Time for a story--Tricia McGill

Find all my books here on my BWL author page

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. 

Tricia's Web Page

Cornish Pasty - A Meal for the Miners by A.M. Westerling

 Today I’m sharing a classic British recipe that originated in Cornwall, the setting for my Regency romance series entitled The Ladies of Harrington House. I'm currently working on the third book Catherine's Passion and the hero in it, Lord Julian Fitzgerald, is reopening a tin mine. It’s thought the pasty originated as a convenient meal for Cornish miners who were unable to return to the surface at lunch time. Their hands would be dirty but the pasty could be held easily by the crust and provided a hearty meal.

Picture from the Spruce Eats website

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 Recipe found here:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/classic_cornish_pasty_67037

 

Ingredients

For the pastry

·         5  500g/1lb 1oz strong bread flour

·          120g/4oz vegetable shortening or suet

·         11 tsp salt

·         25g/1oz margarine or butter

·         175ml/6fl oz cold water

·         1 free-range egg, beaten with a little salt (for glazing)

For the filling

·         350g/12oz good-quality beef skirt, rump steak or braising steak

·         350g/12oz waxy potatoes

·         200g/7oz swede/turnip

·         175g/6oz onions

·         ssalt and freshly ground black pepper

·         knob of butter or margarine

 

Method

1.    TTip the flour into the bowl and add the shortening, a pinch of salt, the margarine or butter and all of the water.

2.    Use a spoon to gently combine the ingredients. Then use your hands to crush everything together, bringing the ingredients together as a fairly dry dough.

3.    Turn out the dough onto a clean work surface (there’s no need to put flour or oil onto the surface because it’s a tight rather than sticky dough).

4.    Knead the dough to combine the ingredients properly. Use the heel of your hand to stretch the dough. Roll it back up into a ball, then turn it, stretch and roll it up again. Repeat this process for about 5-6 minutes. The dough will start to become smooth as the shortening breaks down. If the dough feels grainy, keep working it until it’s smooth and glossy. Don’t be afraid to be rough – you’ll need to use lots of pressure and work the dough vigorously to get the best results.

5.    When the dough is smooth, wrap it in cling film and put it in the fridge to rest for 30–60 minutes.

6.    While the dough is resting, peel and cut the potato, swede and onion into cubes about 1cm/½in square. Cut the beef into similar sized chunks. Put all four ingredients into a bowl and mix. Season well with salt and some freshly ground black pepper, then put the filling to one side until the dough is ready.

7.    Lightly grease a baking tray with margarine (or butter) and line with baking or silicone paper (not greaseproof).

8.    Preheat the oven to 170C (150C fan assisted)/325F/Gas 3.

9.    Once the dough has had time to relax, take it out of the fridge. The margarine or butter will have chilled, giving you a tight dough. Divide the dough into four equal-sized pieces. Shape each piece into a ball and use a rolling pin to roll each ball into a disc roughly 25cm/10in wide (roughly the same size as a dinner plate).

10. Spoon a quarter of the filling onto each disc. Spread the filling on one half of the disc, leaving the other half clear. Put a knob of butter or margarine on top of the filling.

11. Carefully fold the pastry over, join the edges and push with your fingers to seal. Crimp the edge to make sure the filling is held inside – either by using a fork, or by making small twists along the sealed edge. Traditionally Cornish pasties have around 20 crimps. When you’ve crimped along the edge, fold the end corners underneath.

12.  Put the pasties onto the baking tray and brush the top of each pasty with the egg and salt mixture. Bake on the middle shelf of the oven for about 45 minutes or until the pasties are golden-brown. If your pasties aren't browning, increase the oven temperature by 10C/25F for the last 10 minutes of cooking time.

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Now that you’ve made your pasties, munch on one while you’re reading the first two books in the series, Sophie's Choice and Leah's Surrender, available on the BWL Publishing website HERE.

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My Self-Defense Class by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

 

https://www.bookswelove.com/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

My Self Defense Class
A friend of mine, Bonnie, was taking Ju Jutsu and she said that her instructor, Fred, lets people come out for a free class before deciding if they want to take lessons. She asked me if I want to try a class. I had been thinking of learning some sort of self-defense so I accepted her invitation.

     On the Monday evening I wore leggings and a t-shirt fully expecting to watch from the sidelines and maybe try a couple of moves. Bonnie told me to remove my shoes before walking on the mats and then took me to a room when she found a white canvas gi jacket that fit. I donned it over my t-shirt and wrapped the left side over the right. Bonnie showed me the proper way to tie the obi or belt.

     Everyone in the class did their own stretching and then Fred had us run around the room, first forward, then backwards, then sideways. Once that was done he said. "Line up senior to junior." I knew I was the oldest one there so I headed to the beginning of the line. Everyone looked askance at me and grinned.

     "I'm the most senior person here," I said. But, apparently, the line up isn't by age. I headed to the last of the line. The person at the end gave me a warm welcome.

     "At least now I'm not the newest member," he said.

     The instructor then told us to do forward rolls. The others immediately took turns rolling their way across the room. Fred stood beside me and showed me how to put the back on my left hand on the mat, tuck my head and shoulder down, and push off with my back leg. Talk about being disoriented and dizzy when I sat up. Definitely not like the summersaults I used to do as a child.

     "Do it again," he encouraged.

     I knelt, put the back of my hand down, tucked and, after a deep breath, pushed off. Same result only this time I also felt a bit queasy. I guess I shouldn't have eaten before coming. After the third time I quit and watched the others. Fred called out for backward rolls. He looked at me with his eyebrow raised. I shook my head.

     When everyone had practiced their rolls, Fred ran through a demonstration on how to get out from under an attacker when he has you pinned on the ground and is sitting on top of you. I watched others do it then tried it myself. So long as my attacker gives me lots of time and offers me a few helpful hints, I will be able to break his hold.

     Fred did tell me that I should not waste my energy struggling against an attacker. It will just weaken me, he said. He showed me a choke hold to use that is easy and effective.

     Ju means gentle, pliable or yielding and jutsu means technique and is the manipulating of your opponent's force against himself. It was developed to fight the armed samurai of feudal Japan in close combat by using throws, pins, or joint locks. Over the centuries ju jutsu evolved into different types of martial arts around the world, some of students practicing potentially fatal moves and also learning break falling skills so they can practice dangerous throws.

     Since the beginning, students of ju jutsu trained in formal kimonos. In 1907, the founder of Judo introduced a uniform called the judogi. The gi consists of three parts: a heavy jacket called a uwagi, light canvas pants, shitabaki, and the cotton belt, obi.

     At the end of the class Fred said I could come back for two more free lessons. I must have really impressed him. However, while I was glad to have had the opportunity to try a ju jutsu class I didn't return for my other two free lessons. I decided I didn't like throwing myself or other people around on a mat.

     Since I was a teenager, I have practiced my own techniques to prevent being attacked that have served me well. I try not to be on the streets after dark but if I am walking at night I stride confidently with my head up and shoulders back. Attackers are cowards and they look for someone weak whom they can overpower. I carry my car keys spaced between my fingers to use for stabbing or slashing. I wear pants which are harder for an attacker to get into and low shoes or running shoes so I can get away easier. New technology has given us panic buttons on our key fobs which can be pressed to start our vehicle's horn blaring. I keep mine handy.

     And I've noticed in books and on television shows that the women who are attacked and even killed are always wearing matching panties and bra. Just to be on the safe side, I make sure I never do.