A taste of the east: Maribor, Ptuj, Pohorje

Thank goodness we got organised enough to book a short break for January - because 4/5 of us were laid low with the flu over Christmas. We went back and forth on the choice of vacation: snow would be fun, but we didn't want to end up stuck in a cabin in some remote village in pouring rain, so maybe a city break was more sensible - but snow would still be fun...  We ended up picking the Maribor - Ptuj area where we could get a city break and were near to a ski resort (Maribor is Slovenia's second-largest city).

(This review is a slightly conflated version, because we bounced back and forth between the various locations.)

First excitement was taking the advice of a Slovenian friend and stopping at Trojane for lunch on the way. It's famous for its krofi, the Slovenian version of doughnuts. Undaunted by the reviewer complaint on Google that the doughnuts were "too big", we stopped at the bakery's gostilna, which is pretty much like an American diner. Ted and I chose the lunch menu, because how much food could you get for around 11 euros? Turns out, about enough for a hippo. Guess I should get on Google and complain about that. Soup, salad, bread, an enormous dinner plate, and dessert: not fancy, but good, plain, home cooking. Alcuin cut to the chase and ordered a chocolate iced, vanilla cream-stuffed krof (singular for krofi) about as big as his face (but tucked into my food as well). We had to give up and take dessert to go (plus extra krofi). To be honest, krofi are not quite to my taste, but other family members like them.

Second excitement was finding the AirBnb apartment in the dark (after perusing Maribor). We made it easily to what we thought was the village (Slovenja vas) and started looking for the road - except Every. Single. Street off the main road was named Slovenja vas. A phone call brought our kind hosts to our rescue, who jumped into their car and led us to the right place.

In the light of day, the explanation was clear: Slovenja vas is the equivalent of a housing estate/subdivision, with homes on small numbered roads leading off the one main road. Oh, and also, there was a clear sign at the turn for the apartment.

In the morning, fuelled with a big breakfast, we grabbed many layers of clothing and set out for Pohorje. Our eldest had been enthusiastically touting a "family ski holiday" for months. I, on the other hand, had visions of getting cold and wet in our amateur snow clothing and a broken leg at the end. We managed to beat her down to sledding for a first trip. So, on to the hire shop, where a very nice young man explained the options, rented us a very cheap sled to go with the plastic kiddie sled we had bought our son, and sent us forth.

There has actually been very little snow in Pohorje for two years, but they are maintaining slopes with snow machines. It's pretty weird to look up the mountain and see one long strip of snow punctuating the green. Also weirdly, I was the only one with actual sledding experience, albeit I hadn't been on a sled for 35 years, you know, back when there were real winters in England, and you walked to school in three feet of snow, uphill both ways.

I have to say I did pretty well for a middle-aged lady, and I was even having - gasp - fun. Ted, on the other hand, decided that his shoes weren't up to the slippery slope and just watched all the small children happily wiping out. After a little hesitation, Alcuin got really into it. All was going well until one time I was walking back up the slope, and some lady with a toddler went out of control on the ice generated by the snow machine. She hit me so fast I didn't even know what had happened until I face planted in the packed snow. Ow, that hurt. A lot. Thank goodness, there was plenty of snow and ice on hand to put on my face. And, I even went down the slope again. Shock, I suppose. Strangely, this did not make Ted change his mind and try sledding.

On the way back to the car, we asked Alcuin if sledding was fun. "It was SUPER fun!" he cried.

So, score for Pohorje. Ptuj, in the afternoon, was not such an immediate hit. But it did confirm what we discovered on our last early January outing, namely that everything but main tourist attractions tend to shut down after Christmas. We'd planned a little classical excitement, visiting a temple to Mithras and locating Roman monuments in Ptuj, but the shrine was closed (and enclosed so we couldn't even walk around it), and the monument was covered up for the winter. But the tourist office was open so we went in and asked what we could do. The guide suggested the castle. We'd originally dismissed the idea given our experience of cold, empty, small-town castles, but it turned out that Ptuj is an exception, and that the castle is also the museum, housing some important collections for Slovenia. It was also an easy walk up from town - so much easier than our usual hair-raising drives up tiny, cobbled hills.

Since this was our last-minute option, we didn't do the place justice in the short time we had before it closed, plus it isn't really full of things to keep children interested. At least, not compared to a morning of sledding. (Our retrospective opinion was that we should have gone to the thermal baths for the afternoon and saved the castle for another time, but live and learn.)

Korant

The museum includes a colourful exhibition of carnival costumes, with lots of information about the various Lenten/spring time traditions and parades. Ptuj is famous for its Korants, men dressed up in weird and somewhat scary masks representing demons who chase away the winter and dispense good luck or curses around villages, according to their reception. They certainly scared Alcuin, so maybe my plan to return for carnival time this year is on hold. Other collections include Roman artifacts, the armoury, and a national instrument collection (that we didn't get to but should have), which contains one of the oldest instruments found in Slovenia, a rare Roman flute.

We'd scouted out Maribor on our arrival, but went back with intent on our last morning. Intent specifically being a wine tasting at the Old Vine House, hot on the success of our olive oil tasting. Said house shelters the official world's oldest grape vine (around 400 years), growing against the wall outside. We didn't get to taste that wine, of course - you can only get your hands on a small bottle if you happen to be a visiting pope or president. But we did get to taste several regional wines, guided by a young, enthusiastic, and very well-informed host. We decided we would not be appreciative enough to shell out for a tasting of top wines, so we chose the middle package - four set wines and one of our choice, for under 8 euros a head, which I think is pretty good value. We also learned some interesting wine facts, such as the reason Slovenia mostly makes white wines is simply that it was decided by some powers-that-be that this should be its focus. Also, ice wine is so expensive here because they only make it the "proper" way, letting grapes freeze on the vine (and the right conditions haven't happened for several years), whereas lots of those Canadian ice wines are made by "cheating" and putting the grapes in the freezer.

So there is our whirlwind tour. My nose still hurts a little as I write this, a week and a half later. Sneezing is... interesting. I don't think I broke it, but heck, what do my looks matter anyway at this stage of life?

Touristy stuff: So, again, the moral is that if you want to be a tourist here just after Christmas, stick to the main attractions, winter sports, or a major city break. Thermal baths are another favourite option of mine, and I'm a little sad we didn't make it to the ones near Ptuj. Ah well, another time. Websites are not always clear about whether attractions are closed, but here are a few sites: for Maribor (also covers Pohorje), the Old Vine House, Ptuj, Ptuj castle, and Trojane. Apparently there can be a long wait at the Trojane restaurant if you go at more of a tourist time. This is the site for our Airbnb. It's a holiday apartment rather than a family home. It was spotless, warm, and comfortable, and we would stay there again.
And watch where you're going when climbing a ski slope.

A Virgin experience: The Olive Oil Museum in Pula

Nothing gets us middle-aged folk out of a rut and onto the road like a visit from our adult (grad school) daughter. She had the Olive Oil museum on her to-see list since we spotted it about a year ago on a January visit to Pula (the only month it is closed). It was also scheduled to rain heavily the whole weekend, so an indoor pursuit was perfect.

The museum is pretty close to Pula's famous Roman amphitheatre, and clearly signposted. You can opt for a visit only, or add a regular or "gold" tasting experience at the end (which includes a "surprise" dessert). We chose gold, since it was our only stop for the day and we'd waited a year for this excitement.

The museum isn't large - really just an exhibition hall - but it's packed with information on the history and production of olive oil in the region over the past two thousand years. As far as I could make out, the audio guide isn't much more than the info on the boards, but I soon gave up on it, as usual - am I the only one who can't cope with simultaneously looking at and listening to information? However, the child's one kept the four year-old happy and practising his numbers.

So, onto interesting facts. When the Romans expanded down into the Istrian region, they quickly established olive growing. Did you know that they graded their olive oil? Or that for centuries, oil was separated by the process of pouring hot water on it, so that it would rise to the top and could be skimmed off? The best was from young, green olives and the worst, from damaged fruit, was used for lamps and given to slaves. Although villas were abandoned as the empire collapsed, olive oil kept its value as a local product, as witnessed by the legislation - and legal disputes - that abounded in the middle ages over growing rights. During the Venetian period, the new empire tried to restrict the passage of olive oil, to ensure it kept its share of the profit, so a smuggling route grew up via the Trieste region (which I presume took in Koper, where we live).

Istria is often overlooked as an olive-growing region, but it has been gaining a reputation for its high quality, often organic, oils. This is about the farthest north you can grow olives and it's claimed that makes them better. I'm not an olive expert, but chemical analysis of the health-giving properties (polyphenols) of olives just puts the Istrian varieties on top, with Spain a close second. Sorry, Greece.

After we perused the museum, our host took us into the tasting room. The first round (which is what you get with a basic tasting) consisted of two real extra virgin olive oils, plus a generic plastic bottle from the supermarket. We had a helpful vocabulary list up on a projector, though I don't know how I was supposed to identify artichoke or olive leaves. The first things we noticed about the single blend was that it smelled of grass - apparently that's a good thing. The surprise was swallowing it and getting a burning sensation in the back of the throat - also apparently a good thing.

Then on to the supermarket oil, plus the (non) virgin truth - most of the cheap extra virgin olive oil you buy is in fact just a small amount of the real thing, cut with the chemically-refined worst grade, which is called lampante, from the reference to the oil the Romans deemed only good enough for lamps (and slaves). I'd like to pretend I was instinctively gourmet, but I'm going to confess that if I hadn't just been educated about it, I might have thought the second one tasted like olive oil is 'supposed' to and that the first had something wrong with it. We also (okay, me) felt sort of guilty that only the day before, Ted had come home triumphant from a supermarket trip in Italy with a bargain five-litre plastic bottle of 'extra virgin' olive oil. Well, it's good or cooking.

You'll see from the photos that we got our oil in dishes, but for official tastings they come in little blue glass jars (there's one in front of the tray) so that the colour is masked.

Proceedings were briefly interrupted by Alcuin deciding to get down from the bar stool by just hopping off, and promptly hitting the ground. Luckily not hard enough to produce screams.

For the next round, our host introduced us to a selection of five oils, ranging from "grassy" to "bitter", and including blends and a local oil. Honestly, I could not pick a best. I think my olive-oil tasting muscles need honing.

Rounding it off was a special dessert, which consisted of the local fresh cheese (similar to ricotta), topped with creamed flower honey and a slice of dried fig. And the finishing touch was a few drops of olive oil of our choice. Pretty good.

We left with two bottles of good olive oil (plus a face cream), better educated on all the questions I have never asked on olive oil, and with a couple of new places on our to-visit list after reading all the info about the region -  plus the sun had come out, so I'd call that successful.

Sculpture by Josip Diminić

Touristy stuff. Here's the website for the museum. I had to look elsewhere for the actual hours, and called before we left to make sure. Like most things in Croatia, it's pretty cheap if you are used to UK/US prices - the gold tasting was 130 kunas per adult (about 18 euros/ 15 pounds/ 19 dollars). If you are taking a longer vacation, there are several sights in Pula (see this tourism site), plus some beaches a little away from the town that I have on local authority are nice. It's definitely a place on our standard visitors list.

Quick Lit December 2019

Linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy as usual. After two moves and eighteen months in boxes, our books finally got to see the light of day! Here's a picture of our new fitted bookcase, ably made and installed by our friends, the Kutnar family. (No, those aren't all our books, but yes, we got rid of hundreds before moving abroad.)

T.S. Eliot - Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats
My short top pick for the month. All that controversy over the Cats movie trailer (which I haven't even watched), sent me scurrying to my (new!) bookshelf for the original inspiration for the musical, a short collection of comic poems on distinctive felines by the author who probably gave you headaches in literature class. If you want to add a short classic to your list, or to revise your view of Eliot, these fun, jaunty, and  - yes - musical poems might be just the thing. Even my four year-old enjoyed some of these.

I don't have this edition, but I think I'd like to

Octavia Butler - The Parable of the Sower
The second book I abandoned this year, but because it was so well-written, not because it was so awful. This is a novel set in a world where civilisation is slowly collapsing due to climate change and economic disparity (written in 1993 but set in the 2020s, gulp). While the adults around her seem to be clinging to hopes of returning to the old days, Lauren is quietly plotting a new way forward - spiritually and physically. However, the images of violence were just too disturbing for me. I read far more than I should have before I put it down. Only read if you have a strong stomach.

Jenny Colgan - The Bookshop on the Corner - US/ The Little Shop of Happy Ever After - UK
... But luckily, there was a Jenny Colgan novel sitting on my Kindle to get happier images into my head. Nina's job as a librarian is facing the axe, but she steps out of her comfort zone to chase her dream of running a bookshop. Unlike her dream, the bookshop turns out to be mobile, and her turf the Scottish highlands. And, of course, she finds an unexpected community -  and romance. Maybe it was just the contrast to my previous read, but I thought this was my favourite Jenny Colgan thus far. (P.S. I have no idea why the US title is so different, and misleading!)

Henrik Ibsen - An Enemy of the People [audio play from LA Theatre Works, full cast recording]
I needed something to help me get through sorting paperwork - this play is surprisingly topical: when a doctor wants to tell the truth about the contaminated water in his spa town, he finds himself the enemy of family and friends whose livelihood is threatened.

Daphne Du Maurier - The Du Mauriers
Daphne Du Maurier novelises her family history, focusing on the period when her English and French ancestors came together. Not in the same vein as her more famous works, but very engaging. If she is already a favourite author, you will probably enjoy learning more about her roots.

Anne Bogel - Reading People
Much as I love Modern Mrs Darcy, I gave this a miss when it first came out, since I wasn't that interested in the topic. However, the Kindle book was going so cheap, I gave it a go, and was surprised to find that I really enjoyed it. It's often touted as an introduction to personality frameworks, but I would say it is also a great read for those who don't want to go further, but also don't want to look ignorant the next time someone mentions Myers-Briggs or the Enneagram.

Wishing you and yours a Merry Christmas, or whatever you celebrate in December, and a wonderful reading year ahead!

Quick Lit: November 2019

Linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy as usual for quick book reviews. At last, a book to get me out of my reading slump! In fact, October picked up in general.

John Fowles - The French Lieutenant's Woman
Like other readers before me, I thought I was picking up a historical romance, fuelled by the iconic image of the woman (Meryl Streep) standing, windswept by the sea in the film version (which I haven't seen).

Yes... and no, no, no. Written in 1969, this is on one level a Victorian, very Hardy-esque (deliberately, given that it's set in Dorset), emotional novel about a gentleman who considers himself modern, yet finds his life upended and his mores challenged when he becomes infatuated with an 'outcast' woman, while engaged to an icon of young, pure Victorian womanhood. At the same time, the novel has an omniscient narrator ever ready to remind us that he is only pretending to be a Victorian author, and who steps in to analyse both the Victorian age and the conventions of Victorian novels. The technical term for this is, I understand, metafiction (a novel aware of its own fictional status). At this point, you are probably scrabbling for your TBR list, or scrolling down the page. I loved it. Definitely one of the best novels I have read this year.

Nancy Warren - The Vampire Knitting Club
It was free, so, with a title like that, how could I resist? It also has a bonus kitten (I mean, not literally, though my family would appreciate that). It was professionally written and engaging, but, and I say this without irony, it lacked soul. I might, however, read another in the series if I didn't have to pay for it.

Sue Monk Kidd - The Invention of Wings
I get to feel a little smug here, because I actually knew about Sarah Grimke, the American abolitionist and women's rights campaigner whose story is fictionalized in this novel. Sarah's progress from plantation owner's daughter to abolitionist is told in tandem with that of Handful Grimke, based very loosely on the slave girl Sarah was given for her eleventh birthday. Kidd does a worthy job of  bringing to life Southern women whose stories deserve telling - slaves and the free women who risked both social standing and their personal safety to confront the status quo. Personally, I thought this novel was more mature than The Secret Life of Bees.

Dorothy L. Sayers - Clouds of Witness and Unnatural Death
I wasn't overly taken with the first Lord Peter Wimsey novel, Whose Body?, but I returned to the series, and really got into the second one, maybe because the cast was now familiar. After that, I went straight on and read the third. Sayers' gentleman sleuth solves two rather different mysteries in these novels. In the first, his brother is accused of shooting his sister's fiance; in the second, a chance meeting with a young doctor leads to his attempt to uncover the 'perfect' crime. (Sensitive readers be warned, Unnatural Death uses the N-word several times.)

Wishing American readers a Happy Thanksgiving (that's the American holiday I loved best when I lived there), and happy reading to all.

Lipica: All the pretty horses

Posting has been sporadic, because the bulk of our 'adventures' this year have been in the realm of buying/selling/renovating houses, and when I've had the odd day out, I wanted to just enjoy time off rather than be in potential blog post mode (that requires me to think about photos, which I'm not good at). But - we got our first guests - my parents! The predicted week of rain happily (mostly) dissipated, and we discovered that "everything shuts for the holidays" actually doesn't include major tourist attractions, which meant we could peg Reformation Day (October 31) to finally visit the Lipica stud farm, which I've been intending to do since we first lived here 11 years ago.

This is a terrible photo of me, but the horse's expression says it all.

Our first excitement was blithely following the satnav, which decided the quickest route involved a dog leg through a corner of Italy. Since not everyone in the car had documents with them, we held our breath that we didn't get stopped at the border. This is called living on the edge (of the country).

A short, police-free, while later, we reached the beginning of picture-perfect pastures: thick green grass, shade trees, white fences - and, tantalisingly further from the road, a few white horses. Yes, several of the adults among us were pretty excited. A free guided tour was about to start when we entered the farm proper. I hadn't planned for us to take one, but we are glad we did. We shared the English-language tour with only one other British couple, and our guide, Katya, was clear, informative, and obviously deeply committed to her work at the farm. I soon learned all sorts of horsey things I had never bothered to think about, such as that dressage originated as a way of training horses to be extremely responsive to their riders in order to aid them in battle (I just thought it was dancing with horses). So, without trying to bore you, here is some of my newly-acquired wisdom.

First, a potted history - the website has tons more fascinating information, these are just my random favourite bits. Lipica is the oldest continually operating stud farm in Europe, dating from the 16th century. The area used to be the summer residence of the Archbishop of Trieste, and was named after the linden tree (sometimes called a lime tree) growing in his courtyard, so Lipizzaner horses are, I suppose, something like "linden horses". (There used to be a road leading out of the residence straight to Trieste. Very convenient for His Grace.) The farm was established by the Hapsburgs, Archduke Charles to be exact, in the 1580s. Lipizzaner horses were originally bred by crossing the tough native horses with Spanish horses. Four of the breeding lines of today's horses are descended from those established in the 18th century by the husband of the Empress Maria Theresa. (The more famous riding school in Vienna now has its own stud farm, but its horses are descended from here in Slovenia.)

The stud farm and herd have endured some harsh times, fleeing for safety during the Napoleonic wars, evacuated by train during World War I, kidnapped by Germans in World War II, and saved in a military operation by General Patton in 1945. It survived the ups and downs of post-war eastern Europe by the skin of its teeth until, in 1996, it became a public institution of the Republic of Slovenia. The whole area is now a region of special protection. Sounds like the stuff of movies - and apparently there is one, produced by Disney way back in 1963: Miracle of the White Stallions.

But back to the horses. First, did you know that white horses aren't born white? I mean, all you horsey people probably did (and yes, I know they aren't technically white, but bear with me, it's easier). They get paler with age  - a few stay dark. Whatever their colour, it sounds like they have a fun life here. The foals get to spend six months playing out in the extensive pastures with their mothers, then they are separated for training, the most important part of which, I gather, is bonding the horses to humans.

We got to visit the stables, where the horses have their pedigrees and names on display at their stalls. Brothers and sisters were stabled side-by-side. Horses arriving back from exercise greeted their friends, and were greeted back. ("They all know each other," our guide said.) Even if we hadn't seen the affection between the horses and our guide, you could tell how well loved they were by how friendly they were to we strangers. Even Alcuin petted them, and he's usually a little nervous around horses, being as they are about fifty times bigger than he is.

From there, we went to the older part of the farm, where, after giving us a final dose of history (see above), our guide left us in the original stables to explore the environs. From there we visited the chapel of Saint Anthony, and the museum, where we got as close to horse riding as we dared. And the shop, where my mother got a cup to pair with her one from the Spanish riding school in Vienna. There were a few other sights around the farm that we didn't get to see  - it was getting colder, and we wanted a good seat (and some shelter) at the arena for the show.

The show was themed, "The Story of Lipica", and began with horses running riderless around the ring to symbolise the beginnings of their relationship with humans, then went on to illustrate the bonds that have grown between them with training, dressage, and carriage riding. I think those horses can dance better than I can.

Afterwards, I asked Alcuin which bit of the show he liked the best. "The horses," he said. Fair enough.

We exited the arena to find the main thoroughfare cordoned off - we were right on time to see the mares and foals galloping back from their pastures to the stable. I positioned the camera and took photos without looking through the lens, because it was too good to miss in person. Just beautiful. A perfect end to the visit.

But man, once the sun went down, it got cold fast. Time to get back to balmy Koper. And we were very glad of a wonderful day out, because we got home to all sorts of traumas involving the scaffolding on and by our house (maybe that's another post!).

Touristy stuff: The Lipica website is pretty comprehensive (not always the case with Slovenian sites, I've found). At first glance, it looks a little pricey compared to other attractions in the region - 22 euros per adult in the high season, just under 20 in the winter, but that includes a free tour, access to all the grounds, and a 30-minute show (plus your car park fee back). I'd recommend taking the guided tour, and picking a day with a show if possible because it's only a few euros extra than the tour-only price (there is also an in-between option that lets you see a training session). Out of season is cheaper (but with fewer show days available) - wrap up warm against that karst wind! We did not pay extra for a carriage ride or horse riding lessons, though our guide pushed the carriage ride option. There is also a cave nearby, Vilenica, but we didn't get to include that in this visit - however, I'm sure we'll be back with more guests.

Quick Lit: October 2019

Linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy as usual. Both August and September's reading total turned out to be modest. We are still dealing with having moved into a new house (five days before a trip to the UK!), plus back-to-school stuff which includes the inevitable first sickness going round the family. Add to that a slow read, and the fact that I just haven't found an audiobook to tempt me lately. But, at least this segues nicely into my feature for the month, in praise of the palate cleanser...

H.Y. Hanna - Deadhead and Buried (The English Cottage Garden mysteries, Book 1)
I don't know who coined the term "palate cleanser" for a choice of book, but I first came across it on Modern Mrs Darcy. After The Physician (see below), that was what I needed, so I snapped up this mystery from a favourite easy-reading author when it was on sale. You know the plot already: young woman dissatisfied with life gets an unexpected legacy (bonus, it's near Oxford, literary murder capital of the world) - but oops, there's a body...

I've got more literature degrees to my name than I need, and I love intellectually challenging books. But even nerds need a break, or something to wash down a less pleasant reading experience, and I don't think we should be snobbish about writers who dedicate themselves to filling that light-reading gap. Hsin-Yi Hanna may not be a high-brow author, but there is plenty I admire about her. Like many of us, reality made her shelve her early dreams of being a full-time writer, but, later in life, armed with experience and a new publishing scene, she embarked on a career writing cosy mysteries as an independent author, even learning cover design. Her work is professionally edited (which is more than I can say for e-versions of a lot of small press novels), and she works hard to build a community with her readers, using that relationship to make it to the USA Today bestseller list. I like her Oxford Tearoom series best - the other two (this and a paranormal cosy series) each have a comic character that annoys me.

There's too much doom and gloom in the world. Let's own those happy, tea- or coffee-time novels and thank the people who offer us a book we can read in a weekend, and make us smile.

Noah Gordon - The Physician
This is a saga set in the early medieval period, that sweeps you from the streets of London to the palaces of Persia as young Rob Cole risks everything to follow his calling as a physician. This is apparently a worldwide bestseller, but not for me. I like long books. I like slow books. But this was a looong, slow book (over 750 pages), with a lot of time devoted to painstaking descriptions that would have been highlighted by my critique group with comments such as, 'This is a novel, not a history textbook'. However, by the time I was seriously tiring of it, I was three quarters of the way through, and it seemed a waste to give up. But if you do love it, it's part of a trilogy.

Hiro Arikawa - The Travelling Cat Chronicles
It's always a good day when you find something on your TBR in a charity shop. In this bestselling Japanese novel, Satoru takes his beloved cat, Nana, on a roadtrip to visit old friends, one of whom he hopes will offer the cat a new home - of course, you can guess why. Sad and heartwarming at the same time, told from the cat's point of view.

I noticed in retrospect that all three of my novels for the month featured a pet cat. Maybe there was a message in the month after all...

I wore this sweatshirt until it fell apart

Hope you are fitting in some good reading around whatever life is sending your way this autumn!

Moreton: Resting place of Lawrence of Arabia

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!)