Here We Go Again--Tricia McGill

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Just when we think life is getting back to some sort of normalcy, the gates on our life slam shut, and once more we are in lockdown here in Victoria as well as some other states, as the virus spreads its ugly wings. When I get down in the dumps, which is not very often, I think of the fantastic years when my husband and I would pack our caravan and head off to parts unseen. Thank heaven I kept a pictorial copy of all our journeys. Usually about July when the weather is at its cold and dullest here in Victoria, we would go north or west in search of the sunshine. I still dream of those carefree days, lolling about in some tropical haven, or walking miles along a beach that seemed to go on forever, where it seemed that no pair of feet had trodden before. Being close up to a dolphin at Monkey Mia WA, or face to face with a Cassowary in a Queensland rain forest are memories to cherish.

Most people have heard of Sydney Harbour and its bridge and the Opera House, and perhaps a few have seen the movie Red Dog, featuring the dog who roamed from one end of Western Australia (and that is a very long way) to the other end in search of his long lost master (or so the story goes). I have sat beneath the statue erected in his honour in Dampier WA. As you can see, our dogs always accompanied us on our travels.   

Many a time we took a wrong route after being advised which road to take, which often resulted in getting lost, but thus seeing some of the most remarkable places in the country. Once we were advised to be wary of the roadworks being carried out on a pass over a mountain in New South Wales. Halfway up we were faced with rocks the size of melons on a barely made pass. Often it was just a matter of keep right on, as there simply was no alternative because it would have been impossible to backtrack.

Often the locals had great fun advising travellers of the perils to be faced when on the road. Old-
time Aussies have a great (and at times weird) sense of humour. There really is a dunny tree not far from Broken Hill—just one of the many strange sights we encountered along the way. Mind you, the advice to keep our dogs well away from water frequented by crocodiles was well noted and obeyed.

I guess my love of this country is what inspired me to write my Settlers Series, for it is easy to imagine how hard it was for the early explorers and settlers when they set out on epic journeys without knowing what the road ahead held for them. Whether it was carving a road across the Blue Mountains, setting a trail across land from east to west that must have taken months, or tackling trails where the only means of transport was by horse, oxen and even camel, it sparks the imagination.
I have never fancied myself as a pioneer and always preferred the comfort my road home gave me, and admit there were times in our early travelling days when I became slightly panicky knowing my family were not within a day’s trip away. My husband would have been happy to spend our whole lives on the road (as many people did and still would if not for the restrictions of Covid) but much as I loved travelling, I was always happy to return to my home state and always will be.

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Time for a story--Tricia McGill

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When young I travelled west from London many times heading to Devon and Cornwall, first with my family and later with my husband. I always loved the moors, be it Bodmin or Dartmoor. The rugged scenery stirred something in me, even as its remoteness could often be daunting to a city dweller. This short story was obviously inspired by one of my trips down that way.

It stood on Dartmoor, well away from the road to the village. Its surrounds were covered with brambles, its roof sagging. The weathered beams beneath protruded in places and stood out starkly against the grey sky. She walked towards it, stepping over nettles and rocks. The stories about ghostly noises heard by the locals in the deep of night didn't put her off. They said that signs of ghostly inhabitants had been recorded at this time of the year when the days were short and the mists dropped to shroud the moors practically every day. 

She'd spent the past evening in the cosy bar of The Boar, pumping all the locals about the ghost. Every story was different, but she chose to believe the one about the ancient warrior who haunted the cottage. He was to have been married and a week before the wedding day was sent off by his King to fight in a distant county, where he had been killed. His beloved had waited in the dwelling that was to have been their home; waited in vain for her knight's return. When he never returned her ruthless father had forced her into a loveless marriage with a landowner. 

When the story reached the part where the maiden ended her life by throwing herself from her hated husband's castle wall her skin crawled and her heart began to beat in double time. Had her overworked imagination let her taste the girl's despair, felt her hopelessness, and endured her pain as she stood on the battlements; her wretchedness warring with her faith?

She pushed open the door that hung on one rusted hinge. It protested as she lifted the rotten wood back out of the way. There was a fireplace opposite the door, recessed in the thick wall. A few cinders piled in its grate showed it had been used recently by a tramp, or perhaps a lost hiker had built a small fire here when one of the mists the moors were renowned for had come down, stranding him. 

Once, a staircase must have led to the upper floor where a small room might have been nestled beneath the roof beams, but that had long since collapsed. There was just a ragged hole in the ceiling now, letting in the drizzle. The walls had been built to last, for most of them were still intact, just crumbling here and there by the small window openings. She ran a hand over one of the solid blocks of stone she knew had been carved from one of the local hills.

A sense of homecoming enveloped her, which was strange to say the least, for hadn't she spent all her twenty years living with her parents in a comfortable semi-detached house on the outskirts of London. Once, when she was about ten, her mum and dad had brought her on a holiday to this part of the West Country, and as her dad drove near to this old dwelling she'd called to him to stop, begging them to let her look it over. Bemused, her parents had stood aside while she explored its derelict interior.

That same compulsion that urged her to come inside then had called her back. In the years since, she had known that one day she would return; had been biding her time. Waiting, in fact, until her parents had no real need of her any more. Perhaps people would say there was something weird about a house calling you, but to her it was not extraordinary at all. Although it was something she never discussed with anyone. Her parents had long forgotten her fascination with this place. 

The sky was getting darker by the minute; even though her watch told her it was barely two. Curving her arms about her middle, she shuddered. Not with fear, but because she felt chilly in her thin sweater and lightweight slacks. She should head back to the hotel, but knew she couldn't leave yet. Going to stand by the fireplace, she rested a hand on the wall above it and stared down into the grate, knowing instantly that she'd stood here before, in the same position, but also sensing that then her heart had been heavy with sorrow. Her eyes misted as a great sadness crept over her; an echo of the anguish she'd known then. But even as she began to weep, she knew her tears were not for herself but for some distant soul whose feelings had somehow become intermingled with hers.

“Anna,” a soft voice whispered, and she gave a startled little moan as the faint sound seemed to reverberate about the room. 

Her first instinct was to deny the caller, for her name was Jean, but then she found herself returning the call with a whispered response of, “Hugo?”

Hearing a slight movement behind her, she turned her head to stare over a shoulder. A man stood in the doorway, framed by the fading light. She felt no surprise to see him there, in fact now knew she had been waiting for him. Waiting all her life. He wore a simple shirt of some woven fabric above a pair of breeches, with leggings fastened by cross garters.

“I didn't hear you arrive,” she said softly as he walked towards her, hands outstretched.

“I came as soon as I knew you were here, Anna.” His smile was agonisingly familiar. “It's been so long. Now we are home for good, my love.”

She fell into his welcoming arms, and he held her in a tight embrace. “Hugo, my love, we'll never be parted again,” she whispered, knowing they would be together now through eternity.

As they kissed, warmth invaded her limbs, and she felt the rays of the sun on her head. In the second before her eyes closed, she momentarily saw the room as it had been long ago, with the table of roughhewn wood set with a linen cloth finely embroidered about its edges. Simple crockery laid for a meal; the dresser by the wall with familiar plates lined up on its shelves and a copper pot holding wild roses. 

“Home at last,” he said in a low voice at her ear.

She knew it was the truth. This was where she belonged. Where her heart had always belonged. Her love was truly home; and so was she. 

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There are ways to travel back in time—Tricia McGill

 

To be released June 1st

Last year when the fear of an epidemic began to take hold of the world—and in general, my part of the world, Australia, I began to compare the coming disaster with the many others that have befallen our planet. Being an author, of course I began to work out ways of how to create a world where people were fighting to survive. Then the idea struck of what would a character do if she/he was whisked back in time from one crazy period in history to another. To make things easier, I already knew the world where she was going very well, so had no need to invent one. Little did I know when I began my latest book that Covid would turn our world upside down. That is the way with disasters; they strike suddenly and leave a trail of mayhem in their wake.

My family lived through WW11 and as the youngest, I heard stories as I grew about the war years, and how life was back then. Thus When Destiny Calls was born. Why not send my heroine back in time to 1940 Britain, when the Blitz was at its worst? My family lived in North London and that is where I spent my early years. 

Highbury Fields is a large park that features a lot in this latest book of mine. I have many memories of that area so had no trouble recreating it. I was married in the beautiful old church alongside the park, as were two of my sisters. My mother would send me up to the shops along Highbury Barn with a list. No supermarkets back then, you waited your turn to be served just like everyone else. All the shopkeepers knew my mother and her family well. 

One extremely foggy day when, as they say, you could not see a hand in front of your face, and the buses stopped running, I therefore had to walk home from school and the direct route was alongside the park. How I made it home that day I will never know, but I guess a lot of it was just a matter of animal instinct. Later, I joined a netball group and we played on the park courts in the summer evenings.

My one and only remaining sister will be 99 this year, so was therefore about 18 in 1940, just like Minnie in my story. Chloe, my main character cares for the old Minnie in an Australian nursing home. Minnie’s one remaining treasure is a photo album, which contains all her memories of her years as a young woman during and after the war, so it was inevitable that Chloe, who listened to Minnie’s many stories of how they all coped back then, would land back there. Chloe meets up with all the characters from Minnie’s album, and specifically a man named Bill who owns a dog called Tiger (hence the wonderful book cover). Was Chloe, by some strange quirk of Fate, called back in time to meet her destiny?

Darcy—Matthew or Colin? Tricia McGill

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I have recently viewed the 2005 movie version of Pride and Prejudice once again and of course could not avoid comparing the portrayal of Darcy as done by Matthew Macfadyen with Colin Firth’s version in the 1995 TV series. Much as I like Matthew as an actor, Colin will always remain my favourite and favourite to many others it seems. To me Matthew’s portrayal was much too severe for my liking, even though we all know that was how he was meant to play it, he came across as just plain bad tempered to me. There were many times when I wanted to shake a smile out of him. We all know that Darcy and Jane had their many differences and it is most likely that my annoyance with Matthew came from knowing of course that he would come round in the end and succumb to the wit and charm of Elizabeth, splendidly portrayed by Keira Knightly in this version. But even then he didn’t seem too enchanted to me. 

I have to admit that from all the characters, my favourite will always be Mr. Bennett, portrayed in this version by Donald Sutherland. His humorous patience with his twittering wife whose abiding aim in life is to marry her daughters off to wealthy gentlemen and his witty comments on all that is going on around him in that hectic household are outstanding. Above all, despite his seeming detachment, his love for his daughters shines through and steals the show. How times have changed. Although there are many differences between 1830 and now, there will always be mothers who are set on finding the best partners for their daughters. And always mothers who are disappointed with the choices made.

Another of my favourite characters is Elizabeth’s friend Charlotte who does not view life through tinted lenses. Realistically she sees that she is never likely to win the affections of a handsome gent who will sweep her off her feet for she is no beauty, although not plain, and knows that she will have to be satisfied with second best. To Elizabeth’s dismay, she accepts that a marriage with the pompous and idiotic Mr. Collins will bring her a house that she can call her own. It is a blessing that she does find contentment in this house. But isn’t this so true to life even these days when many are forced to accept second best matches. 

I wonder what Jane would think of her book being played out in so many different ways on the screen. Most authors desire to see their work made into a movie or TV series, I know I do, and are forever disappointed. Perhaps she is up yonder somewhere enjoying the fame. I do hope so. 

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Are diamonds really a girl’s best friend? Tricia McGill

 

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Not this girl’s that is for sure. I have never understood the weird fascination some members of the human race possess for shiny objects brought up from beneath the earth’s crust. Personally, the only so called precious substance I have or have ever possessed is my wedding band made of gold, and a small pendant with an opal drop purchased for me by my husband in Broome where all the best pearls come from. I think pearls are ugly to be truthful—and feel sorry for the poor old oysters forced to grow them.

As for diamonds, the ugly truth of diamond mining is the horrendous tally of folk who died over the years while working in the mines. Two of my most treasured pieces of jewellery are a dainty marquisette watch and a ring given to me by my mother and a sister on my 21^st birthday a long time ago. The watch gave up working years ago as it is one of those wind up versions, but is still tucked away amongst my other pieces of memorabilia. Marquisette is practically useless these days but these pieces are more precious to me than all your diamonds or gold.

Right, don’t get me started on gold! I watched a program on gold being processed here in Australia. A small brick of it could not be picked up by a woman and was valued at some amazingly high amount. Similar to the diamond mining, so many gold crazed men—and women—died in their quest for this shiny substance. It is just a piece of shiny rock when all is said and done.

On our voyage from England to Australia years ago, we took an unforgettable side trip to Egypt, visiting Giza and the Cairo museum containing all of the artefacts from Tutankhamen’s tomb. So much gold, it is mind-boggling. The boy’s burial chamber contained his gold throne along with his mummy and his funerary mask, plus three golden coffins (said to contain 110 kilograms of pure gold). In the Valley of Kings, it is fact that 62 tombs had already been ransacked by the time they were discovered by archaeologists. It is difficult to imagine the amount of gold that must have been taken—and just where did it end up? Ancient Egyptians called gold ‘The flesh of the gods’ and thought it possessed special powers, so presumably that was why they hoarded it in such great quantities. A British Egyptologist has

found new evidence that Tutankhamen’s death mask was in fact made for his stepmother Queen Nefertiti. Using ground-penetrating radar to scan around Tutankhamun’s tomb archaeologist Mamdouh Eldamaty has reported that her tomb may be in a space behind his burial chamber.

Back to that Australian gold mania. Edward Hargraves first found payable goldfields near Bathurst NSW in 1851. News spread like wildfire not only around Australia but around the world and by 1852, 370,000 gold seekers arrived here.  So began a series of gold rushes, which transformed the colonies here as it did elsewhere in the world. Most people have heard of The Welcome Stranger, considered by authorities on the subject to be the largest gold nugget ever found. John Deason and Richard Oates found it at a place called Moliagul here in my home state of Victoria in 1869. The nugget weighed in at 2,520 troy ounces (over 78 Kgs) and had to be broken up so that it could be weighed. Then it was worth about 10,000 pounds and in today’s market would be worth about 4 million dollars. I wonder where all those pieces ended up.

I wear rings and earrings of course I do, but none of them are worth more than a few hundred dollars, if that, but mean a lot to me as they were given to me by special people in my life and are treasured. Fact is I would be scared to walk around with expensive objects on my person. My husband bought me a really nice ring with a topaz stone in Singapore and sad to say I lost it while on holiday at Broken Hill years ago—so it seems I am not to be trusted with expensive stuff anyway, and so avoid it.

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Time for a story—Tricia McGill

Find all my books here on my BWL Author page.

 One of the questions we authors often get asked is, where do you get your ideas? For me a lot of my ideas come at the crack of dawn as I wake up from a dream--but there are times when an idea will not come, so that is when I go through some of my old short stories to stir the brain up. I came across this short short that is so old I have no idea when I penned it. In my search I also found another story that has now become the background for my next book.

A Friend in Need

    She pulled her tattered dress about her shoulders. Branches caught at her hair as she ran. The sound of her breathing, loud and laboured, reverberated around her head. Footsteps pounded behind her. “Oh God,” she cried on a sob.

   

    Trying to increase her speed, she tripped over a root and just stopped herself falling flat on her face. Blood was oozing from the cut above her left eye, and the graze on the back of her neck where he’d hit her with something solid was beginning to throb violently.

    

    “Please let me live, God, and I promise I’ll never go off the rails again,” she whispered.

    All went quiet. Hopefully, he had lost track of her. All she could hear were birds rustling in the trees above her. The night was as black as a tomb. Thunder rumbled off over town and she jumped out of her skin. Surely the road wasn’t far ahead. He’d only driven down the track for about five minutes before he’d stopped and ordered her out at knife point.
          

    What was that? She breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was the headlights of a car directing her towards the road. Her feet were torn to shreds. She had tossed her high heels away so she could run.
          

    A sob caught in her throat as she fought through some scrub and saw the strip of bitumen ahead. A set of headlights lit up the dark sky. Panting and sobbing at the same time she almost threw herself in front of the car. It slewed to the right of the road as she was caught in its headlights. The passenger wound down the window and she recognised Mrs. Jenkins who worked in the supermarket.
            

    “Please, I need help,” she cried, her voice coming out in a croak. Pulling the torn and bloody dress tighter about her, she moved nearer the car.
            

    “Drive on quick, Cyril, we don’t want tarts like that getting in our car,” Mrs. Jenkins said in her cracked and strident voice.
            

    Cyril Jenkins put up a mild argument but began to drive off. And Mrs. Jenkins gave her a wicked grin out of the window. She remembered calling the woman a rude name only last week. Giving another despairing sob, she began to stumble along the side of the road. When she heard another car approaching she stopped and began to wave. This one slowed down a fraction, and as it passed her she just made out the driver.
         

    Mrs. Morris. Another person who wouldn’t spare her the time of day. Who was she to think herself so high and mighty? Latest rumour was that she was carrying on with the local vet.
           

    Her legs were getting weaker. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep going. It began to rain, great soaking drops that saturated her hair, and the frock she hugged about her, in seconds.
            

    She heard another car approaching. This time she made no attempt to hail it. What was the point? They wouldn’t stop for her. She supposed it would be all over town by tomorrow. Who would pity her? No one. As usual they’d say she got what she deserved.
            

    The car slowed and she turned slightly, expecting it to go past as the others had. It stopped and so did she, the rain now rushing down her face. Her bra and underslip clung stickily to her body and her feet stung.
            

    “My goodness, what on earth are you doing out in this terrible storm, and what’s happened to you?” a kindly male voice said as she collapsed in a heap at his feet. She felt herself being lifted in a pair of strong arms. “What on earth have you done?” the voice asked and she tried to tell him, but her eyes wouldn’t open and her mouth had gone so dry that words wouldn’t come out of it.

***

    The sun streamed through the blinds and she felt cozily warm beneath a blanket. Moving slightly she realised she wore a fleecy sort of nightdress and her feet were bandaged. The ache in her head had subsided, but when she moved her neck a pain shot up to her scalp.
            

    “Ah, so you’re awake. How do you feel?” Elsie Trotter, the nurse asked, and she knew she was in the small hospital on the edge of town.
            

    “I feel fine now,” she whispered as she took a sip of the water Elsie held for her.
            

    “What a to-do you’ve caused,” Elsie said excitedly. “The press are waiting to interview you. Sir Henry Whittenberger found you wandering out on the back road. He’s paid for all your medical expenses, and we’re to keep him informed of your progress. The local paper wants to print your story, and who knows, by tonight you could be featured on the six-o-clock news.”
            

    She sank back on the pillow, her head whirling. What a turn up for the books. And if they thought she’d caused a to-do already, wait till they heard who’d tried to rape her at knife-point. Then the feathers really would start to fly in this neck of the woods.

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How important is the ending? Tricia McGill

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The book is nearing completion and you have tied up all the ends, but that last paragraph is eluding you. It has taken me a long time to reach this last paragraph of my latest book due to the extensive amount of research required. As the end looms I have been pondering on which way to finish the journey. In the past, I have had little trouble finding a way to tie up all the loose ends, but with this time-travel, I am unsure which way to go. Stay in the past? Return to the future and begin the journey all over again?

Writers are advised to start the book with a great paragraph that makes the reader itch to find out just where this story will go. I believe endings are just as important. Pondering on the final scene of some great books of the past the first that sprang to mind was the last words from Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind. His, “Frankly my dear I don’t give a damn,” will be forever remembered as one of the greatest ending lines after Scarlett asked him, “Where shall I go? Of course, that was only the concocted ending for the movie. The last line as written by the author was from Scarlett, and read, “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

One of the books I read as an eight or nine-year-old child was A Christmas Carol. The edition given to me by one of my sisters was illustrated and I can still remember the ghostly face of Marley, his former business partner on Ebenezer Scrooge’s doorknocker as depicted at the beginning. Most people know the last line of this book well, with Tiny Tom observing, “God bless us, everyone.”

Being a writer of romance, of course I mostly look for a happy ever after, not so much of the couple riding off into the sunset, but being a romantic at heart, I do tend to show my protagonists at least ending very happily together. There is nothing more satisfying than reaching the final page of a book with a sigh, along with a feeling that you were enjoying it so much you couldn’t wait to finish yet when you did you were sad to see it end.

Here are a few of my favourite endings, some well-known and loved and some not so:

"I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth." Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte

"She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously." The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck 

"God's in his heaven, all’s right with the world,' whispered Anne softly." Anne of Green Gables, Lucy Maud Montgomery

 "Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater happiness than this." Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

"And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea." Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier

 "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known." A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

"With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them."  Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen 

Find some more amazing endings here: https://www.washingtonpost.com/graphics/2019/entertainment/books/best-last-lines/

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Summer is a coming in—Tricia McGill

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At least it is in my part of the world, being Victoria, Australia. Melbourne and South Victoria have the dubious reputation of often having four seasons in one day. This is no lie, for it can be teeming with rain in the early part of the day, brighten up around tennish, be beautiful until teatime and then the temperature can dive within half an hour and then often be followed by a storm. This can be annoying if you left washing drying on the line while you were out and just before you arrive home, it pours. I love these changes to be honest and could not live with the temperature, let’s say in Darwin up north, where it can be what I call uncomfortably high most of the year. 

Anyway, this is not about the changing of the seasons but more about our plant life. I inherited a nice, smallish garden when I moved here about 15 months ago—just enough to keep my doggies and me happy. I have no lawn, a bonus as therefore we do not need a gardener periodically invading our serenity with his smelly mower. The saddest part about leaving my previous home of 26 years was leaving my beautiful garden behind. I do hope the new owners are taking care of it. I brought along about 6 or 8 plant tubs with me and have since purchased a few more. I now have a dwarf nectarine tree

which last season produced about 6 fruit—I am hoping for more this year. I also have a miniature pear tree, and cannot wait to see if it bears fruit. I worried at first that no bees were visiting to pollinate, but since the sun began to shine brightly each day, they are there, and seem to favour my lavender bush. I curse the councils who have no concern for bees and merrily continue with their pesticide spraying.

One of my favourite bushes is the hydrangea. I was not successful with them at the old place as the soil was not right for them, and to my delight I now have about 6 of them and since feeding them am hoping to get really nice blossoms before Christmas. One lovely bush that I have inherited is a Snowball bush (Viburnum). It currently has about 6 or 8 flowers but within a week or two will be covered in all its glory. Unfortunately, the blossoms do not last long and soon the ground below them looks just as if it has snowed recently (Something snow never does in this part of the world).

After moving in, a neighbour gave me small clusters of a ground covering plant called Grannie’s Bonnet. The ground where I planted this gets hard as rock in summer, but this hasn’t deterred this sturdy little plant as it flourishes.

I think I should say that in no way am I a gardener, more a potterer. I have a couple of plants that I have no idea what their names are, but they are currently flowering. The nearest guess I can take at this one is some sort of Myrtle. My roses of all colours are now budding. Whoever planted this garden originally must have loved roses and hydrangeas, bless them. A while back, I asked one of our village gardeners to get rid of an oleander for, as beautiful as they are, they are also toxic and I care more for my dogs than one colourful plant. I just realised that currently my plants all have white blossoms, but wait a few weeks until all my rose bushes are flowering and my garden will be a mass of colour.

 

Today as I write this it is 20c (68f) but within a few weeks the temperature will be rising drastically and can be anything up to 36c to 40c (100f) plus so for now I am relishing the lovely sunshine. My point is, no matter that in my part of the world we are still in lockdown, that I had to cancel my long awaited holiday in May, that I am forced to shop online or go without, Mother Nature still goes her merry way and brings pleasure into this strange world where we currently live.

 

So what really is in a kiss? Tricia McGill

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A lot it seems. This post was meant to be about that first kiss—and how it affected us. But as happens with research (this is why I love it) you end up finding out a lot more than you set out to find. While recalling my first ever kiss I was taken back to when I was about 14. That was when I met the boy who gave me that kiss. I was

looking my best (or so I thought) in a black and white check skirt and jacket that I treasured. My sister Joan made it for me to wear at our dear Dad’s funeral when I was just 12 (I didn’t grow much in those years). Needless to say, the day mentioned above saw me also wearing white ankle socks and a white bow in my hair (my sisters did love to put me in a bow).

 

My cousin, who was slightly older than me, and already courting her young man, decided it was time I also found a boyfriend. I was not that interested to be honest—boys were just pests at that time. Anyway, the boy she and her friend picked out for me was nearer her age and quite a good-looking fellow—tallish with dark hair—every young girls dream. Unfortunately, he took one look at me in my ankle socks and hair bow and laughed. That killed any thoughts of romance with him. To try to cut this story a lot shorter, I must have caught the eye of his younger brother who was somewhere in the vicinity. A few days later, he turned up on his bicycle in my street and sought me out—told me he thought I looked nice and hung around for a while, eventually giving me my first kiss. Truth is, I have no recollection of how that felt, only know that it was at the kerbside. To round off this story—roll on a few years to when I was an almost married woman. We met these two brothers at a party. To my utter dismay—or it might have been relief—the younger one treated his then wife with a certain disdain, flirting with all the other women, me included, while his older brother had become a real gentleman.

 

There have been a few first kisses since that one, some memorable some not. Funnily enough, I didn’t fall in love with my husband of forty years at our first kiss. Which goes to prove that it does not always map out that the best first kisser proves to be the best partner in life. He was pretty good at many other things that mattered.

 

So back to my research. It is believed by some that the idea of kissing came about millions of years ago and had nothing to do with romance. It is thought that ancient mothers force-fed their babies mouth-to-mouth after chewing the food, just as many other species still do.

 

Many cultural groups did not have a clue about kissing apparently. Early historians have named India, and in particular, Verdic Sanskrit who mentioned in his literature as far back as 1500BC that they rubbed noses together. One theory is that while in the process of nose rubbing someone slipped lower and realised that the lips were more sensitive and touching them gave real pleasure.

 

Over the centuries, more historic references turned up. An epic poem by Mahabharata mentions that when their lips met she made a noise that produced pleasure. Let’s not forget the Kama Sutra, a classic text that apparently contains many descriptions on the technique of kissing. I say apparently, as I have never read it. Then of course along came Alexander the Great, bless him, whose conquering armies spread the art of kissing wherever they went. They supposedly learnt of it from the Indians. Then after Alexander died, his generals went off to various parts of the Middle East to carry the word—and the kiss.

 

The Romans, it seems, popularized the art of kissing and thus spread the practice to parts of Europe and North Africa. Aha, I was waiting to find out where what we know as ‘French kissing’ derived from. Believe it or not, there were devoted “kissing missionaries’. What began as a kiss of friendship delivered on the cheek, developed into a more erotic lips-to lips, and finally a kiss of passion which became the French Kiss. The Romans even had laws that went along with kissing. If a virgin girl was kissed in public by a man, she could be awarded full marriage rights from him.

 

By the Middle Ages most Folk in Europe were kissing, but the practice was governed by the rank of the kisser. The lower the rank the further from the lips the kiss was delivered. So if you were a lowly serf who could not read or write you signed your name with an X and sealed the contract by kissing that X. It seems this is how the practice of putting an X to signify a kiss on your Valentine’s Card or letter to a loved one came about.

 

Go here for more information:  https://www.seeker.com/kissings-long-history-a-timeline-1767196852.html

 

So, this I all learnt because it has always fascinated me how the touching certain parts of the body by the one you love can bring so much pleasure, and I was curious about the simple kiss and got to wondering who touched lips for the first time and thought to themselves, “That was pretty good.” I cannot imagine the cave

men, depicted hauling their mates around by their hair, coming up with it. Now we know—it was most likely a mother feeding her offspring by mouth that started it all. I wonder if the Vikings found pleasure in kissing. That’s research for another day.

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