Books We Love Insider Blog

Sunday, September 25, 2022

The Queen

https://bookswelove.net/martin-paula/

The Queen

Earlier this month we in the UK (as well as many people throughout the world) were shocked to learn that Queen Elizabeth II had died. Yes, she was 96; yes, she had just celebrated her 70th year on the throne. Maybe we should have been ready for it, but somehow we weren’t.

Only two days earlier, she had been photographed asking our new Prime Minister to form a government. True, she looked frail, but we still didn’t expect her to die two days later.

For the majority of people, she was the only sovereign they had ever known. I am actually in the minority, as I do remember her father, King George VI. The Brownie ‘Promise’ I made when I was seven included the words “To serve The King and my country.” About a year later, the head teacher came into my school classroom to inform us that the King had died. I only remember seeing black and white newspaper photos of his funeral.

The following year, there was great excitement about the Queen’s Coronation. Streets were decorated, and street parties were held. My mother had a wool shop and I helped her make a display for the window, with the Union Flag in red, white and blue balls of wool surrounding a photograph of the young Queen.

On the actual day people crowded into the homes of those who actually owned a television, which were few and far between at that time. My parents arranged for me to visit a friend of theirs who did have a television set, and so I watched the Coronation on a black and white, nine-inch TV screen. As a nine-year-old, I confess to becoming somewhat bored by the lengthy ceremony, apart from the actual crowning when everyone shouted ‘God Save the Queen’. After that a few friends and I went out to play in the garden, but we were called back to watch the newly-crowned Queen return to Buckingham Palace in the ornate state coach.

Ten days after the Coronation, we had a school trip to London, at that time a five-hour journey by train. I’m not sure how our teachers coped with about thirty excited youngsters, but we went to Westminster Abbey and also saw all the decorations in the streets, especially the huge arches in the Mall.

We were outside Buckingham Palace, where a lot of people seemed to be congregating on the pavements. One of my teachers asked a policeman what was happening, and was told the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh were due to arrive back from a visit to Greenwich. The policeman then allowed us to climb into one of the VIP stands which had been erected outside the Palace for the Coronation. As a result, we had a wonderful view of the Queen when the open carriage came round the Victoria Memorial and entered the Palace forecourt.

That was my first sight of Queen. Since then, I’ve seen her three more times, and on one occasion I met and spoke to Prince (now King) Charles, but I’ll tell you more next time!

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Link to my Amazon author page: author.to/PMamazon

Friday, September 23, 2022

My Favourite Month by Victoria Chatham

AVAILABLE HERE

Of all the months of the year, September is my favourite month.

That might be because it is my birthday month. It is also the beginning of autumn, my favourite season. This, according to the poet John Keats, is the ‘Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness.’ I love watching the leaves on the trees change colour from the green of spring and summer to gold and bronze, russet and red.

Cool, crisp mornings can be followed by clear blue skies and balmy sunshine. There may be a spell of Indian Summer, that dry, warm period that can occur after the first frost and before the cooler temperatures of October set in.

Or the mornings might shimmer with a gossamer-light mist draping late-season blackberries on the
hedgerows or making spiders' webs glisten. French author Lea Malot says, ‘September was a thirty-days long goodbye to summer,' while Virgin Woolf wrote, ‘All the months are crude experiments out of which the perfect September is made.’ That seems about right to me.

But the weather, like fate, can be fickle. During my first visit to Canada over thirty years ago, I went out in jeans and a t-shirt on a beautiful sunny September morning. In the afternoon, the temperature plummeted, and a blizzard blew in. I had to buy a jacket and boots and found traffic had ground to a halt which necessitated taking shelter for the night in a hotel. These days I am prepared for any eventuality.

Now the evenings are beginning to draw in, it's time to cozy up to the fire and start thinking about the next novel.

Victoria Chatham

Thursday, August 25, 2022

My Links with 'Jane Eyre'

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My 'Links' with 'Jane Eyre'

I first read Charlotte Bronte's 'Jane Eyre' when I was about 11 and loved it. My mother took me to see a stage adaptation performed by our local repertory company, which was one of the events that led to my lifelong love of theatre, and I read the book more times than I can count.

About three years later, the story was serialised in 6 parts on BBC, in the old days of black and white television. Stanley Baker played Rochester and Daphne Slater played Jane. This was made doubly interesting by the fact that my class tutor at the time had been at school with Daphne Slater and used her 'connections' to get the autographs of both lead characters for us all (which I still have!)

Fast forward about 30+ years. I started researching my family history and dscovered a link (in my father's family) to landed gentry in the county of Derbyshire. One of my ancestors was Robert Eyre (1390-1459) who fought at the Battle of Agincourt in 1415. He owned land in the county and married Joan Padley, the heiress to other estates. They lived in the small village of Hathersage and when they died, their tombs were surmounted with brass effigies. These are the most famous effigies in the church.

Even more fascinating (for me at least) was the connection between these brasses and Jane Eyre.

In 1845 Charlotte Bronte went to stay at the Rectory at Hathersage with an old school friend, whose brother was the vicar. It was here she started to write her novel about Jane Eyre. It is said that she was inspired by the brass effigy on the tomb of Joan Eyre (nee Padley).

So it seems Jane Eyre was named after my 15-times-great grandmother! Maybe that is why I have always had an affinity with Charlotte Bronte's novel?

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Monday, July 25, 2022

Born to Write?

https://bookswelove.net/martin-paula/

Born to Write?

Were you ‘born to write’ or did you make a conscious decision to become a writer?

A few years ago I read P.D. James’ top tips for writers. She died in 2014 aged 94 and is probably most famous for writing the Adam Dalgliesh mystery series.

Her first point was: You must be born to write.

She said: You can't teach someone to know how to use words effectively and beautifully. You can help people who can write to write more effectively and you can probably teach people a lot of little tips for writing a novel, but I don't think somebody who cannot write and does not care for words can ever be made into a writer. It just is not possible.

Nobody could make me into a musician. Somebody might be able to teach me how to play the piano reasonably well after a lot of effort, but they can't make a musician out of me and you cannot make a writer, I do feel that very profoundly.

This really intrigued me. Was I born to write? All I know is that I’ve written stories ever since I was about 8 or 9. Throughout my teens, I wrote cheesy romance stories one after the other. I also kept long diaries – I remember one (when I was 16 or 17) which ended up as a folder about 3 inches thick by the end of the year (oh, how I wish I had kept that diary!). I wrote lengthy letters to penfriends and, later, when I moved away from home, to several friends back home.

In that sense, I have always been a writer. I’ve always had a feel for words and phrasing, and the flow of sentences. It really is something I ‘feel’, rather than something I know.

That doesn’t mean my writing is as good as P.D. James’ writing, although during the past few years, I think I have learnt to write more effectively. Not necessarily following all the ‘rules’, but certainly making my writing ‘sharper’, using simple techniques like getting rid of speech tags and overused words, etc

One thing in P.D.James’ words struck a chord with me. Unintentional pun there, but as child I learnt to play the piano. I wasn’t good, I knew I wasn’t good, but I persevered and by my late teens I played adequately enough to accompany the hymn singing at my local church. However, I wasn’t a musician. I played from technique, and not the ‘feel’ of it. There is a world of difference between technique and that ‘feeling’.

I’ve read blogs and articles where some people have said they ‘decided’ to become a writer. That’s something I’ve never understood. Can you ‘decide’ to become an artist or a musician – or a writer? In my case, there was never a conscious decision. Writing is as integral a part of me as breathing!

What do you think? Can you ‘make a decision’ to become a writer, or are you born with something within you to create stories and write them?

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Link to my Amazon author page: author.to/PMamazon

Monday, May 23, 2022

Oh, to be in England....by Victoria Chatham

RELEASES JUNE 15TH, 2022

Sunlight filters between the newly unfurled tender green leaves of beech, oak, and ash. The air is heavy with the scent of Hyacinthoides non-scripta, the English bluebell, which covers the woodland floor like a blanket from late April into May.

There are approximately nine varieties of bluebell, but the United Kingdom is home to roughly half of the world’s bluebell population. This iconic springtime flower can take five to seven years to develop from seed into a bulb, then bloom into the flower most people know. They are a protected species, and there is a heavy fine for anyone found digging them up. It is also a surprisingly delicate plant. If careless footsteps crush the leaves, they can no longer photosynthesize and will die back from lack of nutrition. Some bluebells can be white or pink. Often a white bluebell is lacking its blue pigment, or it may be a version of the Spanish bluebell.

In Scotland, bluebells are known as harebells because folklore has it that witches turned into hares and hid amongst the flowers. That could be why it is sometimes known as Witches Thimble or Lady’s Nightcap. You may also have heard the folksong, The Bluebells of Scotland. If not, check out this YouTube clip https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eq14cPI0LW8. The bluebell is reputed to ring at daybreak to call fairies to the woods. If you pick a bluebell, those fairies could lead you astray, and you would be lost forever, so best not to pick them just to be on the safe side.

Symbolically, bluebells represent grace, everlasting love, good fortune, and truth. They epitomize Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty, and the Virgin Mary who represents calm and peace. They were also once dedicated to the patron saint of England, St. George. Bluebells stand for constancy, humility, and gratitude in the centuries-old language of flowers used throughout Europe and Asia. Might Shakespeare have been referring to the bluebell when he wrote of 'the azured hare-bell?'

Bluebells also have their practical uses. The Elizabethans used starch from the bulbs to stiffen their ruffs. Gum from the roots was used as glue for feathers and in bookbinding. Snake bites supposedly could be cured by their juice, although the plant’s chemical makeup is potent and can be toxic in large doses. Today bluebells inspire the perfume for hand creams and soap and are used as dyes or pigments.

Whichever way you look at it, whether you believe in witches and fairies or not, there is nothing more magical than sitting in an English bluebell wood in springtime.

Victoria Chatham

All my historical novels @ Amazon

NB: Images from author's collection.

Wednesday, December 29, 2021

12 Days of Medieval Christmas

In medieval times, Christmas was ardently Christian, but there were naturally Pagan traditions aplenty to be found hidden within the celebration. Some of these ancient traditions, like the German "Bad Santa" Krampus, still have plenty of fans.

The Twelve Days of Christmas themselves are both a memory of the Roman Saturnalia (Rome, which was The Empire of its time) as well as the even more ancient human observance of our planetary trip round the sun. The Sun's rebirth --that shortest day, when the sun is weakest, Winter Solstice--became, in Christian calendar, Jesus's natal day. We use the 25th now, but that had to do, I believe, with 18th Century adjustments to the western calendar.

Those twelve days are no longer observed with the same pomp as in medieval times. Some years, after a bad harvest, the poorest villagers might have been hard pressed to have enough to eat for the rest of the winter. During famine years, it must have been a feat to manage any kind of "feast," but the custom of pre-Christmas fasting always helped to shore up supplies.

Imagine twelve whole days of celebration! During that time, a peasant farmer or craftsman was not supposed to so much as lift a tool, although they were allowed to feed their livestock. This means that a great deal of planning necessarily went into preparation for this prolonged "vacation" at each year's end. Extra wood had to be cut and stacked close by houses. Stores of hay and grain laid into barns so that it would be a minimal task to feed the animals. Just like today, however, nothing changed for the "essential workers" of the time. Cooks, housewives and scullery boys, or the servants at the Castle. All these people remained on the job.

The 24 days preceding Christmas is called Advent and was the occasion of this fast. In the Late Middle Ages, this meant no meat, cheese, or eggs could be eaten--although this particular tradition is no longer part of our (consumption-driven) culture. In the past, there was a belief that a person must prepare themselves both physically and mentally for the upcoming ritual experience of the Divine Mystery that was to come.

If you were a peasant, however, there was a practical reason to consume less before Christmas--simply to conserve enough of what food stores you had in order to provide for those festive 12 days. The poorest villagers lived hand-to-mouth upon a diet of beans, barley or oat porridge, and near-beer, their menu filled out with whatever green stuff they could scrounge from the edges of their Lord's forest.

Besides food for man and beast, other supplies had to be stocked as well. Wood for fuel was a necessity, of course, but specific types of wood was split and stacked together--hazel, beech, oak and ash all being used at different times during the cooking process to adequately heat those earthen or brick ovens for the baking of meat, bread and pies. Hazel twigs burned hot and were fire-starters; beech and ash supplied a steady heat, while oak lasted longest of all and burned the slowest.

Rush lights were made by soaking rushes in left-over cooking fat and pan scrapings. These would burn for about an hour, hot, and bright, but smoking heavily and carrying the odor of whatever fat had been used, and this was the way a medieval peasant "kept the lights on" during the long, dark winter nights. This was making of rush lights would have been going on in late summer, July and August, while the reeds (species: Juncus Effusus) were still growing, and the pith which would absorb the fat, was well-developed.

he farming year of 4 Seasons

Pork was the traditional food of Christmas in the British Isles, a custom with pagan roots. The wild Boar was hunted to extinction in Britain by the 13th Century, so the Christmas pork then on would have to have been domestic. Those medieval pigs would have looked rough, though, feral and unfamiliar.

Pagan associations of the pig feast at midwinter are many. One of the most interesting discoveries at the famous Neolithic sites of Woodhenge and Stonehenge were mountainous heaps of pig bones. Such feasts are a well-attested-to-tradition in many Germanic, Slavic and Norse cultures.

Freya and her brother Freyr, Gods of the Vanir.*

Here, Frey is shape-shifted into a Boar.

Getting the boar's head -- the centerpiece of any prosperous farmer's feast -- ready for the table was laborious task which began with slaughtering, scraping, and butchering, followed by a bustle of preservation. Sausage was made from the blood and the hide readied to be tanned. Every bit of that pig would be consumed in one way or another.

Semi-feral hog

Pig's are "thrifty" animals, and in medieval times fed well in the woods upon acorns as well as the standard remains of human cooking. Then as now, the pig gave his all! Removing the skull from the meat and flesh was no easy feat. After this careful dressing out, the remaining flesh and ears had to be carefully preserved for eventual presentation at Christmas Eve Supper.

The housewife would store the fleshy remains in a simple pickling liquid (vinegar, mustard seeds) until it was time to prepare it for the feast. Then she would remove it from the pickle and stitch it back together--a sort of taxidermy job-- and fill the pouch with a stuffing mixture of raisin paste and nuts, after which it would be roasted. Serving the boar's head on a platter surrounded by greenery traditionally began that first festive meal of the Christmas holiday.

The medieval farmhouse had been decorated with Holly and Ivy. Sometimes, a Christmas Crown, an open wattle basket decorated with sprigs of Holly and Ivy was woven by the men and hoisted up high above the rising smoke of the central hearth where it would remain for the next twelve days. Holly and Ivy--representing of male and female--was a custom left over from more ancient religious observances. In medieval times, though, it was often said that if there was more ivy than holly among the decorations, the house would be ruled by the wife during the next year.

Pastry for pies, both sweet and savory, had to be sturdy enough to stand up by themselves, as this was before people had a great many kinds of differentiated cookware, such as today's pie pans. Frumenty was a sort of yogurty smoothy made of cracked wheat and milk and flavored with dried fruit, nutmeg and cloves. These exotic spices arrived in a medieval kitchen after a 7000+ mile trader-to-trader journey. Other dishes served might be a sweetened milk gelatin or a gelatin cone of meat scraps, called a "Shred Pie."

There would be church services every day. Masses were celebrated in honor of the birth of Jesus and in honor of the many saint's days which cluster throughout the twelve days. St. Stephen's Day is next (known in the UK and her still extant colonies) as "Boxing Day." December 27th celebrates the feast of St. John, Apostle and Evangelist. On the 28th comes the Feast of the Holy Innocents, which commemorates the slaughter of new born boys ordered by King Herod. The memorial of St. Thomas Becket, Bishop and martyr, a "turbulent priest" murdered by order of King Henry II of England, comes on the 29th. Next comes the Feast of the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, which often falls upon December 30th. The last day of the year is the feast of Saint Sylvester. The following day, January 1 of the new year, is celebrated as "the Solemnity of the Nativity of Mary, Mother of God" in Christ's mother Mary is honored. In some denominations, this last is said to be in honor of the Circumcision of Jesus, falling as it would, eight days following any proper Hebrew boy-child's birth.

Twelfth Night, the final celebration, had many traditions. One of them was Wassailing, which could be a parade around the village or just around the kitchen, accompanied by singing, piping, banter, and still more food and drink. Villagers would visit one another's homes and sing carols. Sometimes drink was offered by the homeowner as a thank-you. In some places, the tradition of Mummers, men and women in costume, was a time-honored part of the Twelfth Night celebration.

Mummers singing and dancing in costume

In apple orchards, offerings of toast soaked in punch might be placed in the branches of the trees, or glasses of cider were poured into the orchard earth, as a thank-you offering to the fruit trees for their cider. At the Twelfth Night feast, a Lord of Misrule was chosen by passing a large freshly baked loaf of bread around the table. As everyone tore off a piece and put it into their mouths, one of them would discover the single pea that had been baked inside. This person became Lord of Misrule, crowned with a garland. His office was to devise party games and tell jokes and tales. Often these feasts would dissolve into riot, with people pelting one another with bread and leftovers and rowdy, drunken dancing. This was the night when the Magi found Jesus and worshiped him as "King of Kings."

The Four Seasons

Then, like a bucket of cold water emptied upon everyone's head, came "Plough Monday," the day when farmers returned to their fields and women cleaned house and began to card wool, and spin and weave again. Another Christmas had gone and the toil of the year had once more begun.

~~Juliet Waldron

My historical novels @ Books We Love

Sources:

Life in a Medieval Village by Francis Gies and Joseph Gies http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004HIX4GS

*Vanir-the original Norse gods, overshadowed in surviving stories by the later arrivals--the Aesir gods with whom people now are more familiar--Thor, Odin, Frigg, Balder etc.

How to Celebrate Christmas Medieval Style:

https://youtu.be/BY2TN8E5yAs

Juliet Waldron

I am in the grandma zone, a long time writer and poet, posting at Crone Henge and BWL these days just because. Wish I could travel, and last year I was lucky enough to get back to the UK, specifically to Avebury to reconnect with the ancient temple. Hiking, camping, lover of solitude, cats, moons and gardens.

Tuesday, November 23, 2021

The Baddies in My Books by Victoria Chatham

AVAILABLE HERE

I always have trouble creating evil characters. I would say that most have mine have been flawed in some way rather than truly evil. Except for, maybe, Sir Peregrine Styles in my first Regency romance, His Dark Enchantress. Sir Peregrine was very much a depraved character, particularly in the satisfaction he derived from causing pain or trouble to others. He was a narcissist, manipulator, and opportunist all rolled into one character but none of that was greatly surprising given the era and strata of society he grew up in.

People being people, and our characters are people if only in our minds and books, good and bad can

come from anywhere. The best of families could have one bad apple. A family in the poorest area of town may have a dad with a heart of gold and a mum who will do anything for her children first and her neighbours after that.

People can and do change and here Rose of Sharon in Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath springs to mind. Circumstances can mould a person. Disappointment after disappointment may eventually turn a happy, positive person bitter and cause them to seek revenge against those he or she believes responsible. Being brought up in an abusive household may produce another abuser or someone who would never lift a finger against another person.

As authors, building the backstory for a flawed or evil character is as intriguing and circuitous as those of our main characters and, dare I say, might take a bit more of a psychological twist. Writing historical fiction means dipping into the social history of the era whether, in my case, it is the Regency or Edwardian eras. The class structure was pretty much adhered to. People ‘knew their place.’ But within that structure, the mores of the Regency became stricter through the Victorian era and began to ease again in the Edwardian era, especially the La Belle Epoch era in Europe which dated from the early 1870s up until the outbreak of World War 1.

Regency characters who held ambitions to rise above their place in society might be referred to as ‘mushrooms.’ The term ‘nabob,’ originally denoting an official under the Mughal Empire, came to be used somewhat derisively for a pretentious person, especially one growing his own wealth rather than inheriting it.

My current ‘baddie’ is one Ruby Baker in Phoebe Fisher, the third book in my series Those Regency Belles. Ruby is a barmaid with took my hero’s promises to heart. In a drunken moment as an eighteen-year-old and about to embark on his first voyage, Andrew promised to bring her jewels from India. Ten years later, Ruby arrives on his doorstep to collect them. However, now Andrew has inherited a title and gained a wife. What will Ruby do? I’m still working on that.

Victoria Chatham