| I met Ian on Hub pages early on but I have a confession to make and he will just now be finding out about this. I was new to Hub pages and I forget who stumbled on whom but we did connect. I was impressed that this gentleman continued writing on hubs while living in a rest home in England. I conceived I had been reading about a real man who lived in a rest home called Twilight Lawns!!! I had no idea that this was a place Ian had created with characters and personalities. After a couple reads I realized OH!!!!… It is truly amazing and the characters appear very real. Ian has touched my life from the beginning. He would always write the most warm commentaries and he was not frightened to tell me when I botched the hub up… We assumed an adventure together called,”The Magical Victrola.” It was the most rewarding experience for me. It is now published on Kindle. Ian kept telling me to write and encouraged me many times. I was very anxious in publishing anything in the beginning. He awarded me my initial wings and for that I will be ever grateful.
“In my hubs, you may find occasional references to Twilight Lawns picture. This is a Retirement Home for Gentlefolk, situated in the lovely county of Surrey. It is run by a certain Mrs. Plantagenet-Featheringstonehaugh, a lady of exceptional breeding and with a family tree that puts the Windsor to shame The Residents of Twilight Lawns are well-connected, hyphenated and on the whole, from ‘Old Money’ but there are several who may be impecunious, but know all the right people, and are no doubt connected to the best families. Please visit the link below to have a look at Twilight Lawns and the residents that live there.”
Ian’s Link to Twilight Lawns
Who Is Ian Clark aka Twilight Lawns?
Ian was born in India, because his Father was English and his
mother Welsh, born of British parentage, he is Anglo-Indian.
“To lend some confusion, that part of India became Pakistan on Partition in 1947, so I am officially Anglo-Indian or Anglo Pakistani. When the Quit India people decided to throw the British out of the Sub Continent, they threw this baby out with the bath water. I was left with little; no homeland; no Krishna, the bearer who was the person I loved most in the world… No feelings of belonging; just a mouthful of different languages that I had learned in the first eight years of my life. So my parents and I landed in Perth, West Australia where I spent the rest of my growing up, until coming back to the UK when I was twenty-five. I spoke Bauchi which my Baluch Ayah had taught me before my parents took me away from her because they worried that I wouldn’t speak English. I spoke Welsh from
having lived in my Welsh Mamgu’s (Grandmother’s) house in Welsh-speaking Crynant,
Glamorganshire, and South Wales. My mother only speaking Welsh till she was about fifteen. I spoke Urdu and Hindi (Basically the same really) because I lived in India and most of us did, anyway. I spoke Marathi because Krishna was speaking and we lived in Dehu Road Cantonment which is near Poona (now Pune) in Maharashtra Province. Oh Yes. And one other: English. They were the only jewels that I could wear, and my shame is that now I only speak English. But I love words, and hope, by using them, I may entertain you.”
Ian was teacher for the Department of Education of West Australia
and London for 29 years… Ian describes himself as a “Retired Old
Fart.” He now lives in Norbury-sur-Mer, a quiet little seaside village in
Surrey. I can attest to the “Old Fart” but I still love him. He has many loves such as writing, music, and art but his greatest love has been his beautiful Norbury Mudhounds.
I would like to share one of my favorite stories that Ian wrote.
|| Pebbles a Latter Day Tale By Twilight LawnsOnce upon a time there was a young man…a boy…You decide whether he was a boy or a man, as this little story unfolds.The boy lived, as most do in fairy stories, on the edge of a great forest. In the forest he would go walking every day. On the path through the forest there were many pebbles. The boy would pick up one here… one there… look at them, and perhaps admire them for a short time…even put one or two in his pockets; but always, at the end of his walk he would either throw them away, or lose them. Most of the pebbles were nice to look at and to hold… but only for a short time.One day, the boy… or man… saw a pebble as usual. He picked it up and thought it looked nice, and so he put it in his pocket. And there it stayed, and although he looked at it often, for some reason he really didn’t see it properly. You see, this was no ordinary pebble… it was a precious stone, but the boy, for some reason couldn’t see that… Perhaps he was a little blind.And so he kept it in his pocket but eventually neglected it so much that the special pebble decided one day that it would leave… so it crept out of his pocket and ran away… or rolled away… to a distant land where nothing ever happened. It was the great Land of Boredom… (Sometimes known as Carshalton)But although it was a special pebble, a precious stone, even she (Did I say, SHE?) couldn’t stand living in the Land of Boredom. So she returned to the place where the boy lived. And would you believe it?
One day she just happened to be lying on the path as the boy was walking by.He saw it. But did he stop to pick her up again? No!Did the pebble care? No! (Oh well, just a little bit).So every day the young man walked by and looked at the pebble, and eventually he did pick it up and turned it over in his hand… and then, after many days, as he looked as it closely, he began to realize how lovely it was.And this time, he didn’t throw it away…. Because he knew it had Great Worth.But neither did he put it in his pocket, and forget it was there, as he had before.This time,realising how he had overlooked and almost lost this precious stone once before, he put it… her… deep in his
heart, where he knew it… she… would be safe
for the rest of his life.
For the rest of their lives. Insha’Allah
The Romantic Side of Ian
I burn to pour a thousand drops of nectar in your ear
I burn to pour a thousand drops of nectar in your ear;
To wrap you in a filament of words, and doing this
Make your senses reel until you need must
Stay your soaring mind, your body thus,
Against a common prop;
Lean your trembling right hand against a wooden chair
A mundane artefact, lest your soul expires
In blissful transports of literary delights.
Your left hand pressed against your heaving breast,
Scarce daring to allow these words of mine
Should so transport you to another plane.