropped my ice axe, which fell behind me. Dam! I turned around to see it had sunk deep within an alcove big enough to climb into. Dropping down, I realised there was a hollow into which I could shelter. There I lay chilled to the bone, I subsequently pulled myself into a five seasons sleeping bag, fitting the hood over my face and quickly fell asleep.
Some little time later, I awoke to my fingers, shouting in bitter pain. Pulling them out of my gloves, each finger end was black with frostbite. Leaning over, I grabbed a touch from my sack to take a closer look, yes, that was frostbite! In the beam of the torch, I suddenly realised I was not alone in the cave, laid at the very back of the cave was the lifeless mummified co**se of a female. She was laid fully clothed in a long tweed skirt though I saw that both her legs were broken below the knee. But for her old clothes and leather hobnailed boots placed beside her body, she could have died here only yesterday. I reached over to a leather-bound journal laid with a pencil upon her chest.
My name is Heidi Voss. I was climbing with my family, I do not know how long I have laid here, since our climbing accident which happened on Sunday 12th February 1877. Jack and Bernard were walking ahead of me when one after the other walked over the mountain edge in the mist. I heard Jack shout out just as the rope tightened. I jumped against the boulder at the entrance to this cave, wedging my legs to support them. When the weight of them both whipped the rope like a hangman's noose. The sudden jerk pulled me forward, snapping both my legs. The two lads hung there for the remainder of the day, I must have passed out. For when I awoke, I was able to pull in the rope until I saw a clean knife cut at its end.
Now very alone cold and unable to walk I crawled in here. If you are a stranger that has found my remains do not struggle to take my body off the mountain, rather bury me here where I lay and tell my family how we met our end.
My hands were now in agony, even the painkillers I had taken would not ease the pain, I sat and looked further around the cave to see if I could move some stones to cover the lonely body of Heidi Voss. It was then I noticed a mist coming from behind a large boulder at the back of the cave where the wall was covered in green lichen. Crawling my torch beam illuminated a different cave which was dripping wet from steam rising from a central pool. I touched the crystal clear water, it was hot.
I had stripped off and eased my body into the pool, I gently submerged my bitter black fingers into the water. Dam that hurt! There I lay with my head upon the edge to the pool. I must have fallen asleep for when I awoke I felt terrific, warm refreshed and myself again. Climbing out, I noticed the black frostbite of my finger ends were gone, impossible I thought to myself, shaking I dried myself on a teeshirt from my sack. Then I noticed my appendix scar had had also gone along with a deep rope burn across my neck and left arm from supporting a falling climber and what of my stiff right knee from a car crash a decade before? My knee was as flexible as the other, I looked back into the pool. That was some bath.
Dressed and reinvigorated, I climbed back into the cave entrance, there I sat beside Heidi to brew a cup of coffee. I decided to cover her face with my wet teeshirt. Together we lay. Me feeling full of youth again and her a lifeless body.
Before I started to cover her body with stones, I decided to take a photo of her face to take down the mountain along with her belongings and her journal. To my amazement where the water from the shirt had touched her skin, it had started to regenerate a new.
Minutes later, I had pulled her lifeless body upon the groundsheet on which she had laid for 140 years and sunk her into the pool. Nothing happened at first, then I notice tiny spores from the lichen around the pool, forming a film over her submerged body. I sat for hours watching the activity until only her lifeless form lay so still yet renewed at the bottom of the pool.
What was I thinking? She is still dead, I told myself.
I pulled her out, she was heavy. I heaved with my arms wrapped around her pulling her towards the entrance. Suddenly she coughed, turned over and regurgitated a lot of water. Slowly she came around, opening her eyes. I found myself while in a state of shock, offering her words of comfort, slowly she sat up looking perplexed. She was a girl returning from the dead, no longer a mummified co**se, rather a beautiful girl with long blond hair in plats either side of her face. She shivered. I undid my sack and pulled out my spare clothes, walking trousers, socks, a fleece and a lightweight jacket. I offered Heidi them. She was surprised I knew her name. I explained I had read her journal. It was then she reached down to her legs a total look of confusion spread across her face. "I will explain all later, get out of those wet clothes and change". I handed her my climbing trainers, with an extra pair of sock. "These should suffice".
I left her and went into the entrance to cook some food. Soup, bread and cheese, a true mountaintop feast. When she appeared carrying her old clothes, she looked even more upset. I said nothing while handing her the meal. Together we devoured it as if it was our first ever meal.
That's a laugh I thought to myself, how the hell am I going to explain things to her.
I decided to leave things until I got her off the mountain. We finished our meal with a swig from my hip flask, which was full of the finest Highland Malt before we climbed out of the cave to discover the mountain was blessed in brilliant sunshine.
Six hours later we walked into the ski lodge, one that Heidi recognised, nothing had changed but the clothes the people were wearing. We ordered drinks from the bar and walked over to an empty table in the window overlooking the mountain from which we had just returned. Only Heidi had not followed me. She was looking at an old photograph in a dark stained timeworn frame. It had an engraved brass plaque. 'In memory of Heidi, Jack and Bernard lost upon the mountain 1877 and never found'. She just stared at the picture of herself and her two brothers which had been taken by her father the day they had set off to climb the mountain. Her face was ashen, as white porcelain, she walked over to my table. "What is the date"? She asked……….

The Chisholm Story Page

19/12/2024

08/12/2024

19/09/2024

22/03/2023

27/02/2023

05/08/2020

03/07/2020

28/10/2019

22/05/2019

19/12/2018

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