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Where We Walked … Well, What We Saw From Where We Walked #Pladda Isle #Arran #Scotland

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We are on our way to walk to Loch Garbad. Dusk is on the back seat. When I hear her move, feel her patting me on the shoulder with her paw, I presume she needs a ‘comfort break’ (as they politly say on coach trips). We turn off the road onto a side lane towards the village of Kildonan, and park on the first layby we come to.

I think Dusk just wanted us to see the glorious coastline and the two islands nearby: Ailsa Craig and Pladda. Ailsa Craig deserves its own blog, so what follows is what we discovered about Pladda Isle.

Pladda Isle (Pladda – Scottish Gaelic: Pladaigh –  the name comes from Old Norse and means “flat isle”)  has been the site of a lighthouse since 1790).

The main structures of the Pladda lighthouse date from 1820 and were constructed under the administration of Thomas Smith of the Stevenson company.

To allow seafarers to distinguish it from the other nearby lighthouses at the Mull of Kintyre, Cumbrae and Copeland, a lower light from a small lantern twenty feet lower than the original one was installed and this carried on for more than one hundred years. And in 1876, a fog signal was also installed on Pladda..  This arrangement operated for about 100 years.

Pladda Isle (Pladda – Scottish Gaelic: Pladaigh –  the name comes from Old Norse and means “flat isle”)  has been the site of a lighthouse since 1790).

In 1901 fixed lights were no longer regarded as suitable for the island so coastal lights and a group of flashing lights were installed. The lower tower was then no longer needed.

The lighthouse keepers who were permanently attached to the station were brought provisions four times a month, two of which landed on Sundays to allow light keepers to attend church.

Everything changed in 1972 when a helicopter began to be used to transport the keepers. But then, in 1990 lighthouse became automated and the lighthouse keepers were no longer needed. The lighthouse is now monitored remotely from Edinburgh and the island is unoccupied. The traditional lantern and lens have been replaced by a couple of solar powered LED lights.

The modern plaque at the base of the main tower bears the crest of the Northern Lighthouse Commisioners and the motto “In Salutem Omnium” – For the Safety of the island

Previously the island was part of the Arran Estate, but in 2022 it was bought and is now privately owned. There are plans to build a luxury property on the island.

ENDNOTE:

For over one hundred and fifty years Robert Stevenson and his descendants designed most of Scotland’s Lighthouses. Battling against the odds and the elements – the Stevensons constucted wonders of engineering that have withstood the test of time, an amazing historical achievement.

Family Crest
“Coelum Non Solum”

Robert Stevenson’s talented family also included the famous writer/novelist Robert Louis Stevenson (his grandson). Visits with his family to remote lighthouses are thought to have inspired his books Kidnapped and Treasure Island.

“There is scarce a deep sea light from the Isle of Man to North Berwick,
but one of my blood designed it.
The Bell Rock stands monument for my grandfather;
the Skerry Vhor for my uncle Alan;
and when the lights come out along the shores of Scotland,
I am proud to think that they burn more brightly for the genius of my father.”

Robert Louis Stevenson

The above was found on the link https://tinyurl.com/yb9x6mpj when I was researching Pladda. It’s fascinating going down these rabbit holes!!

Where We Walked Kingscross Point Arran Scotland #Walks #Photographs

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Our second walk was an easy circular stroll – the Photographer assured me. I was suspicious; I’d heard that before… many times. But this time he was telling the truth!

We walk from the house where we are staying – (borrowed house in order, borrowed dog, Dusk, in tow, borrowed cats fed and left behind) – and saunter along a road and past a church towards the sea. Crossing a bridge onto an unsurfaced road we pass several houses ( noting that alongside one was a building that offered fish and chips ‘occasionally’. I wondered, aloud, whether today was one of the ‘occasional’ days as we clamber over rocks onto the beach …

… but eventually realise that the Photographer has lingered way behind Dusk and I.

So she and I turn off at a signpost, go through a gate which leads to a path where we negotiate our way through, between gorse and brambles.

And onto a wooded area with a section of boardwalk.

There is the wonderfully evocative scent of wild garlic. Dusk is more intent on leading the way. Leaving the boardwalk, we enter fields, keeping to the path alongside the hedgerows and past the horses grazing in the next field. Through another gate, another field that slopes upwards. I am reminded here of the Rowan tree that I saw when I was here with a friend on our writing retreat in August last year. Then it was covered in berries – today it’s just in budding leaf.

The Photographer with us once again, we climbed over some large stones to reach the site of the ruins of a Viking fort. Actually, there is very little to see .but apparently there is a Viking boat burial near King’s Cross. The above photograph is courtesy of Walking Arran: Iron Age forts, a Viking burial and Buddhist pilgrims. https://tinyurl.com/yc3fupz9. Unfortunately I deleted the Photographer’s photo – which then was lost in the ether… oops!!

A little snippet of information:

Around the ninth century Arran was part of Viking territories; the Kingdom of Mann and the Isles. Many local place names have Old Norse origins which includes Brodrick (where the ferry lands providing the weather is good and the boat is up to the crossing). Brodick is derived from ‘breda-vick’, meaning ‘broad bay’ and Sannox, from ‘Sandvik’ or ‘sandy bay’, in Old Norse.

We stop for a few moments to take in the peace and quiet, and to look over again towards Holy Isle with the lighthouse and buildings that house those on a Buddhist retreat on the island.

And linger to look across the sea towards the range of mountains in the distance. One of our walks later in the week will take us closer to them. But there’s no doubt we won’t be tackling Goat Fell, the highest one the island – intrepid pensioners though we are!!

Then we scramble down to the path alongside the beach on the other side of the cove. The beach here is more rocky, We turn inland and uphill on a path through fields, then onto a lane which eventually leads back to the church – and homeward.

Another satisfying walk in this lovely island of Arran.

The following day we, and Dusk, had a rest, much to the annoyance of Clary, our friend’s cat – because I was sitting in her place on the settee …

… before our next adventure – a hike walk to Loch Garbad

The following gives the ( rather long) history of the Holy Island, which I find fascinating – is courtesy of the website Holy Isle: Centre for World Peace and Health: https://www.holyisle.org/the-island/history/

History

The earliest recorded name for Holy Isle was Inis Shroin, which is old Gaelic for ‘Island of the Water Spirit’.

After the time when the Celtic Christian saint St. Molaise lived on the island at the end of the 6th century, it became known as Eilean Molaise, which is Gaelic for ‘Molaise’s Island’. This name gradually evolved over the course of centuries until early in the 19th century the island became generally known as Holy Isle (or the Holy Isle) and the village on the other side of the bay became known as Lamlash.

Saint Molaise (566 – 640 A.D.)

St. Molaise was born in Ireland, the son of Cairell, the Irish king of what is now called Ulster, and the Scottish princess Gemma. Molaise was a very gifted and spiritually inclined child. He was much loved by his own people and was offered the throne of Ulster when he came of age, but instead he chose a religious and secluded life in a cave on the west coast of Holy Isle. He was then only 20 years old. Some people believe that when St. Molaise chose the cave on Holy Isle as his hermitage, the island was already considered a special, “holy” place.

When he was about 30 years old, Molaise went to Rome and was ordained as a priest by Pope Gregory the Great. When he returned, he entered the great monastery in Leighlin, Ireland which St. Gobban had established. Soon after he became its abbot. Under his guidance the monastery grew in fame and number to about 1500 monks. Molaise played an important part in adopting the controversial Roman method of dating Easter within Ireland. This was an important issue among the different Christian churches, who debated it for several centuries. When Molaise was in his late 50s, he went back to Rome and was consecrated first Bishop of Leighlin by Honorius I. Historians are divided on when Molaise died, estimating between 638 and 641. His feast day is celebrated both in Ireland and Scotland, on the 18th of April.

St. Molaise’s cave and the Healing Well

The cave where St. Molaise lived, is about half way along the western shore of Holy Isle, about ten meters above the high-water mark, and consists of an overhanging sandstone rock with a sunken stone floor. It is thought that in Molaise’s time much of the opening of the cave was closed up by a wall to keep the weather out. The cave can still be visited today. Carvings can be seen in the wall, such as simple crosses, perhaps made by pilgrims, and Norse runes, mainly of personal names. One of these says “Vigleikr the Marshall carved”. Some of the crosses seem to have been carved at around the same time as the names, so perhaps there was an element of pilgrimage to the cave among the Vikings. Lastly, there is an unusually designed cross carved into the roof of the cave.

Close to the cave is a spring, known as the Healing Well which is thought to cure ills and bring blessings.  In the 18th century it was recorded that “the natives used to drink and bath in [the well] for all lingering ailments”. The same source describes the water as “gushing out of a rock”. At the beginning of the 20th century apparently there was a cistern present built of masonry, with a stone spout which delivered the water. The spring is overgrown now so that you wouldn’t get more than a footbath from it but the water is still cold and clear, albeit it does not meet current EU standards for drinking water.

The Monastery: There are several indications of a monastery having existed on Holy Isle, most probably close to what is now the Centre at the north end. It may have been erected at the beginning of the 13th century, although other sources say it was in the 14th century. The monastery buildings could have been made of wood or a dry-built structure which left no traces. In the 16th century it has been recorded to have decayed.

The Vikings: In 1263 King Haakon of Norway brought a fleet of ships to the shelter of Lamlash Bay, before fighting the Scots at the Battle of Largs. Vigleikr, one of his marshals, went ashore at Holy Isle and cut runes with his name on the wall of St. Molaise’s cave. After the battle, King Haakon gave the island of Arran to one of his supporters, but this really didn’t count for much once the Norse had departed.

The Dukes of Hamilton

In 1488 Holy Isle and land in the Lamlash area was owned by one John Hunter, before being passed over to the Earl of Arran in 1527. The island continued to be part of the Arran Estate in Hamilton ownership even into the 20th century, being rented out to various people until that time. In the 18th century, Captain James Hamilton (not related to the dukes of Hamilton who owned Arran) obtained a long lease on Holy Isle from the Duke of Hamilton. In 1779 he built what became known as the Big House (the old farmhouse, now called the Harmony Wing).

Lighthouses

In 1877 the inner lighthouse (facing Arran) was built on Holy Isle, engineered by David and Thomas Stevenson. It is locally known as “Wee Donald”, though the current lighthouse keepers don’t know why anymore. The outer lighthouse, or Pillar Rock, was built in 1905 on the east shore. It had a fog horn and a revolving light that was lit by paraffin. Pillar Rock lighthouse was the first lighthouse built with a square tower and has several rooms inside for the men who worked there. Lighthouse cottages were built to house four families of the lighthouse keepers and a walled garden was made. The lighthouses became automated in 1977, and are now serviced every two weeks by local people living on Arran.

The “Rich American”

In 1957 the Duchess of Montrose died and the death duties were so high that the Arran Estate had to be divided. Part of the land was passed to the Forestry Commission and the National Trust, whilst other parts went into private hands. Holy Isle received a life tenant in 1958: Stewart Huston of Pennsylvania, USA. He was a millionaire who had a special interest in the island because he was descended from Gershom Stuart, who was Minister of Kilbride (at Lamlash) from 1747 – 1796. Despite his interest in the island and its history, he did not visit often, and the land continued to be used for grazing sheep by local shepherds from Arran.

The Universities Federation for Animal WTelfare

In 1968, the UFAW (Universities Federation for Animal Welfare) was asked to advise on the husbandry and management of the island’s animals, which at that time consisted of Blackface sheep and a herd of feral goats. They set up a Field Study Centre in 1969, and after Stewart Huston passed away, they were able to buy the island in 1971. in later years they introduced 25 Soay sheep and 5 Highland cattle, and a few years later 5 Eriskay ponies. When the UFAW could no longer afford to keep it, the island had to be sold again.

The Morris Family

In April 1984, after having been on the market for 20 months, the island was bought by James and Catherine Morris for £120,000. They moved into the farmhouse the following summer with their two young sons. They managed to connect electricity from the south end to the north, which made living in the farmhouse much more comfortable for them. In 1990 all the Highland cattle and seven ponies were taken off the island, leaving the Saanen goats, the Soay sheep and five Eriskay ponies.

In 1987 they decided to put the island up for sale for £1 million. The island remained unsold however, and in the autumn of 1990 Mrs Morris approached Lama Yeshe to offer the island to him, because she felt that its future would be best taken care of by “the Buddhists from Samye Ling”. Lama Yeshe first came to Holy Isle on the winter solstice of that year and became determined to buy the island. Finally the asking price was dropped to £350,000, which Lama Yeshe managed to raise by April 1992.

My Review of Variety is the Spice of Life: A blend of poetry and prose by Sally Cronin

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Book Description:

Variety is the Spice of Life is a collection of poetry and short stories about relationships with others, including pets and animals inhabiting the world around us. The connection with others brings love and friendship, excitement and sometimes surprises, danger, mystery and sometimes the unexpected.

The poetry explores human nature, the fears, desires, expectations and achievements. Nature offers a wonderful opportunity to observe animals both domesticated and wild. Even in a back garden you can observe a wide variety of creatures and the daily challenges to survive a harsh environment.

The short stories introduces you to a healer whose gift comes with danger, a neighbour determined to protect a friend, a woman on the run, an old couple whose love has endured, an elderly retired teacher who faces a life changing accident, a secret that has been carried for over 70 years and a village who must unite as they face devastating news.

My Review:

I read Sally Cronin’s Variety is the Spice of Life quite a while ago, and recently when ‘tidying up’ my kindle I was surprised and somewhat dismayed to see I’d made notes on this lovely collection of poetry and prose that encompasses such a variety of themes – and not reviewed it.


So here I’m rectifying that.


The poetry at the start of the book is almost a study of the world around us. It’s an invitation to look once more at nature, however small and seemingly insignificant, and is portrayed through wonderfully insightful and sensitive words, so evocative that each piece evokes an image. I remember how, the first time I saw the poems, I read each of them out loud, relishing the sounds, the rhymes, the rhythms. And I would invite any reader to do the same – they come alive in that way, as does all good poetry. Sally has a way of capturing emotions and sensitively showing the uniqueness of the world around us – and the many layers in human nature.


The theme of the individuality, the variety of actions and reactions we are all capable of, is repeated over and over again in many subtle, and sometimes overt ways, throughout her prose. I was tempted to quote, to unpick each of the eight short stories, to describe the core, the main premise that runs through them. But, sticking to my decision not to reveal any spoilers in my reviews, I would just urge any potential reader to discover them for themselves. All reveal the writer’s natural gift for storytelling, of capturing the essence of characters and the world they inhabit. Some stories brought chuckles and a wry smile, others the feelings of sadness, of sharing fears and loss. And tears. Writing a short piece of prose is not an easy task; wrapping up a scene or a journey into a package that reveals a whole plot to the reader in so few words requires a special intuition on the part of the author. Sally Cronin shows she has a talent for such an understanding.


I can do no more, having given Variety is the Spice of Life a second reading, than to stress how much I recommend this offering from Sally. You won’t be disappointed.


A last word on the cover – a brilliant spicy image of the promising within!!

About the author

Sally Cronin is the author of eighteen books including her memoir Size Matters: Especially when you weigh 330lb first published in 2001 which followed her weight loss of 150lbs and the programme she designed to achieve a healthy weight and regain her health. A programme she shared with her clients over her 26 year career as a nutritional therapist and on her blog. This has been followed by another seventeen books both fiction and non-fiction including multi-genre collections of short stories and poetry.

Her latest book Size Always Matters is an extended and updated version of her original book Size Matters and now includes the nutritional element to losing weight and some recipes with ingredients that provide the nutrients necessary for healthy weight loss and continued good health.

As an author she understands how important it is to have support in marketing books and offers a number of FREE promotional opportunities in the Café and Bookstore on her blog and across her social media.

After leading a nomadic existence exploring the world, she now lives with her husband on the coast of Southern Ireland enjoying the seasonal fluctuations in the temperature of the rain.

Find Sally through the following links:

Smorgasbord Blog Magazine: https://tinyurl.com/5xskmavn

LinkedIn: https://tinyurl.com/3tn378xb

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sally.cronin

X: https://x.com/sgc58

My Review of A Stolen Future ( A Shade Darker Book 4 by Georgia Rose

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Book Description

A rival to overcome… A truth to reveal…

A family firm. A long-held promise. What will it take to protect all she loves?

Alice Fraser has everything she needs. A comfortable home. A few good friends. A satisfying career. But when the promise made doesn’t materialise and everything changes at work she finds herself losing control of all she once held dear.

She could have left. She should have left. Instead she decides to dig in, and make life uncomfortable for her tormentor.

Petty revenge, she calls it. And that’s how it starts. But one day she is pushed too far, and once she takes the next step there is no going back.

A Stolen Future is a gripping domestic suspense novel. If you like character-driven action, suspenseful storytelling and unexpected twists then you’ll love this psychological thriller.

My Review:

From the word go I’ve loved this series from Georgia Rose. In fact I’ve loved all her books, whatever genre. But A Stolen Future is the fourth story that is special, because it’s set in the same village, Melton, and besides being centred on the protagonists and her antagonist, it also touches on and includes characters, now minor ones, whose lives we have seen in depth before.

To that end, I woud encourage any reader to begin – as they say – at the beginning: so it’s

https://tinyurl.com/5n8v36v2

https://tinyurl.com/mw7y2f7b

https://tinyurl.com/55d8brph

I always try not to give spoilers in my reviews, and feel that I’m in danger of doing just that, so I’ll stop there. But what I do need to say is that all these characters are multi layered and immediately identifiable through their dialogue, both spoken and internal. And, together with a cast of wonderful minor characters,, they are embedded in a community that is indicative of so many villages and small towns. And as with all of Georgia Roses’ books the descriptions of the settings give a good sense of place, so I almost felt like on onlooker to life in Melton.

I thoroughly agree with the books description: A Stolen Future is a gripping domestic suspense novel. If you like character-driven action, suspenseful storytelling and unexpected twists then you’ll love this psychological thriller. It’s a book I thoroughly recommend.

About the Author:

Georgia Rose is a writer and the author of the romantic and suspenseful Grayson Trilogy books: A Single Step, Before the Dawn and Thicker than Water. Following completion of the trilogy she was asked for more and so wrote a short story, The Joker, which is based on a favourite character from the series and the eBook is available to download for free at the retailer of your choice.

Her fourth novel, Parallel Lies, encompasses crime along with Georgia’s usual blending of genre and its sequel, Loving Vengeance, has now completed The Ross Duology.

Georgia’s background in countryside living, riding, instructing and working with horses has provided the knowledge needed for some of her storylines; the others are a product of her passion for people watching and her overactive imagination.

She has also recently started running workshops and providing one-to-one support for those wishing to learn how to independently publish and you can find her, under her real name, at http://www.threeshirespublishing.com.

Following a long stint working in the law Georgia set up her own business providing administration services for other companies which she does to this day managing to entwine that work along with her writing.

Her busy life is set in a tranquil part of rural Cambridgeshire in the UK where she lives with her much neglected husband.

The Hidden Danger in Families #coercivecontrol

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I love writing about people – especially people in families. There is such a richness of emotion, of action, within families. Nowhere else will love and loyalty vie with dislike and disloyalty, (even hatred in some case), pride with resentment, happiness with complete sadness. Nowhere else are human beings so close.


With The Stranger in my House, I wanted to explore a situation that would completely turn around the characteristic of a family. And I knew that needed to be something drastic. And that the family had to have a weakness within it it. And that weakness in the Collins family was grief, the sadness of losing the mother, the centre of their world. The father Graham is still grieving, bewildered, struggling to cope with running a business and trying to look after his children, eight-year-old twins, Chloe and Charlie.That “something drastic”; the situation that would completely change the characteristic of this family arrives in the form of Lynne, the district nurse who cared for Anna, the wife and mother of the family, who died when the twins were six. Lynne continued to call on Graham after Anna died and slowly but surely becomes part of his life… and consequently of the twins lives, when she and Graham marry.

I’ve always known about coercive control, although that’s not what it’s been called until these last few years. But it’s always been the patriarchal control, the accepted head of the family situation of past times, I was initially aware of. The earliest of my books, A Hundred Tiny Threads the prequel to the Haworth trilogy, is set after WW1 and the protagonist’s father, Bill, is a man of that era; he totally controls the family: by his moods, his temper, his fists.


But these days control of any sort is identified as coercive control, and it’s recognised that this can result in psychological damage that can last for life. It’s difficult, sometimes, for the victim to make sense of what’s happening, to see it as abuse. It’s like imprisoning someone, restricting everything they are. They are robbed of their independence, and their confidence is slowly undermined. It destroys who they are.

Anyone can be guilty of being a coercive controller. And guilt is the right word, because, today, it’s viewed as a crime. To totally have control over another adult human being is a crime. It’s shown in so many ways: physical assault, threats, humiliation, intimidation or other abuse intended to harm, punish or frighten. The perpetrator gaslights the victim by denying things have happened, using the confusion to control, criticising everything they do and say. Victims suffer in silence.

Which is what Graham in The Stranger in my House does, he tells no one, feels completely useless. Isolated, he has no control over what happens to his children or his life.
And neither do his children.

But children grow up. Chloe and Charlie become young adults with minds of their own…

The Stranger in my House: https://bit.ly/3DGwMCU

Find me here:

Amazon: https://bit.ly/3UIid6I

Honno: https://www.honno.co.uk/authors/judith-barrow

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/judithbarrowauthor/

Threads: judithbarrowauthor

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/judith.barrow.3/

With Many thanks to @DGKaye for this Review of The Stranger in my House

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https://dgkayewriter.com/2024/12/14/sunday-book-review-the-stranger-in-my-house-by-judith-barrow-domestic-dark-domestic-thriller/?page_id=31602

With many, many thanks to @AnneWilliams for this wonderful review for my latest book, The Stranger in my House. And for all the kind words and reviews (also included) for my earlier books.

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#Review: The Stranger in My House by Judith Barrow @honno #newrelease #domesticthriller #familydrama #TheStrangerInMyHouse

A Wonderful Review by Thorne Moore for my Book The Stranger in my House

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The Stranger in My House, by Judith Barrow: my review

It’s Been an Odd Day…

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 Today – Remembrance Day – has been a day when we paid homage to so many who gave their lives in past wars. A day that must have brought back memories for many. It has for me.

It’s eight years since my mother died. My sister arranged the funeral for eleven o’clock today. Eleven o’clock, on the eleven day of the year – perhaps no one else wanted that time or day – I was never told.

This is a post I wrote shortly afterwards. The relationship between Mum and me, and the one between her and my sister, proved so very different. There’s nothing wrong in that, but at no time was it more obvious than on that day…

I wrote… 

Last week I was at my mother’s funeral. I say at because I felt it was a funeral I was a spectator to, not part of.

During the service I realised something strange. Being the eldest, and living nearer to Mum than me,  my sister had insisted on organising the whole thing. It was a Humanist service which was fine; my mother had no beliefs.

But what was odd, was that what my sister had written about my mother was totally unlike the mum I knew. And I wonder if that is something all siblings share; a different view of the characters of their parents.

The mother my sister saw was a woman who liked poetry. So there were three poems in the service. I’ve never once seen my mother read poetry although she did like to misquote two lines from ‘ What is this life if, full of care…’

The mum I knew read and enjoyed what she herself called ‘trashy books.’ They weren’t, but she did love a romance and the odd ‘Northern-themed’ novels. (I’m always glad she was able to enjoy the first book of my trilogy – dementia had claimed her by the time the next two were published) She still managed a smiling grumble, though, telling me it had  taken me ‘long enough to get a book out there’) And she loved reading anything about the history of Yorkshire and Lancashire. Oh, and recipe books… she had dozens of recipe books and could pour over them for hours. I often challenged her to make something from them. She never did… it was a shared joke.

Mum had a beautiful singing voice in her younger days.  She and my father would sing duets together. Anybody remember Pearl Carr and Teddy Johnson?  My parents knew all their songs. And so did my sister and I… I thought. The songs and singers chosen were not ones I remembered. And Mum loved brass bands! She’d have loved to have gone out to a rousing piece from a brass band, preferably the local band. She loved everything about the area and the house she’d live in for almost sixty years

Which brings me to the main gist of the service. No mention of Mum’s love of nature, of gardening, of walking. Nothing about Mum’s sense of humour; often rude, always hilarious. When telling a tale she had no compunction about swearing if it fitted the story. And her ability to mimic, together with her timing, was impeccable. She was smart, walking as upright in her later years as she had when in the ATS as a young woman, during the Second World War. She worked hard all her life;  as a winder in a cotton mill, later as a carer, sometimes as a cleaner. Throughout the service there was no inkling of the proud Northern woman willing to turn her hand to any job as long as it paid. No mention of her as a loyal wife to a difficult man.

Thinking about it on the way home I realised that my sister had seen none of what I’d known and I knew nothing of what she’d seen in Mum. And then I thought, perhaps as we were such dissimilar daughters to her, Mum became a different mother to each of us? Hence the completely opposite funeral to the one I would have arranged for her.

Is that the answer? A funeral is a public service. Are they all edited, eased into the acceptable, the correct way to be presented for public consumption? Because it reflects on those left behind? I don’t know.

Perhaps, unless we’ve had the foresight to set out the plan for our own funerals, this will  always be the case.

So I’d like it on record that, at my funeral,  I’d like Unforgettable by Nat King Cole (modest as always!), a reading of Jenny Joseph’s When I Am Old (yes, I do know it’s been performed to death but won’t that be appropriate?). I’d like anybody who wants to say anything…yes anything…about me to be able to…as long as it’s true, of course! And then I’d like the curtains closed on me to Swan Lake’s Dance of the Little Swans. (Because this was the first record bought for me by my favourite aunt when I was ten. And because, although as a child I dreamt of being a ballet dancer, the actual size and shape of me has since prevented it.)

Thank you for reading this. I do hope I haven’t offended (or, even worse, bored) anyone. I was tempted to put this under the category ‘Fantasy’ but thought better of it!

And, today, I’ve also had thoughts of my grandad. Like do many young men he served in WW1

This is a post from quite a while ago, as well. Today was the day my grandad died. I never really knew him. He was always in bed in the front room of my grandmother’s house and had no patience for a small child. But I do remember that day: my mother crying, the fear of not knowing why, what had happened. Of not knowing what to do.

And I have only one small black and white photograph of him on my study wall. He’s standing in the backyard of the terraced house they lived in in Oldham. Lancashire. This is a poem I wrote about him a long time ago. My mother once told me that he was gassed in WW1 and never recovered.

My Grandad

I look at the photograph.

He smiles,and silently

he tells me

his story…

In my backyard I stand,

Hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

Shirt sleeves, rolled back,

Reveal tattoos – slack muscles.

I grin.

All teeth.

Who cares that they’re more black

Than white.

Underneath

That’s my life.

That’s the grin I learned

When burned

By poison

Spreading

Like wild garlic.

That’s the grin I wear

When I look

But don’t see

The dark oil glistening,

Blistering, inside me.

When I hear, but don’t listen

To my lungs closing.

I posture,

Braces fastened for the photo,

Chest puffed out.

Nothing touches me –

Now.

Later I cough my guts up –

Chuck up.

I trod on corpses: dead horses,

Blown up in a field

Where grass had yielded

To strong yellow nashers.

And in the pastures

I shat myself.

But smelled no worse

Than my mate, Henry, next to me

Whose head grinned down from the parapet –

Ten yards away.

He has perfect, white teeth.

Much good they’ve done him,

Except for that last night at home

When the girl smiled back.

It feels right that I post the images below – if it wasn’t for my mother and grandad, I probably wouldn’t have had the inspiration to write these books.

Grateful for this promotion and review of my next book from Sally Cronin of Smorgasbord

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Smorgasbord Book Reviews – #Thriller #Familysaga – The Stranger in my House by Judith Barrow

Where We Walked #Nantmor to #Beddgelert via Bryn Ddu – the Fisherman’s Path -River Glaslyn #Wales #walks #climbs #photographs #no stiles #holidays. Part Three – the Last Leg of the Walk

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The last part of our hike walk was along the Fisherman’s Walk,following the course of the Afon Glaslyn, a sixteen mile sea trout river whose source is a lake in a valley on the edge of Snowdon,and eventually runs into Tremadog Bay near Porthmadog.

We’d rewarded ourselves with a fabulously tasty but light meal in a bistro in Beddgelert and a wander around for an hour or so, before tackling the last part of the walk. After refilling our water bottles we strolled along a paved footpath along the riverside. This will be a doddle, I thought, watching the Photographer indulge in a few photos shots. A nice, calm, wide river.

Further on we crossed a footbridge beside the railway bridge and went through two kissing gates that crossed the railway line (still no sign of the elusive steam engine – to his disappointment and my relief at that point – after the day we’d had I didn’t fancy being run over by a steam train!).

But I wasn’t prepared for what was around the corner…

Glorious though the river was, it had rained quite a lot in the previous few weeks. Now Afon Glaslyn flowed swiftly over rocks and gulleys. And the path is made up of slabs, rocks and, sometimes an indiscernible way forward. I think the only thing I said in the next hour was … “Where’s the path gone?”

See what I mean?

This section was especially challenging – note the handholds hammered into the rock face so we could swing around the corner of the rock on the narrow path … er … stone slabs above the churning Afon Glaslyn.

One last scramble over rocks before we reached the relatively safer gravel path

And back onto the bridge that we’d stood on at the beginning of the day. And a chance for a last photograph.

And … a welcome sight … back to the cosy farm cottage in Nantmor, where we were staying for the week. Ready for an evening of quiet editing of my next book – The Stranger in my House

Nantmor is famous for being the filming location of the 1958 film, Inn of the Sixth Happiness starring Ingrid Bergman and Robert Donat. The film was based on the true story of Gladys Aylward,a British nurse who became a missionary in China in the unsettled years leading up to the Second World War. Nantmor doubled as China and people from the Chinese communities in Liverpool were brought in as extras for filming.

I found an interesting article on the history and repairs of the Popular Fisherman’s path in Beddgelert when ” After winter storms and high river levels washed away a 100m section of the Fisherman’s path, the Welsh Highland Railway swapped its cargo of tourists for stone, reverting to its original purpose for a day. Repaired, thanks to special delivery by Welsh Highland Railway.” Published: 20 February 2023: https://tinyurl.com/32md9b3f

Where We Walked #Nantmor to Beddgelert via Bryn Ddu #Wales #walks #climbs #photographs #nostiles #holidays – Part One

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‘It’s the longest walk we’ll do,’ said the Photographer, ‘But it’s such a glorious day, and we’ll get some gorgeous views. Better take the walking poles as well.’

I know. I know… ‘walking poles’ should have been the clue!

It was a gentle, if somewhat a rocky start to the walk through the woods.

And then the Afon Glaslyn (Glaslyn River) came into view. ‘We come back to here along the river bank,’ the Photographer said.

‘Oh, lovely, said I!’ And meant it… then

We went through the kissing gate, over the road bridge, turned left on the road, until we saw a National Trust sign for Coed Aberglaslyn (Aberglaslyn Trees) and followed the footpath towards the stream.

So far so good. “Follow the waymarkers up through the woods”. But the waymarkers had long since disappeared. And here I need to say, the following was completely my fault. “Follow the path to the stream”, the directions read. So I did. But you would think, after all these years, the Photographer would know I have no sense of direction.

And here is the stream.

“Turn right,” the directions read. Across the stream? Which was flowing fast and deep. We read, and re-read the directions. We searched for a path.

For half an hour.

Suddenly we were joined by a couple. ‘We have the O.S.map on our mobiles,’ the man announced. ‘We know the way. You can follow us.’

So we did…

For almost an hour we followed them, clambering over boulders, up along boggy paths (sheep trails, they turned out to be), splashed through water, until we reached the top of the hill. To discover it wasn’t the top of the hill. Whereupon the woman turned to us and cheerfully said, ‘We’re not very good at orienteering. I think we’ve gone wrong.’

We went our separate ways. We slipped, negotiated the boulders, slithered through mud, back to the stream. And then back to the bridge. And there we found a waymarker – hanging off a post, pointing to the ground. We looked around – and there, going up through the wood were long narrow indents in the ground… steps!! Of a sort.

‘It says in the directions there should be a stile at the top. Chance it?’ the Photographer asked. ‘Or would you rather give up?’

A stile!! But his words sounded suspiciously like a challenge. I’ve never been able to resist a challenge…

We tackled the way up the hill, winding through the trees. It turned out there were just over a hundred of the so-called steps, which necessitated hanging onto trees and hauling ourselves up branch by branch – or hauling one another up – in places. We had lots of stops for breath. And we needed those walking poles.

Until we were actually on Bryn Ddu. The halfway point to Beddgelert. Finally we were on the right track.

We stopped for a few photographs.

Before setting off again to search out the base of a tower, built on a prominent outcrop at a viewpoint overlooking Aberglaslyn Pass. The whole structure is built on a stone plinth which forms a narrow terrace around the tower. Thought to be a wartime lookout post.

From the lookout point we could see Beddgelert … in the distance. And the narrow trail winding its way down the hill. We stopped for much needed refreshments, and to catch our breath before tackling the next half of the walk.

To be continued…

The Dilemma of Promoting my Books #MondayBlog #books #readers #promoting #socialmedia

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Promoting my books has always been something of a dilemma with me. Going to book fairs, giving talks, book signings, not so much; I always assume people are there because they want to be. They want to chat, to look at my books, to discuss the way I write – sometimes they way they write. It’s fun, I love meeting people. I love talking about my books, why I wrote them, how I came up with ideas, what they mean to me. The reviews readers have given them. I’m always grateful.

But how to talk about my books with people I just have met, casual acquaintances- even perfect strangers? It’s not something I do. It even makes me uncomfortable if I’m in the company of someone who does this, especially in public places, spaces that have nothing whatsoever to do with books, reading or writing. Although I admire that writer’s ability to pluck the subject of their work out of the air and present it to someone they have just met, or engineered a meeting, it’s not something I could do. After all, would I want anyone to feel cornered into buying a book, to be pressurised? Well, no, I wouldn’t. I’ve seen it happen, I’ve seen the reactions of the ‘cornered one’.

It’s a fine line in talking to a potential reader, to presenting my books to someone who might not be interested at all – who escapes with relief, albeit having had to buy a book!. Embarrassing!!

Social media, I know, is different in that there is no real life face to face appearance – it’s one step away. Even so, having followed many writers of all genres on the various platforms, I’ve seen those who singlemindedly try to sell their work, and those who use social media in it’s true sense (as a friend once said to me ” the clue is in the word ” social”). And there are those wonderful people who, so generously share the work, the promotions, the blogs and reviews of others. I’m grateful to those I have ‘met’ and become friends with in real life, as well as on social media.

And there’s another predicament for me when it comes to promoting my books – which platform am I most comfortable with. Which platform can I share general news and chat with, as well as publicity for my work … and which not.

Lately I decided to delete my Twiiter/X account. When the name changed I wondered why it had, what would be the difference, how would this formerly named Twitter be used. I have/had many friends who used and still use this platform in the way I did – to chat about life in general, to talk about books, reading, and writing.

But, gradually I saw something change on the feeds I received on Twitter/X. I’m not talking about all the “retired Generals/ Government Officials/ Admirers of our profiles etc. Bots, eager to get to ‘know’ us, that anyone on this platform (and other platforms, of course) receive. I mean the constant barrage of race/gender/political hatred, that was suddenly there. People, real people, eager for (bullying) us to join in, to follow whatever drum they are so fanatical about. For me (and I stress this is only me), it all got too much. I retreated – with a sigh of relief.

In a way it’s made me sad. Through the years I built up a moderate number of followers on Twitter; people I followed, who shared my passion for writing, for books; a lovely community. But the insiduous invasion of nastiness became something that affected me, my moods, my emotions. Perhaps I need a thicker skin? I was told by some of my real friends to ignore the constant chatter of predudice. But I couldn’t, and disn’t want to. It was too much. Circumventing these things in real life can be difficult enough, why did I need to be confronted with it on the screen? The screen where I write stories that I enjoy writing, where I chat and share emails, enjoy other social media platforms? So I made the decision and left Twitter/X.

I’m hoping by joining Instagram/Threads, and continuing on other platforms I will, eventually, connect again with the writers I got to know over many years. But, for my own peace of mind, it will never again be through Twittter/X.

Because I write about family dramas, family situations, I’ve always been aware of the relationships between people, between family members: the love, the loyalty, the friendship, the instinctive support. But also, I’m aware of and write about the dislike, the jealousy, the rivalry, the misunderstandings, the battle for control.

I don’t need it in the surreal world as well.

And so, a footnote: I’m not going to try to promote my books here. But … I do have links!! If you care to look for them…

Just a plug for my publisher: https://www.honno.co.uk/

Memories Make the Story #MondayBlogs #Memories #families #sisters #secrets

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Many people have asked me what was the inspiration for The Memory and my answer is always – memories: memories of being a carer for two of my aunts who lived with us, memories of losing a friend in my childhood; a friend who, although at the time I didn’t realise, was a Downs’ Syndrome child. But why I started to write the story; a story so different from my other four books, I can’t remember. Because it was something I’d begun years ago and was based around the journal I’d kept during that decade of looking after my relatives.

But what did begin to evolve when I settled down to writing The Memory was the realisation of why I’d been so reluctant to delve too far into my memories. The isolation, the loneliness, that Irene Hargreaves, the protagonist, endures; despite being married to Sam, her loving husband, dragged up my own feelings of being alone so much as a child. That awareness of always being on the outside; looking in on other families, relationships and friendships had followed me; had hidden deep inside my subconscious. And now, as content with my life as I am, it unsettled me.

Many people, and as an occasional creative writing tutor I’m one, say that writing is cathartic. Working through Irene’s memories; especially that one memory that has ruled her life, made me acknowledge my own. And that’s fine. I always say to my students, if you don’t feel the emotions as you write, then neither will your reader.

In The Memory I’m hoping the reader will sense the poignant, sad times with Irene, but will also rejoice with her in the happier memories.

Over the last few years I’ve moved from writing the historical family sagas of Haworth trilogy, that moves through the decades from 1914 – 1968, and The Heartstone, set during WW1, to contemporary fiction such as The Memory (which was shortlisted for the Wales Book of the Year 2021 The Rhys Davies Trust Award) and domestic thrillers, such as Sisters.

My next book, due to be published in November 2024 is The Stranger in My House:

“A gripping ‘cuckoo in the nest’ domestic thriller.”

After the death of their mum, twins Chloe and Charlie are shocked when their dad introduces Lynne as their ‘new mummy’. Lynne, a district nurse, is trusted in the community, but the twins can see her kind smile doesn’t meet her eyes. In the months that follow they suffer the torment Lynne brings to their house as she stops at nothing in her need to be in control.

Betrayed, separated and alone, the twins struggle to build new lives as adults, but will they find happiness or repeat past mistakes? Will they discover Lynne’s secret plans for their father? Will they find each other in time?

The Stranger in My House is a gripping ‘cuckoo in the nest’ domestic thriller, exploring how coercive control can tear a family apart. Set in Yorkshire and Cardiff, from the 60s to the winter of discontent, The Stranger in My House dramatises both the cruelty and the love families hide behind closed doors.

Sisters

The Memory

The Heart Stone

Discover the Haworth trilogy

Prequel to the Haworth trilogy

https://tinyurl.com/3m5xhnsu

Where We Walked #Llyn Crafnant and LlynGeirionydd #Wales #walks #climbs #photographs #stiles #humour #holidays #Sisters #books #readers @honno

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Llyn Crafnant and LlynGeirionydd are separated by the forested slopes of Mynydd Deulyn (Mountain of the Two Lakes) and lie within wonderfully scenic valleys where the Gwydyr forest meets the lower slopes of the Carneddau mountains in Conwy.”The lakes are about a mile apart,” said the photographer casually. “The walk’s about five miles.” What actually happened was that we took the circular route which covers a distance of eight miles and involved some steep climbing.

But, at this point I have to say that wasn’t his fault. We ended up – or should I say – started off walking in the opposite way to the route in the book, having parked in the car park near LlynGeirionydd, instead of the one near Llyn Crafnant.

This was due to the fact that, at one point, the SatNav took us in the wrong direction. It’s always the SatNavs fault, you know; we once got stuck on a very narrow dirt farm track faced with a sign that joyfully said in large red writing, ” Use your eyes, the SatNav lies”. I think I might have said that before, it’s something I bear in mind when sitting by a certain irate driver having to turn back on a journey.

Anyway, I thought, it’ll be alright; we’ll just read the directions backwards.

I waited on the edge of the grass while the photographer took his first photo of Llyn Geirionydd.

Gwydir Forest is named after the Gwydir River, which takes its name from the ancient Gwydir Estate, established by the John Wynn family of Gwydir Castle, who owned this area (Gwydir is translated as River with Red Banks) The land here was once dominated by lead and zinc mines. Some of the mines have been partially restored and made safe for visitors, but we didn’t visit; our sights were set on getting to Llyn Crafnant Though we did pass an old restored engine-house, and also the waste tips, now left to be naturally covered over.

The First World War had highlighted a shortage in wood production and the forest was stripped bare at the time because many of the early forestry workers, former employees in the forest’s mines, had no experience of forestry. This caused the 1919 Forestry Act to be passed and Gwydir Forest was acquired from Lord Ancaster by the Forestry Commission in 1921.

Most of the original plantations have now been felled and replanted as part of the forestry cycle. We passed quite a few places where this was happening.

The majority of the forest is conifer such as Japanese larch, Norway spruce and Scots pine but apparently, over the last two decades there has been more Welsh Oak, ash and beech planted to give a more varied and softer outline to the forest

“When we get to the top of this track, there’s a little bit of a short climb and the track narrows a bit,” said the Photographer over his shoulder as I puffed and panted behind him. ” Don’t worry, it’ll be so worth it for the view.’

The track did narrow a bit indeed. As the directions said, ‘…into a steep narrow footpath, less than forty centimetres wide (that’s about sixteen inches in old money) in some places, on an unmade and uneven surface, where you can expect mud, rocks and tree roots.‘. The embarrassing thing is, just as I was wobbling leaping gazelle-like from rock to another a young couple (stressing young here!) ran past… with a dog … very quickly. And they even had the breath to wish us a cheerful “good morning.”

Every now and then we caught glimpses of the view. Went past a stile. Down a wider path. Through a gate. Saw the obligatory cow. And then…

The Photographer got his first proper shot of Llyn Crafnant on the northern edge of the Gwydir Forest.

And then lots more. It really is a glorious place

One last look and we walked away from Llyn Crafnant …

Following the arrows we crossed over the road into a small wooded area. And there the arrows stopped. We looked around: there was a stile in the far corner, but it was broken, covered in brambles and branches and looked unused. On the other side of the clearing there was a broad track. After some discussion we chose the track. (later realising we should have tackled the stile).

After an hour of walking up the never-ending road we stopped for breath, and for the Photographer to revell in the scenery and take many photos of the craggy slopes of Mynydd Deulyn.

And for me to have a rest. It wasn’t until we got back to the car that I realised I had somehow managed to take the attractive shot below whilst I was rummaging in my rucksack for the fourth, and last, bottle of water. Naming no names, but someone dared me to include this in the post – and I’m never one to pass on a dare. Which is probably the reason I find myself on these hikes walks.

Another hour of uphill, round a bend, and the road began to descend, until we were …

Back to the start…

I’m often asked what do I think about when I’m walking and with not enough breath to talk. I must say not having enough breath to talk isn’t something that often happens to me. But usually I’m taking in what’s all around us. We walk in so many diifferent kinds of places, so I just soak up the sights and the sounds whether in the country or in more urban areas.

But there are times when I’m thinking how to describe what I’m seeing, wondering if it will fit into a scene in the book I’m currently working on – or intend to work on. Sometimes it will, sometimes it won’t. It’s usually the latter, but that’s okay. And if I can keep it in mind for when we next stop for the Photographer to capture the scenary, I’ll make notes.

And there have been occasions when I can use those notes. One day we were nearing the end of our walk at Llyn y Fan Fach and Llyn y Fan Fawr near Llanddeusant in Carmarthenshire, Wales. It had been long, so the sun was low in the sky and it felt quite erie as we took a last look out over the water.

And I remembered that moment, that feeling of almost sinister atmosphere when I wrote one of the scenes in Sisters.

“‘Whoops! Watch your step, Miss Clumsy.’ Said in a jokey manner, it still manages to imply the familiar censure. ‘If it wasn’t for me always looking out for you, I don’t know what you’d do.’ He laughs. ‘Probably kill yourself, one of these days.’ He pulls her close, turns her so they are facing the lake, standing on the edge of the steep banking.
The sun is sinking lower in the sky, the black shadows of the trees lengthen, their reflection stretch and waver over the lake, the water rendered blood-red.“

Book Description:

An accident and a terrible lie by sixteen-year-old Angie tears her family apart and her younger sister, Lisa, being sent away. They don’t speak for thirteen years, until their mother’s death brings them together. Lisa quickly realises her sister is trapped in a dangerous marriage.

What does Lisa owe to the family that betrayed her? And if she tries to help, will she make things more dangerous for them all?

A powerful story of domestic violence, courage and forgiveness.

Published by Honno Press (26 Jan. 2023)