Tim has had a colourful and difficult life. An eccentric and dissident journalist, broadcaster and award-winning documentary film-maker and playwright, he is the author of thousands of articles and dozens of books. He is a former BBC, ITV and Sky reporter. An acknowledged expert in esotericism in the UK, he has spent decades researching the occult arts and is a prominent speaker throughout the UK and a spiritual activist. Tim also works as a some-time actor appearing on television and in feature films. He is founder and co-owner of the music label Hummadruz Music and has issued two recent albums of original material, Naming The Darkness and Atlantis Outcome. He wrote and directed the 2002 feature film Dead Money. Tim has been involved in public relations, crisis management, car design and production and a spell as a spin doctor – along with other diverse activities. Controversial and highly articulate, Tim continues to live in the Yorkshire Pennines where he has spent most of his life.
As a Story Terrace writer, Tim interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know him better: you can read an autobiographical story of his own below. Get in touch today to work with him!
Parting at Chartres
We ignore the primal power of symbols at our peril. There are symbols everywhere and each one of them has a message. We usually don’t take much notice of them. Until we have to.
For the previous hour my daughter Venice and I had been gazing up at the stone, glass and metal icons adorning the cool, dark interior of Chartres Cathedral. Even an eight year-old had been temporarily captivated by this French medieval masterpiece. But now she was showing signs of cultural exhaustion and tugging on my arm. It was clear code that we should return to the August sunshine outside.
We stepped out of the west entrance and paused in the centre of three giant arches each encrusted with carvings of saints and gargoyles. Initially, the late afternoon light was blinding and the intense heat on my face felt as if it were being spat out from a jet-engine. The twin rows of tall trees were being whipped into a frenzy by the gale which was hammering invisible grit into our eyes. I gripped Venice’s hand and we battled against the powerful gusts down six shallow steps. To either side of us the ancient trunks and branches were shimmering and swaying in some kind of chaotic dance, straining as if they were trying to rip themselves from their roots.
“Why do the trees seem so angry, dad?”
“Perhaps they’re trying to tell us something,” I ventured.
Before we could discuss the matter further I was convulsed by a wave of near panic. Instinctively I grabbed Venice and dragged her a few feet away. As I did there was a sound like a single gunshot above us. Three seconds later a ten foot branch as thick as a weightlifter’s arm crashed onto the stone flags – at precisely the spot where we had both been standing. I stared down at the detached tree limb whose leaves were still fizzing in the hot wind. Instantly I knew that this wasn’t only the most powerful symbol of the day – it was also an encrypted foretaste of the future.
My intuition proved right. Within months the separation from Venice bizarrely unfolded in ways I could never have predicted. Our paths haven’t crossed for more than a decade.
Soon I’ll travel to Chartres again. I doubt whether discovering a symbol of reunification will come easily.
