This post is a longer one than normal. Rather like a newsletter, if you like.
So pull up a chair, make a cuppa and grab that piece of chocolate cake.
Passage’s launch approaches fast.
This summer is so dry. We had slightly mad rain burst about 3 weeks ago and since then, nothing. The only bonus is that the weather is cooler and tonight, it has the chill evening feel of approaching autumn. But the truth is the garden is tired. There are few flowers and very little colour.
The vegetable garden still gives most generously on a daily basis and we continue to eat very well. Not missing meat at all. We have yet to pick Beurre Bosc pears, Sturmer and Granny Smith apples, and quinces.
So what do I have to show in the borders, if anything?
Spontaneity: Noun – a way of behaving in which you do what feels natural and good whenever you want, rather than planning things first. (Cambridge English Dictionary
Husband woke me this morning with a weather report. To be precise, a coastal waters report and the winds seemed God-given for my sort of day on the water.
Today my latest trilogy is finally in print!
But before we get to that, grab a cup of tea or coffee and read on…
For those of you in the northern hemisphere, you begin the long trek through winter, something that always looks so beautiful from where we sit in the south. Snow bedecked trees, elegant forms traced in frost in the gardens. Iced lakes, rivers and ponds, toboggans and snowmen. The romance of a white winter.
Here of course, it’s vastly different.
I wonder, does life become less of an adventure or more as one ages?
Let’s face it, when we’re young, we’re strong, fearless and the world’s our oyster. As we age and our bodies require more protection than they’ve ever had, perhaps we lose that sense of adventure. Or maybe, just maybe, because we are on the downward slope (let’s be honest here), we lose our inhibitions and look for more adventure, maybe even more danger to fire up the sense of achievement and adrenalin levels.
Earlier this year, I was asked to join a panel of authors to discuss exploring stories beyond our national boundaries and why we chose to write about times and places far from Australasia.
I’d never really navel-gazed about my predilection for twelfth century Europe. To me, it just was. When I wrote about Venice, Lyon or Constantinople, bells rang – sounds ranging from soft tintinnabulation to reverberating tocsins, and that was all that was required.