Tricia McGill—there’s no place like home.

Or is there? 

It occurred to me lately that I live in a very confined area. I don’t drive distances as I once did, and tend to stay nearer home. A lot of this is due perhaps because the roads aren’t like they used to be in what us older people refer to as “the good ol’ days”. I’ve towed an 18 foot caravan around Australia when my husband had to give up driving after one of his early strokes, but as much as I would love to take off, and still envy folk who take to the highways and byways of this beautiful country I call home, I couldn’t stand the hectic pace on the roads these days.

My pondering came about after reading Sandy’s post of a day or so ago when I commented that if I returned to my hometown I’d be hard-pressed after so many years to find more than about six people apart from family and a few friends who would remember me. Of course my hometown was London and to be more specific Highbury in Nth London, which was no small town by any stretch of the imagination.

I then pondered on the fact that perhaps I am a homebody who likes to be in familiar places, but then I started to think about the places around the world I have visited and it occurred to me I’ve been quite a traveller in my time. 

My first trip in a plane was to San Sebastian in Spain. In those days a trip to anywhere in Europe was considered very extravagant. My sister was getting married at the end of that year and I was to be married soon after, so we took the opportunity to travel before settling down. While there we took a bus trip to Madrid, where we walked out of a bullfight in disgust after about half an hour. I guess we only expected all the grandeur of the parade and never considered the poor bull was going to die a slow death. I have to say here that we were told afterwards it was a very poor fight and the matador was not considered very good. We also went on a bus trip to a coastal resort in France. I can’t recall exactly where but do remember the horrendous drive where the driver seemed intent on killing us all, driving along mountain roads like a kamikaze pilot.

That's me on the right--at San Sebastian

 

After my marriage my husband and I drove every year to Devon or Cornwall. For anyone who knows that area of England my favorite places were Crantock or Lynton/Lynmouth. I expect both have changed considerably since the 60s.

Of course the biggest journey of all came when we migrated to Australia. We opted to come by sea, and sailed on the Fairstar, a recently refitted liner, in 1966. The sea trips from England to Australia were abandoned long ago, so we were very fortunate. It took exactly four weeks. Now when I refer to the Good Old Days you will understand what I mean when I tell you that along the way we went on a side trip to Cairo and the Pyramids at Giza. In those days ships traveled through what was then called The Suez Canal. We left the ship and stayed overnight in Cairo. Next morning we were up early and took a camel ride to the nearby pyramids. Then we visited the museum where the stand out was Tutankhamen's artifacts. Next we went by bus to Giza to see the Great Sphinx and pyramids. We met up with the ship again and continued on our journey. All this for 8 pounds sterling!

 

My husband went back to England about six times over the years, but I only returned once and that was in 1975. On the return trip we stayed overnight in Singapore. 

I’ve traveled extensively in Australia, been right around the coastline once, up the inland road to Darwin, over to the west a couple of times traveling across the Nullarbor Plain. I’ve stroked a dolphin in the sea at Monkey Mia in WA, visited Uluru in the red center, and swam in the warmest, clearest water you can imagine off the Great Barrier Reef, walked through magnificent rain forests, driven across unmade roads and along highways, seen a platypus swimming in his natural Tasmanian habitat, and emus and kangaroos running free.  I’ve been across to Tasmania more times than I can remember, sometimes by air and other times on the ferry. For years we towed a caravan—our preferred means of travel as we could then take our dogs along. My husband would have spent all his days on the road, but I was always glad to get home, to sleep in my own bed. 

A boab tree near Derby WA        

Silverton, near Broken Hill (Many movies have featured this pub and the walls are lined with the pictures of stars and celebrities)      

Strahan Tasmania (where we stayed in a haunted cottage--I swear I saw the ghost)

So, back to where I started, there is obviously no place like home for me. But then home is where the heart is. My early years were spent in a tenement house in Nth London where I was surrounded by love and had no idea that we were not rich. But after my mother passed away that ceased to be home so anywhere my husband and I were together was home. I will remain in this house until they carry me out. My heart is here.

Tricia McGill's books can be found on her Books We Love page:

http://bookswelove.net/mcgill.php

Or her web site:

www.triciamcgill.com  

A visit to All Hallows Eve in the 18th Century, by Diane Scott Lewis

To celebrate the coming of Halloween, and for my historical novel Ring of Stone, I researched ancient customs in Cornwall. Here is an abridged excerpt where my heroine, Rose, slips out in the night with her brother on All Hallows Eve to witness the rising of the spirits:

Rose opened the back door to the inky black. A lantern winked not far off. "That should be Mr. Poldeen." Her heart skipped and she stepped out into a cold breeze that whipped her face. Her brother Michael rushed past her toward the lantern.

The caretaker, Mr. Poldeen, tipped his hat when she came close. "Are you ready, Miss Rose?"

"Of course, let us proceed." She walked beside him. The lantern bobbed a circle of light as they approached the stream. Poldeen took her hand and helped her over it. Such a casual, polite gesture, yet her skin heated at the touch of his strong callused palm.

"Hurry!" Michael ran ahead, beyond the light.

"Your brother is quite anxious to find out about the spirits this night." Amusement filled Poldeen’s voice.

"I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Poldeen. I haven’t been very daring when it comes to this stone circle. But I’ve yet to understand why." She listened to make certain she still heard her brother’s footsteps.

"It comes from the same feeling as in St. Petroc’s. You should know, as like there, the ring has secrets, but is not evil."

How could rocks and stones have the same aspects as human beings? A tiny part of her worried that they’d experience nothing tonight, and the ring held no magic.

"Well, I’m here, and intend not to demure." She stumbled over a stone. He grasped her arm and held it. Again, she had that urge to lean into him. What had come over her with this man?

They reached the field. The breeze ruffled the grass. The ocean surf slapped the cliffs in the distance, like a living entity, breathing in and out.

"Michael, stay with us," Rose called when her brother, a murky outline, started to tramp over the grass. "Mr. Poldeen, please tell us some of tonight’s custom, won’t you?"

He waited until Michael rejoined them. "This be the end of the old year, or Samhain, meaning summer’s end, an’ the beginning of the new. The Celtic god straddles the two, and hopes to pierce the veil to see what comes."

Rose stared toward the cliff outline where the ring stood shrouded in darker shadows.

Poldeen set down the lantern. The light spread over their shoes. The salty wind flapped their coats like night birds. "The living can travel to the underworld, but all must return to their rightful place at cockcrow. If you have faith in the legend, this be the perfect time for your ancestors who died here to search for you."

"Senara died somewhere else. But Mrs. Trew insisted she was buried here." Rose shivered as the wind cut deeper. The darkness pressed in around her.

"Let’s walk over to the stone." Michael hopped up and down, rubbing his hands together.

"Let us do that, if you wish, Miss?" Poldeen picked up the lantern and crooked out his arm. Rose took it and they stepped across the damp grass. Michael again hurried ahead.

The cliffs were framed against the starry sky. Poldeen lifted the lantern until a blot of light trailed over the crags and across the stone circle, which looked quiet, innocuous.

"I read," Rose absorbed the heated closeness of his body, yet his nearness made her jittery—or maybe it was the unusual situation, "that the ancient Celtic view of time is a cycle. So tonight, this eve of the new year represents a point outside of time, when the natural order dissolves back into primordial chaos, and prepares to reestablish itself in a new order."

"’Tis true. The Celts see tonight as the time when they can view any other time, past or present. But the church, now they say not to hold a feast for the unblessed dead, only those hallowed, made holy. That’s why she’s All Hallows Eve." He halted. They stood only a few yards from the ring. The wind whistled through it like a flute.

Rose inhaled a deep, slow breath when the whistle turned to a moan.

"Can you hear that?" Michael leaned forward. "Is it Malscos calling to Senara?"

"Of course it isn’t. I want to step closer to the circle." Rose slid her foot forward in the grass. Hand fisted, this was her moment. She’d touch the ring and banish her qualms.

A flapping noise sailed over her head. Rose blinked and stared up. A bird or bat of some kind—wings fluttering in the shades of blackness. Her bonnet slapped at her cheeks and she stifled a gasp.

A figure, hunched over, hair flying, moved along the cliff top. A loud laugh sounded. Or was it more of a cry?

More rustling sounded, then feet running. Rose squeezed up against the caretaker before she realized she’d done it.

"It’s a woman." Michael ran up and grabbed her other hand. His fingers felt cold and trembled a little. "Senara! Is that you?"

Footsteps raced by, leaving the scent of herbs. Poldeen swung up the lantern.

The figure darted closer. Hair streamed in wisps about a round face, an arm thrust up to shield their eyes.

"They were here! The spirits have gone back now!" rasped a voice. "You be too late."

To find out what happens, purchase Ring of Stone.

Or visit my website: http://www.dianescottlewis.org

A Fall To Remember by Victoria Chatham

 John Keats’ Ode to Autumn caught my attention at an early age. I love the sensations that the first line, Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, engenders.

Maybe it’s because September is my birth month or maybe it’s that my imagination warms with the rich visuals Keats offers us. I’m no poet, but I love poetry. It’s a different way of writing, a different way of conveying scenes, senses, characters and sometimes packs more of an emotional wallop than does prose.

Of all the seasons, I find fall to be the most peaceful. The promise of spring rushes into the bustle of summer but then, when those first fall mists creep over the fields, when those dew-dropped cobwebs form on bushes and fences, there is a quiet expectancy as the world waits for winter.

I was fortunate to live for several years in a 300-year old house in rural Gloucestershire in England. Of all the houses in which I have ever lived, I loved that house the most. My mother could never understand why I gave up a modern double-glazed, centrally heated home in favor of a draughty, stone and brick built not-quite-heritage house but it had its own charm. It also had its regular fall visitors.

Sometimes mice and other critters decide to move in to a home. It may be because of a food source, it may be to construct a cozy nest but in our case we knew that when those mists started forming over the surrounding fields and the temperatures cooled, then we could expect an influx of field mice. These were dealt with in the traditional manner of traps and cheese, and less traditional by the animal rights supporter in the household who stalked and pounced with as much joy as a Yorkshire terrier on the hunt. The offending creature was then taken outside and released. This was all very well, but one year I had the feeling we were in for something else when my daughter asked, “What does a rat look like?”

I live now in Alberta, Canada, which is a rat-free province but even so everyone understands the damage of which this rodent, and indeed all rodents, are capable. I did not want one living in my house but as we lived very close to a farmyard the only surprise was that we had not been visited by one before. 

After my daughter’s first sighting of said rat there were more positive signs that we had an extra and unwelcome house guest. These were more sounds than signs, scratching and scraping in the walls, scurrying and squeaking up and down the chimney breast which ran from the living room up through my bedroom and the attic bedroom above it. As these sounds happened late at night when most of the household was either in bed asleep or not yet arrived home, my comments were met with some scepticism.

Grocery day came. Bags and boxes of groceries were hauled in from the car into the house to be stored away in our large walk-in pantry. I opened the door, reached in to switch on the light and came face to face with a large brown rat. All I can say was that it looked extremely healthy with a rich mahogany coat, long and plentiful whiskers and bright, black eyes. Its naked tail hung down over the edge of the shelf. Before I could blink it jumped down, ran over my feet and headed up the stairs. The blood drained from my face at the same time as all pandemonium broke loose.

My dogs, Sue, Charlie and Tim took off up the stairs after the rat. My children took off after the dogs. I got my wind and blood back at about the same time and went after all of them. On the first floor landing the children had come to a halt, deciding that maybe it would be better if the dogs did the catching as they really didn’t want to get bitten. Baying like a real pack, the dogs had run the rat to ground under the water tank in the attic bedroom. I pushed the dogs aside and shone a flashlight under the tank and could see the reflections of those beady eyes and the gleam of twitching whiskers. Then the rat was gone, melting into the fabric of the eaves like a wisp of smoke dispersing in fresh air.

The animal rights supporter was all for making a cage for a trap and release operation. I felt this would be a direct invitation for the rat to return. No, the only solution as far as I was concerned was to call the town council’s pest control department. This was duly done and, on the appointed day, the rat catcher arrived.

I’m not sure what I expected but it certainly wasn’t the lady who arrived on my doorstep. Her face was tanned and textured like a dried out old apple with more lines than an ordnance survey map. Out of this leathery visage peered a pair of bright, brown eyes disconcertingly similar to those of our rat. She wore a battered blue felt had on top of her grey curls and was dressed in brown overalls.

“Afternoon,” she said in the dialect of deepest Gloucestershire, making the word sound more like ‘addernoon’.

“Hello,” I responded. “Can I help you?”

At this point I was sure she was a tinker after some knife grinding work or looking for old scrap metal.

“No, I’m here to help you, m’dear,” this apparition replied. “I be Amy. I’ve come for your rat.”

“Oh, well, yes,” I stuttered. “You’d better come in.”

Amy stepped out of a pair of Wellington boots that had seen much better days and padded into my house on feet clad in purple wool socks.

“Where did you last see ‘un?” she asked.

I took her up to the attic and pointed at the water tank. “Under there, but I mostly hear it in the chimney.”

“They old walls in that chimbley be just like a staircase to one ‘o they,” she declared.

I watched Amy get down on hands and knees. She shone her flashlight under the tank, just as I had. A big game hunter on the African veldt couldn’t have been more determined than Amy. She puffed and panted, grunted and got up, dusting her knees off.

“Could you see anything?” I asked.

“Oh, ar, reg’lar ‘ole highway through there. We’ll stop ‘un.” She removed the lid from the bucket she was carrying and scooped out a measure of green-dyed grain. “Warfarin,” she said. “Should do the trick, ‘specially if there be only one. Keep the kiddies and the dogs away from it but if they little beggers gets into it, doctor ‘em right away.”

I said I would but how, I wondered, had Amy got to be a rat catcher.

“Twas the war,” she said, answering my unasked question. “Well, when they men went away, someone had to do it and I was better ‘n most. Then when they bliddy men came back I warn’t goin’ to be put out of a job so I told they council gaffers I was staying and I did.”

The rat caused us no further problems. Maybe the news went around the local rat and mouse population that our house was not a friendly one because the following fall, and for the rest of my time there, we had no further problems.

Keats I am definitely not, but that poem still intrigues me and sparks my imagination. It      enables to me to, I hope, convey scenes, senses and characters of a fall season which I will never forget. 

Is there a poem that prompts your recollection of a particular season, if so what might it be? 

Check Victoria out at these following links:

www.bookswelove.com/chatham.php
www.victoriachatham.webs.com
www.amazon.com/author/victoriachatham
www.facebook.com/AuthorVictoriaChatham