Linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy as usual. For some reason, I got out of the habit of keeping up my list of books read. Not sure if it signals that I need to perk up my reading life, or just that I'm getting absent minded. Luckily, all my books are on my shelf or Kindle as I'm not living in an English-speaking country, so here's a round-up from last month.
Jennifer Robson - The Gown
This had been on my list of 'I'd read it if it came on sale' books - and my patience was rewarded. It's a three-way story, of two young women, Londoner Ann and Holocaust survivor Miriam who are embroidering the gown for Princess Elizabeth's wedding, and Ann's grandaughter, Heather, who is solving a mystery that Ann left behind. Although the plot was built on what, to me, was a bit of a flaw (that Ann's daughter never tried to find out anything about her father), I enjoyed the story, particularly the re-creation of postwar Britain. The modern day story, I felt so-so about. The trope of 'person finds photo/jewellery/diary and uncovers mystery' seems a bit ubiquitous nowadays.
Barbara Pym - Crampton Hodnet
Barbara Pym never disappoints with her comedies of manners. This is an early novel, but it was set aside when Pym became involved in war work, and left unedited until after her death, as she felt it was dated. Now, of course, it is a perfect period piece, set in Oxford in the 1930s. Elderly Miss Doggett likes to think she has her finger on the moral pulse of Oxford. She is eager to promote the romance between her great-neice, Anthea and a well-connected young man - and to quash the budding affair between Anthea's father and a young student. But the one liason she does not see is going on right under her nose, between her companion Miss Morrow and lodger, the curate Mr Latimer.
Barbara Pym - brilliant writer, and cat lady
Trisha Ashley - The Garden of Forgotten Wishes and The Little Teashop of Lost and Found
In a spate of mental exhaustion, I put my feet up with two light rom-coms. In The Garden of Forgotten Wishes, Marnie returns to the UK after several years in France hiding from her coercive ex-husband. She takes a gardening job in the little Lancashire village her mother had fled years ago, but decides not to reveal her identity. One of her employers turns out to be a former fellow student who has his own reasons to be hiding. After a thorny start, if you will forgive the pun, relationships, of course, are restored along with the garden. I liked this best of the two, savouring its quiet pace.
In The Little Teashop of Lost and Found, Alice is reeling from the death of her fiance. She decides to sink her inheritance and grief into the project of reviving a little teashop in Haworth, near where she was found abandoned as a baby. As she seeks to work through her loss and uncover answers about her life, she also finds herself attracted to her antiques dealer neighbour, who will inadvertantly lead her to the truth.
I've got books lined up until the end of the year, I think, so I've put a cap on Kindle purchases - unless of course, another TBR bargain pops up...
Linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy as usual. Strange to recall that about a year ago, I was feverishly reading Anne's new book, Don't Overthink It. My son and I were set to fly to the UK to visit family in two days' time, and there now seemed every possibility that once there, we might be stuck. The advice in the book helped me think through plans that gave me the confidence to go ahead and enjoy my visit without being overwhelmed by anxiety.
It may seem small in the scheme of things, but many readers will be looking back over a year of rather different reading lists or reading habits. Dark or emotionally harrowing books have been (mostly) off my list. On the other hand, finally purchasing a new e-reader after a few years of reading on a large phone screen (for frugality and practicality) refreshed my reading experience. I'm just sorry that I didn't fork out the extra money for a waterproof one now that we have a bathtub.
Oh yes, actual books: I tackled a couple of books for research this month, so my leisure reading list is smaller. Here goes...
Daphne Du Maurier - Myself When Young
Breezier in tone than I expected, but it soon drew me in. Du Maurier draws on the journals she kept from an early age to trace her life and development as a writer up to the point of her marriage. It's frank, and, be warned, includes an exploration of the emotional incest that infuses her later novel, The Parasites. MMD readers will be delighted to know she also shares the reading lists she kept from those years!
Alan Bradley - The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie
I'd read one of these Flavia de Luce mystery novels out of turn and, though I didn't really take to it, decided I would give another one a go. This is the first in the series, set around 1950 in Britain: eleven year-old Flavia finds a dying man in the grounds of her family's mansion - a man whom she had heard arguing with her father the night before. Blackmail, poison and a decades-old crime: just the excitement to feed the brain of a precocious, chemistry-obsessed girl. On paper, Flavia is a character I ought to relate to: intelligent, socially awkward, probably on the Asperger's spectrum, but I just can't empathise with her. I think one of the problems is that, in both books I have read, the American author uses a British phrase or allusion in a way I would not, which throws the world of the novel off-kilter for me. Sorry, Flavia fans, but please, convince me to read on if you can :)
I'm ending with this, not particularly as a review, but as a little paean to vintage guide books. In researching Dorset in the first half of the twentieth century, my eyes have been opened to the charms of second hand books I would normally have passed over as pointless: old regional and travel books. I thought I'd be ploughing through outdated material, but ended up hooked - it's like time travelling from the comfort of your armchair. If you really want to get to the heart of a place, I recommend ditching the modern history and scouring the local second hand book shop for outdated guide books, written by a native son or daughter of the area. It's the first section I'll be heading for on my next trip.
Wishing you compassion and hope this anniversary, and books that will carry you through.
A pirate or devil, I suppose they are much the same, and a saint guard the coast between them. Tonight the saint wins. The snow has hardened treacherously, and no one will be near Old Harry Rocks until the thaw. But the hardy and faithful among us have squeezed into Saint Aldhelm's chapel for the Christmas Eve service...
I have already written about the legends of Old Harry Rocks, but another iconic landmark that is a supernatural anchor in my novel, A Dorset Summer, is St Aldhelm's Chapel, nestled up on the clifftops at Saint Aldhelm's Head. It is also known as St Alban's chapel/St Alban's head, the Devil's Chapel, and as a Wishing Chapel.
There is considerable mystery surrounding the chapel - and this post is indebted to The Dorset Rambler (see link below) for pulling together the information I remember, but in a more cohesive manner! First, it is set on a circular earthwork, an ancient construction used at least as far back as the iron age (the impressive Maiden Castle earthworks is also in this part of the country - and I can attest that's worth a visit as well). It's Norman in construction, though some say the entranceway is Saxon. Secondly it is not built in a traditional church format: it is not in an east-west orientation, has no obvious place for an altar, and has a huge pillar in the middle of its tiny, square interior, not ideal for a congregation.
Photo credit: By Huligan0 - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11929961
As to its names: Saint Aldhelm was a 7th century monk who became Abbot of Malmesbury Abbey and then the first bishop of Sherbourne. Aldhelm was a scholar and, apparently, a pretty good entertainer. He is known most famously for a set of riddles he sent to the King of Northumbria. Perhaps this is why he was also roped in to help with the biggest riddle in 7th century Britain - the controversy between the Celtic and Roman church over whose practice should reign supreme in this isle. (Historian that I am, I still feel upset about the Synod of Whitby.)
I'm guessing that the St. Alban appellation is either a common mis-repetition of the lesser-known name Aldhelm, or that the promontory and chapel were renamed for a more local saint. (Saint Alban is considered to be Britain's first Christian martyr.)
But back to the chapel that was (probably!) named after Aldhelm. Nothing is really known of its function as a religious building in its early centuries, apart from records of a priest here in the 13th century. Some surmise that it was actually built as a chantry, a small religious building where a priest was paid to pray for the souls of the dead (heavenly insurance for the wealthy). The religious connections are strengthened by the discovery in the 1950s of a thirteenth-century grave of a middle-aged woman found on the site, leading to speculation she was an anchoress. An anchorite is a person who chooses to give their life completely to contemplation and prayer, shut up in a tiny cell until death. Except, they became holy celebrities and people constantly sought them out for advice, so there wasn't always a bunch of time for meditation. Perhaps that is why this anchoress chose a remote home! Evidence of a smaller building nearby lends credence to the anchoress story. Since I am also very interested in Britain's most famous anchoress, Julian of Norwich, I like that theory. (I think maybe there's a novel in that!).
Photo credit: By Huligan0 - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11929982
If not a chapel, some have suggested that it was a type of lookout - for the navigation of ships at sea (there's a mention of it as a sea mark) or to protect Corfe Castle further inland (it shares some similarities in construction with Corfe Castle). This idea is supported by evidence that a beacon may have sat on the roof where there is now a cross. Yet it has only one, tiny window.
I suspect it was all these and more, an ancient multi-purpose building: chantry, chapel and lookout!
As for its other names, I have not found any speculation for the name Devil's Chapel - maybe that is in keeping with the tradition of naming remote or odd formations after Old Nick (see my blog on Old Harry Rock). Or perhaps that's because it's a devil of a job to get to it! But it was definitely regarded as some sort of wishing chapel, because there is a hole in the central pillar where girls have dropped votive items such as hairpins, presumably after praying for a husband. By the way, you can also read centuries-old graffiti on the pillar.
A windswept visit from many years ago - my younger daughter is 17 now!
The chapel was part of the Encombe estate for centuries, until they handed it over to the Worth Matravers parish council in the 1960s. Even if we are not sure about how it was originally used as a religious building, in more recent history (19th century) it was restored as a chapel for the families of the coastguards who had cottages nearby. When they moved, the chapel was abandoned again. As far as I know there are still services held in the chapel - I recall summer morning prayer being advertised a few years back, but in these days of Covid-19, there are none listed. Here's the parish website, I'll try to update this when things change. It's on my Dorset to-do list to attend one someday: an early summer walk to the chapel for morning prayer, followed by a slap-up breakfast nearby (maybe at Durlston). (Hint to Mum and Dad - I know you are reading this!!)
There's a quick route and a more challenging route to get to the chapel. If you have limited time or mobility (or small children in tow, which is both), you can drive to a small car park at Renscombe Farm, from where it is a short walk.
The longer way could be undertaken as a mini-pilgrimage, by picking up the South West Coast Path in the area. If you begin near Chapman's Pool, you can include a penitential thigh workout in the climb down (184 steps) and up (219 steps) to the chapel. I admit it's been a long time since I have taken that route.
Well, that was a long post - and I didn't even exhaust all the stories. There are more than would fit into the tiny chapel! Take a visit, drink in the atmosphere, and decide for yourself.
Here's a circular walk along the South West coastal path, taking in other landmarks such as Chapman's Pool - it starts near the chapel for the short walk I mentioned above. https://www.southwestcoastpath.org.uk/walksdb/580/
If you got all the way down here and don't feel like scrolling up again, here is the link to the legends of Old Harry rocks.
Finally, of course, here's an extract from my novel, when Phoebe is taken to the chapel by James, whose attentions she is gently trying to dissuade.
A DORSET SUMMER: from Chapter 17
Ahead of us, Saint Aldhelm’s chapel beckoned, a small, square
stone building close to the cliff, topped with a tiny steeple crowned with a
cross. The chapel sank slightly below the surrounding ground, as if weighed
down by the years. A single path wound west from the low wooden door. We
tramped across the scrubby grass to join it.
‘Is it a real chapel, or a wayfarer’s place?’ I asked.
James looked over his shoulder. ‘Probably a chapel. Some
believe it is built on an ancient Christian site. Others say it is a secret
lookout because it isn’t situated in the standard orientation for a church.’
‘A lookout for smugglers?’
‘For sailors. The coast is treacherous here. Mind you, I
would not be surprised if the chapel played its part in smuggling operations.’
Given what he had told me about his family’s involvement with
contraband, I wondered if he was being disingenuous. I could imagine him and
the Major creeping up here in the dark to meet men whose names they pretended
not to know, scurrying back under cover of the barley with their cigars and
brandy.
James pulled the door open, scraping the paving. Inside, a
faint musty smell pervaded the small, dim space. A few tiny pews faced the
altar table, lit only by an equally tiny recessed window, more like a hermitage
than a chapel. The roof was supported by a crumbling stone pillar. A vase of
blown roses balanced on a stand by the front pew, the only indication that
anyone had a thought for the place.
I took a closer look at the pillar, taken aback to find it
desecrated with the names of bygone walkers or worshippers, but intrigued to
note dates going back several centuries.
‘Do people still worship here?’ I asked. Talking with James
was so easy when the conversation was not about us.
‘I believe a priest holds a service once a month for the
coastguard families, and we celebrate a community Christmas Eve service out
here, providing the weather allows. The chapel belongs to the Encombe estate.’
Though physically empty, the atmosphere of the chapel
enveloped me, kindly, patient, long suffering, as though it had seen more joy
and tragedy than its small walls could contain. Perhaps that was only my mood. I
turned towards the door. ‘I have seen enough now, may we leave?’
We traipsed out, but instead of returning to the car, James
led the way around the chapel and along the narrow path to the cliff’s edge. He
was prolonging the outing, I knew, waiting for the right moment to say
something, or for a sign from me.
I’m sorry, I said silently to his back. If I had not
been a coward, I would have run forward and taken his strong, brown farmer’s
hands in mine, and told him: You are sweet and kind and honourable,
everything a girl should want. You don’t deserve to be anyone’s consolation
prize, and I won’t let you be mine.
We stopped a foot from the edge. The cliff face dropped sheer
for maybe a third of the way down before sprawling in a crumbling, heaped mass
of white rocks to the sea.
I leaned forward and watched the waves pound the rocks at the
base of the cliff, reminded once more of James’s story and the doomed lovers he
had cast into the sea at Old Harry Rocks with adolescent indifference. I closed
my eyes against the sting of the wind, letting the gusts buffet me. My hearing
muffled by the competing roar of wind and waves, I saw in my mind’s eye
Philippa and Roger, hands clasped, about to leap. Surely the chapel knew their
story. Across the millennia, it must have witnessed its share of desperate and
broken-hearted people poised on this cliff’s edge. Did they take one last
glance behind them at the steadfast stone walls, murmur one last prayer for
forgiveness, or did they turn their backs on hope to meet the cold arms of the
sea?
James snatched me back from the cliff’s edge. ‘Steady,
Phoebe.’ At the fear in his voice, I opened my eyes, realizing only now that I
had been swaying back and forth with the wind. A dislodged pebble clattered
down the cliff face.
‘Sorry,’ I said, attempting to sound light. ‘My imagination
was wandering. I was thinking of your story, of the cliff top climax.’
‘I didn’t know it was that affecting. First my cousins, now
you. I don’t think I dare tell it a third time.’ He tried to echo my levity,
but the way he brushed my arms as he let go of my cardigan told me I had scared
him.
Back to linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy for QuickLit after a September trip to see family in Dorset, England (and play in the sand and eat lots of cake). Plus, the local bookshop owner agreed to stock my novel set in Dorset!
Local fame for A Dorset Summer :)
Fun family fact - the Seaweeds book next to it was published under a project my brother was involved in! Here's a few reading highlights from the last couple of months:
Daphne Du Maurier - Mary Anne
This is another of Du Maurier's fictionalized family biographies, this time of her notorious great-great grandmother, Mary Anne Clarke, who pulled herself out of poverty to become a courtesan, and was for a short time the mistress of the Prince of Wales - until she reached too far. Du Maurier does not paint a pretty world or likeable characters, but this is the eighteenth century where reputation, money and a woman's body are commodities in the game of politics. Not as riveting as her fiction, but interesting if you are already a Du Maurier fan and want to know more about her family.
Jane Borodale - The Book of Fires
Keeping to the eighteenth century for this literary historical novel, shortlisted for the Orange prize. Agnes is seventeen and pregnant out of wedlock. When an unexpected way out presents itself, she flees to London and ends up as the apprentice to a fireworks maker, from whom she hides her shame. But her salvation has a time limit, and her all choices are desperate. Lyrical, lots of fascinating details about pyrotechnics, and a surprise happy ending.
My book stash from the UK, with the new Kindle I bought there on top
Jenny Colgan - The Endless Beach
My Mum gave me The Book of Fires to read, and I left her this when I was done (because my bags couldn't take one. more. thing). A sequel to The Summer Seaside Kitchen (or The Cafe by the Sea if you are in the US). Flora wonders if her new relationship with Joel is actually getting anywhere. Lorna, her friend and headmistress of the tiny island school, is wrestling with her love for refugee doctor Saif, whose wife and sons are missing. Only Flora's brother seems to enjoy unalloyed happiness with Colton - but their new love is about to be tested to the full. Typical delicious Colgan fare that will keep you turning the pages.
Plenty of new publications from my critique group this past month or so. Here' s a sampling:
Ursula Thompson - Brothers of the Sun. Book 1: All at Sea. Piratical debut.
Katherine Pym - Begotten. Fantasy based on the ancient Sumer civilisation.
Maggi Andersen - Introducing Miss Joanna. Second in her romance novella series Once a Wallflower. Plus The Heir's Proposal. Maggi is prolific :) Oh, and a romance novella collection she contributed to, The Midnight Hour: All Hallows Brides, won the RONE award!
Anne Marie Brear - Market Stall Girl. Historical family saga set in Yorkshire.
Hope you are having a safe and happy October. I confess this is the time of year when I am grateful I have moved back to Europe and only have to think about Christmas :)
Old Harry Rock (or, Old Harry Rocks) near Studland is/are an iconic landmark in Dorset, although perhaps a little less famous (if postcards are anything to go by) than Durdle Door in Lulworth. The chalk outcrop looms as a geographic phantom throughout my novel, A Dorset Summer.
Just as people don't agree on exactly how to name them (just counting the main rock, or those surrounding him), how they got their name is also in dispute. Some say they are named after the fourteenth-century Poole pirate, Harry Paye. Explanations include that his ships hid near here as a launch point for his raid on merchant ships, or that his treasure was stashed in the cliff's caves. History suggests that Harry ferried pilgrims across the sea to Spain, and, in an admirable display of business acumen, filled his empty holds on the return journey by indulging in piracy along the Spanish coastline, as well as accepting money from Spanish nobility to aid them in their feuds.
The main reason he is celebrated comes a little later - and I've seen slightly different versions of that story. Either in payback for the piratical antics of the man they called Arripaye, or in a run-of-the-mill act of aggression, A Spanish-French alliance raided the coastline along Dorset, launching an attack on Harry's home town. The people of Poole beat the invaders off in a desperate fight, even ripping doors from their hinges to use as shields. Apparently Harry was absent, but in revenge, he gathered a small fleet and captured 120 French ships, giving their cargo to Poole. It is said the people were drunk for a month afterwards on the claret. I'm surprised they even remembered his name after that, but they (maybe) named the rocks for him, and commemorate him on Harry Paye Day - Pirate Day - in Poole.
The other most popular legend links the rocks to "Old Harry", the devil, joining with many other geographic oddities in the British Isles, which are said to be places visited by the devil. The Dorset legend says he slept on the rock one night. The expression "to play Old Harry" means to ruin or destroy, and it's linked here to the idea that it's a warning to ships to steer clear of the rocks. By the way, other places in Dorset with satanic etymology include Agglestone (meaning "Prince's Stone") and the village of Dewlish (devilish).
Another legend, one that I only found out about when I delved a little deeper into Old Harry legends, is that the rock is a drowned Viking, Earl Harold, turned into a pillar of chalk after his raid on the English coast was thwarted. I tried to investigate that tale further, but only got broken links, so maybe it's a legend about a legend :)
Geography says the rocks were once part of a chalk cliff line that stretched out to what is now the Isle of Wight. Erosion over thousands of years left us the Needles at the Isle of Wight and Old Harry by the mainland. Old Harry used to have a wife, but she collapsed into the sea at the end of the nineteenth century, and her title was transferred to the next rock along, so I suppose Old Harry is not that doting a husband.
By the way, H.G. Wells' ashes were scattered here by his son.
Painting copyright Beatrice Dobson 2020 (aka my talented daughter!)
Whatever the origins, Old Harry is an impressive focal point for your walks along the Jurassic coastline. I like to do the walk from Swanage, the town where my parents now live. You can start from the town itself, picking up the path to the cliff near the Grand Hotel, but I prefer to begin at Swanage beach, walking along almost to the point where it turns the corner of the coastline, to pick up the stairs that wind up the cliff and meet the coastal path. From there it's a clearly-marked path along the cliff edge and through fields to Old Harry. After you've rested on the cliffs, a short walk will bring you down into Studland and the Bankes Arms for a very well-deserved pint, and the bus back to Swanage. As far as I can recall, that's less than a couple of hours of walking.
The easiest and more popular route, especially in summer, is to pick up the path in Studland itself, down the road from the Bankes Arms, where you start on a wooded, shaded route and break out into sunshine near the cliff edge. We used to do that quite a lot when I was a child, as a break from sitting on the beach below. Whichever route you choose, you'll be well rewarded at the end.
I chose to put the legends of Old Harry into the prologue of my novel, setting the tone of something vaguely supernatural lying beneath the surface. Here it is in full:
Photo credit: all my own work :)
A Dorset Summer: Prologue
I
lean against the windowsill, my face so close to the pane that my breath
dissolves a little circle in the frost clinging to the glass. In the fading
light, an unfamiliar landscape meets my eye. Snow: shovelled into grey heaps
three feet high on either side of the pathways, drifting pristine against the
fences, melding gardens and fields into one expanse.
On a
whim, I fling open the casement. An avalanche of hardened snow cascades from
the roof above. A gull, hunkered down by the chimney, takes flight, startled
and angry, and screeches off into the dusk.
Little
clumps of snowflakes waft into the room and settle on my cheeks, melting down
my face in icy tears. Water trickles to my collar as I trace the dark outline
of the bird, headed towards the coast. My head tells me he will make for the
nearest barn or house, to take shelter where he can until the darkness lifts.
In my heart, I follow him to the sea.
I
close my eyes and visualise his imaginary flight, sweeping the miles to the
cliffs, to Old Harry Rocks. Foolish, I know. What would drive him all that way,
cold and blind and weary?
What
drove me?
Old
Harry. Not even here in Dorset, where memory is long, can they agree on how the
rocks came to be named. Many swear it is for Harry Paye, a pirate in the days
of the Plantagenets. Harry pillaged his way along the coast of Normandy to the
Bay of Biscay, until the French and Spanish fleets united to raid his home
town, Poole, in revenge. But like the land, the people here are resilient. They
fought off the foreign invaders, using only doors for shields, then
immortalised the man who brought destruction on their heads by christening
these rocks after him.
I
take a long breath, drawing the chill air deep into my lungs, as if testing my
own resilience against the outside world. In these twilight hours, it is easier
to believe the folklore that the rocks take their name from a destroyer of
souls far older than Harry Paye. They say the devil slept there one night, tired
out from making mischief perhaps, or from carousing with his pagan comrades at
nearby Stonehenge.
I
lean out to swing the casement shut. A final blast of frigid air envelops me. I
step back, arms wrapped around myself, watching the view fade from my sight as
the window pane fogs up.
The
land outside my window tells its own silent story about Old Harry Rocks; in the
end, I think, more true than either legend. Any guide to Dorset will inform you
these stone outcrops are part of the flint and chalk downs that spread through
the county and out across the sea. The rocks have stood, outwardly impregnable,
for tens upon millions of years, but the elements assault them mercilessly. Air
and water work their way into each little fissure, eroding caves, which in turn
become open hollows. Eventually, the archways gape so wide, the rock cannot
support itself and collapses into the waiting arms of the ocean.
Such
are we. We hide our inmost selves from those around us, standing tall and hard
as rocks. But little by little, the world works its way into our cracks,
exposing our frailties, until we can no longer sustain the façade of our
outward lives and plunge headlong into the abyss of our own making.
And who is there to catch us
when we fall?
A Dorset Summer is available via Amazon: here's the link to the blurb and other info. Meanwhile, if you are interested in Old Harry Rocks, here's a couple of online sources to get you started:
Linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy as usual for QuickLit. I have something to celebrate as we finish coming out of lockdown - I finally published my novel, A Dorset Summer (a promise seven years in the making, which is a whole other blog post). Here is a link to the post all about it, and the Amazon link, if anyone is interested. Meanwhile, here's what kept me going in May:
Donna Fletcher Crow - An Unholy Communion, A Newly Crimsoned Reliquary, and An All-Consuming Flame (The Monastery Murders, books 3-5)
I was definitely losing it by the end of lockdown - making cinnamon rolls at 10pm, and randomly choosing to read an entire series of cosy mysteries set in the heart of the Anglican church. As I mentioned last month, I enjoyed the first but the second was a let-down. The third picked up for me. In An Unholy Communion, ordinand Felicity and history lecturer Father Anthony, now engaged, take a young group of pilgrims through ancient Wales after the mysterious falling death of a past student of Anthony's. But the evil that seems to dog their footsteps is not wholly of this world. Oxford is the setting of A Newly Crimsoned Reliquary. Felicity is translating a manuscript for an order of nuns - but their Mother Superior has gone missing, and a grisly new "relic" turns up in a reliquary. The last installment, An All-Consuming Fire, meandered a bit, like the second: in the run-up to Anthony and Felicity's wedding, Anthony is roped in to help with a documentary on the English mystics, but the misfortunes dogging the set start to get closer to home...
What can I say - they have their ups and downs (Felicity must have some serious brain damage given all the times she's been knocked on the head, and Ms. Crow seems to paint anyone who isn't white middle class with broad brush strokes), but the historical parts of the mysteries are informing and entertaining, and it has spurred me to start re-reading the classics of my faith. Brain candy for church history geeks.
Jenny Colgan - The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris
Usually I stick to Jenny Colgan books that involve remote British locations plus baking or books. Also (quelle horreur!) I am not in love with Paris (Florence, now...). Anyhow, this is two parallel stories: while in hospital, Anna is roomed with her old French teacher, who helps her brush up her language skills and gets her a summer job with a chocolatier, who happens to be the teacher's first love. Anna's story is interspersed with that romance, set in the 70s. It's the classic Colgan formula, breezy, heartwarming, and not explicit. I wept a little, too.
Lorna Cook - The Forgotten Village
I had to read this dual timeline novel because it incorporates a fictionalised account of Tyneham, the Dorset village requisitioned by the army in the Second World War, a place I've visited several times. Just as Melissa's relationship falls apart on a holiday in Dorset, she meets TV historian Guy on a visit to the village. Struck by an anomaly in the photo of Lady Veronica and Sir Albert, they begin a spontaneous investigation of what actually happened in Tyneham in the last few, fateful days before the entire population was relocated, and, of course, find themselves falling for each other. Once I got over my initial disconnect between the facts I know and the fictional story Ms. Cook creates, I enjoyed this. I also recommend visiting the village if you are down that way and it is open (the army still uses the land for target practice so it's sometimes closed).
Bede - History of the English Church and People [also known as: Ecclesiastical History of the English People]
I got right to my promise and pulled this off my bookshelf. British readers may well recall the Venerable Bede from history lessons. This 8th century monk is known as a father of British history - he gathers sources from his network across Europe to present the church history of the English. I have to admit my eyes glazed over at the difficult names, except for Bishop Sexwulf - I bet he had a good congregation, but I'm glad I tackled it. I was also amused by Bede's shameless plug for another of his books right at the end; some things never change in publishing, it seems.
Colleen Donnelly - Letters and Lies
From a member of my critique group. Don't Come. I can't marry you. This is the telegram Lizzie's fiance-by-correspondence sends just as she is due to head out West for their marriage. But Lizzie, desperate to be married and to save her family business, boards the train under the guise of a widow intending to change his mind. But one lie leads to another, and she soon finds herself embroiled in trouble she hadn't anticipated. And she's not the only one concealing the truth. I wouldn't usually pick up a novel set in the Wild West, but I enjoyed this. It's an easy read, and, though romance is at its heart, it's more about sisterhood.
Let me know if you have any recommendations for Anglican mysteries - or just good Anglican books!
Linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy for QuickLit. At the time this is published (May 15), we'll be almost completely out of lockdown in Slovenia, with kindergartens about to start back up. It's been pretty much a two-month non-event here, with little Covid-19 but a whole lot of restrictions, and the joy of managing a job and daycare at home. Thank goodness for lovely spring weather and a back garden (not everyone in European cities has one!). I needed escapism in my reads - only one 'serious' book this month, and that was a pretty easy read, too.
Saint Cuthbert on his peregrinations (see below)
Soniah Kamal - Unmarriageable
So I finally decided to give an Austen rewrite a chance. This retelling of Pride and Prejudice is set in modern Pakistan. I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. There are a few places where the parallels to the original feel forced, but on the whole it's a fun read, and I was sad to say goodbye to the lively Binat family.
Madeline Miller - The Song of Achilles
I was pleased to pick up this TBR second hand - and sorry I'd waited so long to read it. It was right up my alley: classical, with spare but lyrical prose, and sensual (but not explicit). It retells the story of the greatest Greek warrior through the eyes of Patroclus, an unloved, exiled child prince who becomes first Achilles' companion and then lover. I kept coming back to read favourite parts after I was done. Miller's other novel, Circe, has now shot up my TBR rankings.
Donna Fletcher Crow - A Very Private Grave and A Darkly Hidden Truth (The Monastery Murders Books 1 and 2)
As an Anglican, I was interested in the setting of this series, the inner circles of the Church of England. It's an entertaining read - but I'd been hoping for something a little more literary. Our amateur sleuths are Felicity, a young American studying at a theological college in northern England, and her history lecturer, Father Anthony. This premise gives Crow the excuse to explain details to her readers - but results in too many what I call "history dumps" in the books. I did love the mystery in the first one, though, solved by tracing the centuries-long journey of Saint Cuthbert's body, after his monks fled Viking hoards with his coffin in tow. The second, unfortunately, is much weaker, too meandering in the middle and almost a repeat of the first plot line, translated to a mystery surrounding a stolen icon. But the series is very cheap, so I decided to keep going: final reviews next month!
I hope things are looking better (or never got bad) wherever you are, and that reading is pulling you through!
I am interrupting the usual content of the blog and my ironic, self-deprecating humour to bring you a literary-historical pilgrimage to the village of Moreton in Dorset, resting place for T.E. Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia.
I have a fascination with Lawrence that grew from reading Seven Pillars of Wisdom and was cemented with a visit to Clouds Hill cottage, his bolthole in Dorset, near Bovington. Seven Pillars of Wisdom is not for the fainthearted reader. It's hefty (over 800 pages), literary and genre-defying, blending truth and (a little) fiction in his accounts, memoir, military history, geography, topography and politics. As I wrote on Facebook when I finally finished it: 'I feel like I've been through the entire Arab campaign with Lawrence. Plus, I now know a lot about camels'. Lawrence is the scholar turned spy, commanded to infiltrate Arab communities during World War I to foment rebellion against the Ottoman Empire on promises of a fair division of land at the conclusion. Of course, Lawrence knew early on that the promises were not going to be kept, and, as I read between the lines, the strain that came from living intimately with the people he knew were going to be betrayed was one of the factors in his later behaviour, as, of course, was the deaths of his two younger brothers in 1915.
Lawrence lived long before PTSD was a recognised mental illness, but it's pretty clear that he returned from the war with just that. Shunning publicity, he took false names and bounced between various army positions before retiring from the military to Clouds Hill. The cottage is a shock: no electricity or running water, no kitchen. Apart from the downstairs room with a huge leather bed and lined with bookshelves, the place is pretty bare. An intelligent, cultured, wounded man was hiding from the world.
His end came all to soon. Riding his motorbike one evening, he had to suddenly swerve to avoid hitting boys belting along on bicycles. He crashed his bike, sustaining a head injury that killed him several days later. He was only forty-six.
The mourners at his funeral at St. Nicolas' church in Moreton read like a who's who of the 1930s: Winston Churchill, Siegfried Sassoon, Augustus John, Lady Astor and E.M. Forster to name just a few. His mother and one of his brothers were travelling in China at his death, and only one brother was able to attend.
The small cemetery is down the road from the church itself. You enter via a stone portico and take a short stroll through unassuming graves to the back, where Lawrence's resting place is, not ostentatious, but still notable for its size compared to the others. There was a steady stream of visitors, some there just because it was a place of note in the tiny village, others, like me, who made a pilgrimage, and who perhaps, also like me, said a silent prayer that he found peace at last.
Lawrence's mother chose that he be remembered as a scholar rather than soldier and statesman, and his headstone bears the motto of Oxford University, and is from Psalm 27: the Lord is my light.
The church at Moreton was bombed in World War II, so I can't claim it is intimately associated with Lawrence, but it is notable in its own right for the etched glass windows chosen to replace the stained glass lost, designed by Sir Laurence Whistler. A traditionalist, the idea of 'plain' glass in the church had me wrinkling my ecclesiastical nose, but I went anyway.
And I was amazed. I could never have predicted how beautiful the glass looks, with the simple background of the countryside, the nave of the church painted a plain sky blue to echo the view. Photos cannot do the church justice - you need to see the windows in situ. But here's a link to the photo gallery on the church website.
One of the most stunning is the Forgiveness window. Nestled at the back of the church, it is behind a screen and can't been seen from the inside. If you step outside and around the church, however, you will see a hanging Judas Iscariot at the moment of death, with the divine light shining down upon him. Apparently the artist designed this window, the thirteenth, early on, but it took many decades for the church to finally agree to install it.
Moreton has a new gem, too: a five-acre walled garden/ nursery that is a secret garden of little rooms. It is run to offer training to students with various special needs. There is a small farm and playground to entertain children, plus a cafe. We loved exploring the grounds, but didn't check out the cafe. Instead, we went to the tea rooms situated in the old school house and had a lovely tea. I discovered later, and wished I had known then, that the tea trolley is the bier that carried Lawrence's coffin. Not sure what I think about that. A shout out to their niceness: Alcuin slipped while climbing onto his chair, and even though it was not the cafe's fault, the proprietor gave him his choice from the ice cream cabinet.
Touristy stuff. The place is tiny, so everything is close together. Summer is better to visit as the tea room at least is shut in winter, and the walled garden won't be at its best, though I bet the church windows would be stunning in a frosty landscape with the winter sun. Also, there was a small field open as a free car park, whereas at other times of the year you would probably be parking on the side of the road. There is a railway station a good walk away and some bus connections. Or, you can have very kind parents who drive you there and mind your child while you take in your fill of the place.
And there's more if you got this far: Lawrence captured my imagination so much that he became the basis for a character in a novel set in the 1930s that, after several years of unexpected upheaval (see the rest of the blog), I am finally getting ready for publication. Here's a little extract. Phoebe Harris has come to Dorset for the summer with her cousin, but a series of chance encounters draw her into a relationship with a reclusive World War I veteran, Alex Milne. Here, they meet again among the barrows of the Dorset hills...
A fly settled on
the top edge of my page. As I raised my chin to blow it away, I caught sight of
another figure ascending the hill. Quickly, I buried my nose back in my book,
not wishing to invite interaction. Hopefully, the person would pass by on the
bridle way and not demand the walker’s etiquette of a conversation about the
weather or scenery.
In fact, I did such
a good job of ignoring the walker that I didn’t see it was Alex until he was
close enough to recognize me as well. He was dressed for walking, in his ubiquitous
khaki, a tripod under his arm and a stuffed backpack hanging over one shoulder.
I had longed, even
dared to pray, for another private encounter. Now it had been granted, I sat
frozen in panic. Should I raise my hand, be bold and call out, or simply pretend
I had not seen him, and let him choose whether to acknowledge me? There was no
path other than the one leading past the foot of the barrow, so if he wanted to
avoid me, he didn’t have the excuse of veering off in another direction.
I waited until our
eyes met, then nodded. He offered no greeting in return. I retreated behind my
book, though the words were now a blur to my racing heart and mind. If he
marched by on the bridle path, my chance would be gone. What could I say or do?
Instead of passing
by, he strolled up to the barrow until his head was level with my feet. I
lowered my book, clutching it tightly so that my hands wouldn’t shake.
‘Miss Harris. You
do seem to stray into my path peculiarly often.’ He sounded as though he could
not decide whether to deliver this remark as a joke or an insult.
‘I believe this is
a public right of way,’ I retorted. The steadiness in my voice surprised me. I
found I was less afraid of him now I had been in the lion’s den.
He indicated my
seat with his tripod. ‘I used to sit on that rock before you were born.’
‘But you’re not
from Dorset,’ I said. ‘Or if you are, you have lost your accent.’
‘We spent every
summer in Studland when I was growing up.’ His voice trailed away, and he gazed
across the hills. The wind tousled his hair, making the sunlight dance across
the shades of gold and copper. My fingers itched to reach out and stroke it.
I yearned to ask
whether the painting in his cottage was from his childhood, but sensed I had
not yet earned the right to mention it. Instead, I said, ‘I can see why you
would return. I think I could sit here until I grew into the rock.’
‘The only reason
I’m up here is at the behest of His Majesty’s Armed Forces. My task is to
inspect possible sites for firing ranges. I am about to declare this
unsuitable.’
I imagined gunfire
echoing across the hills, multiplied many times over from yesterday, drowning
out the symphony of nature. ‘I’m glad of that. The view is beautiful.’
‘And a firing range
would encroach on land belonging to the Stephenson family. At least I can repay
the Major with this small favour.’
I wondered what he
had to repay him for: an incident from the war? Giving him shelter, or a bolt
hole?
‘Is the
Stephensons’ estate in danger? I can’t believe the army is permitted to
requisition land that has been owned for centuries. It’s not as if there is a
war on.’ Indignation and fear welled up in me on behalf of the kindly Major.
Alex planted his
tripod in the ground. ‘The army can do what they bloody well like. And even if
I save the Major’s land for now, this won’t be the end of it. The dogs of war
must have their bones, and no one in the Home Counties cares if people down
here lose their ancient rights of way or a few sheep get shot. Ironic, isn’t
it: modern democracy is supposed to free the common man from encroachment by
the crown or landowners. Now the same, snivelling common men can sit on their backsides
in Parliament and decide to knock down your house or take your livelihood if
someone wants to widen a road or to rehearse killing his fellow man.’
I think he could
have denounced votes for women, or spewed Hindi poetry, and I would have hung
on his every word, not for their meaning, but for the simple fact that he spoke
them to me.
He swung around.
Given our last encounter, I expected him to leave after he’d had his say.
Instead, he sat down at the foot of the rock and pulled an apple from his rucksack.
‘Would you care to share with me?’
I stabbed a hole in
the page with my pencil before I recovered myself. I could not decide whether
the more dangerous—or desirable—option was to react to his political rant or
accept his offhand offer. With timid hopes, I chose the latter. ‘Only if you
don’t want the whole apple.’
‘I wouldn’t offer
otherwise.’ He slipped a penknife from his shorts pocket and flicked it open.
He traced the tip of the blade around the apple until he found a spot to pierce
its skin, then cut in a slow, deliberate circle. He held a half out to me. I
set my book and pencil on the grass and accepted the fruit. The newly-cut flesh
glistened. I took a delicate bite from the edge, aware Alex watched me.
‘Still working on
Dante?’ he asked when I had swallowed.
‘I’m trying to
brush up on my Italian. I hope to save enough money for a trip to Rome next
summer.’ I decided it was no use reacting to his mercurial moods. Maybe if I
let him be whom he wished, the real Alex would eventually emerge.
‘Is the Casy
translation any good?’
‘I’m no Italian
scholar. I bought it because it was dual language and cheap.’ I took another
bite of the apple. A speck of juice trickled down my thumb. I caught it with
the tip of my tongue. The simple action of eating helped ground me.
‘My brother was. An
Italian scholar, I mean. I gave him his first copy of Dante when he was in
grammar school. He turned out to be a natural polyglot, got a first in Modern
Languages at Cambridge.’ A brief smile lit Alex’s face. ‘I thought he might
become a professor, even a Dante scholar.’
‘What did he do
with his talents instead?’
The smile vanished,
his eyes darkened. ‘Sacrificed them to King and Country, like most of us. What
god of the mundane do you sacrifice your talents to, Miss Harris?’ He crunched
into the apple and chewed, waiting for my answer.
A retort to his
barb would be pointless. Conversation with Alex was like trying to tempt a wild
animal to eat from my hand. One tiny false move, and he would flee back within
himself.
‘I’m a governess,’
I said, and did not ask more about his brother. There were no photographs of
middle-aged siblings in Alex’s cottage. That told me enough.
Had he returned to
be close to the spirits of their youth, to walk where they had played as boys? Even
if his brother’ s body lay overseas, did Alex feel his presence here, receiving
comfort as James’s ancestors comforted him? If so, they must have been close,
as close as Lavinia and I. Something we shared, then.
And what of the
other boy in the painting, surely a sibling or cousin? Was he dead also, or did
he live a separate life, as indifferent to Alex as Lavinia’s and my brothers
were to us?
Alex nodded. ‘A
governess. I suspected as much. You are too smart to be idling your life away,
but you would be slaughtered in a classroom full of little savages.’
‘You do have a
peculiar way of talking,’ I objected. I preferred the Alex of my fantasies, who
had the elegant hauteur of a Mr Darcy.
He tossed the core
into the grass below. ‘Do I? I haven’t spoken to a woman for years.’
The strange thing
was, I was pretty sure he was not joking.
From: A Dorset Summer (hopefully to be published 2020!)
I was feeling it was time for a change, and to bring book reviews more in line with the general point of the blog, so for this and maybe future link ups with Modern Mrs Darcy I decided to feature one book, be briefer with the others, and highlight good travel reads. Hope it works.
Caroline Fraser - Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder
I've mentioned before that, being British and only having read the Little House books as an adult, I don't have the same emotional investment in Laura the person as many US readers - and what an investment that is, judging from the impassioned reader reviews of this Pulitzer-Prize winning biography. Still, even I felt the almost bodily blows as I plunged into the full extent of the homesteading failures of both Laura's parents and herself and Almanzo, and I am not ashamed to say that I had to choke back tears as I read of Almanzo's death. It is, though, ultimately a story of victory, of the little girl who weathered poverty and starvation to become an author beloved around the world, who rallied a nation in the midst of the Great Depression and immortalized the values of the pioneers. There's a lot of general history to set Laura's story within context (which I admit to not always reading very closely), and you may take issue with Fraser's opinions (she certainly doesn't like Laura's daughter, Rose Wilder Lane), but it was a fascinating read. She deals honestly with difficult subjects as well, such as Laura's ambiguous attitudes towards race, not unusual for her time, but jarring to us today. My favourite part was, of course, the writing of the Little House books, with Fraser's analysis of the literary mystery as to the extent of the collaboration between Laura and Rose, an established journalist. My girls are grown, but I am already wondering if my little boy will stand to have the books read aloud to him. Surely plucky Laura appeals to boys and girls alike? Oscar Wilde - The Canterville Ghost [audiobook]
This is the sole reason I signed up for the Audiofile SYNC YA summer reading giveaway (though I ended up downloading a few other books). I know I read it as a child, but there is only one scene, from the end, that sticks in my memory. A comic short story of ancient English ghost meets progressive American family. Nice theatrical production, with a wonderful range of tongue-in-cheek voices by Rupert Degas that captures Wilde's satire.
*BEACH READ* Jenny Colgan - Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
I thought this sequel was possibly better than the first. Polly, her American boyfriend Huckle, and their pet puffin, Neil, seem to be enjoying the perfect life living in their lighthouse and running a bakery on Polbearne island. But when unexpected disaster strikes, they must temporarily separate in order to save the life they love. Will it work out? Of course, this is Jenny Colgan, so I knew the answer to that, but she had me glued to the book as usual.
Sayaka Murata - Convenience Store Woman [audiobook]
Keiko has been stuck in her convenience store job for eighteen years. Socially dysfunctional, it offers a world of set rules that help her navigate life. But her friends would rather she was a 'normal' person with a partner and problems than the happy abnormal person she is. Funny, sweet, and disturbing by turns, with a sensitive narration by Nancy Wu with just a hint of an accent to get us into character.
Alex Martin - Daffodils
I am trying to make myself read the backlog of books that I got for free, just because they looked interesting at the time. This is the first in a family saga series. Circumstances curtail Katy's wish for adventure before settling down, but then World War I brings upheavals and opportunities she has never dreamed of. A light read.
Good to spend some time away from the heat of Koper and enjoy the English coast for a fortnight - and to finally get a stash of physical books (here's hoping that my luggage won't be overweight!). Linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy for a reading round up of the last month. Oscar Wilde - De Profundis
I resolved just to read light books this summer as moving across the globe is stressful enough in its own right, but I caved in to my brain and finally got around to reading this short literary piece by a favourite author. Wilde wrote De Profundis as a letter to his lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, while serving two years of hard labour for a gross indecency conviction (a sentence which broke him and led to his early death). It is an exploration of sorrow as the only true, wholly integrated experience of life and thus the highest form of art and aesthetics. But this is Oscar Wilde, and one cannot help wondering if it is really a repudiation of his old life as a ˝symbol of [his] age˝ so much as a manifesto for his becoming a symbol for all ages.
Wilde and Douglas. Wilde was posthumously pardoned in 2017.
Sarah Perry - The Essex Serpent
From the blurb, I had thought this was a historical romance/ mystery, so I picked it up for light reading. I was pleasantly surprised to find it more of a literary novel, with strong, quirky characters, emotional intensity, developed subplots and compelling themes. Freed by widowhood from an abusive marriage, Cora takes a holiday in Essex where she can indulge her suppressed love of natural history. But the coastal villages are astir with rumours that the mythical Essex serpent has risen again, to wreak divine judgment. While Cora is eager to find the serpent and prove the existence of a living fossil, the Rev. Will Ambrose is equally determined to prove it does not, and quell the rising superstitious hysteria sweeping his parish. A strong subplot concerns a different evil lurking in the slums of London. But at heart, it is about the serpents in us all. Definitely a page turner for me.
Esther Emery - What Falls From the Sky: How I Disconnected from the Internet and Reconnected with the God Who Made the Clouds
I wanted to really like this book. I was interested in the premise, and the author and I seem to have a lot of character traits in common, but I just couldn´t get deeply into it. The main reason was the style, in the present tense in the form of vignettes, ironically (given the subject) more like a series of blog posts than a seamless narrative. The one thing that caught my attention (and I don´t think this is a spoiler) is that the author turned out to be the youngest child of Carla Emery, guru of the back-to-the-land movement of the 70s and author of the Encyclopedia of Country Living, a well-thumbed copy of which sat on our bookshelf for many years, up until our recent move away from the rural US. The background story of her mother´s pursuit of a dream at all costs was, I´m afraid, more fascinating for me than that of her daughter.
That tea cup was mine when I was child, and I still get served tea in it when I visit my parents!
Joseph Loconte - A Hobbit, A Wardrobe, and a Great War
Written for a general audience, this explores the impact of the First World War on the beliefs, writings and relationship of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. Loconte covers some seldom-discussed aspects of the lead up to the conflict, such as the conflicting philosophies of the period, and his descriptions of the battles and trench warfare are emotionally compelling, but the book petered out into a sermon. Interesting, but I would have liked more depth.
Sara George - The Journal of Mrs Pepys: Portrait of a Marriage
Leaning heavily on Samuel Pepys' own diary, this tells the story of the 1660s from his wife Elizabeth's point of view. Definitely more a diary than a novel in format, this was well written and fascinating, especially if you are a history buff. George was pitch perfect in capturing a seventeenth century voice, dealing dispassionately with Pepys' verbal and physical violence towards his household and his #MeToo antics. I swapped this with my mother for Major Pettigrew's Last Stand.
I'm about to get back to Koper and try to get the last administrative problems ironed out before the new term, so reading might be quite thin in the coming month, but wishing you all good novels for the end of summer!
