Category: education

Greenwich university buildings and green grass

From Bangor to the Big City: why change works

Author: | 24 Feb 2026

What happens when you’ve chosen your university and your course, but life takes a turn and you need more family and friend support around you? Our scholar Charly initially didn’t realise she could transfer university but making that big change has helped her get back on track with her degree.

After studying a foundation year in Anthropology at Goldsmiths in London, I wanted to move in a different direction – a BA in Creative Writing – and was accepted onto a course at the University of Bangor in North Wales.  I really enjoyed my first year there. As a Londoner, being in new surroundings and amazing scenery really did me good. The university itself is grand, like something out of the Harry Potter books, set in the midst of mountains and ethereal nature. Being out of the big city also offered far fewer distractions and more time to focus.

Towards the end of my first year, however, I split up with my partner, which left me wondering whether to continue at Bangor, without the support of friends and family, or transfer back to London and find another university for my second year. It was a hard decision. I was enjoying the course so much and didn’t want to give it up, but I also wanted my support network back. I had assignments to do and was nearly at breaking point, trying to balance working, studying and dealing with the emotional upheaval. The staff at Bangor were extremely sympathetic and caring during this anxiety-riddled time and I was very proud to find out that, despite it all, I had completed my first year successfully.

‘Always be grateful to have lived there’

I decided in the end to ask for a transfer but was at a complete loss of how it would work. Fortunately, Bangor gave me an amazing referral and helped me with the steps needed to move to the University of Greenwich, my first choice. Better still, they accepted me.

And so I went into second year without knowing anyone or any of the new modules on offer. I hadn’t even had a chance to visit Greenwich University properly. It also meant transferring my probation arrangements, but it was a risk that I was willing to take.

‘Even now, I am a little overwhelmed’

Fast forward a few months, and I have managed to complete probation, find suitable accommodation in North London and navigate being the ‘new student’. As I regularly started attending lectures and workshops, I began to settle in. It is completely different from Bangor. The classrooms are a lot bigger. There are many more students, and the buildings in Greenwich are huge in comparison, complete with the concrete jungle of London on my doorstep. Even now, I am a little overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of everyday city life.

If a transfer is something you are considering, what I can tell you is that it is absolutely doable, with the right support and decision-making. Looking back, I don’t regret the impulsivity of moving to a new place, especially somewhere as rural as North Wales. I had been craving change after my prison sentence had ended, and happened to have that rare opportunity, which I took.

I am still to some extent adjusting to Greenwich. Back in Bangor, I had made strong bonds with my personal tutors, which gave me support and confidence to thoroughly engage with my classes. I do not yet feel as connected to my current lecturers and have some slight doubts about my second year modules. The transition back to London has also caused a bit of a creative block, but recently I have been working on myself and healing properly. As for the future, after graduation, I would love to get into a writing job of some sort, or perhaps something in film combined with art. Although, then, I am still adjusting to the change, change for the better is also sometimes a necessity.

Two bearded men smiling, in a coffee shop

‘In mentoring insight arrives quietly and stays’

Author: | 10 Feb 2026

Mentoring is crucial in our Longford Scholarships, alongside financial and employability support. Scholar Fedor, doing a Creative Writing degree, and his mentor Alistair began meeting last year. Fedor reflects on what their relationship has given him.

I wonder if mentorship is most often imagined as advice given, direction offered, and experience passed to an unquestioning and grateful mentee. My experience as a Longford scholar has  shown me something gentler, and far more enduring: that the most meaningful mentorship can be calm, patient, and quietly affirming.

My first meeting with Alistair began with his gift of a book about my hometown. Such kindness, forethought, and foresight. He is a retired senior lecturer who taught English for over 40 years at Sussex University. His knowledge of language, poetry, novels, and the literary canon is extraordinary, but it is never explicit, and not once impressed upon me. When it surfaces, it happens organically. Perhaps a novel is mentioned, not as instruction, but as invitation.

Our relationship, on his instigation, is filled not with advice and guidance, but with a space he creates. Conversations are effortless, unfolding without urgency or pressure. Alistair’s mentoring instinct is not to ‘fix’ anything, nor to rush me toward conclusions. He listens, and this space allows ideas to arrive imperfectly. Then he might ask a question or offer an opinion that compels me not to reassess, but simply to think harder.

‘Safety is where growth takes root’

Life, inevitably, intervenes. I had to cancel a meeting at short notice due to illness. I apologised, embarrassed and typing with a touch of guilt. In truth, I expected disappointment, or some light complaint about breaking plans already made. Alistair met my apology with grace. He accepted it fully and without fuss, and reassured me that, if I need him, he is always there and he was looking forward to our next meeting. Nothing changed. No warmth was withdrawn. No sense of a debt incurred. That kind of understanding matters more than it might sound. It creates safety – and safety, I’ve learned, is where growth takes root.

I’m a mentor myself, and here more than anywhere else Alistair’s influence is apparent; not in what he does, but in what he rejects. My time with Alistair has taught me to hold back, to listen longer. I see more clearly when not to give answers, even when I think I have them. I’m reminded that mentorship is not about shaping someone in my image, but about making room for them to become more fully themselves.

‘In every conversation, hierarchy is entirely absent’

What may surprise you, and what demonstrates our trust, is how little we talk about my university work. On his insistence, we leave it alone, because he has faith in my academic ability. Coming from anyone, that would be encouraging. Coming from a Cambridge postgraduate, cloaked in a lifetime of literary learning, it is an extraordinary vote of confidence – especially to a creative writer still learning, still questioning, and sometimes still unsure.

Our conversations cover whatever two men like to discuss: family; books we love; politics and culture; ideas that won’t quite settle; language as something alive and unruly. We talk about becoming – not academically, but as people. In every conversation, hierarchy is entirely absent. My ideas and opinions feel as intellectually valid as his, and equally welcome. This is why Alistair is not simply my mentor, but my friend. Friendship does not dilute mentorship; it deepens it. Honesty comes without performance and uncertainty without defence. In that shared space, insight arrives quietly and stays.

‘Not directing but walking alongside us’

The Longford Trust understands something fundamental about mentorship: that it is not about directing my path, or that of my peers, but about walking alongside us. To me, Alistair embodies this ethos. He reminds me, by example rather than instruction, that wisdom shouldn’t crowd a room. Alistair gives me space to breathe, to think – and, I hope, in time – to offer that same space to others. For his kindness, wisdom, and friendship, I am deeply grateful.

Would you like to be a mentor with us? Find out more and email mentors@longfordtrust.org

Woman wearing a graduate gown carrying a large bouquet of red roses

‘If I want to change, I have to start it’

Author: | 20 Jan 2026

When our scholar Sania was sentenced to four and a half years in prison, she thought everything had ended. ‘I believed I had lost every opportunity, every bit of direction, and every part of the future I had imagined for myself.’ Instead, it has become a beginning

A year into my sentence, I moved onto the Open unit and worked in housekeeping for about six months. It was honest work but it was also the kind of job that gives you a lot of time to think. One particular day, things felt heavy. I was tired, physically, mentally, emotionally. I remember thinking, ‘I can’t do this forever. I need something to change’.

Around that time, another woman on the unit said something, when we were talking casually, that I will never forget. ‘You have so much potential. You shouldn’t waste it. Have you ever thought about doing your Master’s?’

The truth was, I hadn’t. Not seriously. I had an undergraduate degree already and had worked as a manager at Amazon before my sentence, but I had never considered going further. Yet her words stuck with me. They settled somewhere deep, right where hope had been sitting quietly waiting for a moment like this. And that was the moment the idea of returning to education was planted.

‘I definitely didn’t expect to be accepted on the spot’

One bad day at the housekeeping job pushed me to act on that thought. Instead of letting frustration spiral, I told myself, ‘if I want change, I have to start it’. So I decided to go to a university open day. I didn’t expect much. I definitely didn’t expect to be accepted on the spot. But that’s exactly what happened.

I applied for a Master’s in business computing and was offered a place immediately. Suddenly, I had something to look forward to, something that belonged to my future rather than my past. I started the course in September 2024 and finished in September 2025, just as my sentence came to an end. In November 2025, I graduated with a distinction. Even now, those words feel surreal.

‘Studying from custody came with challenges’

People often imagine Open conditions as straightforward, but studying from custody came with challenges I never expected. One of the biggest issues was timing. To attend university, I needed a ROTL (Release on Temporary Licence), but sometimes the schedules weren’t processed in time. If that happened, I simply couldn’t go out to university. Missing a lecture or a study session wasn’t just inconvenient. It could mean falling behind or having to work twice as hard to catch up.

There was also the issue of access to technology. In the Open unit, we weren’t allowed to have laptops, which meant I could only work on campus. No matter how motivated you are, that creates pressure. Assignments had to be squeezed into the hours I was physically allowed to be at university. If I missed a day, I missed my work time.

Still I kept going. I learned to make the best of what I had. I pushed through the obstacles, not because it was easy, but because it mattered. Every challenge became part of my journey rather than a reason to stop.

When I first entered prison, I felt like everything had been taken from me: my job; my freedom; my confidence; and, honestly, my sense of who I was. The Master’s degree changed that. It gave me a direction. It gave me my identity back. It reminded me that I am someone who can achieve, who can work hard, who has a future beyond my sentence. Studying became more than gaining knowledge. It was gaining myself.

‘People can take anything away from you, but they can’t take your knowledge’

My mum always told me, ‘people can take anything away from you, but they can’t take your knowledge’. I used to brush that off, but now I understand it deeply. Everything else can fall apart, but what you learn becomes something no one can ever remove from your hands.

When I was released, I didn’t just come out of prison. I came out as a graduate with a distinction. I came out with confidence and purpose. I came out feeling ready to face the world again. My Master’s degree has opened new doors for me, not just in terms of employment, but in how I feel about myself and what I believe I am capable of. It will be something I lean on every time I apply for a job, every time I speak about my journey, every time I face something difficult. I went in thinking I had lost everything. I came out realising I had gained far more.

‘Education doesn’t just pass the time. It builds you’

To anyone in prison reading this, please don’t give up on yourself. Education doesn’t just pass the time. It builds you. It strengthens you. It gives you a focus when everything feels chaotic. It reminds you that your story isn’t finished, no matter what mistakes you’ve made.

If you have the chance to study, take it. Even if it feels scary. Even if you think you’re not smart enough. Even if life has knocked your confidence out of you. Because if I can finish a Master’s degree while serving a sentence, navigating ROTLs, and working only from campus hours, you can too.

Your future is still yours. And your potential is still there, waiting.

Find out more about Longford Scholarships. Applications for 2026 close on 1 May.

‘Working with the police wasn’t something I imagined I’d do’

Author: | 7 Jan 2026

Gaining a degree is a mighty achievement. Taking that next step into graduate work is another. Our scholar Alicia has just completed a month-long, paid placement with the West Midlands Police and Crime Commissioner’s Office, organised through our Employability project. Here she reflects on what that experience has given her above and beyond her expectations.

During my placement, I worked on a project to make more trauma-informed the rooms in police stations where witnesses and victims are interviewed. The focus was on creating safer, more supportive spaces where victims of serious crimes would feel more at ease and willing to discuss often distressing and overwhelming matters with police officers. There were various aspects of the spaces urgently in need of an overhaul: to name a few, the colour scheme; the furnishings; the lighting; the temperature control; and the signage. Changing these items, I believed, would really get the spaces where they needed to be fit for purpose.

‘It helped me rebuild trust, both in myself and in the systems around me’

Working with the police had never been something I imagined myself doing, so the prospect felt daunting. I was unaware of what to expect, or how challenging it would be. I worried that I wouldn’t feel part of the team. And I hadn’t ever thought I would be given such an opportunity, particularly given my past experiences and the reality of having a criminal record.

Disclosure had always felt like a barrier, something I approached with fear and hesitation. However, this placement completely shifted my perspective. Over time, it helped me rebuild trust, both in myself and in the systems around me. It showed me that meaningful relationships between the police and people with lived experience of the criminal justice system can be restored, that reform, trust and opportunity can genuinely coexist. I gained confidence in disclosing my background and no longer seeing it as something that defines or limits me.

‘I was going outside my comfort zone’

Throughout the placement, the support I received was invaluable. Colleagues from varying departments consistently provided ongoing encouragement and guidance, helping me navigate both professional and personal challenges along the way. These included delving into subjects that were completely unknown to me, such as when researching colour theory. It was a steep learning curve.

Colour theory, I now know, is the study of how different colours influence human emotions, perceptions, and behaviour. It is based on the psychological responses colours can evoke, such as calm, energy, trust, or comfort, and how these responses can be intentionally used to shape mood, communicate meaning, and promote positive emotional experiences.

Another challenge was having to arrange meetings where I was discussing issues involved in my research with outside foundations and experts. The oral presentation exams I had done as part of my law course at university did give me some confidence in such situations, but again I was going outside my comfort zone.

One of my proudest moments came when I presented my research findings to the senior leadership, including the Chief Executive and the Crime Commissioner himself. That was something I never thought I would be given the opportunity to do – to have my findings genuinely valued by them and the rest of the commissioner’s team

‘I am definitely going to be more inclined to put forward my ideas’

As an intern I learnt about being part of a working environment, being part of a team, and a variety of research techniques. I have gained a lot of confidence as a result in my own ideas and abilities. The feedback I received solidified for me that I do not need to question myself as much as I did before. Moving forward I am definitely going to be more inclined to put forward my ideas.

Now I am looking forward to hearing what changes are put in place as a result of my work. I’d love to see that the spaces I worked on have been improved, and that the people using those spaces are feeling the benefit of something I played a part in creating. It would make me immensely proud.

The experience has also had tangible impacts on my future. Since completing my time with the West Midlands Police and Crime Commissioner’s Office, I have secured three job interviews, with my placement there playing a key role in strengthening my CV. It has built my confidence, developed my skills. That is what is possible when trust and opportunity are extended.

Roxanne Foster, our Employability Manager, who helped set up the placement, adds: ‘Alicia’s experience goes to the heart of what employability means to me. It’s not just about CVs, interviews, or job outcomes, important as those things are, but about creating opportunities that genuinely shift how people see themselves and what they believe is possible. When the opportunity arose to work on a research placement with Simon Foster, the West Midlands Police and Crime Commissioner and his team, our intention was always twofold, to contribute to important work around trauma-aware practice, and to create a space where lived experience was not just acknowledged but valued. What made this placement particularly powerful was the focus on trust, offering a supported environment where honest conversations could take place and where growth, learning and confidence were actively encouraged. We extend our sincere thanks to Simon and his colleagues Lucy Naylor and Andrea Gabbitas.’

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

‘She didn’t mind about the conviction but was concerned I’d never been to a zoo’

Author: | 16 Dec 2025

Former scholar Carolyn busts some myths about life after release, shares her passion for education’s transformative power and looks ahead to happy new year.

The five years since my release from prison have gone absurdly quickly. My release into the throes of Covid lockdowns enabled me to recover from the prison experience in a time of general uncertainty: it wasn’t just me feeling unsure of the world outside.

I’d been nervous about my re-entry into the community, particularly about meeting new people and forming friendships. Would new people in my life accept me with a conviction?

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. Over the last five years I have made a number of new friends, no one at all having a problem with my conviction. Instead, I have faced warm acceptance and empathy that situations such as mine could happen to anyone. Slowly but surely, I have learned to have more faith in others again. I met my partner a couple of years ago and raced to explain the baggage that I come with, just so that I could get the rejection over quickly. She didn’t mind about the conviction but was very concerned that I’d never been to a zoo before. We’re getting married next year.

Looking back from where I am now, it has been such a journey. Throughout my time in prison, we were regularly fed information about what the challenges will likely be on release. I was fortunate to have accommodation sorted and I have an exceptional support network around me, reducing some of the issues that many others face on release.

Sigh of relief

Qualifying for insurance was something that came up time and again. We had it drilled into us that insurance companies can ramp up premiums for people with convictions, pricing us out of many aspects of quotidian life. This is not something that I have experienced. My conviction is still unspent and whilst, naturally, driving offences for example will mean that access to car insurance isn’t straightforward, getting reasonably priced insurance hasn’t been a struggle at all. My partner and I bought a house last year, and with that came the need for house, life, contents insurance etc. I held my breath as we submitted the forms and each time a sigh of relief came moments later, when we’d cleared the eligibility stage and been offered very decent quotes. In my experience, the blanket insurance crisis is no more than a silly prison myth.

Another of those myths is foreign travel. Yes, there are restrictions against this within most licence conditions, but these can be flexible and might dissolve over time with a reasonable and supportive probation officer. I had been told by prison officers that, even after coming off licence, travel would be tricky; a quick Google search is enough to find out that this is rubbish. So far, I’ve travelled to eight European countries (some of those multiple times) entirely without issue. We’re planning our honeymoon to South East Asia and other trips to North and West Africa and, although it’s taken a few years, I can now rest assured that my conviction won’t be getting in the way.

Making a good plan

A regular topic of conversation in prison was ‘What do you miss the most about life outside?’. For me, cooking, trail running and wild swimming were high up my list but more than anything, I missed education. My time in prison did wonders for reducing my ‘To Be Read’ pile, many thanks to my sympathetic and generous parents for bringing new books from my stack to each visit.

However, the Kafkaesque experience inside doesn’t lend itself to enhancing an educational profile. For those with a disrupted education, the availability of Functional Skills qualifications in English and maths is very useful but successfully delivering these courses to reach everyone who needs them is a tall order.

Transition back into the community has the potential to be bumpy but a way to overcome this is by making a good plan: What do you want to do and what do you need to get you there?

I now work for an organisation that supports women with convictions to access education, training and employment opportunities. We so often see women approach us for support with designing a new career path as their conviction means that their previous one is no longer accessible to them. I was in a similar position so turned to the Longford Trust to help with specialising in a new area and was given the exciting opportunity to begin a PhD. For me, studying for a degree isn’t just about rehabilitation. It’s an inspiring and experimental experience. For those I know who have gone to university for the first time after release from prison, it has been entirely transformative.

This Christmas and New Year will be significant for us as we reflect on how far we have come and look towards navigating a new stage of our life: marriage, hopefully children, entirely unchartered territory for us, and certainly an exciting time.

Studying can help people to discover their professional identity and transcend their circumstances, removing them from their interactions with the criminal justice system. If I have one bit of advice for people considering university after prison, it’s to just go for it.

Find out more about our scholarships, mentoring and employability support.

A glass building on the campus of the University of Essex

Imposter syndrome? Not a chance. I deserve to be here too

Author: | 1 Dec 2025

Our scholar Robert reflects on stepping into his new life as ‘a student by day and a prisoner by night’. As he says, ‘the process is slow, flawed, and full of setbacks, but education is the key, the only key many prisoners ever get to use.’ 

For nine months after being arrested and held on remand in prison, I would be knocking on the education manager’s door, eager to start a course, only to be told nothing can happen until I am sentenced. So, on the day the judge handed down my sentence, my new life finally began. My mind wasn’t only on how my wife and family would take the news, but also on sending the application to the Prisoners’ Education Trust for an Access Module with the Open University. Five years later, I am writing this blog from the common room at the University of Essex.

Starting university from an Open prison, as I am, is a messy and uncertain experience. I was  determined to complete my criminology degree, which I started in prison, by studying crime on the other side of the prison’s walls. But nothing about the transition was smooth: convincing staff; sorting paperwork. Simply getting access to my emails became a daily chore. It took a lot just to keep moving forward.

Prison to campus

Stepping onto campus, leaving behind years of locked doors and jangling keys, I entered a reception hall buzzing with activity. I was greeted with balloons, posters of smiling students, gifts I might one day use, and an ID card that had me smiling. It was a far cry from the receptions of old, where a grey tracksuit and a cold jacket potato awaited and the ID card bore the face of a broken man.

Entering the lecture hall for the first time was a strange and unsettling experience. I was  noticeably older than most other students, and I felt out of place. Despite the nerves, I focused on finding a seat and retrieving my laptop from my bag. As I settled into a routine, though, the freedom of university became both liberating and overwhelming. Socially, I had to find my footing, stop feeling like an outsider.

Criminology felt personal, and in many ways ironic. My sincerity in essays and seminars led me to confront not just the system but also my own choices. Lectures on drug trafficking, organised crime and the justice system brought back daunting experiences from my past.

A weight lifted

After the first few weeks, the initial loneliness began to fade. I was talking to more people and grew more confident about speaking up in seminars. Eventually, I shared my circumstances with fellow students and lecturers, admitting I was still a serving prisoner. The moment I did, a weight lifted. I could finally exist as a student by day and a prisoner by night. I was welcomed by the community.

As time went by, my peers began asking questions, and lecturers turned to me, wanting insider perspectives. At the end of one seminar about organised crime, a lecturer asked if what we had discussed was accurate. At first, I thought it was about my well-being, but later I realised they saw value in my insight. The exchanges became meaningful. We discussed high-profile news cases, daily prison life. Only today was I asked if we still have ‘lights out’ – thanks to watching too many episodes of Porridge. For them, sitting next to someone with lived experience was a rare opportunity for further understanding.

Living proof

The education manager at my prison who supported me going to campus was outstanding. Having walked a similar path as a mature student, they understood how crucial this journey was for both of us. Being allowed to collect my laptop and my phone, along with being able to drive myself  there, gave me a sense of independence.

The prison service needs to build stronger ties with local universities, offering prisoners a lifeline out of the revolving door of repeat offending. The process is slow, flawed, and full of setbacks, but education is the key, the only key many prisoners ever get to use. It is when rehabilitation becomes more than just a buzzword, more than a politician’s slogan, and finally gives people a chance to get a worthwhile job.

In my prison, many people ask me where I am going each day. When I tell them I am off to university to finish my degree, many comment that they wish they could do the same. They are not even aware it is possible. But I am living proof.

What’s next

My university education has opened doors. Completing my undergraduate degree is just the beginning. My goal is to continue my studies at postgraduate level, build my understanding of criminology and be in a position to support change within the criminal justice system. It will be about translating what I know into what I can do.

I’m not here by luck or because of who I am and what I have done. Being from a marginalised group does not grant you a free ticket. I deserve this; I have worked relentlessly, earning  distinctions every year. Am I an imposter? Not on your nelly.

If you are looking for support to start an Open University degree while in prison, read more about our Frank Awards, and our Longford Scholarships. Or email Clare, our Scholarship Manager.

A man on a green hill in Italy looking at the view

Saints & Sinners: a pilgrimage in Lippiano

Author: | 17 Nov 2025

Our recent graduate in creative writing WS Pendray marked completing his licence by attending the prestigious ‘Haven for Stories’ writers’ retreat in Umbria thanks to one of our travelling scholarships. It was a liberation in more than one sense.

I didn’t expect to be shaken by airport security, but as soon as I stood waiting for my luggage to reappear on the x-ray belt, it hit me. Just three days earlier, I’d completed my licence. After years of restrictions, knock-backs, and losses; I was finally a free man.

As the plane lifted from the grey and dropped us into the patchwork of green and terracotta, Italy greeted me with softness. A farmer ploughed his field on a battered tractor in the evening light. Italy felt calm and timeless.

They say Saint Francis of Assisi was captured in battle, spent a year in a Perugian dungeon, and came out changed. A soldier turned poet; a prisoner turned pilgrim. I wonder if captivity itself made him a saint of nature, if being severed from the world made him love it more fiercely.

‘The system made me a number; poetry gave me a name’

I recognised that feeling. Stripped from nature, I found my way back through language, through memory, through metaphor, through the small light that words let in. We both learned to listen again: to the wind through the trees, and the birds calling across the hills. The system made me a number; poetry gave me a name.

We arrived in Lippiano, a medieval village in the Umbrian hills, crowned by a twelfth-century castle and watched over by the church of San Michele Arcangelo, where the stones are as old as prayer.

Before the Romans arrived, the Etruscans believed the gods spoke through signs in the sky. I suppose I do too. When I checked my phone, it read 18:18, on the 18th. 18 has followed me all my life; a quiet reassurance I am where I’m meant to be.

In my pocket, I found a piece of lavender, placed there by my daughter during one of our seaside walks. Its scent rose when I reached for change. A small mercy from home. Proof that love travels further than guilt ever could.

‘He couldn’t bail me out with money, so he did it with stories’

Saint Francis’s father ransomed him with gold. Mine ransomed me with imagination. In my bag, I carried something sacred of my own: my father’s letters. Twenty-two pages he sent me while I was in prison, a year before he died. They documented his journey overland from Romford to India in the early 70s. He couldn’t bail me out with money, so he did it with stories, and each page was a door.

There is a kind of faith in the air of this region, and you can almost feel the presence of the Via di Francesco, the pilgrimage route that winds near Lippiano, threading through the same green heart of Italy where Saint Francis once walked barefoot. I didn’t walk the official path, but somehow, I ended up on a pilgrimage of my own: wandering past olive trees and vineyards, stone walls, and the rolling hills of Umbria. Something felt holy in the rhythm of it all.

Through the tutorials, I found my own way forward; each tutor a kind of compass, their guidance part of this quiet movement toward understanding, art, and belonging.

Saint Francis gave up a life of wealth to embrace poverty. I, on the other hand, am trying my best to give up a life of poverty, and I can confirm it’s proving much harder than expected.

‘They asked what I do, not what I’d done’

Still, standing in that small Umbrian village, surrounded by people whose kindness asked for nothing in return, I understood something I’d been circling for years: compassion is the currency of the soul, and at Villa Pia I felt unexpectedly rich.

I feared stigma might’ve followed me here, that people would see the worst of my story before they’d heard the rest. But they didn’t. The other writers were warm, and curious, unbothered by my past. They asked what I do, not what I’d done.

The turning point came on the Friday, the day of the gala. I went to my tutorial with Tobias Jones, thinking I had a piece ready to read that evening: one of the many incidents from my father’s wild journey into India. Instead, I ended up telling him about another journey, one that I’d been too scared to touch.

My father’s funeral.

How I was taken there handcuffed to an officer. How I stood in that Sussex meadow carrying the weight of two kinds of loss on my wrist.

Toby listened, then said gently but firmly, ‘that’s your opening chapter. Why don’t you read that tonight.’

Those few words, I’ll always be grateful for.

‘I was no longer running from the past. I was writing towards it.’

I thought I wasn’t ready, but I was. So, I went to the hillside where the roads unravel through the distance like pasta al burro, and I sat with the moment I’d kept locked away. I put on The Ecstasy of Gold, my father’s chosen funeral song, and something in me broke open.

The tears came.

Then the ink.

It felt like a quiet divinity, the holy trinity of memory, grief and the page. For the first time, I was no longer running from the past. I was writing towards it.

The Etruscans once read omens in the flight of birds. That afternoon, I watched a kite glide over the hills and thought about freedom, how it isn’t the absence of bars, but the presence of possibility. Like Francis, I had been imprisoned after a battle (a rap battle, in my case) and we had both come out hungry for light.

Maybe we’re all saints and sinners in equal measure, forever falling, forever forgiven by the earth beneath us.

In Lippiano, I learned that holiness isn’t always reserved for churches or marble saints. Sometimes it arrives in its simplest forms: in the sound of birds overhead, in lavender between your fingers, in the warmth of strangers, and in the moment you finally write what once broke you.

Will received a Longford Trust travelling scholarship. If you would like to find out about supporting this initiative, contact Chris Walters. Our thanks to Villa Pia, where the writers retreat takes place, and its owner, Morag Cleland.  And to Tobias Jones, Elise Valmorbida and Alice Vincent, the three tutors on the course.  WS Pendray’s first poetry collection, Overgrown, is now available.

Two women and two men smiling and talking live on a theatre stage

Does your sentence end when you leave prison?

Author: | 4 Nov 2025

It was a wonderful evening at the Apollo Theatre in London on Tuesday 28 October when, after a performance of Punch, based on the memoir of our scholar Jacob Dunne, the Longford Trust put on a post-show Q&A session on the topic, raised in the play, of the challenges that face prisoners on release.

Listen to the audio recording of the panel Q&A here.

 

On stage were (pictured left to right): our Employability Manager and Longford Scholar Roxanne Foster; multi-award-winning screenwriter (Time, Unforgiveable, Hillborough) Jimmy McGovern: and current Longford Scholar Andrew Morris. Hosting the conversation was Ronke Phillips, ITN broadcaster and wife of Kevin Pakenham.

This event was one in a series of post-show talks, curated by The Forgiveness Project, with more to come before Punch closes its West End run on 29 November.

The conversation took as its theme the question, ‘Does your sentence end when you leave prison?’ Ronke asked the panel in turn, and then the audience (some two-thirds of people who had watched the show stayed on to join in with this event), how willing they thought employers and the public are to believe in reform and rehabilitation. The panel shared stories, setbacks and suggestions .

Thank you to all those involved for an insightful, funny and uplifting discussion.

Punch was written by James Graham – winner of the 2024 Kevin Pakenham Prize.

Photo credit: Jake Bush at Punch the play.

A pumpkin pie with a face decorated in sugar

‘The week I learned to cry’

Author: | 4 Nov 2025

Our recent graduate Douglas Edgar has just returned from a prestigious writers’ retreat at Villa Pia in Umbria, made possible by one of our travelling scholarships. In reflecting on the lessons learnt, he hopes the next step will be to realise his ambition for a creative arts career.

‘Forza Nonna’ was the cheer as Sondra, from Rochester, New York, poured custard into the famous ‘Torta della Nonna’ base. Translated as ‘grandmother cake’, there are two layers of short-crust pastry filled with vanilla custard, hints of lemon zest, all covered in powdered sugar. I met a Nonna once – Brooklyn-based and South Italian-born. Fierce, vain, and shameless with set blonde hair, long red nails and tattooed eyebrows, well into her 90s. An Italian Mary Berry.

Enrolling in the cookery class at the writers’ retreat, I saw the opportunity to move away from my go-to meal of chicken breast, rice and broccoli. Umbria is a place where vegetables have real flavour. However, I saw three pots on the stove at one time and thought ‘cooking’s not for me’. Alas, five fellow retreaters and Gessy, the in-house chef, combined to make the following from scratch:

  1. Lasagna with ragu sauce.
  2. Spinach and ricotta ravioli with sage and butter sauce.
  3. Semola (not semolina) gnocchi with truffled béchamel.
  4. Vanilla panna cotta with forest fruits.
  5. Torta della Nonna.

Being the second group to cook, I felt pressured to beat the previous day’s class, so I spent 30 minutes drawing a pumpkin stencil to level up our Nonna cake. Consulting with my artist-cum-culinary neighbour, Tania, I cut the stencil and rubbed the pencil marks off the steel worktops. The lasagna came out of the oven and victory was in sight. We’d made one more pasta dish than yesterday’s group and had a pumpkin on top of a cake.

I know people will want my top Italian-cooking tip, so here it is: ‘cut out the eyes, nose and mouth for the perfect stencil’. I’m joking, but I have tried to remember when I have learned, and in summary, I prefer eating food a lot more than preparing it.

Beyond cooking

Cooking was an escape from writing. I cried more this week than I had in the past 10 years combined. On a foggy day, I built the fire in the dining room whilst a peer explained how she became her mum’s primary carer in the final stages of cancer treatment. The damage from radiotherapy would cause skin to erode into her mouth, making her choke at night.

Up to five years after her passing, she emptied the washing basket and would see her mother’s nightie on the floor, choosing not to wash it to keep a part of her there. Not for the smell but for presence. I’ve never been so affected by words, and I began to cry uncontrollably – a soul captured in a nightdress.

We discussed the logistics – the inflatable mattress beside the hospital bed – but it would never be written about. Instead, she chose to re-write a dystopian novel. Feeling that thousands would benefit from her experience, sci-fi seemed like a distraction, but hearing her story reminded me to dig-deep and face the subjects I’m avoiding.

Souls collide

Inevitably, some people would work out that my fellow Longford scholar and I were ex-prisoners. It would be exciting for them, like Shawshank Redemption in real life, or Le ali della libertà as the Italians would say. Was he a Hatton Garden robber? Maybe a mass murderer?

I overheard someone worry that they were becoming institutionalised by Villa Pia’s ritual of cake at 4pm, which made me reflect on my somewhat different experience. Conversation helped to diffuse the tension, and some of us would sit for hours into the night, talking through the fluff, and their payment would be gruesome tales of prison.

Friday night’s gala rounded off with karaoke, facilitated by yours truly. More importantly, everyone shared a few minutes of writing to the group. Another peer’s story was based around an AI imposter’s attempt to infiltrate the retreat, analysing human interactions whilst fighting off the occasional system glitch. The story’s finale is quoted below:

“I meet novelty for the first time this week. We embrace each other in a hug and thank you for the trust. On the bed I stare at the ceiling and review every word he’s said to me since we’ve met two days ago. Not artificial. So that’s a soul.”

The character being referenced, Jeremy, was based on me, and for the third time that week I thought ‘bloody hell I’m crying again’.

Reform happens through genuine interactions.

A fond farewell

The Haven is knowing that you’re protected – no matter who you are, no matter what you share, no matter how much you cry. In that respect, Villa Pia was my Nonna.

So, it’s back to Tesco’s veg and imported wine, only now I understand the richness of my own soil. From tutors-to-teammates, thank you for your understanding, trust and camaraderie.

Forza Stories!

Douglas joined the annual ‘Haven for Stories Retreat’, thanks to one of our Longford travelling scholarships. Our gratitude goes to Tobias Jones, Alice Vincent and Elise Valmorbida, the three acclaimed writers who teach each year at the retreat, and to Villa Pia’s owner, Morag Cleland, a former Longford Trust mentor, for making these bursary places available to our scholars.

 

 

Evidence and compassion: what is needed in our post-truth era

Author: | 13 Oct 2025

Listening to Robert Jenrick giving his speech to the Conservative Party Conference as Shadow Justice Secretary and Lord Chancellor, our law scholar Chris Walters was alarmed by how many of our leaders are currently going down the road of preferring feelings to facts.

I clutched my book in one hand and my prison ID in the other as I was escorted to the HMP Wandsworth book club on an evening in 2018. The book was Post-Truth by Lee McIntyre. It’s about the increasing trend of people believing their feelings rather than the evidence. I was reminded of it while listening to Robert Jenrick’s recent address to his party’s annual conference. It’s that clear some people have continued on that downward slope, seemingly abandoning all reason.

Jenrick delivered a speech which was equal parts cringeworthy comedy routine and dystopian nightmare. No, it isn’t accurate to say (as he did) that an Albanian man avoided deportation from this country because his child doesn’t like Albanian chicken nuggets. The case in question is complex, and concerns the welfare of a child who may have additional needs. The child’s dietary preferences were just one aspect and the judge set aside the deportation so more information could be gathered. Moreover, the decision was subsequently overturned by the Upper Tribunal, which makes Jenrick’s point all the more baseless.

What really goes on in an asylum hearing

I’ve been to an asylum hearing. They are unfairly adversarial. Despite what the media would have us believe, succeeding in an asylum claim is a difficult process. Most people seeking asylum receive less than £50 a week and basic accommodation, while trying to recover from traumatic experiences, and build a strong legal case.

The representative of the Crown, the Home Office Presenting Officer (HOPO), is often not a qualified solicitor and, while they are subject to an internal code of conduct, they are not held to the same high professional standards as solicitors.  Anthropologist John Campbell writes: ‘Indeed HOPOs are not bound by a professional code of conduct which means that, regardless of what is stated in Home Office professional standards guidelines, they are not legally required to assist the court to achieve a fair decision.’

HOPOs have often been criticised for being unnecessarily adversarial. This inequality of arms, coupled with the hostile environment introduced by Theresa May, means the demonisation of asylum seekers is set above facts, evidence, and compassion.

The vital principle of an independent judiciary

Jenrick also enlisted the help of a prop wig and zero evidence to lambast ‘activist judges’. Patricia Thom, President of the Law Society of Scotland, called his words ‘dangerous and unacceptable’, going on to say: ‘It is notable that Mr Jenrick has provided no legal basis for questioning the validity of judicial decisions with which he does not agree.’

As a qualified solicitor himself, you would expect Robert Jenrick to have more respect for evidence and the independence of the judiciary. Given his words, I don’t imagine he would pass the class I study about ‘Professional Skills and Responsibility’.

His comments about ‘two-tier justice’ were more than misleading. They are unconstitutional. Although we don’t have a single written piece of paper that makes up our constitution, the UK does have one spread across statute, common law, conventions, and tradition. One of the cornerstone conventions of our constitution is that ministers must not criticise the individual decisions of judges. This is part of the wider separation of powers; it helps ensure no branch of government wields too much power.

If you want to see the result of too much executive power, take a glance across the pond to Donald Trump’s America: masked and unidentified law enforcement agents snatching people as they got about their business; ‘Alligator Alcatraz’, where hundreds of people have gone missing; and soldiers deployed to the streets against civilians. It’s a campaign driven by misinformation and denigration of the rule of law; the courts can’t even keep up. Is this the brand of authoritarianism that Jenrick, Farage, and their ilk would have here? We must reject it with every ounce of our being.

What ‘traditional values’ truly means

I wish that, in the midst of this, we could look to Labour for support but, if anything, they seem to be courting these abhorrent views. Last month they suspended refugee family-reunion applications. That means that people who have already had their asylum claim accepted cannot be reunited with their wives, husbands or children. Shabana Mahmood, the Home Secretary, has promised to ramp up deportations, which plays right into this false narrative of immigrants being the enemy.

Any flag-waving Christian patriots would do well to remember that Jesus was a refugee. If they open the Bible, they will find any number of passages teaching compassion for asylum seekers, refugees, and immigrants. My favourite is Matthew 25:36-40: ‘For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me. […] Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did to me.’

If we genuinely want a return to our traditional values, how about the values of compassion and kindness? We stand on the precipice of a cliff. Below is hate, authoritarianism, and lies which deserve our vigorous opposition.

It’s time to reject that path. Our country’s future should be driven by law and policy which is evidence-led and compassionate, and which respects the independence of the judiciary.

Chris is a Longford Scholar studying the Diploma in Professional Legal Practice at the University of Edinburgh. He is also the Longford Trust’s fundraising manager and a trustee at the Human Rights Consortium Scotland.