Latest news with #Clive
South Wales Argus
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- South Wales Argus
Gwent artist brings classic tales to life in new limited edition book
The work by Clive Hick-Jenkins, of Monmouthshire, has brought Emily Wilson's translation of Homer's Odyssey and Iliad vividly to life in the new book. Hailed as a 'cultural landmark' the edition is limited to 500 copies and will be published by Folio Society on August 12, costing £750. Clive's meticulous work included creating models of chariots to ensure his illustrations captured the way they moved correctly. Clive's paintings are in numerous public collections, including the National Museum of Wales and the Contemporary Art Society for Wales, as well as private collections and libraries around the world. He is a Royal Cambrian Academician and an Honorary Fellow of Aberystwyth University School of Art. In 2017 he was awarded an Honorary Doctorate of Arts by Southampton Solent University. The Iliad plunges readers into the fury of the Trojan War, where gods and mortals clash in a brutal struggle that centres on the overwhelming wrath of Achilles and its devastating consequences. And in the aftermath of the war, The Odyssey follows Odysseus on his perilous journey home, battling vengeful gods and mythical creatures as he fights to reclaim his kingdom and reunite with his family. The Folio Society's limited editions sell out in an average of four hours, with the fastest selling title being The Hobbit which sold out in 12 minutes.
Daily Mirror
5 days ago
- Entertainment
- Daily Mirror
Our Yorkshire Farm's Clive Owen looks to the future as he says 'this is my last day'
Our Yorkshire Farm star Clive Owen, who appears in the Channel 5 series alongside wife Amanda, was forced to take some time off from the farm for an important reason Our Yorkshire Farm favourite Clive Owen was compelled to step away from his agricultural duties as he underwent hip surgery. During a repeat broadcast of Our Farm Next Door, which screens today, Clive revealed his apprehension about the procedure, which meant temporarily abandoning his farming responsibilities. Speaking directly to the camera, Clive remarked: "I don't want folk to think I just stand around and ponder." He subsequently revealed: "Tomorrow, I have got to be in hospital for half 7 in the morning for a new hip. So, I wouldn't say I am really looking forward to it, but that is what's going to happen, so this is my last day for a little while. "I'll be back, and I'll just have to tell everyone what to do and drive them all mad," reports the Manchester Evening News. Clive confessed: "I am going to be a bit nervous, but I am alright with it, I'll do exactly what they tell me, and the next thing you wake up and it's done. "I have had one you see so I know the procedure, like it or not that is what is happening tomorrow." Later in the programme, Clive is shown instructing his sons on overseeing the farm whilst he recuperated. Despite his circumstances, Clive kept his wit intact, acknowledging, "I have definitely been a horrible patient because I am impatient." He showed appreciation for his sons, stating, "I couldn't have managed without these lads to do what needed doing. So yeah, they have done very well." Clive hinted that his lads might carry on leading: "It means from now on they needn't hand the reins back to me, they can just carry on. "I could find myself redundant," he joked, before turning to his son and asking, "What do you think, Miley?" He emphasised the core of family farming: "That is what family farms are all about, everybody has to help." Our Farm Next Door is available to watch on All4.
News18
23-07-2025
- Sport
- News18
‘Shame That My Achievements Aren't Recognised Where I Played Most': Farokh Engineer
'This is a proud moment not only for me but for India as well. Clive and I were talking about it this morning. We never imagined something like this would be done in our honour. God is Great. This compensates for not receiving recognition in my own country," Engineer told PTI. Engineer, 87, played most of his cricket in Bombay, primarily at the Brabourne Stadium. 'It is a shame that my achievements are not recognised where I played most of my cricket," he remarked. However, he expressed gratitude to the BCCI for awarding him the Lifetime Achievement Award in 2024. 'Lancashire Cricket is delighted to announce that the Club has named a stand at Emirates Old Trafford after Club icons and Hall of Fame inductees, Sir Clive Lloyd and Farokh Engineer. The ceremony took place this morning, on Day One of the Fourth Test between England and India, with Sir Clive and Farokh joined by Club representatives to unveil the plaque," said Lancashire Cricket in a statement.
The Guardian
22-07-2025
- The Guardian
The Parallel Path by Jenn Ashworth review – a soul-searching walk across England
When Jenn Ashworth set out on Alfred Wainwright's 192-mile coast-to-coast walk, from St Bees in the west to Robin Hood's Bay in the east, she was stepping out of character. Her daily circular walks round Lancaster during lockdown were no real preparation, and a brief orienteering course was no guarantee that she wouldn't get lost. She wasn't walking for charity or running away from a marriage or, like the fell runner who'd done the route in 39 hours, trying to break any record. A homebody 'inclined to slowness', she was a 40-year-old novelist, professor and mother of two going off on her own for two-and-a-half weeks for reasons she couldn't quite articulate. Not that there weren't contributory factors. Lockdown had left her with post-Covid cabin fever, itchy to be elsewhere after the long months of caring for her family and students ('a one-woman battle against entropy'). She also knew that at every pub and guest house she'd booked en route supportive letters would be waiting from her terminally ill but brilliantly animated friend Clive. Most importantly, although her walking wouldn't be solitary, since she couldn't avoid bumping into other (potentially annoying) hikers, she'd be 'the sole owner of my own skin again'. As she flogs herself 'onwards towards impressiveness', her journey is marked out plainly. The chapters detail the distance and destinations of each day's walk. They also convey how brittle, sour and grumpy she can be, and how blistered and footsore she gets: she might be 'off on a jolly' but there's a price to pay, in pain and guilt. She doesn't go in for nature writing: when she evokes 'the damp green air and the heavy, alive smell of the still-wet branches and mulchy undergrowth', it's a plain-as-muck authentic response, not a 'soft' poeticism. Maybe that's down to her being grittily northern. She does reflect on what it means to come from the north, but her version of northern-ness isn't Alfred Wainwright's, whose 'gruff complaining' she engages with throughout – enjoyably and sometimes scathingly. He's not the only fellow traveller in her head. Nor is Clive, with his letters, nor Ben, her late first husband, whose 24 marathons in 24 months, completed after he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, were an amazing achievement. Mostly it's writers she carries with her – Henry David Thoreau, William Hazlitt, Werner Herzog (who walked from Munich to Paris to see his dying mentor) and Virginia Woolf – whose ideas inspire her own. (Had it come out sooner, David Nicholls's novel of last year covering the same route, You Are Here, might have featured too.) What's captivating about her book is all the thinking she does mid- or post-trek: on writing, friendship, welfare, illness, Charles Atlas, climate change, protest marches, knitting, and why it is that in popular mythology 'walking women' are either models on a catwalk or sex workers. As she wanders, her mind wanders. Solvitur ambulando: she's not sure what exactly it is she's trying to solve by walking, but the book's as much an invigorating mental workout as it is a hard physical trudge. Memories surface, too, from childhood and adolescence: of a girl called Alice she knew who died in a 'horrible accident' when Ashworth was 10 and whose photo she hid in a bottle; of her volunteering for the Samaritans as one of the women (Brendas, they were called) who'd listen on the phone to distressed or lonely callers, including men who'd masturbate as they talked; of how she returned to Preston from Cambridge University 34 weeks pregnant at the age of 21 and made it her home again. In her last nonfiction book, Notes Made While Falling, Ashworth devised a method that married narrative fragments with philosophising lyrical essays. Here the storyline is simpler – a walk, start to finish – but the method is much the same. Towards the end comes the threat of failure. She loses her balance and falls – no injury is sustained, but the dizziness feels ominous. Then a heatwave arrives, making the scheduled completion of the walk impossible. The complications gather to a major health crisis, closer to home than the one affecting Clive. Mercifully, there's an upbeat outcome, adding another layer to the motif of care. The walk that the author saw 'as a break from the labour of care turned out to be a path that led me deeper into understanding my own need for it'. 'Not until we have lost the world do we begin to find ourselves,' Thoreau wrote. Ashworth didn't walk 192 miles in order to find herself. But she's newly conscious afterwards not of her stamina and sure-footedness but of her frailty, of how 'my body is more fragmented and vulnerable than I wanted it to be'. Despite her guise as an 'armoured little being stomping her way across the entire country', she's forced to embrace a new kind of gentleness. And rather than exulting in independence, she's back among friends and freshly available to 'the traffic of love'. Chastened but buoyant, she's stimulating to be with, her book the best kind of walking companion. The Parallel Path: Love, Grit and Walking the North by Jenn Ashworth is published by Sceptre (£20). To support the Guardian order your copy at Delivery charges may apply.
The Guardian
21-07-2025
- The Guardian
The Parallel Path by Jenn Ashworth review – a soul-searching walk across England
When Jenn Ashworth set out on Alfred Wainwright's 192-mile coast-to-coast walk, from St Bees in the west to Robin Hood's Bay in the east, she was stepping out of character. Her daily circular walks round Lancaster during lockdown were no real preparation, and a brief orienteering course was no guarantee that she wouldn't get lost. She wasn't walking for charity or running away from a marriage or, like the fell runner who'd done the route in 39 hours, trying to break any record. A homebody 'inclined to slowness', she was a 40-year-old novelist, professor and mother of two going off on her own for two-and-a-half weeks for reasons she couldn't quite articulate. Not that there weren't contributory factors. Lockdown had left her with post-Covid cabin fever, itchy to be elsewhere after the long months of caring for her family and students ('a one-woman battle against entropy'). She also knew that at every pub and guest house she'd booked en route supportive letters would be waiting from her terminally ill but brilliantly animated friend Clive. Most importantly, although her walking wouldn't be solitary, since she couldn't avoid bumping into other (potentially annoying) hikers, she'd be 'the sole owner of my own skin again'. As she flogs herself 'onwards towards impressiveness', her journey is marked out plainly. The chapters detail the distance and destinations of each day's walk. They also convey how brittle, sour and grumpy she can be, and how blistered and footsore she gets: she might be 'off on a jolly' but there's a price to pay, in pain and guilt. She doesn't go in for nature writing: when she evokes 'the damp green air and the heavy, alive smell of the still-wet branches and mulchy undergrowth', it's a plain-as-muck authentic response, not a 'soft' poeticism. Maybe that's down to her being grittily northern. She does reflect on what it means to come from the north, but her version of northern-ness isn't Alfred Wainwright's, whose 'gruff complaining' she engages with throughout – enjoyably and sometimes scathingly. He's not the only fellow traveller in her head. Nor is Clive, with his letters, nor Ben, her late first husband, whose 24 marathons in 24 months, completed after he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, were an amazing achievement. Mostly it's writers she carries with her – Henry David Thoreau, William Hazlitt, Werner Herzog (who walked from Munich to Paris to see his dying mentor) and Virginia Woolf – whose ideas inspire her own. (Had it come out sooner, David Nicholls's novel of last year covering the same route, You Are Here, might have featured too.) What's captivating about her book is all the thinking she does mid- or post-trek: on writing, friendship, welfare, illness, Charles Atlas, climate change, protest marches, knitting, and why it is that in popular mythology 'walking women' are either models on a catwalk or sex workers. As she wanders, her mind wanders. Solvitur ambulando: she's not sure what exactly it is she's trying to solve by walking, but the book's as much an invigorating mental workout as it is a hard physical trudge. Memories surface, too, from childhood and adolescence: of a girl called Alice she knew who died in a 'horrible accident' when Ashworth was 10 and whose photo she hid in a bottle; of her volunteering for the Samaritans as one of the women (Brendas, they were called) who'd listen on the phone to distressed or lonely callers, including men who'd masturbate as they talked; of how she returned to Preston from Cambridge University 34 weeks pregnant at the age of 21 and made it her home again. In her last nonfiction book, Notes Made While Falling, Ashworth devised a method that married narrative fragments with philosophising lyrical essays. Here the storyline is simpler – a walk, start to finish – but the method is much the same. Towards the end comes the threat of failure. She loses her balance and falls – no injury is sustained, but the dizziness feels ominous. Then a heatwave arrives, making the scheduled completion of the walk impossible. The complications gather to a major health crisis, closer to home than the one affecting Clive. Mercifully, there's an upbeat outcome, adding another layer to the motif of care. The walk that the author saw 'as a break from the labour of care turned out to be a path that led me deeper into understanding my own need for it'. 'Not until we have lost the world do we begin to find ourselves,' Thoreau wrote. Ashworth didn't walk 192 miles in order to find herself. But she's newly conscious afterwards not of her stamina and sure-footedness but of her frailty, of how 'my body is more fragmented and vulnerable than I wanted it to be'. Despite her guise as an 'armoured little being stomping her way across the entire country', she's forced to embrace a new kind of gentleness. And rather than exulting in independence, she's back among friends and freshly available to 'the traffic of love'. Chastened but buoyant, she's stimulating to be with, her book the best kind of walking companion. The Parallel Path: Love, Grit and Walking the North by Jenn Ashworth is published by Sceptre (£20). To support the Guardian order your copy at Delivery charges may apply.
