QuickLit March 2021

 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 :)

Corfe Castle, 1950s. Credit: https://www.dorsetecho.co.uk/news/features/lookingback/18850300.pictures-dorset-1940s-1950s/

Eric Benfield - Dorset

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.

QuickLit February 2021

 Linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy as usual for quick book reviews. 

Well, having declared that my 2021 goal was to read fewer books, more mindfully, I clocked up a record seven for January. In my defense, one was begun in December, and one was a beta novel that I read during working hours (I loved it, I wish I could reveal all!). Here's the five that count as January's leisure reading:

Barbara Pym - No Fond Return of Love

I deliberately saved this to get the new year off to a happy reading start, because I am addicted to Pym's mid-twentieth century comedies of manners. Jilted Dulcie throws herself into matchmaking between her new friend, Viola, and the self-centred academic Aylwin, who is also arrogant enough to think he can enchant Dulcie's young niece. Amid the comedy of genteel stalking and the foibles of academia is a wry look at the attitudes emerging career women faced in the 1950s (and some fun internal references to Pym's other novels).

Charlotte and Mr Collins. Credit: https://thelongvictorian.com/2016/04/09/the-11-worst-couples-in-literature/

Molly Greely - The Clergyman's Wife

I'm not big on literary spinoffs, but I was intrigued by the idea of imagining how the Pride and Prejudice marriage of Charlotte and Mr Collins panned out. Charlotte has accepted the marriage of convenience that so disappointed her friend Elizabeth - until she meets a man who seems to be her soulmate. A sensitive, lyrical contemplation of the choices Regency women faced made this an unexpected companion novel to No Fond Return of Love.

Joan Lindsay - Picnic at Hanging Rock

Vaguely remembering the disturbing tone of the film version of this book from many years ago, I gave myself prior permission to put it down anytime it began to scare me - but I managed to get through it. On Valentine's day 1900, a group of schoolgirls and their teachers visit Hanging Rock in Victoria, Australia. Several of them vanish, never to return, and the story traces the ripple effect through the community. Hovering in the background is the sense of an ancient, aboriginal force that the 'civilised' British community is unable to suppress. Note: if you must have resolution, you will not like this novel.

The 1975 film. Credit: https://benefitsofaclassicaleducation.wordpress.com/2017/10/31/shocktober-review-picnic-at-hanging-rock-1975/

Dorothy L. Sayers - Murder Must Advertise and Have His Carcass

Two Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries in a row! In the first, Lord Peter goes undercover at an advertising agency to investigate the suspicious falling death of an employee. Sayers herself worked in advertising at one point, so a bonus is the insider's-view satire of the industry, that still has surprising resonance today.

Have His Carcass is the second Harriet Vane mystery. On a walking holiday, Harriet discovers a corpse on the beach with his throat cut. Is it suicide, as the police assume, the work of Bolsheviks, as his much-older fiancée insists, or something else altogether? I had already seen the TV version of this novel, but it still had me hooked.

The cold weather seems to be gripping both sides of the Atlantic, so I hope you are cosying up with some good books this month!

A P.S. After embarking on the fourth back-to-back reading of Bunnicula to my five year-old, I hopped on line and ordered the complete series. I hope this will keep him satiated for a bit.

QuickLit January 2021: Reading round up for 2020

 First link up of the year with Modern Mrs Darcy. I thought I'd share reading stats and my starred reads for last year, since I enjoy others' round ups as well. (Reviews edited from my original posts.)

It doesn't look like all those Pinterest photos, but I had a stab at a book tree this year!

I read 54 books in 2020, for a total of 17, 597 pages, deliberately fewer than in 2019. By the end of the year, I felt that I was beginning to make reading a competition with myself, and I decided to slow down. So my goal for 2021 is even fewer books, read with more attention.

Of those, 46 were fiction and 8 non-fiction. I think that is a by-product of my job dealing with copy-editing non-fiction, because when I first gave up my job teaching literature, I was desperate to catch up with non-fiction. 32 were e-books (since I don't have access to many books in English here in Koper) and sixteen were print, mostly bought second hand on trips to the UK. Only six were audio books. I pivoted to podcasts over audiobooks at some point, but I'll try to get in a few more next year. 

I rarely buy new books unless I know the author personally, because I prefer reads that have stood the test of time. (I know I should do better in supporting authors.) So, it's not surprising to me that two of my favourites were new publications (and non-fiction) that I couldn't resist: Square Haunting and The Salt Path. 

The women of Bloomsbury. Credit: NYT

Square Haunting: Five Women, Freedom, and London Between the Wars is a non-fiction debut by Francesca Wade.  In five linked biographies, she explores the time spent in the same Bloomsbury square by five notable British women: novelists Virginia Woolf and Dorothy L. Sayers, academics Jane Harrison (with Hope Mirrlees) and Eileen Powers, and modernist poet H.D. I especially recommend it for young adult girls, who should know about these women who paved the way for us, who dared to live, work and love outside the bounds of society's dictates, not afraid to re-imagine their lives, even, as with Harrison, when in their 70s.

I only reviewed The Salt Path by Raynor Winn last month, but here's the shortened version: In mid-life, Winn and her husband, Moth, lose everything, and in the same week, Moth receives a diagnosis of a fatal degenerative disease. With no home, little money, and nowhere to go, they decide to walk the 600-mile South West coast path of Britain, wild camping on the way. Beautiful nature writing, and some sobering insights into homelessness.

Raynor and Moth. Credit: Guardian

My three starred fiction books also unsurprisingly included two classic authors, Dorothy L. Sayers and Daphne Du Maurier, and one not-quite-new novel by Madeline Miller.

The Nine Tailors, a Lord Peter Wimsey novel by Sayers is quite simply, a truly grown-up detective novel. It's the best Wimsey one I have read, though I hear lots of people vote for Gaudy Night on that count. After crashing their car on a treacherous New Year's Eve in the Fens, Lord Peter Wimsey and Bunter are taken in by the local vicar, and Lord Peter helps the bellringers ring in the new year. But when a strange and mutilated body is later discovered buried in another's grave, the vicar calls him back to investigate. Hearing the local cathedral bells has now taken on a whole new meaning...

Du Maurier. Credit: Guardian/Hans Wild

The Parasites is a lesser-known Du Maurier novel, but I think it's one of her most accomplished. The Delany children - step siblings Maria and Niall, linked by Celia, half-sister to each - are the children of famous artistes. When Maria's husband bitterly announces one afternoon that they are nothing but parasites, they delve into their past to put themselves on trial. To call it a psychological drama might sound boring, yet it is anything but. Even the narrative voices are parasitic, feeding off one another and merging in and out of one unidentifiable 'we'. Absolutely read it if you have enjoyed her other books.

I loved Miller's retelling of the Achilles and Patroclus story in The Song of Achilles. It was right up my alley: classical, with spare but lyrical prose, and sensual (but not explicit). The story of the greatest Greek warrior unfolds through the eyes of Patroclus, an unloved, exiled child prince who becomes first Achilles' companion and then lover. Beautiful final chapters that I kept returning to.

What were your favourite reads of 2020? How do you track your reading? Here's a few other MMD reader round-ups for your inspiration:

Anne Bogel at Modern Mrs Darcy on her favourite books and audiobooks.

Linda Stoll at LindaStoll.net

Kendra Nicolle at Kendra Nicolle: My World in Reviews

Laura Thomas at Laura Thomas Author

Lisa at Lisa Notes 

Katie Gilley at The Cozy Burrow

  

Quick Lit December 2020

 

Linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy for QuickLit as usual. I rarely read memoirs, and this month I squeezed in two. Retrospectively, I'm not sure it was a great idea because I was feeling emotionally sensitive during a second lockdown, and real-life pain is much worse than fictional pain. But both were worth reading.

Helen Oyeyemi - Gingerbread

The best way to describe this quirky novel is that it's a Brothers Grimm story in a modern setting. Going back and forth in time, it tells the story of how the Lee family women, makers of seemingly magical gingerbread, came to the UK from Druhastrana, a country most claim does not exist, and for Harriet Lee's quest to reunite with her childhood, changeling friend Gretel. Weird, but I enjoyed it.

Raynor Winn - The Salt Path

This was a memoir I simultaneously felt drawn to read and dreaded reading, because I knew it was going to be harrowing. In mid-life, Winn and her husband, Moth, lose everything, and in the same week, Moth receives a diagnosis of a fatal degenerative disease. With no home, little money, and nowhere to go, they decide to walk the 600-mile South West coast path of Britain, wild camping on the way. I picked it up for the Dorset connection and nature writing, but ended up learning a lot about homelessness. Although the ending was positive, it still left me drained and disturbed - but in a way that a deep book does. Highly recommended - one of my top books of 2020.

Raynor and Moth. Credit: Guardian.co.uk

P.G. Wodehouse - A Pelican at Blandings

I had to read something lighthearted after The Salt Path, and knew this wouldn't have any hidden surprises. Poor Lord Emsworth just wants to be left in peace with his prize pig, the Empress of Blandings, but he is plagued by the arrival of his overbearing sister Connie, star-crossed lovers, and wrangling over a nude painting. Enter his unflappable brother Galahad, as usual, to sort all out and make every ending happy.

Lawrence's lyrical chapter on the joy of riding his motorcycle reads painfully ironically

T.E. Lawrence - The Mint

In 1922, worn out by fame and broken by PTSD (which of course was not recognised back then), Lawrence, aka, Lawrence of Arabia, took an assumed name, and managed to enlist as a common airman in the RAF, hoping to be erased and made anew. This is his memoir of that experience (published after his early, accidental death) - raw, concise, painful and quite a departure from the sprawling, genre-defying Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Part of the fascination of this book is that Lawrence could never have got away with it in our digital age. Language warning - you probably did not know that people swore like this in the 1920s!

If you want to read more about Lawrence, check out my account of visiting his grave in Dorset. Oh, and one of the characters in my novel, A Dorset Summer, is inspired by him. Considering that I am not interested in either politics or the military, my obsession is a little odd :)

Hoping that Father Christmas brings you all you wish to read!

The Three Good Old Men: Slovenian Christmas

 Slovenian children are particularly lucky in the Christmas period, because they get visits from not one but three "good old men" bearing gifts. Of course, books could be, and are, devoted to each, but here's my summary, with my favourite facts. (I wrote a quick Grandfather Frost blog last year, but didn't have time for more. I guess 2020 cleared my calendar.) The usual festivities will be quieter this year, but the three good old men will not be abandoning children in Slovenia - or anywhere in the world.

Is this a rap battle for supremacy? (Credit: dnevnik.si)

December 6: Saint Nicholas Day

One of my favourite days in Advent, celebrating one of the most-beloved saints. The original Saint Nicholas was a third/fourth-century bishop of Myra. Legend says he came into the bishopric very early, hence the tradition of selecting a boy bishop in some places on this day. His main association with gifts comes from the legend that he secretly saved three poor sisters from being forced into prostitution (the cleaner versions say he helped them get husbands) by secretly dropping coins into their stockings hung up to air at night, to provide them with dowries. For this, he is the patron saint of prostitutes. He also reputedly came to literal blows with Arian at the Council of Nicea over the latter's heresy - not quite the jolly old elf of modern times. 

In Slovenia, he is known as Miklavž and appears in his bishop's robes. In parades around the country, he is often followed by angels who help to give out gifts - and by devils ready to scare the bad children. Back at home, Slovenian children follow the tradition of leaving out a shoe, or maybe a stocking, for the saint. In return they get small gifts of chocolate and dried fruits. I can only imagine the reaction of most American and British children on getting dried fruit for Christmas. Actually, no, I can really imagine it, which is why our remaining little one gets chocolate and a mini panettone. We picked up this tradition before coming to Slovenia as part of our Advent observance, and it's a lovely precursor to Christmas.

Ok, this is from our trip to Zagreb, but it's a favourite memory - this St Nicholas was roaming the streets spreading good cheer and gifts. I won't forget his kindness towards the mentally disabled young adult behind him

Last year, I took Alcuin down to the old salt warehouse in Koper to greet the saint, but it turned out that there was such a long programme prior to his arrival that we had to give up, as it was beyond a small child's patience. This year, we are still in a strict lockdown and it was bucketing with rain most of the day, but he was happy tucked up at home with the above, plus a bonus Christmas book.

December 25: Father Christmas/ Santa Claus

A relatively later comer, the gift-giver of the Anglo world has managed to sandwich himself between two more traditional figures on the calendar. According to friends, celebrating December 25th, and Saint Nicholas' Day for that matter, were not encouraged during the Tito regime. For this reason, while Saint Nicholas has been welcomed back to this culturally Catholic country,  the more protestant, and commercial, Father Christmas/ Santa Claus tradition has not gained the traction it has elsewhere. I recall that the first time we lived here, nearly twelve years ago, there wasn't a hint of Christmas stuff in the shops until we were into December. Not quite the case now, but still not a frantic period. The 25th is a religious holiday, and the 26th is Independence and Unity Day, less family days than public holidays. Here in Koper, you'll find people thronging the streets and cafes, or skating on the winter rink. Father Christmas is known as Božiček here (božič is the word for Christmas). He is still the main gift-giver in our family, of course.

December 31: Grandfather Frost

The origins of this ancient figure of winter are many and tangled, but he was promoted during the times of communism as an alternative to the Christian saints. His names include Father Frost, Grandfather Winter, and Grandfather Snow. In Slovenia, he is known as Dedek Mraz (Grandfather Frost). He is associated with slavic pagan figures, and his identity has morphed and merged over time. He is alternatively, and simultaneously, Morozko, a Russian spirit or wizard of winter, a hero or smith who chains water with his iron frosts, a being who kidnaps children for ransom, as happy to freeze bad children to death as to reward good ones. At one point recharacterized as demonic by the Orthodox Church, he was eventually adopted as a propaganda figure by the old Soviet empire, by which path he made it to Slovenia. However, by the time the Yugoslavs decided to abolish Christmas, they had also split from the Soviets, so Father Frost had to be Slovenised.

Leaner than fat old Santa and tougher than heretic-punching Saint Nicholas, here Dedek Mraz appears in a leather coat and a hat made from dormouse fur. He is said to live under Mt Triglav, the country's highest mountain, from whence he emerges at the end of the year to bestow presents from a traditional Slovenian woven basket. In the capital of Ljubljana, he rides through the streets in the last days of December, in a carriage drawn by Lipizzaner horses.

In saner times, we have enjoyed attending the little Dedek Mraz celebration the University puts on for children earlier in December, but that of course has not happened this year. I don't know if Father Frost will visit us, as I always give a final gift on the last day of Christmas anyway (Epiphany, January 6).

A nice summary from the Slovenian perspective can be found at Total Slovenian News, where you can also find an account summary of how Dedek Mraz came to be. Merry Christmas! Vesel Božič!

St Aldhelm's Chapel: A Clifftop Mystery

Photo credit: https://www.dorsets.co.uk/photos/st-aldhelms-head-chapel.htm

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...

Credit: http://www.warehamartclub.org.uk/gallery-2/robert-mcleish/st-aldhelms-chapel-winter

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.

The excellent Dorset Rambler article on the chapel: https://thedorsetrambler.com/2017/06/06/st-aldhelms-chapel-or-is-it/

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/

Here's another, longer one beginning at Worth Matravers. They suggest refreshments at the Worth Matravers tea room. Don't start with tea there - trust me, you might not get any further! https://www.dorsetlife.co.uk/2015/06/the-dorset-walk-st-aldhelms-head-and-winspit/

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.

Quick Lit November 2020

 Linking up with Modern Mrs Darcy as usual for QuickLit. On reflection, it was a mixed bag for last month's reading - one classic, one so-so, and ending with some escapism as we went into a second lockdown. But here are the quick reviews:

P.G. Wodehouse - Pigs have Wings [audiobook]

How did I, with multiple degrees in English literature, escape reading P.G. Wodehouse this far in life? To be honest, because I harbour a suspicion of novels that are deliberately trying to be funny, and rarely try one. How wrong I was. With the impeccable upper class accent of the narrator, Jeremy Sinden, I was giggling from the beginning. Pig napping and star-crossed lovers are all adroitly managed by Lord Emsworth's incorrigible brother, Galahad. I have another Blandings Castle novel already in my TBR pile.

Donna Fletcher Crow -  Glastonbury: A Novel of Christian England

I wavered over whether to post a review of this because in some ways I don't feel qualified. To cut to the chase, it turned out that this novel is from Crow's pre-Anglican days, when she wrote for the Evangelical Christian fiction market - not my cup of tea at all. It was inspired by Edward Rutherford's Sarum: The Novel of England, an equally fat novel (actually, series of linked novellas),which I loved. As it says, Glastonbury tells the story of English Christianity from the time of Christ (following the legend that Joseph of Arimathea came to England with the Grail) to the dissolution of the monasteries in the reign of Henry VIII. I liked the overall premise and the basis for each novella, and so I persevered through 1000-plus pages because I had been promising myself I would read this when I got a new Kindle, and also because the parts that I enjoyed, I really enjoyed. However, I confess to skipping chunks of the evangelical stuff.

Nancy Warren - The Vampire Knitting Club Books 1-3

I was seduced by Bookbub again into buying this collection on the cheap, to re-read the first and devour the others for a Halloween treat. Well-written escapism. American-raised Lucy has inherited her grandmother's Oxford knitting shop, although she can't knit to save her life. But it is soon apparent that her grandmother not only didn't die of natural causes, but is not technically dead. Oh, and she happened to be a witch who hosts a knitting club for her vampire friends, who are happy to break the boredom of eternal life by helping Lucy solve the murders and mysteries that fall her way as she herself takes up the family witches mantle.

Hope books are keeping you sane in these strange times! Going out on the BBC adaptation of the Blandings novels.