tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102215576328492022024-03-13T19:20:46.765+00:00A fool on a hillMostly, but not only, book reviews...Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.comBlogger181125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-51044932447228683152023-04-30T14:41:00.001+01:002023-04-30T14:41:30.995+01:00A Killing in November, by Simon Mason<p> Back to books, with this detective story set in Oxford. I thought to start off with it was going to be relatively gentle, I suppose because of the Oxford college setting - but gentle it certainly is not.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkn8jf1bzm10meY7m2XC0q_tXISD53rWCKG9DHd5w9osPSE1cDYX5iui9Af__2a2Muqs_apFPnc99e8en3WhzZFeNA5FDQDVKAp09JmZP-E4_e3eqR2RN_0rq0Di1rfTl_RBS1paFc41KG2sE6g2YI4fL61U3Bh_Moxr6t2UU_YcDQa44MuNvvgKmZ/s500/S%20Mason.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="326" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkn8jf1bzm10meY7m2XC0q_tXISD53rWCKG9DHd5w9osPSE1cDYX5iui9Af__2a2Muqs_apFPnc99e8en3WhzZFeNA5FDQDVKAp09JmZP-E4_e3eqR2RN_0rq0Di1rfTl_RBS1paFc41KG2sE6g2YI4fL61U3Bh_Moxr6t2UU_YcDQa44MuNvvgKmZ/s320/S%20Mason.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>The 'hero' is Detective Inspector Ryan Wilkins, who has to be one of the most unusual police officers in fiction. He's skinny and foul-mouthed, always wears loud tracksuits, and has a very severe anger management problem.</p><p>But - he is clever, he's intensely observant, he's direct to a fault - and he is a wonderful father to his small son, also called Ryan. This little boy is perhaps a bit more articulate than most two and a half year olds, but he's also an absolute sweetie, and the conversations the two of them have are almost heart breakingly tender.</p><p>Ryan has come back to Oxford, where he was born and not-exactly brought up, after an unfortunate incident involving a bishop in his previous post. His new partner is DI Ray Wilkins, who is as different from Ryan as he could possibly be: elegant, black, from a privileged background, charming and successful. They don't get on at all at first, but their relationship develops: each has the other's back. But this is not enough to save Ryan from the consequences of his rage - which, in turn, is clearly a result of his horrendously violent childhood - even though he is actually extremely good at his job.</p><p>There's lots more to the book than this. I was absolutely gripped; I so wanted Ryan to triumph - as, in some ways, he did.</p><p>I'm indebted to Adele Geras, who recommended it on Twitter. The only problem is - there's only one more book published so far in the series... Oh well - off to read it now.</p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-81585021904311062432023-04-24T07:00:00.001+01:002023-04-24T07:00:00.168+01:00Cawdor Castle<p> In the early summer of 2022, we were staying in the Cairngorm National Park. It was our first time in the north-west of Scotland, and we were wowed by the ancient Caledonian Forest, the gaunt hills, the sparkling rivers, and the variety of wildlife. However, on a day that was forecast to be wet and windy (in fact it was the latter but not the former), we decided to find somewhere that would offer shelter if necessary. So we went to Cawdor Castle.</p><p>All we knew about the place was that Macbeth, at the beginning of Shakespeare's play, was told by the witches that he would become Thane of Cawdor - and thereafter, of course, King of Scotland. So we were expecting somewhere dark and forbidding, probably half-ruined, and naturally haunted by ravens croaking in a doom-laden sort of way.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMz3iqjildiMoIU-EmQBug59_v7FGrmcsh0srlOAKljaTql-Dkfiz5XSHalalgPNFXTF8VlhzuD4SBj6MCq7reY8tY-s-cOTFAeVUNZWJuCBs2FuHZarCVFS5rEfp3jyoKxwDyT6WdFIjomRH2-0OGyRTHhSk0yY0NRktZMhQv2VyJxIFmGdWT4BWvxw/s640/Castle%20and%20garden.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMz3iqjildiMoIU-EmQBug59_v7FGrmcsh0srlOAKljaTql-Dkfiz5XSHalalgPNFXTF8VlhzuD4SBj6MCq7reY8tY-s-cOTFAeVUNZWJuCBs2FuHZarCVFS5rEfp3jyoKxwDyT6WdFIjomRH2-0OGyRTHhSk0yY0NRktZMhQv2VyJxIFmGdWT4BWvxw/w400-h300/Castle%20and%20garden.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>But the castle turned out to be none of those things. Built of grey stone, with a turreted square tower at its centre, the house is softened by the lawns, gardens and woodland that surround it. Inside, it has the feel of a comfortable home, in which you can imagine a family living happily - though reminders of a dark and bloody past do emerge. And in fact, we were told that the Dowager Countess, who manages the house, does live there in the winter, and even sleeps in the centuries-old scarlet four-poster. "Sooner her than me," commented the volunteer who told us this with a shudder. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlfo-Pku8tTuTvnuKwukFhE-rq0jS_hTpc0VWrqPgR9H-6ZVLwMMRLh8VI_LQQsGgTdq0rYzkD2dyFC7aBFCXW7JQw3ShZLNRUZ9KTzBQ0Bikrqqbt02dLdhWA28LBjZ-uDHRx49Qt_DiQee-X1jKFjPqo7lcst2JK7IZGIGLPmxgq1yvaddOOiWgW_g/s640/Sitting%20room.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlfo-Pku8tTuTvnuKwukFhE-rq0jS_hTpc0VWrqPgR9H-6ZVLwMMRLh8VI_LQQsGgTdq0rYzkD2dyFC7aBFCXW7JQw3ShZLNRUZ9KTzBQ0Bikrqqbt02dLdhWA28LBjZ-uDHRx49Qt_DiQee-X1jKFjPqo7lcst2JK7IZGIGLPmxgq1yvaddOOiWgW_g/w300-h400/Sitting%20room.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>You enter through the drawing room, which is warm and colourful, with comfortable looking chairs and sofas and lots of lamps. There are also lots of portraits, which of course you don't tend to find in the average family home. In an alcove on a staircase there is a bold piece of wall-art, which at a second glance you see is a fan-shaped arrangement of nineteen rifles. (Why only nineteen? What happened to the twentieth?) I imagine these are a consequence of the aristocracy's strange desire to kill great quantities of wildlife, rather than earlier generations' propensity for killing their enemies, or sometimes their relations. But I could well be wrong...</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE00KWOrVlxkCALEE2GstmXMvrlaXm2dR6QhTHnxcRnDIt8i-dsY4hig9cLiZkebmZGc2yTeoC6pavQjlY6wL6uGiJFyaQIRSGokIOVA5hmxUfd9ZIADqOqy_rD6VAHrs3sZN8GgMzFv3ms5ZyzIc5NNr2mR_RWQZY1MJGgN2DMBth86nI1sIcARSMpQ/s640/Four%20poster.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE00KWOrVlxkCALEE2GstmXMvrlaXm2dR6QhTHnxcRnDIt8i-dsY4hig9cLiZkebmZGc2yTeoC6pavQjlY6wL6uGiJFyaQIRSGokIOVA5hmxUfd9ZIADqOqy_rD6VAHrs3sZN8GgMzFv3ms5ZyzIc5NNr2mR_RWQZY1MJGgN2DMBth86nI1sIcARSMpQ/s320/Four%20poster.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>The house is filled not only with interesting objects which generations of Campbells have collected on their travels - pictures, ornaments, sculptures, porcelain - but also with family photographs and some very lovely modern art. The tower is the oldest part of the castle, and was built with a view to defending the castle against enemies and marauders; but now, the top floor is a relatively small, very pleasant living room.</p><p>But go down the narrow winding staircase, and you will find this reminder of the building's long history. The castle was founded round about the end of the fourteenth century. Tradition has it that the site was chosen - bizarrely - by a donkey, which was set free and allowed to wander where it would. In the place where it stopped, there the castle would be built. And so it was.</p><p>I suppose it's just possible that this may not be entirely true - but what is certainly true is that the tower was built around a tree. The evidence is in the picture below - the tree is still there. It was said to be a hawthorn, but when samples were analysed recently, it was found to be a holly. This seems to make more sense: holly has a place in myth and legend. Certainly it has been credited with protecting the castle from destruction at various dangerous times in its history.</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsR1YyzyHCrzNQdn_T4eM19R85G0stmQs3AgH-0hKfHG8_IePH19iQDOlqamMrunOMrcBG4xyQn8oXUuqBt462tjvdCVzghKUWugYCZs-3XmXAAk6nBdgfbO90w5XEWlp_fWIF04eoAbVEu0Hqv8UXRhQBodE3qbtmrJKDhAwXQbfXL0lYAOCPLrSNSA/s640/Basement%20and%20tree.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsR1YyzyHCrzNQdn_T4eM19R85G0stmQs3AgH-0hKfHG8_IePH19iQDOlqamMrunOMrcBG4xyQn8oXUuqBt462tjvdCVzghKUWugYCZs-3XmXAAk6nBdgfbO90w5XEWlp_fWIF04eoAbVEu0Hqv8UXRhQBodE3qbtmrJKDhAwXQbfXL0lYAOCPLrSNSA/w240-h283/Basement%20and%20tree.jpg" width="240" /></a></div></div><br /><p>And dangerous times there certainly were. Cosy and comfortable as the castle seems now (apart from this basement, which has a bijou little dungeon tucked away on one side - just the place for unwelcome visitors), the family that lived there were, over the centuries, involved in some very nasty goings-on indeed. For example - in the early sixteenth century, the heiress was a child called Muriel. She was kidnapped by the Earl of Argyll, and, the guidebook tells us: 'For future recognition, she was branded on the hip by her nurse with a key. and the top joint of the little finger of her left hand was bitten off.' When she was twelve, she was married off to Argyll's younger son, Sir John Campbell. Surprisingly, the marriage was apparently a happy one. But this wasn't the end to the drama: Sir John's sister was married to one Lachlan Maclean. Wearying of his wife, he had her chained naked to a tidal skerry; she was supposed to drown, but was in fact rescued by passing fishermen. Sir John then knifed his brother-in-law to death in Edinburgh. He was pardoned, but deemed it a good moment to retreat to Muriel's far-distant ancestral home in Cawdor.</p><p>And that was only the beginning. There's far more blood-letting, feuding and killing people in hideously brutal ways - much too much to include in this post.</p><p>And talking of blood-letting, what of Macbeth? Was he really the Thane of Cawdor? We asked a guide. She sighed. One might almost have thought she'd been asked this question a million times before. "No. Macbeth was a real person - but he lived long before the castle of Cawdor was built, long before there was even a thane. What's more, there's quite a lot of evidence that he was a VERY NICE PERSON. He and his wife were very well-loved."</p><p>So there.</p><p>We certainly shouldn't leave Cawdor without a visit to the gardens, which are quite beautiful -see also the top picture. And the woodlands are lovely too, with rhododendrons and some very old trees, and a stream running through. Times have changed since the castle's founding - and in some ways - though not all - very much for the better. (I do wonder how the peasants were getting on while the aristocrats were whirling around killing each other...)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMqVGP5NtmwNcBVwKC--BWZSLYAZzlA-gM3_y8kekKl6A5JhmZXjDuiQ51xTMe0O5QAgb48QP4k9qKBHnNnGHQap-3sqhZKqYaVAaNZGttWTqA-8AJQQVz4QNkROLateahM4FjOP-sPsmIiMNFO4A_QyGBdEIaH7SykrPBWqO10iB_bdJl1mFi5H_euw/s640/Garden.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMqVGP5NtmwNcBVwKC--BWZSLYAZzlA-gM3_y8kekKl6A5JhmZXjDuiQ51xTMe0O5QAgb48QP4k9qKBHnNnGHQap-3sqhZKqYaVAaNZGttWTqA-8AJQQVz4QNkROLateahM4FjOP-sPsmIiMNFO4A_QyGBdEIaH7SykrPBWqO10iB_bdJl1mFi5H_euw/s320/Garden.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZA0w2dMtdDAFIGYdKRuEKBh3NGcyM5w3LOpDMt1bDGboouOb5AGgGr02BRQwJg0hUv5oJxEMUkMJfxHwHTwlW06yWCmSPUSnXuMpYyOqWcJowrT6sYWpjmGul8vD30vLLp3FFdyJ2_Gb6LS3RtNAS59uU5viOWvLtNKjQ5QTHFJSNPjGGGkfhFXR7CQ/s640/Meconopsis.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZA0w2dMtdDAFIGYdKRuEKBh3NGcyM5w3LOpDMt1bDGboouOb5AGgGr02BRQwJg0hUv5oJxEMUkMJfxHwHTwlW06yWCmSPUSnXuMpYyOqWcJowrT6sYWpjmGul8vD30vLLp3FFdyJ2_Gb6LS3RtNAS59uU5viOWvLtNKjQ5QTHFJSNPjGGGkfhFXR7CQ/s320/Meconopsis.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-32368072784129612652023-04-17T07:00:00.001+01:002023-04-17T07:00:00.173+01:00The Plant-Hunter's Atlas, and The Newt<p> <span style="text-align: justify;"> Some of you may recall that I have an interest in the history of plants, and particularly in the extraordinary adventures of the plant hunters. So much so that my last book,</span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><i style="text-align: justify;">Jack Fortune and the Search for the Hidden Valley</i><span style="text-align: justify;">, draws on real histories to tell the story of a boy who goes plant-hunting in the Himalayas at the end of the eighteenth century. The plant hunters were - and are - incredibly brave (some might say foolhardy!) and resourceful, so it struck me that they would be an excellent subject for a children's book - and so, I think, it proved.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;">So when I noticed that among the luminaries appearing at the Wells Literature Festival was one Ambra Edwards, promoting her new book The Plant Hunter's Atlas, I of course booked a ticket and sallied forth, a week ago, to find out more. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TCvXjXQUDoU/YXLNH_vv_YI/AAAAAAAAK9g/XdcADd903eQ_1iCh2MJJpOo-DnQ7OY6vACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_2509.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TCvXjXQUDoU/YXLNH_vv_YI/AAAAAAAAK9g/XdcADd903eQ_1iCh2MJJpOo-DnQ7OY6vACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_2509.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The book is published in association with Kew, and is lusciously illustrated with botanical paintings. As the title suggests, it is organised into geographical areas, and tells of the plants which were discovered (by the west: of course, indigenous people already knew all about them, and in many cases were indispensable in helping the emissaries from Kew and the Royal Horticultural Society in their mission to find new plants) - and the people who discovered them. So we meet old friends such as Sir Joseph Banks, who travelled with Captain Cook on his voyage to discover the Great Southern Continent, botanising enthusiastically, and fraternising possibly even more enthusiastically with the inhabitants of Otaheite (Tahiti), and on his return to England headed up Kew and was responsible for promoting the careers of scientists like the astronomers William Herschel and his sister, Caroline, as well as sending out plant hunters far and wide, in search of plants which would be useful for economic purposes as well as to ornament private gardens. Here too is David Douglas, who must have been one of the most unlucky plant hunters ever. He botanised in North America, and was subjected to storms, shipwrecks, dishonest guides, and every other plant-hunting misfortune you can think of, finally meeting a horrible end when he fell into a pit with sharp spikes at the bottom, designed to capture wild animals.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ntGu0-lP_qo/YXLOY6SRCAI/AAAAAAAAK9s/d6B1NqREdGAcddJbTzKuWEHgZQuUT_3GgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_2511.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ntGu0-lP_qo/YXLOY6SRCAI/AAAAAAAAK9s/d6B1NqREdGAcddJbTzKuWEHgZQuUT_3GgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_2511.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the gorgeous illustrations.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;">There are many more, but we are also introduced to some extraordinary plants. Take, for instance, the Corpse Lily, found in Sumatra. This produces 'the largest single flower in the world', which can grow to four feet across and weigh up to ten kg. It's a parasite, growing on the Indian chestnut vine: it takes more than two years to flower, and then the bloom - which smells of rotting meat - lasts for a mere week. Then there's Davidia Involucrata, the handkerchief tree, of which a single specimen was found by Dr Augustine Henry in China in 1888. He sent seeds back to Kew, but they failed to germinate, so in 1899 a young man called Ernest Wilson was sent to China to track down this one tree. He had to contend with an outbreak of bubonic plague and the Boxer Rebellion, as well as mountains and river rapids - but, astonishingly, he managed to find the site of the tree from a mere cross on a map: only to find that it had been cut down to clear the site for a smart new wooden house. Fortunately, a few weeks later he came across a small group of the precious trees. Imagine the relief!</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The book is a treat, which I am still reading through - and Ambra's presentation was brilliant. But by coincidence, a few days ago another plant history treat came my way, when some friends invited us to go with them to The Newt in Somerset, an extraordinary garden created by South African businessman Koos Bekker, under the direction of Italo-French architect Patrice Taravella. We all know about Capability Brown and Humphrey Repton, who created gardens in the 18th century which involved the digging out of lakes, the rerouting of rivers - even the relocation of entire villages. Things these days are not usually done on this kind of scale, and this is why The Newt is so striking - it very much is a creation of that degree of magnitude. Everything is beautifully done, from the newly built tithe barn made out of warm golden stone which provides the reception area, to the curving elevated path made out of metal which takes you through the woods, to the gardens themselves - which of course were not at their best this week, but must look spectacular in spring and summer.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">But the treat I mentioned lies at the end of that metal walkway. Inside a building which is tucked into the hillside, with a living roof, is a museum of garden history. And it's fascinating. Of course, it has extraordinary stories to tell. But it's the way it tells them too: it uses technology in a breathtakingly innovative way, so that in a relatively short space of time, you learn an enormous amount about garden history - from the Romans, through Islamic gardens, taking in Chinese and Japanese gardens, Eurpoean and British ones, right up to today. I'll let the pictures tell a little of the story.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A2wnbZVjTFs/YXLO9cq40rI/AAAAAAAAK94/c8eODaDJb4UQwLpyZty-iFVRr4zdFb9MACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Garden%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A2wnbZVjTFs/YXLO9cq40rI/AAAAAAAAK94/c8eODaDJb4UQwLpyZty-iFVRr4zdFb9MACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Garden%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The entrance, with tithe barn, cider-making on the left, and a fire in the foreground to ward off the chill.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e5-Jw0rzD6U/YXLO9ZQRMMI/AAAAAAAAK98/lskZXLxMmt40ZrdziaHsW5nkTbMpiez7gCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Garden%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e5-Jw0rzD6U/YXLO9ZQRMMI/AAAAAAAAK98/lskZXLxMmt40ZrdziaHsW5nkTbMpiez7gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Garden%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Parabola, with drystone terraces and lots of apple trees.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2lG9YYk4rvw/YXLO9_PcWeI/AAAAAAAAK-A/S4nUf_DlgbMxWSTc-TTzG5dvvWa9N7kRgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Veg%2Bgarden.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2lG9YYk4rvw/YXLO9_PcWeI/AAAAAAAAK-A/S4nUf_DlgbMxWSTc-TTzG5dvvWa9N7kRgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Veg%2Bgarden.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The vegetable garden. Love the flowerpots.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3RBdKi2Le4k/YXLO-W91WtI/AAAAAAAAK-I/Y65HIcVtOwwBTpVeHvRRKSuJNaPrsNHBACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Wardian%2Bcase%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="468" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3RBdKi2Le4k/YXLO-W91WtI/AAAAAAAAK-I/Y65HIcVtOwwBTpVeHvRRKSuJNaPrsNHBACLcBGAsYHQ/w293-h400/Wardian%2Bcase%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Japanese room in the museum of garden history. You walk on a pond...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YPkN_ki0Mts/YXLO-W3HySI/AAAAAAAAK-E/_LszgMLxdcE_ZjixvYJ5peJqCmWRvlFlgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Wardian%2Bcase%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YPkN_ki0Mts/YXLO-W3HySI/AAAAAAAAK-E/_LszgMLxdcE_ZjixvYJ5peJqCmWRvlFlgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Wardian%2Bcase%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Wardian case. Was very interested to see this - until the invention of the Wardian case, </td></tr></tbody></table>it was a very dodgy enterprise to try and transport living plants across oceans.<div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EEdc3XomMRc/YXLO9Wh7owI/AAAAAAAAK90/bT2PR1hhZvYDpZJ2BRZURjnRWXXtI2DVACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Tools.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EEdc3XomMRc/YXLO9Wh7owI/AAAAAAAAK90/bT2PR1hhZvYDpZJ2BRZURjnRWXXtI2DVACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Tools.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautifully displayed garden tools - here, flower pots and pliers.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-18845028052993184512023-04-10T07:00:00.001+01:002023-04-10T07:00:00.187+01:00Shipley Hall, D H Lawrence, and a sad irony<p> When I was a child, we lived on the edge of Ilkeston, formerly a Derbyshire mining town. By then most of the local pits pits had closed down. Probably the biggest employer was Stanton Ironworks, where one of my grandfathers had once worked. I'm reminded of Stanton often, because wherever you go in this country, if you look down you will see a draincover which is stamped Stanton PLC. There's a particularly pretty one at the Bristol dockyard where the SS Great Britain is moored.</p><p>Anyway, on Sundays we often used to go for a walk in Shipley Wood. There was a rather stately entrance on Heanor Road, and then you walked along a wide driveway with trees on either side. To the left there were interesting dips, or holes, with a thick layer of dead leaves at the bottom. I don't know what had caused them - perhaps subsidence: more of that later. Whatever their origin, they were great for playing. In the spring, there were masses of bluebells, and we would take bunches home and put them in jamjars. I was always worried by the fierce signs up all over the place saying: <i>NCB (National Coal Board): TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED! </i>But nobody else seemed to bother and so far as I knew, nobody ever got arrested.</p><p>If you carried on along the driveway, there would soon be a sharp change in the scenery, from sylvan to industrial. For this was the site of Shipley Colliery. It was no longer in use, but everything was still there: the winding gear, a dark, brooding slagheap, and a gloomy reservoir. This must have been securely fenced off, because you never saw anyone there. It was ugly, lifeless, a place to pass by.</p><p>The road carried on, past a rather nice looking house which had once been a lodge, and then up a hill. To the left, my mother told us, was the site of Shipley Hall. There was nothing left of it now, but she remembered that when she was a child, there were garden parties or summer fetes there, and she had been to one. They were probably held for the miners' families - the owners of the house also owned Shipley Pit. There's a description of something similar in <i>Women In Love</i>, by D H Lawrence; as I recall it, there's a tragic drowning in an ornamental lake shortly after the party. (Typically of Lawrence, there's a hint that it's the woman's fault: her arms are wrapped round her fiancee, as if she dragged him down...)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6rYqam1Jvcc/YH7-O1lEi_I/AAAAAAAAK1A/e8Xpau9dd2YCPd-Q5WrakdfQ29sbv83aQCLcBGAsYHQ/s500/Shipley_Hall_1890s.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6rYqam1Jvcc/YH7-O1lEi_I/AAAAAAAAK1A/e8Xpau9dd2YCPd-Q5WrakdfQ29sbv83aQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h240/Shipley_Hall_1890s.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shipley Hall</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>He may have pictured the scene at Shipley Hall itself, becuse Lawrence came from Eastwood, just a few miles away. He certainly used it as the setting for Connie and Clifford's house in <i>Lady Chatterley's Lover</i>: like the Miller Mundys, who owned Shipley, Clifford Chatterley was a mine owner. Once, when I was older, I was with my parents walking near the site of the hall, and we met an old man who remembered Lawrence. He shook his head and said disapprovingly, "He were a dutty bugger, he were. He put a lot of people from round here in his books, and they didn't like it."</p><p>For his part, Lawrence wasn't always overly complimentary about the locals. In<i> Lady C's Lover</i>, he says: </p><p>'This country had a grim will of its own, and the people had guts. Connie wondered what else they had: certainly neither eyes nor minds. The people were as haggard, shapeless and dreary as the countryside, and as unfriendly. Only there was something in their deep-mouthed slurring of the dialect, and the thresh-thresh of their hob-nailed pit-boots as they trailed home in gangs on the asphalt from work, that was terrible and a bit mysterious.'</p><p>So, yes - thanks for that, DH. Perhaps that's why he's not as popular round Ilkeston as, say, Hardy is in Dorset, or Jane Austen in Bath and Hampshire. Or perhaps it's just that his books, despite their many remarkable qualities, seem to have gone out of fashion.</p><p>But the main reason Shipley Hall has always interested me is because of the sad irony of its ending. The hall, and the Miller Mundys, had been associated with coal mining since the 18th century. They knew about it, and they had been careful to ensure that no tunnelling took place underneath the house. In the early twentieth century, they were said, by the standards of the time, to have been good owners - hence, perhaps, the garden parties for the local children. But in the early twenties, the house, the land and the mine were sold to Shipley Colliery Company. The company decided to mine the rich seams of coal underneath the house. They planned to do it carefully, but then came the General Strike, and all work stopped. As a result, uneven subsidence damaged the house, and eventually it had to be knocked down.</p><p>The thought haunts me that this once-gracious house was destroyed by the very industry which had created the wealth of the family who had owned it. Perhaps this is because it echoes a bigger truth: that we have plundered our planet - for coal, and many other things - and are only just realising that in delving for wealth, we are in danger of destroying our home.</p><p>To end on a happier note: in Lawrence's novel, Clifford, looking at the wood, says to Connie: '"I want this wood perfect... untouched...Except for us, it would go... it would be gone already, like the rest of the forest. (<i>He believes it to be a remnant of Sherwood.</i>) One must preserve some of the old England!"'</p><p>But he got that wrong. The landowners <i>did </i>go, but the land - and the wood - have<i> </i>been preserved. The scars of industry have been cleared away, and the estate is now Shipley Country Park - a beautiful open space for the descendants of those 'shapeless and dreary' common people. (Of whom, incidentally, DHL was originally one.) Let's hope it's a lesson learned. </p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-66477427088870265982023-04-03T10:31:00.005+01:002023-04-03T10:31:58.254+01:00The Stones of Stanton Drew (NB this is not a book review!)<p> I've been meaning for some time to visit Stanton Drew, where I'd heard there are stone circles. I'm interested in prehistory, and fascinated by all the discoveries that keep being made about early man - and I find these mysterious stones which are scattered across our landscape intriguing, and somehow meaningful in a way I can't quite grasp.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Stanton Drew is only half an hour's drive from where I live in Somerset. I'm on one side of the Mendips, and Stanton Drew is on the other side, in the Chew Valley - which is very beautiful, so it was a treat of a drive over there. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Stanton Drew itself is an exceptionally pretty village, built of stone, clustered round its church, reached by a very narrow lane - which is perhaps why it's escaped lots of new building. I missed the circles at first and had to turn round and come back over a tiny bridge; if you visit (for the information of Scattered Authors: it's very close to Folly Farm), just head for the church and then follow the signs till you can't go any further. You'll find a small parking area among some houses; look behind you, and you'll see the path into the field where the stones are. The site is managed by English Heritage, but it's not remotely like their more famous site, Stonehenge, which, as you'll know, is a massive, very busy tourist attraction with a state-of-the-art tourist centre.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-4i_yguLiFON7ALWEaS-ZRMor_vSXhJCAcZ8Gc5hAR3-OW15bq-cSnz_QcW4CKh1ek2lXVYSwPe3bYH-T3rVpLvEAkgbRjQ0y2LgtR8NCywlPB7G3S8Nahv_XOA96-yZu0f4EuI4Dq9fH6zezFVIkQ_UaIanWn0OxL0Pa_ET7y8jXcagz484zsFejg/s640/SD%20stones.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-4i_yguLiFON7ALWEaS-ZRMor_vSXhJCAcZ8Gc5hAR3-OW15bq-cSnz_QcW4CKh1ek2lXVYSwPe3bYH-T3rVpLvEAkgbRjQ0y2LgtR8NCywlPB7G3S8Nahv_XOA96-yZu0f4EuI4Dq9fH6zezFVIkQ_UaIanWn0OxL0Pa_ET7y8jXcagz484zsFejg/w400-h300/SD%20stones.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Stanton Drew isn't like that at all. There are a couple of information boards at the entrance, which is through an old, slightly battered-looking kissing gate. You look ahead: and there is a large meadow dotted with stones. It slopes slightly down towards the River Chew, and to the left, on the other side of the river, the ground rises up again, as you can see in the second picture. To the left, more fields, and the skeleton outline of a few trees. It was one of those days that alternates between bright sunshine and sudden downpours, with a sky full of dramatic clouds tinged with purple and grey.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisk7iVA_ga7l9-D1RMXZ918AHU0tEJqzpehdaCCCVa1-btkslYgT1FZ_aNm9PmWqOtKToS5WfGAO_nl_8kAMl1kF2bUt5tZXMNBNQoeD0KGQdoWFyUKwMaQXG1DYP26SkKYaU7Hs3RWO2KQr1GFcCFxry4vl3wrJ3-ETzlBpVW4Hb1bfC6t73UuRmrug/s640/Single%20stone.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisk7iVA_ga7l9-D1RMXZ918AHU0tEJqzpehdaCCCVa1-btkslYgT1FZ_aNm9PmWqOtKToS5WfGAO_nl_8kAMl1kF2bUt5tZXMNBNQoeD0KGQdoWFyUKwMaQXG1DYP26SkKYaU7Hs3RWO2KQr1GFcCFxry4vl3wrJ3-ETzlBpVW4Hb1bfC6t73UuRmrug/w300-h400/Single%20stone.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There are three circles, estimated to have been constructed in about 2500BC - so within roughly the same period as Stonehenge. The largest one, according to English Heritage, is, at 113 metres across, one of the biggest in the British Isles. Some of its stones are missing, but many remain: some standing, some fallen. They are made of a stone called Dolomitic Conglomerate, which probably comes from just a few miles away, in the Mendips. It's a gnarled, heavily textured stone, colonised by lichens, with hollows filled by rainwater which gleams in the sunshine. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Perhaps surprisingly, none of the circles have been excavated, but geophysics surveys show that in the large one there were once concentric circles of wooden posts, together with a ditch running round the outside. These circles took a lot of building: what drove the small communities that lived here to invest so much time and effort in creating them? Something to do with religion, surely: an attempt to make sense of life and death.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But legend has a different explanation. The story has it that long ago, on a Saturday night in summer, there was a wedding party in this meadow. Drink was, of course, taken: a fiddler played and the dancing grew wilder and wilder. However, at midnight the fiddler wiped his brow and said apologetically that that was it: it was Sunday now, and he must stop playing. The newly-marrieds and the guests cried shame, but the fiddler would not be swayed: he packed up his fiddle and off he went.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But all, it seemed, was not lost. For there, in the centre of the circle, another fiddler had suddenly appeared: a handsome stranger. With a grin, he declared that he would be more than happy to keep the festivities going, Sunday or no Sunday.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He played well. In fact he played so well that the music was irresistible. The dancing grew wilder and more frenzied; the dancers couldn't stop, until eventually, utterly exhausted, they fell to the ground, exhausted - and were turned to stone.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then the stranger, still smiling, shed his handsome appearance - and revealed himself to be, in fact, the Devil.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well, there was no sign of the Devil yesterday. Though the weather was wild, the scene was utterly peaceful. Quite magical, in fact. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HmAZsSU_lYNA2DZJjQFeSG3mWHTz6qXyJ5C-hpbRN6ayRIE7LN23pL3eQ89j832Ut2BIKuAwrUMqFNQXauI-OW5vIyDFCdv9c2gwzmhEgOMXrDf-So1X0oo2ICC8jquej-1qFCDVpVq8mHRmPHRTQkLjjF8ASZBelo-gR4NaeB0m71Ae2Jk61NqXqA/s640/Stanton%20Drew%20stone%20circles.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HmAZsSU_lYNA2DZJjQFeSG3mWHTz6qXyJ5C-hpbRN6ayRIE7LN23pL3eQ89j832Ut2BIKuAwrUMqFNQXauI-OW5vIyDFCdv9c2gwzmhEgOMXrDf-So1X0oo2ICC8jquej-1qFCDVpVq8mHRmPHRTQkLjjF8ASZBelo-gR4NaeB0m71Ae2Jk61NqXqA/w300-h400/Stanton%20Drew%20stone%20circles.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As I walked across to one of the smaller circles, I noticed a splash of crimson on one of the overturned stones. It was a single red rose. </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW1JmTXlYj6lSi2GNf-7iCtCclK2jgbedzxLYG7RO7D3tzdEYhSZQAeI0CAlVX4eaaa0CMlCqpoz68THCzdt64ojHk2lA4s0H3szt1VE3AP3NWdOeqwk9A1IbnDpBp5q4O5yu2PF4oo04tBg2nYyLwRd_FxliM3RNAxT22op7XrrnQhe7jYRvLu12plQ/s640/SD%20stones.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW1JmTXlYj6lSi2GNf-7iCtCclK2jgbedzxLYG7RO7D3tzdEYhSZQAeI0CAlVX4eaaa0CMlCqpoz68THCzdt64ojHk2lA4s0H3szt1VE3AP3NWdOeqwk9A1IbnDpBp5q4O5yu2PF4oo04tBg2nYyLwRd_FxliM3RNAxT22op7XrrnQhe7jYRvLu12plQ/s640/SD%20stones.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWPNGQoqvFv7cJ9k_c8Uy-syp6_j5Rtd3ZsN-tSHmA2Ja3NkIUF5vltn2Qs6nyPl6Eu6YxLpEOXhoQkCG3b_MYxJEmx1oVH6j3LI10HkS7cBbncg-mlKJINKOgxR-S0p30O7kfaYl_s81l0zZdL4Vub2P5LJayqASiy8pSImBBHaKcRT4Y8EgyRPut3Q/w400-h300/Rose%20on%20stone.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And when I reached the centre of the smaller circle - which appears to be more complete than the larger one - I saw little patches of white scattered among the grass. I thought at first they were some kind of flower, but as I looked more closely, I saw that they were rose petals: some red, but mostly white. Someone had been here before me. Someone who felt a special connection to this place. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It's a feeling I can understand.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDvuA1o3iJpuQbO_hFSgd_ql_qKpwR-TX2Kh-mpiOeMNgp3MTGbG8KEvKrlWsyWB9z-oT_gzHaYBRkcy8yay9zs3LX1hqTEgMYcaCn6Nzap_DXmVMxTPlmu5QSpW3UjwPSs_o9PMxsIBNrxs3ffJg2AGWmFzRxd_aijjj_YGleRAhU3gmvXrdMX3UrjQ/s640/Petals%20and%20stone.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDvuA1o3iJpuQbO_hFSgd_ql_qKpwR-TX2Kh-mpiOeMNgp3MTGbG8KEvKrlWsyWB9z-oT_gzHaYBRkcy8yay9zs3LX1hqTEgMYcaCn6Nzap_DXmVMxTPlmu5QSpW3UjwPSs_o9PMxsIBNrxs3ffJg2AGWmFzRxd_aijjj_YGleRAhU3gmvXrdMX3UrjQ/w300-h400/Petals%20and%20stone.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Incidentally, some of you may know that I am a huge fan of Elly Griffiths' Ruth Galloway series of novels. For fellow fans - Stanton Drew features in the 11th novel of the series, 'The Stone Circle'. Elly mentions another legend: that it's impossible to count the number of stones - or that if you do succeed, you drop down dead. Just to be on the safe side, I decided not to try.</i></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-75391303882210319412022-09-29T15:23:00.004+01:002022-09-29T15:23:57.237+01:00Dogs of the Deadlands, by Anthony McGowan<p> For a review of Anthony McGowan's rivetting new YA novel set in the aftermath of Chernobyl, please follow the link to<i> <a href="https://awfullybigblogadventure.blogspot.com/2022/09/dogs-of-deadlands-by-anthony-mcgowan.html" target="_blank">An Awfully Big Blog Adventure</a></i>. (I should perhaps mention that it's mostly about the dogs of Chernobyl, not the people.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8J3NRYsFfDymvmdiCwKsYMNA2EHpb2xAl4tI6j7AFW-Hyh_DoG7sc2bWlHPNlbCyhFG3t_bocXm1Qv_MNewkDFn2xU6ewWGAdlYTkJ8TM8lLz4MAxAio6v2DdZbY9RWfROEuU1_sxuC1uEYUtw2h-gNvDYVtHsVHiVc7m1nEF77VxlApTIFos3M-e/s275/d%20of%20the%20d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8J3NRYsFfDymvmdiCwKsYMNA2EHpb2xAl4tI6j7AFW-Hyh_DoG7sc2bWlHPNlbCyhFG3t_bocXm1Qv_MNewkDFn2xU6ewWGAdlYTkJ8TM8lLz4MAxAio6v2DdZbY9RWfROEuU1_sxuC1uEYUtw2h-gNvDYVtHsVHiVc7m1nEF77VxlApTIFos3M-e/w266-h400/d%20of%20the%20d.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-1144532306621408242022-09-12T06:00:00.001+01:002022-09-12T06:00:00.177+01:00The Mayor of Casterbridge, by Thomas Hardy<p>I can't imagine why, but recently I've felt the urge to escape from the present into a greener, gentler past: and so I decided to re-read <i>The Mayor of Casterbridge</i>, by Thomas Hardy. I think Hardy had similar feelings; most of his books are set in a time slightly earlier than his own. His beloved Wessex included Dorset and parts of Wiltshire and Devon - all of which, of course, are still beautiful. Hardy had a strong sense of the past, and how its remains can be found in the present: hence, for example, the use of Stonehenge or somewhere very similar in Tess of the D'Urbervilles - and the Roman amphitheatre which is the setting for a number of clandestine meetings in <i>The Mayor</i>. And sure, it may be that he sometimes over-indulges in his preoccupation with such places, and with echoes through time.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSuqVl8S8f1dL-pFQRHd6Bok7stzW-x0lp5ua2nkjIgdHUaMS5wl2zTHhp2y9cRlcs2hETKoa-OnG6VpvtkBzqF0P-A_WMOyNtdJuydXO9OMSn64_XCMtDkm7EG7c2CVyiexVqlzUiU2m3qn8vOwTRCBepjBHLETG4txgt1Rzjxz9zF7nt41Ull8F5/s640/book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSuqVl8S8f1dL-pFQRHd6Bok7stzW-x0lp5ua2nkjIgdHUaMS5wl2zTHhp2y9cRlcs2hETKoa-OnG6VpvtkBzqF0P-A_WMOyNtdJuydXO9OMSn64_XCMtDkm7EG7c2CVyiexVqlzUiU2m3qn8vOwTRCBepjBHLETG4txgt1Rzjxz9zF7nt41Ull8F5/s320/book.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>It wasn't physically the easiest of reads. We have a set of leather-bound Hardy books which used to belong to my father-in-law, and at some stage when I was desperately trying to make some space on the bookshelves - this happens quite often - I chucked out most of my own, paperback copies of the novels on the ground that it was silly to keep duplicates. The copy of <i>The Mayor</i> dates from 1920, so about 25 years after the book was written. It's small, the paper is very thin, and the print at first sight is not easy to read. But I soon got used to it - as I became absorbed in the story.</p><p>It begins with an extraordinary incident, which is the springboard for all that happens later. Michael Henchard, a young farm labourer, is trudging the roads of Wessex with his wife, Susan, and their baby, Elizabeth-Jane. They are dispirited and weary. They happen upon a fair, and Susan suggests that, rather than going to the beer tent, they should go to a tent where furmity, a mixture of corn, milk, raisins and currants is sold. Susan's intent is in part to keep Henchard away from the beer - what she doesn't realise is that the furmity woman tips a measure of rum into the bowls of those who ask for it - which Henchard does.</p><p>Becoming steadily more drunk, he starts to bemoan his circumstances, and particularly his marriage. Outside the tent, he hears an auctioneer, and the idea strikes him that, just as he could sell a no-longer-wanted horse if he wanted, so he should be able to sell a wife he no longer wants. Others join in the 'fun', and an auction is set up, at which he sells Susan to a sailor for five guineas. What had started out as a cruel joke becomes reality; Henchard doesn't back down, and neither does the sailor. So Henchard wakes up the next morning with a blinding headache and the realisation that he has sold his wife. He searches for her and the sailor, but without success.</p><p>We next see our characters nearly twenty years later, when Susan and her daughter have come to Casterbridge in search of Henchard; the sailor has been lost at sea, and so Susan has decided she must seek out her former husband in the hope that he might be able to help them. Rural poverty is never far from the surface in Hardy: nor is the realisation that even a wealthy man, after a bad harvest, a poor business decision or an accident, can lose everything. They soon find out that Henchard is prosperous and has in fact become the Mayor of Casterbridge.</p><p>At the same time, a young Scot called Donald Farfrae has arrived in town. Where Henchard is dour and quick-tempered, Farfrae is quick-minded and pleasant; he's the sort of person who makes a success of everything he does, and draws people to him. Henchard quickly sees that Farfrae can be a great help to him, and he employs him. </p><p>So almost all the main characters are assembled. The remaining one is Lucetta, with whom Henchard has had an affair in the past: she arrives some time after the others, and so the scene is set.</p><p>Now, I'm not going to go into exactly what follows. For one thing that would spoil the story for you - but for another, it's very complicated! Suffice to say that things do not run at all smoothly for most of the characters - there is not a happy-ever-after for most of them. There are mishaps, there are misunderstandings, there are instances of petty revenge: but mostly, the tragedy arises from the characters of the protagonists and that one fateful evening in the furmity tent.</p><p>What really struck me was how clever the plot is. I think I noticed this particularly because, as a writer, I find plotting difficult. Not so Hardy. The structure of this book is like a maze - or like a fiendishly complicated sailor's knot. He is a master. The other thing that struck me is that you might think, from a relation of what happens, that this would be a melodrama. And it's not, though it does have elements of melodrama. Very often, a situation is set up, and you expect the character to be propelled into a self-destructive action - but instead, they stand back and consider, and react with restraint. (Then, just when you think it's safe to come out from behind the sofa, something else happens, and the disaster befalls the character anyway.)</p><p>And there is a happy ending. Sort of.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KlrxmiKuVsvE62Hg-1DKbROsDWNZwFl44-mu4uaH7pIjydlxtHlKRrviiisZqvRR4KQDeHenrLGOcT6u9sFCkisN8lqhpKkqSUQ6_tJmz1C7V55r6Wq2bMqIBImBtalBr_ZO1JrAmr8x-rumyg-2Sbj3xKdBa9vD44zpRr_Boseoj5e9ybNmu0QX/s800/labyrinth-carved-facade-romanesque-church-t-th-century-47684826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KlrxmiKuVsvE62Hg-1DKbROsDWNZwFl44-mu4uaH7pIjydlxtHlKRrviiisZqvRR4KQDeHenrLGOcT6u9sFCkisN8lqhpKkqSUQ6_tJmz1C7V55r6Wq2bMqIBImBtalBr_ZO1JrAmr8x-rumyg-2Sbj3xKdBa9vD44zpRr_Boseoj5e9ybNmu0QX/w200-h200/labyrinth-carved-facade-romanesque-church-t-th-century-47684826.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-79016849788999712412022-09-05T04:00:00.000+01:002022-09-05T04:00:00.177+01:00Pachinko, by Min Jin Lee<p> I do like a good long epic, and at over 500 pages, this is certainly that. I also like a book set in somewhere that I know little about, and again, this fits the bill: it starts in Korea and then moves to Japan. </p><p>Now, before I get going, a warning/apology: it's a few months since I read Pachinko, so this won't be as detailed as I'd like it to be. However, I'm sure I can tell you enough for you to decide whether you'd like to read it or not.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyX7Na4tgKPt97ugSds8UT_qj05NDQCF0_n5DI7DYRZ6c7vh4PrBN1YpqtfY0v59mqy4FCQn5M2PJz6sBOjfimKQVJe0LnHSVsVqQAKMsv9XH9ZNMHH_LLhjidbtmux-jqoeRcafJnJJ2C7yGJr8_ZntTFFkzayuvKODe3xGEqcEvKfyfP4dhkPv6u/s640/433051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="416" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyX7Na4tgKPt97ugSds8UT_qj05NDQCF0_n5DI7DYRZ6c7vh4PrBN1YpqtfY0v59mqy4FCQn5M2PJz6sBOjfimKQVJe0LnHSVsVqQAKMsv9XH9ZNMHH_LLhjidbtmux-jqoeRcafJnJJ2C7yGJr8_ZntTFFkzayuvKODe3xGEqcEvKfyfP4dhkPv6u/w260-h400/433051.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>In preparation for this, I've just read the Q&A section with author Min Jin Lee which is at the end of the book. It's interesting, because, among other things, it shows how very well-qualified she is to write this book, which covers about 100 years of Korean/Japanese history: she lived in Korea till she was seven, then moved to America, and spent Five years in Tokyo when she was working on the book. (Another thing I liked was that her first published novel was the third book she had written. There's hope for us all.)</p><p>But perhaps the thing that struck me most was that she explains that she is predominantly interested in writing about the lives, not of the great and good, but of ordinary people. This strikes a chord with me. Up until recent times, ordinary (ie working class) people, have tended to leave far fewer traces of their lives than the wealthy. They have usually not written about their lives (mostly because they have not been able to write) or be written about. But that doesn't mean to see that they are any less intelligent than their wealthier peers, or their lives and relationships any less interesting. There is a poignant moment at the end of the book where the heroine, Sunja, visits her son's grave. The groundskeeper tells her he knew her son, who encouraged him to read and brought him translations of Dickens. He asks Sunja if she too has read Dickens, but she says quietly no - she cannot read. This is at the end of the 20th century.</p><p>The story starts with Hoonie and Yangjin, Sunja's parents. Hoonie has a cleft palate and a twisted lip, but he has a very sweet nature, and his parents own a boarding house which brings in a good income. So despite his deformities, the village matchmaker is able to find him a bride. The two young people are happy, but their first three children, all sons, die, and Sunja, the fourth child, is the only one to survive. </p><p>There is no point in telling you the ins and outs of what follows - best that you read it. Sunja grows up to be beautiful, and so the usual thing happens: she catches the eye of a wealthy businessman, becomes pregnant, and marries an idealistic young preacher. She and her family fall victim to war and economic hardship - and the ramifications of that early affair. No-one is wholly a villain: everyone (almost) tries their best. There are tragedies, but there is also happiness. I found it utterly absorbing. </p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-86270570526729728832022-08-29T05:00:00.001+01:002022-08-29T05:00:00.178+01:00A Whole Life, by Robert Seethaler<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> This is not one of my Mr B's subscription books - it's a book I suggested for a recent meeting of the book group I belong to. We wanted a short book for this session, and <i>A Whole Life</i> fitted that bill</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My copy is a hardback, and it's rather lovely - I like the design of the cover, which is in white, black, and soft shades of green. The image looks to me like the sea, with heaving, foam-flecked waves. But it isn't the sea, it's a mountain. On the top of it is an alpine hut, and if you look carefully, you can see about a third of the way up a tiny figure of a climber wearing a backpack. He isn't noticeable, but there he is: he has a long way to go, but he's climbing steadily up.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8neeCVeQQLZgmJTR5N1vGfxOdKPlf6ACs9guVg0F4S7tSycvHi0xW_siBZ2qeXRy_9-5Ivs5OuPyTvVvjlDt4pALcgPjmLdWu7xFKnrUFX3wTujNH-SvsGus9q_PxzQX4hId6MUdQYYNTNwNuop6G9WoiocKbOWgQ--JeVu7_92qWPTMPiXCTBlt1/s499/51Tj+KxemTL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8neeCVeQQLZgmJTR5N1vGfxOdKPlf6ACs9guVg0F4S7tSycvHi0xW_siBZ2qeXRy_9-5Ivs5OuPyTvVvjlDt4pALcgPjmLdWu7xFKnrUFX3wTujNH-SvsGus9q_PxzQX4hId6MUdQYYNTNwNuop6G9WoiocKbOWgQ--JeVu7_92qWPTMPiXCTBlt1/w268-h400/51Tj+KxemTL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="268" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And that really reflects the story. Andreas Eggar is born in a mountain valley. (Seethaler was born in Austria, so I think we can place the valley there.) An orphan, at the age of four he is put into the care of an uncle, a farmer called Kranzstocker, a cruel man whose only interest in the boy is how much work he can get out of him. He beats the child for the smallest of transgressions - spilt milk, a mistake in an evening prayer. One time. he beats him too hard and smashes the bone in his leg, as a result of which Andreas has a lifelong limp.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So Andreas has a tough, even brutal life from the beginning. Even when he marries, and seems at last to have found happiness, fate - and the mountain - intervenes. When he goes to fight, he is captured and held by the Russians for several years after the war has ended. But somehow, it's not a sad book. He never forgets his wife and no-one ever replaces her, but he just keeps on, like the figure on the cover image trudging up the mountain. When he returns from Russia, things have moved on and his old job with a cable car company no longer exists - so he simply finds something else to do, somewhere else to live. He is immensely stoical. He keeps on keeping on, because really, that's all you can do.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Before I went to my book group meeting, I knew that I liked the book, but I couldn't articulate why. But as we talked, it emerged that several of us had been through tough times lately. One of us had recently lost her father, and she talked about that, and how it had been. She said that yes, of course it was tragic - but everyone has tragedies in their life. And in the end, like Andreas Eggar, the thing you have to do is keep on. I talked about my fear of heights: she remembered climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. She wasn't a mountaineer, she said: "But really, it's remarkable what you can do if you just keep putting one foot in front of the other." (If anyone's read my book <i>Jack Fortune and the Search for the Hidden Valley</i>, you may remember that that's exactly what Jack has to learn, when he finds out, while plant-hunting in the Himalayas, that he is - inconveniently - afraid of heights: you must just keep putting one foot in front of the other.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So, I think that's what chimes with readers of <i>A Whole Life</i>. Here is a man, a very ordinary man in terms of possessions and achievements, who has nevertheless triumphed and, in the end, lived a life he's pleased with. He's known the beauty of nature - and he's also known its cruelty. He's known love - but he's also known loss. And yet, despite all life's thrown at him, he's just kept going. </span></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-45863818608027008412022-08-22T12:50:00.004+01:002022-08-22T12:50:48.313+01:00Great Circle, by Maggie Shipstead<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> For my last birthday, I was lucky enough to be given a book subscription from Mr B's Emporium in Bath. (Thanks to my son for this incredibly generous present!) Each month, I receive a beautifully packaged book, chosen for me by one of their booksellers after an initial consultation about the kind of books I like. What I should have done, of course, was to have written some notes about each one as I finished it. I didn't do that, so now I'm playing catch-up.</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3EiuyxRTqv89UHJNGqbuK-PzxcZxcJD8R2klLvYwL7tE9Krn-CTJ3gUkxTFUEyJXbhP66gcDbYFGKxzIdnWv2_Dbqyi8NfTOwF2AFOvC3yBhqv4V1eDBvCuYHWyjB_0zDGIrJxakN4bsLDQwTl6Q-0hirhzGRcWpWXO0AIKSq1B028Hc6lzFU4CLD/s632/9781529176643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="632" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3EiuyxRTqv89UHJNGqbuK-PzxcZxcJD8R2klLvYwL7tE9Krn-CTJ3gUkxTFUEyJXbhP66gcDbYFGKxzIdnWv2_Dbqyi8NfTOwF2AFOvC3yBhqv4V1eDBvCuYHWyjB_0zDGIrJxakN4bsLDQwTl6Q-0hirhzGRcWpWXO0AIKSq1B028Hc6lzFU4CLD/s320/9781529176643.jpg" width="203" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The Great Circle</i> was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and also for the Women's Prize for Fiction. It's a novel about Marian Graves, a (fictional) early female aviator - a contemporary of Amelia Earhart. It's a huge novel which is fitting, because the peak of Marian's flying career is her attempt to fly the Great Circle - to circumnavigate the globe.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Marian's profound love of flying is at the heart of the book, but it takes in much more: set mostly in America, it takes in a good deal of the twentieth century. The story starts, not with a plane, but with a ship: the Josephina Eterna. The owner's wife, Matilda, is given the job of launching the ship - but she is perturbed: the ship is named after her husband's mistress, and also, no-one has explained to her exactly what she has to do. The captain, Addison Graves, tries to help her, but the bottle misses its target: a bad omen. A few years later, the ship sinks. Many passengers are lost, and Graves takes the blame, though the fault was really the owner's. As a result, he spends several years in prison, and his two children, of whom Marian is one, are sent into the care of his kindly but rather feckless brother.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When he comes out of prison, he briefly comes to see his children, but then fades away again, leaving behind him crates full of his belongings - books and mementoes of his travels. Marian is fascinated by the accounts of explorers and travellers - especially those who go to the far north - and so the seeds are set for her love of adventure. As a teenager, she has a flight in a plane which is part of a travelling show, and she is hooked. She gets to know an older man, wealthy but ruthless, who will finance her flying if she will marry him. She makes the deal, but eventually needs to attain freedom, and flies north.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And so her story continues, taking in a stint in Britain during the war taxi-ing planes for the RAF. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But there is also another, secondary heroine, a film star called Hadley. Her story is contemporary. She is something of a lost soul, caught up in various scandals. She is playing the part of Marian in a film, and becomes fascinated by her. Marian's great circumnavigation ended, apparently, in disaster: Hadley's own parents died when she was young in a plane crash. Clearly, there are parallels.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I do see the need for this parallel story - I think. It provides a way of exploring what happened to Marian, and makes it into a mystery story with all the tension and suspense which that entails. But I didn't like Hadley as a character. She's selfish, shallow and uncaring - or so she seems to me - and I didn't like being in her company. But she takes up a relatively small part of the book - and from other reviews that I've read, other readers don't have the same reaction to her as I did. So don't be put off by my dislike of Hadley - you probably won't feel the same about her, and anyway, there is so much more to enjoy in this book. The prose, for one thing - it is beautifully written. Here, for example:, is the first paragraph:</span></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">I was born to be a wanderer. I was shaped to the earth like a seabird to a wave. Some birds fly until they die. I have made a promise to myself: My last descent won't be the tumbling helpless kind but a sharp gannet plunge - a dive with intent, aimed at something deep in the sea.</span></i></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-34486949070940331132022-07-02T17:00:00.003+01:002022-08-22T10:52:04.742+01:00Donna Leon - the Inspector Brunetti series<p> <span style="font-size: medium;">These are times such as I never expected to see. I've written several books set during the second world war; I've listened to the stories told me by my father, who was a prisoner of war in Poland for five years. (Incidentally, he told me once that the worst thing he saw in the war was the lines of refugees, trudging along roads carrying everything they could, not knowing where they were going. I've thought about that a lot lately.) I've wanted to know why wars happen, why dictators become monsters. But it was always an exploration of the past; I never expected to see a replay in real time.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I've watched the news and read articles. But there are times when I just want to find a safe place to retreat to, to shut myself away from it all. And one of the ways to do that, I find, is to read - and perhaps paradoxically, to read detective series. They have to be the right kind. I don't want detailed descriptions of horrible ways to kill - I don't want serial killers. In fact, the murders which are usually the inciting incidents don't really interest me that much at all. It's the community of characters I like, and often the setting too: it's the way the characters build and develop over the arc of the series - the way they change. This is true of several of the series I've written about on this blog: Montalbano, the Colin Cotterill books, Louise Penny's Inspector Gamache series, and of course, the wonderful Ruth Galloway books by Elly Griffiths.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQW2MgCvz8De8ac5QpiosZ8xsxCuDlGbt4kxXdo3vaBHqQEMZ0TYna5hbuWBi5CFd70sZKrO_gC435v3CElCjA5Kf9siDg07qrpab0lJkt7ArDPT2kgSOwFM1TIPZsbKkpGkdUSH6bilxAwW1pFsnvR2x9j6eGWaCO2ugfp_U-RS7AALe-pLdo1cd-/s375/ec3fff14a04f6bec80bd9d4ba6388f4b7b7fae52.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="211" data-original-width="375" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQW2MgCvz8De8ac5QpiosZ8xsxCuDlGbt4kxXdo3vaBHqQEMZ0TYna5hbuWBi5CFd70sZKrO_gC435v3CElCjA5Kf9siDg07qrpab0lJkt7ArDPT2kgSOwFM1TIPZsbKkpGkdUSH6bilxAwW1pFsnvR2x9j6eGWaCO2ugfp_U-RS7AALe-pLdo1cd-/w400-h225/ec3fff14a04f6bec80bd9d4ba6388f4b7b7fae52.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from the Sydney Morning Herald</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So recently I've returned to Donna Leon's series set in Venice, which stars Inspector Guido Brunetti. Many of the detectives who head up series are in some way flawed or damaged: think Robert Galbraith, Inspector Rebus, Simon Serailler. Not so Guido Brunetti. He is a happy family man, who has an excellent relationship with his wife, Paola (an academic who loves Henry James and is a wonderful cook) and their two children. He is kind, decent, and clever: he reads classic Greek and (I think) Roman literature as a way of relaxing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">His staff are nice people too - with the exceptions of his boss, Patta, who is vain and ambitious, and useless at catching criminals, and Lieutenant Scarpa, who is a very nasty piece of work indeed. But neither of them is a match for Signorina Elettra. She is Patta's secretary, but she's far more than that. She's very clever, very well-connected and always beautifully dressed, and she conspires with Brunetti to solve crimes despite the inept bumbling of Patta and Scarpa. She recognises the power of the internet very early on, before most of the others even know how to use a computer.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What you will not get from these books is intricate plotting. Indeed, the crime is hardly even a central feature - though it may be a useful way to explore a particular problem in Venetian/Italian society, such as corruption (quite often), politics, the treatment of immigrants, and so on. Sometimes, you feel at the end that things have not been satisfactorily resolved - which is often the case in real life, but not usually so detective novels. But there are so many other riches that perhaps this doesn't really matter too much: the Venetian setting, for instance. And the mouth-watering descriptions of food, which is tremendously important to Brunetti. </span><span style="font-size: medium;">It's mostly the characters, though, which are the draw. </span></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-10977595783622710162022-04-25T10:51:00.005+01:002022-04-25T10:52:26.997+01:00The Women of Troy, by Pat Barker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhX8jO0p9uGAET65jMm0OgH0iJ3qdBrgNHYSTrxneSCa7JG9lonHTAsEgcv6QOeJlp5U-nmNkqiPVpjgnhWGrFiskmh1tP3z5TmzezFfA2LjQKIUXWJ7FD3V5a8N2yzjx0MeZd5ng4IPHYdy28FSh0mKiVXvlBv1vNQ_7RF4bRA_Vvc_BJKHphVrA/s293/519gu9UNilL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="192" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhX8jO0p9uGAET65jMm0OgH0iJ3qdBrgNHYSTrxneSCa7JG9lonHTAsEgcv6QOeJlp5U-nmNkqiPVpjgnhWGrFiskmh1tP3z5TmzezFfA2LjQKIUXWJ7FD3V5a8N2yzjx0MeZd5ng4IPHYdy28FSh0mKiVXvlBv1vNQ_7RF4bRA_Vvc_BJKHphVrA/s1600/519gu9UNilL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" width="192" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>(This review first appeared on <a href="https://reviewsbywriters.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Writers Review</a> at the end of February.)</div><div><br /></div>One of the joys of Christmas is that, in my family, we’re very big on giving books for presents. One year this all went horribly wrong, when nearly every book one of us had loving selected had also been lovingly selected by someone else, so at least half of them had to be exchanged – but this year all was well, and this book was part of my haul.
It follows on from Pat Barker’s first book about the Trojan War, <i>The Silence of the Girls</i>, which I had not read before reading this one, though I have now. <div><br /></div><div>It’s perfectly possible to read the second one without having read its predecessor – partly, I suppose, because the legend on which both books are based is very familiar: but also because Briseis, the narrator, naturally refers to the past as she takes up her story.
I write books for children, and I think, if I was setting out to write one about the Trojan War and its aftermath, I would seek out a child character – who would need to have some agency: to be a hero in some measure – to make things better. But this retelling concerns war in all its horror and savagery: it’s a bleak tale with few shafts of light. There are certainly heroes, but they all have the capacity for horrifying violence and unthinking cruelty. And, incidentally, the only children in this narrative are girls – because when the Greeks finally conquered the Trojans by means of Odysseus’ wooden horse, they slaughtered the boys. They even, Briseis tells us, killed pregnant women in case the children in their wombs were boys. </div><div><br /></div><div> Briseis had been a queen, captured when her city was laid waste by the Greeks almost as a sideshow to the main war against the Trojans. When we read retellings of the Greek legends, what we remember and enjoy are the exploits of the famous heroes. Pat Barker, through Briseis, lays bare the brutal treatment of the vanquished by the victors. The Trojan men are almost all slaughtered, while the women are raped and led into slavery. Briseis is relatively fortunate: as a high status captive, she is made available to be a trophy for one of the ‘heroes’. She is chosen by Achilles. In some books, this could have been the prelude to a romance, but there is no romance here. She is a commodity, no more. She only finally receives any consideration when she becomes pregnant with Achilles’ child, and is given in marriage to one of his friends: Achilles knows he is going to die, and knows also that his slave girl could easily be given after his death as a plaything for the ordinary soldiers. Because she bears his son, he doesn’t want that to happen – but only because of that, not because of any tender feelings towards Briseis herself.</div><div><br /></div><div>The story takes place in the Greek camp on the shores of Troy. The Greeks want to go home, but the winds are against them, and they cannot leave. There is no beauty in this place: it’s windswept and desolate. “On the shoreline, there were stinking heaps of bladderwrack studded with dead creatures, thousands of them…The sea was murdering its children.”
There is another dead creature on this beach. It is the body of Priam, the King of Troy and one of the few characters in this story who retains nobility – until, that is, he is dishonoured by his killer, Pyrrhus, the son of Achilles, who drags Priam’s body behind his chariot every day round the walls of Troy, and refuses to allow it to be cremated. One of the Trojan women is determined to put a stop to this, and buries the body, to the fury of Pyrrhus. In a bewildered way he observes that there are only two Trojans in the camp, a priest called Calchas and one of Hector’s brothers, and that neither of these would have defied him in this way, so who can have defied him so flagrantly? </div><div><br /></div><div>He is quite oblivious to the women: they are slaves, and they are women – they simply don’t count. They are invisible to him.
But Briseis renders herself visible to us, because she tells us her story, and those of the other women in the camp: Helen, Cassandra, Andromache – but also the women of lower status, who nevertheless have their own stories, their own individual tragedies. She is courageous and she is kind: I look forward to reading the next book, which I suspect will bring her happiness in some degree. </div><div><br /></div><div> It’s a wonderful book but a bleak read, harsh in many ways. The language reflects this. Pat Barker doesn’t let the reader off the hook, doesn’t put a gloss on things. This is what war does, she tells us. This is how it is. </div><div><br /></div><div> How it still is, as we are seeing. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>The Women of Troy</i> is published by Hamish Hamilton</b></div>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-37201635072785882352022-01-09T16:01:00.000+00:002022-01-09T16:01:12.673+00:00The Inspector Gamache series, by Louise Penny<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjE51rM_yI33qL_C1AKwbSTNDHgTxTSY-lOdXtlSDtgEHw2GupgZd_WMyXTs3AfbCuFFtspv0XwnWhhjW40ffll_VE6q7SwEcPLWpe-io4lP6BNqW7F4htyQZLHfEsdpfJZAeSe2kwUSyuEIUbDj5kW0NF2abT9sKGotpXoLQyyIZ_zEXWNDupzAeqQ=s400" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="358" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjE51rM_yI33qL_C1AKwbSTNDHgTxTSY-lOdXtlSDtgEHw2GupgZd_WMyXTs3AfbCuFFtspv0XwnWhhjW40ffll_VE6q7SwEcPLWpe-io4lP6BNqW7F4htyQZLHfEsdpfJZAeSe2kwUSyuEIUbDj5kW0NF2abT9sKGotpXoLQyyIZ_zEXWNDupzAeqQ=w358-h400" width="358" /></a></div><br />A couple of months ago, a friend put me onto a detective series by a writer I hadn't heard of, Louise Penny. <i>They're set in Canada</i>, she said, <i>in Quebec. I think you'll like them</i>.<p></p><p>Well, sixteen books later, I can confirm that she was absolutely right. (There is a seventeenth, but it's still expensive on Kindle, so I'm trying to exercise a little self-discipline and wait till the price comes down.) I thoroughly enjoyed these books. What's more, they did me good - they were therapeutic.</p><p>And why?</p><p>Well, I find autumn a difficult season. Nothing complicated about that: it's the dark nights, it's the sense that not only is winter coming, but it's going to be hanging around for months and months. As days shorten, so my mood sinks. For this time of year, I need reading which is both engrossing and comforting.</p><p>And although these are ostensibly murder mysteries, they <i>are </i>comforting. For the most part, the characters they feature are <i>nice</i>. They're quirky, kind, funny and witty. Take Inspector Gamache himself. He is not your usual star of detective series; he's not miserable, he doesn't have a fatal flaw - he has friends, for heaven's sake, and a happy marriage. He's big, strong, gentle, perceptive and kind - but if you need someone strong and decisive when push comes to shove, he's the one I'd choose over Rebus, Simon Serailler, Albert Campion - even Dr Siri. (Not sure who I'd pick between him and Elly Griffiths' Nelson, though - that would be a close call.)</p><p>But he's not the only star of this series. That would be the village of Three Pines, which has a magical quality about it - a touch of the Narnias. For a start, it's not to be found on any map, and it's not discoverable by GPS. It's small, it nestles among fairy-tale forests, and in the winter it snows and is beautiful. It's inhabited by a bunch of eccentric friends. They're not all faultless, not by any means: some of them do bad things. But somehow they're all people you'd love to have as your friends - even Ruth, the crazy old poet who insults everybody and is only nice to her pet duck. Gamache comes across the village on an early case, and eventually ends up living there. Along the way, apart from the murders he has to solve, he encounters corruption in the police force which almost destroys him, terrorism, difficulties with his son; but nothing dents his belief that people are essentially good - indeed, he's known for choosing as colleagues people whom everyone else has given up on: they inevitably come good in the end, and are fiercely loyal to the Chief.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwmqkAXH5P5Bru8kjviNOFsJ7IRlFJSy-i0K-rMp40SRCgcQvsWYIMsZhkiukUeH55-yDULpFwQ_HAFwG_tAY8ayMhNKqgVOboOevPDx23nwY2zV1k1JSxsCwh7VjdEapUPgzDhkkbVh-mYdz8EcZrBjBUdJ2DMaqvyaIZph3uAe1Xsp0-wr35galh=s600" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="483" data-original-width="600" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwmqkAXH5P5Bru8kjviNOFsJ7IRlFJSy-i0K-rMp40SRCgcQvsWYIMsZhkiukUeH55-yDULpFwQ_HAFwG_tAY8ayMhNKqgVOboOevPDx23nwY2zV1k1JSxsCwh7VjdEapUPgzDhkkbVh-mYdz8EcZrBjBUdJ2DMaqvyaIZph3uAe1Xsp0-wr35galh=w400-h323" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>So why are the books so comforting? Well, the belief in kindness and goodness clearly helps. So does the version of winter, which is so much more magical than the dank, damp and dreary variety which we see so much more of. The stories are gripping, and the conversation is funny and sharp - it's as if you're in the company of a bunch of a delightful group of friends, who will always be able to entertain you.</p><p>And then there's the food. There is so much wonderful food. The owners of the bistro and guesthouse, Gabri and Olivier (I think that's his name, but may be wrong) produce the most delicious snacks and meals at the drop of a hat, but they're not the only ones; everyone seems to have their own speciality, except Ruth, who simply helps herself to what everyone else cooks. There are croissants, and brownies, and masses of maple syrup, and sandwiches with the most gorgeous fillings, and spicy soups - well. Who wouldn't want to live in Three Pines, despite the high incidence of murder?</p><p>If you haven't been there yet, do drop in. See you in the bistro.</p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-86049031935367729522021-09-11T17:30:00.001+01:002021-09-11T17:30:00.190+01:00The Island of Missing Trees, by Elif Shafak<p> I first came across Elif Shafak when I was listening to an online talk last year from the Hay Festival. She was on a panel with Philippe Sands, a writer I very much admire: partly because he is a human rights lawyer as well as an author. He's an engaging speaker as well - as was Elif Shafak, who impressed by her intelligence and composure. She also happens to be very beautiful, which isn't relevant to her writing, but is too obvious not to comment on.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R5erqC1nmTE/YTzVjDR0DRI/AAAAAAAAK8I/t3nk7v6oq_wwzbiMosj-SikOLSiWew8cACLcBGAsYHQ/s499/51vrsbO8dFS._SX322_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="324" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R5erqC1nmTE/YTzVjDR0DRI/AAAAAAAAK8I/t3nk7v6oq_wwzbiMosj-SikOLSiWew8cACLcBGAsYHQ/w260-h400/51vrsbO8dFS._SX322_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>Originally from Turkey but now living in England, she mentions in her acknowledgements that when she left Istanbul many years ago, she didn't realise that it was for the last time. So she knows what it means to be an exile from her home country. And that is one of the things this book is about - though there are many more.</p><p>At the centre of the story are two lovers, Defne and Kostas. Defne is a Turkish Cypriot, Kostas a Greek one, and they fall in love in 1974, just before civil war breaks out on the island. We only find out gradually what happens to them; the story unfurls over three time periods, 1974, the early 2000s, and the late 2010s. In this latter period, the viewpoint character is Ada, the couple's daughter - who knows little of their past, but is devastated by her mother's recent death, and does not understand why none of their relatives have reached out to her. But then her aunt arrives on the doorstep, and gradually the secrets of the past come out of hiding.</p><p>So it's about civil war, and the impact of the past on the present, and about the different agonies of those who leave and those who stay: it's about memory, and love, and growing up. It's also about trees. In fact a fig-tree is one of the main characters: it gradually reveals much of the story, which it gleans from the creatures which visit it - ants, butterflies, a mosquito, a bee. Kostas, a gentle man, studies insects and trees, and we learn how trees can help each other and defend themselves, and how interdependent all forms of life are.</p><p>It's a wonderful, magical book. The story is engrossing, but there's so much else to the book as well as the central tale, and the magic is the natural magic of the earth. I like the world this author has created, and I'm very happy to see that she has written many more books, which I look forward to exploring.</p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-29375356043485073032021-08-26T06:00:00.001+01:002021-08-26T06:00:00.189+01:00Kathleen Jamie - Scotland's new makar<p><i> I've just read that Kathleen Jamie has been named as the new makar (national poet) for Scotland. I met Kathleen a couple of years ago on a course at Ty Newydd, and afterwards I read her book of essays, Sightlines. In honour of her appointment, I'm reposting what I wrote about it afterwards.</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k71urTmC68o/XZNXNo-XPaI/AAAAAAAAKKg/JgCqtKMR_Zw5R5OtGBuP8BnHhCDPEBjlACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/sightlines%2B2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="181" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k71urTmC68o/XZNXNo-XPaI/AAAAAAAAKKg/JgCqtKMR_Zw5R5OtGBuP8BnHhCDPEBjlACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/sightlines%2B2.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">A couple of months ago, I mentioned to a friend that I was about to go on a course on nature writing (at Ty Newydd – I wrote about it a few posts back). She chuckled, and said, “Oh, but nature writing’s so boring, isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was taken aback and lost for words. Now, I would say to her: <i>but what do you even mean by nature writing? How could it be ‘boring’ to read about something which I know she loves, just as I do? How could she not be interested in reading about what gives life to us, and makes our planet apparently unique - and how it is under profound threat?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Or perhaps I’d just give her this book by Kathleen Jamie and say, “Just give this a try. Go on – do.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Kathleen was one of the tutors on the Ty Newydd course. I had heard of her before, but though I’d given this book to a couple of other people as a present, I hadn’t actually read it myself. I’ve just remedied this, and have found it completely engrossing – and therapeutic. It’s autumn, which is a beautiful season but has at its heart the fading of things – the fading of light, the falling of leaves, the gradual death of flowers. Of course it’s not all bad – there are birds that arrive as well as those that depart, and there are already buds on the bare branches. But still – it’s a season when it’s easy to succumb to a generalised feeling of sadness. And there are one or two things going on in the outside world which are also just a tad worrying.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So there have been mornings when I’ve woken up feeling gloomy. But as soon as I begin to read a chapter of <i>Sightlines</i>, I am taken into another place - and what a relief that is. That is perhaps a clich<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span>: certainly, it’s my stock, easy answer when someone asks me what I like about reading: “A book can take you into another world…” But in this case, it really feels true. The book is a collection of essays. In most of them, Kathleen travels to Scottish islands, though there’s also one where she goes to a Norwegian museum and reflects on whale skeletons (in other essays, she writes about encounters with living whales); another where she decides she needs to see inside the body, not just outside, and examines pathogens under a microscope; another where she recalls an archaeology dig, from which the discovery of the ancient skeleton of a young girl lingers in her mind.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Wherever she goes, she is supremely attentive. She looks, she listens, she tastes, she touches, she thinks, she explores, she reflects. And she does this so effectively that the reader is right there with her, feeling the force of a wind strong enough to knock you over, seeing how gannets glint against a storm cloud, shocked at the speed with which killer whales slice through the water.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But she doesn’t simply describe what she sees. She muses, considers, makes analogies, asks questions. The reader follows not just her physical journeys, but the path her thoughts take. At the back of it all is an awareness of transience. As she says in the book’s final paragraph:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>There are myths and fragments which suggest that the sea that we were flying over was once land. Once upon a time, and not so long ago, it was a forest with trees, but the sea rose and covered it over. The wind and sea. Everything else is provisional. A wing’s beat and it’s gone.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">(She is flying in a helicopter as she leaves a remote, storm-swept island, where she had found a dead swan, describing its outstretched wing as <i>a full metre of gleaming quartz-white, a white cascade</i>: the swan’s wing, the wind, the helicopter flight – they all link into a chain of thought.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Boring? Not by any stretch of the imagination.<o:p></o:p></div><div><br /></div>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-6931590382496100152021-08-24T08:32:00.001+01:002021-08-24T08:32:07.019+01:00Jill Murphy: 5/7/49 - 18/8/21<br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v7zv2o69M5c/YSSfraeYx9I/AAAAAAAAK7s/oBBOsHfmYnkiF1iloj0_LSv-SFB55Ss2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Peace%2Bcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v7zv2o69M5c/YSSfraeYx9I/AAAAAAAAK7s/oBBOsHfmYnkiF1iloj0_LSv-SFB55Ss2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Peace%2Bcover.jpg" width="240" /></a></p><p>You can probably just about see from this picture that this is a well-worn book. You'll see it even better from the picture below: one page has a tear in it and both are creased from frequent handling.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YLedYp01MwM/YSKUmPaMzpI/AAAAAAAAK7c/FWNvZ-75oTw26yZXwl7prtrecyLikHj-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Peace%2Binside.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="640" height="293" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YLedYp01MwM/YSKUmPaMzpI/AAAAAAAAK7c/FWNvZ-75oTw26yZXwl7prtrecyLikHj-wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h293/Peace%2Binside.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>It's well-worn because it is well-loved. It was probably the book we read more than any other when our children were small. Just to see that picture, with the house, and the moon, and the cat, and the car, and the owl swooping across the night sky - and those first words: 'The hour was late." - takes me back to that moment when it's bedtime, and a child is curled up by your side, and together you know that you are about to embark on a magical incantation.</p><p>Yet there's no obvious magic in the story. It's a simple tale of Mr Bear, who is finding it very difficult to get to sleep. He tries going into Baby Bear's room, into the living room, into the kitchen, into the garden, into his car; but everywhere he goes, there is some noise that keeps him awake. Finally, he goes back into the house to his own bed, and is just drifting off... when the alarm goes!</p><p>But the pictures are perfect - the bears' expressions are brilliant - and the words are beautifully balanced and so good to read aloud. I read this so many times I knew it off by heart: I remember one time when I was shopping, with my first child in a pushchair. He started to get fractious. I recited <i>Peace At Last</i>, and all grew calm.</p><p>The book was written and illustrated by Jill Murphy, who also created the Large family (elephants, naturally), but is perhaps most famous for the <i>Worst Witch</i> series, which is about a girl called Mildred Hubble and her trials and tribulations at a boarding school for witches. The books, and the TV series which they gave rise to, where much loved by my daughter (and me too) - but<i> Peace At Last</i> has always retained the crown, and continues to do so with my grandchildren.</p><p>And yet I realised when I read the other day that Jill Murphy had died, at the far-too-young age of 72, that in an age when we know so much about so many writers, I knew nothing at all about her. I don't know why this is. From the photographs of her, she looks lovely, with a huge smile and an obvious sense of fun: she seems to radiate happiness. Perhaps she didn't court publicity: perhaps she didn't need to, and could simply allow her books to speak for her.</p><p>I'm so sorry she has died so soon. I wish her, as I wish all of us, <i>Peace At Last</i>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E91AJm1YZtk/YSKapuxqwjI/AAAAAAAAK7k/zZKimQzARsM8ia4Bfc9faHUCMNAFpOp2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s976/_120091267_jill-murphy-in-her-studio_cut.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="976" height="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E91AJm1YZtk/YSKapuxqwjI/AAAAAAAAK7k/zZKimQzARsM8ia4Bfc9faHUCMNAFpOp2wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h225/_120091267_jill-murphy-in-her-studio_cut.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-30600737926868388432021-05-08T18:15:00.002+01:002021-05-08T18:15:47.290+01:00The Lamplighters, by Emma Stonex<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0EONsiwouq8/YJa7hlNDlUI/AAAAAAAAK10/QDFnMmVkppwp639xBCen9RFyKLHGsBw8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/lamplighters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0EONsiwouq8/YJa7hlNDlUI/AAAAAAAAK10/QDFnMmVkppwp639xBCen9RFyKLHGsBw8ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/lamplighters.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>The first thing to be said about this book is that it is very, very beautiful. The photograph doesn't actually do it justice: the cover depicts a lighthouse, surrounded by dark, swirling clouds and seas - rich crimson, ultramarine and black, with a scattering of gold - the colours are much more vivid than in the photo. In my edition, which is said to be a Waterstone's exclusive, the colours bleed over onto the page edges: such drama!</p><p>Publishers don't give such luscious treatment to a book unless they really have faith in it - and you can absolutely see why Picador would have had that kind of faith in <i>The Lamplighters</i>. it begins with a rivetting mystery. In December 1972, Jory, the boatman, takes supplies and a relief keeper out to the Maiden Rock Lighthouse, which is on a pinnacle of rock beyond Landsend in Cornwall: isolated and difficult to reach because of wild seas. Normally, the resident keepers would be waiting to help him moor the boat and unload, but today no-one is there, and Jory realises that something is very wrong. He goes to fetch help, and when they eventually manage to get into the lighthouse, they find that all three keepers have disappeared. The table is laid for two, and two clocks have stopped at the same time.</p><p>The mystery of what happened to them is never solved, although a possible explanation is eventually given in the book. The story is taken up in 1992, when a writer contacts the women who were left behind by the three keepers, saying he wants to undertake a new investigation. The stories of the three women are interwoven with the stories of the three keepers, and gradually, the complexities of their relationships - and what may have led to the tragedy - are revealed.</p><p>It's a very powerful book. The lighthouse itself is at the very centre of things, and it comes as no surprise to find out that Emma Stonex has always been fascinated by lighthouses. She vividly describes the wildness of the sea and the strangeness of the life on this inaccessible place, and her depiction of Arthur, the chief keeper, in particular, is subtle and deep. The book is a kind of memorial to the lighthouses and their keepers, for of course they are all automated now; they're surrounded with an aura of romance and heroism, rather as the lighthouse itself is surrounded by the elements of wind and water.</p><p>I felt slightly less satisfied by the supernatural element, which becomes more significant in the later part of the book. It felt as if this was introduced, but the author wasn't certain how much credibility to give it, so it wasn't fully realised. And there were one or two other elements which came in later on which felt similarly not quite right to me - can't really discuss them without giving too much away.</p><p>But those quibbles apart, this is a wild and wonderful book - one to read as the night draws in, and preferably with a storm rattling the windows - with maybe a branch tapping against the glass...</p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-48861516888290525252021-04-25T11:38:00.001+01:002021-04-25T11:38:55.216+01:00The Last Bear, by Hannah Gold<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This book was written for children - but that certainly doesn't mean it should only be read by children. It's original and captivating, and very timely.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>The Last Bear</i> is an unusual and enchanting book which doesn't shy away from difficult and pertinent issues - in particular, it looks at the question of climate change and what it's doing to life on our planet. But as well as this, it explores the loss of a parent, and what that does to the remaining parent as well as the child. If that all sounds very heavy, it's really not. The 'messages' emerge very naturally from the story - there's no sense whatever that the reader is being lectured.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Cj6epTs411Y/YFdhQ899AOI/AAAAAAAAKzw/agA6TgslUH0RkJ3JBuU2pF36J-P8R8nLACLcBGAsYHQ/s900/bear%2Bhg.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="900" height="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Cj6epTs411Y/YFdhQ899AOI/AAAAAAAAKzw/agA6TgslUH0RkJ3JBuU2pF36J-P8R8nLACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h225/bear%2Bhg.webp" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">April Wood is eleven, and lives with her father, a climatologist. Her mother died when she was four, so April scarcely remembers her - 'whenever she thought of her, it was like thinking of a lovely summer holiday she'd once been on.' Her father, however, has coped less well. He buries himself in his work, and scarcely notices that he has a daughter. So, for instance, April has to cut her own hair with a pair of garden scissors, because her father simply doesn't see that it needs attention. So April looks odd, and is teased at school. But she's not unhappy: she loves animals, and enjoys watching a family of foxes which lives in their unkempt garden: '...she preferred animals to humans anyway. They were just kinder.' That last, brief sentence really sums up how she relates to other children: she does not like school.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then an opportunity arises for her father - and April - to go and spend a few months on a remote island - Bear Island - in the Arctic Circle. Despite her grandmother's misgivings, April is delighted, because she thinks that, as they will be the only two people on the island, it will bring herself and her father closer together - they'll make snowmen, they'll explore, they'll observe wildlife together - he will 'see' her. But none of this comes to pass: her father is too busy, engrossed in a job which should really be done by two people - quite apart from the fact that he never notices April anyway. (Really, you feel like shaking him. He's not intentionally cruel, but he is selfishly wrapped up in his own grief.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">She's disappointed, but she's a resourceful child, so she goes off on her own to explore. In particular, she believes that there might be a polar bear on the island - even though she's been told that there can't be, because since the ice has been receding because of climate change, bears can no longer reach Bear Island from Svalbard further north. But she turns out to be right - there <i>is</i> a bear, and it's in pain and in desperate need of help. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The story of how she and the bear get to know each other, and how she helps it to regain its health and strength, is magical and very touching. I won't tell you what happens at the end, but trust me, your heart will be in your mouth. April puts herself in extreme danger in order to save the bear and get him back to Svalbard: her adventure, in the end, brings her closer to her father - who finally wakes up and realises how close he has come to losing his daughter.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-apOwXR2fnGg/YFdheuPkdhI/AAAAAAAAKz0/5i_d2Q7YTjIQT-umXz2ZHPrjajjWF96owCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Bear.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-apOwXR2fnGg/YFdheuPkdhI/AAAAAAAAKz0/5i_d2Q7YTjIQT-umXz2ZHPrjajjWF96owCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Bear.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hannah Gold brings off a clever sleight of hand with this story. It is not, in some ways, realistic: a real polar bear would not, one imagines, allow a child to come so close to him, let alone give her rides on his back: a real organisation would not - one imagines - allow a man to take his small daughter to live on a remote island with no shops or facilities, let alone a school. And as for what happens at the end - well, health and safety would have conniptions.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">But you accept all these things, because everything else about the story is so real and so convincing. The bear's physical presence is vividly evoked: his smelly breath, his size, his strength - and his plight. And April, with her courage and persistence, is a character you absolutely believe can win through, despite the enormous obstacles she faces.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The book is beautifully illustrated by Levi Pinfold. His pictures show just what a huge and powerful beast the bear is: April is tiny beside him. Tiny, but tough, imaginative and resourceful. It's a thoroughly delightful book - I loved it.</span></p><p><br /></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-16746834764413341102021-04-23T08:09:00.002+01:002021-04-23T08:09:23.239+01:00An apology, and thanks for all the comments!<p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">Dear readers! </span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I've often felt a little bit sad that although I get readers on this blog, I never seem to get any comments.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">But I've just discovered a whole <i>load </i>of comments which have been sitting there, some of them for ages, waiting patiently to be moderated! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was such a treat to read them all, and now I'm off to change the settings so that this doesn't happen again. I must have changed them after a spam attack, and then just forgotten about it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I feel very cheered, and will post a picture of cowslips to say a big fat thank you to you all!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SUuguBKVpbA/YIJxzJH-GzI/AAAAAAAAK1U/r0AN68CWSa0nyNFHAmsrvGrNiRk7OFJNgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_0912.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SUuguBKVpbA/YIJxzJH-GzI/AAAAAAAAK1U/r0AN68CWSa0nyNFHAmsrvGrNiRk7OFJNgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG_0912.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-4568173272623624952021-04-14T15:30:00.001+01:002021-04-14T15:30:13.995+01:00Underland, by Robert Macfarlane<p> The first thing to say is that I do realise how useless I am at keeping up this blog. I am very envious of a friend who has written down every book she's ever read in a notebook (several notebooks? A bookcase full of notebooks?) - and yet I have utterly failed at writing a bit about a book just once every couple of weeks or so.</p><p>I'm not making excuses - well, I am - but I think it's because I read a lot, and as soon as I've finished one book, I start another. Plus, I sometimes have several on the go at the same time. And during this lockdown in particular, I've really felt the need for bookish worlds to escape into, one after another - and to stop to review each one just seems too big an ask. (Not, of course, that anyone's asking except me.)</p><p>But, I've just finished the latest draft of my work in progress and don't yet know what I'm going to write next, so I'm going to try and catch up a little bit. But of course, it's some while since I've read some of these books, so you'll have to bear with if if there's a certain lack of detail.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NQyOes-l0fI/YHb78fxwPeI/AAAAAAAAK0c/GuW9gm7ckGIlEiS4xFenFsnAbMlI1U8YQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Underland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1331" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NQyOes-l0fI/YHb78fxwPeI/AAAAAAAAK0c/GuW9gm7ckGIlEiS4xFenFsnAbMlI1U8YQCLcBGAsYHQ/w260-h400/Underland.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>First up is Robert Macfarlane's <i>Underland</i>. Now, I have to confess that while I have read other books by Macfarlane, I haven't always round them easy to get into. Typically, I read a few pages or a couple of chapters, and think <i>Oh, what beautiful writing this is!</i> - and then find myself gravitating towards something easier. I do wonder if this is partly to do with being immersed in children's books, and in crime fiction. With both of these, the story is all. At the end of each chapter, there needs to be a hook which draws you inexorably into reading the next chapter. And you don't spend an awful lot of time writing description - there is room for it, and some children's books have mouthwatering descriptions - but it's subservient to the story.</p><p>With nature writing, the case is quite different. I think it's probably fair to say that with nature writing, observation and description form the bedrock of the essay or book. Other things will emerge, but that's where you start. So your expectations need to be different. You need to slow down, take your time, read carefully. Whereas naturally, what I do is gallop through.</p><p>However with <i>Underland</i>, it was different. It was gripping.</p><p>As you might deduce from the title, it's about exploring underground. It's divided into three sections, called the first, second and third chambers. The first deals with caves and tunnels in Britain; the second with undergound tunnel networks in Paris, Italy and Slovenia, and the third with caves in Norway, Greenland and Finland. </p><p>The first chapter concerns the Mendips - of which the hill in the title of this blog is one. Macfarlane doesn't just desribe the landscape. He muses on it, reflects on it, explores it through a network of ideas and cultural references. Looking at this first chapter again, my eye is caught by this, from Sean, the friend who will be his guide to the Mendips: </p><p>"This has been a funerary landscape for over 10,000 years. It's a terrain into which we have long entrusted things, as well as from which we have long extracted things." </p><p>Macfarlane expands on this, illustrating the thought with lots of examples of ancient burials, in Austria, in Israel, in Somerset itself, and mulling over their significance. Then, he goes underground with Sean. There is climbing over wet rock, there is the rope getting stuck, there is squeezing through narrow passageways. It's all quite terrifying - especially when he tells the incredibly sad story of a caver in the Peak District who got stuck in a narrow gulley and could not be got out. He's there to this day. So nightmares come true.</p><p>And this is the pattern of the book: erudite musing about the historical, philosophical, cultural or scientific significance of what he's seeing, alternated with jaw-dropping accounts of dangerous descents. I confess I'm a complete wuss: scared of heights, depths, deep water and narrow spaces. So I'm fascinated by the exploits of someone who is clearly not any of those things. And I am interested in caves, because of something I've been writing. And the writing is beautiful. So, yes, I was hooked.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-83859427356477124472021-01-10T14:25:00.003+00:002021-01-10T14:25:45.329+00:00Voyage of the Sparrowhawk, by Natasha Farrant<p> I noticed the other day that this book, <i>Voyage of the Sparrowhawk</i>, has won the children's book category of the Costa award, and so I decided to send for it. The afternoon it arrived, on a cold grey day when the obvious thing to do was to curl up with a good book, I settled down on the settee and got stuck in.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VJc0dP_QLdM/X_rxUl3jrSI/AAAAAAAAKvQ/UwsQ-fXWOtg4de1IkZ5Fc2qCub21S_NwACLcBGAsYHQ/s404/sparrowhawk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="125" data-original-width="404" height="124" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VJc0dP_QLdM/X_rxUl3jrSI/AAAAAAAAKvQ/UwsQ-fXWOtg4de1IkZ5Fc2qCub21S_NwACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h124/sparrowhawk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>It's 352 pages long, and other than getting up to make a cup of tea, I barely looked up until I'd read it. It's that entertaining.</p><p>Set just after the First World War, it's about two orphans, Lotti and Ben. Lotti's parents, wealthy, charming, and very much in love, both with each other and with their little daughter, are killed in a plane crash. Lotti inherits their beautiful house and their money - but her guardian is her ghastly uncle, Hubert Netherbury, who is a cruel bully who wants to enjoy her house and money and, seeing Lotti as an inconvenience, packs her off to an unpleasant boarding school.</p><p>The story starts when she is twelve. Having just run away from school, she meets Ben and they become firm friends. Ben's background is far less privileged. Having spent his early years in a horrible orphanage, he is rescued by Nathan, a kindly barge owner. Nathan comes across Ben and his older friend Sam and, moved by their plight, takes them in. However, a few years later the war intervenes. Sam joins up and is injured. Nathan goes to France to see him in hospital, and is killed in a bombing raid: Sam is missing, presumed dead.</p><p>By coincidence, the hospital is close to the village where Lotti's beloved grandmother lives. Strangely, she has lost touch with her grandmother; though she has written many letters to her, she has never heard back.</p><p>But then various things happen which convince the two of them that they have no choice but to run away - and to where else but that village in France? And in what but Nathan's old barge, the Sparrowhawk? With them are their two dogs, which help to move the action along nicely.</p><p>The charm of the book is largely in its characters - not just Lotti and Ben, but their supporting cast of friends and helpers. They are generous, spiky, kind, practical, funny, brave, and Natasha Farrant tells their stories with crispness and panache. It's not all spun sugar: there are instances of real cruelty, there's jeopardy - and there are quite a few deaths.</p><p>When you start to write books for children, someone will point out to you quite early on that you need to devise a way to get rid of parents. Otherwise, how can your child heroes have the adventures they need to keep readers turning the pages? Back in the olden days, Enid Blyton did it with a flourish: off the kids would go to boarding school, and in the holidays to Kirrin Island. Convalescence from a serious illness was another goody, as with Will Stanton in Susan Cooper's <i>The Grey King</i>. Or there's always a wardrobe. Natasha Farrant ruthlessly wipes out , not one, but two set of parents here. (Interestingly, I heard Frank Cottrell Boyce on the radio the other day, talking about the Moomins - and he pointed out that in the Moomin books, this doesn't happen: the family is at the centre of the books. Each member is important, and when an adventure is afoot, the parents aren't necessarily left out of it.)</p><p>All that aside, this is a wonderfully readable and exciting book: perfect for distracting children - and yes, adults too - from these rather dreary days in which we find ourselves.</p><p>PS If you're reading this and quite enjoying it, do consider becoming a follower of this blog. You'll get a notification when there's a new post, and well - it would just be nice!</p><p><br /></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-59874620999553879602020-12-18T06:00:00.001+00:002020-12-18T09:11:59.637+00:00Winter Trees<p> Since my writing group went online, I've mostly done the weekly tasks I've set them - and it's been fun and quite liberating trying out different things. Most recently, I set them to write a poem about winter. (You can see the task <a href="https://suepurkissenterprises.blogspot.com/2020/12/a-poem-in-winter.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) My poem was very generously and kindly received - so here, very trepidatiously, because I know I'm not a poet, it is. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Winter Trees</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y8Ld_wXHKaI/X9j7xbSWIlI/AAAAAAAAKsE/Phma7Ek4_TUbgAAftQ-slPk8QuWLEIdzACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_0026.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y8Ld_wXHKaI/X9j7xbSWIlI/AAAAAAAAKsE/Phma7Ek4_TUbgAAftQ-slPk8QuWLEIdzACLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h200/IMG_0026.jpg" width="200" /></a></b></div><b><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They look
dead, don’t they?</span></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Beautiful,
but dead. That incredibly complex<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Network
of branches, held aloft against a thrush-egg sky:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">An
exquisite grey etching, done by the cleverest artist <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With the
finest pen. But of course, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They are
not dead: only resting,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Preparing
for spring. It’s all happening<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Inside
those enigmatic trunks and branches,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Powered
by invisible roots and fungal filaments.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All they
need from us<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Is to be
left alone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Their
backdrop is the sky.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes
dull grey cloud, perhaps<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With a
tinge of sulphurous yellow, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A warning
of storms ahead. But sometimes –<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ah,
sometimes!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They
trace their intricate patterns<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Against a
sky of perfect blue,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Which has
a softness summer skies <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Can’t
match: the chalky blue of<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ancient
frescoes. And then too –<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That
jewel-like blue, that you get <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Just
before sunset, when in a last splendid gesture,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The sun
throws gold at the trees<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And they flaunt
their splendour<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With all
the brilliance<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of a
mediaeval manuscript.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And then
again – not often, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But all
the more precious for that:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Silvered
by frost, they glitter<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With icy
magic. Or snow falls,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To
highlight each stark line,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">While
below, new shapes appear: <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Softly
sculpted drifts,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
delicate tracery of birds’ footprints.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And there
is<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A
silence, as the world holds its breath,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Before we
arrive, with our sledges and boots,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our
shouts and our litter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">🅲 <i>Sue Purkiss</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><br /><p></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-46474141787111977552020-10-30T07:00:00.001+00:002020-10-30T07:00:04.726+00:00A Claxton Diary, by Mark Cocker<p> If there's one thing that the lockdown reminded many of us, it's that nature is immensely important to us. For reasons that should be obvious, but also because a close relationship with nature soothes us, calms us - heals us.</p><p>I'm not suggesting you should use this book as a substitute for a walk in the woods or a spell in the garden - but it can reinforce the real thing by providing you with a regular, beautifully crafted little dose of the natural world by a writer who has observed it closely and intently for many years. To quote the book cover:</p><p>"For seventeen years as part of his daily routine the author and naturalist Mark Cocker has taken a two-mile walk to the river from his cottage on the edge of the Norfolk Broads National Park. Over the course of those 10,000 daily paces he has learnt the art of patience to observe a butterfly, bird, flower, bee deer, otter or fly and to take pleasure in all the other inhabitants of his parish no matter how seemingly insignificant."</p><p>This book contains a collection of these observations - mostly but not exclusively from Norfolk - in the form of a diary which takes us through a year's seasons. The author observes meticulously, and describes with exactitude - but he also has a huge amount of background knowledge with which to contextualise his observations.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oo74MXSyey0/X5RI-TlUf_I/AAAAAAAAKpc/hpE6paBXxXoPNyxkCPvEmCAqSLtWaH1WQCLcBGAsYHQ/s253/claxton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="165" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oo74MXSyey0/X5RI-TlUf_I/AAAAAAAAKpc/hpE6paBXxXoPNyxkCPvEmCAqSLtWaH1WQCLcBGAsYHQ/w209-h320/claxton.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>A particular favourite of mine is the entry for 18th September 2014, and it will serve as an example. It's about swallows. He begins with a single swallow, perched on a wire. "It looks cute, but that enamel-blue bird is made of something tougher than steel. Very soon it will follow its instincts south over the English Channel, down through France and Spain and across the Straits of Gibralter. In a single non-stop odyssey it will then traverse the greatest desert on Earth."<p></p><p>He goes on to discuss the swallow's migratory journey in more detail, and to reflect on its symbolic resonance - the significance of its blue colour, and what that stands for in various contexts; the reason why Estonia recently chose the swallow as a national emblem; what its changing distribution tells us about climate change. But he ends with this: "We should cherish swallows for what they gift to us and for what they tell us about ourselves."</p><p>So what does this book gift to us? Well, it provides us with a few minutes of peace and focus on the natural world, in a day which at the moment is likely to feature too much dark news, too much to worry about and to fear. It shows us - or reminds us - how to look, and how each part of nature - including ourselves - is inextricably entwined in a vast and extraordinary whole.</p><p>It teaches us, perhaps, the value of stillness.</p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-77690188039199339242020-10-24T14:28:00.002+01:002020-10-26T08:21:34.838+00:00The Wild Silence, by Raynor Winn<p> This book is a sequel to <i>The Salt Path</i>, which I reviewed <a href="https://suepurkiss.blogspot.com/search?q=the+salt+path" target="_blank">here</a>. That was the story of how Raynor Winn and her husband Moth, in their fifties, lost everything after a dispute with someone who had been a lifelong friend over investments: they had to walk out of their beloved Welsh farmhouse with virtually nothing. On top of that, Moth was diagnosed with a cruel terminal disease, corticobasal degeneration, or CBD; he had about two years, they were told.</p><p>There are many things that emerge from <i>The Salt Path</i> and its successor, <i>The Wild Silence</i>. But one of the main elements is the rock-solid relationship between Raynor and Moth. So when they found themselves in this terrible situation, the one thing Raynor was not going to do was to simply accept the diagnosis and the doctor's advice - which was to avoid all strain and rest as much as possible.</p><p>Another element - which is explored even more thoroughly in this second book - is Raynor's profound connection with the land, with nature. Brought up on a farm, shy with other people, nature is her solace and her inspiration. So perhaps it wasn't surprising that she should turn to nature for relief. She suggested that, against all the dictates of caution and common sense, they should take to the wild and walk the South-West Coastal Path - despite the fact that Moth could hardly walk and would have trouble carrying a pack. (In any case, they had so little money to buy food or any other necessities that their packs must have been relatively - but only relatively - light.)</p><p>And it worked. They had an extraordinary journey, which resulted not in a miracle cure, but certainly in an improvement in Moth's condition. And at the end of it, a stranger offered them a refuge - a flat in Polruan, where they could live while Moth did a degree in sustainable agriculture, which he hoped would then bring him emploment.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5CEy-DikK8g/X5Qq7w7GduI/AAAAAAAAKpE/cMEtjDyEZTEbRtoGm3qPits_Xb0Sm6qlgCLcBGAsYHQ/s284/wild%2Bsilence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="177" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5CEy-DikK8g/X5Qq7w7GduI/AAAAAAAAKpE/cMEtjDyEZTEbRtoGm3qPits_Xb0Sm6qlgCLcBGAsYHQ/w249-h400/wild%2Bsilence.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><p>This is where the second book picks up the story.</p><p>Often, a sequel is a rather paler version of the book it follows. That is not the case here. It seems to me that Raynor has gained confidence in her writing - not surprisingly, considering the huge success of <i>The Salt Path</i>. She writes absolutely beautifully in this book, and very effectively investigates subtle and complex ideas and emotions - as well, of course, as providing rich and evocative descriptions of nature.</p><p>The structure of the book is complex. She is exploring different aspects and periods of her life simultaneously; in the first section she is taking care of her mother, who has been taken to hospital following a stroke. Alongside this we find that she and Moth are still, three years later, in Polruan, and that Moth, despite increasing weakness, is nearing completion of his degree - whereas Raynor has become increasingly reclusive and anxious about meeting people. She has to make a terrible decision about her mother's care, and, staying in her mother's cottage, memories come back to her of her childhood. We begin to see that her current state is rooted in the past, and we find out how she met Moth, and how their relationship developed.</p><p>Later, she describes how the writing of <i>The Salt Path</i> came about. In the beginning, she knows nothing about publishing and has no expectations of success - she is writing about their extraordinary journey in order to capture it for Moth, who, to her dismay, is losing his memories of it. But of course it does become a success, and this leads to a new phase of their lives, when a wealthy businessman asks the two of them to take care of a farm he has bought, which is exhausted from intensive farming and almost devoid of wildlife. He wants them to bring it back to life, to re-nature it. At first, they are doubtful: the house is a damp and crumbling wreck, the farm will take a lot of work to enable the land to recover. But, never able to resist a challenge, they take it on.</p><p>In the last section of the book, they decide to undertake another ambitious walk: Moth is getting weaker, and they are convinced that what he needs, as before, is to literally and metaphorically stretch himself.</p><p>So they go to Iceland, with their friends Dave and Julie, whom they met on their first walk. They only have two weeks, which unfortunately fall at the end of the Icelandic summer and at the beginning of its fierce winter. Crazy? Well, perhaps - but when did that ever stop them?</p><p>Here is an example of Raynor's writing. She is describing the process of writing, of reliving, the coastal walk.</p><p><i>I stood in the dim evening light, faced the wall and spread my arms wide and the rain came stinging on gale-force winds, pounding my face, battering the rucksack. Winds roaring through granite-block cliffs, hurling crows through wild grey skies.</i></p><p>Here's another:</p><p><i>The soft rain became vertical rods of connection between land and sky, drops bouncing from the river with the force of a pebble, leaving ripples expanding and reflecting.</i></p><p>Enjoy.</p><p><br /></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910221557632849202.post-27347329245543924642020-10-08T22:39:00.001+01:002020-10-08T22:54:01.211+01:00Mr Keynes' Revolution, by E J Barnes<div>I have just finished reading this book, which is a novel about the influential economist J Maynard Keynes. I thoroughly enjoyed it and am only sorry it came to an end when it did - I gather there will be a sequel, and I'll certainly be buying that. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1N5WLnvsusU/X3-KBLzjcXI/AAAAAAAAKoQ/NdgPk7ENMp8S-t8-bAAihmcDlqES_gZ7gCLcBGAsYHQ/s500/Keynes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="324" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1N5WLnvsusU/X3-KBLzjcXI/AAAAAAAAKoQ/NdgPk7ENMp8S-t8-bAAihmcDlqES_gZ7gCLcBGAsYHQ/w259-h400/Keynes.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Keynes was a member of the Bloomsbury Group - Virginia Woolf, her sister Vanessa Bell, Bunny Garnett, Duncan Grant and co. Known for their interesting private lives as well as for their writing and painting, they have often been the subject of films and TV programmes. Keynes was a central figure - and financially a godsend to the others, but he is a fairly shadowy figure in accounts of the group. This is surprising when, as this book does, you look at his life. He was a hugely influential economist, but he too had a colourful private life. He was happily gay until, all of a sudden, he watched a Russian ballerina dancing across the stage as the Lilac Fairy - and suddenly, he was not. Despite practical obstacles (Lydia turned out to be already married, although, fortunately, to a bigamist) and the opposition of some of his friends, he married her - and the marriage, on the evidence of this book, looks like being a happy one.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know anything about economics, but the author doesn't shy away from the subject, and clearly explains the issues with which Keynes grappled. (In her note at the end of the book, she reveals that she studied economics at Cambridge, so that's perhaps not surprising.) But she also makes him come alive as a man, revealing his intelligence, his directness, his loyalty to his friends, and his charisma. Lydia, too is brought to life: practical, down-to-earth, warm, funny. There are a whole array of other characters who also tread the boards, and I look forward to meeting them again in the next volume.</div><div><br /></div><div>Recommended for people who, like myself, enjoy Jane Thynne's books, which are set in the next decade in Germany - and for anyone with an interest in the Bloomsbury Group, in economics, or generally in that period between the wars which, with hindsight, seems full of doomed gaiety.</div>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com1