Back to Reality - Books

I thought this was the moment to mention those books I have really loved so far this year. None of them were given to me by publishers. You can trust me that I found them all that extra bit special.

You've heard too much of my opinions in the last couple of days so all I have done is posted their cover photos and their details. Fin them for yourself - if you want to and make up your own minds. I have already mentioned one or two but not all. They're either historical novels or books about landscape, nature and the countryside but much more.

The Running Hare. John Lewis-Stemple:

A mix of memoir; a plea to stop kerb or ban agri-business and look, really look, around us before it's too late.

The Gustav Sonata by Rose Tremain:  Fiction at its best.

Let me Tell You About a Man I Knew by Susan Fletcher: A novel about Vincent Van Gogh - only it isn't...If you've not read anything  by this fabulous writer than do read this. It is stunning. To me, this is the most outstanding novel so far of 2016. If it isn't short-listed for this years Booker, then life most definitely isn't fair.

The Ashes of London is another Tour de Force by wonderful  historical crime novelist, Andrew Taylor. You can taste, smell the ashes and gaze at he devastation when a baker's shops caught fire in 1666. Immerse yourself in a slow-burning love affair between two polar opposites; a man of law and a rebellious young woman who wishes to be an architect. 

And finally: my non-fiction favourite of this years so far: The Outrun by Amy Liptrot.

Where better to fight self-destructive alcohol addiction than on Orkney?

And finally, to help heal raw wounds of recently, how about listening to this?

"Farewell to Stromness" by Peter Maxwell-Davies.

Pause for thought

I'm depressed.

Not clinically depressed, I hasten to add  - but I'm hurt; bruised and battered by all the vitriol on social media yesterday. It's time I came clean. Yes, I voted to leave. All right. All right. But hold onto your tomatoes and rotten eggs for a minute...

I voted out for several reasons - which I haven't the energy to discuss here - but not one of them is because I'm a Little Englander and am racist. That accusation wounds me so deeply I can't begin to tell you.

I have thought long and hard; almost fell out with my adult sons over it. I have been appalled by the campaign on both sides - such negativity and so many lies from both sides. However not one of my reasons was anything whatsoever to do with race. I am all for  people to travel and live anywhere in Europe. I can't see the borders will be locked. Nor do I think Europe or the rest of the world will refuse to trade with us.

I hope all the world believes that this country  (The United Kingdom) welcomes all creeds, colours and races with tolerance and kindness.

I'm feeling too upset to write any more. I live in the North of England and for years and yet we've been patronised by London for too long.  Enough. They've listened to Scotland but not us. Northern Powerhouse? Don't make me laugh. We can't even get a mobile phone signal here. So what use is the latest all-singing, all-dancing multi-app gizmo we get thrown at us? Yes, we have Broadband - but you don't invest in super-fast fibre-optics for us up here. You can fly to Edinburgh easily and get a fast train to Paris or Belgium. But try getting from here to the nearest railways station by public transport - it takes hours top get to London. Scotland is strong. Scotland is fierce. It frightens London. Wales is patronised. Northern England is patronised.

The North of England, Wales and Scotland, did much to make Britain Great. Up in the north, we had the steel, the coal and the manpower. London made all the money. We lost our coal and steel. London held onto the money. London still holds the upper hand. And Londoners are cross with us. So you all insult us.

I shall retreat and lick my wounds. I shall go up here at the very top of my garden away from everyone.

And contemplate my own 'Little England.'

Come and join me and listen to the birds and sheep living their lives regardless. All are welcome as long as you let me know first. But please don't shout.

I shall probably not blog or say anything on social media until I feel better. Nobody listens anyway. Everybody is all too busy shouting and insult-slinging.

All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well

(Julian of Norwich)

RIP Sally Brampton

So very sad to hear of the death of Sally Brampton. I emailed her way back about about her brilliant book and her reply was so friendly and gracious. Seems that damn dog got her in the end.


Let's go out and shoot it now!

Blog Break

I am taking a break from blogging as from today. I am currently right in the middle of that muddle/morass/mess (call it what you will) that is rewriting my current novel in progress. As you probably know, I am a plodder at the best of times - cue snap of plodder -

but lately I have got tired and bored with trying to show how how dynamic, alive and progressive I can be. (And we all HAVE to be these days.) So even thought spring is on its way - or so they tell me - I'm retreating into myself until further notice.  Cue picture of me retreating into myself...

Don't worry. I'm feeling fine if a bit stodgy and dull. I'm not smiling much but am not morose. Basically, I need to get on with my novel and am not feeling sociable. Nor have I anything to say that won't bore the socks off you. I am reading and watching the world go by.  I am not ill but will be undergoing  several miscellaneous and boring medical tests in the next few weeks. I am convinced the medical fraternity are over-reacting but you never know. I'm feeling okay - but a little lethargic and dull company.

But, as they say, no news is good news. I hope I will be submitting my novel manuscript to unsuspecting agents some time later this year. But I'm in no rush. Just plodding along...

See you soon. I may even pop up on social media very occasionally.  There's one thing I refuse to become and that's a bore. 

Onwards and upwards one step at a time.

Time for a catch-up and prove I'm still writing. I'm steadily plodding through a major rewrite of my latest novel.

 In case you've forgotten - or more likely, don't give two hoots - but I'm telling you anyway, my last attempt to be published was a novel was set between the end of WW1 and The General Strike ie 1919-1926 and partly discusses the repercussions of the horror of that conflict.  I totally missed the boat because by the time it was sent out to agents it was already late 1913. And you know how slowly the publication process works.

Basically, I had some decent feedback but no editor was eager enough to bite my hand off. Oh well.

Having left that one languishing, I have been working on and on and on with a medieval novel. Set in the 14th century it concerns a real and very small Cistercian priory of nuns in the village where I now live. Those who know me or read this blog may well remember that my first version it wasn't at all well-received by my (then) agent and we parted company. I am now, very slowly and ploddingly rewriting it after advice and more thought. I am hoping there is now more at stake for the major players plus a lit of magic realism (sort of).

So that, in brief, is where I stand now. I have no deadline so there is no need to rush. I am totally rewriting it and adding more powerful scenes whilst deleting all the waffle. I refuse to be rushed. I have no deadline so I intend to complete a reasonable new draft, then ask for an opinion of one of the major literary consultancies, make the necessary changes (as long as I accept them) then have it professionally sub-edited.

Then I will begin the submission process which will inevitably take time. I am not wildly optimistic. I have decided to take it 5 agents at a time until such time I have amassed 20 rejections without any interest. Then, my plan is to self-publish. I will never stop writing. I will never give up as long as I have my health and strength.

I will not bore you about my work in progress until there is something worth saying. My next blog post will be sheer self-indulgence. Surely I am not the only person who has ever dreamt of choosing my very own  Desert Island Discs and have complied several lists over the years. As the reality will never come about, I shall do it for myself.

So tune in - or turn off. I won't be offended.  I'm doing it for me.

Reasons to Stay Alive? Mine? My family, my life through music and books.

I have mentioned before that I have suffered depression at various periods in my life. I have now reached the age when my life is somewhat more comfortable and less frenetic, I have gained a wider perspective. I am what I am and know when I am about to enter choppy waters - and I know it can strike at any time - so I can arm myself with the remedies that work for me, be they through medication, sleep, de-cluttering and mindfulness.

Depression affects so many of us but we are all individuals and our own depression varies widely. I read many books about it and have read many  personal accounts. One that resonated a great deal with me was Shoot the Damn Dog by Sally Brampton. 

But the most engaging account of this horrid black dog is Matt Haig's brilliant and honest account of his own depression. And no, it's not depressing; it actually had me laughing out loud on many occasions. Matt is a great guy. I love that his book is full, throughout, with huge love for his wife and children.  Everybody should read it, marvel and learn. (Yes, you: I'm talking to those many people who think depressives are whineing selfish miseries.) Matt's depression and the way he has leaned to cope with it does not mirror mine.  Depression is universal, yet individual.. Matt Haig's book reveals a startling fact of which I was not fully aware. It's worse for men. Having said that, it's no picnic for women either but did you realise that, although depression effects more women than men, men are more likely than women to commit suicide?

To me, what depression is not. A black dog. To me it is nothing like as concrete, as clear-cut or so well defined. I like black dogs; the bigger the better. To me, depression descends on me when all motivation, happiness, and interest in people, beautiful places and even a blue sky, oozes from me, rendering me flat, boring, stupid and tearful. I am a total pain in everybody's neck. Put me in Paradise and I would lie there wrapped in my misery blanket, made even more miserable because, at the same time, I ooze guilt. Yet I do not live in a war-zone. I have sufficient money. I am not starving, I have people who care for me etc etc. Am I boring you? Of course I am...

Anyway, touch wood and all that, I am currently in a good place and I can take pleasure in the smallest of things like snowdrops in the rain and being mindful of the taste of coal-smoke in the mist, a grass snake slithering across a path and disappearing into a land drain,and for sheer indulgence, hearing The Chaconne from Bach's Partita in D minor about which Brahms wrote to Clara Schumann:

"On one stave, for a small instrument, the man writes a whole world of the deepest thoughts and most powerful feelings. If I imagined that I could have created, even conceived the piece, I am quite certain that the excess of excitement and earth-shattering experience would have driven me out of my mind. If one doesn't have the greatest violinist around, then it is well the most beautiful pleasure to simply listen to its sound in one's mind."

It was written at a time when Bach's wife had very recently died and yet, it doesn't depress me, it uplifts me. Funnily enough most of my favourite pieces of any music could be throught of as depressing but not for me: Beethoven's Piano Sonata no 29, the Hammerklavier, Schubert's String Quintet, anything by Enya and Bob Dylan, particularly, Mr Tambourine Man. Then there's Leonard Cohen's Suzanne; the most sublime poem in music I have ever heard. 

Going from the absolute sublime Bach to - well not the ridiculous - but taking me back to the early 1970s when the world was my oyster, I was in my early twenties, I was at university in London,   Not only is it youthful and joyous (unlike the Bach which is an outburst of grief) I can't help but want to dance and wave my arms in the air. It brings back vivid memories of maxi-coats and Laura Ashley dresses when I was in love with someone else's boyfriend.  That was a silly crush because, then, I really fell hook, line and sinker for a school-friend of his. - We shall have been married to for 40 years this September! So, it's All Right Now by Yes. 

So I like a wide variety of music but it is books I can never do without. They are my life-blood. Like many of us who write, I am addicted to books - buying them, collecting them, reading or rather, savouring, absorbing or devouring them. Although I am in the throes of re-writing and editing my latest novel, I have found that I am also reading an enormous amount of published books at the moment. I can only think it's because my mind is even more tuned to words. Here's a taster of some I have read, am currently reading or will do soon.

Is it me, or do publishers choose the end of January to deluge us bookaholics with a huge amount? My bank balance, which had only begun to rise again is now plunging back into deficit. I'd better get on and write a novel that might sell... or not.


And finally, finally. Here's a You Tube clip of one of my family, all so dear to me, when he was only 14. How time flies.

The Outrun by Amy Liptrot

I know it's only , as I write, 16 days into 2016. But, unless another book as stunning as THE OUTRUN by Amy Liptrot comes along and shifts it, I can confidently say that it will remain at the top of my best books of the year.

So what is it? Told in masterful prose, Amy's memoir or (biography so far) is about life on the extremes. In many ways, it parallels the life of many of us today, a totally happy childhood but with an undertone of her father's mental illness and her mother's Christian fundamentalism who later divorced. The parents were not from the Orkney Isles but made it their home and still remain but Amy was born there. Despite her English roots, she is a pure Orcadian.

Childhood becomes adolescence and as most young people do she longed to get away from the restrictions of her childhood that were more extreme than most of us with similar angsts. So when she got away to study and live in London, this girl of the extremes went off piste more spectacularly than most. Her life spiralled out of control spectacularly, soon gripped by the many tentacled beast of alcoholism. Many people fall in the same way but Amy's account of it is harrowing. She loses a man she loves deeply, struggles with homelessness, depending on supporting friends whom she lets down constantly. However, a core of sharp intelligence and sanity makes her attend a local authority addiction programme in East London. It means total abstinence - cold turkey - which she manages to stick to.

Having survived that she emerges, still battered, bruised and vulnerable, she chooses to continue her recovery back on the Orkney Islands. Back home, she begins to build bridged with her still separated parents and re-engage with all aspects of life from studying nature in all its manifestations - from snorkelling, walking, swimming in icy waters, bird-watching, star-gazing and delving into geology, landscape, weather, the Northern Lights, lighthouses, Norse myth and sea vessels and aircraft. You name it; she studies and observes it. Not having alcohol to support her like most of us have even in tolerable amounts, she at first shuns society. She moves from the reactively sociable life on Orkney's main island and spends a winter on the island of Papa Westray, (known to locals as Papay.) She soon begins to realise that her detailed study of all these things - all followed on-line is merely a manifestation of her own kind of mania.

Bit by bit she edges her way back into human contact. The paragraphs where she describes how a companionable young man touched her socked ankle is erotic although it goes no further. It is making connections.

If there is a theme in this wonderful book it is to explore in detail the extremes existence; all emotions from depression and mania; busy crowds and isolation whether it be flocks of birds, pods of porpoises, whales and one appearance of a walrus for a short time. It is about wild mania and the depths of despair. Never have I read a book which can explore the cliché so eloquently - that you can feel more lonely in a crowd than when on ones own.

I could go on...but you will be pleased to hear I won't. This is a book to treasure if you love books about nature at its most extreme. If you think it's cold now here on mainland Britain, then read this book and you'll never think it again. Read this book. Please.

To me, Amy Liptrot's The Outrun is the glittering treasure I picked up when idly beachcombing along the tide-line. And what a find.

Onwards from 2015 and Upwards in 2016

I know it's not quite Christmas  but, as I will not be adding to this blog until 2016 is well under way, now is he time to reflect on the past year and the year to come. And fear not. I do not make New Year Resolutions. After all, 2015 for me landed me a bitter blow with the totally unexpected death of my lovely, wonderful brother, Chris.

How can we know what the future will bring?

What I can do is concentrate on some of the many novels I have read this year and the wonderful writers I have met. Although I read a varied selection of books, I shall only mention novels. After all, that's what I do and that's what I mainly dwell on. (Of course, they are mostly historical.)

Firstly, I want to talk about a contemporary thriller that took the world by storm this year. It's easy to sneer at such novels but I have to say The Girl on The Train by  Paula Hawkins deserved all the plaudits it received. When I was in my twenties I commuted for a year in an out of London along. AS is the case of repetitive journeys, I knew almost every house I rattled (or sometimes crawled) past. Like Rachel, I often created lives for them in my head that were far more fulfilling than my own because I happened to be in a bit of a mess myself and didn't know where my life was heading. Fortunately, I soon pulled myself together. Rachel, on thre other hand, sinks deeper and deeper in the mess she makes for herself. She is the archetypical unreliable narrator, making me angry and frustrated by the mess she made of everything and the lies she told. However, her drunken confusion and the mess she makes are not entirely her fault. This is a stunning novel that still resonates with me


I know that The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton was first published in 2014 but its slightly surreal quality and its secure history still resonates with me even now. I shall definitely read her next novel. Unlike Jessie Burton who sprung on the scene so unexpectedly, I have been a fan of Esther Freud's novels for a very long time. I was therefore very shocked when Mr Mac and Me failed to hit the heights. I still don't understand why. It is a novel of the time during the Great War, that Charles Rennie Mackintosh and his wife lived in Suffolk. But as the title of the novel makes clear, the novel is actually about a boy who becomes obsessed with them both and what it reveals of the suspicions and paranoia of war and suspicious minds. Masterful fiction.

In the past few years, I have mentioned how much I love about the annual Harrogate History Festival, organised by the HWA. There have now been three of them. This year, it exceeded itself with the appearances by two of my favourite men: Neil Oliver and Melvin Bragg, both with historical novels out which I haven't yet read but will do so. Also speaking was Michael Morpurgo who, to me, should be classed as a National Treasure for encouraging children in a totally unstuffy way to love reading.He speaks to children directly without talking down to them.

I have always enjoyed engagaing with writers whose novels I admire. It was lovely to meet Emma Darwin and Andrew Taylor who writes brilliant novels that somehow, although they sell well, rarely win the big prizes. An Andrew Taylor novel is always a treat. This year, as well as The Silent Boy which centres on The French Revolution, it was also my pleasure to read a previous historical thriller of his: The Anatomy off Ghosts.

There are many times when I wonder why I bother writing fiction when I am not a patch on any of the writers I mention here.But, don't we all feel like that more often than not?


This year's HWA conference also introduced me to Anna Hope and her stunning novel Wake which tells most vividly of  the legacy of grief and mental disintegration of those 'left behind' by war. Three woman, seporated by class and their situation. One is a mother, another is a sister and the other is one who works although she is rich enough not to. Yet, all of them are linked by one particular vile even in the war. What ties them together and  determines ther novels structure, them and links, is the disinterment  and re-burial of the Unknown Soldier in Westminster Abbey.  Another novelist worth reading. And I am looking forward to her next novel, The Ballroom. It is set in High Royds Hospital, well-known, or should I say once notorious mental asylum in the Leeds area, where, incidentally, my brother in law once worked as a doctor and where he now lives in an house in the new housing development following its decommission.

Thanks to the conference I have also acquainted myself with drinker, gambler and bad boy with a heart of gold, Thomas Hawkins,  the hero of The Devil in the Marshalsea by Antonia Hodgson. I am about the read his second outing, The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins.

 The nature of such book-related events is that you keep bumping into many people again and again over the course of three days. Then, when you get beck home you discover that plenty of people you know well were also there but you never even saw them even at a distance.

So it was while I sat on a bench at Harrogate station waiting for the York train where I would change trains. At my feet was a big bag (stuffed with books) with the Festival's logo emblazoned on it. Someone sat down next to me and we started taking about the festival that had just ended. And we talked and talked and talked on the train all the way to York where we had to go our separate ways. (Yet I hadn't seen her at all at the Festival  although she is a committee member of the HWA.)

Elizabeth Freemantle (for it was she) is a really lovely lady. Well, of course she is. She's a writer of excellent  historical novels, of course, which I have been reading with great plesure and admiration ever since we chatted. Although I thought that the Tudor period held nothing new for me, I was wrong and have already devoured Queen's Gambit and Sisters of Treason.

Then, as the New Year dawns with the popping of corks and the crackle of fireworks, I look forward to reading Watch The Lady.  

And, with the new year, with any luck I will have finished writing my latest novel and maybe even have it accepted by an agent and/or publisher. 

In the meantime, I would like to wish all of you who might have glanced at one or two of my blog posts this year - says she, always the optimist - A Very Happy Christmas and a Stupendous 2016. 

Where am I?

Silly question. No, I've not just recovered from a prolonged blog-break with amnesia. I know exactly where I am physically and geographically, thank you very much. It's Monday 30th November, it's pouring with rain and cloud is shrouding the moors above the village. I know that because I can see it if I turn my head leftwards and upwards through the roof-light, which is a contradiction in terms because, even at one pm, I have my desk lamp blazing brightly. Now where was I.....?

...Oh yes. I'm sitting at my desk at home. This blog post is merely a report on where I stand here and now at this moment in time  (as they say but I don't) with my writing 'career' (cue canned laughter) as we approach the winter solstice. Because, being winter, I am spending more time at home and at my desk, I have spent the summer doing anything but: supporting husband Jon through his many iron-man-distance triathlons plus sightseeing, researching and restoring my batteries.

So I have re-opened my dormant blog which is now blinking and shaking off its layer of dust. I had intended to attach some photos here to show you where I've been but Blogger is increasingly driving me mad so you'll have to imagine them and picture Scotland's east coast, Northumberland and County Durham (a few times to visit our ticklish and giggly grandson), Nottingham, the Peak District and finally down to Dorset and Weymouth.

Back home now and with the short days and long nights enveloping me, I'm back to writing, writing, writing. As I have decided to stick to what I know best now and am most comfortable with after having made grandiose plans to publish shed-loads of flash fiction, enter lots of of short story competitions, test the waters with pocket  novels and women's magazine serials. I have since had a change of heart. Having said that I did have a tiny burst of success with, first of all, publication of the first 500 words of a contemporary crime novel in Writers Forum. Later on, that same lovely magazine awarded me 3rd prize in one of their short story competitions with publication of said story and a cheque. (I think that issue may still available from newsagents.)

However, having established that I can still write something that is reasonably publishable, my confidence has risen a bit although I still need more yeast. Basically, I need to write better. (As Samuel Becket said, 'Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better). So I've come to the conclusion to stick to writing novels in the traditional (and very difficult) way and not by self-publishing. I've discussed this before on this blog. I'm not against self-pubbing in any way, but have realised that it's not for me. I need someone else's approval for my writing which means probably an agent and, even if not, a traditional  publisher. Also because I  do not want to go all out with publicity, promotion and selling. 

So this is what I've done in my new resolute state of mind. I found an excellent experienced published writer to take a look at the first few chapters. I researched this person carefully and felt they would provide an honest opinion of my medieval novel that my (then) agent slammed in no uncertain terms. The report was very thorough and insightful and offered some brilliant advice to give the manuscript far more panache, more character motivation . A major rewrite with this in place could make it more publishable in these increasingly difficult times for fiction writers.

What with this, that and the other, I have gained more confidence to march forwards, I am now in the process of a major rewrite and guess what? I'm much happier with my manuscript now. I know there's a very long way to go and will have to set foot again on that steep and long agent-trail yet again - with  its steady stream of rejections. So what? If I get 100 rejections, I'll explore 100 more avenues. I will NOT  give up. After all, that is par for the course. I'm a writer. I've been writing for over 20 years. I'm not dead yet.

PS. I'm having repeated trouble with my Google account and it still won't let me download any of my photos because it wants to contact me by my mobile phone. Only, there is mobile signal here. I have a mobile phone which I use mainly in emergencies but can only use it when I'm not here. Grrr. Why won't these techie people realise some of us have slow internet speeds and NO MOBILE SIGNAL! Google are pretty awful. I can't even post a comment on my own blog. 

PPS Another of my future plans is to ditch Blogger (which is Google) and get a proper website with a blog attached.

Watch this space. 

Harrogate History Festival 2015

Are you going? If you love to read, as well as write historical fiction, you most definitely should.

Next week's festival will be its third year (and I've been the the first and second.) Here's my post from 2014. Like all new events, it gets better and better. I mean just look what this year's has to offer.

http://harrogateinternationalfestivals.com/history/

I always treat myself and buy a rover ticket for the whole event. However, you can buy individual tickets or a one day ticket. You're spoiled for choice. As you know, I don't get out much and when I do it's to accompany Jon, mainly to include a triathlon event, or sometimes just to chill out. This year we've been in Aberdeenshire, Perthshire ans the Borders. We have also popped over to our favourite Barnard Castle and the Tees Valley (such an underrated area and such a wonderful museum.)

The  Bowes Museum - Barnard Castle

 Then down to Weymouth, and had trips to friends and family here, there and everywhere: Northamptonshire, Nottinghamshire and County Durham. We've been to Hadrian's Wall. We didn't manage tofit in Wales or East Anglia this year but next year; who knows?)

So therefore, these four days are 'My Time.' It's not often I can immerse myself exclusively in writing fiction and history. The writers I'm looking forward to see the most are: Neil Oliver and Lord Bragg. That isn't to say,

 I also hope to meet some of my favourite historical novelists. Last year, I bumped into lovely Elizabeth Chadwick and drank tea with her. Also I have met Emily Darwin at both previous events. This year, I've booked up to her workshop with fellow Sally O'Reilly on the Thursday afternoon. This is a new addition and reminds me of the annual Crime Festival's 'Creative Thursday'. The reason I love the History Festival is that, as much as the crime Festival is much, much larger and crowded, the History event is much less frenetic for an old thing like me, and dare I say it, far less boozy.Yes, wine flows but you never fight of attention at the bar!

So, I'll be there and I'll look like a right lemon if you don't come over and say hello. See you on Thursday!

What every (fiction) writer needs...

is a compost heap. Yes, you heard. A compost heap. So,  here, in best tabloid newspaper tradition is an anonymous snap of a slightly more sophisticated compost heap than mine.  (3 bins instead of 2.)

My two bins work like this. To one is added all my vegetable peelings and other organic (non-meat) waste such as discarded citrus peel, egg-shells, tea-bags, old plants (not weeds or woody stems) and grass-clippings etc. The second one is last year's heap which has taken a year to rot into a moist mush to add to the borders for plant growth and nourishment.

What on earth has this to do with fiction-writing? Well, I have had quite a few months recently when I didn't write a word. We've had several breaks in our camper van and soaked up the atmosphere of several parts of England. And it's not over yet. In the next few months we'll be spending some time in Scotland, then Dorset and several other places, depending on the weather and our inclination.

Jon, of course, has been triathlon racing and training. I've supported him on and off but, mainly, I've been sightseeing with him. We have visited some memorable places. For instance, Kedleston Hall and its grounds is a gem....

And do you, like me, find yourself playing an imaginary lady/daughter/grand-daughter of the house or maybe a scullery maid or governess - or even the cousin bent on revenge or jealousy?

I've also been avidly reading. Here's a little look at two of them with I enjoyed enormously.(I've been catching up with the Inspector Banks Yorkshire-based crime novels by Peter Robinson. I'm as far as number 16 and I'm hooked.)


I hope you see, I've been building up a fine compost heap. And my writing brain is beginning to bear fruit after months of laying fallow. You see, writers don't steal (apart from those unspeakable plagiarists) but they look around them, absorb sights, sounds, smells not to mention experiences from all around and within themselves; they read like sponges, filling their minds, memories and hearts with ingredients that, during those times when they are not writing, they are filling up the compost heaps.

This also goes to explain why I haven't been updating this blog for some time and why I won't be blogging for the foreseeable future. Nor will I until I've something writing-related I want to blog about. Until then, I'll be experiencing life, reading and writing, writing, writing fiction. In other words: building up compost and collecting the seeds of many projects.

For instance on my travels around the UK, last year,  I collected (but didn't steal) some poppy seeds which. I later scattered them over my enriched soil earlier this year And this is the result. Lots and lots of these and plenty of seed heads I've been collected to scatter next year!

In the meantime, here's to happy writing and composting, everyone! See you soon.

Summertime...

And the living is easy. So George Gershwin wrote so beautifully about the life in slave-ridden Deep South of Porgy & Bess. Well, this is a village in the North York Moors National Park so it's rather different. Yesterday was a warm day for us so I decided it was time to take you all on a walk up and down our garden.

Some of you will remember the story of how we bought our current house. Whether you know or not, you might like to dip into my old 'The Old Chapel' blog. It was once a Wesleyan Methodist Chapel but when the various Methodist disciplines began to merge, it closed and everyone then went to the bigger Methodist chapel just around the corner. This also closed when chapel attendance fell away and was eventually converted into 3 separate properties. (The times we get deliveries and visitors for The Old Methodist Chapel!)

Anyway, back to our Old Chapel - as it's simply called.  It had already been converted into a house in the 1960s,  I think, and the garden was acquired. It was then altered several times. When we first viewed it, it had been uninhabited and for sale for quite some time. We decided not to buy it then but, one year later, we I spent a week in a holiday cottage nearby and fell in love with the village and persuaded Jon that we had to buy it!  Eventually we signed the contract and then began the slow progress that such a project needs. When work began more than a year later, it was  gutted it back to a stone barn with the help and guidance of our great architects and especially our local builder- with whom we have not only remained on speaking terms, but regard him and his family good friends.

To explain our garden... are you sitting comfortably?

Imagine our house at the bottom of this blue isosceles triangle (ie the garden) This elongated trangle lies between the second steepest road out of Rosedale Abbey called  Heygate Lane or Bank (R) and a field (L) on which,is held the annual Rosedale Show. As the widest part of the triangle is the nearest to the house, we wanted a lawn there but didn't like the very steep slope there. So small earth-moving vehicles were used to level the land and make drainage workable make workable drainage, too.  But we can't alter the fact that as the garden extends to its apex, it rises steeply as it narrows. With me so far?

In my Old Chapel blog  -  dated 2009 (almost at its end which, as is the way with blogs, is easily found at the beginning!) I took you for a walk up and back the garden. So I've decided to bring it up to date to show how it's matured since then.
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So now it's few words and let the pictures tell their story with a caption or three.

Outside our east-facing conservatory is the terrace and steps up to...

the now-flat lawn 

..with its  herbaceous border on the lane-side

Look at our 'small' sequoia, 'chair' bench and the pond to the right...

Where we have friendly visitors every so often

up through the yew hedge

where I stop and admire the Gunnera

To the other side is our mini-orchard and little meadow (which as just been mown)

up again past our little knot garden and the copper beech hedge which hides the compost heaps...

...and onwards and upwards to a welcome bench, our 'famous' rock, maples and azaleas.

I'm finding it hard to balance now,  so to avoid falling over, I'll turn round and go down back through the maples

and over to the ditch - often dry in on summer days

and back to 2 more shots of the herbaceous border

and so back to the terrace and conservatory and a cup of tea. Care to join me?